Far Flung In Laws

We all know how Mrs. Tuna is distracted by shiny objects, losing her focus and misplacing her wine glass. Last week I had a post comment asking me to contact them for an interesting proposition. Since I am no longer the young nubile girl of my youth I knew it wasn’t going to be anything slutty. Imagine my thrill at being asked to be a regular featured writer on Inthepowderroom, a place to spew my random thoughts on life of over the edge. I will keep you posted on when the roll out begins but the most exciting part is they will pay me in vino. But…….that means that this week is going to be a bit of cheater. Rumors are swirling that a certain somebody is coming for their yearly visit.

Sesame Chicken and Phil (FFIL)
Many, many moons ago, the Big Tuna and I left the bosom of our families back east and moved to sunny Arizona. As a fairly new bride my cooking skills were at the kindergarten level but I managed to piece together enough of a meal to keep us from starving to death. I should at this point say that after more than a quarter of a century, between us we’ve gained enough weight to have added a 5th grader.

During cold and bitter months we are a favorite destination spot for long lost relatives. We have one Far Flung In Law (FFIL) or Phil who has a tendency to be a major critic of people for a little personal sport. On his initial visit he and the Big Tuna decided they’d go for a day of golf and we’d head out to a fancy dinner once I returned from my job at the old slave market. Upon my homecoming, the boys had been visiting the beer cart in the hot, hot sun and decided the little woman could hook them up with a bite to eat. So be it, bacon wrapped beef filet, broccoli, and Rice a Roni it’s a meal, or is it….

Me: Something wrong with the rice Phil?
Phil: Mrs. Phil never makes Rice a Roni.
Me: Well Mrs. Phil doesn’t work so she has time to grow her own stinking rice.

Okay, I said the last line in my head, not out loud.

The following day, the Big Tuna left on a business trip but the good sport I am, made another feeble attempt at cooking something to please this picky in law.

Sesame Chicken
4 chicken breasts
½ cup soy sauce
1 cup flour
2 Tablespoons Sesame Seeds
2 Tablespoons butter cut in pieces

Mix together flour and sesame seeds. Dip the chicken breasts in soy sauce and roll in the flour mixture. Place in shallow baking dish, dot with butter. Cover with aluminum foil, bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes. Remove foil and cook an additional 15 minutes.

Phil: This is the first good thing you’ve ever cooked for me.
Me: And also the very last. (Not in my head)

Phil staggers to town nearly every year, he stopped asking “What’s for Dinner” after about Year Ten. I will assemble a little meal for myself leaving them to forage for cold cuts and can openers. Sometimes he’ll even pop to take us out. The only thing I should mention here, is the best side dish with the chicken? You got it, Rice a Roni.

Keg stands and Mammograms

Hello, hello, hello!!!! I have reached the halfway point in the semester, Spring Break and I’m like a Labrador puppy unrestrained from my crate. I’m so excited to be free I might even piddle on the floor. I feel like I’ve been neglecting all my followers, haphazard commenting on your posts, writing weak things like “good job, keep it up”, I know feeble. My last post regarding The Boy’s Birthday was dashed off only to meet the appointed deadline, just cribbing info from his Facebook page. But now Team Tuna, I will be dedicating this week to catching up with all of you, being witty and filled with snappy comebacks.

Attending school has certainly reaffirmed that being surrounded by girls in short skirts and Ugg boots with their naughty parts hanging out magnifies my muffin top. My sensible flat shoes clicking loudly in comparison to the soft soled Van sneakers of boys with pierced lips causing them move aside and call me Madam. Sh*t, when did I go from Miss to Madam, it happened in a blink of the eye. More importantly, remember when we were all a little creeped out by pierced eyebrows? I actually saw someone with pierced nipples, I couldn’t look away, and it was mesmerizing. Ouch, that’ll leave a mark.

Two of my classes are in king size lecture halls, I always aim for the aisle seat and in my anal retentive manner get there nice and early to ensure early boarding passes. But it also places me near the electrical outlets, one chick tried stringing her power cord across my chest in order to check her Facebook status, ah no, step away or I will b*tch slap you. I’ve been up since 4:30 AM and I’m mighty cranky.

I fortunately haven’t had any sobbing fests in the urban planning movie class, but did have one kid nod off and try and rest his head on my shoulder. I now spread my crap all over the chair next to me marking my territory, daring anyone to make me move it. The added bonus is it has also kept those coughing, hacking, phlegm and germy little slugs away. You’re all running for the hand sanitizer now aren’t you. This week lets aim for something a little less fast to make up for all the drive thru food.

