Love at first bite ¹

I’ll admit it. I’m sometimes a narcissistic blogger. Occasionally, I like to come to the site, read old posts, and congratulate myself on building my very own tater tots/sweatpants empire.

Although perhaps “empire” is the wrong word.

“Occasionally” may also have been the wrong word.

Anyway…while browsing the site for posts involving cheese, I came across this.

Upon encountering this completely irresistible banner ad, I realized three things:

1. The “Jemeasle is my Valentine” graphic and Personalized M&Ms advertisement were stacked on top of each other. This couldn’t just be a coincidence.

2. Chocolate is way better than cheese.

3. If I clicked on this ad and purchased some personalized M&Ms, not only would I get twenty percent off, I would also get some much-needed kickback from Google Adsense. (I literally make two cents a day on average from the ads on my blog. I think this affirms that “empire” really was an exaggeration.)

4. I need to figure out, once and for all, how you actually spell Jemeasle.

Ten minutes, and one ~~Jemeasle~~ Jamaezel spell check text message later, this happened.

Scott’s gonna love me forever. This may even be better than the Valentine’s Day I presented him with a large, abstract canvas I painted that depicted him giving me a kiss. Sure, he may have initially confused it for a painting of…um…lady bits, but I decided to take it as a compliment. I always did look up to Georgia O’Keeffe, after all.

*******

Main image by (UB) Sean R

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Curse you, Whirley-Pop! ⁷

This post is in conjunction with Latrina’s #BlogMeFebruary Challenge. Week one’s topic? Food, of course!

*******

A few weeks ago, a mystery package arrived in the mail. I say “mystery” because while I knew I had ordered at least three things off the internet in the past several days, I couldn’t remember what they actually were or when they might be arriving. Hi, my name is Katrina and I suffer from online shopping amnesia.

I ripped open the package with all the energy and zest of a toddler on Christmas morning. Perhaps a new pair of shoes or Costco-size bottle of self-tanner await me? Oooh! Maybe Jolie’s faux-grass litter box was finally back in stock?

You can imagine my disappointment when I came face to face with this guy.

The “Whirley-Pop”. (And yes…that’s a bottle of chocolate wine in the background. Don’t judge me.)

Clearly, Scott had been doing some secret late-night kitchen supply shopping on Amazon.

Again.

(Yes…this is a recurring thing. I don’t even want to get in to the disturbingly intimate relationship he has with his new, commercial-grade mandolin slicer.)

When Scott returned home, he explained that the Wabash Farms Whirley-Pop allows regular Joe’s like yours truly to make six quarts of theatre-style popcorn on the stove in just three minutes.

“But we don’t need to make six quarts of theatre style popcorn in just three minutes.” I argued while rolling my eyes.

But then, Scott showed me how incredibly easy it was to place half a cup of popcorn kernels and one tablespoon of coconut oil into the Whirley-Pop and set it on a medium-high stove top. And then? Then he actually let me whirl the Whirley-Pop. Never have a I felt so domestic! Truly, it’s probably the closest I’ll ever come to churning my own butter.

Just as Scott said, three short minutes of whirling produced six quarts of the airiest, most beautiful popcorn I’ve ever seen. Scott transferred it into a large mixing bowl before drizzling it with white truffle oil, black truffle oil, and a dash of fresh sea salt. Ironically, the truffled popcorn not only took a mere three minutes to prepare, it also took only three minutes to completely devour.

Truffle popcorn is totally the new ice cream, you guys.

Needless to say, I’ve been engaging in many a top-secret rendezvous with the Whirley-Pop while Scott is off swimming at the gym each night. Naturally, I manage to single-handedly to polish off the entire six quarts of truffle corn each and every time. You say binge eating, I say destroying the evidence.

(Also? Truffle popcorn tastes much better when you double the amount of truffle oil used. And when you eat it in secret. It’s only obvious.)

I’m sure it comes as no surprise that my cloak and dagger Whirley-Pop sessions have started to become problematic. Just this month, we’ve gone through nearly forty-five dollars worth of truffle oil.

But it gets worse.

Last week, I received an extremely confusing text message from my friend Kayla. It simply read: “What time do you want to leave after work on Tuesday?”

Huh? We’re going somewhere on Tuesday? Where? And why do we need to leave immediately after work? Baffled and perplexed, I texted her back with a simple, “Um…where exactly are we going?”

Kayla politely reminded me that we had purchased ridiculously expensive tickets to see Matt Stone and Trey Parker’s musical comedy “Book of Mormon” in Minneapolis on Tuesday evening. She then mentioned that we also had tickets to Lady Gaga later that week. Pfft! As if I would actually forget such a thing!

(Okay…so maybe I kind of forgot such a thing.)

