Like many women my age I thought for sure that my pimple days were well in my rear view mirror. Luckily, I had gone many, many years without the pain in the ass bumps that attack our faces, however, times they are a changing. I am not ignorant to the fact that hormones change, however I was really hoping for the "older women get hornier" ones, instead of the "Where's the Proactive?" kind.
What have my 34 year old, post 2 baby hormones decided to take on these days...Big F-ing pimples. What in the hell, body? And not just the sweet ones on your face but nasty vicious bastards inside of my nose, and yes the shit hurts. Without fail at the end of every cycle and right before the next one begins, these monsters appear. They are ridiculous, and even more why? M.I.L.F. acne is shit that I don't want to add into my daily worries.
And as coincidence strikes, while I write this bitch fest the brainiacs at Oil of Olay interrupt my Real Housewives to explain that I am not alone, and they have created a for sure cure all for my menacing issue. Thank you skin gods, but is it really a magic serum?
Skepticism hits a raw spot, since lately I have been overcome by many a cure all, and specifically about those concerning my next pending issue-my weight. As I stated earlier, I am a mom of two born in the last 3 years, and like most women my body took a hit. However, I have lost 50+ lbs since my 2nd baby was born, a feat that I hold with great pride. Furthermore I worked hard for these results by using diet and exercise. Unfortunately, this didn't happen overnight, in fact it has taken 18 months to get where I am. But too many women these days want to get these results in 6 weeks time, and the shit is ludicrous.
I admitted to my husband tonight and I'll put it out to the world now that I am envious of the ladies I know who have recently started intense diet pills and lost 15 lbs a week. It's like the Oil of Olays of weight loss-use this and all your woes are cured. Since I am sane, deep down I know that this is not realistic, because to change a body for life it takes time and permenant lifestyle changes. However on the flip side, like most I want to say "F*%@ this give me the pills!"
Cheers to my husband who once was the driving force to my 70 lb weight loss in college, which I kept off till my first babe baked in the oven, and who said tonight, "If you want it done right you must work hard." I may feel behind in the weight loss race now but speak to me come spring when I have nipped these pain in the ass pimples as well as the dimples still lingering on my ass.
Monday, November 14, 2011
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Happy tummies=happy families
Eating out is not a regular in the Davis house so cooking is my favorite hobby since like most peeps we love tasty food. I haven't yet shared any recipes so I am deflowering with a tasty dish that is meant to appeal to a family with various tastes.
We love burgers but I am someone who is encouraged by twisting an old favorite so and my Cheeseburger Paradise Casserole is a perfect example, and yes it is a casserole but a damn delicious one. My fam scarfed it up and Magnus even took the time between bites to say, "This is very yummy in my tummy and splendid!"
It helps that the tomatoes were fresh from our garden, the last before the season was over, however any tomatoes will do. By using the 1% milk the cheese sauce is not as high in calories as typical cheese sauces can be, and draining the meat helps to cut down on the majority of the grease. But the best part of this meal is that for as tasty as it is, it does not break the bank.
Cheeseburger Paradise
1 lb Cavatappi noodles
1 ½ cup sliced onion
½ cup pickles diced
1 lb 80/20 ground beef
½ tsp garlic powder
½ tsp celery salt
¼ tsp cayenne pepper
1 cup grape tomatoes sliced
3 tbsp butter
3 tbsp flour
½ cup 1% milk
Pinch pepper
Pinch salt
1 cup sharp cheddar cheese, grated
1 cup Panko Bread Crumbs
1. Start boiling water. When it comes to rolling boil lightly salt water and add noodles. Stir occasionally and boil for 10 minutes then drain.
2. Heat skillet with a small dash olive oil.
3. Slice onions and sautee in pan till lightly brown.
4. Dice pickles and add to pan. Sautee for 3 minutes.
5. Remove to plate.
6. Begin browning meat for 5ish minutes, and then add spices. Continue to brown for another 5 minutes.
7. Remove to pastry cooling rack layered with paper towels to drain. Then lightly wipe out the pan.
8. Warm tomatoes in pan then remove to plate with onion mixture.
9. Add butter and melt. Remove from heat and stir in flour. Next, whisk in ¼ cup of milk and whisk till smooth. Add another ¼ and repeat. Return to heat.
10. Add remaining milk and whisk till small bubbles appear and thickens.
11. Remove from heat and add cheese. Stir till it melts.
12. Layer noodles, meat, veggie mix, and pour cheese over. Cook for 15 minutes at 375 degrees.
13. Spread bread crumbs and put under broil for 5 minutes.
14. Remove from oven and let stand 5 mintues.
We love burgers but I am someone who is encouraged by twisting an old favorite so and my Cheeseburger Paradise Casserole is a perfect example, and yes it is a casserole but a damn delicious one. My fam scarfed it up and Magnus even took the time between bites to say, "This is very yummy in my tummy and splendid!"
It helps that the tomatoes were fresh from our garden, the last before the season was over, however any tomatoes will do. By using the 1% milk the cheese sauce is not as high in calories as typical cheese sauces can be, and draining the meat helps to cut down on the majority of the grease. But the best part of this meal is that for as tasty as it is, it does not break the bank.
Cheeseburger Paradise
1 lb Cavatappi noodles
1 ½ cup sliced onion
½ cup pickles diced
1 lb 80/20 ground beef
½ tsp garlic powder
½ tsp celery salt
¼ tsp cayenne pepper
1 cup grape tomatoes sliced
3 tbsp butter
3 tbsp flour
½ cup 1% milk
Pinch pepper
Pinch salt
1 cup sharp cheddar cheese, grated
1 cup Panko Bread Crumbs
1. Start boiling water. When it comes to rolling boil lightly salt water and add noodles. Stir occasionally and boil for 10 minutes then drain.
2. Heat skillet with a small dash olive oil.
3. Slice onions and sautee in pan till lightly brown.
4. Dice pickles and add to pan. Sautee for 3 minutes.
5. Remove to plate.
6. Begin browning meat for 5ish minutes, and then add spices. Continue to brown for another 5 minutes.
7. Remove to pastry cooling rack layered with paper towels to drain. Then lightly wipe out the pan.
8. Warm tomatoes in pan then remove to plate with onion mixture.
9. Add butter and melt. Remove from heat and stir in flour. Next, whisk in ¼ cup of milk and whisk till smooth. Add another ¼ and repeat. Return to heat.
