Day 22: Describe 7 things you’re awful at.

  1. I’m awful at picking a man that won’t lie to me, cheat on me, steal from me or break my heart. I’ve elevated it to an art form and have ruled them out entirely as a result. Heterosexual men are basic creatures. Much like that lump of a human they hand you when you have a baby, you only need to feed, water and love it for things to be agreeable, right? Wrong. I have an innate ability to pick the absolute worst asshole in the room. Eyes closed, heart open… I lose every damn time.
  2. Thinning root vegetables. Seriously.. someone should take my carrot seeds away. There’s honestly no point in me even planting them because I can’t grow them for shit and who needs 4000 pencil sized baby carrots? Nobody.
  3. Kitchener stitch. It’s some sort of modern day needlework witchcraft. I avoid knitting socks for precisely this reason. I loathe not being able to do something though, so I’ll figure it out eventually or die trying.
  4. Seeing the forest for the trees. I see the potential in everyone- and never stop to consider that some people are self motivated and not looking out for me or my best interests. Some folks are just users and I work overtime to see the goodness a little too much. Some of those frogs aren’t princes. Some of those warty little things are just dirty ass reptiles.
  5. Brownies. I can’t bake brownies to save my life. I don’t know why. I’ve given up trying and just buy them. I’m bitter about it though because I’m a damn domestic goddess and hate that I can’t do something.
  6. Sleep. I am the worst insomniac. I am regularly awake between the hours of 1-5 AM and generally give up and get up by 5:30. I’m painfully tired and all things considered could probably use a week of rest, straight. I won’t get it and it won’t stop me from lying awake all night again tonight… so feel free to give me any suggestions you may have.
  7. I’m awful at shaking this Incredicock nightmare. Hearing one thing and seeing another is the worst form of torture and I was crazy to think that touching him again was a good idea. It wasn’t. You can only be casual about someone you don’t care about… just as you can’t make a ho a housewife, it’s absolutely impossible to make a fuckbuddy out of the guy you’re in love with and I should have learned that painful lesson the first time with him.

I wish I had more of my shit together, but fairy godmothers aren’t real and it involves a shit load of work and time to change these things. I’m still determined, still working hard to be better, do more, live positively and strive for happiness.

I have promises to keep. And miles to go before I sleep… -Robert Frost


Day 17: Describe 5 weaknesses you have.

  1. Incredicock. Oh why beat around the bush (no pun intended), let’s be bold, brave and honest, shall we? I can honestly say I’ve never felt about another human being the way I feel about him. Fiercely protective while simultaneously terrifyingly guarded, brazen, bold and wanton…oh and petty as the day is long. I’ve never really known heartache like the one he inspires and I wonder sometimes if it’s my penchant for pain that makes me love him so? The jury’s out, but masochism is in the lead. I saw things I can’t unsee regarding him this weekend and I’m decimated as a result. I’ve clearcut the common threads that tie us together and am facing some tough days ahead. What he says and what he does are vastly different and it kills me every time I find out he’s lied to me again. I need to get off this bad ride.
  2. Baked Lays Potato Chips. Dear God in heaven…. hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven… Give us these chips, these daily chips… I can’t even buy a bag because I will eat the whole damn thing with reckless abandon.
  3. Take5 Candy bars. Seriously the best candy bar ever made. Thank you Reese’s for making them a part of your delicious family.
  4. Bombay Sapphire Gin. I had 4 martinis last night as I cried about my bad taste in men and bemoaned the stupidity of my loyal heart. 4!!!. I felt like death warmed over all day today and sat inches away from the cause of it. No martini is worth that and I wish I’d stayed in bed. Thank heavens for Maybelline who painted my grey face a flesh tone and convinced the world that I wasn’t seconds from puking, all day.
  5. Tomato plants. God bless America, at least one of my weaknesses is healthy. I cannot walk away from a “rare” or “lost” heirloom tomato seed. I have grown them all. I know them all as well as my children and doubt you could surprise me with a new favorite… but I’d sure love to hear about yours….

Day 12: Describe your most embarrassing moment.

I dug around through my blog trash in hopes I hadn’t deleted the original post about this most mortifying moment, but alas… 2010 was quite a year and there’s A LOT of shit to wade through.

So…

Oy…

Once upon a time, I was writing daily, pissing off the locals and slinging beer at a brew pub. I was single, sassy and my daily rants were going viral on the regular. I went to work one night and settled in for the long haul. I looked up to see my past walk through the door, smiling.

The very first boy I ever had a crush on, in the 5th grade.

Oh my. The joys of living in a small town.

He doesn’t seem to have aged with the exception of having become a man since grade school. He’s masculine, pretty as hell and a wholesome guy.

Him and a friend sit down at the bar and look up for the first time, causing me to blush uncontrollably.

