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Thursday, September 29, 2011

Pressure Cookers and Men

Saturday, I spent time with fabulous conversationalists, gluttonously drinking and eating my way into a hangover and bigger dress size.  We were talking about all sorts of topics, from food to penises (strange how talking about one thing you put in your mouth leads to the other).  As we ate great food, we discussed recipes and cooking methods, and with cooler weather approaching we talked about stews and soups. 
I used to swear by my crock-pot, thinking it was the best thing since running water and indoor toilets.  The thing that made a crock-pot so incredible was the ability to throw all the ingredients together before leaving for work and returning home with the house smelling as though there was a gourmet chef in my kitchen preparing dinner for me (pretty pathetic, I know, but hey…I’m single).  However, there’ve always been two flaws with this method; [1] It requires advance planning and forethought (both of which I suck balls at), and [2] It must be done in the morning BEFORE work (and I’m like Godzilla in the mornings, only not as good looking).  However, in order to get the full blending of flavors and the desired textures of my soups and stews, the early morning sacrifice had to be made…until I discovered the pressure cooker.

A few years ago, I purchased a pressure cooker, and realized that I could cook in an hour what had previously taken all day.  My crock-pot has been collecting dust since.  So back to Saturday.  I’m discussing all this with my friends and explaining how incredibly awesome a pressure cooker is, when the only husband in the conversation starts telling a pressure cooker horror story.  He asks, “Have you ever seen a pressure cooker blow?”  He then shares a story about his mother using a pressure cooker which blew it’s top so forcefully, barely missing her head, that it put a hole in the ceiling.  To hear my non-pressure-cooking friends talk, I might as well be cooking with a time bomb which was bound to blow eventually, and take half my face when it did. 
After a couple similar stories about the dangers, and me bragging about how safe and reliable mine is, we ladies decided that pressure cookers are like men.  Most are safe, albeit a little exciting because you know they COULD be dangerous.  With a little care and attention they’re usually harmless, but occasionally you get one that flips its lid for no apparent reason.  Usually, however, one only flips its lid from major neglect or pure stupidity on the part of the operator (even the pressure cooker is telling the woman it’s her fault).  Finally, when they do blow, they can do serious damage and cause bodily harm.


So a couple days ago, craving some fresh boiled peanuts but having limited time in which to cook some, I break out the pressure cooker to once again work its magic.   When the release began its bobbing and the steam started whistling, I found myself thinking back to the weekend’s conversation and laughed aloud when I realized I’d now even given my pressure cooker nuts!

Saturday, September 17, 2011

The Penis Epiphany

Yesterday, while watching one of Allstate’s amazing and super funny mayhem commercials, I had an epiphany…penises are ugly.  I mean, really, when’s the last time you saw a bumper sticker or t-shirt that said penises make me smile, or saw a commercial with a woman looking at a man’s penis like just the very site of it is making her wild with desire?  You haven’t, because penises are ugly.

Put a good-looking, big breasted girl in a low cut top jogging down the road, and watch the men drool all over themselves and almost get in accidents as they rubberneck to get a better view.  Let a man wear something that shows half their penis or scrotum, and see what kind of response that gets.  Let him wear a short pair of running shorts with no underwear, with the package playing peek-a-boo as he runs…the women may be looking, but not for the same reasons. 
Penises are, however, very interesting.  There are little ones, big ones, skinny long ones, short fat ones, curves to the right or left, circumcised and uncircumcised penises, all as unique as their owners. Then there is the scrotum, a whole other beast which usually is uglier than the penis.  We haven’t even gotten into pubic hair and grooming yet, and how that varies.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m a heterosexual woman in my mid-thirties with a healthy sex drive, but that doesn’t mean I want some stranger’s penis wagging at me on the street, or to have their balls on display for my inspection while I eat in a restaurant.  I could see it now, some man flirting with me from across a crowded room…he spreads his legs, oh so provocatively to bear his clean shaven scrotum and expose the head of his penis, knowing I will soon be his…NOT!  Why?  Because while us heterosexual woman want and need our man’s penis, we don’t fantasize about how it LOOKS, the curvature, the vein protruding from one side; we fantasize about how it FEELS. 
They may be ugly, but we women love them all the same.  In closing and on behalf of women everywhere, I leave you with these simple requests:  (1) Wear underwear when jogging or wearing anything shorter than your ball sack when you sit or stand; and (2) If your pubic hair is longer than your penis, get a weed-whacker.  You don’t want hair on your plate when you eat…neither do we.

