Mawwige Is What Bwings Us Togevar Today

Getting hitched. Taking the plunge. Tying the knot. Settling down.

Marriage.

I was married once. It wasn’t a celebrity farce of wedding that lasted less than a year, either. It was a legit marriage of almost eight years. I know, right? People are often taken a-back when I say I “was” married and for how long. I guess my chubby cheeks and baby face throws them off.

I got married when I was twenty-one years old and we split up when I was twenty-nine…actually, it was a week after my birthday, so happy belated present to me! Yay!

Nah, I kid, actually. Being married was fun. I loved it. I mean, I was with my best friend constantly and we got presents from people and there was a fancy party with pretty clothes and cake! Who doesn’t love cake? I love cake and I assume you love cake, too.

But, like most things in life, all good things must come to an end; I just didn’t realize that my marriage would end so soon, but as much as I’m loathe to use this term because it’s horribly cliché, but things happen for a reason.

I had a discussion about marriage today and it’s been on my mind lately because an old high school friend is getting married in two weeks and part of me is trying to come up with elaborate plans to ruin the wedding. I asked my roommate how upset he thinks our friend will be if I stand up during the ceremony and throw a flaming bucket of tar at the happy couple? He said they might be a bit upset.

Spoil sport.

Even though I had a blast while married–well, for about 6 of the 8 years it was fun–I still cringe and recoil in horror when I hear someone is getting married. “Why?” I ask myself. “Why put yourself through that?”

I’ve convinced myself I’m not getting married again, for several reasons:

1. I’m put off by the romantic notion of it. Yes, I’m letting my one sour experience ruin the whole bunch. Get over it.

2. We spent so much freaking money on getting married. So much. And for what? A few hours of pomp and circumstance and family/friends you haven’t seen in years mooching free food, getting drunk off the open bar and dancing like idiots to “Ice Ice Baby”?

3. The religious connotation of getting married. “It’s a sacred union created by God.” Well, super. I’m an atheist, so…yeah. Not a huge deal since people have non-denominational weddings all the time, but it goes against every little girl’s dream of getting married in a big church and all that happy crappy.

Basically, friends, what I’m trying to say is this: if you’re getting married, that’s good for you. I’m happy for you that you found someone you’re willing to put up with, but let me pose this question to you all: why do you need a piece of paper professing your love for your mate? If you love someone, love them and be with them. Don’t let societal standards dictate your lives. I mean, look at Kurt Russell and Goldie Hawn! Or Susan Surrandon and Tim Robbins! Grant it, I don’t think either couple are still together, but they were for over twenty years and weren’t married.

Okay, those were probably bad examples, but are you mowin’ what I’m growin’ here? Good.

Plus, and Jeebus forbid you one of the couples that does get divorced, but getting divorced is a pain the ASS. Honestly. I’ve never dealt with such legal hoobajoob in my life, and my ex and I don’t have kids or any shared assets together and it’s still a pain in the ass. I can’t imagine what it’s like to have to put up with that crap along with wanting to be free from the other person. Yeesh.

Basically friends, what I’m trying to say is don’t get married. Don’t do it.

“But Erin, I want a wedding dress and for my fiancé to wear a tuxedo and to have a reception with dancing!”

I hear you, I hear what you’re saying, but seriously–don’t do it. If you’re hellbent on dressing up and dancing, go out to J.C. Penney’s and buy yourself a nice frock and then out to dinner or something. Don’t spend thousands upon thousands of dollars when a few hundred will suffice. Take it from me. I’m smart and shit.

I don’t mean to come off as the bitter and jaded old hag who has a hunch back, a glass eyeball and missing half of my teeth and is cursing marriage. I’m just cursing marriage, but as is all things in life, it’s your choice and if you choose to do it, do it well. If things get tough, work on them, don’t squander it.

And I better be invited to the wedding. I love to dance.

As always,

E

Rapid Eye Movement

The man of my dreams remains that: only in my dreams. He is real, made of the same flesh, bones, and elements I am, but to be with him is a dream.

He comes to me each night as I close my eyes. Sometimes he is so real, I can feel him next to me; the hair of his arms tickling mine as he wraps them around me, pulling me close; the deep vibration of his voice in my ears, making my skin tingle and breath quicken. Settling into him, trying to become him in the effort.

In my dreams, this is how we stay until I wake.

Blarg. I’ll keep tonight’s post brief as I’m not feeling so well and to be honest, writing is the last thing I want to be doing right now, but I gotsta keep the gears oiled or whatever.

I’ve been alone all weekend as the remaining roommate is out of town. I don’t really like being alone. It’s okay sometimes, but spending two days and three nights solo, save the company of my dog, is lonely. I stuck close to home the past few days, too. I have been putting some crap off that needed to be done, so I did them. Anyway, since I’ve been a homebody, I haven’t had the chance to talk to anyone. I was outside with my dog earlier and I said something to him and the sound of my own voice surprised me. Part of that was the fact I hadn’t spoken since Friday and the other half was that it was an octave lower than usual due to what I assume is my semi-biannual-quarterly bout with bronchitis.

