Oh Princess

I set up a friend of mine with a woman I know. Not a woman I know well but know enough to think it would be a wise idea. Oh. poor. fool. am. I.

He is a rugged All-American dream, and she, straight out of a fashion magazine. Both are successful, intelligent and engaging. Why not? Some of my other pairings have ended in matrimony (which was intriguing to her I will add.)

Over a group outing, he asked her if she would be interested in meeting him at the park on Saturday. A typical outing for him and his frisbee-loving Lab. She, holding her martini, flashed her laquered red nails at him and said in a voice like Cruella,

"You can't be serious. Do these nails look like they like to go to the park and play frisbee?"

I believe I may have heard the proverbial cricket chirp in the deafening silence that followed.

He excused himself, being a proper gentleman. Later after he paid his tab, said to me in a quiet voice, "I think I'll pass."

Win some, lose some as the addage goes. So she doesn't like the park, I thought. So what? At least she isn't pretending the park is the most incredible way to spend a Saturday until a year into their relationship and she comes clean, right?

Could she have modified that tone though, and sounded a touch less bitchtastic? But of course. Perhaps she was employing an odd sense of humor. I doubted it but thought no harm, no foul.

Until I got an email from her stating she can't believe my friend didn't call her, and he must be just another arsehole.

Areyouserious?

And I thought, hmm.....someone is definitively an ass, yes, but I am fairly confident it is not him.

Lesson learned: Screen a bit better next time. And maybe just maybe check the talons before playing matchmaker.

The tiny brown beaver

A funny scenario at the park last Sunday prompted the memory of a comical family story from my childhood. I will post the park story soon but first let me share the memory it dished up.

When we were kids, our nightly family dinner was a great gathering fest. My older brother, Tumbleweed, and I frequently had our two BFFs over. The four of us would typically join my Mom and Stepdad (SD) for dinner.

One night Tumbleweed determined nothing could possibly pair better with the family dinner than an inappropriate joke. He was a freshman in high school so inappropriate jokes were likely all he knew. For nostalgia purposes, and for good story-telling, let me share the joke now.

What is the bellybutton for?
A place to put your gum on the way down.

My mom, sweet as a daisy I presumed, didn't quite get the joke. She asked for clarification. Down where? While the quartet of youngsters howled like monkeys, after some delay my SD provided a euphemism. His choice was "beaver". My mom, tilted her head and said, "I used to have a beaver once."



Now, I was only a kid at the time but I promise you I knew a historical moment when it presented itself. So I buckled in, and was certain it would be a story I would be telling for decades to come.

Our mom, went on to explain that her beautiful beaver was a pet. And how it was tiny and brown. And her brother unfortunately set it loose in the woods. Can you image telling a group of silly juveniles about your tiny brown beaver that got set loose in the woods? Immaturity knows no boundaries.

As we choked on laughter and meatloaf, my mom was surprised and dismayed by our reaction to her missing pet. Oh boy.

As we continued to carry on, she finally demanded to know what was so funny. So SD told her that he didn't really mean beaver as in the primarily nocturnal, semi-aquatic member of the rodent family. He explained the joke, and why we were cackling like jackals.

And once she realized, out of the kitchen she went as fast as her legs could carry her.

Ahhhh...Momcatt. Thanks for such a great memory.

And my mom is not Mrs. Ingalls. In fact, she is cool as hell so the fact she didn't get the joke, or know a very 80's slang term for the nether region, well, it was surprising.

So watch your words today, and if you find a loose beaver, you can airmail it back to my parents house. I am sure my Mom misses it.

Honky Tonk Badonkadonk

It is safe to say I like to get my groove on. And I am open to a variety of musical beats. A little blues, a little classic rock, a little dance. And I am not afraid to get my country on now and then.

Back in the day, I may have spent some nights here and there at the biggest country bar in the SE so I could

shake my honkytonkbadonkadonk

wear skin tight jeans, halter top, and cowboy hat

dance on top of speakers

behave like a lady.