Thursday, September 15, 2011

Sometimes...There's Just Not Enough Coffee!

I awoke this morning to the most horrific sound…my phone’s alarm. It was fortunate for the alarm that it was on my phone, for in that first waking moment nothing would have given me more pleasure than to throw the source of the wake-me-from-a-sound-sleep-ruin-a-good-dream noise maker out the window, onto the concrete drive, and watch it shatter in a million pieces! 

However, since I NEED my phone, I had only the image of destruction I’d created in my mind to draw satisfaction from.  I cross the house, cursing myself for not having gone to bed earlier as I’d told myself to over and over again last night.  I get to my son’s door, which is hanging half off the hinges (don’t even ask), push the door to, and in the sweetest possible way I could muster, I scream, “WAKE YOUR LAZY ASS UP!!”  (Just joking, but I was so grumpy that the thought crossed my mind.)  I realized at that moment that the best thing I could do for both of us, would be to get him up and go lay back down for half an hour…try and find the right side of the bed to get up on.

I awake the second time to Marshall coming in to kiss me goodbye as he heads off for the bus. Realizing that I can put off the day no more, I get dressed and head out the door for the 25 minute drive that would take me to my prison cell of the day.  About half way there, my phone rings.  The number on the caller ID I quickly recognize as my son’s school, but upon answering it, realize I have almost no reception and can make out little more from my son than he needs another shirt.  I must now turn around and go BACK to Vidalia to bring my son a new shirt, and I realize that I don’t have a clue what he was wearing in the first place (I know, I should be nominated for mom of the year).  When I got back in range of the towers, I called the school asking to speak to Marshall, but am transferred instead to the principal, who informs me that it is picture day, and my 5th grade son is wearing a shirt that says, “Grab a butt and pinch”.  WHAT??? Where did that COMPLETELY inappropriate shirt even come from and how come I’ve never seen it?  I mean, surely it would look much better on me!

I deliver the shirt, and head off to work for the second time this morning, already late, only to hit every single red light in town.  It’s then that I realize I had not been successful in finding the right side of the bed to get up on.  At one light I was stopped next to a funky painted Crown Victoria, jacked up on ridiculously large tires, with the radio bumping so loudly my car shook from the bass, and I couldn’t hear my own radio.  I shot the driver a dirty look, to which he was completely oblivious as he slumped to one side, moving to the obnoxiously loud music like some basketball player bobble-head toy.  At another light, I notice the very heavy young woman in the car next to me with her hand down her shirt frantically scratching her right boob, and can’t help but associate it to the likeness of Al Bundy with his hand down his pants.

I finally make it out of town and go to pass a truck while there is an available passing lane.  The old man in the truck speeds up to faster than I wish to go so I crank up the radio and set the cruise control.  No sooner than the passing lane ends, the man lets off the gas and slows to an infuriating 45 mph (in a 55).  I’m now late for work, stuck behind a man going well below the stated speed limit, oncoming traffic spaced out perfectly to prevent me from passing, and at that moment, I experienced shear road rage, cursing loudly for no one to hear but me.
I could sure use another cup of coffee!  Whew…if the morning’s been like this…what adventures will the rest of the day bring?  To this I just say…bring it!

Sunday, September 4, 2011

The Factory's Closed But the Playground Is Open!

Boredom got the better of me at about 9:30 last night, so I decided to go shoot a couple games of pool.  I take a shower and head to a favored local establishment.  Upon arriving at the establishment, I see a gentleman at the tables I’ve played with for years, shooting against an unknown man.  I lay some quarters on the table and wait my turn.  A couple games in, I go to the bar for a beer.   The owner is behind the bar, which is never a real good thing. I place my order and wait…and wait…and wait.  I finally get his attention for a second time and ask about that beer.  That’s when it happens.  He leans in and says, “I thought you were pregnant.”  WHAT!!!
Normal people probably would have been offended or asked where he heard that from, or a multitude of other questions and emotions.  Me…no.  Without missing a beat, I say simply, “Honey, while I’ve kept the playground open, I closed the factory many years ago.” 

For all that know me, that comment wouldn’t be a shocker, or even a small surprise, but an expected degree of smartassism I tend to be notorious for; however, I did mention there was an unknown man playing at the table.  I commence to playing pool with my new pool playing partner, who’s game is seriously suffering.  I little while later, he just can’t contain it anymore and tells me how wrong it was to make that comment around a single man.  He just couldn’t concentrate on the table knowing there was an open playground right next to it!
I guess I have discovered a new and very effective pool playing strategy.