Duck La Orange

    If you've ever cooked a duck, you can join me in my feelings of sadness and grossed-outness, all the while feeling slightly guilty that you totally LOVE the taste of such a cute little creature. It's not quite the same as eating an ugly cow or a goofy turkey.... ducks are cute. And they quack. I can almost feel good about eating something that simply moos or gobbles. But quacking is adorable, almost as adorable as that little waddle they have..... Ok, feelings of guilt are steadily increasing, so let me rewind back to yesterday's dinner.
    As part of my new plan to try at least one new food or meal per week, I was excited to see that our local grocer had displayed whole ducks (insert teardrop here). I hesitantly nabbed one up and decided that I was going to make Duck La Orange. Now, if there's one thing that Betty C. taught me, it was that ducks are rather oily birds. They have incredibly thick skin that holds in the juices (grease) and that juice (grease) needs to be released. So, to prepare these birds, you have to tie their legs together like a turkey and then stab the crap out of them. Once the skin is sufficiently punctured (resembling a Law and Order: SVU victim), the oils will drain out of the duck as it cooks. What I failed to realize is that the oils will drain out into the pan and sizzle, smelling similar to a grease fire for the next 2.5 hours while it cooks (and then for at least another 28 hours after....still counting). I decided that I would have to drain the oil out of the pan every half hour or so in order to prevent having a fried duck as opposed to a roasted duck.
    Upon smelling the house, my husband had decidedly made up his mind to eat elsewhere for the evening, sure that the meal was going to be a complete disaster. I convinced him to at least give my cute little bird a try (also telling him that grilled asparagus is really much better than it sounds). Sure enough, little Donald came out looking golden, crisp, and juicy, covered in orange sauce and spices. Once the fatty skin was peeled off and gagginly fed to the dogs, we were less disgusted and able to dig in to the deliciousness that was our duck. Pat even liked the grilled asparagus, although he felt that they did not live up to the praise that I had tried to give them earlier (he's apparently not strong enough in his masculinity to handle nasty smelling pee for a day). Finally, although the duck is gone and it's bony carcass removed from the house, it's smell may forever last with us. Well, the duck's smell along with Cinnamon Bun, French Vanilla, and Toasted Almond... if those don't work, I'll be forced to whip out Coffee Bean (the enforcer of all candle scents).
To summarize:
Ducks = Cute / Delicious / Greasy
Asparagus = So-So / Smelly Urine
Candles = Useless

Internal Chickens

   Apparently my husband has lost interest (rather rapidly, I might add) in the conversations that I start up with him regarding my ovulation cycle. I can't imagine why he, as the father of our future children, would find this topic in any way "icky" or taboo, but alas, it has happened. He no longer cares to hear about peeing on a stick, reading an ovulation meter, or the details of why it's not ok to "get it on" certain days as opposed to others. He has decided that from now on, he will simply touch my stomach and ask, "Baby?" If the answer is no, he does not want to get grossed out hearing why, and if it's yes, he simply doesn't CARE why. He has also chosen to refer to my ovaries from here on out as "chickens". The word "ovary" apparently doesn't set well with him, and since both ovaries and chickens lay eggs, he has chosen the mature route regarding all reproductive talk. So tonight, me and my internal chickens are going to curl up with a good book and a movie... all alone... just as my pee stick instructed.

Paddles and Paws

    Although Valentine's Day is officially over, my husband had yet to open his little Valentine's bag from one of his clients. So, today was the day that he dove into the gift and pulled out some heart-shaped erasers, a Transformer Valentine, and one of those paddles with the string and ball connected so you can bounce the ball up and down on the paddle. Strangely, however, the paddle was heart shaped with a long handle attached. Take a moment, if you will, and really get the visual of what this paddle looks like. Two rounded heart shaped bumps with a long handle coming off the other end. Got it? Although slightly obsene, the gift caused both of us to burst into laughter, especially after I broke the ball off trying to play with the paddle! I think the people at Designer International Group, Inc. need to put a bit more thought into their next holiday design plan before mass producing phalic toys for children.
    Speaking of bloody feet, we woke up this morning and I noticed that our window on our front porch was broken. This is the second broken window we've had in 2 months, which is really quite peculiar since we have no idea how this keeps happening.... that is until we saw our neighbor's dog with a protective bag hooked to his front paw, limping clumsily across the yard. Sure enough, Mac saw our dogs through the window and jumped up, slicing the pad on his paw almost the entire way off. Poor Mac. Maybe Designer International Group, Inc. will be able to create something disturbing to cheer him up.

Thin Mint Revenge

    I was never a Girl Scout growing up, but those cookies have it going on! Me and my hubby, we love our Thin Mints. Every season we purchase a box (or 6) from our friends' daughter to be supportive (and gluttonous). The first season I bought just one box of Thin Mints (I wasn't married, afterall, and it was just me, so I figured that was plenty), only to find that my not-yet-husband ALSO loves Thin Mints and that he is willing to search out my cookie stash and eat my box of deliciousness. So, from that point on, we have always purchased at least a couple boxes of the minty treats. I placed my order and received the cookies yesterday. I came home this evening and discovered that an entire box was gone, empty, eaten! I couldn't believe that they went so quickly and I didn't even get one stinking bite! Therefore, tonight I will take my rightful revenge. That other box of Thin Mints? My dinner. You better believe I can put away that entire box in one sitting, not because I WANT to consume my daily allotment of calories via Thin Mints (ok, I actually DO want to consume my daily allotment of calories via Thin Mints), but it's the principal of revenge. It's just not as sweet (no pun intended) if done halfway. And a very sweet revenge it will be!