So. Things got done. I’m patting myself on the back for those things. The house is relatively spotless, my room is no longer a war zone and my taxes have been prepared-ish. Holy buckets of having to pay in, Batman. Yikes.

I started reading! I haven’t read in like, nine months. It’s sad. I have this weird thing where I read a book from an author, fall in love with their style and then once done with the book, can’t read anything else for a while. I blame this round on Dave Eggers. It’s always Dave Eggers. But I picked up my copy of short stories by author Amy Hempel and have been happily reading all day. It feels pretty good.

So, I guess this weekend is one I needed to gather my bearings and refocus, something I really didn’t think I needed, but I did. Despite feeling like I got into a fight over the last chicken wings at the Country Buffet with Rosie O’Donnell, it’s been a good few days, loneliness aside.

Okay, I’m spent. I want to crawl into my jammies and fall asleep.

Hope you all had a good weekend and catch you later!

E

Lillian

Lillian Russell sits slumped over her desk, her nose a few inches away from the newspaper sprawled out in front of her. She fingers the paper, running it along each sentence as she reads the words out loud in a quiet voice. The ink smudges her index finger, turning it black. Lillian reaches up to her nose to scratch an itch and leaves a grey trail underneath it.

She grabs for her can of Coke and breaks her concentration long enough to take a swig of the sugary syrup water and then she belches.

“Excuse me,” she says to no one in particular. Manners are important, even if there isn’t anyone else around.

Lillian returns to the paper, focused intently on the words in front of her. She finishes a story, shakes her head slowly, then genuflects and says, “rest in peace, dear soul.” A single tear falls from her plump cheek and lands on the paper, leaving a wet spot.

“You dolt,” she chides herself and quickly grabs a tissue to soak up the tear before it spreads through the paper and ruining it.

Lillian is obsessed with reading the obituaries in the newspaper. She has several subscriptions to various papers in her area and her apartment floor is covered in stacks of old newspapers. The obits she finds especially touching, she carefully cuts them out and saves them in a scrapbook.

She envies the lives of some of the dearly departed; the exciting things they’ve done and accomplishments they’ve achieved and the long list of people they’ve left to grieve for them.

Lillian is so engrossed in the obituaries, she doesn’t realize that her boss came up and is standing behind her. She clears her throat and Lillian nearly falls over in her chair from fright, and in the excitement, knocks over the can of soda and it begins to spread a sticky puddle over her desk.

“Oh, no!” Lillian yelps and frantically reaches for tissues to sop up the mess. Her boss steps forward and tries to help, but Lillian smacks her arm away and screams at her to leave her alone.

“Look at what you’ve done, you cow!!”

Her boss stands in stunned silence and tries to stammer an apology, but Lillian is having none of it.

“You’ve ruined them! You’ve ruined the last parts of their lives! Get the fuck away from here!”

Lillian’s boss stands still a few seconds, blinking rapidly at just being cursed at, and slowly walks out of Lillian’s cubicle.

“When you get this cleaned up, please come see me in my office, Lillian,” she says with a calm voice.

Lillian is sobbing now, a wad of wet newspaper in her hand, and the soda is dripping out between her fingers onto her keyboard and her slacks. She slams the goopy pile into her trash can with a sickening splat and grabs more tissues, but the liquid is starting to get even stickier and the flimsy white tissues are no match for the soda. Feeling defeated and covered in soda, Lillian stands up quickly and pushes her chair against the cubicle wall with such force, it knocks the calendar off the wall and lands on top of the newspaper mess in the trash can.

Lillian stomps out and down the hall to her boss’s office and pushes the door in forcefully without knocking. Lillian is furious and is breathing rapidly and loudly, like a bull in an arena being taunted by a matador. She is ready to strike.

Her boss is sitting behind her desk, her hands folded neatly on top.

“Lillian, I think it’s best you take the rest of the day off,” she spoke calmly.  ”In fact, why don’t you take some time off. You seem to be overwhelmed recently and a vacation would do you some good. We’ll call you in when we need you.”

Lillian broke down into a great, gasping, heaving crying fit and manages to nod in agreement.

“o-o-o-o-okkkkkkay,” she stutters around her tears and walks out of the office and back to her desk, where she gathers up her bag and car keys.

The drive home was horrible. She bawled the entire way, nearly getting into a car accident at an intersection because she didn’t see the traffic light change red through her tears. She sped through the intersection and heard the screech of brakes and the smell of burning tires as an approaching car had to slam on its brakes to keep from slamming into Lillian’s car. Realizing what almost happened, Lillian began crying harder as she drove faster to get home.

She finally made it and parked her car haphazardly in the driveway and stumbles up the porch stairs to her front door and opens it. She runs over to the couch and falls face down on it, her crying wild and out of control now, the sound of it being muffled by the throw pillows she jammed into her mouth.

