October 24, 2007
Methinks the recipe organizing project that I've been putting off for, erm, years might finally get done.
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January 13, 2006
This.
I am SO FREAKIN' EXCITED to try it out. It about killed me when I read the instructions yesterday. I was all fired up and ready to use it, yet, lo and behold {insert duh-duh-duh music here} it needed sixteen hours to charge up. Sixteen hours! Can you believe that crap?
BAH!
But...the sixteen hour mark has now passed so I'm going to go and clean my bathtub. I'm wondering if I actually need to fill up the reservoir with the Tilex Soap Scum Remover or if I should just spray it on the tub like usual. Hmmmm. I'm also wondering if I should use the three inch bristle brush for "agressive cleaning" or if I should use the coarse pad scrubber, for "aggressive scrubbing of larger surfaces such as ceramic tile and porcelain or enamel tubs and sinks." There's also a flexible attachment, to work the curved surfaces, AND a radial brush for scrubbing grout lines.
Suffice it to say, if this thing doesn't do the deal I'm going to be EXTREMELY disappointed. I've got HIGH expectations for this tool, and if it doesn't live up to them, well, I don't know what I'll do, but it'll be something dramatic. That's for sure.
I'll update with a progress report later.
Yes. I already know I'm the biggest dork alive. You needn't expend the energy on telling me so.
UPDATE: Ok, so what exactly was Black and Decker thinking when they put a battery in a scrubber that only goes an hour? Eh? It needs a better battery, because sixteen hours of charging=one hour of scrubbing is not going to make me happy.
Other than that, well, it's pretty damn sweet. I did not fill up the cleanser reservoir, so I cannot comment on that, but as far as getting my tub nice and shiny, it worked. I will admit that when I saw the attachments, I was a wee bit worried that the locking mechanism was too loose and that the attachments would fly/fall off. Turns out I needn't have worried at all, as even with the flexible arm attachment, everything stays put and the grout scrubber does not go flying through the air like a soapy Catherine Wheel.
Pretty cool, on the whole, if you have a really clean house that doesn't need hours worth of scrubbing. The rest of us, however, will have to do our deep cleansings in shifts because we have to wait for the stupid thing to charge.
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O
December 19, 2005
Millionaire's Shortbread
Makes about three dozen squares or six dozen triangles
1 1/2 cups butter (three sticks), softened and divided
2 cups all-purpose flour
3/4 white rice flour*
1/2 cup granulated sugar
Cooking spray for baking
1 (14 oz.) can sweetened condensed milk
1/4 cup light corn syrup
1 cup firmly packed brown sugar
1 1/2 cups semisweet chocolate morsels
In a large bowl mix 1 cup butter, flours, and granulated sugar with a fork until crumbly (like you would a pie crust). Press mixture int a 15-x-10 inch jelly roll pan coated with cooking spray for baking.
Bake at 350 for 18-20 minutes or until light golden brown.
Stir together remaining 1/2cup butter, condensed milk and corn syrup in a 2-quart saucepan over low heat 4 minutes or until butter is melted and mixture is blended. Add brown sugar and cook, stirring constantly, 25 to 30 minutes or until caramel colored and thickened. Pour evenly over baked cookie in pan and spread into an even layer. Chill 30 minutes or until caramel layer is set.
Microwave morsels in a small glass bowl at high 1 minute or until almost melted. Stir until smooth. Spread over caramel layer in pan. (The chocolate layer will be very thin.) Chill 15 minutes or until chocolate is firm. Cut into 2 inch squares; if desired, cut each square into 2 triangles.
*3/4 cup all-purpose flour may be substituted.
I would highly recommend cutting the squares into triangles---the squares would be too much.
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I'm printing as we 'speak'.November 15, 2005
If you're interested, take the jump. more...
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October 30, 2005
Yes, my devoted Cake Eater Readers, your supposition is right: I am still hungover.
The party last night was a whopping good time. Other than the fact that the dee jay SUCKED big time, the ball was a resounding success and a good time was had by everyone. The winners of the costume contest were five guys who had the nerve to don itty bitty speedos, warm up jackets replete with 'DDR' on the back, noseplugs and swim caps to form the East German Swim Team. They carried a flag, spoke German and had a little cheer that they performed in the midst of the party to much applause. They totally deserved to win. But, getting back to the cause of my pain and suffering, on the beverage menu there was this fabulous drink called "The Brain Hemmorhage" that was made with cherry vodka, sweet and sour, and something else, but, for all intents and purposes, said drink was the alcoholic equivalent of crack. Hence, I am hungover.