I had a friend that was a bouncer there...and well, that just makes it all the better.

And since I love to dance, some of those two-steppers can literally, sweep you off your feet.
Oh, those dancers, bring it here to JennyMac.

And on occasion what goes hand in hand with country bars is a whole lotta' drinking going on. Typically, I don't do anything to impede my moves, but here is what happens sometimes when you do shots at a country bar.

After kicking up my heels with glee, someone says we should ride the bull. Of course there is a mechanical bull in this harem of harlots.

Hmmmm. Doesn't that sound like a great idea? Of course it does, and bring us one more round.

Not savvy with the electronic rodeo stylings, I carefully observe those who dare go before me. The Bullmaster who is driving the speed of this thing is a mean old S.O.B. And the parade of clowns being dropped on their honky tonk badonkadonks left, right, and center made me both giggle and fearful.

Bullmaster was a bit nicer to the girls but I saw some gals do a faceplant, and its not pretty. And, oh, wouldn't you know it, a gratuitous breast popping out during certain face plants as well. I think the Bullmaster sought his targets carefully. Don't let the surprise show on your face.

So when my turn comes along, my most serious vow is not to get thrown off. So I grip in, and the Bullmaster is now saying gentlemanly things onto his microphone like "HOW FAST AND HARD DO YOU WANT IT". Altar boys need not apply for the Bullmaster job. As he speeds up, I shout SLOWER. He complies. SLOWER. He complies. And then he asks me to spank the Bull.

So, I comply if only to win his good graces and placate him enough that he refrains from kicking it up a notch thereby flinging my body to the filthy mats below. And after a short bit, my turn was over. And I managed to stay on that bucking bronco. I thought, WOW. I ROCKED THAT BULL. Step aside, whilst I fetch my BAD ASS belt buckle to wear the remainder of the night.

And then I saw a girl ride that bull with her feet up on the horns. I said, "Oh, I want to do that." Yes, alcohol + alcohol = great aspirations.

Now boarding first class! Oh, JennyMac, please feel free to stay seated in the terminal.

And then the strippers came. And quite a number of them. They also got on the bull. I think they did quite a bit more than spanking. They were wearing bikinis. And they were climbing on that thing like it was Dirk Diggler. WHEW, glad I was in the front of that line.

Later, I see Bullmaster at the bar. He asks if I am going to get back on the bull. Ummm, if you dip it in hydrochloric acid first.

He laughed. And said, "You'll be back."

And I thought I might. Until I saw the pictures my friends took. Here I thought I was quite a sultry little bullriding novice. I thought the pics would have captured my sassy flair and gleaming eye.

This is actually quite comparable to the actual look on my face in the photos.


There was no sultry flair. No gleaming eye. Just a date with the doctor since the photos captured a girl seriously about to lose her shat.

That's what I get for being sassy.

I went into semi-retirement of bull riding after that night.

Red wine under $20.00: One for every day of the week

Typically, as the temperature increases here in Atlanta, my interest in drinking red wine decreases. However, with weekend visits to the mountains and the fact JohnnyMac would love to keep our house an ice-boxish 65 degrees, I find myself drinking red wine deeper into summer than usual.

Mind you, summer may officially begin June 21 but in the South, summer unofficially begins around March and ends around October.

For your drinking pleasure, might I suggest a bottle or two? It is a medley of reds, and some of them surprisingly young. You know we love the red wine, and finding something great under $20.00 is surely something to note.

And note, none of these come with a promise that you will sound smarter, be hotter, be a better dancer, or be a better singer but we all know red wine certainly does help with those things.

Here are some of my personal recs, one for every day of the week:

Innocent Bystander 2006 Shiraz Viognier (Australia): $16

Del Rio 2005 Sirah (Oregon): $15

Yalumba "Barossa" 2005 Shiraz Viognier (Australia) : $14

Chateau Ste Michelle 2005 Indian Wells Cabernet (Washington) : $14

Hahn Estates 2006 Cabernet (California): $12

Hawk Crest 2006 Cabernet (Stags Leap Wineries, Napa): $15

Twenty Bench 2006 Cabernet (Nine North Winery, Napa): $19

Cheers and have a FAB weekend.