Rock Cornish Game Hens
2 small game hens
1/3 pound ground sausage or pork
¼ cup chopped onion
1 clove garlic minced
2 cups Pepperidge Farm herb stuffing
¼ cup milk
Chicken Broth to moisten
½ rib celery chopped
½ teaspoon thyme
½ teaspoon rosemary
½ teaspoon basil

In skillet brown pork with garlic, onion and celery until meat is no longer pink. Drain off excess liquid. Add remaining ingredients and mix well. Stuff hens and place on meat rack in shallow baking dish. Baste hens with butter and cover with foil. Cook in preheated oven at 350 degrees for 1 ¼ hours. Remove foil for last 15 minutes.

So while my little school chums are off to Cancun doing keg stands, I have scheduled myself for all those pesky appointments I have no time for. Hair cut, skin cancer check, pap smear and mammogram. I know, I can see your jealously, all sad and transparent. If I could have worked in a tummy tuck, I would have invited all of you over for body shots. Ah well, maybe next year.

Sugar and Spice and Everything Nice

Well that’s what they say little girls are made of. But boys, they are made of Axe cologne and sweaty hormones. My Sistah’s son, The Boy, is going to be 17 this weekend. Recently he quizzed me to find out if he’d been featured in any recent blogs posts, no worry Batman, it can be my present this year to ridicule you. Sheldon traveled in different circles playing her giant cello and doing the pageant wave. While I only have a daughter I also have four brothers and work with all men so I speak guy. The Big Tuna is surrounded by females, including the wonder dogs, swimming alone in the deep end of the estrogen pool.

Boys are just wired different, Sheldon and The Girl fixate about homework assignments, calculating how many extra credit points they need to keep up their obsessive compulsive grades. The Boy, like many male teens have lots of incompletes on their midterm reports, turning in missing assignments and acing their tests to attend the Disneyland field trip in the nick of time. In preparation of this post, I spent a little time scrutinizing his Facebook page for fodder.

The Boy Facebook Status:

SO apparently if I get staight A's in all my classes final semester I will officially own the .22 caliber bolt-action CZ rifle that I unofficially own!! I'M SO FREAKING EXCITED!! Now I actually have some incentive to get my work done instead of slacking! It's not final yet and my mother and father need to talk about it but I'm pretty sure that my dad realizes that I love that rifle WAY more than he does.

Really a gun, hold me I’m scared. Hopefully it won't turn into a Columbine incident. But also a more sensitive side.

The Boy Facebook Status:

At the midpoint in life I found myself in a dark forest for the clear path had been lost…..Dante’s Divine Comedy

How insightful, so mature, so alien from the rough and tumble man child he appears to the 10th grade population. I asked my Sistah for his favorite meal. He and the Girl were both adopted from Korea as babies, here is the recipe for Bulgogi, a Korean barbeque dish.

Bulgogi
2 lbs boneless beef (sirloin etc.) or chicken, sliced thinly; cut bite-size
4 cloves minced garlic
1 Tbs. toasted sesame seeds
1/3 cup soy sauce (I use low sodium)
2 Tbs. sherry
1/4 tsp. pepper
3 green onions finely chopped
2 Tbs. sesame oil
1/4 cup sugar
1/2 tsp. fresh ginger, minced (or 1/8 tsp. ginger powder)

Mix all ingredients except the meat to make marinade. Marinate the meat from several hours to overnight. Grill quickly or under the broiler. Serve over rice with Kim-Chee.

Last year we met up with some of his friends at my Sistah’s for his sweet sixteen. Clammy boys were focused on Sheldon’s awesome blondness and big boobs. I thought one of them was going to faint when she showed them her tattoo. I will leave you with another boy-ism,

The Boy Facebook Status:
Multiplication is like women. If they’re under 13, you just do them in your head.

Oh dear. Lock up your women, he’ll be driving before you know it.

Hoarders, Old Checkbooks and Diaries oh my!

Getting my Bachelor’s degree in Urban Planning is part of a vague bigger long term plan to maybe shuffle outside of sunny Arizona to points east. But they say all journeys begin with a single step. Mine is to consider how the hell we were going to pare down all the junk we’ve accumulated over the last 25 years into something manageable. I started over winter break purging a closet here, a drawer there, I mean crap, I won’t graduate for two years. Surely I can get rid of my hoarder tendencies before then right?