10. Add remaining milk and whisk till small bubbles appear and thickens.
11. Remove from heat and add cheese. Stir till it melts.
12. Layer noodles, meat, veggie mix, and pour cheese over. Cook for 15 minutes at 375 degrees.
13. Spread bread crumbs and put under broil for 5 minutes.
14. Remove from oven and let stand 5 mintues.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Redemption is mine
If you read my previous post than you are aware that I endured a devastating Halloween last year courtesy of my Scarecrow and his distaste for his home made digs, but such a fate did not deter me from crafting again this Halloween season. To my shock and awe Magnus requested a snowman costume and proving how fickle a child's memory can be agreed I should make it. No problem. I researched and found the ideal template or so I thought.
I began creating the said snowman with a good deal of anxiousness, because well truth be told I could not endure another Halloween heartbreak. I got my husband's old wind breaker, cut the sleeves, and draped it over my step ladder so the spray adhesive madness could begin. After the said adhesive was applied I stuck pillow batting everywhere, but as I stepped away to inspect my snowman I began to see no resemblance to the Frosty friend my Mags was anticipating, and no I was not just clouded by all the fumes. As I took in the fluffy monstrosity a new idea emerged. This was no snowman, but a cloud and how could I toughen up a cloud-make it a thunderstorm. But I had to sell the idea to Mags, the nervous-pervous, who was scared to death of thunderstorms.
The sell was successful and thunderstorm creation went full force. I sprayed the pillow batting silver, cut raindrops out of cardboard, covered each in foil, hung them from the bottom, and adhered a yellow lighting bolt across the top. Awesome was the only word to sum it up. Lighting in a bottle, if you will. I then took the idea went with it and made it a family affair. Nellie would be the sun, which was also crafted by me-Martha Stewart kiss-ass.
I am happy to report that Magnus had one kick-ass Halloween and found a great deal of enjoyment by being unique. Instead of tears I received accolades for all my hard work. It is lame to say but I was moved more than you would expect. Parents, each in their own way, try to make an impact on their children in case tomorrow they may not have the chance, and yes it seems silly to think of a costume that way, but one day my work will have memories that a costume in a bag would never elicit.
Friday, October 7, 2011
June's first Halloween horror, but probably not my last
The above pictures are adorable right? This cute scarecrow that now adorns our front yard for a festive fall feel may be cute but just a year ago it caused me my first broken mom heart, and truth be told the bitterness I wrongly carry around in life will not allow for me to let it go. This will be the moment for me that my son will never be allowed to live down.
I don't think most people think of me as a crafty person but they are wrong. As a child if I was allowed to learn how to use my mom's sewing machine I would've created some amazing shit, but my mom hates to share and so my seamstress dreams never manifested. However I remember the day I cut a pair of sweats into amazing elf like, button decaled sweet sweat shorts. Tim Gunn would've been proud.
Last year the creative hits continued, and my first born was the lucky recipient. I asked my son for weeks what he wanted to be for Halloween and even though he was obsessed with all things commercial he asked to be a scarecrow. Fabulous, I thought to myself. That means I do not have to endure the college sluts and rednecks at Party City jockeying for the nurse moonlighting as a hooker costume. On the cheap I created for my son the most adorable scarecrow made from his own flannel and jeans, a hat given to me from a friend, and supplies from Hobby Lobby that in total cost me $10. Nightly for a week once the babes were asleep I sat in the living room crafting away and burning the shit out of my fingers with a hot glue gun, and when the product was finished I was so damn proud of myself. I was gushing over my creation, elated with my creativeness.
The day of my son's school Halloween party I did not send the costume to school because it was not a costume I could throw into a bag and have schlepped around by a 3 year old. My son had a costume with depth and character and the necessity for a hanger and delicacy. However, as soon as I crossed the threshold of his preschool room I could see the horror on my son's face. I went into instant panic mommy mode. What the hell had happened at school today? Did he go to timeout? Did he curse out the teacher? Why did he have this look on his face? And then reality hit me in the face like Kim K's booty. He was embarrassed and ashamed.
I scanned the room and saw every million dollar animated character in front of me. Buzz, Iron Man, Thomas, Dora. It was as if Toys R Us puked all over the room, and the only child not bowing down to capitalistic demi-gods was Magnus. My elated, "I'm such an amazing mom" bubble busted and I could feel myself begin to lose my decorum. Magnus and I went into the pisser to put on his costume and all hell broke loose. He let freedom ring and being only 3 didn't care that he was shattering my heart. He matter of factly stated scarecrows were stupid and he did not want to put it on. I pleaded because for hours I had been obsessed with the thought of my adorable man rocking the hell out of this scarecrow look. With much pleading and yes tears I finally got his little ungrateful ass into the costume, and as the picture above shows he did indeed look out of sight, even down to the scowl that any good scarecrow needs to do his job and scare the shit out of birds. But it wasn't birds that little s.o.b. was chasing away-it was my happiness. He refused to take pictures and hid behind an easel so he could cry, as if I showed up with a burlap sack filled with nails and said, "Happy Halloween." The entire party was terrible and all I wanted to do was rip my hard work off and tell him one day he'd appreciate me. Yep, the dreaded "one day" speech, I had been driven to that ridiculous point of motherhood already and we were only in the 1st quarter of his life.
Of course all adults who were at the party raved about the costume, because they had sense, but sadly he was out of the look in 15 minutes. I left his school and I succumbed to the moment and cried like a baby in the car. I could not believe that something I poured myself into was cast aside by the person I gained 60 lbs for and still hadn't lost. Devastation was the only correct descriptive word, and yes I do know how damn ridiculous that sounds. No one died, my house didn't burn down, but I didn't care. I was hurt, because if there is ever one person's approval you want it is the human you birthed and love more than any other on the planet.
Halloween came and I hoped that the notion of all you could eat candy would overshadow the costume. Wrong, again. As we ate our Halloween inspired dinner before the trick-or-treat trek Magnus announced, "I do not want to get candy if I have to be a scarecrow." The little bastard that ate me out of house and home was turning down free sugar because his costume was homemade. The disappointment immediately enveloped me and it was then that Dad let freedom ring. My hubs stepped into his role and very sternly explained to my son that he was going to get his little ass in that awesome scarecrow costume that took his mom many hours to make, which was not bought from a store so he should be happy he was not like everyone else, and he was going to happily walk his ass around the neighborhood and get his damn candy. It was then Magnus' turn to bust into tears, but I had never felt more proud of my husband.
These feelings reemerged last weekend as I took said costume for my fall DIY opportunity but as I staple gunned the shit out the scarecrow so he would stand I did find a sense of calm. Hmm.