Run baby run

Ahhh....this is one time when crossing the line is very, very good. Thanks to fabulous weather (67 degrees...in JULY...unheard of in Georgia in the summertime), the Peachtree Road Race and all 6.4 miles of it last month was not tear-inducing. Love it. And I just got the race pics back.

This is my photo finish. What am I doing? Your guess is as good as mine.

Not really a "I'm #1" finger raised salute.
Nor a triumphant "V for Victory"...hmmm.
Raising the roof? I don't do that anymore.
Flexing? I certainly hope not.
Pumping up the jam? I will apparently have to settle for that.
Note to self: Create much cooler and more photogenic move for finish line next year.

Here are just a few comments on the race extravaganza. You know I love the Peachtree Road Race. I told you about my first one. And what my 2009 "training" involved. However, a few worthy notes to share.

We saw a gang of boys in mullet wigs and speedos running together. Bless. Your. Hearts. Mullets and speedos? I felt like I was at a pool party with NKOTB.

And we did note a few of you had extra socks. If those weren't extra socks, call my friend LaLa. She's single and will love you for your.... ahem...intelligence.

And to the super nice man on the race way with a tray of DOUGHNUTS...oh, you sly fox. I didn't see any runners going for it but all the spectators around you thought Santa came early.

And to the couple running in wedding attire...love it. If you can get through this together, then at least you know when you get mad at each other in the future, one of you can run away. Far and fast you can get through anything.

And to that man in those itsy bitsy lycra shorts. Ummm, feel free to wear what you like. I think those are bike shorts though but I can't be sure. Why am I unsure? Well, because for a minute there I thought I might be washed away by the sweat splashing off you. Yes, I know its hot, sugar. But, ummm, from the looks of it, you seemed to have been heavily perspiring in the arse crack region. Maybe just a splash of talcum next year? And if you must wear Lycra, maybe just a size or two larger would be more comfy? And after catching a glimpse, I think it hurt me more than it hurt you.

And to the jackass who gave my friend an unfriendly shove in the back. Well, you are a dick. Sorry she was in your way (note: did not cut in front of you, was merely in your way) but I am not sure if you realized you were not going to win the race. The guy who did win was finished in 27 minutes. You know who else knows you will not win? Everyone in front of you who also didn't run it in 27 minutes. Don't be both ungentlemanly and a sour grape.

Oh, and to the BootCamp Trainer in front of us at mile 3. Not to be snarky, but you are wearing a Boot Camp Trainer tshirt. (Sidebar: Do you all know the Physical Fitness Bootcamps? They are weeks long training clinics that are to assist you with armed forces style tactics to get in shape. Highly effective.) However, when you are wearing the TRAINER tshirt and you are only at Mile 3, shouldn't you be running? You can't wear that tshirt and be walking. At Mile 3. Unless you want everyone signing up for your BootCamp to demand refunds.

And finally: Thank you to the thousands and thousand of people that line the streets to watch and cheer us on. It is the BEST 10K to run. Period. And to all of the badass runners who finish in 30 minutes or so and double back on the track to cheer people on, well, you are true sportsmen.

Only 334 days until the next one. And maybe I will get that 1/2 marathon in between now and then. Or, I could just have another cocktail.

Don't mishandle the company wiener

In Wisconsin last week, the famous Oscar Mayer Wienermobile crashed through the front door of a home doing structural damage to the deck and garage.

Are you serious?

No, it wasn't a runaway wiener. The Terrible Driver of the Wienermobile had a mishap.
And this poor front door might need some counseling.

How did this happen? Oh, the driver thought he was moving in reverse but was actually in drive. And after pouncing on the gas pedal, this is what happens....