Blogging will resume tomorrow.
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October 27, 2005
The Ministry of Silly Walks has certified it and will be sending out the certificate stating as much in tomorrow's post.
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October 25, 2005
Kath the Cake Eater: Unattended Luggage Fighter and Cub Reporter
At precisely 12:52 p.m. CDT today, on my way back from Lake Harriet, I reached the bus stop that sits opposite the Cake Eater Pad. While I was waiting to cross the street, the sweet stylings of the Boss' Rosalita flowing through my earphones, out of the corner of my eye I noticed something was amiss. Something was resting next to the bench. Something that shouldn't have been there. Furthermore, it something that wasn't there when I went to the lake an hour and ten minutes earlier.
I am sure you, my devoted Cake Eater Readers, are asking, what could it have possibly been? A breadbox? A Chrysler? A disembowled smurf?
{insert heavy duh-duh-duh music here}
It was...
...an evil garment bag. An evil unattended garment bag.
Rather conveniently for the cub reporter angle, I had my digital camera with me, so I snapped off a few shots of the garment bag, before going into the house, where I faced a conundrum: to call the cops or to not call the cops.
You see, some idiot probably just forgot their bag when they were getting on the bus. It happens. Someone probably got a little too wrapped up while listening to George Clinton and the Parliament Funkadelic on their fashionable iPod and, in the midst of their grooving on this beautiful autumn Tuesday, forgot all about their garment bag as the bus pulled up. It could happen.
But the "authorities" have repeatedly warned us about "unattended bags," because, apparently, they don't like for our luggage to be separated from its owner: that's a bad thing because it generally doesn't bode well when this happens. Yet, I ask you, my devoted Cake Eater Readers, who in their right mind would want to bomb the bus stop across the street from the Cake Eater Pad? The only thing that's there, as you can see, is a bench, a Strib box, and a Lutheran Church about fifteen yards behind it. Besides the obvious choice of target--- the Strib box---the only other target of interest is the Lutheran Church. Who'd want to bomb a Lutheran Church? Yeah, sure bomb a synagogue or a cathedral, but a boxy Lutheran church? And ECLA Lutherans at that? That's just really not worth the effort. Particularly on a Tuesday.
Anyhoo...I was torn. Do I call the cops? Do I not call the cops? I wouldn't want to waste their time. So instead of debating with myself, while I stretched my hamstrings, I called the husband and asked him what I should do. He said, duh, call the cops. I agreed I would. I chatted with him for a little bit, asked him how his day was going, listened to him bitch about this ISP he's working with currently on this project, and then, after I hung up with the husband, called the police at 1:05 p.m. CDT. Of course I got the Cake Eater City Police on the horn and since the bus stop is in the Province of Minneapolis, they transferred me promptly to the Minneapolis police, who took my name, number and complaint and said, "we'll send some cruisers right over."
I hung up the phone, happy that was over with. Then, because I was hungry, I went into the kitchen and made some Cream of Wheat for lunch. 1:10 comes and goes and the cops don't show. 1:15 passes by with still no police as I pour the hot cereal into a bowl and get myself some juice. At 1:20, I'm settled in the chair in the living room, eating my lunch and watching the street outside, waiting for the cops to show up. The cream of wheat was exceedingly tasty---and it disappeared fast, because I was hungry. At 1:24 a Minneapolis police cruiser shows up! And it only took nineteen minutes! A moment later, a second cruiser pulls up behind the first.
Now, apparently the guy in the first cruiser wanted nothing to do with the bag. He left it for the dude in the second cruiser to take care of. The second cop pulled on what looked like a pair of baby blue rubber gloves and went to work on the bag, while the cop from the first cruiser stood out of the way.
The second cop went through the bag pretty thoroughly.
And then all of a sudden, the gawker effect kicked in on the street as the cars started slowing down to get a good peek at what was going on. This, apparently, coincided with the time that the second cop decided there was nothing to worry about with this bag, hence the first cop decided to mosy on over, closer to the bag.
About a minute later, at 1:27p.m., the second cop put the bag in his trunk, whipped his rubber gloves off like he was Marcus Welby, threw them into his car and got in after them. The first cop pulled into the church parking lot and then the second cruiser pulled in after him.
There apparently wasn't anything wrong with the bag, per se, because they sat there and shot the shit for the next fifteen minutes or so.