And yes if you are wondering, Magnus has again requested a non-commercial costume: a snowman which again I will be crafting myself.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
A dedication to Michelle-my #1 audience
Thelma had Louise. Lucy had Ethel. Laverne had Shirley. In life few people besides those who are bound to us by blood truly accept us, love us unconditionally, but a true friend is the exception. There are no boundaries or off-limits topics, and when needed they are your biggest cheerleader and your harshest critic. As a woman, life may be incomplete if this type of friendship is never fulfilled. I mean look at the examples I named out of potential many-it is so influential that it is glorified on screen and in print time and time again.
We can not predict the day that we meet our Louise, and just as bitterly we can not predict the day they may be taken from us. I think as we are young and lively we assume that everyday is a given, and as cliche as it sounds that outlook is light years from the truth. But I am eternally grateful that my Ethel and I did live life to the fullest. We threw caution to the wind and left no regrets, well maybe a few but it never wavered our opinion of each other. There was a synergy.
"Tell me a story." I hear her now so vividly.
I hated sleeping alone in my apartment in the city, and since life took my male significant other away for much of the time I spent many nights sleeping with Michelle at her apartment and yes in her bed. It was never discussed, it just was. I never had to say I'm scared. She just knew. Plus, I hate being thought of as a P, but she always knew the truth. And she always will.
Missing you doesn't get easier I just learn to live with the longing. And yes at night I sometimes wish we were back in Wrigleyville, sleep-over style, making life plans, but most significantly I wish I knew at that time to thank you for making my life that much more amazing.
We can not predict the day that we meet our Louise, and just as bitterly we can not predict the day they may be taken from us. I think as we are young and lively we assume that everyday is a given, and as cliche as it sounds that outlook is light years from the truth. But I am eternally grateful that my Ethel and I did live life to the fullest. We threw caution to the wind and left no regrets, well maybe a few but it never wavered our opinion of each other. There was a synergy.
"Tell me a story." I hear her now so vividly.
I hated sleeping alone in my apartment in the city, and since life took my male significant other away for much of the time I spent many nights sleeping with Michelle at her apartment and yes in her bed. It was never discussed, it just was. I never had to say I'm scared. She just knew. Plus, I hate being thought of as a P, but she always knew the truth. And she always will.
Missing you doesn't get easier I just learn to live with the longing. And yes at night I sometimes wish we were back in Wrigleyville, sleep-over style, making life plans, but most significantly I wish I knew at that time to thank you for making my life that much more amazing.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
I am a small shell of the wild child I used to be
There was a time in my life that excitement was at a premium. I ate at restaurants no one would dare bring a child to, I danced till the wee hours of the morning, I took off on last minute getaways, I enjoyed cocktails from the early part of the day into the night. Those days, however, are long in my rear view mirror. I am not a nun, by any means, but when I enter bars now I am moved more by the stench than the tunes.
The highlight of my weekend, besides the early morning tailgate with my kids, friends, and mimosas, was the purchase of a new vacuum cleaner. That's right, I was thrilled beyond belief to buy a vacuum, and I was very disappointed in myself for this reaction. Domesticity is now my vice of choice, when in the hell did this happen? There were days in my past that I blew hundreds of dollars to dance at the best clubs, but now I feel a rush in dropping coin for uber-clean carpets. This revelation of myself in my mid-thirties frightens me, because I can't help but wonder what mundane, trivial indulgences may await me in my future. And I must ask myself who the hell is this person?
And maybe it wasn't just the household purchase that got my juices flowing, but the fact that I was so moved by how my husband presented me the idea. The romantic that he is, he baby wrangled Saturday morning and let me sleep in, which I found to be very sexy of him. Lucky for me my Price Charming did not stop the seduction there. He then brought me breakfast in bed, and I have to say that being able to eat a meal alone and while still warm was magical, and after placing the tray on my lap he announced, "I am buying you a new vacuum today." I know some chickies would find this demeaning even offending, but not me, I found it to be quite endearing. His honesty was refreshing, because truth be told the vacuum was not an us purchase. It was indeed a me purchase seeing as how "us" may take it for a few test drives and then call it a career. I had mentioned a few times in conversation that our vacuum had seen better days, but never once demanded a new one, so I was moved that he remembered and it registered. Again, when we were in our 20's living life to the fullest I would have preferred gifts of a saucier nature but these days who has the time. What I do have is time to vacuum, and maybe find some time to formally thank my man. Maybe even dirty up the clean carpets.
The highlight of my weekend, besides the early morning tailgate with my kids, friends, and mimosas, was the purchase of a new vacuum cleaner. That's right, I was thrilled beyond belief to buy a vacuum, and I was very disappointed in myself for this reaction. Domesticity is now my vice of choice, when in the hell did this happen? There were days in my past that I blew hundreds of dollars to dance at the best clubs, but now I feel a rush in dropping coin for uber-clean carpets. This revelation of myself in my mid-thirties frightens me, because I can't help but wonder what mundane, trivial indulgences may await me in my future. And I must ask myself who the hell is this person?
And maybe it wasn't just the household purchase that got my juices flowing, but the fact that I was so moved by how my husband presented me the idea. The romantic that he is, he baby wrangled Saturday morning and let me sleep in, which I found to be very sexy of him. Lucky for me my Price Charming did not stop the seduction there. He then brought me breakfast in bed, and I have to say that being able to eat a meal alone and while still warm was magical, and after placing the tray on my lap he announced, "I am buying you a new vacuum today." I know some chickies would find this demeaning even offending, but not me, I found it to be quite endearing. His honesty was refreshing, because truth be told the vacuum was not an us purchase. It was indeed a me purchase seeing as how "us" may take it for a few test drives and then call it a career. I had mentioned a few times in conversation that our vacuum had seen better days, but never once demanded a new one, so I was moved that he remembered and it registered. Again, when we were in our 20's living life to the fullest I would have preferred gifts of a saucier nature but these days who has the time. What I do have is time to vacuum, and maybe find some time to formally thank my man. Maybe even dirty up the clean carpets.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Don't quit your day job
June had it easy in life-her only responsibilities were her home, children, and keeping herself presentable. This June, however, has a 9-5. Yes I feel blessed to have a job and one that grants me time with my children in the summer, but two weeks ago it was curtains on the summer siesta and I returned back to the grind. Normally my children attend a daycare center, but this year for my first weeks back to work it was Daddy daycare.
