Oh right! I have a blog!

In fact, everyone has a blog these days. I, however, have two -- neither of which I regularly update. In fact, I don't even irregularly update them. Meh.

Tonight the B and I perused our streaming Netflix via Wii (um, coolest thing EVER) and decided to watch the movie Julie & Julia which I had thrown into the "Maybe to Watch at Some Point" folder.

I was excited. Mainly because over the past month (aka 2 years) I've been trying to figure out a way to enjoy cooking. I mean, I liked being a barista -- mixing up and creating drinks, but food and I have never seen eye to eye (on many levels, of course). However, I can appreciate that cooking can be an art form; my mother-in-law, for instance, is sinceriously passionate about cooking and I always assumed it's because she's German (as if there would be no other reason for anyone to love cooking other than that). She has (literally) a tower of blue pots and pans and French inscribed meat labels and cheese shaped like triangles, for fricks sake. Then she does things like "poach eggs", and "broil" shit, or pick out every single ingredient in a restaurant's meal just by taste (before going home to recreate it, add some German flare, and make it even better than the original). The first couple times I met her and my father-in-law I am pretty sure I was slack-jawed as I sat listening to them have a 20-minute conversation about how many different ways potatoes can be cooked (turns out there is more than fried, baked, and smashed.... I know! I was surprised, too!).

Now, I need to clarify that I l-o-v-e this about my in-laws. I'm simply saying that it was (and still is) a culture shock, especially when you consider the longest conversation my family ever had about food lasted about 10 seconds which involved Homer Simpson noises, flatulence, and something along the lines of, "Mom, that pie was a party in my mouth".

Needless to say, I've never made my mother-in-law a meal. I've suggested it to B a couple of times but, bless his soul, he would always talk me out of it.

"It's because I'm not a sassy cook like your Mom, huh?"
"No no, it's because my Mom would feel bad about you making her a meal."

Always with those brown, puppy-dog eyes, so I believe him against my will.

She would feel bad though.

I said bad, not sick.

Anyway, it's come to my attention that I need to eat "better". With my menagerie of health stuff, I can't afford to eat poorly balanced meals when I need as much nutrition and energy as I can get. In addition, my Fireman needs good eats so he can run into burning buildings, rescue cats from trees (or not), walk around in his bunker gear in slow motion, and carry me to bed when I fall asleep in random places.

SO, we watched Julie & Julia, and you could tell -- immediately -- that I was made to cook. What with questions like, "Who's Julia Childs?" and "What's a mortar and pestle do?" it was obvious a latent talent was emerging. It was, no doubt, finalized when I babbled about how mortar and pestles and our empty herb bottles make me feel like an apothecary.

Now, there's no way in hell I'm going to cook a new meal every day, especially one that has anything to do with French cuisine. In fact, anything that could be associated with the word "cuisine" immediately sends me into an anxiety attack.
I'm certainly not going to blog about everything I cook either because, well, I'm sure most of the stuff I'll wind up cooking will involve two ingredients and a pound of ground turkey. BUT, I am going to try to see what all the fuss is about -- with being in the kitchen and creating masterpiece meals and all that jazz. I'm going to try things with vegetables I've never tried before (perverts) like "saute" them and maybe, if I'm feeling REALLY crazy, I'll even eat them. I might try something with fish while my trusty Fireman is nearby in case my shellfish allergies extend to all seafood or (more likely) if I spit it all out and declare we should order some pizza.

In short, I do want to try cooking and I sincerely hope to find a way for it to be enjoyable.

At the very least, though, I've found one thing I can babble about here (now that I remember I have a blog and all). Oh oh! I'm starting grad school tomorrow, so that's a second thing I can address if cooking is so boring to me I can't even blog about it.

If all else fails, I will still have Scully's shoulder-pads to make fun of.

I Know What You're Thinking

How could a blog as witty and as clever as this, with no apparent theme other than tangents, have gone unnoticed for so long?

One of life's many mysteries.

Usually my Mom is one of few faithful blog readers, but considering my second post was about a famousmansoccerplayer's female genitalia and subsequent sand in such area, I have yet to share this address with her.

