Awesome Sauce

This is not a cooking blog and never will be because I could never withstand the shame of readers learning about how I really eat. I mean, who needs a recipe for melty chocolate ice cream or jello with sugar and milk?

Nevertheless, here I am writing a recipe because I want to be able to find this again. It's that good. And that's not just the wine talking.

See?

Clean plate.

Most of my cooking is done in semi-panic mode. Life as we're living it right now doesn't lend itself to planning. At least that's the story I'm telling myself. So while ritualistically googling recipes on the days when I expect the Electrician to be home for dinner, I get heart palpitations when I read things like "marinate for 4 hours."  Seriously? I'm lucky if I have something thawed.

Today I'd managed to have chicken breasts ready in the refrigerator but had no plan besides throwing them on the grill. Plain grilled chicken breast is the reason so many good people go bad. It's true. I'm sure some study has been done about it.  Anyway, I can't continue to be part of that particular problem so I googled simple chicken marinades and, I swear, every recipe required the dreaded 4 hours or more to marinate and/or required Italian dressing or soy sauce.

I am bereft of both. Again with the shame. Who runs out of soy sauce?

Time to improvise.

So much for simple.

The recipe itself is pretty simple though, so I've got that going for me.

AWESOME SAUCE

About 2/3 cup of brown sugar, DARK brown sugar. Don't mess around.

Less than a quarter cup of apple cider vinegar because I used a quarter and it was a wee bit too much

A half cup or so of vegetable oil named after one of your friends

A few squirts of barbecue sauce. I'm a fan of Sweet Baby Ray's original. Obviously.

A couple shakes of Worcestershire Sauce and then a few more after you dip your finger in to taste the mixture. Maybe. Just bear that in mind.

Half the airplane-sized bottle of honey whiskey found next to the brown sugar in the cabinet because why not? It's not like either of us are ever going to drink that whiskey.

Stir. Keep stirring. Stir until the sugar lumps disintegrate.

Here's where you should dip your finger in to see how it's going. 

Does it need more Worcestershire Sauce? That's entirely up to you.

Add a tablespoon or so of creamy peanut butter and recommence stirring. Careful not to lick the peanut butter spoon or you won't be able to give the finished sauce an honest taste test. As Julia Child frequently said - peanut butter is not a palate cleanser. Don't ask me how I know.

I poured some of the sauce over the chicken breasts and let it marinate for about 30 minutes. It was the best I could do. I saved some for dipping and maybe took a taste before relinquishing the stirring spoon to the depths of the dishwater. 

While the chicken marinates in the marinade, contemplate the English language. The noun is marinade. The verb is marinate. It's like the difference between accept and except or affect and effect.  Sip the whiskey right from the bottle. No one is looking.

Grilling left a tasty coating on the chicken when the sugars carmelized. I warmed the reserved (how's that for a fancy recipe word?) sauce for a few seconds in the microwave to use for dipping. A quick glance at the clean plate photo tells me the dipping sauce was one of the better ideas I had today.

Looking over the recipe, I realize it's pretty much hopped up barbecue sauce, but that's such along name. I'm sticking with Awesome Sauce. Not Fancy Sauce. That's something different.

Bon apetit!

Not quite as planned

Sunday night. When the specter of the coming week floats through the wall and buggers you with images of traffic jams, printer jams, pointless meetings, laddered pantyhose, the impossible expectation of being in two places at once and a coffee stain on your right boob?

Last Sunday wasn't like that at all. Instead, I was giddily naming the things I would do with my last week of not working. I had plans.Writing. Reading. Finishing an editing job that I lost when I washed my jump drive. Lolling around, sleeping in, long afternoon naps in between watching Netflix and AcornTV until my eyeballs dried out.

And since my first week on the job means a week of member meetings where I'll be cloistered at a hotel and not be at the beck and call of the America aristocracy who've become all too accustomed to having an entire Downtown downstairs staff rolled into one woman, I'd planned to get things arranged so that MathMan, the kids and cats won't be reduced to making meals out of the remains at the bottom of a jar of olives and some three-year-old cookie mix*.

Then everything went all Robert Burns. Or Steinbeck, if you will. And no one even got laid.

I won't bore you with the details, but holy servants' bells, how did it get to be Friday Saturday already?

I decided there was no point in fighting it. It was best to keep calm and ...... bake challah?

Ingrediments. If you know Jack Benny, you get this joke.

Chloe doing the necessary kneading.

Sophie with her finished braid.

Chloe learning how to braid.

Egg washed, ready to go in the oven.

Fresh from the oven.

Enjoying the fruits of her labor.

What's new with you? What have you in the oven? Favorite bread recipes? Bets on how next week goes?


*Mostly a lie. They'd just eat fast food all week.

It's time to smash things up

Now I've gone and done it. I've written my main character into a corner. While I try to get her out, I'm doing all the usual things to distract myself  to that I can clear enough noggin space where the solution will land neat and tidy all in one piece.

Ironing, grocery shopping, vacuuming, reading something not even remotely related, looking up British idioms, joylessly eating brownies, contemplating raking leaves, rejecting the idea of raking leaves, watching copious amounts of The Secrets of World War II and watching bits and pieces of my favorite movie.

.

Which is kind of like a busman's holiday, but some movies are like comfort food and this one is it for me. I've lost count of the number of times I've seen this film. So many times that even Sophie can and does quote lines from it. She absorbed them by osmosis, I swear.