So, I feel somewhat righteous right now, having defended my local bus stop from unattended luggage that might or might not have exploded and destroyed the Strib box.
We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.
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October 18, 2005
That is one sexy coffeemaker, no?
If you want to read what will undoubtedly be a longwinded review from someone who used to be in the coffee industry, take the jump. If you're not interested, well, gaze in wonder at the joy that is my kitchen counter. more...
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12:30 PM
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October 17, 2005
UPDATE: The husband has been screwing around with this Ning thing for the past week or so (he got in on the beta somehow) and is enamored with it. Hence, he built me an app for this specific question. Go and check it out, but for the love of God, don't register to vote. I won't even do that.
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October 12, 2005
Day Three without any form of nicotine running through my bloodstream.
And I still feel like I'm high. Any time my brain would like to get back to working at its regular pace, I'll be happy to have it kick in. Until then, I'm reduced to wandering around the house, trying to connect two thoughts and failing most times. I'm sick of this crap.
I want to be able to post without having to update about six or seven times to get my point across.
Also, to add insult to injury, I broke out again. And it's a bad breakout. Like, I haven't had skin this grotty since I was in high school.
I'm pretty damn sure it's a reaction to the lessening of the amount of nicotine in my bloodstream. There's nothing else to explain it. I haven't changed my diet. I don't bloom out in zits during that time of the month because, ahem, I'm not fifteen anymore (Thank God for small favors). I learned my lesson on the Life Savers, hence there's no candy in the house. This is the only thing that could be causing all these effing zits! They pop up, quite literally, it the time it takes to wash my face. I'm quite serious. Yesterday, I washed my face. There was no zit above my lip. I rinse my face off and---WHAM, BAM, THANK YOU MA'AM---a white head had appeared. And, no, I'm not allergic to the soap. This is fucking ridiculous. I haven't counted all the zits on my face because, quite frankly, there are too many of them to count!
Quitting smoking has very little to recommend it.
Really.
I'm just calling it the way I see it and as far as I can tell, compared to how happy I was sucking on my coffin nails, well, the life of a non-smoker really does suck.
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October 11, 2005
I miss my nicotine.
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10:51 AM
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October 10, 2005
Today is the first day in over ten years that I've gone without any nicotine in my system.
And I feel like an idiot.
Yes, you are remembering correctly: I was on the patch. I gradually stepped down from 21mg of nicotine---the equivalent of a pack of twenty cigarettes---to 14mg four weeks ago, and then to 7mg two weeks ago. Yesterday endeth the eight weeketh patcheth plan. Today is my first day without ANY nicotine and, to repeat, I feel like a fucking idiot. The neurons aren't firing well. The synapses are acting like a lazy bike messenger who's claiming to have a pulled hamstring. And I'm tired. I just went around the lake and I'm pooped. I shouldn't be this tired. Everything's fuzzy and muzzy and any other words that have two "z's" in the middle.
Methinks this quitting smoking thing is more of a pain than what it's worth.
Ah, well, it's not like I'm in any state to ponder deeply on that, so I'm going to go and have a nap.
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October 09, 2005
She sent me these earlier, with the attached message: "Couldn't help exchanging views." The Cake Eater Parents are currently on vacation in Ft. Walton Beach, Florida. This is, indeed, the perfect time of year to visit: it's still warm enough to get some serious beach time in, but the beaches are pretty free of people, which is nice.
{Insert much grumbling that, undoubtedly, violates the Fourth Commandment here}
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10:30 PM
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October 07, 2005
Clicket on the image to super-size.
This is what I get to gaze upon every day when I go walking. Eat your hearts out.
You'll see the rest of the pictures when all the leaves are down. Which shouldn't be too long from now because it frosted last night.
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October 05, 2005
UPDATE You know your motivation level is at rock bottom when you feel the need to blog about how much you don't feel like cleaning.
It's incredibly sad, no? Next thing you know, Dearest Jonathan will be bugging me about how this, indeed, is an indicator of just how dumb blogs can be.
And he'll say "heh" when he does it, too.
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October 04, 2005
The reason for this deep cleaning?
My in-laws are coming to town tomorrow. From Phoenix. Via plane.
And we had, approximately, twenty-two hours' warning of their visit.