One major task was to empty out our 4 drawer filing cabinet with all of our “important papers”. Do I really need canceled checks since 1985, owner’s manuals for the last three microwaves we’ve owned, and the Girl Scout Cookie Mom code of conduct? I certainly need to keep our first joint tax returns. We made $11,000 smackers, living large in 1982 (Ah no, not 1902). But I did discover a folder where I had inscribed funny musing regarding Sheldon’s upcoming birth. Now granted this was during the stone ages before they even invented that newfangled internet let alone blogs.

Excerpt from Labor and the Remote Control, circa 1989
Working in a male dominated field has caused me to realize that women’s liberation is considered to be just a blip in the road to the engineering workplace. Every Monday morning was greeted with an official waddle check, what saved me was that I was an Amazon height among my male patterned baldness peers. Then came the questions of when I would leave prior to the birth of our little bundle of joy. When informed I planned to work to the bitter end I was greeted with horrified gasps of “but we just had the carpets cleaned”. Stop it, surely I’m not the first employee to have a baby. Oh but I was, I was like a weird science experiment that went horribly wrong. I kept on cooking, after all I was eating for two. Oh yeah, Big Tuna too, wouldn’t want him to be hungry. Maybe a salad, I was 187 pounds when I popped after all.

Caesar Salad
1 large head romaine lettuce, washed and shredded into bite size pieces
3 Anchovies, minced
2 cloves garlic minced
¾ cup parmesan cheese
1 egg, coddled
1-2 lemons
½ olive oil, don’t cheat and use vegetable
Croutons to suit

Assemble lettuce, garlic, anchovies and parm cheese and toss slightly. Bring a small sauce pan of water to a boil, place egg in for no more than one minute, crack and place slightly runny egg in bowl. Add olive oil and juice from lemons. The amount of lemon juice is a personal preference. I like it sour, so I may not be the best judge, you can always add more, but never take back.

Fortunately I went into labor over a weekend so I didn’t damage anyone’s delicate psyche. I nudged my beloved and whispered my contractions were 10 minutes apart. Without opening his eyes he grunted I should let him know when they were more like 5 because he needed his rest in the delivery room. After jumping up and down on his body and whining I wanted company he staggered from our snug bed. This resulted in the dogs leaping up for breakfast and walks, so much for a sympathetic back rub.

Settled into a cheerful labor and delivery our nurse offered the usual ice chips and hospital gown. She helped me into bed, fluffed my pillows and gave me the remote control. A look of confusion passed over the Big Tuna’s face. In our house, he is the remote control king complete with rechargeable batteries and Lazy Boy recliner. “I am having the baby! I should get to choose!” I proclaimed. With quivering lips he released his tug of war grasp on his real firstborn. But it was 1:00 AM and the only stinking thing on was the ESPN Sportcenter loop so it was still a win for him. (At this point I will point out this was pre HGTV, Bravo, and the Food Network so it was this or CNN)

I, of course, was one of those weenie woman who never considered anything but maximum drugs, problem was, even though my contractions were a minute apart, I was only one centimeter. “Sorry Mrs. Tuna, gotta be at least a five before your epidural, just keep breathing.” “Yes honey breath”, said my baby daddy as he fondled the remote and started idle flipping though the channels. Give me my f*cking drugs and I’ll breath, otherwise, I’m going to hyperventilate and do myself an injury and take your hands of the damn clicker.

No one here needs all the intimate details, we all have our own memories of our special moments, depending on the morphine haze level. Epidurals……are a wonderful thing….sigh. My teeth were numb, I was in my happy bubble. However, the hospital staff referred to the Big Tuna as a “fainter”. Needles in the back made him wobbly, needless to say he got a chair during delivery and his own personal spotter. But he survived that and more, sweet sixteen parties, graduations and someday he’ll walk Sheldon down the aisle. After all, she has been Daddy’s little girl from day one.

Living in a My Little Pony World.

When I was growing up, one of the eleventy million jobs my mom had was managing a 50horse hunter jumper show barn. It allowed her to bring the seven heathen children with her on days we were freed from our school prison to run like savages in the countryside. Once it was discovered that my long legs kept me stuck like glue on bucking two year old colts my fate was sealed. “Sure, throw the scrawny one up on Widowmaker, she’s young, she’ll heal quick if she breaks anything.” I rode 5 or more horses everyday all through high school as well as the East Coast circuit allowing me to mail my homework in from beyond the tri state area.

