Voltaire et Brownies


I got a hankering for brownies today.  Sadly, I did not have the energy to take a shower and change out of my pink pajama pants, and I certainly didn’t want to be dirty pajama girl in the grocery store, going to buy a box of brownie mix.  So, instead, I baked a batch from scratch and got on Facebook.  The same friend who shared Frankenstein Drag Queens from Planet 13 with me yesterday had shared another song today.

Today, the song he shared was Voltaire – Death, Death, Devil, Devil, Devil, Devil, Evil, Evil, Evil, Evil Song.

No, really.  It is.  And it’s also fabulous.  Now, unlike FDQFP13, I am familiar with Voltaire and I love him.  I won’t go into detail giving you his bio.  You should just check it out here.  I’m a fan of primary sources, and also – confession – I just do not have the energy to write much or well these days.  Hence the reblogging of my tattoo artist’s Facebook shares.

I should be ashamed of myself.  And yet…Nope.  I’m just not.

Anyhow, check out the song, then make some brownies from scratch.  All the cool moms are doing it.

Homemade Awesome Sauce Brownies…Squeee!

24 T (3 sticks) unsalted butter – hey, I never said these were good for you.  Just that they were good.

3 c. sugar

1 1/3 c. cocoa powder

2 t. vanilla

6 large eggs

2 c. flour

2 cups add – ins of your choice

1.  In a medium sauce pan, melt your three artery-clogging sticks of butter.  Once they’ve been successfully disincorporated into a quivery mass of greasy yellow sludge, whisk in your sugar, cocoa and vanilla.

2.  In a separate bowl, beat your eggs like they just stole your car and pooped in the back seat.  Do it.  Get all that aggression you’ve been saving out.  Makes you feel better.

3.  Now, pour the chocolate mixture into the eggs and beat all that hot mess until it’s indistinguishable.

4.  Pour the aforementioned hot mess into the bowl that you should have assembled previously, which contains your flour and add – ins.  Today, I chose chocolate chips and shredded coconut, because I’ve completely given up on myself and I no longer care what the calorie content of anything is.  You might want to go a different route.  Walnuts and a few souls of the innocent, perhaps?  It’s up to you.  That’s the beauty of this recipe.  Lets you be creative.

5.  Now, if you don’t want to clean anything up when you’re done, too bad.  Because you’re still going to have a sauce pan and some bowls and utensils dirtied.  But you can lighten your load by lining a 9×13 inch pan with parchment paper before dumping the batter in it.  If you’re just hardcore like that, and you don’t give a fuuuuuuuuuuuuck, then go ahead, player.  Just spray some Pam in there.  Or lube it up with some KY.  I really don’t care.  Don ‘t do any of that if you want to scrape your brownies out of the pan with a chisel.  That’s fun too.

6.  You’re almost done.  If I can do it, so can you.  Just pop those brownies in a preheated oven (350 degrees) and bake for about 30 to 40 minutes.  When a toothpick can penetrate their beautifully moist surface and be withdrawn clean as a Mormon teenager, then it’s time to pull them out.  So do that.  Then try to control yourself.  It’s going to be hard, because they’re going to smell good.  But think of them as the underage girl that works at the chicken hut.  Hands off a little longer, there, killer.  Just lean in real close and sniff them every once in a while.

When they’re Kool and the Gang, go ahead and eat those bad boys.  And watch some Voltaire while you’re doing it.

Love you, WordPress.

Frankenstein Drag Queens From Planet 13


I just wanted to share the song that my husband is currently growing quite tired of.  A friend of mine shared it on his Facebook this morning and I loved it.  That’s right.  I didn’t just like it.  Loved it.  I looked up a bunch of their other songs on YouTube and didn’t care much for most of it, but this one just combines the elements of punk and a soft enough version off Wednesday 13’s voice that it hit my ear perfectly and I can’t stop listening.  Although my husband wishes I would.