To elucidate: the in-laws were supposed to visit us last week. They had their plane tickets and their hotel reservations were made. They were set to go. That is, until the father-in-law was laid-off from his job. Then the in-laws decided that spending money on a vacation probably wasn't the wisest thing to do whilst there was a limited source of income available. So, after cancelling the reservations, the father-in-law looked for a new job and he was hired yesterday. It's a job he will excel at; it has a lovely compensation package; and it means they will be moving to the outskirts of Nogales, Arizona because the father-in-law will be driving over the border every day to go to work. You'd think they have plenty on their plates right now, wouldn't you? Getting ready to sell their house; finding a place for the father-in-law to live in the meantime; looking for new furniture to replace the hideous orange and brown sofa and chairs they have in their living room, etc. Apparently not. The mother-in-law, never being one to let grass grow under her feet when a chance to see her grandbabies is in the offing, suggested to her husband this morning that since he doesn't start work until the 17th, they could still get their vacation in.
They didn't call to ask if it was a good time for a visit, either.
Yeah. I know. Let's not go there.
This should serve as a warning that blogging will probably be light over the next couple of days as I have an apartment to mother-in-law-ize and other domestic duties to attend to.
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September 23, 2005
I returned from Lake Harriet earlier and I was reminded of all the joys of a fall Friday when I walked past the local high school's football field. Apparently there is a game there tonight. I don't know who they're playing or what the team's chances for a victory are, but it's the first home game and I couldn't help but be a little excited for the people that were there: it's the first time they get to partake in the tradition. The cheerleaders were dressed in their school colors---purple and white---and were decorating all the entrances to the field with balloons and streamers. The marching band was on the field and it seems, after listening to them march around the neighborhood for the past two months, that they've finally got their stuff together. They were playing I Believe I Can Fly but they'd not only upped the tempo, they'd funked it up a bit as well. The tuba section was having fun on the field, and the drum line finally sounded as if they were one humongous drum, instead of fifteen poorly arranged snares and bass drums. It was a nice thing to watch. It reminded me of all the promise that beautiful autumn Fridays possessed in high school.
The day would start off slowly, but it would hold promise. A blue sky, a hint of warmth would soon be found when the sun worked its way toward its zenith. The grass was still green, but it had been cool enough to kill off some of the more annoying varieties of insects that buzzed about, bothering you. You'd drag yourself through whatever class you were dreading that day. Was it a test in Chemistry? Or was a paper due in Sociology? Or was Sr. Rosaria on the war path once again because you flubbed the translation of the one sentence of Caesar's Gallic Wars she'd given you. It didn't matter. There was the hope of the evening hours to get you through the rest of the school day, which always seemed like such a waste. Surely being stuck in school on such a gorgeous day was an affront to God. But since that creative excuse wasn't going to fly with the principal, Itsy Bitsy Betsy, also known as Miss Kish---the world's shortest school prinicpal, EVER---you instead focused on other things. You chatted with your friends about your plans for the evening. There was, as always, a football game to go to. You had to go to the game if it was a home game. There was simply no choice about it. After the game there was a dance at a rotating selection of schools. You worked on sorting out the day's truly important business: whose parents were going to drive you where so you wouldn't miss anything. And it was important you shouldn't miss anything...because Friday nights were when you got to go and ogle the boys.
As I've mentioned before, I went to a Catholic all-girls high school. Obviously, we didn't have a football team; but we had the boys' school down the road---and they had a football team. This school is conveniently called Prep, which is short for Creighton Prepatory School. At that point in time, Prep didn't have its own football field, so their games were held at UNO's field. For a few Friday nights every fall, we'd work our way over to UNO to watch Prep pummel whichever opponent they were up against that week. We'd find seats in the large stadium and then we'd sit there and watch the boys, while pretending we were really watching the game. When you're a freshman, you actually believe that some cutie is going to come on over and talk to you and you wait with bated breath for it to happen. By the time you're a sophomore, however, you've been disabused of that notion. Junior year is when it finally happens and it doesn't seem as interesting as you'd thought it would be. By senior year, well, you're a bit beyond it, or so you'd like to think.
