We Got Game

Every spring blossoms the Annual Transportation Conference, where geeky engineers break free of their HP calculators and kiddie soccer coaching duties. They shove their fancy mechanical pencils and titanium pocket scales into their book bags, distanced from their hen pecking wives to drink free flowing booze and stay up past their bedtime. But they are out of shape for wine, women, and song instead, awkwardly palling around with other social misfits, exchanging business cards and snazzy conference apps.

You might even remember I was the Hot Chick last year. Endless Engineering was oozing with jealously when they saw me making out with other attending consultants. It finally brought them to the table with an actual job offer instead of vague promises of permanent employment.   Six months ago it was decided we needed to GET SERIOUS and hire a person to drive the marketing train. It came down to two candidates, in theory so I could get back to doing actual billable work. I would like to point out that this goal has not reached fruition. The first was a shy, soft spoken girl with experience in the industry; the second……was Beer Girl.  Tiny and petite with long blond hair, permanent white tipped nails and big, big, boobs.  Even though her previous background was medical sales and Budweiser advertisements, they were smitten.  Even on my best day I can’t even convince myself I am a measly B cup.  Welcome to the itty bitty titty club. 

Beer Girl came up with a scavenger game for those of us that had to babysit the exhibitor space and entice peeps to our booth.  The theme started off as the “Hunger Games”, great, let’s kill and eat other consultants so we can get ahead. I was supposed to say, “may the odds forever be in your favor”, but I kept fucking it up and saying “may the force be with you.” Thus showing my age and uncoolness. Naturally she couldn’t join us because she was too busy doing origami birds or something.  Boss 1 and 2 think she is amazing, so clever and smart. I Googled the exact same marketing ploy, not exactly unique.  Well played Beer Girl, well played. 

Since we’re focused on beer, here is a recipe to match our theme.

Crock Pot Beer Chicken

2 pounds chicken breasts

1 can or bottle beer

1 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon garlic powder

½ teaspoon pepper

I have one of those fancy ass grill racks but I’m not coordinated enough to figure out how to balance on the grill top.  I’m much more of a throw stuff together and hope for the best. Combine all ingredients in crook pot and cook on high for 4-5 hours or low for 6-8 hours.

While at the conference I began receiving frantic text messages from the cleaning woman.  She requires cold hard cash for services rendered.  I’d left it smack in the middle of dining room table, with a paperclip the same as every time.  The Big Tuna bounced to the dunes five minutes after I bolted to the conference, so no emergency backup.  Please, please, please clean my house, I’m good for the dough, I’ve faithfully paid for almost twenty years. I’ve got 12 people coming for dinner this weekend and I can’t let them see the tumbleweeds of blond dog hair.  On my drive home I called the man expressing dismay on the missing money.  In the brief moments left alone in the house, he thoughtfully put the money in a drawer “because he didn’t think we should leave cash lying around”. He’s lucky Kathy the Wonderful came through or there would have been Labrador Retriever hair in the potatoes.  Here’s wishing you a good week Team Tuna.

The Real Sheldon of Orange County

Now that the Royal Wedding and mingling with the malcontent students is over, I feel like I have nothing entertaining to spill.  I peruse your blogs wishing I had two or three quips to string together into something that resembles an amusing blog post.  But I have an excuse, my horoscope told me to wait. “There is something satisfying about a good rant, and you might let yourself go on and on, especially in writing. But don’t deliver this in writing to anyone, sit on it awhile. “

See, I have a note to the principal.

Last weekend, I drove from Phoenix to Sheldon and the Brit’s new hood in Orange County. No spotting of Lisa Vanderpump or Adrienne Maloof. Not that I, ummm know about those housewives or anything.   It’s an adorable two bedroom closet for a mere king’s ransom every month.  Rather than sunning and funning, Sheldon and I splurged and purged all their co-mingling crud.  It was a combination of his apartment, her storage unit and all the wedding gifts including an unassembled dinette set.  Sheldon was pretty handy and finished putting together the chairs because as a woman, she knows how to read the directions. The son in law had to conveniently work all weekend to avoid the pitching/organizing fray.  Mostly, it made everybody like cranky overtired toddlers who needed to be put down for naps.

When I arrived Friday night I parked in the designated permit only space, querying Sheldon who assured me I had permission from property management. Let’s just say when I wandered out Saturday morning with several unpacked “borrowed” items to take back to Phoenix, I wasn’t stunned to discover it had been towed away.  A mere $310 buckaroos later, my little Ford Focus was sprung from car jail.  