Lillian isn’t so much upset by the fact she may have gotten fired from her job, but because her bitch of a boss seemed to show no remorse for ruining the last record of a person’s life by scaring Lillian, causing her to spill her soda on the obituaries. That is the last thing this person has in this world, and that horrible cunt destroyed it!

The utter lack of respect is sickening and Lillian cannot stand it. This wicked woman needs to learn a lesson, Lillian thought. Slowly, a smile spread across her tear-soaked, make-up streaked face. Yes…a lesson.

***

That incident happened on a Friday and Lillian waited impatiently all weekend for Monday so she could read the morning paper. She was sitting in her kitchen, preparing a cup of tea, when she heard the tell-tale “thud” of the newspaper hitting the front door. Lillian clapped her hands together in glee and gaily skipped to the door, opened it up and reached down to pick up the roll of paper. She skipped back to the kitchen, grabbed her cup and sat down at the kitchen table, spreading the paper out before her.

She flipped to the obituaries and scanned them quickly until she found the one she was looking for.

“Vanessa Smith-Godfrey, age 53, manager at Davidson Insurance Company, died Friday evening in a vehicle accident. Cause of the accident is under investigation as it appears to be a result of foul play. Ms. Smith-Godfrey is survived by her husband, Rick and two daughters, Darlene and Katherine. Funeral services will be held Wednesday morning at Our Lady of Peace Catholic church.”

Lillian smiles and reaches across the table to touch the pair of wire cutters she used to sever Vanessa Smith-Godfrey’s brake line to her car.

Lillian had taught her lesson.

What I Wanted

I sit in my car at a red light, slumped down in the seat. It’s freezing cold outside, but I don’t want to turn the heat on because I’m low on gas and even more low on cash. Instead, I tuck my arms inside my coat and hold them close to my body like I used to do when I was a kid and wanted to pretend my limbs got amputated in a serious accident.

The light is unusually long, but it is rush hour, so I look around me to pass the time. The house across the street has lights on in nearly every window. I shake my head in disgust at the waste of electricity and make a mental note to kick my own ass later for turning into my father.

“Jesus Christ, I’m not made of fucking money!” he’d scream at us kids as he stormed through the house, slamming a beefy palm down on the light switches to turn them off. I secretly hoped he would get so angry his heart would explode and he’d die on the spot, but no such luck. Turns out his alcoholism had beaten his heart to the punch and would kill him within five years. I rejoiced the day my father died.

A neighbor found him slumped over the steering wheel of his car one morning. The neighbor, knowing I lived close by, called me up, frantic.

“Paul? Paul, your dad! Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph…Paul, your dad is dead!”

I had to stifle a snicker. I quickly coughed to cover up my laughter.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I lied.

I took my time coming over. In fact, I made myself a ham sandwich before leisurely putting my shoes on, carefully lacing the strings and tying perfect bows. I drove under the speed limit to my father’s house. I pulled into the driveway behind his car, got out, sauntered over to my dead old man, opened up the car door and punched that fucker in the face, shut the door and waited for the coroner to come.

My only regret was waiting this long to give my poor excuse for a father what he fucking deserved to have done to him years ago.

But finally, in his death, I got what I wanted.

RRRRRAAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWWWRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!

That is the sound of my frustration. Holy shit. Holy shit. HOLY SHIT.

It started out innocently enough. I needed to clean my room in a very bad way. I have a terrible habit of not putting my laundry away and just leave it in the baskets and when I need something, I end up tossing the clean clothes around my room where they get caked with dog hair. Gross. I look at the piles on the ground, go “yeah, I should put that away,” and then weeks go by, the piles still remain and each day I look at it and then let it get out of control.

Today, I decided to clean my room and then it just kind of snowballed from there. I began looking around my room at all the unnecessary stuff I have and I just started throwing it all away, getting more frustrated and furious at myself for letting things get this way. I then started looking around the house and all the clutter and crap and I am at the point where I want to burn the house down.

And naturally, I began comparing it to other things in my life, letting other things get out of hand before I say to myself, “hey, you should clean this up.”

For example, I’m not proud to admit this, but I’m behind on my car payment. The company which I financed through has called me every day for several weeks. I would be at work, see the call, and hit “ignore.”

My marriage is another example. The day my ex-husband refused to talk to me and locked himself in our bedroom for an entire day. That should have been it, but I let it go for several more months, letting things around me build up, again, hitting the proverbial “ignore” button.

I am tired of hitting “ignore,” and not just on my phone. On life in general. Good analogy, huh?

I answered the call from my finance company and made a payment. It doesn’t seem that big of a deal, but to me, the fact I answered the fucking phone and spoke to a loan officer was a huge step for me. Knowing that I’m getting back on track with that kind of gave me a sense of pride. Silly, I know, but it did.

Purging my room of all the needless shit is also helping. I have two giant garbage bags full of stuff as a sort of award for that. Not a big deal again, but to me it is.

