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Psychotic Decorating on a Shoestring

We moved into our tiny retirement home in Florida a little over a year and a half ago.  The home was much in need of love and updates, so we rolled up our sleeves and commenced.  Bedrooms came first, with fresh coats of paint and a little ingenuity to make the small rooms work. We landscaped the yards, and a lanai was added in addition to new windows and a roof.  Things were finally starting to wind down before I spent an evening just staring at the “bonus room” at the back of the house, looking for inspiration.

It was added to the house by some former owners. In northern climates, it would have been considered to be a mud room.  But, this is southwest Florida, and we have no mud, so that didn’t work.  It’s tiny; no more than 8×7. Very little wall space was available, as the original outside doors were kept to separate it from the dining room, it has sliding doors that lead out to the lanai, a door to my husband’s music studio (i.e. man cave – save yourself and do not enter!) and a window to the outside.  We didn’t even know what to call this room, as it lacked a function, so, we just called it Loretta.  Loretta was quite a conundrum for me.


You can see that there are built in shelves in the corner. They really had no purpose, other than a place to catch clutter and home for a litter box.  We put the cat food on one of the lower shelves so the dogs wouldn’t get it. (They could totally reach it, but for some reason, decided to leave it alone. Bonus!)  Our kitchen is itty-bitty, and there’s very little cupboard space, so we put a cheap cabinet along another wall to use as a food pantry.


My brilliant plan was to turn the corner-clutter-catching shelves into a pantry. My long-suffering husband helped by building my crazy dream around the already existing shelves, plus adding a couple of extra ones inside. I used the paint that I had leftover from this crazy project on the lanai, since Loretta leads right outside, and I’m cheap.


This is where I think I started to go off the decorating rails. Before long, it became the anything goes room. I used pink spray paint for the lace effect, which I accomplished by laying old, lace curtains over the corners, then spraying over them.  A peacock feather is used on a chain to close the doors. We now had a pantry.


Because that wasn’t crazy enough, I painted the walls light green, then added this bird cage that I made during what I can only call a psychotic episode.  It reminds me of a cage in Whoville.  I call the bird Nathan Lane.


Here’s the “before” shot of the next wall.  The door leads to the man cave, a room I’ll never touch; not even with a dust rag.  Or a camera. The cheap cabinet that used to serve as our pantry was moved to the garage, and now houses bales of paper towels and toilet paper, not to mention lots of crazy stuff I use for artsy projects.  This is also where Ruth sits.  (For the 20 people in the world who don’t know what a Ruth is, she’s my mannequin.)  She was obviously dressed for Halloween when I took this picture.


Let the games begin!


Ruth now sits in the chair from the first picture, opposite what I now use as a computer desk.  I picked the desk up at a flea market.  It was actually an old library table, but this room is so small that I had to figure out how to make it fit.  So, my husband cut it in half for me and mounted it to the wall after I went insane on it.


I made it tall enough to serve as my desk by putting it in leopard stiletto heels that I found on sale for $5.* Then, I also put fishnet stockings on it.  I was on an insanity roll.

* The fact that Ruth is dressed in leopard is just a happy accident.  She was dressed that way before I found the shoes.  What?  You don’t regularly change the outfits on your mannequins?  face/palm


I used the same old, lace curtain to jazz up the top, and had a piece of glass cut to fit it.  I “laced” the front of the drawers the same way.  Beads are my drawer pulls.

I created a crazy sign to fit the flavor of the room.


And what funky room is complete without a funky, faux chandelier?  I created this from Mardi Gras beads, fake pearl necklaces, and leftover Christmas decorations.  I did buy some fringe from a fabric store, but the frame for it was salvaged from a discarded chandelier in our… uh… hallway.  Yes, there was a chandelier in both of the tiny hallways when we bought this house.



I’d already painted the doors purple in Loretta right after we made the insanity that sits out on our lanai.


Basically, I just want to prove to y’all that the rest of my house is decorated with some kind of class.


Not a lot has changed from this view.


It’s brighter and cleaner, though.