The hubs, like lots of dads, works a job that eats up much of his life and when he is in the strength coach mode he is more of an enigma than he would prefer, so the time he spent with the babes was priceless. On the contrary what was not priceless was the state of my house and kiddie supplies when the good times wrapped. Like most men, my husband is not a multi tasker. Let's face the truth, it is not a man's style to play with the kids while straightening up the living room and knocking out 4 loads of laundry. Those bastards are just not equipped for such feats of mental strength.
Taking my chillins to daycare everyday meant that my house stayed empty and therefore clean and uncluttered, but when 2 Tasmanian devils are home all day nothing is left undisturbed and all bets are off on the "clean issue." There was nothing I loved more after a full work day than to come home to a living room that had been hit by an F5 tornado and the aftermath. Or the dishes that were eating up all my counter and sink space, and demanded my attention before I created one of my amazing family dinners. But the icing on the cake was the state of my husband-exhausted, stressed, and ready to escape to the office for the night. As he told my girlfriend, "This shit is no joke." DUH! Did he think it's easy to wrangle and entertain a 4 and 1 year old all day. Welcome to my world chump.
My house hasn't been messier or my children dirtier from playing outside all day, but my babies could not have been happier. However, at one point about half way through I came home to every bottle and sipping cup missing and all 8 pacifiers M.I.A. When I asked the very tense hubs where I may find all the required supplies he curtly replied, "Shit I have no idea." And I truly believe he had no idea. Hell, most of the two weeks may just be a blur of whining and giggles. So the next time he is not sympathetic to my complaints I will kindly mention his Mr. Mom stint and hope it evokes some compassion. But if it doesn't I will be sure to plan a girls weekend and allow him to reminisce on his stay-at-home dad days.
The hubs, like lots of dads, works a job that eats up much of his life and when he is in the strength coach mode he is more of an enigma than he would prefer, so the time he spent with the babes was priceless. On the contrary what was not priceless was the state of my house and kiddie supplies when the good times wrapped. Like most men, my husband is not a multi tasker. Let's face the truth, it is not a man's style to play with the kids while straightening up the living room and knocking out 4 loads of laundry. Those bastards are just not equipped for such feats of mental strength.
Taking my chillins to daycare everyday meant that my house stayed empty and therefore clean and uncluttered, but when 2 Tasmanian devils are home all day nothing is left undisturbed and all bets are off on the "clean issue." There was nothing I loved more after a full work day than to come home to a living room that had been hit by an F5 tornado and the aftermath. Or the dishes that were eating up all my counter and sink space, and demanded my attention before I created one of my amazing family dinners. But the icing on the cake was the state of my husband-exhausted, stressed, and ready to escape to the office for the night. As he told my girlfriend, "This shit is no joke." DUH! Did he think it's easy to wrangle and entertain a 4 and 1 year old all day. Welcome to my world chump.
My house hasn't been messier or my children dirtier from playing outside all day, but my babies could not have been happier. However, at one point about half way through I came home to every bottle and sipping cup missing and all 8 pacifiers M.I.A. When I asked the very tense hubs where I may find all the required supplies he curtly replied, "Shit I have no idea." And I truly believe he had no idea. Hell, most of the two weeks may just be a blur of whining and giggles. So the next time he is not sympathetic to my complaints I will kindly mention his Mr. Mom stint and hope it evokes some compassion. But if it doesn't I will be sure to plan a girls weekend and allow him to reminisce on his stay-at-home dad days.
Friday, August 5, 2011
a two-wheeler experience
The Cleaver Bi-Annual Family Road trip was a success. Damon and I safely delivered two grandbabbies for much awaited reunions with their kinfolk. As to be expected, the car ride was stick two knitting needles in your eyes amazing, but nevertheless the positives out weighed the negatives and lasting family memories were made for all, except Nellie, who is only along for the ride at this stage in her career.
A true memory maker for Magnus was the "new to him" bike my parents created for his enjoyment. His name was on the side of the yellow old timer, and the girls bar was manlied-up with a Steelers bumper sticker. The true enjoyment of the bike for Magnus was the new freedom it granted him, and his ability to succeed at a new adventure. The benefit for us in the acquisition of the training-wheeled two-wheeler was the small amount of hair it put on our "nervous pervous" son's chest, the nickname we affectionately coined for him on the start of the trip.
For Damon and I the trip put the concept of the bicycle into perspective. The joy of a bike is our ability to quickly take back to riding even after a long layoff, and as we discovered the joy of old friends falls suit. Being back in our stomping grounds was comfort, the friends we visited have been with us since we rocked life's training wheels. And just like the bike it takes little effort to fall right back into our friendships even after years or months spent apart.
If life is a journey than "bicycle friends" are the means of transportation, and the highlight for Ward and I on our vacation was the amount of miles we logged reminiscing with all our pals. A trip isn't a trip if Damon and I aren't blowing through tolls on the Expressways, and promising aloud to worry about it later. Also shaking our booties in the car to stay awake after we kicked it with the sexiest ladies and MILFS in the Chicago area. The hospitality shown to us was out of sight, and very humbling. Damon said it best when I approached him for our third trip from my Parent's house back into the 'burbs, "We didn't drive 800 miles to not see everyone we want to see." And as I reflected on the trek home I was comforted in knowing that we achieved our goal.
A true memory maker for Magnus was the "new to him" bike my parents created for his enjoyment. His name was on the side of the yellow old timer, and the girls bar was manlied-up with a Steelers bumper sticker. The true enjoyment of the bike for Magnus was the new freedom it granted him, and his ability to succeed at a new adventure. The benefit for us in the acquisition of the training-wheeled two-wheeler was the small amount of hair it put on our "nervous pervous" son's chest, the nickname we affectionately coined for him on the start of the trip.
For Damon and I the trip put the concept of the bicycle into perspective. The joy of a bike is our ability to quickly take back to riding even after a long layoff, and as we discovered the joy of old friends falls suit. Being back in our stomping grounds was comfort, the friends we visited have been with us since we rocked life's training wheels. And just like the bike it takes little effort to fall right back into our friendships even after years or months spent apart.
