Crazy as the Day is Long 1.0

The funny thing about being crazy is that it makes you interesting. There is harmless crazy and harmful crazy and I love me some harmless crazy. Though the “less” part may be debatable, I love Nancy Grace because she is what I believe to be, a harmless crazy.

Soothe me with your lovely voice, Nancy. Soothe me.

(If you kill yourself based upon a 15 second interview with Nancy Grace…then I have to believe something else in your life has gone horribly wrong.)

I’m crazy. I’m okay with it. I think everybody sort of is. Or, at least, everybody I would ever want to spend any amount of time with. The crazy is what keeps things interesting, and funny, and by golly, keeps me on the edge of my seat.

This is a poster I have above my bed. No. It isn't. I'm not a fucking loser. Who made this and why do they hate life so much, that they would subject their fellow humans to a fucking panda kicking us in the face with this horrible message?!? This is only appropriate to be sold in gift shops at insane asylums. Seriously. For real.

The older I get, the more types of crazy I see.

Personally, I don’t do “anger-crazy.”  I don’t yell. I don’t slam doors. I have never raised my voice to any boyfriend I have ever had. (And if any of them stumble across this, they will verify that….or else). I just don’t get crazy-angry. I don’t see a point in yelling, and on a purely psychological and physical level, I don’t get angry like that. (except at kittens. watch yourselves…baby cats.) (just kidding, guys.)

While I wrote this post, I ate two orders of this. Crazy bread is my muse. Along with cheesecake, guacamole, and Alf.

But I’m food-crazy. Oh, how I’m food-crazy. Aside from my very obvious unhealthy relationship with food, that alternates between rapist-victim, to mother-child, to ex-boyfriend-with-a-new-hot-fiance-and-old-girlfriend-who-has-a-major-breakout-happening-at-this-mutual-friend’s-holiday-party.

I figured since nobody ever reads this blog..."fuck it" I'm just gonna post a pic of my tummy. Took 8 hours and 300.00 bucks to do that, guys. Worth. Every. Penny. They don't call me "Chicken & Biscuits" for nothin'

It is a complicated and disgusting relationship that all too often involves 6 trips to the grocery store a week, binge eating blue corn chips dipped in pesto, and then crying in the shower afterwards. Jealous? Yeah you are. Turned on? You’re fucking gross. Get out of here.

Why is Little Ceasars trying to make mental illness fun again? Let it go, Ceasar Pequeno. Let it go. But keep the dipping sauces.

So speaking of grocery stores-here we go. The crazy.

I lived in a dorm freshman year at Arizona. I had no cell phone, as I have previously mentioned, and so we had a nice land line phone with a great answering machine. Jealous? Yeah you are.

The dorm assigned us a phone number. For Christmas, freshman year, I received a cell phone from my dad. Hooray! No more land line.

But I had started over in Arizona, and as my only phone number, I had given the land line number out to a million places.

Like Safeway. To hook up my Safeway club card.

I have little to add to this gem. But...offer accepted.

Everybody knows Safeway club cards are altruistic measures taken by grocery stores to ensure their very loved customers are getting the absolute best discounts available and not over-paying for groceries.

Just kidding. Its a way to ensnare, track, and hunt you until you are so exhausted from playing their  “this is 9 cents less with a plastic card” game that you curl into a ball below a palm tree and pray for a swift death. Death comes, and you are mummified in long receipts and your body turns into garlic salt. This is all true. I saw it once.

Fuck. I'm hungry.

So when I moved, I still had the one number connected to my Safeway club card. I never carried the actual card around…I’m not a plebian, for Christs sakes.

But I always used that number. Safeway cashiers would always say, at the end of our interaction “Thank you Ms. _______, have a lovely day”

But whomever had gotten that number after me had switched over her name.

Her name was Amy Bernal. To be precise.

So for years, they’d say “Thank you, Ms. Bernal, have a lovely day.”

Sometimes they pronounced in Burr-nall. Sometimes they pronounced in Burr-nail. Sometimes they pronounced in Burr-nawl.

One day. A full four years after I got a new number and never changed over my Safeway card, I was checking out of Safeway, and the cashier said “Thank you, Ms. Burr…nail?” and before I even realized it, I said in a authoritative voice “Its Burr-nawl” and corrected her pronunciation of a last name I don’t even have.