The colorful decals on the door are to keep certain Jack Russell terriers and certain adult males from walking through the glass on the rare occasions that I actually clean it.  The sign above the door was moved from a different wall to its new home.


This is Bobby.  He’s lived with us for many years.  He often wears hats and/or masks, along with an occasional wig that Ruth loans him.  I just spiffed his corner up a bit.



I needed a place to put our beach towels for handy access when pool season starts back up, so I made this odd pouch out of fishing net.  I spray painted it blue (yes, I painted the net!), then hubba-hubby hung it with strong, plastic-like string.  I wound some fluffy, purple stuff through the top loops and up the strings.  When it’s floating season, the damp towels hang off the hooks that you can see on the back of the door.


All in all, I’m pretty happy with my little oasis of insanity. I’m finally off the dining room table, and into a space of my own. Continue reading


Bauer Construction Group, Inc. aka Premier Aluminum in Fort Myers, Florida: How Do You Sucketh? Let Me Count the Ways

I guess I shouldn’t complain about what I considered to be terrible service from Bauer Construction Group, Inc. aka Premier Aluminum.  I’ve learned that it helps if you try to look at the positives you get out of an experience, so, with that in mind…

On May 14, 2012, we contracted with Bauer Construction Group, Inc. aka Premier Aluminum for what should have been a very small job.  We wanted to have paving stones put in over the asphalt deck that already surrounded a very small, existing pool, plus a cage (or, screened enclosure) put up around it.  We didn’t get it in writing on our contract, but we both remember the owner of the company telling us it should be done in three weeks; two weeks to secure the building permit, and one week to do the job.  With gobs of gunk and leaves and decaying shingle shit falling into our little pool, it needed cleaning several times a day, and we were really thrilled to think it would be done so quickly.

Lesson #1:  Always get your project completion date in writing.  Thank you, Bauer Construction Group, Inc. aka Premier Aluminum!  This new knowledge is invaluable!

As you can see, the project area is incredibly small.


On May 22, we gave them a down payment for half of the project.

Lesson #2:  Companies we have since contracted with for other projects have told us that you should never do that.  You only pay a certain percentage after the job has been completed to a certain stage.  Thank you again, Bauer Construction Group, Inc. aka Premier Aluminum!  You taught me just how gullible an asshole I was!  I’ll never fall for stupid stuff like that again!  Whew!  Boy, you saved me from all kinds of future anguish!

Well, four weeks later, we still hadn’t heard back from them.  We were desperately trying to learn patience from this, something I’m told the bible wants us to practice.  I guess Bauer Construction Group, Inc. aka Premier Aluminum was just doing Jesus’ work,  bless their hearts.  But, we finally couldn’t stand it anymore.  We called them.  We didn’t get a return phone call.  We called them again.  No return phone call.  A pattern began.  A call, no return, a call, no return, lather, rinse, repeat.  We got angry.  Then we got angrier.

Lesson #3:  Yes, patience, my child.  Anger gets you nowhere.  Repeated phone calls get you nowhere.  You must also learn tolerance for those less fortunate than yourselves.  Some people are special and struggle through life with an inability to follow through on direction.  We must smile, and remember that it is really much more important to allow them the needed time to watch YouTube videos than do their jobs.  We must remember that they’ve been given this job at Bauer Construction Group, Inc. aka Premier Aluminum because no one else would hire someone who behaves like such a c**t for such an important position as administrative assistant.

Oh!  I forgot to introduce a primary character in our saga! Let’s just go ahead and call her The C**t.   I mean, that’s how we referred to her for four months.  The C**t fielded all phone calls to the company owner.  (In fact, he never did return a single one of our calls.  The C**t even hinted at the fact that he was probably avoiding us.) Then, The C**t began not returning our phone calls, either.  When we did get her on the phone, she was rude, condescending, snippy and insulting in attitude.

Lesson #4:  It’s good to always be reminded that you’re an idiot.  I must always forget I have any intelligence or worth as a human being and remain humble, thanks to The C**t who works for Bauer Construction Group, Inc. aka Premier Aluminum.

