I just happened to run across a funny story about myself. With myself.
Let me start off by saying ti was an amicable divorce, we’re friends and coparents and all that happy horse shit *modern family dream shit, ya dig*.
So on my way to meet ex-hubs-to-be at the lawyers office, I stopped at Kroger for a long-considered practical joke, for lack of a better term. Looking around at the small amount of cake choices the bakery had, I decided on a mermaid cake that had multi-colored interior and sprinkles on the outer sides. I made my decision and spotted the lady behind the counter and walked up with her with a big, half-baked, nervous smile and asked if she would write on the cake for me. She obliged and asked what I wanted.
I couldn’t help myself and told her gleefully I was going to a lawyer to sign my divorce papers and I wanted to take a “happy Divorce” cake. Her puzzled look gave away the fact that in whatever country she hailed from, divorce didn’t translate. She asked if I could spell it. “D-I-V- *ring ring*, shit, O-R-C-E”, I said, reaching for my phone that was violently buzzing and ringing. I answer only to find out that my appointment was at 9, not at 10, and yes they were aggravated with me, but yes they would wait on me. The puzzled cake-decorator did what she thought I had asked her to do, I thanked her, took the cake, and headed towards my hilarious freedom.
I arrived, went through the motions, discussed the things and laughed with them. Then we had cake. After that, ex-hubs and I talked in the parking lot for awhile, and discussed a few things and reminisced a tad. It was at this point that I realized the goddamn cake was spelled wrong, and I was somewhere between crushed at the fact my thing I had planned for so long wasn’t right, and falling in the floor crying with how ironic it was that the cake was fucked up. To which ex-hubs says, “yeah, I saw it. But you were entirely too pleased with yourself so I didn’t say anything.”
What I came home to after a hard day of triumphs, failures, and hilarity. 🙂
I say album art because this is what I was listening to at the time. It’s quite an enjoyable album that pretty much has something for everyone. The name of the album is Love Story and it’s by Yelawolf. You might remember the song “Til it’s Gone” from the feature on a super important episode of Sons of Anarchy (god that show was a fucking ride on my EMOTIONS MAN). My personal faves off the album (not in any particular order): “change”, “American you” (I’d start with American you), “til it’s gone” is good shit, for you Eminem lovers, as we know, Em produced Yela and is on the track “Best Friend”, ooh god the song “Heartbreak” is FUCKING LIT, and “Tennessee love”, “love story”, and “box Chevy V” … shut the whole albums lit what am I talking about 😁
I started this blog when pregnant with my second daughter…2.5 years ago. And left it and and never made it back. I’M BACK BITCHES! What’s changed? Well, damn near everything. Here’s a dang list: Divorced, new wonderful life partner person, kids in school, quit my day job, and started living FOR MY DAMN SELF. My kids are happier, ex-hubs is happier, and I’m literally living my childhood dreams of being an artist and entrepreneur. And you know what? There’s nothing better in this world than letting go of people who don’t have your best interest at heart and putting yourself first for a change.
Don’t get all fucky and like “MERRR your children come first,” because that’s bullshit. If you can’t take care of yourself, and you don’t love yourself first – HOW THE FUCK can you teach little humans to love themselves? If I was still a martyr without a life of my own, my girls would have done the same old shit and been submissive to a man like I was and like the mothers before her. and FUCK. THAT. SHIT. We will NOT be subservient, we will not heed your demands, and we will question EVERYTHING.
I am literally losing my freakin’ mind about this. The 23&me testing kit just came on the mail last night. I took a photo of it- opened the box, and read the directions. I registered my barcode and said they could keep the sample for further analysis for research or whatever.
What my struggle here is, is that I am fuckin terrified. I have lived my entire life up until 12 weeks from now not knowing anything about where I came from- and also not caring too much because it never occurred to me that finding these other people was a real option. I used to care from time to time and even did a little research like calling the adoption agency and getting he paperwork to open he file whatever whatever … I never sent it in. So…
Here I am. I drank a little too much tea, smoked a bowl with my best friend, listened to Daniel Tosh’s new standup album with my husband (who bought me this test kit by total surprise)…(might have I mentioned I have been a bit snippy to recently)…and am now running out the clock smoking a bit more waiting to go coach the last soccer practice. THANK god it’s the last one. We are at he end of our ropes with this shit 😩*sigh*.
So I’m having a good day man. Oh I looked at houses on Zillow too. Anyway- I keep wondering what I will do with this information when I get it. Will I feel differently? Like….about myself and who I am and shit? I guess I’m going to find out if ignorance is bliss or not in about 12 weeks.
UPDATE I have no fucking family on record anywhere in their database. But I’m Irish as shit. Like super Irish. With Roma gypsy 3rd cousins. Well shit
Anyone ever had the Chicken Pesto Panini at Atlanta Bread Company? If you have, you know why I absolutely HAD to try to make it myself. It is super expensive, at over $8 for just the sandwich! So here is what I did. I got the basic ingredients for simple pesto, although I omitted the pine nuts because I think they suck. As I was gathering the necessary items, I happened to notice that the brand Knorr makes a pesto sauce mix.