I love Southern Cali, so beautiful with soothing ocean waves and glorious flora. But it is filled with all those annoying athletic and fit vegans sipping their soy lattes. Fuckers.   It made me feel frumpy and lumpy, like someone who eats sticks of butter for snack time. Thank goodness the ritzy Starbucks has a wine and cheese happy hour to drown my sorrows.   I’m embracing it, so here’s a nice fatty meal.

Fettuccine with Scallops with Lemons

1 pound green

1 pound fettuccine

5 Tablespoons butter (yes five, feel it adhering to your thighs)

¼ cup fresh lemon juice, about 4 lemons

1 pound scallops

2 cloves garlic

Salt to taste

Cook green beans as 1-inch pieces. Cook pasta per directions. Sauté minced garlic in 1 tablespoon butter. Add scallops and cook for two minutes. Add beans and pasta. Simmer until scallops are opaque. Add lemon juice and remaining butter. Serve with parmesan cheese.  

The newlyweds are putting off babies for the time being. Instead, they have their rescue kitty, Awesome to fulfill their parental desires. It’s like a test run, we’ve all done that. “Getting a puppy is great training for kids”. Snort, right. Besides, we all know the second bedroom is for me to visit.  

You are welcome to pet me now. #youaremyslave

 P.S. I might try a new format or two. Perhaps random ridiculous one liners or a monthly What Not to Wear feature.  But always, always a recipe. Let me know what you think peeps. 

Sheldon Takes the Plunge

Our baby girl, Sheldon, did the deed and wedded the Brit last weekend. Once I raced to the finish line running purely on adrenaline, my body retaliated by giving me a crappy cold to punish me.  Thus the delay in my recounting of this tale. At first I thought I was losing my voice from endless conversation and perhaps a teeny tiny hangover. But no, I have spent the whole week chugging orange juice like a frat boy and grain alcohol gone bad.

The royal event was the culmination to a topsy turvy season. Nerdy Sheldon had been having a sucky time with a particular class that she was taking for the FOURTH time that she needed to graduate.  She would return red eyed and blotchy from advising appointments without resolution.  I called for a parent teacher conference with the ASU counselor for my 23 year old weeper.  I forced the advisor, who was a theater rather math major, to bring in the head of the department.  They shared that they understood they were having an “issue” with this class since 50 percent of the little geeks failed.  The heavily German accented math head said it was because they didn’t do enough proof classes in high school. Well Toto, she had all A’s before this and she ain’t going back in time.  After 15 weeks of tearful tragedy, she passed and we walked together from ASU.  Thankyoubabyjesus, mommycouln’ttakeanymoredrama.

The reason I share this side story is to demonstrate what a crybaby Sheldon is. She cried at the wedding rehearsal, walk down the aisle, during her vows, during communion, hugging me on the way out of the church, daddy-daughter dance. I am a sympathy crier, if you turn on the waterworks; I am snatching tissues out of your hands to blot my own tears. At this point I was immune; I did not shed a single drip.  The Big Tuna was a bit more misty, the next day when the newlyweds packed up for their move to California he had a bit of a breakdown.  He started crying and laughing uncontrollably, I thought he was having some kind of weird stroke, it scared the dogs.  Here is a new recipe I tried this week, not bad or hard.

Easy Chicken Pie

2 cups cooked chicken breast

10 ounce package mixed vegetables-I found one with green beans and corn

1 can cream of mushroom soup

1 teaspoon Italian seasoning

½ cup water

½ parmesan cheese

1 package refrigerated biscuits

Preheat oven to 400 degrees. In skillet, combine all ingredients except for biscuits and heat until bubbling. Transfer to 2 quart casserole dish. Cut biscuits into quarter and place on top of meat mixture. Bake for 20 to 25 minutes or until golden brown.

A few young ladies claimed to have gotten a stomach bug, I’m thinking it was the bridesmaid flu.  The cheerful little one shared that they didn’t get to bed until 4 AM and didn’t really drink too too  much. Only one puked in the bushes.   This freaked out my friend Nurse Nancy who works at the CDC.  She spent the entire weekend verifying health stats and picked up preventative anti nausea medicine for the flight home.  She practically curled into the fetal position when she spotted my dad Buzz kissing ladies hands.  Planting one on old ladies wrists at the senior center must be proving advantageous, he could hardly wait to play that move at every vaguely eligible lady at the reception.