Filing and ultimately finalizing the divorce will be the next great life purge. I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. It will be two years in July. What? Why wait that fucking long? Was I hoping for some sort of miraculous reconciliation? For him to finally realize his life was worthless without me? I have no idea. Probably. Maybe. Whatever the reason, I’m ready to get this taken care of once and for all.

If I think about it, and let’s face it–it’s me, so yes, I’ve been thinking about it–having my roommate Chad move out and leave for California has lit a fire under my fat ass. He took an enormous risk and moved to a new city to start over. Many people I’ve talked to have had split opinions about this: it’s either “good for him!” or “it’s hard to start over when you’re this old.”

Yes, it is hard to start over, but it’s never too late to start over. In my opinion, that’s what prevents so many of us from doing what we want. We’re afraid we’re too old, or we use that as an excuse. That, my friends, is bullshit and you all know it. We become so set in our routines that the idea of change scares us shitless. It’s human nature. No one likes change, but everyone benefits from it in the long run.

Stop hitting the “ignore” button.

Ahh…okay, I’m feeling better now. It’s kind of funny; I was throwing clothes across my room and getting more angry with each article I was tossing, and I said to myself, “Erin, you better write or you’re going to fucking explode.”

Sometimes, I’m pretty damn smart and I’m glad I listened to myself.

As always,

E

The Salty Chef

I think I have found my calling in life…again…

I love to cook, yet rarely get the chance to cook since it’s just me and I always end up making more food than what is considered polite for a woman of my social status to have. But when I do cook, I cook like a goddamned fiend and the results are always sexy good.

It’d be awesome to have my own cooking show, but I’d never be able to have one due to my filthy mouth, but if I did have one, I’d call it “The Salty Chef” because that’s funny. Think of me like being Paula Deen…only without the diabetes, the Southern heritage, and millions of dollars from my popular restaurant, book deals and cookware line.

Anyway, until the world is ready for a foul-mouthed, down-home chef like myself, this blog will have to do.

So, don your funny-looking chefs hats and aprons: it’s time to get cookin’!

(note: these are all real recipes that make real food that’s real good. Really.)

SMOKY MOUNTAIN CASSEROLE

Step one: find John Denver’s classic hit “Rocky Mountain High” and play whilst preparing.

2 cups cooked rice (remember: 1 cup uncooked rice will make rice babies and become 2 cups cooked rice)

1 (one) can (can) cream of chicken soup (soup)

1 eight ounce carton sour cream

2 cups cooked chicken, cubed

2 chipotle peppers in adobo sauce. Chop them shits up, son. (Note: chipotle peppers in adobo sauce can be found in the “ethnic” aisle of your local food mart. Fun fact: chipotle peppers are really smoked jalapeno peppers! It’s fun to learn!)

2 cups shredded cheddar cheese

In a 9 x 13 baking pan, mix all your shit together until all mixed up and shit. Bake at 350 degrees for 40 minutes until your shit is bubbly and browned. Eat the shit out of it. Sit in your room and cry because you miss John Denver.

E’S MOTHERFUCKING AMAZING CHICKEN ENCHEECHEE’S

(NOTE: Uh, I always kinda just guesstimated ingredient portions, so…yeah)

Flour tortillas

3-4 chicken breasts, cooked and cut the fuck up

2 cans cream of chicken soup

2 cans diced green chilies, or if you’re feeling saucy, jalapeno peppers. I KNOW, RIGHT?!

1 eight ounce dude of sour cream

2 cup shredded cheese

Cook the chicken. Don’t argue with me, just cook it. Cut it the fuck up. To the chicken, add to the pan one (1) can cream of chicken soup, one (1) can green chilies OR THOSE CRAZY JALAPENO PEPPERS, and 4 ounces sour cream. Heat through.

MEANWHILE, IN GOTHAM CITY….I learned early on that rolling each tortilla into enchilada shape was dumb and a waste of time and the only reason I did it like that in first place was to impress my then-husband with my superior rolling things up into tortillas skill, but as many things did in our marriage, I gots reaaaaaaal lazy and essentially said, “fuck that noise,” so that’s when I started layering a few torillas on the bottom of the pan and then just dumping the chicken mixture over it and then put another layer of tortillas on top. So, what I’m trying to say is, get a big ass pan and layer like, 4 tortillas on the bottom. And marriage is stupid.

DUMP THE CHICKEN MIXTURE OVER THE TORTILLAS AND THEN ADD ANOTHER LAYER OF TORTILLAS NOW. THIS IS NOT A TEST.

In the same pan you made the filling, put the other can of soup, chilies and remaining sour cream. Mix together and when blended, add the cheese to the mixture and stir until the cheese is melted. Once that’s done, pour this cheesy goddamn goodness over the tortillas. Cover the pan with foil and bake for…30 minutes at 350 degrees? Sure.

