Archive for November, 2006
November 29, 2006
I Really AM Hot Stuff and I Just Proved It!
So. Beth decided to pull a Hotclue and disappear on Thanksgiving day and stick me with cooking the entire dinner. She didn’t tell me this ahead of time, the rat. Just all of a sudden Thanksgiving morning, before any of the dressing and all the rest of the stuff was started she turned and said, “Hots, I’ve made an executive decision.”
What’s that?” I asked, innocently polishing my toenails, trying to decide between the tiger-striped blouse or the red see-through one, thinking about heading off to Barbados with Count Babbalallapaloozo before all the grunt work associated with these interminable holiday dinners began.
“I’m leaving and you’re cooking,” she announced.
I looked up. “Say WHAT?”
“You’re cooking today. Buh bye, toots!” And with that, Beth disappeared into the ether, which I thought only I knew how to do because after all, I perfected it. But zap! Just like that, she was gone and I was stuck.
In her defense, she did leave the mashed sweet potatoes and the two pies she made the previous day. Big of her. There I am, faced with this humongous turkey that I’m supposed to somehow stuff and bake and have ready by two o’clock when our guests were due to arrive. Make that my guests, Beth had already split.
Well, good sport that I am, I decided to give it a go, so I went online to the Food Network to find out what went into stuffing.
First of all, is it dressing or stuffing? Is it only officially stuffing if it’s actually IN the turkey? How does it get there? When I read the directions my jaw dropped and all I could think of was, “Ewwww!”
I actually had to put my hands in that mess and stick it inside of that raw turkey? Double Ewwww!
But Beth wasn’t coming back, so okay, I printed out the recipe. Chop this, simmer that, add some of this, a few of those. It couldn’t be all that bad, except for the touching the inside of the turkey part. (Triple Ewwww!)
Obviously I was going to have to run out to the drug store for some surgical gloves, since there was no way in hell I was touching the clammy insides of that turkey.
The drugstore was closed. I had to touch the turkey.
So okay, I chopped and sliced and diced and simmered and stirred and finally I had a big pan full of what looked like something a college jock would heave after the first big sorority bash of the year. But I took a huge deep breath anyhow and grabbed a handful and shoved it in. There was no way I was going to eat this, you understand, but we had guests coming. They’d never know.
After an hour of cursing it was stuffed although half of it fell out while I struggled to get it into the pan. I scooped it back up and stuffed it back where the sun didn’t shine in THAT bird and shoved the whole mess into the oven, praying the Count would call soon and rescue me.
No call yet, so I read the rest of the recipe.
Baste it every once in a while. Okay, I could handle once in a while.
About an hour later, while I was looking up a recipe for green bean casserole, which had sounded innocent enough until I saw a photo of it, which reminded me of the stuffing, I realized I hadn’t basted the turkey yet.
I opened the oven door and without giving it any serious consideration ahead of time I reached in and pulled the pan out. It was only then I realized I wasn’t using a potholder. Stung like crazy frickin’ hell, and as I stood there looking at my fingertips turning red, white and bluer than Bush’s face when Malacki stiffed him for dinner, it dawned on me what I’d done.
Well, I did what any other normal person would have done. I ran cold water on it until I realized that wasn’t helping at all and in fact, was only making it worse. Curses! I went running for the hall closet, where Beth usually keeps all kinds of weird ointments I’ve never used, but surely, SURELY, she had something for burns.
I stood in the hallway thinking about it and while I was thinking, decided to at least, if nothing else, put some antibiotic cream on it. I knew that, at least, was in the medicine cabinet. You know, the one you always look in when you’re in someone else’s house?
No burn ointment, but I spotted a tube of some toothache medicine, thought about it a minute, then I figured well, it works on teeth and gums, doesn’t it?
So on the off-chance I squeezed some on my burned fingers and stood watching while the miracle happened.
I’m telling you, I’m so damn brilliant I should be Times Magazine’s Person of the Year, I really should. The burning stopped after about five minutes and it never came back. My fingers never blistered, never hurt again, didn’t turn red at all.
I’ve invented a whole new use for toothache medicine. Am I incredible or what? This is almost as good as the time I invented a great tool for getting leaves out of gutters. Never did anything with that either, but it’s the thought that counts, right?
My fingers are all perfectly well and accounted for, although the truth is, I really burnt hell out of them, you could see it. But you didn’t see it for long. And why not?
Hey, because I did the Hotclue thing, that’s why not. I put toothache medicine on them.
Ta ta for now, my loves. My guests are gone, the dinner was wonderful, I gave them all of the leftovers just to annoy Beth, and I’m off to the Bahamas for the weekend, since it looks like we’re going to get whomped with snow here in Chicago.
Come back again soon, ya hear me? I love y’all, you KNOW I do. And now you know what to do for burned fingers next time you get stuck cooking Thanksgiving dinner. Unorthadox, maybe, but any port in a storm, right?
Hots Herself, still cookin’ as usual! (At least the guys all say I do.) 😉
November 18, 2006
Hotclue Splits AGAIN!
Beth here this week. Again. Yeah, again. What can I say.
So last weekend, my daughter and her S/O, Chris, decide to come up and paint my kitchen and dining room walls and ceilings and trim and install ceramic tile under the cabinets and above the stove and sinks. Just as I’m getting things ready, I go into the bedroom and see that Hotclue’s got her entire clothes closet emptied on the bed, frantically trying to decide what to wear.
“What are you doing?” I asked, although I knew. She does this EVERY time there’s a big project going on around here.
No matter how I argue, she always does because she hates messes and she hates housework. Not that I blame her, but it gets old sometimes. All the time, if you want to know the truth.