And then there's the moment when I realize that Dish left us with The Cooking Channel and I watch hour after hour of people making vegetable dishes that appeal to me. And then I think I've go that one last Vidalia onion and those potatoes that really must be used before they turn and the left over chicken stock from yesterday so now we have Pommes de terres a la boulangere. Talk about comfort food.

What do you return to over and over again?

We've got it all until the revolution comes

Some more world-stopping observations to help get you through your day...

1. Scott Farkus and Grover Dill may rule the back alleys between home and school, but they're terrified of the vacuum cleaner. They also enjoy rasslin' on the back of my chair which means they're tumbling around back there behind my head. The joys never end.

2. You know you're a true political junkie/journalist groupie when you vow never to wash your twitter again after WaPo columnist Jonathan Capehart responds to one of your tweets.

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2.1 If you're not on Twitter, you might want to rethink that. Did you know you can interact with fun people like the author Tayari Jones?

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2.2 And if you are on Twitter and not following me, what's up with that? Don't make me deliver a cat to you. Because I will.

Seriously though, be sure to check out who follows me and who I follow. I've made lists, too. Great people, funny people, co-conspirators, authors, political types and my blog friends who fit into any number of those categories.

P.S. If you're on Twitter and I'm not following you, please leave your twitter handle in the comments so I can fix that situation. Thank you.

3. The word super is being overused. It seems to have replaced the now exhausted extreme and mega. We have this new Super Committee of Congressional members who will decide whether or not we flourish or wither and then there's this new Super Group called, of course, The Super Heavy featuring Mick Jagger, Dave Stewart, Joss Stone, Damian Marley and R.H. Rahman.

I think we'd have a better chance of making it out alive if we put the Super Heavy in charge of policy and sent those bought lawmakers into the studio with some kazoos and the much-maligned squeezebox.

4. Want to stir things up on Facebook? Mention Kozy Shack pudding. True story.

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5. I've been listening to the rhetoric coming from the Right, the moderates, the corporate media and anyone who owes their living to fundraising money from deep pockets. I find it chilling that there's this assumption that we all must simply accept the current and very gross income inequality as the "new normal." Listen carefully and educate yourselves, my loves, because that horrible notion frames everything that those folks say.

6. There are two more containers of Kozy Shack pudding in the garage fridge. I've put it as far away from me as possible. So let's say I decide to eat one. But I don't want to gain weight so to balance the input, I just eat it while running on the elliptical. Webcast? Yes or no?

7. I've tinkered with the layout of the blog and my other blog PoliTits, making the font larger, for example, because I notice that when I'm reading blogs with small fonts, I tend to stop reading because it's too much work. I know. First world problems abound. Let me tell you next about how the dishwasher is so noisy that I have to crank up the volume on the television in the living room so I can hear it while I'm puttering around in the kitchen.

8. I'm definitely a Libra. I'm torn between positive visioning that I'm going to get the job in Chicago for which I interviewed this week and fretting that if I think or talk about it, I'll jinx the whole thing.

9. I think politicians should stop trying to sound hip by making pop cultural references and employing folksy sayings. They could stand to lay off the similes, metaphors and euphemisms, too. Play it straight, people, or run the risk of wishing Elvis a happy birthday on the anniversary of his death. Someone spank their handlers and put them in the corner until the next news cycle.

10. Your turn. Observations, thoughts, gripes, confessions, whimsical statements of epic proportions welcome.

Thursday Confessional

Good Thursday to you. I'm on a tight schedule so let's get started.

With the addition of the new (TEMPORARY) kitty, I thought it best to get Fiona to the vet for her shots and to be spayed. Before I was confident that Kitty Noir would be temporary, I had a little freak out that he and Fiona could produce even more cats. Yes, I realize I've been lagging here. Confession number one. I wasn't a responsible pet owner. Please don't tell Betty White.

Now, let me tell you, if you want to see a parade of crazy cat people and other assorted weirdos, line up at the Catsnip Project van at 7:30 a.m.

The phrase holy cats takes on an even more significant meaning. I got pummeled verbally and in writing because the cat carrier was missing a clip. One clip. I felt contrite, but was not contrite enough apparently. The intake woman wrote it on my information sheet and it was written again in bold green letters on the envelope holding Fiona's records. Finally, before she would hand the sedated cat over to me, I got a stern warning about being more responsible. How would I feel if my cat got loose and ran into the field next door to become coyote food or got into the street and hit by a moving vehicle?

It was like I was ten all over again.

These people take cat stuff seriously. And you thought me -  with my five cats - was crazy....

Confession number two. Kitty Noir has found a home and I'm not feeling sad about it. Lyra has decided to adopt him. We're sorting out the details and MathMan and I will drive KN/Inky/Anakin/Darth to Illinois to his new home. I can't wait to meet Lyra who has become an important force in getting me to sit down and write/edit every day (sometimes against my will) and I hope MathMan and I will have a chance to visit Chicago, too. I am so homesick for that place I can barely stand it.

Thank you, Lyra, for wanting this kitten. He's going to love being part of your family.

Confession number three. I don't get Google+. It's not like I've put a lot of effort into understanding it, but right now it feels like another train whooshing by while I fuck around with my lipstick on the platform.

Confession number four. I fear I'm developing a slight drinking problem. Worse - I intend to do something about it when I'm certain which may be never because I like the slightly loopy, happy, devil may care sense it lends to the end of each day.