As an exciting addition to your Mexican fiesta, you may want to add some accoutrements to make this shit all authentic. I enjoy some refried black beans and Spanish rice from a box because nothing says “authentic Mexican fiesta” then Rice-A-Roni, Spanish-style. You may also want maragitas. No, in fact, you’re going to want maragitas. Hell, just skip making the enchiladas all-together and just get shitfaced on margs. Ole!

BREAKFAST LOAF OF SUPREME MOTHERFUCKING AWESOMENESS

Round loaf of bread of your desire, e.g. sourdough, pumpernickel, etc. Pro tip: banana bread is not recommended for this recipe because GROSS.

6 large eggs

Salt N’ Peppa

6 oz deli ham lunch meat

1 cup of shredded cheese. Go nuts, kid. Want mozzarella? Use mozzarella. Want extra sharp cheddar? Use extra sharp cheddar. The world is your cheese oyster.

1/2 red pepper, cut into strips

1 tomato, sliced.

Beat the eggs and add Salt N’ Peppa. Bust a dance move.  Cook the eggs and scramble the shit out of ‘em. Set aside. Cut the top off your bread and scoop the guts out, leaving about 1/2 inch thick shell. Start layering all the ingredients like a lasagna, if you will–like a delicious breakfast lasagna. Put the bread top back on and wrap the bread in foil. Bake 30 minutes at 350 degrees. OMNOMNOMNOM.

Erin, wait! What do I do with the bread guts? Motherfucker, really? “What do I do with bread guts?” Uh, how about you fucking eat that shit, dumbass. Or put it in a baggie and walk down to your local park and feed the ducks or small children, that’s what you do with the fucking guts. Jesus Christ…

‘HEY FOOL, GET YOUR HANDS OFF THAT, IT’S NACHO PIE!”

1 pound ground beef, or if you’re a hippie, ground turkey

1/2 an onion, chopped

1 can tomato sauce…uh…I don’t know the ounces. The little can, so what, 4 ounces?

2 tablespoons taco seasoning

1 tube crescent rolls

2 cups crushed Nacho Cheesier Doritos, dude

1 cup sour cream

shredded cheese

Cook the beef and onion until meat is brown; drain. Stir in the tomato sauce and taco seasoning and bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer gently. GENTLY. GENTLY. Meanwhile, back at the Fortress of Solitude, separate the crescent dough into eight triangles; place in a greased pie plate and press the dough to make it like a pie crust. Sprinkle half the chips over the crust, top with meat mixture. Carefully spread sour cream over meat and sprinkle with leftover chips and cheese. Bake for 25 minutes at 350 degrees. Ole again!

POOP SOOP

(IMPORTANT MESSAGE: This soup is aptly named because you will take one of the biggest, bestest bowel movements ever after eating this. Why? Asshole, it has over 25 grams of fiber in one serving. ONE SERVING OF THIS SOUP HAS YOUR ENTIRE DAILY TOTAL FIBER. MIND–AND ASS–EXPLOSION.)

1 onion, chopped

1 celery rib, chopped

1 carrot, chopped

2 cloves garlic

1 fifteen ounce can stewed tomatoes

1 bunch kale, chopped

1 package turkey polska kielbasa sausage, your buttcheeks is warm

2 fifteen ounce cans chicken broth

1/3 cup water

1 cup dried lentils, rinsed and picked over for stones and rubies and diamonds and gold

1/2 teaspoon oregano

1/4 teaspoon cumin

1/4 teaspoon pepper

1 tablespoon Worshcchshechesthershichershire sauce

In a large soup pot, cook onion, celery, carrot, garlic until vegetables are tender. Add the sausage and cook some more. Stir in the broth, water, lentils and spices. Bring to a boil and then reduce heat and simmer for 30 minutes or until lentils are done. Stir in the tomato, Worshshshshshsterchsire sauce and kale. Cook until kale is kind of wilty.

PREPARE TO POOP.

STUFFED GREEN PEPPERS

4 large green peppers

1/2 cup chopped onion

1 cup cooked brown rice

1 pound ground beef or turkey…fuckin’ hippie…

1 pound sliced fresh mushrooms

1 can tomato sauce

1 eight ounce can sliced olives

1 tablespoon Italian seasoning

Salt N’ Peppa’s here, Salt, Salt, Salt N’ Peppa’s here

1/4 Parmesan cheese

Cut tops off peppers, scoop out the guts (note: instead of throwing the tops of the peppers away like a wasteful dumdum, I chop them up and add them to the mixture because I am reducing my green pepper carbon footprint). In a large skillet, brown meat; add onion and chopped green pepper, mushrooms, olives, Italian season, and Salt N’ Peppa and Parmesan cheese. Mix well, then add the rice. Mix some more, because I know how much you love to mix. Now, you can either cut the peppers in half or leave them whole. Whatever works for you, kid. Regardless, put peppers in a large baking dish and fill the peppers with the meat/rice mixture and sprinkle with some more Parmesan cheese if you weren’t too overzealous with it in your meat mixture. Bake at 350 degrees for 45 minutes or until peppers are soft. Mazel tov!