I believe it was to shut us up that we were given a start date for the pavers to be laid.  We waited at home.  No one showed up.  We called (yeah, we went through that whole farked-up sequence again) and called and called. Finally, we were told someone would be out the next day.  We waited at home.  No one showed up.  We called.  Oh, fuck it.  Let’s just call this The Pattern.

Did you know that it was possible for every staff member (except the one poor dear who had to answer the phone) to be in a meeting every hour of every working day?  Neither did we!  My, what busy people they were!  We finally decided to expand on The Pattern.  We said that we knew the “meetings” were bullshit, and we were calling every half hour until we got satisfaction.

Lesson #5:  Sometimes, it does pay to be an asshole!  Thanks for letting us win one, Bauer Construction Group, Inc. aka Premier Aluminum!

On July 10, 2012, a crew finally came out to install our pavers.  It took them two days, and they looked very nice.  We were thinking that we were closing in on completion of this project.

Lesson #6: AHAHAHAHA!  I really was a gullible asshole!

Now we were faced with the problem that the surface surrounding the pool was two inches higher than the bottom of our sliding glass door.  The contract stated they would be raising this door before completion.  What we didn’t know, was that the little trough between the pavers and the door would fill with water whenever it rained (and south Florida has lots of rain in the summer!) and flow into our house.  With every rain.  All the time. Night and day. We had to bail and mop and bail and mop and bail…  Oh, let’s just call this Pattern #2!

The C**t and Bauer Construction Group, Inc. aka Premier Aluminum didn’t seem to care much about this. We had to live with Pattern #2 for two months.  Two whole fucking months.

Lesson #7:  It’s OK to swear like a sailor when you’re as fucking pissed off as we were.

We finally got a crew out to put up our cage, after much procrastinating on their part because there was an area that needed a poured footer that they hadn’t considered when they bid the job.  Well, fine.  Send out a concrete guy and pour the damn footer!  More of Pattern #1 ensued until dude came out and did this:


They had made it seem like it was some huge job, too.  It took him all of an hour.

Now, we resumed Pattern #1 of calling to get the door raised and the cage done while continuing with Pattern #2 of indoor water removal.  A cage crew finally came out.  We were told they would be done in one day.  At the end of day #1, they realized there was “something about the configuration” of our patio that wouldn’t let them install it right.  Day #2 saw a crew come and tear down the cage that was already put up.  They left it in our yard.


In fact, it stayed in our yard for days and days and days and… Oh, just relax.  I’m not going to name another pattern.  In fact, I’m not going to go into detail about how they had to destroy the top of the tiled, perimeter flower bed you see above to pour cement into the holes in the concrete blocks it was made from, since no one bothered to inspect the job site properly.  In fact, I won’t go into detail about how we had to fight them to get someone out to fix the “finished” cage up to code standards.

We finally went out and moved all the pieces ourselves, since they were killing our grass and we needed to mow.

Lesson #8:  It was a good thing for us to get out there and get some exercise!  I mean, we’re not spring chickens anymore.  We’re not even considered to be middle-aged!  We’re early elderly, and if we hadn’t gone outside and moved all that crap in the hot, Florida sun, we may never have known how out of shape we were!  It’s good for nearly-senior citizens to see how close to a heart attack they really are!  Thank you, Bauer Construction Group, Inc. aka Premier Aluminum!

BONUS!!  We were now able to add a new term to the family vernacular.  We all now refer to things as “all Bauer-ed up”, or if someone doesn’t show up, they “go Bauer on you”, or “pull a Bauer”.  Through the magic of the internet, let’s try to make this terminology go viral, OK?  😀

So, we resumed Pattern #1 until they finally sent someone out to put up our cage.  That part was finally, finally done.  Now, we just had to get someone out to raise our door so we could stop with Pattern #2, because until you’ve bailed and mopped water with the frequency that we did, you haven’t truly experienced burning, hot hatred and rage with an extreme need for vindication and revenge.  Getting this project done began to consume us.  It was the focus of every conversation.  We lost more than a little sleep over it.  We were fucking Bauering pissed off. We’d also contracted with another company to install hurricane protection on this door, and they couldn’t do it until it was raised.  We lived through one hurricane scare without the protection we’d already agreed to pay for.  So, OK.  I admit I might have turned them in to the Florida Department of Business and Professional Regulation with a complaint of fraud at around this point, too.