To quickly update:  Babies are growing.  I’m growing.  I’m growing tired of being pregnant.  Think my pelvis may shatter at any moment.  Anemia exhaustion is unlike any exhaustion you’ve ever felt.  Still can’t see out of my left eye.  I no longer have calves or ankles.  I just have cankles.  Or hocks, if you prefer that image.  My OB thinks I’m going to go into labor before the scheduled C-Section, which at this point would be A Okay with me.  My cats have been acting weird and hovering over me for days.  I’m hoping it’s a sign that I’m going to go into labor soon, although I think it’s more likely that I’m just more aware of the presence because we’ve cut back on their food-per-feeding amounts in an attempt to curtail the mess around their bowls.  We just feed them more often now, with less in their bowls at a time.  Because they are actually not feline at all – they are pigs.

Okay.  Enjoy the Drag Queens.  They didn’t get me bright eyed and bushy tailed this morning.  That’s just an impossible task.  But they did kind of give me a little happy spike.  So I hope you enjoy them as well.  Bye Bye.

Barbie Crime Scene Photos


I don’t want to get offline, now, although I could use another little nap before I become a character on The Simpsons.  I’m listening to the Cherry Poppin’ Daddies and Tim Minchin (thanks for reminding me of him and getting me addicted, Metan) and I can’t tear myself away.  My left eye is quivery and watering from staring at this screen.  Ugh.  But while I wear myself out on YouTube, I thought I’d post these photos that I’ve been collecting lately.  I don’t own them.  They are a series of unrelated photographs posted on our local Facebook Garage Sale site.  Yes.  We have a year-round garage sale on Facebook, where people in and around my area can post the crap they no longer want in a desperate attempt to extricate a dollar or two from the rest of us.  I’ve actually gotten a significant amount of my baby gear from that site.

But this trend has cropped up, particularly among mothers of young girls who are members of the group, of posting pictures of Barbies that they have for sale.  And I may be a bit uptight but if I’m going to try to sell the plastic effigy of a woman whose body type is both expected of young girls and also unattainable – the plastic representation of all that’s wrong with American society, really – I think I’d probably brush her hair and dress her in some respectable outfit.  I mean, respectable for Barbie.  It would include a mini skirt and red Stilettos, of course, because Barbie doesn’t understand the concept of dressing like a normal person.  But in any case, I’d try to make her look as presentable as she could.

These women do not go to that extreme.  These women just waltz on in to their daughter’s play rooms and start snapping away, like CSI photographers, with no regard for the rules of decency or good taste.  And I have to admit, I fucking love these pictures.  I’m going to print them out and frame them.  I hope I’m not breaking any kind of copyright infringement, but I’m sure I’m not because these photos were intended to attract buyers of Barbies, not buyers of art.  These images are disturbing, and simultaneously, hilariously awesome.  Enjoy.

Couple of Things


First of all, online life, I’ve not forgotten about you.  I’ve not committed cyber suicide.  It’s just that real life, for once in its pansy-ass little way, has taken control for a bit.  I felt compelled this morning, though, after a fitful night of cats yowling and chewing on things they know they ought not to chew on, keeping me awake and generally irritating the piss out of me, heartburn on the scale of California wildfire, and concern over the fading vision in my left eye, to check in.

Yeah.  I’m not even going to go into it with the cats.  Let’s just say that my shit list, which is extensive and formidable, gained three names and had one underlined last night in dark, dark black ink.  Mike’s cat, I’m looking at you.  Also, to Bill, Wickett, and Lily, my dear furkids, you are all going to burn in kitty cat Hell for one year for every single cord you chewed last night.  I’m not sure what’s gotten into you all, but I’m about done with each of you.

I’m losing vision in my left eye.  Have been for the past two weeks.  Finally saw an Opthamologist yesterday, expecting to be told to man up and deal with the wavy, blurry water spot that has made reading and writing particularly troublesome and is now growing to distort faces and prevent me from driving.  Instead I was told “well, you’re not imagining it.”  I really thought it was just a side effect of all the swelling and water retention that my body has been engaging in lately.  I thought it would go away after delivery.  Turns out, I thought wrong.