Fun Fact: I am actually terribly shy, which was awfully inconvenient when it came to being a server.

I walked over to say hello and saw his buddy furiously arguing with him.

Buddy- Dude, no. NO. Anyone but her.

Crush- Her.

I’m confused, but get them something to drink and eat, and wave as they leave me a huge tip and walk out the door. My friend comes running back and invites me to have a beer with them after work. I agree.

When I walked into the bar, I could see his friends eyes get wide. I was starting to get offended, or at least overthink why this guy was so opposed to me.

Me- Hey did I offend you or something?

Buddy- No, I read your blog. No offense, but I have to warn my buddy before he ends up there.

Me- Oh my…

I walked away, which is usually my response when someone (other than my best friend) says something to me in passing about it. He sent my crush over with a beer, like a modern-day peace offering. We danced, laughed and drank the night away until he ended up in a cab on his way to my house.

We were making out in my bed when he stopped, sat up and said…

Crush- I can’t do this. I love my wife.

I freaked out at the mention of a wife. Cried, kicked him out, you name it. Absolute panic and horror, at 3 in the morning when I’m not at my best anyway. He left and I went to bed, alone and glad to be.

Twenty minutes later, I was jolted awake by a knock on the door. I got up, put a robe on and peeked through the curtain. It was my crush… and his wife. I opened the door.

W- Can we come in? He said you were upset and I wanted to explain.

I was so fucking stunned I didn’t know what to do.

W- I want him to sleep with someone else. I told him to. I’m ok with it.

He looked as horrified as I hoped my face also conveyed on my behalf.

We have never spoken since, and I hope I’m never more embarrassed than I was that night, because I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me whole.

I am not about that swinger life. What’s mine is mine and I’ll break your hands if you touch it. If I want to share something, I will offer…but just like my panties and sex toys; some things are non-negotiable.

Call me old fashioned, but if I go to the trouble of marrying a man, it’s because I don’t want to share him with ANYONE.


Clam Bait

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I- I don’t like soup. I like chowder. Clam chowder, corn chowder, etc… NOT soup.

J- You’re splitting hairs. If you put it in a bowl and eat it with a spoon, it’s soup. Call it what you want, but it’s still soup.

I- Negative. I’ve never had clam soup. Never had corn soup. That’s chowder. Never had bean soup either… that’s chili.

J- I’ve actually never made clam chowder.

He looks appalled and I’m a little surprised at myself too. I don’t know why? I guess I just never tried? I love it and I’m inspired, so I started looking for a recipe.

Bonus points if it’s written for the Instant Pot because I LOVE my magical counter top time machine.

I liked parts of each recipe I found but not the entirety… so here’s mine:

Miss Jenni’s Clam Chowder

6 pieces of thick cut bacon, chopped.

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Brown the bacon until the fat is rendered but not crispy, stirring frequently. A non-stick pan is great for this step since bacon burns quickly in the instant pot.

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Add 6 Tbsp butter, 2 cups of diced onion, 2 cups of chopped celery and 6 sprigs of fresh thyme. Cook until the pan deglazes and the onion starts to turn translucent. Transfer to the Instant Pot.

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Add 4 cloves of finely diced garlic, 2 tsp kosher salt, 2 tsp freshly ground pepper and 1 tsp of smoked paprika. Stir to combine.

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Add 5 cups of cubed Yukon Gold potatoes, the liquid from 6 cans of chopped clams, 2 additional 8 oz. bottles of clam juice and 2 Tbsp of fish sauce.

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Put the lid on your Instant Pot and set for 4 minutes on manual. Let it NPR for 2 minutes when it finishes, then do a QPR and remove the lid.

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Pull the thyme stems out… nobody ever won a man over with sticks.

Add a quart of half and half and the chopped clams. Stir, being careful not to bring to a boil.

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(Text him to clarify that live clams don’t scream… he assures me they don’t… so….)

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Dump 2 pounds of live clams into the creamy concoction. Go big or go home when you’re trying to put something delicious in his mouth. Thicken with clear gel or crush half the potatoes- it’s up to you. I did both.

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Serve with crusty sourdough since we’re eating feelings here and there are a lot to soak up.

Mmmmm…. It’s been years since I was inspired enough to make a big pot of bait. Incidentally, the last recipe I wrote for a man made me a blistering fortune at the farmer’s market and I didn’t like that guy a fraction of as much as I love this one so I can guarantee you this is delicious.

I don’t fuck around in an apron. ­čÖé


Food Fetish

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My dad is a chef… so I can lay this fetish at the altar of Daddy issues. I’ve dated a few chefs in the past and have said since I was a child that I could never love a man who couldn’t cook my steak properly. I like mine prepared medium rare which is not difficult. I can do it with my eyes closed…. hell… I can do it in the damn air fryer if I’m being lazy.

