Thursday, April 17, 2014

Something Smells Like Pee. It's not me, though.

Do you know Blythe Jewell? Why not? Are you lame? God. Get with the program.

Blythe is fucking hilarious. And a poet. Her book Something Smells Like Pee is out now and available for you to peruse and contemplate and laugh with. And also marvel at her drawings. Girl is multi-talented.

The book is hella good, really. It's a cross between Shel Silverstein, Raold Dahl, and that person you want to sit next to at any and all meetings and functions, because you know she is going to say something spectacularly funny under her breath, and you need to be there to hear that shit.

Her poem Matt Damon brilliantly encapsulates not only the yearning, determination, and resignation found in unrequited love, but also eerily mirrors the many months I spent trying to get Flea from the Red Hot Chili Peppers to call me. I think we may be twins. [Me and Blythe. Not me and Flea. Or me and Matt Damon. Can't you just follow the pronouns, people? Jesus.]
The first poem in the book, Hair in My Ass Crack, is a not-so-subtle reminder that we are all human, that we all struggle in this world, and that things are sometimes just fucking disgusting.

The genius of the poem Forks is so sublime that you can't help but think, IS SHE IN MY HOUSE? HOW DOES SHE KNOW UTENSILS ARE MISSING? Although for us, it's spoons. Maybe they ran away with Blythe's forks? I DON'T KNOW! But the poem helps me deal with the uncertainty that is the modern world. And for that, I thank her.

There are a ton of fantastic poems - I'm looking at you, Kanye and Ugly Baby - and the drawings are gorgeous.  Like, I could frame those and hang them in my house gorgeous. You'll love this whole thing.

Anyway,  I'm giving away a copy of the book to a lucky reader. Just put your name in the comments, or make a comment, or write a poem. Just comment. And I'll pick someone randomly and they'll get the book because I am a giver, a giver of books by an author who is smart and funny and talented and smells nice, quite unlike pee.

Monday, April 14, 2014

Spring Deliciousness

I'm back. With tasty treats!

I've been craving a delicious treat, so I decided to make my friend's cream cheese pound cake, because it has all the deliciousness you could ask for:  cream cheese, cake, yumminess. Also, this freezes and travels well, in case you need to take it to your in-laws for Easter. I'd make two, in case you need to pregame and eat some on the way. I am not one to judge.

My Awesome Friend's Delicious Cream Cheese Pound Cake
1 1/2 cups unsalted butter
1 8oz pkg cream cheese
3 cup sugar
6 large eggs
2 tsp. vanilla
3 c all purpose flour
1 tsp. salt

Not pictured: Vanilla, who was having a bad hair day.
Preheat oven to 325.
Lightly butter pan.

Combine butter and cream cheese, beat on medium until smooth. Add sugar. Beat on high speed until light and airy, about five minutes. Add eggs one at a time. scraping bowl.

Add vanilla, then all the flour and salt at once. Beat until just incorporated.

Whir whir whir.
Scrape into loaf pan. [OR, you can divide the batter into two 8" square baking pans. That way you can eat one yourself and still look like you cared enough to make a homemade dessert for your friends and family.]

Cook one hour and fifteen, at least. 

Cool 30. 

Pound cake in all its glory. It was fucking delicious.

You can sprinkle powdered sugar on top, but it doesn't need it. At all.

Friday, April 11, 2014

Total Recall [of my week].

Well, first, I want to congratulate the big winner of their very own copy of Suburban Haiku. That person, chosen randomly, is Food Retro:

Nice shout out to Game of Thrones.
I'll be contacting you to get your information. For NON-creepy things. Like getting you this book. NOT for looking in your windows. I swear.

I love this book. It's a fucking riot.


Other things that have been happening are me being in a movie trailer about blogging called What is Blogging? It's hilarious. You have to watch it, if you haven't yet. GUESS WHICH ONE I AM!


Also, I am missing all the winter and piles of snow, because my yard looks like ass. Not like a nice ass, like a JLo ass. More like an ass that is suffering from mange. I wish I cared more or less about this. More, and then I'd do something about it besides lament how terrible it looks. Less, and I wouldn't even care at all.

Or maybe I wish the husband cared more, and then he'd deal with it and everyone would be happy. I've tried TWICE to hire people to deal with this and he flat out refuses, because he'll take care of it and then he doesn't. I'd just go ahead and hire someone myself, except 1) No money right now; and 2) I don't think this is the hill I want to die on. I'm saving that big argument for when I show up in the driveway with a helicopter.


I have this weird clicking noise thing in my ears that's been going on for, honest to god, years. Periodically, I hit up an ENT, who checks things out and tells me my hearing is fine and there's nothing physically wrong. So I deal with this noise [like when you blow out your ears when they're stuffed up] every fucking time I breath. It's delightful.

This last time I went, the doctor asked me if I could hear myself breathing. I said no, because what? AND NOW ALL I HEAR IS MYSELF BREATHING. I hate that doctor. I really do. [PS. My hearing is excellent and there's nothing physically wrong with my ears. The latest thought is the eustachian tube opens or closes too much each time I swallow or exhale and that's what I'm hearing.]

