Category — fud

That’s a Portland reference.

Anyway, I’m very uncomfortable being on camera and my future therapist thinks this is a good idea. Oh, you didn’t know? I can also TELL THE FUTURE.

Enjoy. Or don’t. I don’t know. Okay, I guess I can’t tell the future.

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First off, I think I should explain how to pronounce “The Poor” or “A Poor” the way we do because it truly does make a difference when said this way. We pronounce it like “Yom Kippur”. Say it to yourselves out loud a few times. Have fun with it. “The Puuuuor.” Got it? Good, moving on…

The fucking Poor woke us up again at 2 in the morning chanting really stupid things at the top of their American Spirit filled lungs. I think it was something like, “I go to Art School and all this really means is I have a very expensive camera and an even more expensive cocaine habit” and “I can Eisenstein the hell out of a montage.” Also probably, “I will work at Office Max for the next fifteen years.”

I wish I was awake enough to have gotten a picture of Dane out on our tiny balcony in his underpants yelling, “Shut the fuck up” at them. It’s very classy when he does this. Maybe I’ll re-create it for you tonight, if I can get Dane boozey and pillsy enough to agree.

ANNNNYWAYYY…an exciting thing happened yesterday. Matt Davis of The Portland Mercury posted a nice blurb about Face of the Cookie on Blogtown. Whee!!! So I would like to first thank Matt Davis and then welcome my new Blogtown readers. Welcome. Make yourselves at home. And by “make yourselves at home”, I mean, “please don’t touch anything with your filthy internet fingers. I just cleaned.”

No, no, really…welcome. (STOP TOUCHING THINGS.)

NEXT.

We had our second successful New Seasons food dinner in a row. I made turkey burgers on whole wheat buns with bbq sauce, pickles and jalapenos. We also had roasted cajun sweet potatoes and roasted asparagus (not pictured here - I put them in the oven a little late and ate them halfway through dinner).

To the right of this shot you can see half of my blueberry pomegranate vodka drink. This was the first of, oh, eight maybe? How many is normal?

I had mine with plain yogurt and sriracha. I don’t know what The Poor have with their potatoes. Dirt, I assume. Or an old shoe. Maybe they can’t even afford potatoes and so they just live on their genius. Mmmm…genius.

Last Friday we decided, in the interest of not giving me any more excuses to avoid writing a book, to have the bulk of our groceries delivered to us via bearded natural hipsters working for New Seasons Market. IT IS THE BEST IDEA WE’VE EVER HAD. Even better than our idea to sell everything we owned 6 months ago and then drive up to Seattle to buy all new things from Ikea and in the process almost kill each other in the Foortgaard area trying to make a decision about coffee tables.

I don’t know how many of you already have your groceries delivered, but for those of you who don’t, it is immensely satisfying to choose everything carefully over the course of several days and then push “submit”. Twelve hours later, a nice young woman called to tell me they were out of a few things and she had some substitution ideas, like bulk spinach instead of bagged spinach and St. John’s Wort instead of razor blades. When I got off the phone, I told Dane what had happened and he suddenly realized that a person, an actual person who was not a robot, was going around the grocery store and hand picking our produce while we sat on the couch and ate tacos. He said, “HONEY. The POOR are shopping for us!”

It was so exciting! Especially because the Poor had kept us awake until 3 am with a lot of yelling and arguing not only with each other but also at the Lesser Poor who live on the streets.

And two hours later, a giant man showed up at our door with eight bags of delicious organic foodstuffs and a free gallon of strawberry ice cream (!), put them on the counter and left. We were stunned and a little nervous because now we HAVE to eat the food in the house and that means Dane cannot have Ling Garden delivered to him for every meal the way he would like it. Thank God.

My half with beansiness.

Goopy.

Dane’s half with heart attackiness.

Not real meat.

Nachos of luz.

I am sorry for the short posting today but you need to understand how 4 vodka drinks and a beer affect my brain.

SiT’s somomehting ilKe htis.

SEE? So rather than inflict my not smart on my intertube friends, I figured I’d show you the nacho makings and maybe I’ll show you how they turn out. That is, if it is even possible to get a picture of anything in the millisecond it will take for Dane and I to annihilate the whole pan.