MACARONI AND CHEESE THAT WILL MAKE YOU CREAM YOUR JEANS

One package of elbow macaroni. You know why they call it “elbow” macaroni? Because if you fuck up cooking this pasta, I will put an elbow to your face. It’s called AL DENTE, NOT AL MUSHY FUCKING PASTA, ASSHOLE.

one pound sausage. You can use hot Italian, good ol’ breakfast sausage, chicken sausage…go nuts. Use whatever animal protein you choose. I used hot pork sausage because I was feeling cantankerous and I just wanted a chance to say “hot pork sausage.”

1/4 cup butter

1/2 cup flour

2 cups milk

2 cups shredded cheese. Again, go fucking nuts crazy here. I prefer the tangy zip of extra sharp Wisconsin cheddar, but if you’re much of a wussy to handle that kind of cheese, go for the mild cheddar. I thought about using Meunster once. I also thought about killing a man, but we don’t always give in to our desires.

In a large soup pot, boil water and prepare the pasta according to the package directions. Meanwhile, prepare your animal protein. If you’re awesome like I am, you should be able to time it so your pasta is done and needs draining just as your animal protein is fully cooked. I may be some sort of genius. Drain your noodle, and then drain the pasta (SEE WHAT I DID THERE?!!). Add the pasta back to the pan and toss in your animal protein. Let them chill out for a few minutes while you’re making the cheese sauce, which I will elaborate upon now.

Making the cheese sauce is going to take some skill. I hope you’re ready for this intense few minutes. Why is it so intense? Because you have to go pretty rapid fire in order to make a good sauce. Plus, you run the risk of burning both your butter and milk and if you’ve never burnt milk before, don’t start, unless the smell of sour milk and farts is one that is pleasing to you, then in that case, knock yourself out, ace.

Heat a skillet to medium-high. Add butter and melt. Now, this is important. Let the butter get a bit brown, but be careful not to burn it. Add 1/2 cup flour and whisk together until you have like, a clump of flour and butter. Slowly pour in 2 cups milk and whisk like a mad man. I mean it. You don’t want any clumps in this motherfucker, so you whisk until you don’t think you can whisk any more, but you’re going to have to keep whisking because you’re life and the lives of everyone around you depends on it. The sauce will start to thicken and you’ll know you’ve done a superb job and the sauce is almost ready when you start to leave trails in the sauce as you mix. What? No, seriously–think of your sauce as the Red Sea and your whisk as Moses. You should be able to draw your whisk through the sauce and it will stay separated. Once you have reached this step, now is time for the cheese. Pour that shit in and mix until melted and you want to pour the sauce over your naked body because it looks that good. But I will advise against pouring the scalding hot cheese sauce over your body. Instead, pour it into your pasta/meat pot and mix until every single molecule of pasta is doused in cheese sauce.

That’s it. You’re done. Foodgasm away.

I hope you have enjoyed cooking with The Salty Chef. Please join me next week as I make an Indian dal that will leave a Bollywood movie of taste in your gob; a super cheesy and not-at-all-good-for-you chowder; and I will explore the depths of an old church cookbook that features several recipes using squirrel meat.

Thanks for reading and as always, keep your stick on the ice.

Dealing With Me

My inner feminist is probably screaming at me right now, and rightly so.

I never wanted to be one of those women who think they needed a man to make themselves feel whole or complete. But the more I get older, the more I realize this is true. Allow me to elaborate.

I’m by nature, a caring, giving person. Once I break down my barrier and trust you completely, you have me for life. I won’t waver or falter. You can depend on me for anything, be it a sympathetic ear or shoulder to cry on. My only want is that you give the same courtesy to me in return.

I am dealing with some issues as of late, namely the immense loneliness I feel. Sure, I have my close-knit group of friends and my family, and I love them all and appreciate them always being there for me. What I miss is someone I can hold and love in an intimate way that my friends and family can’t give to me. I want someone to nurture. I want to hold you close and make you feel loved and wanted. This is the greatest feeling in the world to me and I miss it.

I miss it a lot, actually.

Loving someone so completely and with ever fiber of your self and knowing they return those feelings? I envy those of you who have that and hope that I have that again some day, too. While my ex-husband and I had our issues, we had a loving relationship for many years. He allowed me to treat him this way and I enjoyed every single second of it. Holding the person you love in your arms is sometimes more powerful than any words you can ever say to them. I want that again. I need that again.

Before I continue, I’ll apologize now for the random thoughts that will pop up throughout the post. It happens.

I’ll continue.

Another thing I miss and really, when I think about it, have never been able to fully explore is a deep, meaningful conversation with someone.

I am an introvert. I know some people with laugh and scoff at this statement, but I really am. I seem out-going and bold and all those things that everyone associates with a Type A extroverted personality, but I am Type B introvert all the way. I can be shy and withdrawn and as I’ve tried to explain to someone recently, I need alone time to decompress and unwind.