If life is a journey than "bicycle friends" are the means of transportation, and the highlight for Ward and I on our vacation was the amount of miles we logged reminiscing with all our pals. A trip isn't a trip if Damon and I aren't blowing through tolls on the Expressways, and promising aloud to worry about it later. Also shaking our booties in the car to stay awake after we kicked it with the sexiest ladies and MILFS in the Chicago area. The hospitality shown to us was out of sight, and very humbling. Damon said it best when I approached him for our third trip from my Parent's house back into the 'burbs, "We didn't drive 800 miles to not see everyone we want to see." And as I reflected on the trek home I was comforted in knowing that we achieved our goal.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
WTF do our neighbors think of us
I would not call my family quiet. On the regular, noise oozes from our house, but we have two kids and a big ass dog so it's understandable-to a point. Well, said point was left so far in the dust two days ago that I am almost too ashamed to tell the story. However, since I am damn near close to shameless I shall share.
It's summer so I am on an extended vacation, perk of my job. In addition, so is daycare which means the kids and I have kicked it everyday. There's been some priceless memories created that are both warming to the heart and pull your eyelashes out frustrating. The source of much of my gray hairs has been my "Beaver", or the 4 year old I birthed, Magnus. He is an insightful and charming boy, but he is also head-strong and looking to claim dominance of our lair when daddy lion goes off to work. Even though we fight till the death, so far Magnus has yet to wave the white flag, which is unfortunate for him since I am ready for the challenge. I've dealt with children far scarier then the toe-headed preschooler mean mugging me twelve times a day.
However the problem is that, like most parents, I want to do the whole parenting thing with some amount of dignity and decorum. This request is not too much to ask for, right? Wrong, it is too damn much to ask for because, being a parent is a hot mess. It's a spontaneous experiment in the middle of living your trial run at life on this earth, and shit is bound to hit rock bottom. How you bounce back from said bottom is a topic for the "O" Network so I shall shut up and tell the story.
A few days ago, Magnus and I were in this summer's epic battle to date. The Davis household was tense and territory was ruthlessly at stake. We had dueled over everything from the dog walking by him to covering his testacles with some undies. Nothing was off limits. Such behaviors were most likely triggered by his peace out to the much needed nap, but also behaviors, that as a parent, grate the hell out of your nerves. By the time 6 pm arrived I was truly "at my wits end," and I hate that damn saying, but on the bright side we were full, relaxed, and getting his little ass ready for bed.
Strolling up the stairs I asked him to pick up his trucks to be put away in his room, to which he matter of factly replied, "I don't want to walk with my hands full." That was it, shit was on and poppin'. His statement was the straw that broke this camel's back. I think the response I yelled while grabbing a garbage bag may have included a reference to Prince William and a few "thinks his little ass is too good." I charged the stairs and began to shove every toy within a 2 foot radius of the staircase into the garbage bag to throw in the trash. Toys we had bought with our hard earned dollars, but willing to make into sacrificial lambs.
As soon as the first toy was nestled in its final resting place naked Magnus began to bellow like a maniac for me to not take the toys to the garbage. Yes this annoyed me, but not nearly as much as it broke my heart. His world was ending and I did indeed take a bag of his toys to the trash. His reaction to the garage door opening and my exit from the house put the theatrics in this year's "Black Swan" to shame. Magnus' buck naked, hollering ass instantaneously sidled me and when we emerged from the garage two neighbors out to witness the show. He,of course, was completely oblivious to the audience and went for his Oscar. I, embarrassed as hell, swiftly threw the bag in the bin and tried to gently but firmly pull the streaker out of view. Not surprisingly, that little s.o.b. fought hard, and finally I had to grab both his arms, fight to look him in the eyes, and calmly explain that be looked like a raving lunatic. Naked and deranged , a gruesome duo.
Although not entirely willingly I was able to get him back indoors but the devastation continued on for hours. And I, still utterly mortified, am unable to fully look in the face either of our new neighbors. Ahh, good times.
It's summer so I am on an extended vacation, perk of my job. In addition, so is daycare which means the kids and I have kicked it everyday. There's been some priceless memories created that are both warming to the heart and pull your eyelashes out frustrating. The source of much of my gray hairs has been my "Beaver", or the 4 year old I birthed, Magnus. He is an insightful and charming boy, but he is also head-strong and looking to claim dominance of our lair when daddy lion goes off to work. Even though we fight till the death, so far Magnus has yet to wave the white flag, which is unfortunate for him since I am ready for the challenge. I've dealt with children far scarier then the toe-headed preschooler mean mugging me twelve times a day.
However the problem is that, like most parents, I want to do the whole parenting thing with some amount of dignity and decorum. This request is not too much to ask for, right? Wrong, it is too damn much to ask for because, being a parent is a hot mess. It's a spontaneous experiment in the middle of living your trial run at life on this earth, and shit is bound to hit rock bottom. How you bounce back from said bottom is a topic for the "O" Network so I shall shut up and tell the story.
A few days ago, Magnus and I were in this summer's epic battle to date. The Davis household was tense and territory was ruthlessly at stake. We had dueled over everything from the dog walking by him to covering his testacles with some undies. Nothing was off limits. Such behaviors were most likely triggered by his peace out to the much needed nap, but also behaviors, that as a parent, grate the hell out of your nerves. By the time 6 pm arrived I was truly "at my wits end," and I hate that damn saying, but on the bright side we were full, relaxed, and getting his little ass ready for bed.
Strolling up the stairs I asked him to pick up his trucks to be put away in his room, to which he matter of factly replied, "I don't want to walk with my hands full." That was it, shit was on and poppin'. His statement was the straw that broke this camel's back. I think the response I yelled while grabbing a garbage bag may have included a reference to Prince William and a few "thinks his little ass is too good." I charged the stairs and began to shove every toy within a 2 foot radius of the staircase into the garbage bag to throw in the trash. Toys we had bought with our hard earned dollars, but willing to make into sacrificial lambs.
As soon as the first toy was nestled in its final resting place naked Magnus began to bellow like a maniac for me to not take the toys to the garbage. Yes this annoyed me, but not nearly as much as it broke my heart. His world was ending and I did indeed take a bag of his toys to the trash. His reaction to the garage door opening and my exit from the house put the theatrics in this year's "Black Swan" to shame. Magnus' buck naked, hollering ass instantaneously sidled me and when we emerged from the garage two neighbors out to witness the show. He,of course, was completely oblivious to the audience and went for his Oscar. I, embarrassed as hell, swiftly threw the bag in the bin and tried to gently but firmly pull the streaker out of view. Not surprisingly, that little s.o.b. fought hard, and finally I had to grab both his arms, fight to look him in the eyes, and calmly explain that be looked like a raving lunatic. Naked and deranged , a gruesome duo.
Although not entirely willingly I was able to get him back indoors but the devastation continued on for hours. And I, still utterly mortified, am unable to fully look in the face either of our new neighbors. Ahh, good times.