Not that I'm placing blame but someone in my list of Facebook friends invited me to a girls' night party at her house last week and I got turned on to the tasty and tart Airmail Punch. Then another guest showed up with a makeshift Pimms. You can't find the real thing in C-Vegas. Okay, have you tried this stuff? And if so, how did you go this long without telling me about it. I thought we were friends.

Mind you, we weren't exactly drinking Pimms, but rather a recipe including non-carbonated lemonade, raspberry vodka and chopped, fresh strawberries and cucumbers with sprigs of mint. It is, in a single, shouted word - fantastic! And bonus! I counted those strawberries and cukes as fruit and veggie number four and five on my food tracking thing. Of course, I had the good sense to leave off the vodka and the champagne and rum in the Airmail Punch. I know that Sparkpeople Tracker with its mean streak. If I typed in that I drank three punches and two Pimms, it would come back to me with a message reading "Time for a visit to the Betty Ford Clinic, Miss Piggy. And stop trying to pass off alcohol-soaked vegetables and berries as something virtuous. You may as well have had some cake, you liar."

Which I did. Oink oink.

Your turn. Confess your sins, secrets and embarrassing habits. Instead of dishing out the absolution, I'll be serving the Absolut.

It's the New Splenda Lady Come to Call

MathMan and I are attempting a low carb lifestyle. Attempting is, of course, the operative word. Goodness knows the world is dark place of hidden sugars and sweet sabotage.

We're on day three and we've already, both of us, fallen off the turnip truck. Wait - are turnips considered safe foundation vegetables with Atkins? My brain is too busy coping with DTs to suss it out so let's do this - we've both tumbled belly fat first from the meat wagon. I licked my way to nirvana with a lemon custard ice cream cone and MathMan succumbed to the Blackberry Mountain Pie singing its siren song from the kitchen counter.

I ask you though, can you blame him?

This is so easy to make. And delicious.

Anyway, we realize we're on a collision course with reality. We either rid this house of all white products and listen to the wailing from the battlements when our children discover that there's not one speck of milk chocolate, nary a crumb of cupcake, not a single Cheez-It left behind OR we accept the fact that we're doing a modified Atkins which includes some whole grains, some dairy and wine for Lisa. A mash up of Atkins, low-glycemic, Weight Watchers and South Beach. Save us, Dan Marino! Won't you help us, Valerie Bertinelli? Have mercy on our fatty deposits, Marie Osmond. Rescue us from ourselves, Nutri-system and Jenny Craig! (for free)

Atkins. How very unsustainable. It's one thing to require me to stop propping up the refined sugar industry each time I drink a cup of coffee. It's altogether cruel to expect me to forgo some half and half or cream, too.

Our discussions focus around what we're eating, how much we're working out and the effect it's all having on our slap and tickle. One reason we've decided to take this route (again) is because MathMan doesn't find my admonition to not come into contact with my fat tummy much of an aphrodisiac.

We're competitive, comparing what we weigh and how much we've lost or gained. For the first time in memory, we're both in need of lifestyle changes at the same time. So often one of us has lost weight while the other has gained. It's very frustrating.

Even as we're in the battle together, we irritate the other. He's trying to undermine me so that I stress eat and I'm jealous of his ability to do pull ups and to make slight modifications in his diet and lose fast and his lack of hormonal issues like PMS that make sticking to Atkins especially tricky.

Yesterday, he was doing pull ups on the contraption that fits over the door frame and I walked by chewing on a celery stalk. "Now there's a sight," he huffed. "You don't even like celery."

"Shut up. This isn't celery. This is a Marathon Bar."

"They don't even make those anymore."

"You realize you're in a rather vulnerable position hanging there, don't you?"

I know the low carb thing makes me moody. I'm an addict, after all. My love of sugary things is inherited and began when I was quite young. I learned to count to ten putting teaspoons of sugar on my Puffed Wheat and Cheerios. There was always more jelly than peanut butter on my PBandJs. When I made the ice tea for my mom, she'd remind me to add some tea to the sugar. My dad, the guy whose daily breakfast was a tall glass of 2% milk with a quarter of the can of Hershey's syrup, used Brach's Malted Milk Balls and gallons of Meadow Gold Ice Cream to show his love and taught us to put milk and sugar on our cherry Jello. Imagine - sugar on...sugar. I'd say blech, but it would be a lie. I'd still eat my Jello like that if I could do it in private.

So here I am again, trying to change my ways without killing someone during a sugar-free rage. If only I could be dealt with like a heroin addict. Lock me in a room with nothing but black decaf, water, and three pounds of beef jerky and I'd get beyond the rough part. I don't even care if I hallucinate babies crawling across the ceiling, just release me from the gritty clutches of sugar, please.

Also, what was I thinking to begin this lifestyle caper over a holiday weekend while I'm experiencing those aforementioned hormonal issues? Madness. The kids aren't helping either. Chloe made owl cupcakes to take to a birthday party and the leftovers are in the fridge mocking me with their owl eyes.

So, listen, if you see me out there on the internets bumping into walls or showing my butt, as we say down here, please take no offense. It's a phase. Just shove an Oreo in my direction and get away fast before I say or do anything else obnoxious.

All of this is good for me, I know. When I'm seventy-two and not taking ten different prescriptions I can't afford, I'll look at MathMan, still fit and trim MathMan, over our 9 Lives entrees and be glad for every day we did better than worse when it came to moving more and eating better - more vegetables, more lean protein and less processed junk except for those fabulous Atkins high protein, low-carb bars which I can, given enough vodka in my system, convince myself taste just like Baby Ruth bars.