Our slider was finally removed.  A footer was poured.  We now had a huge hole in the side of our house.



We couldn’t lock our house.  We lived in fear of rain.  The little room the slider led into had a cabinet with all of our dry food in it.  I began imagining lizards in my Cheerios.  I could barely sleep at night, for fear of critters joining me in bed and zombies lurching into my house.  (Hey, it’s southern Florida.  We have zombies.)  We had this huge hole in our house for four days.  FOUR FUCKING BAUERING DAYS.  A crew came out to fix it, and we were told the footer was poured wrong and it had to be fixed to do it properly.

WRONG!  This is when The C**t was informed that I’d already bookmarked the pages to the local “call for action” news teams, and if they didn’t fix it that very day, they’d be on the 6:00 news.

Funny how that motivates people.

So, it took four months to complete a job (and much of it very shabbily) that was promised to be done in three weeks.  A very small job, as you can see:


Final Lesson #8:  You have to be Bauering nuts to sign a contract with Bauer Construction Group, Inc. aka Premier Aluminum.

The Case of the Missing Guitar

We both agreed to pack less for this trip than we usually do, as we have the habit of not using at least half of what we take.  This is why I got a bit upset (OK… bitchy) when Kevin insisted on taking his bigger guitar on this trip.  He has a Martin Backpacker for these occasions, but he was adamant that he needed his full-size guitar for Key West.  I finally bit my tongue and let him have his way.  I’d just save my energy for plotting revenge.


He packed extra strings and flaunted the entire extra bag he needed just for his music lists.  I refused to give in to the bait and just mentally snarled, planning on getting even with a shoe-shopping extravaganza once we hit our final destination.


We loaded the car and left for parts south.  When it was finally my turn to drive, the first thing I noticed was that the damn guitar case was on its side, blocking a substantial part of the view through the back window.  I asked him if it couldn’t be laid flat, and he hemmed and hawed for a bit before finally laying it flat the next time we switched drivers.  Now he was concerned with the fact that he’d laid it strings-down and feared he was hurting his baby.  I was internally growling and thinking, “why didn’t you just lay it down the right way to begin with!?”  but I realized it would be spitting into the wind to bring it up again.


With stops to visit family on the way down, we were gone for four nights before he actually removed it from the car and took it into our hotel room.  During these four days of travel, he rearranged it in the rear of the car repeatedly; moving suitcases around to keep it appropriately cushioned and checking that it wasn’t being jostled about too much.  I remained quietly exasperated, but accomplished one helluva lot of eye-rolling. I was certain that if I had to watch him fussing over that thing for much longer, my brains would leak out of my ears from all the unreleased pressure.  Finally, after spending an entire day with his parents, he was ready to haul his precious love out and unwind with a little strumming.


I was decompressing by reading out on our room’s little patio, when he burst out, ashen faced, wide-eyed and yelling, “SOMEONE STOLE MY GUITAR!”  (OK, call me a bitch [again], but his expression totally reminded me of a lemur.)



What? How could someone steal his guitar?  It’d been in the car for four days, and that car was always locked when we weren’t in it.  Back into the room I went, and saw the empty guitar case on the bed.  After about thirty seconds of pondering where and how this could have happened, I asked him if he had actually even put it in the case.  He looked at me like I’d suggested that he would look smashing in a pink, sequined tutu, and then became adamant that he did, and that someone broke into the car at one of our stops, took the guitar, and left just the case, “to throw us off of their tails!”  Yeah, I was having trouble swallowing that one immediately, but he was totally inconsolable and irrational.  His vacation was ruined, and he refused to call home to our house/pet sitter to see if he’d left it behind, because he was certain there was no way he would have done that.


With just a bit of coaxing (OK, maybe I was bitching again), he did finally call home.  Yes, his Martin guitar was safely beside his computer on its stand in the corner, and our house-sitter had enjoyed playing it very much.  We’d just traveled 1200 miles with an empty guitar case that he’d fiercely protected all along the route.  Now it was my turn to become hysterical, but I was hysterical with laughter.  I was out of commission for at least twenty minutes with tears pouring down my face.


