Delusions of Grandeur

Oh I had all those delusions of grandeur. I was going to spend spring break perusing all of your blogs, leaving snappy little comments and wishing you happy spring solstice.  But I am failing miserably.  I am a sucky blogging friend.  Witty means never having to say you’re sorry. But I am, really.

Instead, Itty Bitty Consulting chief bottle washer was a slave to life in the work zone. The company that interviews me endlessly continues to have me do contract work. But they are like jealous boyfriends, all sad and spurned when I have other client meet and greets.  Where are you going, when will you be back, are you kissing any other consultants? Any spare time I had I spent writing fancy assed papers on the Ethical Protocols for Maintaining Social Equity, 20 pages of bullshit frankly. But the end of the spring session is almost over and then one semester until I hop, skip and jump to that shiny abet pricy degree.  

I did manage to have a ladies wine hook up with Bebe and Miss Anonymous this week in a cold dark wine cellar.  It’s the oddest place, neon yellow drive in liquor store, but a secret magic cellar that you have to crawl over crates of Budweiser to get to. I may have even had to shove a few Clydesdale out of the way. Three late forties ladies on the town drinking real wine, restraining ourselves from adding ice cubes because by golly we’re sophisticated like that.  We scurried off to a dark corner with plush couches after carefully inspecting for any inappropriate stains. If I have to explain this to you, this is not the blog you think it is.

But some young pup thought we were cougars on the prowl.  Don Juan had spotted our giddy golden girls and sauntered over with his imagined good looks.  El Boyo slightly tipsy from the beer tap, plopped down on the couch between Bebe and me.  Separating her from the herd like a limping gazelle.  Run Bambi Run!!!!!  After expressing shock and amazement that we were indeed old enough to be his mommy, that our children were actually older than him. That shit, we had underwear older than him he starting oversharing how he spends his free time as a bar bouncer and a MMA fighter.  MMA? Mommy Makes Arousal? Icky boy, move along or I’ll blog about you.

This week I went to my favorite shopping hood Trader Joe’s . We won’t discuss how I went after a riding lesson in my attractive riding britches with green horse slime down my shirt and helmet head. Instead I will share the recipe from the free samples.

Rigatoni with Artichokes in Goat Cheese Sauce

½ pound Rigatoni pasta cooked

1 can artichoke hearts drained and quartered

1 package TJ’s Chevre Goat Cheese with Kalamta Olives

1 cup heavy cream

Salt and pepper to taste

In large pan over medium heat combine the heavy cream with the goat cheese. Stir until cheese starts to melt and then add artichoke hearts. When everything is heated through, add pasta and toss to combine.

The problem with Bebe is she is too polite. When our new snuggle bunny offered us a little sip of his flavor of the month beer. I rudely declined while Bebe caved to his peer pressure and took a taste. What are you thinking? At the very least I’m sure he’s been licking toads for a cheap high our something.  Perhaps it was the Stockholm syndrome. At least we can reassure ourselves that we still look better than the plaintiffs on Judge Judy. Happy week Team Tuna. 

Almost Famous

I am almost famous. In a pathetic attempt to fulfill my self-gratification and increase my follower count, I sent an email to the nationally syndicated Cosmo Radio show, Wake Up with Taylor. I had heard my boyfriend Curtis Stone was going to be a captive, um guest in the studio. Not only did she read my email to her listeners, but the entire swooning post about my snuggly little Australian koala bear. I am now convinced we’re BFF’s even if I have to make her my hostage and lock her in the crawl space of my attic for my own pleasure and amusement.

So let’s do a little comparative analysis between Taylor, the little cup of espresso and Mrs. Tuna shall we? I’m certainly not a fashionistas as we all know. Sh*t, I’m happy if my pants are long enough since I’m eleventy feet tall not to expose my ankles. 

• She’s all cool and hip in her trendy high waisted pants. I aim for high waisted in order to hold back my muffin top. I wear control top panty hose most of the time, sometimes even under my slacks.

• She recommends a cute flirty scarf to dress up any outfit and lift your winter doldrums. I wear a scarf to hide the massive wrinkles on my turkey neck. If I had one piece of advice for my 20 year old self it would be to wear more sunblock on my décolletage.

• She tantalizes her listeners with fluorescent color blocked shoes. I don’t even know what that means. Besides Payless, the only other shoes I know are Louis Vuitton and that’s because the Pope wears them. We all know he’s a bit of a fashion diva.

Taylor is always talking about how her size 4 clothes are a little too tight, I haven’t worn a size four since I was actually 4 to tell the truth.  I’ve just decided to embrace my tubbiness, so here is this week’s fattening recipe, join me on the dark side.

NY Times Macaroni and Cheese

2 Tablespoons of Butter

1 cup Cottage Cheese

2 cups Whole Milk

1 teaspoon dry mustard

1 pinch cayenne pepper

1 pinch nutmeg

½ teaspoon salt

¼ teaspoon pepper

1 pound shredded cheddar cheese

½ pound elbow macaroni, uncooked (yes uncooked)

Heat oven to 375 degrees, grease casserole dish with butter. In blender, puree cottage cheese, milk, mustard, cayenne, nutmeg, salt and pepper. Reserve ¼ cup cheese. Combine rest of cheese, milk mixture and uncooked pasta. Pour into prepared pan, cover tightly with foil and bake for 30 minutes. Uncover pan, stir, sprinkle remaining cheese and cook uncovered another 30 minutes.

Taylor and her partner in crime Kenny are ridiculously funny. In comparison, Mrs. Tuna is practically in a chronic vegetative state.  After she glorified me on her radio show several of you left comments or sent me thinly veiled jealous emails to congratulate me.  It makes me realize that I picked a preposterously long web page name.  Who knew two years ago that anyone besides my Sistah would read it? I’m happy to report that “Mrs. Tuna” comes up in the Numero Uno”  spot on Google search.

The question becomes, how can I get her to mention me every week? Or better, every day on her show? Well I guess when I bring breakfast to her jail cell in my attic she’ll be happy to promote this little blog to stardom for a little extra bacon. Eggs over easy Cosmo?

P. S. A little housekeeping Team Tuna. MOV told me about a newfangled Google gadget to sign up for email notifications for these nearly famous posts so you never miss my words of wit. Additionally, my "Like" counts on Facebook are sad and pitiful, help a sister out and like me over there too.