In the meantime, I think my brother said it best - if vegetables tasted like Ho Hos, I'd be a vegetarian.

What's your poison? Points to anyone who gets the title reference. I'll send you some sugar. Or rather "sugar."

Let me swing among those stars

You guys know I'm a huge fan of Quisp cereal, right? I'm such a fan that I actually bought a case of it on Amazon a few months ago. I'm pleased to report three of the original six boxes of that sugary corny goodness remain. Using some murky reserve of uncharacteristic restraint, I allow myself one box per month. Nevermind that I end up eating an entire box in a day. What's life without an occasional binge anyway? It's not like it's heroin or online gambling.

Well. WELL!

It appears that an unnamed chain store has caught on to the fact that there are still Quisp aficionados in this world who crave a return to a simpler time when one could sit cross-legged and sunk into a bean bag chair while wearing Holly Hobby footie pajamas and shoveling those sweet flying saucers of love from bowl to mouth in front of Scooby Doo. Oh to be able to wear footie pajamas again or to sit cross-legged without feeling all gimpy when I stand.

So there I am wheeling my cart around the final bend into the shoot for the cash registers and to what do my wondering eyes should appear?

No, not that miniature weirdo and his eight tiny reindeer. It's June. It was an entire endcap of Quisp!!!

There may have been some Cap'n Crunch and some other lesser cereal, but I only had eyes for the little pink guy with the propeller on his head.

I stopped in front of the display. Should I? I already had three boxes that would technically last me three months, but here were two entire shelves of Quisp offering me a gastronomical visit to1974 and I wouldn't have to pay a cent for shipping costs.

"Mom?" Sophie was impatient. When we left the house for a quick trip into town, she was all for the notion of getting out of the house because there was no one to hang out with. The minute the store's doors swung open for us, she received the first text wanting to know where she was. Her friends were anxious for her to get home to lead the mischief.

"Look! They have Quisp!" My pointing finger working overtime. "Here. And here. Live! In person!"

"Okay, but we have Quisp at home." She tugged on the cart.

I held firm. "But don't you see? We never see Quisp in the store. This is like the moon landing or or..." I struggled to find the right example. "It's like if you were to see Justin Beiber in the hair product aisle!"

She frowned and nodded in my direction. There was a man behind us waiting to get to the cash register.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I was just so overwhelmed to see they had Quisp," I said before pushing the cart into the lane.

The man sort of smiled like you do when you don't want to engage with someone, but you don't want to be rude.

I was still flying high so I told the sales associate how happy I was to see they were carrying Quisp. She smiled as she slid our items over the scanner. Beep. Beep. I could almost hear her thinking that she should get me out of the store quickly. Sophie floated a small distance away to escape my force field of cereal enthusiasm. I was so excited my hands shook a little as I pulled the cash from my pocketbook.

"This is so huge. It's like...." I handed the checker the money and looked at her. She was younger than me. Maybe twenty-five. Okay, a lot younger than me. Okay, I'm old enough to be her mother. What could I say to make her understand? "It's like if you were to see Posh Spice in the shoe section. Or. Or. It's such a big deal I feel like I could hug someone!"

She hesitated before handing me my change. I realized my faux pas and laughed. "I guess I got a little carried away." I glanced around to see how embarrassed Sophie was, but she'd been spared the public humiliation of being seen with me. She'd moved further away to fool around with the wedding registry kiosk, completely unaware that I was suggesting I should, or even could, hug strangers.

I thanked the checker and pulled the cart out of the way feeling like a moron. The man behind me was still unloading his items onto the conveyor belt, but he looked up and caught my eye. "Still looking for someone to hug? I'm buying Quisp."

Unemployment Diary: Enough

"I'm hungry."

"What would you like to eat?"

She pauses. I wait. And wait. I'm impatient. I have things to do. "Phia? What would you like to eat?"

She looks at me, her dark eyes in a squint. "I can't decide. There's too much to choose from."

Ah.

The issue of scarcity comes up in a way I didn't expect. But then this is why people who win big in the lottery lose their minds and end up destitute and depressed three years after they bought the yacht, the life size statue of Elvis, the portable zoo, and the vintage jukebox collection for their custom built pool house.

Scarcity affects your brain. Going from having not enough to having more than enough is a weird transition.

We went from being a family with enough to a family with not quite enough. When I was employed, we were already juggling madly. Because I've made idiotic decisions in my personal life and financial life and began my career in the Pink Collar Ghetto and never learned the art of negotiation thus giving away a lot of my talent without ever labeling it a valuable commodity, we were in Chapter 13 Bankruptcy (that's the one where you pay back your debt to those long suffering banks like Citibank, Chase and Barclays) and in the settlement, we gave up our house and a car.

We tested the notion that once you get behind the eight ball, it's really hard to get out. Guess what! It's true! You've heard that if you're in a hole, the first step to getting out is to stop digging line? Well, once you stop digging, you still have to claw your way out, running at the steep sides, clutching at nothing but a belief that things will get better if you follow the rules whatever the hell they are. And don't forget to dodge the dirt clods being lobbed at you by someone up there. And I don't mean god.

Even so, we had enough. Not shopping and vacations and savings account enough, but enough.

So we went from that to not quite having enough. We reached the end of each month feeling stressed and hungering for things we couldn't have. I worried about having the utilities would be cut off. We still can't agree which is worse- having the gas, water or electricity cut off. We experienced each at least once. The cats found it exceedingly difficult when the TV was cut off, for example. Not being able to watch Animal Hoarders was tantamount to torture. But they, too, survived.

