I Don’t Care What You Think As Long As It’s About Me

I’ve had this Fall Out Boy song stuck in my head all day; it’s the chest track song from my
Body Pump class. The words, in all their self-centered glory, just speak to me.
Hmmm, wonder why?

At least the song lyrics formerly stuck in my head are now gone: “P.I.N.K P.I.M.P I’m back again I know y’all missed me.” I’m far too vanilla to be singing about diamonds all over my “teefs” and 23 inch black on black rims.

I’ve been, quite happily, playing Betty Crocker again.

Do you think Betty would listen to P!nk?
I bet she was a Frank Sinatra fan. Perhaps a little Elvis if she was feeling a bit cheeky. Dresses, pearls, high heels and a lacy apron scream Frank to me.

Chicks in jeans and flip flops, sporting a messy pony tail aren’t classy enough for Frank.
Betty was classy.
And me? Not so much. Now, let me assure you that even though I may not be classy, I’m most certainly not “klassy” like the Real Housewives of Orange County.
However, refined wouldn’t be a word one might used to describe me. Sure, I have good manners, but, well, I’m a mess.

Regardless of Betty Crocker’s supposed classiness, I don’t think she was a real person, so this renders my WWBLT (what would Betty listen to) line of questioning completely pointless. Of course, that’s assuming that this would even be a relevant topic if she were indeed a real lady. My verbal ponderings are rarely relevant. Or thought provoking.

Moving along….

Yesterday was “Feed Craig’s Workmates Day.” In celebration of the big event, I made the world’s largest chicken pot pie.

Seriously, it was huge.
And heavy.
And messy; some of the filling escaped the four layers of foil I enclosed it in and wound up on my car upholstery. That doesn’t make me very happy….and it reminds me of the time Craig made pot roast for his peeps in Hawaii. Our car smelled like pot roast for days. DAYS.

See how big it is:

That thing took me all afternoon to put together.

The air was pretty humid, which created a tricky (and sticky!) pie dough situation; I don’t like tricky pie dough situations.

They annoy me.

And cause me to say bad words.

Thankfully I had enough flour and ridiculously expensive organic, non-hydrogenated shortening to make a second batch.

After I conquered my pie dough issues, I also dealt with flour lumps in the sauce. I wasn’t being patient. In sauce making, lack of patience inevitably equals lumps. Or not. I don’t know. With the help of my trusty strainer, I removed the hideous lumps and went forth to create a savory pot pie filling.

Caroline and I dropped off dinner at 5:25pm. Craig called at 5:44pm for the post-dinner report. Ever the pessimist, and alarmed by the quickness of Craig’s call, I assumed that meant I messed something up. Au contraire.

They devoured the whole thing in fifteen minutes.

Yay! I love a pot pie success story.

Speaking of pot pie success stories, I never used to like pot pie. That is, until I started making it for Craig, who LOVES it and is so very nice to me when I make it for dinner. I’ve never been a *huge* fan of pie crust. I like graham cracker and cookie crusts, but real pie crusts were just “meh” to me. I also remember eating a frozen pot pie (you know the kind!) at a friend’s house when I was about nine and being appalled by the fact that the little thing had 38 grams of fat in it. Yes, I read nutritional information at the age of nine! Believe me, explaining years nine and ten of my life to you would send your heads spinning. However, it would probably provide a little more back story to how I became the Neurotic Housewife.

Seriously y’all, you don’t want to even know; I’m doing you a HUGE favor by not delving any deeper.

My mom, bless her heart, wishes with all her might that she hadn’t ever uttered the words “fat grams” to me. Had she kept her mouth shut, I might not have turned out so wacky.

Thanks mom! And I’m still so very truly and deeply sorry for ages nine and ten. You deserve more than the snarky card I bought you (but haven’t sent yet) for Mother’s Day. Remember last year’s Hillary Clinton card….where I wrote something about dodging sniper fire with you? Pure greeting card gold, I tell you.

OK, moving along again….

I also made chocolate peanut butter swirl brownies.

When I grow up I want to learn to cut brownies evenly. As obsessive as I am, I cannot cut evenly.

I try.

Oh how I try….

Before I shut up for good, I’d like to add two very random tid bits to this lengthy post.

1. Despite my well documented neurotic tendencies and compulsive hand washing, I am not worried about this swine flu. I just don’t get caught up in things of this nature. I figure if Geraldo Rivera is making a big deal about it, I’m just not interested. He spent an ENTIRE HOUR Saturday night talking about it. I realize that those who have been impacted find this to be a very big deal, and I wouldn’t want to down play that. However, just wash your hands people. And don’t kiss strangers. Or pigs. 😉

2. Good riddance Arlen Spector. Take Susan Collins and Olympia Snow with you. No more RINOs, please.

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One response

  1. Love this Totally Random post! And Big Pot Pie.Ah, yes. The dreaded FG words–fat grams. If any of your 3 readers would like to discuss years 9 and 10 of Alison’s life, e-mail her mom at nancyk1024@tampabay.rr.com.All I can say is, we parents certainly know how to screw up kids’ lives.Thank God for….well, for God!

Yo.

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