Have I mentioned recently how much I really want to change my name?
To Arlene.
Because not much would ever be expected from an Arlene. Arlene can make you brownies. Arlene is a proud member of the Moose Women’s lodge. Arlene sets up the candles on the altar every Sunday and brings red jell-o with bananas and Cool Whip in it to the church potlucks. Arlene can shop at Dress Barn for special occasions. Arlene is just happy about her red border of petunias that she’s got planted around her mailbox, lawd’s yes she is. Arlene has a pink and black bowling shirt for Thursday winter league and that bowling shirt has a word stitched over the left breast in fancy script and white thread.
And that word is Arlene.
I suspect my life would be easier, although the hard part would be watching ‘Everybody Loves Raymond’ and saying ‘Oh, that Raymond’ he sure is a funny you-know-what.’ I suspect that I’d also have to convince Esteban to change his name as well. Weetabix and Esteban goes together well, but Arlene and Esteban just clashes like polka dots and houndstooth. Perhaps Otto, which has the added bonus of being a palindrome. Not that Arlene knows what ‘palindrome’ means. Arlene suspects it might be a breed of horse, like those white ones that come to the Veteran’s Arena every winter and dance, well, you just never saw a thing so pretty in all your life.
Yes. Arlene.
I think I’m also going to lobby Esteban to change our last name to Bickford. Or perhaps Bipple. Like nipple, only with a touch of Wonder bread.
Do you think I’d get fired from my job if I came to work in a house dress and slippers? Boy, I hope so.
I’m feeling much better today, thanks in no small part to Zithromax, fourteen hours of sleep, Dr. Hot ‘N Gentle, and all of your lovely well wishes.
Yesterday, since I was lounging around with Death Lung 2003 floating through my system, I decided to be productive and make a pot roast. Like, a legitimate roast in the oven, as opposed to the slow cooker. I even dredged the roast in flour and browned it first (which always seemed dumb, but it seriously improves the flavor’ just a handy household tip from your friend Arlene Bipple) before throwing it into a dutch oven. I also roasted a lovely butternut squash. This all sounds impressive, but honestly was all of ten minutes of actual preparation. I could have just considered myself productive and quit to go watch Oprah where I could start crying when listening to the woman whose son was attacked by two neighbor’s dogs (which I am not saying that I did and not saying that I didn’t’ ahem), but no, instead I decided that I could peel some potatoes and throw in some baby carrots and have an actual meal. Which is about the time that the Greek chorus should have started singing that my time is more valuable than standing over the garbage disposal side of the sink, peeling 12 potatoes with a subpar vegetable peeler (I have no idea where my good one was’ Esteban practices creative kitchen organization and I never know where things will be. Different bowls which are meant to nest together might be scattered in no fewer than four different places. I even found one in the oven once.) but to be honest, there is nothing better than a slow roasted gravy soaked potato and some lovely tender beef roast on a brisk fall day.
Then, at the last minute, I decided to make some kind of warm bread product. There were some wheat tube rolls in the fridge, but Esteban is not a fan of wheat. I also had a bag of frozen ‘southern’ biscuits in the freezer. They were some off brand in a clear bag with only red printing on it. I don’t even know what to make of that, but I seem to remember that they were like $1.50. The directions claimed that you didn’t need to thaw them first, but just heat the oven to ‘350 to 400 degrees’ and ‘cook for about 15 minutes’. I am not making that up.
It’s like the biscuits are marketed to stoners for their post herbal munchies. ‘Like, chyeah, these biscuits’ you just cook em on up, man, and they are the finest biscuits in all the land. You just turn the dial on the stove, right? And whatever it lands on is just karma, man. It’s like the stove knows what needs to happen, chyeah? Right? And if you want your little buns faster, dude, just crank that baby all the way up and then they’ll be done in 3 and a half minutes, maybe four, time enough for you to go hide your stash again. Then you just bogart up the biscuits. The insides might be little biscuit ice crunchy pops, but that’s just yin and yang, my friend, yin and yang. Peace out, dudes, time to play some hacky and pop in a little DMB bootlegs. Sweeeeeeeeeet! Peace out.’
The degree of possible error seemed enormous, but I persevered, using my fine culinary skills honed by hours and hours of watching Food Network and Martha Stewart.
The biscuits were heaven. I mean, I’ve made biscuits from scratch before, using buttermilk and pastry blenders and large glasses to cut the dough and nothing but nothing compared to these biscuits. I don’t even usually eat more than one but these were just heaven in your mouth and the biscuits and I made magic together. Honey, melted butter and those biscuits are like a recipe for a mouth orgasm. And the horror is that I threw out the bag they came in and I don’t remember where I got them! I may be digging in the trash later tonight.
Women addicted to carbohydrates on the next Jerry Springer show. Watch now as our hidden camera witnesses a desperate cry for help. Roll the tape.
I am beginning my normal travel freak out a tad earlier than scheduled, mostly because I just realized that I have to make double the number of Weetaswags than last year (135, to last year’s 60ish), and as of yesterday, I had seven. SEVEN! Also, I realized that it will be in the 80’s in Austin, forcing me to completely rethink my wardrobe itinerary. It wouldn’t be so stressful if I didn’t know that everyone has digital cameras. Last year, apparently I didn’t realize that a white shirt would make me look like the Michelin man, replete with 42 chins and an expression in countless pictures where I looked as though I had just crapped my pants. Well, I may not be able to avoid that, but as God as my witness, I will NOT be sitting up late the night before finishing my swag!
I have it on good authority that Karen’s going to be Queen of Swag again this year. Sure, it’s not enough that she is very beautiful, but also has the beautiful swag, and yet even so, I cannot hate her. Mostly because I look at my Karen quilted refrigerator magnet that matches nothing at all in my kitchen, and I smile because it is so very lovely.
Oh, by the way, my swag this year? Original Weetamix CDs. Including several Bad Bar mixes. Stop pouting. I told you to register, didn’t I? You were warned. Besides, I fully anticipate that they will be out on the black market within seconds of Journalcon’s finale.
Have a lovely day. Go do some nominating!
Tell them Arlene sent you.