When food was more scarce than we were accustomed to, we each reacted in our own way. MathMan and I hid any treats in our room because the kids became territorial as we got squeezed.

"I spat on that so don't eat it."
"That's my last bit of ice cream. You had two bowls of it already."
"Can I have a piece of your gum?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I have to make it last."

It wasn't all bad. We've grown from the experience and I hope we never forget making choices such as whether to eat what's left of the salad now or save it for lunch tomorrow? Salad. Right. That wasn't me.

Realizing that we couldn't continue that way, especially if I hadn't found paid work before the unemployment checks stopped coming, we took a hard look at our variable expenses and decided that we would have to cut spending on groceries because that was one thing we could control. I took the couponing class and started researching buying groceries on a cycle and stockpiling.

I had no idea what a radical change that would mean for us regarding the issue of scarcity. Through inertia and ignorance, we'd been living a split deprivation. The first two weeks of the month, we lived our old life - a fully stocked pantry and refrigerator, money on the bank card for gasoline. The last two weeks, it felt like a rerun of the Great Depression with cellphones and iPods and a message at the gas tank that read "Please see attendant." Gulp.

So now we have enough food and with the money we're saving on groceries, cleaning supplies and electricity (using the dryer less), we're able to pay our bills on time. With our tax refund, we paid off our outstanding medical bills except for the orthodontist, but at the end of this month, we'll bring that bill up to date. We set aside some savings for emergencies because we drive two cars, each with 200,000 miles already under their fan belts and we're considering moving closer to MathMan's job, but there's no getting around the fact that moving is expensive and would cause yet another financial setback. Rising gas prices may create a no win situation and force the issue. Damn it. I like gazing at that balance in the savings account.

Now what was my point? Oh, yes. Having enough. And how living with scarcity changes you. It's true. Sometime in early January, I had my Scarlet O'Hara moment. I stomped around the backyard, hiked up my dress, shook my fist at the sunset and announced that we would never go hungry again.

The neighbors are still talking about it.

The kids will adjust. MathMan and I will adjust. We always do.

Here's the nice part. Having enough moves us from the receivers' column back to the givers' column where I, at least, feel more comfortable. Some of the food that I'm getting for free is going to a local food bank and the free toiletries are going to a woman's shelter. There's even a way to recycle expired coupons. You can send them to military bases where they can be used by our service members and their families.

This is what it looks like when people have a chance for a fresh start. Our family is going to recover from this financial mess. While the reality that I'll never replace my former income is a frustrating example of how things have changed for workers in this nation, I can at least use my experiences as a long-term job seeker as blog fodder, book fodder and a reason to drink. Plus, it's aces for putting a quick end to fundraising phone calls.

"Hi, Mrs. Golden, how are you today? This is Shelley with the Save the Speckled Easter Egg Fund and I'm not calling to ask for money, but can I tell you a little about what we do?"

"Sure. I've been unemployed for over a year and still can't find a job so I'm lonely and bored. Broke, too, so there's no disposable income for me to donate, but please do, tell me what your organization is doing."

Click.

I guess she'd heard enough. Dang it. I had to go back to talking to the cats.

*********

Speaking of fundraisers (and I do support some), my friend Latka is fundraising for the Multiple Sclerosis Walk. Latka's father suffered from the disease and now his daughter Meredith, age 30, has been diagnosed with it. Please join me by making a donation. If we each give, it adds up. And some day, it will be enough.

Thank you.

Unemployment Diary: Should Have Charged for Product Placement

My mother never really spent much time drilling the old Don't talk to strangers thing into our heads. For one thing, our town was so small, there weren't any strangers and for another, Mom had plenty of other things for us to be afraid of like Republicans winning elections and perceptions that we were anything less than solidly Middle Class.

So without this ingrained wariness of people I don't know, I'm apt to have forty-five minute long conversations about unemployment and wage stagnation with strangers in Staples or ten minute long convos in the frozen food section of Publix with a woman who offered me a coupon and ended up walking away with some frozen garlic bread and a coupon I gave her in exchange.

It's all in a day's work now that I'm accepting the fact that I might never have a traditional job again and I better jolly well figure out how we're going to manage in the future. As I've mentioned before, looking for a job has gotten so ridiculous, it is now sublime. But as any rule following collector of unemployment checks does, I continue the hunt like a technology-enhanced Elmer Fudd stalking Bugs Bunny. My gun is a laptop loaded with seventeen different mutations of my resume like interview-repelling viruses. Just like in the old Warner Brothers cartoons, the rabbit is winning and I'm still talking funny.

So despite the magical thinking of supply side economics, revenue numbers stay down, John Boehner, so what gets cut?

Again? My subconscious is skeptical. Haven't we gone through this already? We have. We've nailed down every fixed cost as best we can. While I continue to seek new income streams, we must get serious about cutting our variable costs even more.

As a result, I've been away from my usual corner of the blogosphere as I trolled the frugal living websites for ideas and attended a class (free, of course, at the library) on how to save using coupons. First, let me say that there is a wealth of information out there and second let me say that I've been feeling physically ill about how much money we've wasted over the years for the sake of convenience or due to sheer ignorance and laziness.