No one was home and no one was injured. THANKGOD because NO ONE wants to go to work after that hospital visit and confess they were injured by a giant unexpected wiener. A giant unexpected wiener will leave a mark.

And I am sure that poor driver, besides being hazed endlessly for months to come, is no longer allowed to put his hands on that particular wiener.

And I can't imagine the homeowners' expression to drive up and see this poking out of the front of their house.

Ahhh, its just like elementary school, where jokes about wieners were king. Seriously, the juvenile one-liners here abound.

Oscar Mayer certainly does have a way with b-o-l-o-g-n-a.

But in all seriousness, how does that phone call to the boss go?

I accidentally got confused between moving the wiener forward and backward, and next thing you know, I broke it.

Ummm, don't you remember anything from 10th grade? As in any time when handling wieners, safety first?

If you don't know the difference between reverse and drive, your wiener shall come NO WHERE near me. Lord knows you might also confuse front and back. These are BASIC directions.

And there was some damage to both the wiener and the home. A representative of Oscar Mayer indicated all damages will be covered by insurance.

Wiener insurance? Love it. Had I only known this during JohnnyMac's hot peppered peeper incident, I would have been relieved. You know, just in case.

So should you be having a bad day on the job, be relieved you aren't the driver of this Wienermobile. Although, he did technically get a homerun even if the house was completely taken by surprise. Gives a new perspective to the expression "Stop banging the door!"

Don Patron has an ugly cousin

Mr. Patron: I realize we crossed paths again recently. You seemed kind of interested in getting to know me. I can not reciprocate your feelings. While you tried to seduce me in Mexico, I ignored you. You winked at me over the 4th of July holiday party scene, but you will see that I am quite resistant. Oh, your lovely words of encouragement on my birthday fell on empty ears.

These lips shall never touch you. Admittedly, you are sleek and fancy, and considered by all to be top shelf. But alas, we shan't get familiar, and here are the reasons why.

You have some wretched compadres. Yes, perhaps far less stellar than you, but since you all share the same lineage in some form or fashion, I shall lump you all together. There is such a long list, I won't name names. However,

The absolute worst is your ugly cousin, Jose Cuervo. I detest him most of all. He knows I don't like him and neither of us really needs a refresher on why I don't like him, do we? In fact, I haven't liked him for a long, long time. Let me explain.

I met Jose the summer before my junior year in high school. My friend LL and I went down to watch a rowing event at the University of Washington and somehow ended up on Greek Row. Some boys from Kappa Sigma invited us in for a little early-afternoon Jimmy Buffett party. How could we resist. Older, handsome college boys with Jimmy Buffett? In the door we go. (Foolish, foolish girls).

Your cousin Jose Cuervo mixed himself into some frozen margaritas. A cooler, more delicious elixir I had never before consumed. Since wine coolers and light beer was the extent of my alcohol repertoire, the frozen marga-treat-a was divine. Jose told me one more wouldn't hurt. So I had one more. And then one more. Jose told me he tasted even better straight from the bottle. Oh, and since we told our hosts we were freshman in college, they assumed we were already savvy in the ways of Jose's hedonistic world. Jose said it wouldn't matter. He said we seemed sophisticated and mature. Never mind I tripped over a rug in my attempt to sashay over to a cute boy, Jose said no one even noticed.

Jose said he would refresh me. He told me I was pretty. And the best dancer. Ever.

Jose said to drink and dance. I did. Jose said that it was hot in here and why wear my sweater when a tank top is fine. I listened, oh so closely. Jose had a firm grip. And then, Jose turned against me. He told me to take a catnap. In the middle of the floor. Then he said goodbye.

I asked him to help me get home. He laughed and said he was too busy with other party guests. Jose let two other people carry me to my car and deposit me on the floorboard. LL had to drive us home.