I caught myself and stopped breathing. Realizing just how deep I had gone down a crazy hole.

I had assumed somebody’s Safeway identity and had the audacity to correct a cashier on my fake name.

I lived in Arizona for 5 years after I got rid of that original phone number. I never did get a new Safeway card. I lived as Amy Bernal, buying oatmeal and produce under an assumed identity for years before I left. So, wherever you are, Ms. Bernal, however you say your name…I apologize for being absolutely insane and boosting your coupon output, but probably lucky for you—I’m a harmless crazy.

😉

Marry me. I thank God you exist, good sir.

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$3.99 Worth of Eternal Shame

Hi friends. (again- I know this is just me and trolls reading this-but let me pretend. I paid 18.00 for this website and I’m going to pretend all fucking 18 dollars worth.)

So. Here we are. It is story time once again. For those that have heard this story (anybody who has ever encountered me) I apologize. (But in that way that isn’t really serious- I’m sort of like “Sorry you’re a jerk who wants me to apologize” about it all.)

Dead Behind the Virtual Eyes- the true, virtual tale of DQ Franchise ownership.

As many of you know, I lived in Tucson, Arizona (Nationally known as:  “Worst Place on Earth, 1999, 2003, 2008, 2009, 2011!) for six long, trying years.

During that time I frequented a street (a single street) that locals called “downtown.” when in fact, it was just a single street where a bunch of Mexican teens hung out sometimes. Great.

On this street was one of the only Dairy Queens I ever saw in Arizona. Now, when you grow up in a small town in the Midwest, you don’t treat DQ like a restaurant. There is never a cold, blustery January afternoon where you say “Lets go to Dairy Queen and grab some sundaes!”

No. It is closed. It closes for winter and it is too cold for sundaes, idiot children. But in Arizona, it is always summer, and you are always getting skin cancer (seriously) and DQ is always open.

DQ terror

I have nightmares that these three are gang raping me while a churro films it.

So one evening, driving around in my pajamas, I decide to go get a DQ blizzard. I was driving around in lounge wear because I felt like it. I worked two jobs, like, a gazillion hours a week, and I wanted to go drive “downtown” to spend 4 dollars on shortening my lifespan. So off I go, to the DQ which, at 8pm on a weeknight is crazy busy.

So I pull into the “drive thru” window-because I’m in pajamas, and like the sad and morbidly obese white girl I am, I like to order my food with the least amount of human interaction.

This is also the name of the home-made porn I'm currently shopping around.

So the drive thru is packed. The drive thru has begun to spill out onto the street and people are milling around all over and its just a crazy orgy of people all trying to get dilly bars. (Nobody. I mean, NOBODY was ordering dilly bars. This isn’t 1979, and nobody, not even in Arizona, is that fucking hard up for an ice cream bar-that they would order that shit)

Though I have never been associated with DQ...I was awkwardly driving this around when cravings struck

So I finally make my way up to the drive-thru window and I order a large Oreo Blizzard, and they’re in there- whipping it around, scooping delicious oreos into aerated ice cream, and all the sudden, my car sort of..shifts..and sighs…and turns off.

I try to re-start. Nothing. I look in my rear view mirror and see, like, fifty cars all waiting to experience the hot-fudge orgasm that is a Pecan mudslide*

My car will not start. I’m stuck at the window of a drive-thru Dairy Queen. This is my life. These are my choices. I’m wearing Target pajamas and I am a sitting duck at a fucking Dairy Queen order window.

So I do the only thing I can. I tell the sweet high school student making minimum wage to serve me a large blizzard that my car just broke’d down in her drive thru lane. To her credit, she doesn’t really blink an eye. She runs out and asks the various Dad’s in the crowd to help push me.

This is where things get really sexy. I try to get out to help push, but all the dads take one look at me and are like “get back in the car. we’re good out here”

I sit on my fatass in my 2007 Chevy Aveo** getting pushed through a Dairy Queen drive-thru lane to an adjacent parking space. In my realization that all I had to do was steer- I start binge eating my blizzard.

That is correct. As 6 Dad’s were pushing my obesity in pajamas, I was blatantly enjoying my ice cream treat going 1 mile per hour through a parking lot, while small children felt embarrassed for me. I am a complete animal, with absolutely no shame.

