cooking meat

When my mother was a little girl, children were not privy to adult conversations. That did not stop Mum and her sisters’ from hanging around the adults trying to overhear a choice bit of gossip.

One day while visiting with Uncle Don (grandpa’s brother) and his wife, Aunt Lorraine, the conversation turned to a topic not meant for little ears.

Nona and Aunt Lorraine were engaged in conversation when Aunt Lorraine abruptly got up and said “Come into the kitchen with me Elva, while I cook the meat.”

This piqued my mother and her sisters’ curiosity and they followed their mother into the kitchen only to be shooed out.

Obviously, this was an “adult’s only” conversation.

Thus the legend of “cooking meat” was born and to this day, when my mum and one of her sisters’ need to speak of something private they say are “cooking meat”. They’ve even shortened it to just “cook meat”. As in, when my Mum needs to talk to Aunt Debra about something important and juicy she’ll call her up and simply say “Debra, we need to cook some meat”.

And so it continues….

It was a Christmastime that I had my first adult experience with “cooking meat”.

I was at my father-in-law’s house for a family meal. After the meal, my sister-in-law and I lingered at the table desultorily chatting about our lives. I began to notice that we were speaking in lowered tones, and whenever a family member would drift into the room we would cease what we were currently talking about and begin speaking about something general.

It didn’t occur to me until I was driving home late that evening that I was carrying on the proud tradition of cooking meat.

Yet another sign that I am a “grown-up”

Notes

I am so TIRED of my winter wardrobe. I am wearing an outfit today that I loathe. But I was too lazy to iron the outfit that I REALLY wanted to wear.

The radio station that we are currently listening to claims that the music that they play is “fresh”. Then they proceed to play such fresh music as Ace of Base “I Saw The Sign” But ANYTHING is better than the dreaded Columbian music.


Mark you calendars. In exactly one month it will be my 35th birthday. If you forget, never fear, I will give you periodic reminders.

Last night I did a grocery run and purchased among other things a 6 pack of Fruit2O, peach and strawberry flavored. The peach is gross. But that is neither here nor there. I bought this stuff because I know that my husband enjoyed it when we were out in IN visiting his sister. When I told him that I bought some more, JUST FOR HIM. He informed me that it is Propel that he likes not Fruit2O and that “you really don’t know me at all.”

“!!!!!!!!”

Seriously.

I don’t know him at all?

After 13 years of marriage??

What an ass.

Moving on……still not liking my outfit.

I can’t bring myself to watch American Idol. I try. Really I do. But it’s just too painful. Although, I’m intrigued by the guy who is so in love with his hair. He loves his hair ALMOST as much as Simon loves his own chest. Have you ever noticed how much Simon caresses his chest?

Word I am currently liking “ Vast”

I’ve put the Oreos aside and am enjoying “Vienna Fingers”. Mostly because they were on sale 50% off.

REALLY not liking the peach Fruit2O. I don’t know if I’ll be able to finish it.

thighs are us

Running in an endless loop through my head – “64, 64, 64 Zoo Lane”

For those of you not in the know, it’s a show on Noggin.


Also for those of you not in the know, I am out of baby powder.

That’s right. I use baby powder.

Hey listen, if YOU had the thunder thighs I have, you’d be using something to keep the chafing down to a minimum too!

So the endless loop of “64, 64, 64 Zoo Lane is accompanied by the “swish, swish” of un-powdered thighs.

did i ever tell you about the time i went to a formal event in the city? i wore pantyhose that had shiny stuff shot through them. it made the pantyhose rough to the touch. the rubbing together of my massive thighs against the rough panthyhouse created such friction that it nearly caused a small fire. and basically reduced my inner thighs to a red mass of raw flesh. my mother said it is called "galling". And apparently it runs in the family as my father (a big guy) is afflicted with the same problem from time to time. Especially in the summertime.

Also, the dress that I wore to the formal event? The zipper broke. Because I squeezed myself into a dress that fit as long as I stayed standing. The first time I sat down in the taxi I felt a pop. I had to get the attendent in the Ladies bathroom at the Waldorf Astoria to sew me into the dress. For the rest of the night, I made my friend walk into the room right behind me. And I stood with my back to a wall. After several healthy vodka tonics though, the zipper became a non-issue.

The next morning, I walked bowlegged. Like I was rode hard and put away wet.

It was a miserable night.

including oreos

somedays i wish i could just quit you

good idea?

was eating the rest of my chicken with cashew nuts (from Saturday) chasing it with two butterscotch krimpets and washing down the whole disgusting mess with a flat root beer really the wisest decision at 10:30 on a thursday night?

tune in tomorrow morning for the results.

me and my grossly distended belly are going to bed now.

a touch scatological but nonetheless of great personal interest……

Am I the only person who feels as though I am missing something vital and important after having had a really good poop?

Anybody?

Just thought I’d ask.

And know this, that in my house, it is perfectly acceptable (if not an actual requirement) to announce with great satisfaction "i just had the BEST poop" upon exiting the bathroom.

We also recommend using air freshener.

Just as a courtesy.