Friday, June 24, 2011
The carnage that has cost me my cool kid card
I believe myself to be one tough gal. I've weathered some storms and come out stronger many times over. Hello, I taught in the ghetto and for awhile took public transportation everyday, until I was mugged but story for another entry. So it is with shame that I tell my tale of how I now must now turn in my bad-ass chick member card. Truth is in certain situations in life I am a real "P" and yesterday's debacle is a perfect example.
June is my identity as a blogger and just like Mrs. Cleaver I have a Beaver, in more ways then one, but I want you to keep a G-rated mind people. Magnus, my son, is a spirited four year old (don't you love the terms people use when they don't want to say your child is buck wild) and he is in constant motion. Much of our days at home are spent nagging his little ass to not run in the house or jump on the couch or any number of ridiculous feats of crazy. Yesterday morning he was on it, bouncing off the walls while I was on the computer when my "I told you so" moment struck. Magnus ran into the living room, jumped on the brick fireplace hearth, and warp speed like tried to jump off but his little foot couldn't keep up and his baby toe paid dearly. He crumpled to the ground, and me thinking he was turning on the dramatics said in my calmest of voices and without removing myself from the computer, "I've told your ass to not play on the fire place."
The cry that emanated from him next was my first clue that he may have a real injury, and the follow up clue that definitely confirmed real injury was the blood pouring from his foot. Of course this was no longer time to play my "told you so" game so I sprang into mommy mode and snatched him from the cream carpet before I had any blood stains to contend with later. (Please I love the area rug almost as much as my children) And here is the moment that I now must hang my head in shame. I took one look at his toe and lost all of my dignity. First off I hate feet and I am probably the only mom alive who looked at her babies' feet and found them to be unattractive. So to see a mutilated toe nail pushed me overboard. Magnus was looking to me for first aid and support and all I did was back away and exclaim how f-ing nasty that baby toe looked.
I folded quicker than a cheap IKEA futon and called my husband to announce that I was out. That's right, he had to leave work and come home to handle the mutilation on our son's appendage. In fact, I could barely put a paper towel around it to stop the bleeding. What a chump! And here's this sweet baby looking at me like can't you grow a pair and help me. I tell him all the time to suck it up, act like a man, and in a crisis situation I do the exact opposite. I believe June would've handled the situation with much more grace than I, fo' sho.
Like my knight in all Auburn gear, my husband arrived and investigated the toe then asked me for a band-aid, and being the mother of two small children I should of course have had such first-aid necessities on the ready, one would assume. But of course I had none, because I wasn't the best of girl scouts since I was only in it for the cookies. Magnus had to make due with the next best thing-gauze wrapped around his toe and foot and secured with a rubber band because of course I was out of tape as well (Please see photo Exhibit A above). I know, I know-what kind of operation am I running? Well obviously not one with any critical supplies or toughness. What the hell, right?
Magnus bounced back well. He and his ghetto-ass bandaged foot watched a movie on my bed and later when I checked on him he had removed the ghettoness and was playing with the barely hanging tough toe nail. OMG I buckled at the knees. He seemed okay with it though and said it was feeling a little better. I was on the phone with my sister at the time because she is a walking accident and has lost a few toe nails in her day when she said I needed to suck it up and tear the toe nail off. Hell to the no, I was not tearing off the nail. Was she nuts? She knows full well my aversion to feet. So the toe nail stayed until again, the man of the house did the deed and tore it off later.
The toe is now utterly disgusting but what is more disgusting is my level of cowardly-downright shameful.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Connect the dots, anyone?
In Alabama in the summertime I am as hot as a whore in church. Realistically it just can't get any hotter, but it will since it is only May. To top off the damn heat I am a sweater. No not the cozy type to keep you warm, but the I stain the armpits of any light colored t-shirt type. Shit is not sexy, at all.
Well when you're hot, as Nelly says, take off all your clothes. Great concept in theory; yes, and one I want to prescribe to every damn day except for one major problem-my legs are currently a mean game of connect the dots. I may have the Mona Lisa above my knee cap if I took a marker to the intricate web of veins that have manifested there. They are so unattractive and unfortunately not going away anytime soon. I suppose they could be called a badge of honor since they really came to life after my second baby, but that explanation is idiotic. Listen, I wish I were the type of person that didn't care about these types of things. A person who was above physical attributes to love ones' self, however I am not. I love a great set of gams and at one time in my life I rocked them in every miniature short or skirt I could get my hands upon, and damn it, I am nostalgic.
The time has come to kiss these bitches goodbye. My baby making days are done. I have closed up shop, so time to get these pups in for their tune up. That's right I am seeking out the help of western medicine and want it to happen ASAP. See, my blog namesake lived during the time of pantyhose and those sandy colored relics probably did an amazing job at covering up imperfections, but in today's society they are a fashion leprosy. There is no way that I can strut around in open toed shoes with my tootsies all bundled up in nylon, no way in hell. Plus I can not even imagine the amount of swamp ass I will endure during these hellish summer months-nas to the T. Doubles(the hubs)stresses that weight lost will help and he may be correct. However, it is not the Magic Eraser, and I need a bald headed jack-of-all-trades to wipe these monstrosities into oblivion.
Well when you're hot, as Nelly says, take off all your clothes. Great concept in theory; yes, and one I want to prescribe to every damn day except for one major problem-my legs are currently a mean game of connect the dots. I may have the Mona Lisa above my knee cap if I took a marker to the intricate web of veins that have manifested there. They are so unattractive and unfortunately not going away anytime soon. I suppose they could be called a badge of honor since they really came to life after my second baby, but that explanation is idiotic. Listen, I wish I were the type of person that didn't care about these types of things. A person who was above physical attributes to love ones' self, however I am not. I love a great set of gams and at one time in my life I rocked them in every miniature short or skirt I could get my hands upon, and damn it, I am nostalgic.
The time has come to kiss these bitches goodbye. My baby making days are done. I have closed up shop, so time to get these pups in for their tune up. That's right I am seeking out the help of western medicine and want it to happen ASAP. See, my blog namesake lived during the time of pantyhose and those sandy colored relics probably did an amazing job at covering up imperfections, but in today's society they are a fashion leprosy. There is no way that I can strut around in open toed shoes with my tootsies all bundled up in nylon, no way in hell. Plus I can not even imagine the amount of swamp ass I will endure during these hellish summer months-nas to the T. Doubles(the hubs)stresses that weight lost will help and he may be correct. However, it is not the Magic Eraser, and I need a bald headed jack-of-all-trades to wipe these monstrosities into oblivion.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Can't spell class without the ass, and mine loves to shake
I may be in an identity crisis.
