Monthly Archives: September 2011

Just three? I’M dilated three!

Tonight I have to pack my suitcase because my sister is going to be popping out a kid any day now and as soon as that happens, I’ll be boarding plane to come to her rescue and help her do all the important things that come with having a newborn baby boy. Like turning up the TV volume to mask his crying. JUST KIDDING. We’ll put the baby outside so we don’t have to put our drinks down to reach for the remote.

My mom is hardcore and is flying out tomorrow so she can be there for the labor process, which is something I considered for zero seconds because DO YOU KNOW WHAT LABOR LOOKS LIKE? I was perusing a medical textbook at a garage sale last spring and accidentally saw a picture of a baby crowning, and I actually dropped the book, open, onto the lawn and ran back to the car to do some deep breathing. When I looked back, there was a little girl standing over the book starting to make the same face as that guy who looks directly at the Ark of the Covenant in Indiana Jones. Her parents should totally thank me because that girl will not be having sex until she is 50.

I’m a tiny bit nervous about helping take care of a baby because a) Historically, I do not like them, and b) I almost pooped MY OWN pants last week so I think it’s safe to say I’ve got my own problems to focus on. (I considered writing about this incident, but I think it will suffice to say it involved a greasy lunch, a mad dash through the aisles of Walmart and the subsequent death of my dignity in a handicapped bathroom stall bearing several phone numbers and a fine line drawing of a hairy ballsack). I’m confident that I will feel differently about my nephew not only because we will share DNA, but also because I plan to systematically undermine my sister and her husband so that I will be his Cool Aunt Heather. When he gets his first celebrity crush I will totally help him compile a creepy stalker binder full of photos. Ditto for his first real-life crush. I will show him the best unhealthy snack combos (popcorn and M&Ms, butter and sprinkle sandwiches) and will teach him about Harry Potter, cheese, and why Macs are way better than PCs. You know, all the things he needs to be successful in life. And I bet he will teach me some things as well. Like why anyone would voluntarily push 8 pounds of screaming pooping machine out their hoo-ha.

I believe I’ll pack a bottle of something 100-proof for my sister.

I had a squirrel named Numb Nuts …

Yesterday one of my Google Reader friends (Hi, Jennie!) shared a Happy Birthday Jonathan Taylor Thomas video because if you can believe it, little Randy from Home Improvement is 30. If he’s 30, I’ve got to be like 80, which probably explains why I always want to yell at the damn kids outside who make all kinds of racket when I’m trying to take my afternoon nap.

You will have to watch the JTT video here because WordPress wants me to give them $59 to post videos on my blog and I feel like using that money for something so frivolous would be very irresponsible of me, especially since I’m starting to navigate the murky waters of retirement savings. So far my retirement plan involves going to a casino tonight and making sizeable investments in slot machines. Way better than having to actually learn what the hell a Roth IRA is. I had to craft some sort of plan though, because Chase (my bank) keeps sending me emails being all, “You’re 27 and have no retirement account! Do you want to be a burden on your children later in life?” And then I’m like, “QUIT PRESSURING ME TO HAVE KIDS, CHASE. GOD!” and my boyfriend goes, “WHO THE HELL IS CHASE?”

Thanks for ruining my life, MONEY.

Speaking of fail-proof plans, let me tell you about the time my friend Betsy and I plotted for like three weeks to get JTT to visit us in podunk Northern California where, upon seeing our scrunch socks and rainbow-colored braces, he would undoubtedly decide he was in love with us, give up driving around Hollywood in his solid gold Ferrari and move to a place where curtains are made of Confederate flags and duct tape. We never really worked out what would happen when he had to decide which of us to date and marry, but I feel pretty confident that since Betsy was my best friend and all, and I was a nice church-going girl, I would have felt pretty bad about having to cut that bitch.

On second thought, maybe he WOULD have fit right into small town life. I hope his former stylist had to pay for making him look like the love child of Yosemite Sam and Jenna Elfman.