I likened myself to a sponge: I absorb everyone’s emotions, as well as deal with my own, which, holy shit…that’s quite the load to bear sometimes. I need an hour or two to myself to take in all of this and process these emotions. This is where it gets confusing: “but you say you want to be around someone and give them constant attention, how can you say you want to be left alone sometimes?”

Good question. Excellent question, actually.

I can’t explain it…but I’ll try.

I’ll use my ex as an example. For the most part, we led separate lives, meaning our interests never really matched up. He was most content playing video games and talking about video games and comic books and your stereotypical geek hobbies. I claim to be a geek as well, but I could really give a shit about that stuff, but because I loved him, I’d listen attentively to what he had to say. He’d be in front of the television, blowing people up and going on missions through forests to find the missing scrolls of Eldermore or whatever the hell kind of games he would play, and instead of leaving him alone in his gaming world, I’d want to be near him, so I’d sit quietly on the couch behind him and read or write, and that worked for us. We were each doing our own thing, but yet, we were together and I crave that again.

To the man that I allow to get close to me, be warned: you are in for a hell of a wild ride.

Again, I’ll explain.

While I am caring, I am also extremely emotional. I run the gambit daily from feeling bliss to utter sadness and everywhere in between. It’s intimidating, to be honest with you. But if you can’t deal with me at my worst, you don’t deserve me at my best, and sadly, that was the case with my ex. I understand living with someone like myself isn’t easy. It’s probably exhausting, to say the least. But you know what, I am worth the grief. If you can’t realize that and can’t deal with it, then fuck right off. I don’t need you to make me feel like a freak for being this way. If you truly love me and want to be with me, you’ll accept me as I am and learn to roll with punches.

And that kind of brings me back to the beginning. It’s not that I need a man in my life to complete me…I need the right kind of man to complete me.

To those who have tried: I appreciate your efforts and you’re brave men.

To those who will try: consider this blog a bit of a freebie and a sneak-peek at what you’ll be dealing with. If you’re man enough to handle it, I’ll make it worth your while.

Okay, the buzz from my earlier alcohol consumption is starting to wear off, so I’ll leave you be.

Good night.

As always I remain,

E

 

February 8, 2012

Today started out like any other day; the alarm on my phone went off and I lay in bed, not wanting to leave the sanctuary of my warm, toasty blanket and pillow pile, but then my dog, upon hearing the alarm and sensing my slow movement to turn it off, got up from his spot at the end of the bed and sat down next to my head, whining to be let outside for his morning duty. Heaving a heavy sigh of defeat, I reluctantly tossed the comforter aside, slowly sat up and put my bare feet on the chilly hardwood floor and groaned my way to standing. I put my slippers on and grabbed my bath robe and together, we both plodded through the living room into the kitchen to the back door where I let us both outside–him to pee, me to smoke.

I was getting ready for work, sitting on the bed and tying my shoelaces, when a loud “YYYEEEEEOOOOWWWWW!!” sound scared me senseless. I had forgotten I had turned my phone’s ring tone volume on from vibrate, so the sound of R2D2 screaming was a surprise.

I looked down at the phone to see who had sent me a text at 7:00a.m. and it was from my dad.

“Hi, good morning. Can you call me when you have a chance?”

I wasn’t too concerned because this was a normal text to receive from my father. I finished readying for work and as I sat in my car, waiting for it to warm up, I called my dad. I wasn’t greeted by his usual funny reply when I call him, so I was on the defensive immediately.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

Oh, crap…

“Do you remember my cousin Dick?”

I did…barely. I remember Dick from family reunions over the years and seeing him occasionally in my hometown. He was always nice to me and would make a point to come talk to me whenever we saw each other.

“Well, he took his own life yesterday.”

A heavy, sinking feeling settled in my stomach. “Oh, no, Dad…I’m so sorry to hear that…”

My mind reeled at this. The Hoffmeyer Curse struck again.

The “curse” of which I speak is not to be taken lightly, as I seem to be doing, but it’s the only word I can think of to use in this situation. There is a family history of depression on my father’s side; depression which has caused five suicides in the family over the years. The statistics are staggering and I admit to thinking “oh, shit…” Compound this with depression/suicides also on my mother’s side…I’m scared shitless.

My heart breaks for my family. It breaks for the people I never got the chance to get to know. It breaks because depression is one disease people are nervous about, one that people don’t like to talk about, and that shouldn’t be the case. Think of all the lives that could have been saved had our society fully acknowledged depression for what it is and fought harder to help people suffering from it.

I feel like a bit of a hypocrite given my diagnosis of depression and suicide attempt. Here I am, calling out people for dismissing it so easily and not fighting for lives, when I myself didn’t give a shit about my own life. That isn’t the case any longer as I recognized my need for help and got it, but still. Or on second thought, this makes me a powerful proponent for depression/suicide awareness. “I’m not just a client, I’m the CEO” sort of thing. I’ve been there, done that and I’m here to help others. Perhaps this is my purpose here; to build momentum and get people more involved in helping those of us who feel we don’t want to be here any more.