I know, I know…forgetting about the best week of my life (South Park set to music + meat dress = prime of my freaking existence!) is unforgivable. Just know that my memory lapse is less about me being so fabulous that these things aren’t a huge deal, and more about me being so dazed and confused that I mistakenly assume it’s March 15, 2012.

(Sure, I may not have the best memory…but I can totally make Ides of March references in my blog. Julius Caesar for the win!)

So…I’m going to Book of Mormon and Lady Gaga this week. Amazing, right? While totally excited about both events, there is one small hitch that may or may not be causing me to experience a fairly substantial meltdown.

The jumpsuit of liberation.

There’s absolutely no excuse. I’ve had three entire months to get my figure into prime jumpsuit condition. But instead? Instead I’ve been whiling away the hours engaging in a secret love affair with my husband’s Whirley-Pop contraption.

Shame on me.

The good news is, I’m not too concerned about my Book of Mormon ensemble. I’ve been saving away a very special “Kardashian Kollection” dress from QVC for this very occasion. And yes…I realize Trey and Matt probably don’t approve of people wearing Kardashian dresses from home shopping networks to their musical, but I’m obviously making it more legitimate by pairing it with a giant floral headpiece. Sure, the giant floral headpiece resembles something a middle-aged singer on the Lawrence Welk show might wear, but that’s not the point. The point is that the Kardashian ~~dress~~ mumu would still probably fit a woman who was nine months pregnant, so my little truffle popcorn secret will remain just that…a secret.

Unfortunately, the jumpsuit isn’t quite so forgiving. Last night, I finally mustered up the courage to try the dumb thing on. After twenty minutes of self-affirming pep-talk, I slowly ventured over to my full-length mirror.

What I saw can only be described as a blur of cheap leopard print jersey knit, and giant, popcorn-filled thighs.

They say that “what you eat in private, you wear in public”.

Knowing this saying to be true, I’m now deeply afraid the masses will simply point and laugh while repeatedly yelling “Whirley-Pop!” the instant I arrive at the concert in all my blobby glory.

I suppose this is what I deserve for having secret popcorn parties. (I’ll let you know how the jumpsuit debut goes. Here’s hoping it’s really dark inside the arena.)

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Beyoncé Claus ³

So..umm…how ’bout that Superbowl?

Did that sound football-ish enough for you? I tried. Really, I did. Perhaps if my beloved Minnesota Vikings and Seattle Seahawks hadn’t choked in the playoffs, I would have been more engaged in last night’s game. That being said, I can’t help but feel a tiny bit glad Baltimore pulled it off in the end, if only for Edgar Allan Poe’s sake. Any city with the balls to name their football team after a classic narrative poem deserves some serious street cred, if you ask me.

Fortunately, Beyoncé saved the Superbowl. Can we just pause for a second and reflect on how amazing her carefully rehearsed gyrations were? I love that she didn’t rely on tons of pyrotechnics or special effects to make her musical medley stand out. She didn’t need to. If that gelatinous booty and bombshell voice can’t hold it’s own, I dont’ know what can.

Also? The Destiny’s Child reunion may or may not have brought a tear to my eye. Truly, I wasn’t emotionally ready for that jelly. (But I still loved every last second of it.)

I have to give props to the Superbowl for finally returning to the tradition of featuring entertainers people actually want to see. Back in the good ol’ days, Americans could count on a fabulous halftime show starring musicians who were actually relevant. Michael Jackson? Britney and Aerosmith? KISS, Gloria Estefan and N*Sync? Yes, please.

And then “Nipplegate” happened. Oh, 2004 halftime show, why did you have to go and ruin things for the rest of us? Wasn’t the combined musical stylings of Janet Jackson, P. Diddy, Nelly, Kid Rock, and Justin Timberlake amazing enough? Did you really have to push the envelope by unleashing Janet’s teet and setting in motion several years of ”safe” (translation: lame) halftime shows? Apparently you did, and as a result, the innocent victims of America were forced to suffer through Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers, and that terrible, terrible guitar incident involving Prince. I hope you realize our brains can never erase that.

But last night you gave us Beyoncé, in all of her rump shaking glory. And that? That makes me think I can somehow find it in my heart to forgive you.

I’d put a ring on it.

There were only two problems.

The first was the stage. I couldn’t quite piece together what it meant, let alone how it related to Lady B. grinding all up in the camera man’s business.

Is it two faces, or a vase?

Ultimately, we decided it was two faces. But not just any faces. Beyoncé’s faces. Clearly it was an epic stare-down between the two sides of Ms. Knowles — the true Beyoncé, and her on-stage alter ego, Sasha Fierce.

(Obviously, they were also about to make out with each other.)

(Oh, come on. If you were Beyoncé, wouldn’t you make out with yourself?)

Aside from the bizarre set design, I had only one other gripe. And truly, it wasn’t the Superbowl’s fault at all.