Deep down I wish I was classy, and since becoming a mother of two this sense of who I should be has only worsened. Before birthing children, it was not totally inappropriate to have tap-offs with an eight year old in a bathroom at a friend's engagement party, but now such behavior seems outrageous. My overpowering feeling of motherhood is that all moms should be refined, much like my blog inspiration, but what I should be and who I turn out to be time and time again are two totally different adjectives.
My ability to dress the part is on point. I love expensive clothes, can accessorize well, and have no problem tastefully applying makeup and styling hair. However I have studied the costume of the classy lady since I was a young girl. My subscription to Instyle started in 1993 and has always been renewed. That part I have down to a science and the picture above demonstrates this statement well, but if I had been photographed a few hours later you would see the cracks in the facade.
Another childhood obsession that has followed me into motherhood is the dance. It too I have studied since I was a very small girl, and it too has a level of refinement and class. Many years I spent fine tuning an arabesque and pirouette to classical music in traditional ballet attire, but my true gift in dance is more fitting in Addidas pants and a Kanga hat, which does not lend itself to the behavior of a classy mom. When the music starts bumping I can not stand all proper maybe shake a shoulder or a hip, because some think they can dance but I know I can dance, and such is my crisis.
I felt beautiful in the picture above, all details checked for a classy attire and for the beginning of the wedding reception I behaved as a June Cleever mother of two should. Drank a little, socialized with most and ate a small sample of the goodies. Then the DJ opened up the dance floor and in came my moment to shine. The moment to no longer be classy mom of two small babes but club-hopping, dropping it like its hot diva. I do not know what took over me, but as Gloria Estefan sang, the rhythm is going to get you, and Saturday night it did. Hip-hop invokes in me shoulder popping and hip shaking that gets others talking. During one song I took over the dance floor with every hip-hop dance from 1983 to today, and after that class ditched me like a bad habit and did not relapse. The highlight came on my reenactment of the Beat It video, and I was no longer dancing-off in the bathroom but in front of the entire reception. I brought it and loved every minute.
Is this kosher behavior for someone my age and in this stage of life? Is this something June would do? Is this classy? I don't think so, and may never know. But right now I know one thing, I don't care. I left that evening happy to relive the spunk I had at twenty-three, but feeling accomplished to still shake my ass off at thirty-three. For now maybe the crisis is averted, and maybe one day I will finally be classy. Maybe.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Friends-they may be more important than a push-up bra
Good friends, the type to tell you the truth even when it hurts are rare, and do not just fall into your lap. For most women these are the ladies that have been in your life for years and know you maybe better than you know yourself. As the title says money can help your tits look amazing, and while a great push-up bra may be close to priceless, strong friends definitely can not be bought.
I am blessed with friendships that I have described above, amazing college friends that have weathered many storms and came out stronger, and I cherish everyday that they are in my life. The exercise bra of friends, if you will; comfortable, durable and able to withstand a lot of jiggle. But what do you do when the exercise bra you would not live without is left at the gym and relocated miles away by the stupid half-naked college chick who is too cheap-ass to buy her own amazing bra? I digress. One is forced to acclimate to the new, which for me is difficult. I am not always loved right away-like a strapless bra; at first I may make you uncomfortable but after a little adjustment you realize I will support you as you shake those tatas all night long.
My exercise bras are many miles away in Illinois and I am here in Alabama, and at first I was despondent in this new place. We were without anyone familiar and I was forced to forge new friendships, meet new women to connect with, get back my under wiring. The task ahead of me was tough, and I tried on many cup sizes until I felt fabulous. Mommies night out with the mommy group I joined was a total buzz kill, and mostly because there wasn't even a buzz.
However, for the first time in a few years I am finally rocking the wonder bra of Alabama friendships and I haven't felt more content. For women friendship is a must. I could not imagine if I still had to depend on Double D, my husband, for entertainment and conversation. Life would be a chore and I would not be the jovial(first adjective many think of to describe me-in my mind) mother and wife that I am at this moment. I need ladies to talk about sex, our mothers, and gossip, and Damon needs me to have these in my life.
After coming off an amazing time with friends wine tasting, karaoking, girl-talking and sunning at the pool, I am now blessed to be invited to share in a wonderful wedding week with kick-ass women who have come into my life at the right exact moment and hopefully vice versa. Friends that may be the ultimate push-up exercise bra ever, because even when we are getting dirty we still look good. Knockers up ladies!
I am blessed with friendships that I have described above, amazing college friends that have weathered many storms and came out stronger, and I cherish everyday that they are in my life. The exercise bra of friends, if you will; comfortable, durable and able to withstand a lot of jiggle. But what do you do when the exercise bra you would not live without is left at the gym and relocated miles away by the stupid half-naked college chick who is too cheap-ass to buy her own amazing bra? I digress. One is forced to acclimate to the new, which for me is difficult. I am not always loved right away-like a strapless bra; at first I may make you uncomfortable but after a little adjustment you realize I will support you as you shake those tatas all night long.
My exercise bras are many miles away in Illinois and I am here in Alabama, and at first I was despondent in this new place. We were without anyone familiar and I was forced to forge new friendships, meet new women to connect with, get back my under wiring. The task ahead of me was tough, and I tried on many cup sizes until I felt fabulous. Mommies night out with the mommy group I joined was a total buzz kill, and mostly because there wasn't even a buzz.
However, for the first time in a few years I am finally rocking the wonder bra of Alabama friendships and I haven't felt more content. For women friendship is a must. I could not imagine if I still had to depend on Double D, my husband, for entertainment and conversation. Life would be a chore and I would not be the jovial(first adjective many think of to describe me-in my mind) mother and wife that I am at this moment. I need ladies to talk about sex, our mothers, and gossip, and Damon needs me to have these in my life.
After coming off an amazing time with friends wine tasting, karaoking, girl-talking and sunning at the pool, I am now blessed to be invited to share in a wonderful wedding week with kick-ass women who have come into my life at the right exact moment and hopefully vice versa. Friends that may be the ultimate push-up exercise bra ever, because even when we are getting dirty we still look good. Knockers up ladies!