The next morning, we Googled used guitar dealers in the area, took a couple of hours to find the place, and I bought him a replacement.  I mean, how can you go to Key West without your muse?  I felt like I was a true Guitar Hero.­­­­



Oh, but the payback was really a bitch.  😉


(Lemur image courtesy of Google.)

Attacking the Bird Nerd (Or: I Didn’t Really Like That Pair of Underwear, Anyhow)


For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a fear of birds. I fear all kinds of birds. Dead birds are particularly heinous to me. I’m sure a childhood viewing of Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds contributed to this. I imagine their wings flapping on me, their nasty little beaks pecking my eyes out, their ugly, scaly feet touching me, and then they’d poop on me. As a single mother for twenty years, I dealt with the dead birds on my property in the most rational way I could: I screamed, ran away and got either my little boy or one of his friends in the neighborhood to remove it for me.

            Fast forward my life, and you find me remarried and living right on the lip of Lake Erie. Remarried to a man who has (shudder!) bird feeders. I was now being subjected to more birds than any one ornithophobic woman should ever have to deal with. I remember my first year or two there was spent learning to live with the fact that everywhere I looked, there were amazingly skeevy winged creatures. From the tiny hummingbirds and wrens to the water fowl, such as egrets and blue herons, birds were everywhere. Seagulls by the bazillions, buzzards and even the grand bald eagle flew over my house on a daily basis. This doesn’t even touch the tip of the bird iceberg for this area. Every sub-species imaginable became a daily sighting. We lived right on a migratory path, and were always treated to the likes of butterflies, orioles and indigo buntings on their journeys both north and south. To my horror, I found myself living in what was basically an aviary.

            My husband had both winter and summer bird feeders. The dining room table butted up to a wall of windows facing the back yard, and I took this over as my desk area. I was now relentlessly subjected to their creepy little bodies in my line of sight. However, I learned that as long as I was inside with a pane of glass to separate us, my fear diminished and I became fascinated by the flurry of activity these feeders generated. I began to recognize the newcomers and started identifying them. I actually became… a bird nerd. We added nine bird houses, because it terrified me when they nested under the loose panels on the roof of our milk house. When I walked through the yard, they’d dash out in fear of me, and I’d scream and dash back in from fear of them. At least with the houses, I now knew where to expect them. I actually got a frequent flyer card at Wild Birds Unlimited and started buying designer seed. We invested in a much larger winter feeder and added squirrel feeders. Corn and peanuts were added to my shopping lists, and the paranoid antics of a multitude of furry critters were added to our viewing enjoyment. I could sit and stare out my back windows all day. There was always some kind of action going on. I was still terrified, but I knew they’d vamoose when I stepped outside. Well, unless there was a nest and they wanted to kill me. It was kind of like riding a roller coaster: after the adrenaline rush, I got to laugh at my ridiculous self.

            I swore they could smell my fear. Like cats who instinctively seek out the allergic person in a room, the birds found me. I had a pair of battling robins brush my belly with their wings (insert scream and damp drawers here). I’ve been swooped by a great blue heron (insert louder scream) and I’ve run like hell, with my little dog in my arms, from low-circling buzzards (insert continuous screaming). I’ve had seagulls land two feet away from me at the beach and I’ve even had a bat or two in my belfry. OK, maybe it was really my sun room and not my belfry. And I know it’s not a bird. But it has wings, and it’s creepy. Humor me.

            What I hadn’t figured on was the enormous draw all this avian activity would be for the predatory birds every winter. So began my first encounters with hawks: my backyard became a happy hunting ground. They landed on my patio, benches and even the bird bath right outside my window. They’d munch on my sparrows, doves and blue jays, right in front of my eyes, causing me to run and scream and hide in closets. (DEAD BIRDS! DEAD BIRDS!) I had to toughen up and learn to fight back. I’d crack a window enough to get the barrel of my Super Soaker out and give those suckers a bath. I’ve bathed everything from a tiny kestrel to a turkey-sized red-tailed hawk. I stopped screaming when I saw them feasting and just slammed doors and yelled at them so they could take their meals elsewhere. I thought I was getting so cool!