Dana Scully needs to stop wearing outfits with shoulder pads in them.

Most sincerely,

Me

Happy Independents Day!

Yup.

I read that this weekend.

At least they didn't add an apostrophe.

Happy Independent's Day everyone!

Ronaldo Discovers He Doesn't Have a Weiner

Quotes from http://www.guardian.co.uk/football/2010/jun/30/cristiano-ronaldo-portugal-world-cup

The rest from My Disdain for the Pretty Boy:

Portual's captain, Cristiano Ronaldo, says he feels like a "broken man" following his side's 1-0 World Cup second-round defeat to Iberian neighbours Spain.

"I feel a broken man, completely disconsolate, frustrated and an unimaginable sadness," the 25-year-old winger told the BBC after finding out he has a vagina.

The Portugal captain has been often challenged about his balls, or lack-thereof, due to his propensity to fall down and cry like a little baby within 30 yards of the goalie box.

(Above) Cristiano Ronaldo, after he realizing he has a vagina.

"I was not in a position to explain what was what. I am a human being and like any human being I suffer and I have the right to suffer alone."

Ronaldo will spend the next year in preparation for the FIFA Women's World Cup in Germany, during which he warm the bench since soccer playing women could beat the shit out of him.

Dear U.S. Men's Soccer,

I watched you fool around with Ghana again. You stepped onto the field with some sluggish form of obligation --as if you deserved to be there because, you know, you're so awesome.

Then Ghana bitch slapped you with your own purses.

You promised it would be different this year.... you always promise it will be different.

I've heard every excuse. "You were right, we're not starting the slack-ass, Beasley." "I'm sorry, I accidentally forgot I couldn't touch the soccer ball with my hand." "Ah! The cosmic potholes -- which create a sudden, unexpected, and momentary increase in gravity -- made me fall down in the box!" "But I JUST got my hair all perfect and I didn't want to head the ball and mess it up!"

And I, of course, believed you because I'm a softy. Because you look at me with these big, sad, soccer-ball eyes and talk about how the nation is growing in support, that you're finally getting the recognition we've always wanted for you. And then you pour on some syrupy words like, "We want you to be with us when we do it, Sarah. We want you to be right there to see the nation hate soccer less than wearing vomit shoes!" But it's clockwork. Every 4 years you come groveling via my television, begging me to take you back. Promising THIS time will be different! That THIS time you won't break my heart! That THIS time you went to a 3 month retreat at Soccer Camp Rehabilitation Center and really, really changed!

But after I saw you hug Ghana and walk off the pitch without even looking at me, I finally realized how unhealthy our relationship is. All the lies and the globetrotting -- you're never there when I need you! And I deserve more than that. I deserve a team who will make me cheer and have fun, not be angry and yell. Oh wow, I can't believe I almost forgot the yelling. You never back-check like you say you will. You never follow your shots like you say you've been working on. You are lazy and spend most of your time on your ass whining! And how many times do I have to tell you to put your shots on the net?! Man, I'm beginning to wonder whether you were actually staying late at the field those nights, like you said, or if you were cavorting with Lady Ref.

So, U.S. Men's Soccer, I am done. I deserve so much more than how you've been stringing me along. At least Spain can last an entire 90 minutes! And Germany never prematurely concedes a goal! Even Ireland understands the fragility of my heart and will buy me a shot of whiskey if I need it! So yes, we are DONE. Don't write. Don't call. In four years it will be like we never met. And if you happen to pull your shit together sometime down the road, great! In fact, I hope you do someday; I, however, will no longer be waiting for you when you do.

Instead, I'll be with a team who appreciates me. A team like Spain who plays beautifully and comes home every night with the integrity of the game still in intact. Or a team like Germany, always powerful and structured and who will never ever lie, or dive, because they're -- you know -- Germans; their own Mother's would kick them in die Kugeln if they dived. Or the Irish... sigh... I'll always have the Irish, real men who drink Guinness (for strength) on the sideline instead of water, and will never break my heart like you have.

So, goodbye, U.S. Men's Soccer. I hope you find it is what you're looking for -- someday you should try the back of the net.

OOOH! DO YOU NEED ICE FOR THAT BURN?!