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Time to really ditch this fat ass
I easily admit that I am not one of those women who gives birth and bounces back to my pre-baby size weeks after leaving the hospital. Such is not my fate, and yes deep down I hate those chickies who do. Each time I had a baby I put on the normal baby weight plus enough back fat to make you cringe. It wasn't my goal, obviously, but it happened. Along with each one of my bundles of joy came a bundle of fat I could truffle shuffle for days. I hear celebrities and gurus talk about women who lose control when they're pregnant and eat anything not bolted down, and while I wasn't to that extreme, I didn't skimp on the seconds.
Well the time has come to get back to my fighting size. I started around the end of January and have had success since then, but I am ready to get legit-drop multiple sizes legit. The downfall: I love all food, and wine, and oh yeah beer. Now the food part is a necessity of life but the beer and wine, major contributors to muffin tops around the world. Now listen I live in Alabama and yes muffin tops are all the rage, but I just can not conform. So the hard part begins. It's time to swear off all that I love, and I am not a happy camper. Time to get in to the gym everyday and let my husband, the strength coach, perform his magic. Goodbye to cookies, and ice cream, and pizza. Damn it, I love them but I do not love looking in the mirror every morning and still rockng a mini F.U.P.A. (google it if you need to know).
I know that this is not a battle I fight alone. Many women my age can relate. Making a major change in your weight after the age of thirty is hell and takes an intense commitment. But for me, again, now is the time. I am about to start my summer break so luckily I will no longer be inundated by the sweet treats at work and I will have the time to get to the gym twice a day. But with summer comes cook outs and get togethers and many reasons to sit back and enjoy a beer. Ugh! Alright enough excuses.
Well the time has come to get back to my fighting size. I started around the end of January and have had success since then, but I am ready to get legit-drop multiple sizes legit. The downfall: I love all food, and wine, and oh yeah beer. Now the food part is a necessity of life but the beer and wine, major contributors to muffin tops around the world. Now listen I live in Alabama and yes muffin tops are all the rage, but I just can not conform. So the hard part begins. It's time to swear off all that I love, and I am not a happy camper. Time to get in to the gym everyday and let my husband, the strength coach, perform his magic. Goodbye to cookies, and ice cream, and pizza. Damn it, I love them but I do not love looking in the mirror every morning and still rockng a mini F.U.P.A. (google it if you need to know).
I know that this is not a battle I fight alone. Many women my age can relate. Making a major change in your weight after the age of thirty is hell and takes an intense commitment. But for me, again, now is the time. I am about to start my summer break so luckily I will no longer be inundated by the sweet treats at work and I will have the time to get to the gym twice a day. But with summer comes cook outs and get togethers and many reasons to sit back and enjoy a beer. Ugh! Alright enough excuses.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
It's finally not a one woman celebration
Damon & I are football fanatics, however we don't agree on who's the best. As emphatically described in Friday's post, I am a Pittsburgh apologist, Damon Chicago. This is not our first family Super Bowl with the Steelers seeing action. In fact, it's the 3rd in four years, and Damon's attitude on the first two were always poor, & I get it, he was salty it was not the Bears. That's not too say that his soft side does not show it's sweet face.
In '06 my aunt sent me full-page clippings from the Pittsburgh Post Gazette highlighting that season's key players. A thougtful gesture since I live so far away, but my husband took it one step further. Damon visited the copy store and had the papers laminated to hang up at our Super Bowl celebration, and as I hung them up for this year's celebration I was reminded, however lame, that the smallest gesture from someone you love can make the biggest impact.
This year Damon's gesture came in the way of a phrase. He said, "This year I am rooting for the Steelers. I know I never do but this year is different. It will kill me to see the Packers win." Okay I thought, I'll take it. Finally this year, I am not waving my flag solo next to Donnie Downer.
In '06 my aunt sent me full-page clippings from the Pittsburgh Post Gazette highlighting that season's key players. A thougtful gesture since I live so far away, but my husband took it one step further. Damon visited the copy store and had the papers laminated to hang up at our Super Bowl celebration, and as I hung them up for this year's celebration I was reminded, however lame, that the smallest gesture from someone you love can make the biggest impact.
This year Damon's gesture came in the way of a phrase. He said, "This year I am rooting for the Steelers. I know I never do but this year is different. It will kill me to see the Packers win." Okay I thought, I'll take it. Finally this year, I am not waving my flag solo next to Donnie Downer.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Preppin for the big game
Many know that I am a tried and true Steelers fan...shout out to all of those who witnessed Super Bowl XL in '06, yikes! However dicey that Super Bowl celebration became, a Davis family tradition was started that year, and this Super Bowl will be no different. That year, '08, and now I plan my Super Bowl menu with Pennsylvania and Pittsburgh themed foods. It was an amazing corn chowder in '06 and Iron City beer...double yikes.
This year we've moved onto Yuengling for the beverage of choice and the menu is more Pittsburgh faves. My appetizers will be perogies-a potato filled dumpling accompanied by always tasty kilbasa. The main attraction is a heart stopper-literally & not at all in tune with all the hard work I've put in recently to shed my fat ass, but I will need to something to soak up all the beer I drink to calm my nerves. I am making Pittsburgh's famous Primanti Brother's sandwiches which have been featured on many travel & food shows. This behemoth starts with thick cut slices of Italian bread piled high with capicola ham, provolone cheese, tomatoes, french fries-that's right fries, and slaw. It'll be large and in charge-hopefully much like the Steeler's D.
Of course the menu would not be complete without a sweet treat, and dessert is sticking with my theme. Pittsburgh's Eat and Park restaurants are known for their happy face cookies so Saturday night Mags and I have a date to whip some up-can not wait to see what kind of jacked up face he creates!
So stay tuned for updates and of course GO Steelers!
This year we've moved onto Yuengling for the beverage of choice and the menu is more Pittsburgh faves. My appetizers will be perogies-a potato filled dumpling accompanied by always tasty kilbasa. The main attraction is a heart stopper-literally & not at all in tune with all the hard work I've put in recently to shed my fat ass, but I will need to something to soak up all the beer I drink to calm my nerves. I am making Pittsburgh's famous Primanti Brother's sandwiches which have been featured on many travel & food shows. This behemoth starts with thick cut slices of Italian bread piled high with capicola ham, provolone cheese, tomatoes, french fries-that's right fries, and slaw. It'll be large and in charge-hopefully much like the Steeler's D.
Of course the menu would not be complete without a sweet treat, and dessert is sticking with my theme. Pittsburgh's Eat and Park restaurants are known for their happy face cookies so Saturday night Mags and I have a date to whip some up-can not wait to see what kind of jacked up face he creates!
So stay tuned for updates and of course GO Steelers!
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