It was Scott’s fault.

Despite being totally uninterested in the game, Scott perked up the instant Bey hit the stage. He’s always had a thing for her and I can’t say that I blame him. Unfortunately, Scott’s flawless image of Beyoncé was tainted once someone revealed that her hair is about as real as the $10 Oakley sunglasses he bought off the street in Puerto Vallarta last spring.

I should mention that this revelation occurred nearly a month ago, but he still isn’t quite able to process it. No matter how much he searches Google in hopes of finding information that suggests otherwise, he’s had to face the fact that Beyoncé is rocking a weave.

(A $25,000 weave I’m sure, but a weave nonetheless.)

(Not that I have anything against weaves. I would actually love to have one…but as it turns out, paying for groceries ranks higher than sporting wavy Rapunzel hair. Boo.)

Here’s a breakdown of how Scott disrupted my halftime viewing.

Scott: Are you sure her hair isn’t real?

My good friend, who also happens to be a hairstylist and thus, an expert on weaves: Positive.

Scott: But, that’s impossible…it looks so real.

Friend: Yeah. She paid a lot of money for it to look so real.

Scott: I still can’t believe it.

Me: Shh! We’re missing Bootylicious!

30 seconds of silence passes.

Scott: I mean…how come it doesn’t fall out?

Friend: It’s braided in.

Scott: I don’t see any braids.

Friend: That’s because they’re under the hair.

Scott: But…but, it doesn’t look like anything is under her hair.

Me: Scott! You’re ruining Kelly Rowland’s solo! Be quiet so I don’t miss the Charlie’s Angels poses!!!!

30 more seconds of silence

Scott: I’m sorry. There’s no way that’s a weave.

Friend: It might not be one-hundred percent weave…but she at least has some extensions. That’s not all her real hair. You need to watch Good Hair. It’s a documentary Chris Rock did.

Scott: I’ve seen it already.

Friend: Okay…then you understand how extensions and weaves work?

Scott: Yeah. I just didn’t think Beyonce’s hair was that way.

Friend: Well…it is. Her ethnicity makes it pretty much impossible for her natural hair to be that length and color. I’m sorry to burst your bubble.

Scott: I feel like a five-year-old boy who just realized Santa Claus isn’t real.

*****

Needless to say, I only witnessed a third of the halftime spectacular as a result of Scott’s weave denial. (Believe it or not, the above dialogue has been significantly condensed.) On the bright side, he did have someone to comfort him as he finally came to grips with the reality (or lack thereof) of Beyoncé’s flowing locks.

“So, this means I can’t get extensions to make my tail look like the Budweiser Clydesdales?”

Yes, Jolie. I think that’s exactly what it means.

*******

Beyoncé Superbowl photo via FabSugar, Main photo via AlexKormisPS (ALM)

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Goodwill Emperor ⁹

Today, celebrity bloggers John and Sherry Petersik are hosting a very special link-up. This little blog is obviously participating as I’m insanely jealous of their DIY, ikat-patterned, white ceramic animal success. My new bangs? Most people assume I cut them in an effort to mimic Michelle Obama’s new ‘do…but really, I was just copying Sherry.

(Sherry…if you’re reading this I promise I’m not creepy. I just really like your bangs. And happen to have a large forehead that desperately needed covering. I swear it was just a…er…coincidence.)

But back to the link-up. I don’t throw the term “very special” around lightly, but trust me, this link-up is totally worthy as it’s based on Macklemore’s rap song gone viral, “Thrift Shop”. I’m assuming you’ve heard the song as even my 64-year-old father is familiar. But just in case, here’s the music video.

(And yes…the fact that my Dad knows the song is deeply disturbing. Particularly because, in the words of Macklemore himself, Dad is what’s known as a “cold a** h—–”.) Yup. Totally just went there.

Here are John and Sherry’s guidelines for the completely unofficial Macklemore Thrift Shop challenge.

Go to a thrift shop with – just as the chorus of the song says – “$20 in your pocket”and take a picture.
Spend that $20 any way you’d like and photograph your spoils.
Find one item (or more) referenced in the song and snap a pic.

Yeah…that’s gonna be a problem. Why you ask? I mean…aside from me being incredibly lazy and short on time?

Easy. It’s exactly -18 degrees outside right now. And that’s not even taking the windchill into account.

Sorry Macklemore, but this is definitely NOT effing awesome. Not at all. (Ironically, it does involve a big a$$ coat, though.)

So, I’m allowing myself to flex the rules a little. Surely, John and Sherry understand if I’m unable to actually get to the Thrift Shop on account of weather, right? But don’t you worry your pretty little blog heads about me…I’ve got something better.

And epic thrift shop story involving my aforementioned “cold a** h—-” father.