I, of course, can hold my liquor. Just me and my drunk girlfriends on the dance floor spinning flower girls like tops. But I know the love call of my man.  Once Love Shack starts thumping, it pricks the Big Tuna’s primal senses and he bounds onto the scene like a love sick moose.  It is his personal mating call, works every time.  Good luck baby girl, we wish you and the Brit the same love and adoration we’ve shared for 30 years. XOXOXO, Mom and Dad

Naughty or Nice?

I have been distracted from posting about the triumphant Tuna graduation by last minute Christmas shopping.  Fighting my way through mall crowds and supermarkets doesn’t make me super sparkly. As you may recall, the tradition of the Stocking Box involves an overflowing of holiday cheer filled with doodads from socks to booze.  Mrs. Tuna has consistently bought a little slinky something, something for the Big Tuna’s box since he is always on Santa’s good list.  Normally I would order something online, but with gifts arriving daily for Sheldon and the Brit’s wedding I was afraid it might be opened by young love by mistake. Awkward.

I opted to make a stealth trip to the local smut store. It has a reputation for not making you feel like you need to wrap yourself in saran wrap to avoid creepy cooties.  At the driveway entrance stood a sad, middle aged, Santa hatted,  female employee holding a “Got Naughty” sign, adorned with garland.  My shiny new sensible car did not look out of place with the mini vans and four door sedans with baby seats.  The ding dong announced my entrance and eager young assistants bustled over with cheery offers of help.  I mumbled a bumbling “no thanks”, avoided eye contact, sidled over to the sale rack.

The most awkward part was how the people milling around were in my middle aged demographic. They were all entirely too comfortable in these surrounding, some were pushing around overflowing SHOPPING CARTS. A burly man holding a set of garters up against his waist, the man in the suit and tie reading the back of the DVD’s for I’m sure the story line.   The Deck the Halls Christmas music seemed completely inappropriate against the dialog of the instructional vibrator videos.  I have the perfect recipe now that we all feel a little dirty.

Dirt Cake

8 ounces cream cheese

1 cup powder sugar

1 large instant pudding

1 ½ cup milk

12 ounces cool whip

1 pound Oreo cookies

Grind Oreos is food processor and set aside. Mix cream cheese and powdered sugar until  smooth.  In separate bowl, add pudding with milk. Mix well. Combine cream cheese mixture with pudding. Fold in Cool Whip.  In flowerpot, layer Oreos then pudding mix. Top with Oreos, add silk or edible flowers (don’t trust me, I’m not sure qualifies as edible). Serve with trowel.

As I stood with my purchase clutched in my hands, I already felt reluctant to use my debit card since it would leave a paper trail. The clerk asked if I wanted to join their frequent shoppers club, it was FREE! Stopitstopitstopit.   Fortunately, they packed me up in a black bag to hide my booty and I skulked out the door, slithered into my car and drove away.  So here’s a little gift to you my band of followers.   A Merry Christmas Team Tuna, happiness and love to all. 

The Big Day

Today marks the end of school for Sheldon and I. Please ignore how crooked my dumb stole is! Post for stage spotters and crazy hats to follow.

Death Becomes Her

So there Mrs. Tuna was, whipping along the freeway in the super-fast lane, when she heard the little “poink”.  A seemingly innocent little sound spelled the end of my fateful steed.  As power faded away, I used my Nascar instincts to bolt to slow lane, frantically dialing the Big Tuna of my demise. Literally, choked, curled into the fetal position, and died in less than a mile at the bottom of the off ramp in under 2 minutes.   

My truck, with 166, 567 miles, had given up the ghost.  Apparently, when your oil pump craps out at 75 MPH it causes your engine to seize in an irreparable way within seconds. With all the expenses of the ASU, Sheldon’s wedding and the Big Tuna’s new business launch we were hoping old Bossy would limp along until spring.  It was a spite death; we’d put brand new tires, rotors, brake pads, and spark plugs in only the week before.  She could sense her days were numbered until she went to the big trade in lot in the sky.  I would have been even more pissed if I’d actually run it through the stupid car wash over the weekend.

My man drove the 20 miles, tow rope and in hand and pulled me to the nearest parking lot.  We jumped in his man mobile and dropped my pretty little ass off at Endless Engineering. She looked so sad and abandoned as we drove away.  I was only 45 minutes late and still beat Boss 1 and Boss 2 into the hood by 7:20 AM.  Its days like this that make you want to inhale an entire desert, so let’s shall we?