Here is the best part. My car was not broken. I had run out of gas. Completely run out of gas. Because I had about 5 dollars to my name- and I wanted a blizzard more than I wanted a working vehicle. Is there anything more American than this story? I doubt it.

So I call my ex boyfriend who is pissed. He drives from work, to the DQ parking lot (Where I have my feet up, and I am still enjoying this blizzard) and puts gas in my car-and gives me my dog, who he brought for some reason.

So I go to a gas station to fill up my tank- because, ha, guys-that was sort of embarrassing. And I come back to my car and my seats are all wet. My dog had climbed inside the blizzard and was prancing around with melted oreo ice cream on his paws. It was a great ending to a very uplifting, empowering day.

So that’s me. I have sunk so far below decency that I let my car run out of gas, and had to be manually pushed through a DQ drive-thru while I started eating my oreo blizzard in front of my rescuers. You’re welcome-America.

Oh. So...just because there was a double homocide here, now you're choosing to close early and make ME a victim too? Where does the pain stop?

*I’ll do this for you for 50 bucks or a JCrew giftcard. Find me on Craigslist.

** Jealous? I was on a waitlist for like, 18 months to score these wheels. (No, no I wasn’t)

Making Sushi is Exactly Like Handjobs

And not just because both make use of julienned cucumbers. (Right?!)

Okay so my title may have been a little broad. (I know what else is a little broad)

What I mean, of course, is that you never slice against the grain of the penis, and you use a small bamboo mat to achieve the “roll” shape you are going for.

I can’t believe I’m single. 

The realism of the testicles astounds me.

Welcome to a post in which I talk about what I want to( but don’t) cook.

I spent the better part of last year really learning how to cook. I’ve always been an avid baker (See: 10 years of holiday cookie parties) and an avid eater (See: large ass, firefox bookmark “recipes” folder) but I rarely cooked anything you could gain nutrients from. Like mozzarella sticks, or lasagna noodles in cream sauce.

You know its good when a white glove with a clown nose likes it!!!

A combination of living in a small town with two restaurants (Okay- one restaurant and a place with a microwave and a business license), changing my eating habits, and curiosity led me to start really cooking. Since I dove into the “cooking” pond, I’ve made anything and everything that sounded interesting and edible.

This bitch.

I will elaborate more in another post-but I’ve made mussels, Caesar dressing, shrimp bisque, chicken parmigiana, mushroom parmesan lasagna, asparagus pancetta hash, fried mozzarella sticks,  three kinds of stuffing, corn spoon bread, tempura tofu, chicken tikka masala, a mushroom crepe cake, cream of cauliflower soup, coq au vin, fennel and carmelized onion flatbread,  mustard chicken, etc. etc. etc.

Mussels and grilled bread. The shell is the best part. (That is a lie.)

I’ve always enjoyed it immensely. Seriously.

Once, in Arizona- I made 11 people  Thanksgiving (14 items) completely on my own- from scratch-including bloody mary’s and kept everybody’s drinks full. I started at 3am and was fully dressed and looking hot for dinner at 5pm. That’s another story-but don’t hesitate to clap in the comfort of your own home.

I slaughtered and plucked this myself. (No, I didn't)

Drinking my own tears. Or wine. Probably my own tears.

All this aside- there are corners of the cooking universe I’ve yet to explore.  Thus, the title of this post. I think I should admit:

There are just some things I know somebody else can do better.

Sushi is the big one. Because-think about it. I could go out and buy sashimi, the cucumbers, the avocado and make the spicy mayo…but for what? To make myself dinner? So much would go to waste and it would never be as good as the $9.00 roll from whole foods. (endorsement. please, pay me WF.)

It is like a handjob. I can do it-sure. And I will, if anybody (literally-anybody. Don’t be afraid to ask for an HJ homeless guys…I’m a giver) asks me to…but come on.

This is not my body. I would eat it before they could set this up.

You didn’t buy me two drinks and take me to your Moms cousin’s  basement to watch me try and make sticky rice. Am I right?

I am right. You didn’t take me to that basement.  Because I would never go to that basement after what happened the last time. I still have dried blood and cat hair under my fingernails.