(No this is not a stunt rider, it is actually Mrs. Tuna)

I must secretly or maybe not so secretly be into S & M. As you know, I inflict myself on Eva Braun and her best friend Helga the yoga instructor on a sort of consistent basis. But I also have a much more regular relationship with my horse trainer, Attila the Hun’s cousin Sue the Sadist. Equestrians get all hot and dreamy when surrounded by whips and leather. Ahem.

Horseshow season is almost upon us in Arizona and my tormentor has accelerated to more of a frat house hazing phase. Umm, gee, that fence looks pretty darn big, I’m a little teeny bit concerned my horsie might stop and launch me from the fetal position on my head. I mean, I don’t want to have to take a bed in the Christopher Reeve Wing at the hospital. I will share here that Sheldon fell off in one of her lessons and broke her arm a few years ago. Nothing binds you to your daughter like having to shave her armpits for her. “Put your big girl panties on Sparky and get on with it, you’ll be fine”.

When we horseshowed our food needed to be easy access, today I’m sharing a chicken salad thing we ate on bread or crackers or even just a spoon.

Waldorf Chicken Salad
5 boneless chicken breasts, cooked and diced
1 cup chopped walnuts, big pieces
1 box frozen snow peas
1 cup mayo
3 tablespoons Dijon mustard
3 tablespoons white vinegar
½ teaspoon pepper
2 teaspoons sugar
2 apples, peeled, cored and chopped
4 celery stalks, chopped

Combine and chill. My misspent youth was before the days of sunblock, electrolyte drinks and bottled water. My mom did her best to ensure we had plenty of salt and hydration in our system by offering salt tablets washed down with Rolling Rock nips. I always thought I rode better with a bit of a beer buzz.

But sadly, my horse Lad (Yes as in boy), is off with an injury that will keep him stall bound for 9 to 12 months, 6 down, 6 to go. He’s a giant horse, his back as tall as my head and I’m almost 6 foot tall, stuck in his square cell. The vet has put him on a long lasting tranquilizer, when I looked it up online one of the things they treat with it is schizophrenia in people. It must be keeping the little voices quiet in his pea brain. The backup ride, while kindly lent by said trainer is a tad bit sensitive. Bordeaux’s eyes spin like pinwheels and leap sideways at imaginary cougars hiding behind jumping fences. My lessons are typically with the teen girls, explaining why most of my Facebook friends are under 18. I’ll be glad when my personal bully leaves for the show grounds and I can stop peeing my pants in fright. I’m too old for this sh*t.

Fatal Attraction

Cupid is skulking around the fringes of February, causing me to reflect on the lure that bound the Big Tuna and me together. I read a scientific study, okay maybe I read it in the National Enquirer, that you tend to pick a mate that looks hauntingly like you. That’s because it’s like looking in a familiar mirror, great, nothing like being attracted to someone who reminds you of your brother. Okay, now we’ve all thrown up a little in our mouths we can move on. This was confirmed by our trip to the Big Tuna’s 20 year class reunion.


Honey, how about this black velvet skirt and fancy red top to wear? Sure, looks fine, pack that, whatever. We arrive at the big event, wanna guess the school colors, you got it, BLACK and RED. Dude, really? Even the name tags fit the color scheme, black for alumni and red for the spouses. My saving grace was the couple that stood up at our nuptials gave me someone other than the wait staff and chaperones to talk to. The same married man that had given me the impression that he should have starred on the Dukes of Hazard was strangely surrounded by a giant pocket protection crowd. I had him pegged as more of shop class kind of guy rather than chess club.

On my way to the bar for a refill of white wine over ice, I was accosted by a slightly weaving woman, who insisted we’d had home economics together. Girlfriend, you must be mistaken, see my name is written in RED. But I just talked to you brother, the Big Tuna and after all, you’re wearing the school colors. Arghhhhh. We could not have less in common perhaps that is the glue that has held us together for almost 30 years. He’s meat and potatoes, I’m faux vegetarian. Shoot he’d never even eaten broccoli until he met me. Starbucks has given me a gold card, he drinks Pepsi with donuts. He likes fast sand cars in the dunes, I had to take Dramamine when we visited Disneyland. In honor Valentine’s Day, here is a recipe from Cosmo magazine. The claim is if you make it, your man will pop the big question.