Not a single man in my life has been able to do it.

Not one.

I’ve dated three gourmet chefs, and ruining my steak is a deal breaker for me. I can tolerate medium, won’t eat medium-well and firmly believe that well done = fucking ruined. Why disrespect the life of the cow like that??? Stick to pork if you like to cook your meat to death.

Chef #1 made me a ribeye. It was a beautiful steak. 2″ thick, bone in… and dry rubbed with something that smelled like he might be boyfriend material. Every chef I’ve dated has had a significant alcohol problem… which sort of goes with the territory in my experience. At any rate, I picked up his water glass instead of mine and took a big drink.

GAG… COUGH… CHOKE…he was drinking lukewarm vodka, not water. This should have been my first sign that the poor beautiful steak headed into the pan might not come out the way I’d hoped. He made a big show of presenting my dinner with the shakiest hands I’ve ever seen in my life and I took one bite.

It was grey, sad and dry. That lovely rub had turned into charred chards of bitter flakes and I didn’t want to take another bite.

1: How’s your steak?

Well done… but not really. It was fucking ruined. Fun.

J: ok.

I tried to muster up the grace to eat it… but I couldn’t. He was offended, I was hungry and we didn’t go out again.

Chef #2 I met in his own restaurant. Surely he had to be able to cook a steak, right?

Wrong. He came over to cook me dinner and I was SURE he was going to be able to pull it off.

He made me a filet, and the smell was enough to make my clothes fall off by themselves. I shook us two dirty martinis while he put dinner on the table. Things were looking promising and I was starving in every which way. Grinning at him broadly, I cut into my steak with glee.

I was met with a dull grey slab touched by a faint pink horizon across the center. Medium well. Damn it.

I was so disappointed I frowned and he knew it. I swear I’m not thankless, but I have absolutely no desire in eating an overcooked steak and my manners are significant enough that I feel compelled to try.

Swallowing hard chunks of dry, flavorless meat where a divine steak should be, is so disappointing. I honestly would prefer it blood rare to medium well and a mouth full of blood gives me the heebie-jeebies.

#2 I overcooked your steak. I read your blog… I know what that means.

He wasn’t wrong.

Chef #3 did not make me a steak, so it’s slightly unfair to include him in this list, but he brings the other half of my food fetish to the table.

Men who order for me. <swoon>. I’m shy and hated to order my own food as a kid. My dad always ordered for me and I’d forgotten how much I loved that, until a date of mine asked if I minded if he ordered for us. I must have looked stunned.

#3 What? Is that rude? I’m not being a caveman, this is just my favorite place and I want to treat you to my top 5.

J- Not rude at all, I love that actually.

The server approached and I looked down at the menu, eyeing the steak I wanted.

He ordered me chicken, and steak for himself.

Call me Petty Betty, but I never liked him much after that.

Food is love to me. I spoil the people I love with the vegetables I grow, the stuff I can and put in the pantry, baked treats and everything edible in between. If I love you, I feed you food to rival your mama’s cooking. I have cooked the pants off of a few men, I admit it.

So a man who knows his way around the stove is a weakness of mine a mile wide. A dominant man who can tell me about it… is my absolute achilles. I am powerless to the inspiration a man can create when he starts talking about cooking.

My favorite man stumbled across this big old fetish of mine, recently.

I- Mmmm, I know. I’ll dice and saute some garlic and onions, chop some mushrooms and throw those in. A perfect medium rare steak sounds good… don’t you think?

My mouth is dry. My panties are not. I can’t speak, because I’m too afraid of what I’ll ask him for. It won’t be G-rated, I know that much.

I- What?

J- You honestly may as well get your dick out and put it in my face. I can’t even. I’m. No. You have to stop. I can’t talk about food with you.

He grins and I know I’ve given him too much information. He leans in closer and tells me how he’s going to make butterflied shrimp. I have goosebumps and can’t look him in the eyes.

I- Mmm … then add a tablespoon of butter at the end of

J- STOP.

He laughs and I am red as a radish and breathing heavily, trying to shake it off while returning his smoldering gaze with my own blazing stare.

J- You’re gonna make me cum. Stop it.

I- Maybe fish tacos? Chop up some cabbage and jalapenos while the rockfish cooks? You like cheese… I know… shrimp alfredo with a little smoked paprika.

I buried my face in his neck and begged.

J- You’re killing me… you have to stop.

I- Or maybe some corn chowder?

I laughed and kissed his neck before getting up to leave.

J- You are a mean, cruel man. Thanks for the half dozen orgasms I’m going to have to chase after this recipe hour. Brat.

He looked like the cat who swallowed the canary and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to wanting to see if he could actually cook my steak correctly.

There’s a first time for everything and the curiosity is killing me….

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