Which at first I found to be a little weird and off-putting since it had you cook it on the stove, and fresh pesto is just basically blended together and used. So- here is how I made the Fresh Basil Pesto:
- 1/3 cup Parmesan (or other firm cheese)
- 1 Bunch Basil
- 1/2 cup Olive Oil (start with 1/4 cup and add more to your liking)
- 2 cloves fresh Garlic
- 2 tsp Lemon Juice
- Salt & Pepper to taste
Pull all the leaves off your basil and roughly chop your garlic. Put basil, garlic, and cheese in food processor and pulse. Scrape down the sides and add a generous pinch of salt and lemon juice. Keep adding and pulsing until you like the way it tastes.
It was DELICIOUS. Fresh and bright.
So then after this, I just followed the package directions for the Knorr pesto mix which was just adding olive oil, water, boiling, and then simmering.
It too, was DELICIOUS. I was looking for an exact replica of the Atlanta Bread Company pesto…and I found it! For shits and giggles, I decided to just mix them both together and add another dash of lemon juice, (I love love love lemon!). IT. WAS. THE. BEST. DAMN. PESTO. EVER. OH. MY. GOD. I made myself the most epic sandwich ever – with my crockpot shredded chicken, medium cheddar cheese off the block, pesto, mayo, all put into a hot iron skillet with a little butter. Amazeballs. Simply amazeballs.
In conclusion – which one is better? They’re both really really good. When mixed together – it is definitely the best basil pesto I have ever had in my LIFE. And on a side note – some recipes say you can freeze it in ice cube trays and pull it out as needed – I tried this, and failed miserably. Maybe if you made it without the oil, froze it, and added oil when you thawed it out, that could work. But with the oil in it, it wouldn’t come out of the mold and I had to let it melt out onto a plate and put it in the fridge.
Have you ever felt like a jellyfish? Moving through the ocean of life – where for every two steps you take forward, you take one step backwards? Where you seemingly brown-nosing the anus of life? And then BAM, with one fell swoop, you unravel your entire string of small victories and end up damn near where you started. Let me tell ya’ll about my shit-storm of a day the other day and how the above (real) picture came to fruitition.
It was a cold January day in Georgia, and I, a second-time Mom on the ass end of maternity leave from my super hectic job, was multi-tasking many kitchen duties. Now, I have always been a bit of a procrastinator, I have realized that for some reason, I do my best work after 6pm. My husband had asked me to put the chicken we purchased the previous day in the crockpot (more on fantastic crockpot shredded chicken at another time). So I decided to make myself dinner, make crockpot chicken, cut up a head of lettuce, jam the fuck out, and carry on four conversations via text message at the same time.
As i sharpened my mid-grade walmart knife from the set, I thought to myself, “damn man…this is a sharp knife.” I chopped half of a nice, ripe white onion for my chicken and dumped it in the crockpot along with the chicken breasts and garlic and thought to myself, “hey…I should chop up that lettuce while i’m here chopping things.” And here is where my real journey for the night begins.
I smash the head of lettuce as instructed by my mother-in law and sister-in-law/best friend and pull the root part off. I chop, chop, and chop, with seemingly expert motions when the phone vibrates. My brain simultaneously tries to make another chop and reach for the phone at the same time. In one clean sweep, I successfully cut the vein leading between your pointer finger and middle finger IN HALF. IN HALF ,guys. The dark red liquid immediately spurts like that of a hose with no nozzle. I stare at it while it sprays with the beat of my heart all over the crisp light green lettuce and contaminates everything in sight with an unsettling amount of dark red discontent. With every spurt it screams “YOU HAVE MADE A HUGE MISTAKE” like I was starring in my own episode of arrested development.
In my process of deciding whether to freak out or not, I consider that my husband has the car, and decide whether it is worth it or not to call my mom, who lives next door. While I felt the decision process was made easier flailing around the kitchen like an idiot on fire and pouring blood everywhere is the best course of action until I feel faint and decide to call my mother. I never determined whether I felt faint because I lost a bit of blood, or if it was because of the crippling embarrassment I had unwittingly signed myself up for.
“Okay Mom. I need you to listen to me and NOT FREAK out, just do NOT FREAK OUT,” I say in the most convincing voice I could, “I have cut myself pretty badly, and I need you to come over and help me as soon as you possibly can.”
As I was flailing a little more and waiting for her I thought to myself, “so this ends a perfect fuckin’ evening, and a fantastically weird maternity leave.” By the time she arrives and gets my hand wrapped in a towel, there is so much blood it takes her about thirty minutes to mop it up, and I continue to freak out, hyperventilate, and cry like a little fuckin’ baby. I got three stitches at the local hospital, where despite the hoards of people spreading their public school plagues and putting their staff infections on everything they touch, they were super nice and hella fast. Fayette Piedmont had a separate section the took me off to, where the nurses and other staff got the benefit of my nervous humor, because when I hurt or get super nervous or uncomfortable, I don’t shut the fuck up and tend to tell a bunch of jokes that may or may not offend and embarrass my mother. They got me stitched up and on my way out in 50 minutes – now thats a record we should be talking about! Maybe we should also talk about how we pay $600 a month for health insurance and I still had to pay a $300 deductible, and by pay, I mean it was added to my growing bar tab of dumb-shit hospital visits. Perhaps I will cut off a limb they can keep in exchange for payment…hmmm…something to ponder on as I fall asleep tonight.
So guys, do I get an A for effort or not?
Have you ever failed this hard? If so, I would love to hear about it!
I have come to the determination that having a baby is what I imagine having a pet sloth is like. They’re slow, they’re cute, can’t run away from your love, and are disproportionately sized.
I had this thought when I had a drink or two and went into deep-space thought. It happens.
ohhhhhhhhh the cuteness!!!