            That was, until the winter day that my neighbor called me and told me I had to get outside—there were two huge birds killing something in my back garden. As soon as I opened the door, I could hear the victim’s screams. I tiptoed through my yard to join Leslie, who was staring at the garden behind our shed with a horrified look on her face. I was terrified before I even caught sight of what she was viewing. I was already cowering behind her when I saw it too.

            Twenty feet away from us, there were two enormous black birds tearing into… uh… something bloody. One appeared to be protecting the other by cowling its huge skeevy black wings.

            “What the fuck are those?!” I managed to squeak while cowering. With her hand over her mouth, Leslie’s breath was coming in quick gasps. I thought I knew every bird in our area by now. If I didn’t know it, I’d look it up. These were decidedly creepy and were about two feet tall. I’d never seen anything like them. They looked other-worldly and prehistoric. I briefly wondered if I’d stumbled upon some baby pterodactyls. (I know, but just keep humoring me, OK?)

            The one that was cowling looked over at Leslie and me, straightened up a little taller, raised its wings a bit and let loose with a series of blood-curdling squawks. There was no need to threaten us twice. We both turned tail and made hay for our own back doors.

           My heart pounding in my chest and my bowels turned to liquid; I did the next sensible thing: I sent my husband a text, begging him to bring home a bottle of wine. Then I went right to Facebook to freak out for all of the world to see. I Googled ‘big black hawks’ and only came up with pictures of helicopters. A few of my Facebook friends started throwing out suggestions for what they might be, but no one came up with the answer. Finally, my husband called and suggested I Google ‘immature bald eagles,’ and there they were! I’d just witnessed two approximately three-year-old eagles eating what I assume was one of our plump, delicious, corn-and-peanut-fed squirrels… in my own back yard! You could now add amazement and delight to the already consuming horror and terror I was feeling. I looked them up on Wikipedia and learned all about the opportunistic feeding habits of these creepy and dastardly youngsters.

            The next year, I was faced with a choice. Did I stop feeding all of those wonderful-to-watch creatures and let them starve to death? If I didn’t feed them, the hawks, and maybe eagles, too, could also die. Then I might have had more dead birds to contend with. I just wished they wouldn’t shed so much blood right by my windows.

            But for right then, I was just afraid to let my tiny dog out alone. She would not be Purina Eagle Chow!

            Stupid eagles.



The NotJoker

We were so looking forward to just sitting at the tiny, three stool bar at the restaurant attached to our hotel.  We needed to slum it, in the fashion we were most accustomed to.  From our balcony, we could see that there was only one person sitting at the bar, and I joked that I was sure I could chase him away in no time.  We meandered downstairs and grabbed the two empty stools at the bar, looking forward to some plain old beer and camaraderie with the bar staff.


The guy who was sitting at the other stool was the epitome of every annoying bar patron that we’d ever run across, and then some.  He was truly in a league of his own.  I’ve been know to tell the crude and the rude to just shut the fuck up and leave us alone in other establishments, but this guy wouldn’t quite cross the line between pathetic to disgusting.  He remained lonely and sad, and after five minutes, we certainly could see why.

The moment our butts hit the stools, he turned to us and said, “Did I ever tell you the one about…”  No, you couldn’t have, since we’ve never met you before.  He then proceeded to tell us some tired, old internet joke that we’d each heard at least thirty times.  We politely laughed, which was the wrong thing to do.  You can’t encourage this type.  He continued to tell us one joke after another, all of which we’d heard countless times before.  We both even began to mention that we’d heard that one, and even that one, but he continued to tell them all the way to the end, regardless.  This went on through four jokes.  Five jokes.  Seven jokes.  Finally, I did it.

I faked a phone call.

I pulled my cell from my pocket and started carrying on an animated conversation into which I dragged Kevin.  He quickly picked up the idea, and repeatedly told me things to tell the person on the other end.  In the meantime, NotJoker kept poking him in the back, needing to tell him another one.  I passed the phone to Kev so he could be more involved and possibly give this dude the idea to leave us alone.  After both of us kept telling the non-existent caller that we would certainly discuss this between ourselves as soon as we hung up, we finally decided we were safe enough to end the pretend call.