Engagement Chicken
• 1 whole chicken (approx. 3 lb.)
• 2 medium lemons
• Fresh lemon juice (1/2 cup)
• Kosher or sea salt
• Ground black pepper

Place rack in upper third of oven and preheat to 400 degrees. Wash chicken inside and out with cold water, remove the giblets, then let the chicken drain, cavity down, in a colander until it reaches room temp (about 15 minutes). Pat dry with paper towels. Pour lemon juice all over the chicken (inside and outside). Season with salt and pepper. Prick the whole lemons three times with a fork and place deep inside the cavity. (Tip: If lemons are hard, roll on countertop with your palm to get juices flowing.) Place the bird breast-side down on a rack in a roasting pan, lower heat to 350 degrees and bake uncovered for 15 minutes. Remove from oven and turn it breast-side up; return it to oven for 35 minutes more. Test for doneness—a meat thermometer inserted in the thigh should read 180 degrees, or juices should run clear when chicken is pricked with a fork. Continue baking if necessary. Let chicken cool for a few minutes before carving.

But my official arm candy has a few interesting sensitive secrets. He’s a sucker for musicals and plays, he stops for little old couples broken down on the side of the road and always offers me the last shrimp. Since I have never understood the ins and outs of haikus, something about so many syllables, with some many lines, blah, blah, blah, I will instead wish my sweetie, Happy VD!! Valentine’s Day, get your minds out of the gutter.

What’s Your Sign my Little Zodiac Killer?

As a rule I don’t read my horoscope, sometimes vaguely checking it depending on how many stars they say my day was going to have. Never read anything less than a 3 star post, that would just be wrong. The first day of classes at ASU was ranked as a four star day, I chanced it.

Taurus-You are a learner, remember this, even when you feel like standing still in what you already know. Translation: Don’t spit on the 20 year olds, they may spit back.



But ASU f*cks you coming and going on random fees, parking permit…….$850 a year, Sheldon and I are sharing this little ransom pass. But it is the MOST amazing parking space. It overlooks the men’s diving team practice. Clap, clap, clap, clap, dive again my handsome Adonis, triple twist my young buck...ahem, I mean it’s important that the youth today exercise and not become couch potatoes getting fat right?

Wandering around campus made me feel like the uncoolest, unhippest, matronly woman on the planet. Usually when comparing myself to the same age plaintiffs on Judge Judy I think I’m holding up pretty well. Now I’ve gone from being the girl in high school that was eleventy feet tall to the woman who is eleventy years older. There is no way to compete with their player hair and bare midriffs. They just sucked all the pretty out of me. Gotta get me some spanks, that is a given.

My over control freak tendencies enabled me to show up with my color coordinated folders and sharpened number 2 pencils ready to roll. Glancing around I am easily the oldest of 450 students. As I had just driven straight from the salve market I was dressed as the middle aged professional that I am. I hiked up my control top pantyhose, mostly to hold in my fat, ready to absorb to finer points of Urban Planning. It’s an iPad versus iTampon world.

One class is an online adventure. Students are required to post their points of view on a discussion board about challenges facing third world countries. In every single post they were “shocked”. No one was surprised, upset , stunned, shaken, dismayed. Could it be that Mrs. Tuna is the only one who knows how to use a Thesaurus? Here’s a little something to hold you over until next week.

Microwave Spaghetti Carbonara
8 ounces spaghetti
10 slices bacon, cooked and crumbled
3 tablespoons butter
¾ cup grated parmesan cheese
3 eggs

Cook pasta conventionally while microwaving bacon until done. In 2 quart casserole dish, microwave butter until melted. Mix in cheese, eggs and bacon. Drain pasta and add to casserole dish. Toss with cheese mixture. Microwave on high 2 to 4 minutes or until eggs are set, tossing every minutes.


I however am doomed. One required class is called “Cities and Cinemas”. Basically, you watch movies and write papers based on Urban Planning concerns. Really, Julie & Julia qualifies for this? I kid you not. My problem is I cry at movies and sad TV shows. I wept so much when George’s dad died on Grey’s Anatomy I gave myself a migraine. I cry every time at Homeward Bound when the dog falls in the hole, know he gets out, but nonetheless, big mascara stained tear tracks, this is going to be ugly. But I am a Taurus, I am not full of Bullsh*t, bring it.