Jose told me to open the door at a traffic light. In the middle of 45th. With hundreds of cars around, since this was the University District of Seattle after all. Jose told me the only way to feel better would be to crawl out of the car. And throw up. On the pavement. In the middle of one of the busiest intersections we could find. Then Jose told me to get in the car. But he didn't tell me I had barf on my shirt. LL pulled off on a residential side street. Jose told me how calming the sidewalk would feel on my face. He told me to lay down. He told me to let that dog lick my mouth.

I barely got back in the car. Jose didn't warn me that we would pass my parents. Jose merely laughed and said "Arriba! Arriba!"

My parents did pass us. And LL pulled over. My mom came STORMING to the car inquiring on my whereabouts. Jose didn't tell me to keep quiet. Jose told me to speak up. Share my thoughts. He said I sounded clear, crisp, intelligent. My mom looked at me, looked at LL, and asked what was going on. LL told her I was drunk. Thanks friend.

I tried to tell my mom about Jose. I tried to point him out. But he had disappeared. Left me with a sordid tale, bad breath, and a shirt I would be soon throwing away. Oh, and punishment.

I never saw him again that year or the next. And then, as a freshman in college, I saw him resurface. He must have followed me to a party. Me, all sunny and bright. He, with all his liquidy amber glow. He came onto me. He said he was delicious. He assured me he had changed. He said it would be different this time.

Jose Cuervo is a liar...

He asked me to dance and after ignoring him for hours, I gave in. He told me we would take it slow. LIAR LIAR LIAR. Jose told me drinking was fun but shots were better. He told me dancing was fun but dancing on tables was better. He said to play Thumper. He said to play Quarters. He said smoke cigarettes. He said I looked hot. He said I was the funniest girl in the world. He said play air guitar. He said pee in the front yard. He told me those photos of me drinking shots wouldn't matter, they would only make me laugh. Oh, Jose, he is one smooth talker.

I had a headache that lasted one month. I cursed him and the day I laid eyes on him. I saw him influence others to run naked and jump off roofs but not me. He tried to corner me on other occasions. I screamed in his face. He tried to up the ante by introducing me to his friends Don Julio and Dona Carlota. I spit on him. Jose Cuervo is a sadist. I will warn others.

And while I do make a fantastic margarita (just ask JohnnyMac), and while we stock Cabo Wabo in our house, I know better than to dip in myself. So Mr. Patron, your interest in me is a dead end. I am wise now. And tell your horrid cousin, Jose, I don't even want his aroma within 20 feet of me.

Crotchety

Last Friday I went to the main floor of our building to drop off dozens of hand addressed invitations. I spied the Postman (because he was fully suited up including the postman cap) at the front desk. With no one else around except the receptionists, I smile at the Postman and say "Great timing. I have something for you."

To which he gruffly inquires, "Is it mail?"

Well. I am holding it in my hands. I am pretty certain he can see it. He is wearing full regalia as I mentioned so I have clearly not mistaken him for the dry cleaner, the barista at Starbucks, or my son's teacher. I realize he is sweating profusely so perhaps the heat index has melted the left portion of his parietal lobe and he is not fully capable of understanding spoken word. I simply smile even bigger in an attempt to be genuine and say, "Yes, it is."

Because, I am nice. AND because the postman that delivers to my house is the nicest man ever and gets showered with baked treats from my kitchen during holidays.

This man? Different story. He, apparently still dissatisfied. Ummm, Ashton Kutcher, no one is trying to Punk you. Unconvinced he says, "It better have stamps on it!"

Grumplestiltskin? It's not Halloween so I am positive you are the Postman because of your outfit. Therefore, it makes perfect sense to me that upon laying eyes on you that I would wish to give you my mail. Not my grocery list, not my Kindle, but my MAIL.

Further, it is not my first day interfacing with the United States Postal Service. I became aware of you in about, oh, third grade when I was formally educated in The Art of Writing Letters to Santa. Part of our training included the bit about all pieces of mail required proper postage. So yes, in fact, the mail I want you to take from me has postage.