Indian Food is also straddling this category. I can do it- and I make a good chicken tikka masala…but what of the samosas? What of the buffet? I can’t set up an Indian food buffet in my kitchen.  No one would ever see me again.

The only other thing in this category is high-level pastry. I’m talking chocolate croissant, Kouing Aman,  and of course the elusive macaron.

As if I would eat it in more than one bite.

I think I’ll attempt to tip toe into these categories…because as we all know- at any moment you could meet your soulmate and they could have no arms and no hands and NEED you to give them handjobs…and what happens if you have been walking three blocks and paying 25.00 for somebody ELSE to give out handjobs while you drink sake?

Always better to be prepared.

–off to service some homeless guys and make tomorrow’s baked goods—

Oh Hey There

Oh. Hey guys*. I’m pretty embarrassed that I haven’t posted in so long. I’ve been really, really busy-as indicated below.

Saturday night-big plans. Talking to my dog in the other room on the phone

But really. I do other things besides surf the internet and eat food. Sometimes I sleep. Sometimes I go to the dog park. It is hard to lead the rockstar lifestyle I do and maintain a blog.

Took the words right out of my mouth...as I was saying them over some ceviche

So since the last post- which I don’t recall making- I’ve finished my first year in school**, moved, started a new job, and a bunch of other stuff that can be summed up as being both shitty and awesome…and then shitty some more, and maybe more awesomeness. For a short time, my best school friend was in Chicago– touching down briefly between Asia and Boston***. During that time I watched more HBO than I care to admit-but seeing as though it is not tv…it’s HBO; I will count it as educational.

From that I can give you the following information:

I don't know how to rebuild after Mildred Pierce

Mildred Pierce needs to be watched….absolutely never—or, in the alternate- absolutely intoxicated or during a bi-polar period of mania. Unless you get excited by 7 hours of shitty things happening to Kate Winslet. But then your name would probably Sam Mendes…(burn notice)

Watching Mildred Pierce with even the slightest bit of depression or anxiety is like when I took a road trip with 60 munchkins. There are just some  inevitable truths.

At the end of the roadtrip I had consumed 60 munchkins.

At the end of Mildred Pierce I was incredibly depressed.

But as we’ve all had to learn the hard way: HBO giveth, and HBO taketh away.

For the remaining weeks of this summer, I have worked. I took my last final on a Wednesday, and I started my new summer job on the following Monday. I’m not one for “weeks off” and I really enjoy working. I really enjoy having a monotonous daily schedule. Even at the job-that-shall-not-be-named****, I rarely took vacations. I really enjoy my job now. For a multitude of reasons, but the most important is that everybody is awesome. I’m sure not everybody (I know not everybody)-but almost everybody. Funny, charming, silly, and a few are incredibly, unbelievably nice. I feel blessed to have been asked to intern for such lovely people.

In turn (see what I did there?), I’ve tried to infiltrate to the very core the best way I know how- by making people laugh, and baking them high caloric food that I hide addictive substances in.#

The meth folds right in.

It is pretty clever! Thanks for saying so! You see- each Monday, I bring in baked goods, and everybody flocks over and gobbles them. I then start cracking jokes and between the extremely addictive hallucinogenic drugs I put in the baked goods, and my C level humor… I start to seem like a really good employee who absolutely knows what she’s doing.

 

I’m thinking of starting a “consulting” firm for this sort of thing. (don’t steal my idea 2-to-4 people who stumble across this blog)

Anyway- that is what prompted me to update today. I had two yearnings today. One, was to cook. I absolutely adore cooking and baking. It has been so hot this summer, and so gross that I’ve been out of commission and lazy. My Sunday night office-baking happy hour is the only time I have been forcing myself to cook. But today, raining and dreary–I was absolutely possessed to make soup. (I didn’t-I ate a turkey burger from Whole Foods. The cycle continues)

I also had a hankering to write. Maybe because I slept more than 4 hours last night for the first time in a long time.

In any event- I am back-for all my fans (my mom, my brother, and me re-reading this 40 times). I’m hoping to make a post devoted to all the things I’ve been baking for work, and all the recipes I’m hoping to bake for work.

So far I’ve been keeping things pretty middle-of-the-road. But I’d like to step it up and make some high-level shit. Like a giant layer cake, or a crazy cheesecake, or donuts, or maple bacon frosted pancake cupcakes. (But who’s counting?) So. I’m not going to say surviving- I’m going to say thriving.