HOWEVER, I was feeling an incredible amount of pre-remorse a little guilty about all the cheese and chips and stuff that are not really food, per se, that I was going to be eating so I’ve decided to make a black bean dip with plain yogurt, beans of course, a little salsa and Franks Red Hot, and spread that over the chips (I’m having baked chips, Dane gets the real ones) with some red peppers and jalapenos and more plain yogurt and salsa. I’ll sprinkle a little cheese on top of that because it has a flavr.

Oh my God, I just drooled on the keyboard while typing that last sentence.

It’s official. I am a drunken po-tard*.

(Portland retard. WHAT? IT’S A THING. BRING IT.)

In the sixth grade, during lunch period, I had no friends to eat with so I usually spent that hour in the library reading Ray Bradbury stories and trying desperately not to cry. Sixth grade was incredibly traumatic for me and this had everything to do with the introduction of P.E. and being naked in front of other girls and worse, wearing gym shorts that didn’t quite cover my chubby behind well enough and running in them uphill with a gang of twelve year old boys following me. I don’t know if you’ve ever met twelve year old boys but they are incredibly sensitive, especially when it comes to fat girls. Because I had missed lunch to read about space (no one is fat in space) I would stop on my way home at the 7-11 to buy a Hostess Cinnamon Roll and a Cherry Coke Slurpee. And Lemonheads. And a Snickers Bar (GOD MAKE IT STOP). Everyone went to the 7-11 after school, including Brian Watts, one of four Brians on whom I had developed a sad, humiliating crush and who was completely, justifiably, and vocally embarrassed by the way I would stare at him from behind mouthfuls and mouthfuls of cinnamon roll.

You know how Gulf War soldiers and people in plane crashes develop Post Traumatic Stress Disorder? Well, I have this - specifically during the eleven blocks that make up the walk from our apartment to Whole Foods and back. I’m no longer chubby and thank God no one can make me wear those shorts ever again, but I still hold my breath any time more than two people are walking behind me. And I KNOW this is ridiculous (kind of, although have you heard the way people talk about other people?) and who cares what strangers think about my ass and I really doubt they’re thinking anything at all about my ass. In fact, I am probably the only person in the world thinking about my ass except Dane who thinks about it constantly and at really inappropriate times like funerals and when small children are around. But now you are all thinking about my ass and I have no one to blame but myself and I’m okay with that because if I’ve ever believed in something - and I’ve never really believed in anything except maybe that Mars was once filled with canals frequented by a tall, golden people who were actually humans but became Martians after living there for a couple of months - it’s personal responsiblity.

Now please stop thinking about my ass. Thank you.

I just ate this. It’s plain yogurt, sliced almonds, cinnamon, and vanilla.

Tell me. How does this yogurt make you feel?

You know what drug I can’t kick? Wheat Thins. Or to be more accurate, Back to Nature Crispy Wheats. They’re like the “healthy” version of Wheat Thins.

I like to eat 8 of them with a wedge of Laughing Cow Lite Cheese. It makes me feel like I’m at a very bad cocktail party circa 1977 and all I’m missing is a Bacardi and Tab and a bowl for everyone’s keys.

I used to eat Kashi 7 grain crackers instead until I discovered the delicious saltiness of these. I KNOW THEY’RE NOT REALLY HEALTHY INTERNET BUT GOD, THROW ME A BONE WOULD YOU?

And I should tell you all that I had already eaten my eight crackers with cheese BEFORE I took that picture so those were put neatly back into the fridge and cupboard.

I swear it on my stack of Buffy Season Eights.

I bought an entire POUND of Applegate Farms chicken from the Whole Foods Deli this week and I’ve already made this sandwich twice with it.

It’s two and a half ounces of chicken on whole grain bread with baby spinach, sliced orange peppers, green apple, and a little honey mustard. Then I put it on the grill pan and press it down with the tea kettle. I had just made a cup of tea, so the kettle still had hot water in it which really helped warm up the insides of the sammy.

I feel so conflicted about eating meat. I really only eat fish and fowel but I do wear leather and I do hunt baby endangered animals in the wild for sport after poisoning their mothers with food flavored pellets. THEY ARE TOTALLY ASKING FOR IT. So all in all not too bad, I guess.

Last night we had roasted beets and even though I know what they do to your pee, I totally forgot and FREAKED OUT this morning. I thought I was dying or Dane was dying, or we both were. I mean, it’s just not right for a vegetable to re-create the symptoms of kidney disease like that. The irony is beets are excellent for healthy kidney and liver functions. Huh.

That’s all I’ve got today.