Implementing these money saving strategies has been time consuming because I'm either a slow learner or a perfectionist or both, but I assure you, they've been worth it. See, I'd assumed that cutting back equaled deprivation. Not so. Sure, you can buy an awful lot of convenience, but if you watch your pennies, you can have enough and the peace of mind that comes with not running out of stuff like food and toilet paper or money. Man, that sounds like ad copy for an infomercial, but bear with me, because there is a dark side to all this. And we're all about the dark side, aren't we?

For example, the couponing world is cut throat. Yesterday at the CVS, I had to settle for the Colgate Total (.75 off one coupon) instead of the Colgate Sensitive ($1 off one coupon) because some hoarder had cleared the shelves of the Sensitive. Same thing happened a couple of weeks ago at the Rite Aid. Some selfish hoarders had snatched up all the Prevacid 40ct. $24.99 with $10 +UP reward so I had to go across the street to the CVS and get the Prilosec 40ct $24.99 with $7 Extra Care Bucks instead. But that's okay. I got two boxes, used my $8 off 2 coupon and got a $24.99 rebate form to boot.  So those hoarders can suck it.

Which leads me to my second example - name calling. Now I haven't seen any verbal assaults at the store, but at home, they're calling me names behind my back. They still haven't figured out the Mom Bionic Hearing thing apparently.

"Have you seen the laundry room?" Nate and Sophie were in the living room watching TV and assumed I couldn't hear them from the dining room where I sat skimming SouthernSavers.com and printing coupons like a fiend.

"I know," Sophie said. "How many cans of diced tomatoes does one family need?" (They were buy one, get one free and I had four .50 off 2 coupons that Publix doubles plus two store coupons. That's called stacking.)

Nate aimed the remote at the TV and switched the channel to A&E. "And what? Does she think we'll be living on just cereal and soup?"

Sophie snorted. "Don't forget the olive oil. There's like seven bottles down there." (She exaggerates. There are four bottles down there. B1G1 with store and manufacturer coupons!) Her voice grew grave. "Hey, you don't think she's becoming one of those hoarders, do you?" Ah. There's that word. Hoarder. I prefer stockpiler.

Nate thought about it for a second. "Nah, she's too much of a neat freak to be a real hoarder. She's like a cross between a stockpiler and a homesteader.What's with her making her own laundry detergent?"

"I know," Sophie laughed. "I came home from school the other day and asked if the dryer was broken because she had wash hanging all over the place. Plus she cleans with vinegar and baking soda now instead of Windex and bleach. Weird."

"Next thing you know, she'll be sewing herself some long skirts and wearing bonnets like those homesteaders."

I'd heard enough. "Hey, you ingrates! The money I'm saving is how we can afford to get satellite so you even know the difference between a hoarder and a stockpiler."

They turned to look at me. I expected a little chagrin from them. Instead they burst out laughing.

"What's so funny?" I sputtered.

Nate pointed and I looked down at my shirt. A coupon dangled from my sweatered breast. Stupid static cling. I'd have to remember to add a bit more vinegar to the laundry rinse cycle until the Georgia humidity came back.

I admit, I'm experimenting with money saving ideas. Hang drying the clothes and using the dryer to fluff them for ten minutes or less will result in savings. Making my own laundry detergent is a no brainer. $10.99 for a big box of Surf or about $3.10 for the same amount of washes by mixing washing soda, borax and a bar of castile soap that I've grated. Even I can do that math.

Air drying the dishes in the dishwasher instead of using the heated dry setting = success. Turning off the high heat wash, not so much. It's trial and error. I'm still waiting to fall in love with Dr. Bronner and his amazing castile soaps, but if I remember my time in France correctly, that's where I learned that lots of lather = clean is an American notion and not necessarily true so I suspect Dr. B. and I will be BFFs soon.

Dialing the thermostat way down will be much easier to appreciate now that the worst of winter is behind us. Typing in gloves is a bitch, but typing with frozen fingers is an even bigger bitch.

Like any new interest, it's easy for me to go overboard. I start conversations with "Hey, did you see that Publix has Louis Jadot Beaujolais on sale for $10.99?" The cats don't care about Beaujolais. They want to know when I'm going to uncork the next can of Nine Lives (Box of 24 for $10.49 at Publix, still less per can than the box of 32 Friskies with a coupon).

I'd mentioned that this is time consuming. Preparing for the shopping trips is just the beginning. The trips themselves are an endurance exercise. It's as if my time is worth nothing which, according to most employers these days, is true. Yesterday, as I snailed my way through Publix calculating whether I should come back a second time so I could use my second $5 off any $30 bill (excluding the Beaujolais, naturally) an assistant manager approached me.

"I'm sorry, m'am, but we have a policy against loitering," she whispered.

I held up my hand as I finished counting the Pillsbury, Hunts, Green Giant and Progresso items in my basket (buy 20, save $5 with coupon of which I had two, but could use only one per trip hence the complicated math). "Loitering? I'm counting. And now I have to start over because I don't remember if I have six or eight cans of green beans. Say, while you're here, can you reach that jar of Mt. Olive sweet pickle relish that's on sale? Thank you."

She handed me the jar and as I placed it in the cart I said something about what a pain it is to be so short, but when I turned she was already rounding the aisle's end cap at a full run.

The grocery trips are long, too, because I inevitably end up chatting with other customers. It's funny what will spark a conversation. Like the woman who, like me, is new to using coupons in earnest. She gave me her extra Bertolli's and I gave her a New York brand garlic bread. Could I have used the extra fifty cents off another box of garlicky Texas Toast? Of course! But we're not savages,  you know. Give and take, people. Give and take.