Turns out, in fact, that at some point in my life I inhaled mold spores from dirt contaminated by the poop of either chickens, bats, or starlings.  I’m hoping it was bats, just because they are by far the coolest and actually aren’t even birds.  I’d even be okay with Starlings, because of their association with “The Silence of the Lambs” and the fact that they’re really quite pretty, although they make pests of themselves at the feeder.  But more than likely, as a child, I inhaled airborne moldy chicken poop, because I used to play in empty chicken pens as a kid.  Growing up on a farm.  Good times.

Well, it turns out that the infection you get as a result of inhaling the scat of fowl, called Histoplasmosis, actually causes nothing more than cold and flu-like symptoms and then basically goes away.  No big deal.  Oh, except for the fact that it leaves scars on one’s retinas that eventually, in an unlucky few of us (ahem…me), cause vision loss.  Awesome.

Add to that the fact that my pelvis threatens daily to snap under the weight of the twins – currently around six pounds each with five weeks to go – like the wishbone from a Thanksgiving turkey.  Remind me, sometime, to talk about the irony of using a piece of the meal eaten (in popular understanding) to celebrate what we have, in order to wish for more.  Yeah, America.  Awesome logic there…

I’m just about over being pregnant.  It was all fun and games up to this point, but now misery has set in like arthritis and I’m not a happy girl.  I get to go this morning – when I should be enjoying my morning nap, to be injected with a dye that will turn everything – including the whites of my eyes and my urine – canary yellow.  Then there’s going to be some more photos taken of my retina and a hard conversation will be had about whether I’d rather have my eye burned by a laser or injected with stem cells…Gone are the days when the toughest decision was whether I wanted white or chocolate milk with my chicken nuggets.  *sigh*

So that’s my life at this point.  I’m currently typing with my left eye snapped shut.  I’ve gotten good at doing most everything with it closed.  It’s very annoying, and a bummer to have vision loss at the age of 28.

Nesting, and the Lack Thereof


I need to address something. I’m going to sound horrible. I’m fairly certain that this post is going to be flagged by CPS and that everyone in the world is going to think that I’m a cold, frigid, ice queen of a woman. They will fear for the fetuses still protected from my indifference by the thick walls of my uterus. Were we in sixteenth century Germany, I would certainly be chased through the town with pitchforks and burned at one stake or another. Heaven knows those people wouldn’t be caught dead without a stake at the ready.

That being said: Nesting. It’s supposed to be an instinct. I may be a cynic, but I’m not a believer in the premise that humans actually have instincts. Not the way that animals have instincts. Not anymore. It basically comes down to an argument between nature and nurture and, while I understand that babies exhibit reflexive behaviors, I think that we begin to exhibit responses based on learning and experience from the early days of infancy.

So why does everyone still believe that humans have “instincts?” Why does everyone insist that I have a “mothering instinct?”

Oh, don’t worry, they’ll say.  You may not think you’ll know what to do, but your mothering instincts will kick in the moment you’re holding your little baby in your arms.  Now, I realize that I’m going to lose some support here in the next few sentences, but…um…bullshit.  That’s right.  I’m calling bullshit on the blind faith in the fact that some previously dormant neuron in my brain will activate immediately upon the expulsion of my children from my body.  Argument for human instinct has the same strength of premise as argument for the existence of “God.”

Uh oh.  Bye bye, believers.  I tend to chase them off fairly quickly.  But please understand that it’s not that I dislike people who believe in things like instinct and “God” and reiki and bigfoot and UOs.  Hell, I love thinking about all of those things.  And I get why people believe in them.  Trust me, skepticism is not for the weak-at-heart.  Accepting that uncertainty is the only certainty is like jumping in the ocean for a float wearing a chum suit and no life vest while your boat drifts away into the sunset.  It would make anyone a bit mad.  Shit, I’m sure it’s made me a bit mad.  But in the end, for me, it’s the saner option because at least I know that I don’t believe in anything falsely.