Who gives the mailman something to carry in his pack with no affixed postage? I'm sure it happens but do people do this intentionally? Does anyone think the Postal System will pay your way? Of course not.

Now, in his defense, since the USPS has upped the ante on cost of postage more times in the past decade then previous decades combined, perhaps he meant "I would love to take that for you Miss, but let's make sure you applied the proper .44 stamp OK?"

But no. They have a place for people like you Mr. Crotchety Postman. It is a silver can and has a little green puppet living inside it. Run along. He misses you.

Take A Bite Of: Boston Cream Cupcakes with Godiva Ganache

Oh, sinful goodness that can be yours by this afternoon. The reason for my chocolatey sensation? Its a way of celebrating today.

Why am I celebrating? Because, I am an "Award Winning" blogger.

My gratitude to The Peach Tart for my MAJOR award, and to I Love Brownies for another Honest Scrap award, and to Ms. Lee at I Want to Make That for giving me a Lovely Blog award. And what better way to celebrate awards then with cupcakes? Well, yes, there are other ways but we can get to the cocktails later. Buon Appetito!

Boston Cream Cupcakes with Godiva Ganache

Custard Filling:
1 cup whole milk
2 tablespoons cornstarch
3 large egg yolks, at room temperature
1/3 cup granulated sugar
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/8 teaspoon salt

Cupcakes:
2 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
2 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 1/4 cups granulated sugar
1 vanilla bean, split lengthwise
10 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened
6 large egg yolks, at room temperature

Ganache Frosting:
2/3 cup heavy cream
5 bars (1.5 oz each) Godiva® Solid Dark Chocolate, finely chopped

Make Filling: (Prepare at least 2 hours or up to 1 day in advance.)
1. Whisk together 1/4 c. milk with cornstarch until smooth. Add 3 egg yolks and whisk until blended. Set aside.

2. Combine remaining 3/4 cup milk and 1/3 cup sugar in small heavy saucepot and heat to a boil over medium heat, stirring occasionally. Remove from heat and whisk half of milk mixture into egg yolk mixture. Return mixture to pan. Heat to a boil. Simmer gently for 1 minute, whisking constantly until slightly thickened.

3. Remove from heat and whisk in butter, vanilla extract and 1/8 tsp salt. Transfer filling to a covered container and refrigerate for several hours until thickened and completely cool.

Make Cupcakes:
1. Position oven rack in center of oven. Heat oven to 350°F. Line muffin cups with paper liners or grease muffin cups and sprinkle with 2 tablespoons flour; tapping out excess.

2. Whisk together flour, baking powder and 1/2 teaspoon salt in medium bowl; set aside.

3. Place 1 1/4 c. sugar in small bowl. Scrape out vanilla bean seeds into sugar with a small knife. Mix to distribute seeds in sugar; set aside.

4. In medium bowl beat butter and sugar mixture with electric mixer at medium-high speed about 5 minutes or until light and fluffy. Add 6 egg yolks, two at time, beating well after each addition. Scrape down sides of bowl. Reduce speed to low and add flour mixture in 3 additions. Beat until smooth, scraping down sides of bowl as necessary.

5. Reserve approx 2 cups of batter. Spoon remaining batter evenly into prepared muffin cups. Make a slight well in center of each filled muffin cup using the back of a teaspoon. Add about 2 T. of custard filling over each filled muffin cup using a pastry bag or small ice cream scoop. Completely cover filling with reserved batter.

6. Bake cupcakes in two batches, for 22 to 24 minutes or until tops are golden brown and set. Cool cupcakes in pans on wire rack for 10 minutes. Remove from pans and cool completely on wire rack.

Make Frosting:
1. In small saucepot, add cream and heat to a boil over medium heat. Remove from heat and add chocolate. Whisk until chocolate is completely melted and set aside.

2. Using small angled spatula spread about 2 T. of frosting in an even layer over top of each cupcake. Refrigerate for at least 40 minutes to set frosting. Serve at room temperature. And be sure to save one for me.