Then, when the football team was done with their pummelling, you'd go and find the car of whomever the lucky parent was who'd pulled the mid-shift chauffeuring stint, and you'd be off to some high school gym to gyrate madly for hours on end. Omaha's a pretty Catholic town: there are---counting on fingers---seven high schools (that I can think of---there are more now) and each of them would rotate hosting a dance or two. So, you'd go and you'd pay five bucks to get into some high school gym where either a garage-band-done-good or a DJ awaited you. My generation apparently didn't have any problems with dancing. This was not a situation where the boys lined the walls and the girls were the ones on the floor. Nosireebob. Everyone got out there and danced and the only time you saw anyone on the sidelines was when they were winded and needed to take a break. You might have snuck outside to get some air with your friends and some boys may have followed, hoping to chat you up. Or you might have met someone while you were waiting for a coke in the cafeteria. You may have even gotten friendly enough with one of them to find a place for a quick make-out session, or you might have been wholly annoyed with one of them because they wouldn't leave you the hell alone. You might have found a new crush, or you might have been crushed by the one you fancied. It was an adolescent soap opera and I have to think it was just as amusing as hell for the chaperones to watch. But, no matter, because as always, time is fleeting. These things were always over with by midnight, so you'd round up your friends, you'd walk into the now quite chilly, pitch black parking lot to find the unlucky parent who'd pulled the chauffeuring late shift and you'd work your way home.
Sometimes you'd be highly satisfied with the evening. Everything would have gone right and you would have actually worked up the courage to talk to the boy you liked---or they'd finally gotten the clue that you liked them. But those were far and few between. The night would, most likely, be unsatisfying. Someone would start a rumor about you and when you finally heard it, it would make your face flush with embarrassment and shame. Some boy might break your heart by ignoring you. You might get into a fight with one of your friends. It didn't really matter what happened, but the posters for the dance should have had the warning "potential adolescent hell" pasted all over them. Yet, surprisingly enough, the potential for it to be an awful night didn't really hit you until it was all over with. Somehow, you always hoped for the best when you started off the evening.
I have to wonder what Friday nights are like for today's teenagers. Are they similar to the ones I endured, even though fifteen years has passed? Or is the entire process different? What do they do after football games nowadays? Do they go to parties? Do high schools even host dances anymore? Or have they canned that activity because it's just a lawsuit waiting to happen? It's all very curious. I'm sure, however, the overall emotional experience is the same. They're probably looking forward to the evening, and they have their hopes and expectations as I did. Some of them will wind up on the positive side of the evening, and some will wind up on the negative, because that's just the way the world works. Ah, anyway...I wonder.
But they'll at least have a football game. Thankfully that much hasn't changed.
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September 22, 2005
In the Twin Cities. At the Cake Eater Pad. They cancelled his flight to Billings last night, all the hotels were sold out and he crashed over here.
I'll be expecting the phone to ring shortly.
You see, I really can make a post out of just about anything. All I need is the inspriation to do so.
UPDATE: And now he's gone!
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September 19, 2005
I would just like to tell the people at Quit Plan that they should be glad the postal service saved their collective fat ass on this one. If they hadn't arrived, I would have hounded them to death with phone calls. Oh sure, they're all about taking calls and being cheery and supportive, but I'm pretty damn sure they wouldn't have wanted to listen to me open up a can of bitchcraft. I'm sure it's not a surprise for everyone to learn that I am quite handy with a can opener when it comes to getting the can of bitchcraft open. I don't mean to brag or anything, but I've got it down to 2.5 seconds or less in some instances.
I'm sure they're happy that the US Postal Service spared them.
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September 15, 2005
- You know how the Germans are crazy about David Hasselhoff? Well, the Belgians apparently feel the same way about Doug.
- Ever considered digging a hole to China? Take a looksee at this and see if you'll actually end up in China. I ended up somewhere in the middle of the Indian Ocean---so I won't be digging anywhere, thank you ever so much.
- In case you weren't aware, Goldstein is on a roll lately. Just keep scrolling, and then when you can scroll no more, go into the archives and keep scrolling.
- Our Maximum Leader had a, uh, religious experience on his commute in to Dee Cee the other day.
- Random Pensees has a question for the ladies
- Sadie's waxing rhapsodic over Steff. Yes, that man was fine. I actually wanted Molly Ringwald's Andie to reform him in Pretty in Pink rather than dealing with the mealy-mouthed, wishy-washy Lane.
But that's just me.
Ok, that's enough from me. I've been so busy the past couple of days that it's obvious I'm behind on things. And since I've got more to do today---laundry, cocktail parties, dealing with a whopper head cold that one of my sister's offspring gave me as a parting gift---I need your help, my devoted Cake Eater Readers, to keep things interesting around here.
If you've got a link you'd like to promote, throw it into the comments. If you've read something interesting over the past few days and believe it could use a wee bit more publicity, go and throw it into the comments. I would only ask that you keep it clean and to please use hyperlinks. If you behave yourselves perhaps we can do this again sometime in the future.
God and head cold willing, I'll be back tomorrow.
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