I also find that I have to restrain myself from telling other shoppers to stop wasting their money, go home, get online and look at some Youtube videos about stockpiling and batch cooking, buy a few Sunday papers (be sure some hoarder hasn't swiped the coupon sections) and plan out their trips. They'll be amazed at what they save.

I've become such a convert. You know that line from A Christmas Story where Jean Shepard says "Some men are Baptists, others Catholics; my father was an Oldsmobile man." Well, I am now a Smart Source and Red Plum chick.

I will have to reign it in eventually. Chloe will be home for Spring Break in a couple of weeks and I don't think she'll appreciate having her room serve as a warehouse. There is a good chance that MathMan will clip my coupon wings before long.

Last night he called to let me know that he and Nate were on their way home from baseball practice. That's my cue to race around and make this house look like I've done something besides watch fetish videos and lie around watching movies with the cats. Yesterday was different. I was in the middle of creating inventory sheets for the small grocery store that's sprouted in the basement. I'd spent most of my day chasing deals all over Cartersville and was tired, but happy with my haul versus savings ratio.

Sophie was occupied so I decided I'd wait for MathMan in our bedroom and surprise him with the new homemade shampoo recipe I'd found online. I'd offer to help him unwind with a shower and well, you know. It would be a nice change from the boring old Hi, Honey, how was your day conversation we have every evening as I close window after window of Adult Friend Finder pop up ads. I got comfortable on the bed wearing the most alluring thing I had.

When he opened the door, you should have seen the look on his face.

"Well, this is a nice surprise," he smiled.

I did a Vanna White hand sweep along my naked thigh and gave him my best come on, baby smile. "You like?"

His eyebrows went up a fraction and he licked his lips. "You know I do. How nice to come home to a naked wife."

I blushed a little. "I thought we might have a shower." I'd save the shampoo surprise for after we were wet.

"Sounds wonderful." He moved closer and I closed my eyes, preparing to be kissed. "Hey," his voice was already taking on that husky tone. Nice.

I opened my eyes. "Yes?"

"What's this?" He fingered the thing I had draped around my neck. It snaked down along the length of my body.

"Oh, I thought you'd like this. It's something I got today." I closed my eyes again waiting for that kiss.

He leaned closer and I could smell the fresh air from the baseball field in his long hair. I was so ready for that kiss. He pulled back and I felt my new apparel slip away from my body as he tugged it. I opened my eyes again and looked at his handsome face which was now intent on examining the thing he held in his hands.

"Lisa, my darling, why are you wearing the Publix receipt?"

Please tell me you get absorbed and obsessed. What sucks you in and steals your time, your heart, your imagination? Confess to me or I'll make you clip coupons for me.

The tax man's taken all my dough

This Monday is escaping with its life, I see. For a day that began with a feeling of smug satisfaction as I ran intervals on the elliptical, I've done a 180. I'll probably lick the plate after this piece of chocolate chess pie is gone. True there hasn't been much consumed between this morning's non-fat Greek yogurt and the pie, but let's hope this pastry eating at 10:15 p.m. isn't a harbinger of midnight banana splits to come.

No, of course not. I like it when my pants are falling off me even when I'm sober.

The pie is Sophie's fault. It was not a planned pie. After my threats involving holding the door open so the cats could escape, she stopped texting me about her stabby sore throat and toughed it out at school. She came home, swallowed the Advil I handed her when she walked in the door, thanked me, flopped on the sofa and announced that she had a craving for pie dough.

She looked so pitiful, what was I supposed to do?

There's a pie dough law that says if you marry flour, Crisco, salt and water, you are obligated to take the pastry cutter to it and finish by rolling it out.  Sophie got the trimmings to satisfy her craving, the rest of us got a pie that should have a blue ribbon hanging off it.

As I was tossing the dough with the fork, I thought about a piece of writing I'm working on and it occurred to me that the pie could make a great metaphor for that, as well. Not that I'm going to use it, but let's just say that MathMan did the taxes this weekend and figured out how much our income had dropped from 2009.

Our financial pie shrunk from a nine incher to the size of one of those frou frou tarts with the kiwi. I'm sorry, but kiwi? On a little pie? Please just hand me one of those lemon tarts, please. All the glaze in the world isn't going to hide the fact that that is a kiwi hiding under that bulbous strawberry. I'll leave that for someone who can truly appreciate it. I prefer my kiwis in the raw.

A quick look at my old patterns would suggest that the late night pie is stress eating. Perhaps, but I'm not going to stress about it now. I'm not going to follow the old patterns either. Instead, I'm  going to pop in my teeth bleaching tray that looks like a mouth protector and put a dead stop to any more snacking. And if I'm doing that anyway, maybe I'll see if MathMan wants to play the Wrestling Game. I think our tights are clean......

Pie?

TMI Thursday. Period.

After the last few days of roller coaster emotions, embarrassing admissions of vulnerability, and a predilection for coffee house style acoustic music instead of the audio book of Ape House by Sara Gruen while I drive, I might have had a clue.

Sudden and physical needs for wine, chocolate and beer are clear indications.

After I cried at Jen's blog post, there should have been no question.

As if the now monthly eruption on my left cheek isn't enough of a harbinger.

It was as I stood in the kitchen eating Nestle Quik straight from the container that I knew for sure.

And boy do I miss my IUD.