Stage One of our plan was to read every JTT interview we could get our hands on, taking notes about his likes and dislikes and then storing the lists in a  binder with a picture of him on the front and OH MY GOD I CAN’T BELIEVE I AM WRITING THIS ON THE INTERNETS. Stage 2 was to write him a letter including all the information we amassed in Stage One. This letter was perfect. We casually mentioned that we loved the Boston Celtics and tofu; wouldn’t it be weird if he did, too???!!? Through these subtle hints, he would realize that we were totally soul mates (and possibly crouched outside his bedroom window sniffing a locket of his hair). Just to seal the deal, we told him in the letter that we don’t like to brag about it, but we both work for Seventeen magazine as models. We learned in Stage One that JTT loves Salinger and uses his spare time to study, so obviously a man of his intelligence would need proof. So we cut a page out of Seventeen, wrote our names above the two hottest models, and mailed it along with the letter.

Actual JTT quote about discovering his teen idol status: “I was in St. Patrick’s Cathedral actually. My Mom was showing me how to light the candle and all that, and this person comes up and is like, ‘Can you sign this, please?’ I was like, ‘Okay, let’s get out of here, because I don’t want a big old lightning bolt to come down on me, thank you very much!'” Oh, JTT. How did you never get into stand-up.

After receiving our letter, he immediately departed the “Man of the House” set and drove up to meet the 12-year-old Seventeen models of his dreams.

Just kidding. But he did send us two signed pictures of him sitting on a step stool wearing white cargo jeans. WHITE CARGO JEANS.  If a big old lightning bolt was going to come down on you, JTT, that would have been the moment for it. Anyway, we of course paraded the pictures around our school and when too many people had touched mine and the ink started to smudge I put it inside a plastic sleeve and made people form a line to look at it while I held it safely in my clutches. DO YOU SEE WHAT A FUN GIRL YOU MISSED OUT ON,  JTT?

JTT seeing what he missed out on.

I held out hope for some time that he would call me, but it turns out that JTT was merely the first in a long line of men who would be intimidated by the fact that I had collected their personal information in a binder with their face on it.

I gave you my heart, JTT, and you gave me white cargo jeans.

Custard? Good. Jam? Good. Meat? Gooood.

I’m suffering from a bit of writer’s block and I blame the long weekend. What IS Labor Day, anyway? I tried looking up the holiday’s origins but saw a bunch of words like “labor movement” and “Syndicalist” so I got out of there right quick and busied myself with the much more important task of finding out what size Christina Hendricks’ boobs are*. Mad Men’s got a lot of mystery going on – characters who have stolen identities and who are pretending to not be gay and who are hiding their bastard love child they conceived with a married asshat – and yet all I can think about when I’m watching it is how it is possible that Joan’s boobs are not causing other planets to crash into Earth with their gravitational pull.

I totally know about science.

ANYWAY while most of my friends spent Labor Day weekend being adults and doing stuff like making home improvements and working in their gardens, I was eyeballs-deep in a weekend of gluttony. Mad Men marathon? Check. Fried foods-based diet? Double check. Pretty much the only “work” I did all weekend was make a peanut butter chocolate pie because we were invited to a last-minute Labor Day barbecue Monday night and we were asked to bring dessert.

Surprisingly, the pie was a pretty resounding success. I looked up no-bake recipes because it has been so hot here that the use of the oven in this house has been outlawed. This is actually great because the local radio station has been playing that Toby Keith “Made in America” song every hour and when I hear him sing about the horror of “foreign cars filled with oil that ain’t ours” all I want to do is bake my head at 400 degrees for about an hour.

Seriously though, this pie was so, so easy to make (obviously, or I wouldn’t have attempted it) and I used a recipe from Martha Stewart but made a couple changes. Namely, adding more chocolate. I’d link to the original recipe but I can’t find it and I’m tired and my computer has randomly powered down twice since I started this post so please just do me a favor and don’t tell Martha if you see her about town.