Life is hard, but with the support of friends and family, it can be made tolerable and manageable. I’m not saying I’m “cured” by any means; on the contrary. There are days I feel like giving up the fight. There are days I want to lay in bed all day and punish myself with thoughts of worthlessness and shame and failure. There are days where I don’t think I matter to anyone and never will and I’m going to die alone. But because I have such amazing friends and family, those feelings don’t last and I’m given reasons to persist, and I do.

I am sad for the loss of a family member. I grieve for him and his shortened life. I am also angry at  my family for not recognizing his plight sooner and encouraging him to seek treatment, but instead of harboring this anger and building resentment, I want to take time and write about depression awareness and I implore you, if you know someone who you think is suffering depression, don’t assume it’s just a case of the blues and it will pass. It doesn’t pass. It beats down on you mercilessly until you break into a million pieces, physically, emotionally and mentally.

It’s up to you to help them put these pieces back together and rebuild their lives because they are worth every goddamned effort to do so.

This post is dedicated to all of those who have suffered through life feeling like no one cares and ended their pain. Tragically, it’s too late for them, but it’s not too late for someone else.

This post is dedicated to those who helped me and are still helping me with my depression. Because of you, I’m still here.

And finally, this post is dedicated to the life of Richard “Dick” Hoffmeyer. I promise to help others become more aware of what we have been through and to seek the help they need. Rest in peace, Dick.

http://www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org/

 

Why Live In An Unfurnished Apartment?

I read an article today that made me want to spit fire.

A “journalist,” and I use that term more loosely than my grandfather’s bowels, wrote on the topic of women with tattoos.

At first, I was interested! Why, I have tattoos! Nine, to be exact.

But then, I read the damn thing, and so should you: http://www.ubspectrum.com/opinion/why-put-a-bumper-sticker-on-a-ferrari-1.2755789?MMode=true#.TzC3xVyXtLc

I appreciate what the author is trying to say…grant it, very poorly, but I get it.

“Why put a bumper sticker on a Ferrari?” Well, let me pose this question to you, as well: “why live in an unfurnished apartment?”

Our bodies are supposed to be temples. Why muck them up by plastering Pink Floyd posters all over the walls? I realize she’s targeting the women who get barbed wire armbands and Chinese symbols and butterflies and angel wings and etc. She thinks those are silly, degrading and regrettable.

However, there are those of us, like myself, whose tattoos mean something. Take mine, for example: I have nine tattoos and each one is significant to me because I got them with people I love, or they are symbolic to me in some way.

The heart on my right wrist? I got that with a woman I consider my sister; she has a matching heart on her wrist, too. Every time I look at it, I am reminded of our incredible friendship and no matter how far away we are from each other, I glance down at my wrist, and a smile creeps on my face.

The tree on my right bicep was designed by my father and my brother, sister-in-law, and nephew also have the same design. We share a permanent reminder of our family ties.

To have Miss Kourhy instead say, “an elegant woman does not vandalize the temple she has been blessed with as her body. She appreciates it. She flaunts it. She’s not happy with it? She goes to the gym. She dresses it up in lavish, fun, trendy clothes, enjoying trips to the mall with her girlfriends. She accentuates her legs with high heels. She gets her nails done. She enjoys the finer things in life, all with the body she was blessed with” is misogynistic and sexist.

High heels? Trendy clothes? Getting my nails done? Honestly, ma’am…please stop writing. You’re an embarrassment to the female species by perpetuating a stereotype.

“But at the end of the day, are you really a happier person? Has this tattoo, for instance, caused you to learn something new about yourself? Has it challenged you? Has it led you to self-growth? Nothing comes out of getting a tattoo. You get a tattoo, and that’s it. You do something productive, though, and you see results. That’s a genuine, satisfying change in life. Not ink.”

Oops, there she goes again…

To assume that because I have tattoos that I am not “classy” is rude, and I take offense to that, to be honest with you. Do you know what I do for a living? I work in a specialized area of cardiology. I help to save people’s lives on a daily basis. I am a productive member of my community and engage in volunteering for charities. I am a writer in my spare time and have had my works published on several websites and am featured in a book devoted to donating all proceeds to help at-risk children.

Yep, you’re right; no class here. None to speak of. I should just quit life because I’m marred by hideous inking. Pass the diet pills and fetch me my trendy clothes as those are the only hope I have for being considered a real woman.

Seriously, lady. I appreciate your opinion, but know that you’re being counter-productive. You’re unfairly judging women with tattoos by assuming we’re incapable of doing great things with our lives because we have markings on our bodies. You know, in some cultures, tattoos are a right of passage for young adults. They are a point of pride and rank, but to you, I guess they are just tattooed freaks from a different country. To hell with you, spawns of Satan!

I do want to thank the author of the article for being brave enough to be this ignorant and ridiculous and for reaffirming my faith that I am just fine with being branded for life.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go make an appointment for another tattoo.