Texas Sheet Cake

2 cup sugar

2 cup flour

½ teaspoon salt

1 cup water

2 tablespoon butter

½ cup sour cream

2 eggs

1 teaspoon baking soda

1 teaspoon vanilla

4 tablespoon coco

Place sugar, flour, salt in mixing bowl. Boil water, butter, coco. Pour boiling mixture over dry ingredients. Mix well. Add sour cream, eggs, soda and vanilla. Bake in greased jelly roll pan for 20 to 25 minutes in 375 degrees.

Cake Frosting

6 tablespoons canned milk

4 tablespoons coco

2 tablespoons butter

1 pound powdered sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla

1 cup chopped nuts

Mix milk, coco and butter and cook until fluffy. Pour into mixing bowl and beast in sugar, then adding vanilla and nuts. Frost immediately.

I.hate.car.shopping.  Even more than my mammogram, which is infinitely more painful when you belong to the itty titty club. I will pause to give you a moment to reflect on the enjoyment of squashed boobs over the horror being held hostage by the lounge lizards of car sales.  The first dealership introduced me to Hayseed Hank. He spent the entire time talking to me with a toothpick in his mouth. When the Big Tuna arrived on scene, he completely ignored anything I had to say and began “man to man” bromance bullshit.

If one more of them had said, “my, what a firm handshake you have little lady” I would have beat them with my stiletto.  While Sheldon and I test drove options,  she got on her smarty pants phone, price compared and found the identical model for $750 less.   Bam, done.

In the twilight hours of the delivery, Wyatt, the 12 year technology geek from Ford patiently showed me all the hands free gadgets.  He called me madam. Punk, just show me how to turn on the headlights so I don’t have to punch you. I am almost able to rationalize the cost since I cut my gas bill in half in my new little tiny Ford Focus. All I can think now when I hear the tick tock tick tock of the blinker is car loan car loan car loan.  Ah well, just remember in the future, the lady in the grey economy car with her blinker on trying to get in your lane may be me, just give me a break. It’s been a rough week. Good week Team Tuna. 

The Poisoned Pen

Mrs. Tuna’s writing ability has been held hostage by a variety of counter intuitive actions that have kept her from writing fun and amusing anecdotes about life in Tunaville.  I am squeezing every ounce of creative writing for the powers of evil rather than good. Here are some shining examples of how I’m wasting my 65 word per minute typing skills.

For my Movement and Motion Planning class I penned:

"The dialogue of the story depicts the unsettling and uncivilized continent of Africa. The wandering of the main character Marlowe, reflects how he changed his perception and outlook on cultured society versus the untamed world. "

Instead of writing about Sheldon’s near impersonation of a Lindsay Lohan panty flash at her Wedding Shower.

Or my rewriting of an employment cover letter for a friend:

“I believe I would be a great fit as I have the experience to effectively connect from a customer and contractor perspective. While my inside sales background is limited, I have been actively involved in undertakings that parallel these tasks. “

Instead of describing Bebe giving us a pole dancing demonstration in the Bat Cave.

Or creative proposals for Endless Engineering to be considered for big ass projects:

“Endless Engineering has a proven record of success completing hundreds of miles of roadway projects through both public and private infrastructure improvements across the State of Arizona. “

Rather than the new marketing chick who was more of a penis hire whose previous experience was medical sales and Budweiser promotion, fondly denoted as “Beer Girl”.

But my neglected followers, the end is in sight. Mrs. Tuna and Sheldon will be graduating from Arizona State in a mere four weeks.  It’s down to one term paper, two exams and a formal presentation of the horrors of Food Deserts and I’m all yours.  While I’m not actually cooking due to my crazed schedule, I will provide a bit of nourishment for your starving masses.

Pesto Sauce

2 cups fresh basil leaves (cheap date a Trader Joe’s) Rinsed and dried

2 cloves garlic crushed

1 ounce pine nuts

2 ounces grated parmesan cheese

2-3 tablespoons olive oil

Salt and pepper

12 ounces Pasta cooked per directions.

In food processor, add basil, garlic, pine nuts and parmesan cheese, pulse for about 30 seconds. Keep motor running and slowly add oil. Add to cooked pasta and toss to mix and serve hot.

Oh the places we will go in a few short days. All the scoop on Sheldon and Brits wedding plans with crazy hair fascinators, the adventures of Beer Girl with her manicured nails,  and those whiny college punks in Ugg boots and with shorts so tight you can see the outline of vagina lips.  Admit it, you’ve missed my smutty ways.  Good week peeps.