Okay.  Too philosophical.  Whether or not you believe in instinct is really the question here and, if you do, then you’re going to find this entire post flawed based on my initial premise that humans do not possess instincts.  So if you’re not on board at this point then there’s really no point to keep reading.  If you’re still hanging in there, then come with me one step farther down the rabbit hole.

So.  Yesterday, I posted a status update on Facebook that I had finally gotten off my ass and done some laundry, dishes, and started dinner.  The first response was from someone suggesting that I was “nesting.”  Ugh.  Gag.  I fucking hate that term to begin with.  I used to smoke Camel cigarettes and stay up all night watching slasher movies.  Okay?  I used to snort painkillers and hang out with felons.  Seriously.  I’m not bragging.  I’m saying that my lifestyle was not one that included washing and rewashing baby clothes because of some hardwired desire for my child to be born into perfection.  It was a bad lifestyle.  I’m glad I no longer live that way.  But the idea of me “nesting” is still one that I find abhorrent, no matter how reformed I’ve become.  It makes me feel icky.  I don’t want people thinking I’m that girl.

That girl.  Let me tell you about that girl.  That girl puts diapers on a stuffed monkey, dresses said primate in her unborn child’s infant clothing, then poses the poor creature in the crib and stroller and changing table, takes pictures, and posts them on Facebook.  Okay.  Now I love that girl.  That girl is a real girl who is on my friends list, and she’s a darling, sweet, kindhearted girl who has since had her child and no longer plays dress up with stuffed animals.  But that, folks, is nesting.  It’s absolute crazy sauce.  My day of tackling the laundry pile that prevents me from accessing my downstairs bathroom, my washing of Mount Dirty Dishes on the plains of Kitchen Counter, that is not nesting.

And I explained this to the person who suggested that it was.  No, I said, I was not nesting I was just trying to make up for the laziness that had preceded my actions.  I’d been up since six in the morning and had done fuck nothing since that time.  I had lounged on the sofa and watched Netflix and drunk of Seven Up and basically jerked my entire day right off.  Guilt was setting in.  My husband had been working eight hours and he still had two more to go and here I sat, in the only nest I knew anything about – a nest of pillows arranged strategically against one arm of my sofa.  Not cool.

But my protest fell like a piece of dandruff on a city street – unheard and unacknowledged.  More comments came in.  One from my best friend in the whole world, who just had her son about a month ago.  Another from the mother of the girl I said dressed a stuffed monkey and posed it like a newborn for Facebook pictures.  They insisted that I was nesting.  What’s more, they were completely ignoring the fact that I was telling them…I was telling them…DIRECTLY…that I was not nesting.  I was the subject of the conversation, and I was being completely ignored!

Do you know how frustrating it is to have someone tell you what’s going on in your own body and/or mind, while you’re standing right there, and just blatantly ignore what you’re telling them?  If a biologist wanted to study a particular fish…and that fish were capable of directly answering questions about its own biology and motivations…would the biologist simply say, “shut the fuck up, fish, I know you better than you know yourself?”  Perhaps.  Humans are haughty, and scientists can be some of the worst.  But what is it about having been pregnant that makes one an expert on everyone else’s pregnancy?  Just curious.  Because I’m really looking forward to becoming a more reliable resource on the next pregnant woman than the pregnant woman herself.  That’s going to be good times.  Telling her what she’s feeling and what she’s doing and why.  Yeah!  Knowing more about her than she knows about herself and completely dismissing her own feelings and beliefs on the situation.  I’m so, so on board for that, definitely.

Am I legitimately irritated or just being hormonal?  Please, tell me.  I know you know the answer better than me anyway. 😉

Update: Also, this.

Drinking Nail Polish…


…can cause reproductive system issues, according to the little warning they put in this show.  They didn’t cite a source but, come on.  Do they really need to?  And is anyone surprised?  Isn’t that just nature’s way of keeping the types of people who drink nail polish from making more people who might have a tendency to do things like…I don’t know…drink nail polish?  I know it sounds mean, and I’m sure she’s a really nice girl, but come on.  That’s just nature’s insurance policy right there.    Am I wrong?