Fuck. I've become that old person who tells you about their medical history when all you want to hear about is either stories about being drunk or NOTHING NOTHING NOTHING.


I started watching Hart of Dixie on Netflix, for which I blame a good friend of mine, and even though it is RIDICULOUS IN THE EXTREME, I cannot stop watching it. I even put it on while I do yoga.

I am so ashamed of myself.

Tuesday, April 8, 2014

Last night I dreamt of David Franco*

I seldom dream about my crushes, but last night, I dreamt of David Franco.

No, not his brother James Franco - which, dude, COME ON, you are killing me with your gross pervy-ness - but David Franco. This guy:

Yeah. *Especially* the smirk. From here.

I will watch this guy in anything - I watched the NINTH season of Scrubs partly mostly due to him being in it. During my movie-watching extravaganza, I saw a preview for what looks to be a truly terrible movie with Zac Efron and that guy I hate and David Franco. I texted my cousin, who has a no-shame crush on Zac Efron, and we are planning on seeing that movie the day it comes out.

But back to my dream. I dreamt that David Franco had a big ole crush on me, which was awesome. Even in the dream, I recognized that the man is markedly younger than I, but I didn't seem to care. And neither did he. I also may have still been married in my dream, but that didn't really factor in, either, because evidently I'm complete amoral or he is a freebie. Either way, I win.

Do you know - do you remember - that swoopy feeling you'd get when you saw your crush? It's hard to keep that feeling going when you're in a relationship. It happens every once in a while, but it's not like seeing that person at their locker and getting giddy because WOW THERE HE IS! It's nice to have that feeling, even if it's in a dream. Especially when you wake up abruptly from that dream because you are old and have to pee and your husband has burrito rolled himself into the blankets and you can hear your cats yowling about breakfast even though it is 5:goddamn30 in the morning.

I also may or may not have seen David Franco's dream wiener.** STOP JUDGING ME.

* Bonus points if you recognized this as the first line from Daphne DuMaurier's Rebecca. Haven't read it? Read it. It's great. Or even watch the movie. Also very, very good.

** I totally saw it. It was . . . hilarious. Because come on, wieners are hilarious.

Friday, April 4, 2014

In The Suburbs, No One Can Hear You Swear

Do you even understand how awesome today is? DO YOU? Here is a hint:

I know! A landline!
Today, the ever-lovely, unbelievably genius Peyton Price of Suburban Haiku is here at my humble blog, dropping haiku like a jedi master. Do you follow her? Have you read her stuff? Do you have a weirdly almost stalkery fancrush on her, too? I followed Peyton on Twitter and fell in love. That crush was cemented when I picked up the Suburban Haiku: Christmas Special for some fun holiday reading and it made a usually stressful time delightfully hilarious. I giggled. A lot. Despite an influx of in-laws.

A couple of weeks ago, I got Peyton's newest book, Suburban Haiku: Poetic Dispatches from Behind the Picket Fence, and from the first haiku, I was once again cracking up - seriously, from the very first one.  

This is the first one. I'm still laughing.  And I don't even have a dog.

Peyton does such a great job of deftly and succinctly capturing the mood and ethos and inanity of suburban living, she makes minutiae universal. In 17 syllables, she breaks down the sanctimony and insecurity that belie life in these American suburbs.

[Yup, B.A. and M.A. in English Literature. And yes, I was the one who said, "Poetry is far superior to fiction as a means of expressing eternal truths" during that Lit seminar. You're welcome, bitches.]

The husband happened to see the book and picked it up and then could not stop laughing. Yes, don’t let the pink cover fool you, this book is for all the sexes.

Among the husband's faves:

He kept saying "ice box." And then I stabbed him.

We all know her, right?
Seriously. Peyton’s brilliant.

Anyway, Peyton graciously put together an opportunity for us to delve into the genius that is Suburban Haiku. To make it easier on us, and because this is my blog, she created some haiku that WE can finish, in our own inimitable ways. Like, by using swears.

This is WAY better than Mad Libs. 

Remember, it's 5-7-5. So count out syllables and do your best and leave your version in the comments. 

I'll be randomly picking out A WINNER for a copy of Peyton's book next week. ARE YOU EXCITED? I KNOW! ME, TOO!

Start Haiku-ing, people. GO!

In The Suburbs, No One Can Hear You Swear

Haiku by Peyton Price (and you)

It is so _____ hard
to find the right _____ lipstick.
(tossing another)

No tipping your chair.
Don't tip it. Stop that tipping.
Don't tip the _____ chair!

Cocoa? Roasted nuts?
This is a cookie exchange!
I baked, you _____!

I blurted out “_____“
but the dog thought I said “SIT!”
quite fortunately.

She calls her husband
“my husband” every _____ time.
What is that _____’s name?

Dear other mothers
If I keep my kid home sick
you _____ better well.

Here's mine:

She calls her husband
"my husband" every damn time.
What is that fuck's name?

Peyton Price is the author of Suburban Haiku: Poetic Dispatches from Behind the Picket Fence. The only time she swears is when the windows are open and the neighbors happen to be walking by. If you believe that, you’re welcome to drop in any time at