You’re welcome.

I’ve previously described my dad Mark as “The King of Costco”. While this is certainly true, his devotion to the Kirkland Signature brand is mere child’s play compared to his love of all things thrift store. If you’ve somehow found your way trolling the tie-dye laden aisles of the Spanaway, Washington Goodwill store? Let’s just say you’d better drop to your knees and bow down to the freaking emperor.

(AKA, my father Mark.)

Growing up, Dad would constantly lure my siblings and I into his endless second-hand shopping sprees. With promises of a 99 cent Whopper from Burger King–possibly a McDonald’s soft-serve cone if he was feeling generous–we would agree to accompany him into the deep, dismal crevices of the t-shirt aisle.

This always proved to be a misstep of epic proportions.

Sure, we would find ways to amuse ourselves for the first hour or so. But secretly reading raunchy romance novels and attempting to locate the shower curtain with the most mold can only entertain small children for so long. Being that Mark’s visits to the Goodwill were never under two and a half hours, we quickly learned the delicious dollar menu items simply weren’t worth the torture. By the time I hit high school, we had all learned it was best to just stay home.

Unfortunately, the only thing more dangerous than my father at the Spanaway Goodwill with four impatient children is my father at the Spanaway Goodwill with no one present to keep him in check. This brings me to “the incident”.

I was a sophomore in college the night Mom’s panic set in. When she called my dorm to chat one afternoon, I could tell something wasn’t quite right. “Mom…is something going on?” I asked tentatively.

“Oh, it’s…it’s just your father…” she hesitated, “He went to the Goodwill a few hours ago, and promised he would be back by now. He’s not answering his cellphone and…well, I’m just not sure what to do.”

“Mom,” I reassured, “It’s fine. This is what he does, remember? I’m sure he just got distracted by a bolo tie or something. Seriously…I wouldn’t worry about it.”

My words seemed to encourage her. Still, I could sense some underlying stress remained. I decided to follow-up on the situation later that evening.

When I called two hours later, only to discover Mark still wasn’t home, I began to worry. Naturally I started pacing up and down the halls until the fear of ”what if?” forced me to take out my apprehension on the dormitory’s basement vending machine.

(No, not by vandalizing it. Just by consuming all 11 remaining Little Debbie products. Let’s just say the guys on the third floor were pissed when they realized all the Fancy Cakes and Cosmic Brownies were suddenly missing.)

Ninety minutes and 12,000 calories later, my phone rang.

“Mom? Is everything okay?”

“Yes Trina…everything’s fine. You’re dad just walked in the door a few minutes ago.” I could feel the weight of the worry being lifted off my ever so tense shoulders. (If only getting rid of the Little Debbie snack attack was as simple.)

“Thank, God! Jeez, Mom — he really had me worried! So…uh…where in the world was he?”

“At the Goodwill.” she calmly responded.

“What?? Mom…he was gone for, like, five hours!”

“Oh..well, he sort of fell asleep.”

“I’m sorry? He fell asleep? At the Spanaway Goodwill store? Mom…how is that even possible?” At this point I had opened my laptop so I might Google whether or not sixty-year-old men can suddenly develop narcolepsy while shopping. I could hear my mom giggling softly in the background.

“Well…he was in the furniture section. He sat down to read a book and just…I dont know…drifted off for a couple of hours.”

Of course he did. Mark’s always been able to fall asleep at the drop of a hat if he’s sitting down…and why wouldn’t he go to the Goodwill to read his books? I could just picture him explaining that “Barnes and Noble pressures you to buy that…what’s it called?…that really pricey Starbanks coffee from their cafe if you’re going to sit down and read their books. The Goodwill is free!”

Indeed it is, Mark. Indeed it is.

I’m not sure which disturbs me more: the fact that no one thought to wake the poor man up after three hours of public slumber or the realization that my dad snores louder than a grizzly bear and was undoubtedly disturbing all the poor, unsuspecting shoppers who were simply trying to find a modest coffee table for their new apartment in peace.

What I do know is this — no amount of McDonald’s soft-serve could make up for the embarrassment that is peeling your passed out, snoring parent (and the copy of “Making Candles & Soaps for Dummies” resting in their lap) from a questionable smelling public recliner. I’m eternally grateful I was halfway across the country that night.

You know what? I just had a revalation. The most upsetting aspect of this entire account isn’t the snoring nor the fact that none of the employees took the time to rouse Dad from his cat nap. The real travesty? My father, Emperor of the Spanaway Goodwill, actually thought America’s favorite coffee shop was called “Starbanks”.

*****

Main photo by thecomeupshow

*****

Psst! Latrina is BACK. And we’re ringing in the month of February in style. Think roses, chocolate and you guessed it…blogs. Check out our #BlogMeFebruary page if you want in on the action!