Do I want it back?  No.  I mean, sex without a condom was so so nice, but now that I am finally losing weight, really losing weight, as in have lost three clothing sizes, I'm convinced that the hormones in my old Mirena were partially to blame for my extra tonnage and inability to lose it.

But dang, did I get used to not having a period.  It was like menopause without the hot flashes and other unpleasant (to put it mildly? I'm still in denial) side effects.

So now I'm back to thinking in terms of twenty-eight days.  Even before my IUD days, I didn't have to keep track.  My little round pill pack did it for me.  When it was time for the green pills, I knew to assess the situation:  Were there enough stickers and harpoons?  Did I have a private stash of chocolate so I didn't end up eating Nestle Quik and choking on the powder like I did yesterday when Sophie came into the kitchen and yelled "Mama!" when she saw me at the counter, spoon midair, the yellow container with the rabbit on it open in front of me.

"What are you doing?"  Who is she, my mother?

"We're out of chocolate."  I sputtered.

"So you're eating the Nestle Quik?"

I nodded, coughing on the powder that was now lodged in the back of my throat.

She came over and peered into the open container.  "Did you double dip?"

I shook my head.  I wanted to say, Listen you.  I'd have some chocolate if you guys didn't eat it all.  But instead I sheepishly put the lid back on the container and dropped my spoon into the dishwasher.

"Why do you need chocolate anyway?"  At nearly twelve, she's got a pretty good clue, but sometimes she's afraid to admit how much she knows.  Or, more accurately, she uses the Q & A format to confirm what she she thinks she knows.

"I think I'm about to start my period."  I put the Quik on the shelf in the pantry and stood looking at her.

"Oh."

"Any more questions?"  This was as good a time as any for me to play the role of attentive mother.

"Have you been crying?"  She took a step closer to me.

"Maybe."  I'd read Jen's post about John Lennon and just lost it.

"So when you're about to start your period, you cry and you crave chocolate?"  Okay, so yes, she's information gathering.  This is natural and good.

"I don't always cry, but now it seems I get kind of kooky and emotional.  And zitty.  And bloaty.  But I always craved chocolate.  I mean, when I'm PMSing, it's worse, but I am definitely experiencing PMS things I didn't before."  Too much information?  Did she flinch?  Was she looking for a quick exit now?

"Before when?"

"Well, when I was a teenager.  I didn't get pimples or cramps and I didn't cry or act all mean and crabby.  Not that I remember at least.  But now, since I've had my IUD out, this is different.  It may be because my body is aging and my reproductive system is getting ready to shut down."

She stood blinking at me.  Okay, I'd said too much.  "Does that mean that you and Daddy will stop having sex?"

"That's a bit personal, don't you think?"

She shrugged.  "Yeah."

"Well, if you must know, the answer is no.  I like Daddy like that so deal with it.  The only good thing about starting my period is the fact that I know that I'm not pregnant.  It's really a waste of time.  It's not like I'm going to have more babies."

"I see."

"This is pretty awkward, isn't it?" I said, glancing back into the pantry.

"Maybe.  You know what's awkward?  Reaching into Daddy's top drawer where you hide the chocolate and seeing the box of condoms."

"That's called snooping and I see the box of condoms hasn't deterred you from looking for chocolate.  I hoped it would."

"I have my priorities."

"You are so bad.  You'd better hope that I never pry into your private life like you do mine because I am saving up some really embarrassing questions."  I paused and we smiled at each other.  I continued, "Are we done here?  I have some reading to do."

"Yeah.  You know there's a thing of Hershey's syrup in there.  You don't even need a spoon for that," she said walking past me.

"So I see," I said reaching into the cabinet, flipping open the top of the dark plastic bottle and tipping my head back.

What's your "comfort" for food?  Cravings?  What euphemisms do you use for items of a personal nature?  If you're a guy in a relationship with a woman of childbearing age, how do you cope?  Have you learned to keep a private stash of chocolate or tranquilizer darts?

Commute Chat 3: Well, I'll Be Dipped

We are taking requests (or attempting to), the following is in response to Steve's insistence that we vlog dipped cones from Dairy Queen. And since Steve isn't really an insist kind of guy, we thought this must be important to him.

Thanks to others who have provided ideas. We're trying to figure out how to work in British accents, hats, the often-threatened (or is it promised?) sock puppets and finger operas. We've been rehearsing our finger opera song, Suzy, never fear!

A couple of administrative things. First - this one has some adult content. Not pictures, but language, so be prepared for that as you consider who might hear this. And second, regarding the audio - we're still working that out on the cheap. This was filmed using Doug's camera, which makes a better video, but distorts the audio, making us sound like we're doing lisps and lateral lisps. Please note that we are not really doing this - it's the equipment. Now, some might find it amusing, others might find it uncomfortable. I'm not sure what the politically correct thing is here, so I'll just offer an apology in advance if anyone is offended. Because a pre-emptive apology is so convincing, isn't it?

Anyway, here it is, we're eating again and talking about things of an adult nature. I fear we've already typecast ourselves.....

I've managed some music on the opening credits this time, but forgot closing music. Baby steps.......

Commute Chat: Episode 2 The Munchies

Like any sophomore effort (not sophomoric, but that word could apply), this one might leave you begging for the sock puppets already!

And again, sorry for the sound quality. We think we've got a solution now, too late for this masterpiece of high art, but for future episode perhaps.

Furries, ice cream, the title of a Kurt Vonnegut book - what's not to like?
(Please don't answer that. I'm fragile, you know.)