Maybe tomorrow, during baking happy hour-

I’ll write a post that most people always dream of reading- what is it like, you ask-to bake something from a recipe, while drinking white wine and listening to Fleet Foxes?

I know, I know- you’ve always wanted to know. To get behind the music and see what the fuck goes on during that type of shit show. Let me tell you friends- it’s wilder than you can even imagine.

Until then, signing off-

I use oxycontin instead of butter.

*myself reading this tomorrow, my mom, my friend Nick who added this to google reader. Thanks.
**literally my first year; kindergarten my mom is typing this for me.
*** oddly now referred to as the proscuitto-xanax trade route.
****for litigation reasons. Not really. But I am suing them. So, Really.
#Not intended to be a factual statement. Have you tried the butterscotch blondies? Yeah- yeah they’re tasty. Now what’s your pin number?

2 Shakes

Lets talk about food. Please try and restrain your surprise that this is what I want to talk about.

I have another post I’m editing right now- and I am trying to update this blog more than twice a year-but usually whenever I get around to doing these sorts of things- I have a glass of wine and turn on Bravo and that is the end of that.

Sometimes I just want to pour wine to another me in a similar dress.

So I’m going to update a small post here- about 2 shakes I made recently. One, was a delectable, rich, take off of a shake I had recently in New York from Stand.

The other- is me attempting to deflate myself back into someone who can wear things besides leggings. Here’s hoping.

Lets just disclaim right now-before we get into the good stuff. I’m not a doctor. I have no training in nutrition or cooking. If you want to know why I think these things are healthy- I can post links. Or, you can google “protein” and “coconut oil.”

Here we go.

Shake1:

Toasted Marshmallow Milkshake

 

Delicious

 

10 jumbo marshmallows

2 c Vanilla Ice Cream

1/2 c Heavy Cream- plus more for garnish

1/4 c Milk

Toast the marshmallows- really char them, and while we’re at it- lets talk about who doesn’t like charred marshmallows and charred hotdogs? What’s your deal? You like bland things? Do you also like well done steaks? Who are you?

Add 9 of them to a blender with the ice cream, about 1/4 cup of heavy cream and 1/4 cup of milk. I’d add some ice cubes if you want a thicker shake. Or, you can whip some of the heavy cream and add the whipped cream to thicken it.
Blend everything together- and whip up some fresh whipped cream. I like to add vanilla and powdered sugar to my whipped cream. But the bottom line is, this isn’t my shake-so if you want to cover the entire thing with cool whip (which I HATE) its really no concern of mine. Stop trying to bring me into it.

Use the 10th toasted marshmallow to garnish, or just eat it immediately. Or, just put two scoops of vanilla ice cream into a bowl, cover with whip cream and toasted marshmallows and eat it with a spoon while you cry. Whatever works for you!

Shake2

Coconut-Banana-Peanut Butter Protein Shake

5 ice cubes

1/2 c milk. I use coconut milk, or almond milk. But you can use dairy milk, soy milk, rice milk. Whatever.

2tbs all natural peanut butter.

2tbs protein powder (I use egg protein powder-but use what you like)

1tbs agave syrup. I use this because according to the interweb-which is always right, this does not spike your blood sugar. But if you don’t care, and you probably don’t-you can use honey or sugar or whatever.

1 Banana

and now for the magic ingredient…

One big scoop of solid coconut oil.  Thats right.  A giant scoop of solid fat. Again- I could get into why I think this is necessary and helpful, but people with “training” and “degrees” can explain it better. So google it.

marvel at my photographic skills

blend this all together and drink it down. It will not taste weirdly of protein powder-which is a plus. If you’re really talented, maybe you can blend it correctly so that it doesn’t have ice chunks floating in it. (see above) It is filling, and once you get the ingredients once, it is pretty cheap. The coconut fat, agave and milk should last you awhile unless you put them all in a bowl every night, cover them with chocolate syrup and eat them while you cry.

Enjoy! Whether you’re trying to blow up because some man just put a ring on your finger (try and leave me.) or you are trying to drop weight to make it through the second call back of America’s Next Top Model- one of these will work.

Enjoy

-Nikki-