Wrong again.

The moment the phone was back in my pocket, NotJoker got up and stood between us so he could say, “And then there’s the one about…”  Surprise!  Another not funny joke from 1947!

I swear that if it wasn’t for the adorable little girl that looked like Gwyneth Paltrow who appeared at the counter to pick up an order for her family, he would have never given up.  With a new target to hold hostage, we were finally able to shake him.  Otherwise, we still might be sitting there, listening to his stale jokes and not wanting to hurt the feelings of an ugly, lonely little man.  We could still be sitting there with him, under the palm trees and blue skies, with dolphins jumping and manatees swimming nearby, and listening to his pathetic form of stand-up comedy,

The snow in Ohio really didn’t seem like such a bad trade-off, after all.

Read This or I’ll Slap You

I’m hormonal as hell.  Menopause sucks scissors.

I’m hot flashing and night sweating and crying and bitching and yelling and blaming and wanting to kill something.

I’m fat and bloated and hot and cold and horny and you better not touch me and then I’m happy and sorry and apologizing and crying and eating all the chocolate and drinking all the beer and wine and crying more.

I want your attention and you better give it to me but you better leave me the hell alone if you know what’s good for you after you give me more chocolate and wine and tell me that I don’t look fat and that’s an order.

I love you all.

My Recipe. Eat It.



There’s an annoying trend on the internet these days.  Maybe some of you have been unfortunate enough to experience it, also.  I’m talking about the dreaded recipe exchange.  This is the kind of thing that used to be in a chain letter in the days before the web. 


The premise is simple enough.  Write out your easiest recipe; something you know off of the top of your head.  Send it to the name on the top of the list and add your name to the bottom.  In essence, you’ll collect 3,784 recipes in four days if no one breaks the chain.  (“Because, after all…we can all use new recipes!”)  *gag*


The biggest problem with this would be a) refer to the first line of this article.  It’s annoying!  And b) by sending me this, someone is implying that I want to cook. 


After careful consideration, I’ve decided that instead of ignoring all of these pleas for my favorite “off the top of my head” recipe, I would post it here, then just send everyone a link to this article when I get the next annoying request.  Given the time of year and the impending necessity of pork and sauerkraut in the very near future, I decided to share my very easy recipe for what we call Sauerkraut Pie.  It’s not really a pie so just quit going “eewww!”, be quiet and read.


First thing you do is brown some sausage.  The kind that comes in a roll, like the Bob Evans stuff, works fine.  I don’t know how much it weighs.  Like a pound or something?  Whatever, just buy a roll and brown it.


Next, drain the fat and put it in a casserole dish.  I don’t know the size.  I use a square one.  Figure it out, okay?  Whatever size you need to hold all this crap will work just fine.  Cover it with a can of drained sauerkraut.  I probably should have told you to drain it before, but I didn’t, so deal with it.  Go check your email while you wait.  I don’t know what size can.  One of those smaller ones, but not too small; just a can.  Maybe you like more kraut, so adjust it whenever you feel like it.  If your dish fails, you can’t blame me.


Step three would be where you cover the sausage and kraut with a container of Bob Evans mashed potatoes.  Just one of those regular sized ones.  I don’t know if they come in gigundo size or not, but don’t get one if they do.  Actually, you’ll want to take the potatoes out of the container before you cover the other stuff with it.  I like to heat them a little in the microwave or let them come to room temperature before I use them because they’re easier to manage.  Bring the potatoes to the edges of the casserole dish and kind of seal the edges of them to the dish.  Brush the spuds with melted butter and sprinkle the top with parmesan cheese.  I don’t know how much butter or parmesan.  Just some, okay?


Bake it at somewhere around 350-400 degrees for like forty-five minutes or an hour.  It’s done when it starts to brown.  Eat it.  Yum.


Oh, I probably should have told you to take some Gas-X or Beano or Pepcid before you eat it so you don’t ruin everyone else’s evening.