No-bake peanut butter chocolate pie
3/4 cup heavy cream
1/2 cup smooth peanut butter
2 tablespoons sugar
Store-bought pie crust (I used the Oreo one and it changed my life)
Chocolate chips

In a bowl, beat the heavy cream until stiff peaks form. I don’t have a fancy mixer so I used a whisk and if you choose to go this route, make sure there is somebody else in the house you can pawn this fool’s errand off on because HOLY GOD it takes forever. Once stiff peaks start forming, add two tablespoons of sugar.

"Made in America" was totally playing while I made this pie.

In a separate bowl, fold the whipped cream/sugar mixture into the 1/2 cup of peanut butter. Having no clue what “fold” means, I mixed it in gradually with a spoon and nobody died. Once this is all mixed (or folded?) together, pour it into the pie crust and top with the chocolate chips. Freeze for a couple hours. While you’re waiting for it to freeze, go ahead and ice your mixing arm if you plan on using it the next day.

Confession: I have no idea how old these chocolate/peanut butter chips are. They were in the fridge behind a bottle of barbecue sauce.

I kind of wonder if a layer of Nutella spread on top of the pie crust under the peanut butter mixture would make this pie even more awesome. I have no idea what happens to Nutella in the freezer, but once I regain movement in my right arm I will try it out and let you know.

*The closest I came to an exact measurement is Christina’s boobs > yours. I also learned that if you Google this you immediately feel like a creeper. A flat-chested creeper.

And these are … apartment pants!

I moved from Los Angeles to a town of around 6,000 about four years ago. I’ve finally managed to make peace with the cattle (and deer and pigs and possums and bears) that hang out casually in the roadway. I’m no longer surprised to attend weddings where people sit on bales of hay and the groom swigs from a 40-oz. Natty Ice while his lucky bride walks down the aisle (in his defense, he was under a lot of pressure – there were like two other girls in town who were carrying his babies at the same time as his wedding to another woman.  Whom he had also impregnated. I am not making this up). Hell, I even saw a lady wearing a T-shirt that said “Talk Shit, Get Hit” set her baby on the ground so she could light a cigarette a few days ago and I didn’t even have the urge to run her over with my car.  The thing I can’t get over is the fact that when it comes to clothing, our only local options are Walmart and JC Penney.

I’m tired of having to choose between “Miley Cyrus: Trailer Park Handy Queen” and “Sensible Polyester: A Study in Desperation” whenever I need new clothes. The other day I actually found myself wondering if I could alter a pleated, calf-length skirt with a hybrid jungle/stripe motif into something I could wear to a semi-formal wedding. (Not the hay bale wedding. I believe the dress code for that event was “Dimebag optional.”)

I know the obvious solution here is online shopping, but I try to limit myself because most shipping fees are totally out of control.  Like, I’d rather use half a tank of gas driving round trip to an actual Target store just so I can “stick it to them” and refuse to pay their $8 shipping fee for a dress that weighs 6 ounces. My bank account is now out 30 extra dollars instead of 8. TAKE THAT, TARGET!

Another reason I avoid online shopping is because once I place my order, tracking the package becomes My Life. I find myself telling people, “My $11 polka dot skirt was just processed in Ohio a day ahead of schedule, which means it will hit San Leandro on Tuesday,  so if traffic is light and this rainy weather pattern holds off I may be looking at a Friday arrival!!!” And then they look around for my caretaker because this was my response to the deli worker asking if I want tomatoes on my turkey sandwich.

Anyway, a couple weeks I broke down and bought this skirt online because a) cute! and b) $2 shipping?YES, PLEASE. And this is when I realized that when it comes to online shopping, a small town has its advantages. A few days ago I looked up from my desk to see a UPS driver walking toward me with a package. I had met her a couple weeks prior through a mutual friend, and we had chatted briefly about where I work. That’s right. This woman totally went out of her way to bring my skirt to me at my office because I wasn’t home when she delivered it. At first I considered telling her she needn’t do that for me … and then I remembered the new Mad Men Collection over at Banana Republic and was all “Thanks! My regular work hours are 7-4!”

Oh well. At least I’ll be a well-dressed asshole.