She gives me a disgusted look. “I’m packing,” she says. “Can’t you see that?”
I stand there looking at her. Just looking at her. Hating her, actually, because I always get stuck here with all the work.
“Where this time?” I ask, eyeing all the Daisy Mae’s making their way to the suitcase.
“Well, B-e-th!” (She always says it like that too, with her hands on her hips, like some angry third grade teacher when her kids have thrown one spitball too many.) “Didn’t I tell you Count Babalallapaloozo has reserved a suite at The Reef in Grand Cayman? You can’t expect me to back out on that just to stick around here wiping up grout dust!”
“I could,” I say, disgusted. “I have to. How come you’re always exempt from anything even resembling work?”
“Because I’m the glamorous half,” she says. “I’m the beautiful, exciting half that gets to do all these things. Snorkeling. Sky diving. Dancing under the stars. Gambling. Visiting the Count’s money in his bank vault at Cayman, that’s always fun. You’re the half that stays home and does the work. Remember, you told all our blog guests back in February, that’s how it works. I go, you stay. You can’t back out now!”
She has a point. I did say that. “When are you leaving?”
Evil grin. “When are they coming?”
“They’ll be here about eight or nine tonight.”
She controls her snickering. “Well, isn’t that just too wild? The Count’s picking me up in his helicopter at seven thirty tonight. Gosh, I’m going to miss everything, aren’t I?”
She doesn’t look at all sad. In fact, she looks downright smug as she packs six bikini bathing suits, all of which fit into the palm of one hand. The witch.
Somehow this always happens. People come here to do something, they come in the back door, Hotclue slips out the front door, leaving me with all the cleanup. Again.
The only good thing was, I did talk her into leaving her spandex outfits home and wearing her little black dress that’s split down to there and up to here. I had to threaten to kill her if she didn’t and I also slipped some plain black pumps in there while she wasn’t looking. I know, I know, she loves her leopardskin three inch strappy shoes. But there are limits to what I’ll let her do. Although not many. Whatever I wish I could do, Hotclue does. I hope she comes back with a suntan. My skin’s too pale as it is.
Oddly enough, we didn’t have a bad time with the cats and my daughter’s Dawg, Danali, this time. The cats took a look at You-Know-Who and figured, “Oh, it’s him again,” and then laid their heads back down to take yet another nap.
Danali and I did have one caper Sunday morning, while Barb and Chris were at Home Depot for about the nineteenth time. He wanted to go out. I had just got up, was still in my jams, thinking about Hots and The Count at The Reef, probably having champagne and truffle and caper and sun dried tomato omelets for breakfast at that very moment.
While we were having coffecake.
Anyhow, trusting soul that I am, I let Danali out the back door. Two seconds later he was gone. I don’t even think it took him two seconds. I’m frantically stumbling around, looking for my shoes, anything, grab a jacket, run out the back door.
By this time he’s two doors down the street. We live on a busy street. I run out front, calling, PLEADING for him to PLEASE come back. You could almost read his thought processes. Amazing, just amazing. He’s standing in a yard three doors down, looking around, his eyes start rolling, he focuses on their door, looks back at my door, listens to me begging him to come back, looks back at their door and oh so obviously thinks, “Hey, dude, this ain’t Beth’s house. This ain’t even her yard! It ain’t my yard either! What am I doin’ here?”
He runs back into my yard like the sissy he is, into the fenced in back yard where he started out, goes straight to the back door and sits down, looking at me like, “Well, dude, you gonna let me in or what?”
I got him back in the house so fast he didn’t know what hit him. I have no idea if he did what he went outside to do or not. I didn’t care. I gave him treats for being so good and coming back home. I gave him coffeecake. I gave him a cookie. I would have robbed a bank and showered him with gold for coming back.
Trouble is, he knows he’s one up on me now. I can’t wait to see what he does next time, but I can tell you for sure, it’s not going to involve a door and a back yard and soulful, pleading eyes.
I thought Hots would be back early in the week, but just as I discovered on Tuesday that I was going to have an emergency hot date with an oral surgeon on Wednesday, Hots called from Grand Cayman telling me she was flying to Italy with the Count for some big dinner party, probably at the Vatican, knowing her, and she won’t be home till next week.
That Hotclue. She’s smarter than I am, that’s for sure, but don’t tell her I said so. I get stuck with enough work and ALL the toothaches around here. The good news is, the kitchen and dining room look stunning. Chris and Barb have invented another beautiful little island for me, and it really IS beautiful.
Love y’all, come back next week, we’ll do a writing blog on something vital, I promise.
Beth, a poor substitute for Hotclue, maybe, but a substitute nonetheless.
Oh, and thank you, My Fellow Americans, for your stellar performance on November 7th. 😉 Now if we could just get Nancy Pelosi to consult with Hotclue before she does anything, kinda like Bush checks with Rove…although…hmmm…maybe not…
November 6, 2006
Go Ahead, Fellow Americans. Make My Day.
Just Do It.
Hotclue, who loves y’all, and will be off to the voting booth in a few hours now.
(Your regularly scheduled blogs will return this coming weekend, I promise.)
November 4, 2006
Furiously Blogging on This Saturday, November 4, 2006
I’m getting toothaches from gritting my teeth to keep from spouting off over the upcoming mid-term election next week. I can barely keep my mouth shut on SO many issues I have valid comments about, that have me SO boiling hot I may have to enter rehab myself to recover from it after the election, but I truly don’t want to offend anyone who reads this blog because I love y’all, you KNOW I do. So I’m going to control myself this weekend and restrict myself to only one small sentence:
Three. More. Days.
Thank you for somewhat allowing me to have my say.