Puppy Play Time

   We have implemented a new activity in our house. It's called Puppy Play Time. The dogs get so excited when we even say the words (partially because I know they understand fluent English and partially because I jump up and down while talking in baby-talk when I say it). Puppy Play Time consists of both Pat and I going outside together with all 3 dogs (which is usually not allowed because they run off when they're all out together) and we take turns chasing the dogs and having them chase us. They get playing and running and barking like mad. Not only is it incredibly funny to watch them, but it's good exercise running all over the place.
    We decided earlier this winter that PPT (figure it out) is at it's absolute finest when there is fresh, fluffy snow everywhere. So tonight, after getting this completely unpredicted snow storm, we took the dogs out to run amok. And run amok they did. The snow was coming down heavily, landing on my eyelashes as I took off chasing the dogs toward the open field. And THEN I ran face-first into the clothes line. The crazy thing about running into a clothes line is that the metal wire has some give to it.... so you kinda keep going for a while as it digs into your nose and cheek BEFORE you fall backwards. I have to say I laughed as I had tears in my eyes, especially since I was wearing a head lamp and should've seen the wire (did I mention the snowflakes in my eyelashes?). At least the dogs had fun, right?

A Poisoned Apple

    You may think that fairy tales are nonsense. Afterall, they all consist of villians, magical spells, and usually a victim or two. Well, I'm here to tell you that fairy tales may not be true, but if we could have learned anything from Snow White, it's that eating anything that an old woman forces down your throat will, in fact, kill you. Let me back up to the beginning.....
    Once upon a weekend, in a small farm house, far, far away from anything, a woman and her husband invited the man's parents and grandmother over for a simple dinner. It was a pleasant affair, one that had not a hint of malice or underlying evil. It was just after dessert was finished and the dishes were being washed when the old woman pulled out of her magical purse a vile of clear liquid and a tube of nasal healer. The medicine is said to be tasteless and can cure any infection. The nasal healer will relieve congestion and clear out any disease that has latched itself onto one's nose. As the young girl turned from the sink, the old woman shoved a spoonful of her witch's brew into the girl's mouth, before she had nary a chance to object. She crowded around the new wife with the nasal healer, assuring her that it will make her young and beautiful (ok, ok, it's just gonna make the allergies better, but when you can't breathe, it's as good as youth and beauty!). So the young woman followed the instructions and squirted the poison into her nose. (FAST FORWARD 24 HOURS).
    Four nose bleeds later, the woman found herself cursing the old woman and then cursing herself for falling into the evil trap. The words "as seen on t.v." ran through her head over and over, thinking of the woman's claims that the medicine was tried and proven to cure all ailments. The woman and her husband, who had been feeling well for several days, found themselves coughing up phlegm and concerned about rattling sounds coming from their lungs.
    I don't know if you believe in fairy tales. But what I can tell you for sure is that there is always a villian, a magical spell, and a victim or two.....

An A-? Really?

   My spoiled husband has taken to "rating" my dinners as of late. I'm actually given a grade on various courses of the meal, followed by a critique of "a little under seasoned" or "a bit too much garlic" or "it just feels like it's missing something". The other day I made catfish (for the first time ever) with panko bread crumbs, lemon, and cajon seasoning. It was DELICIOUS, but my husband rated it a B+. He had sersiouly one bite of fish that was a little lemony and he proceded to scrape off most of the crust after that. Today I made Chicken Monterey, corn, and a creamy fruit bowl. It was a very quick and easy meal, but came out perfect. What did he give me? An A-! What was the minus for? It could have used just a "touch" more salt. Do you want a rating, "dear"? How's this... C. It stands for couch. Enjoy.

My Husband, The Philosopher

   My husband has reached enlightenment. The proverbial lightbulb has turned on in his masculine head and I want to acknowledge my pride for all to hear. Today, my hubby came to the realization (all of his own accord!) that I require a nightly "process time" as he calls it. This is the half-hour each night that I return from work and just talk. It's generally about work, stories I heard that day, or simply a change in the weather, but I NEED that time to process my day and unwind. He recognized this evening routine of mine on his own AND realized that his part in this process is to nod his head, give a few mmm-hmmm's, and to just listen. On some level, I don't even know that it matters if he actually hears a word I'm saying, but I apparently need a living soundboard to spew my useless information at before I can move on with my night (obviously a non-living blog is not enough for me!). So, I take this moment now to praise my husband's philosophical discovery into the inner workings of a woman's psyche, a place of understanding where few men have dared to go, and I applaud his willingness to fulfill that connectivity void.... even if he is faking it.

Valentine's Day Duck

   It was another happy Valentine's Day spent with my new husband and, in true husband form, my man went shopping at about 4pm today after realizing that the present I had for him was bought and wrapped days ago, sitting prettily in our bedroom. He arrived home this evening and presents me (excitedly) with a card. I open it to find a picture of King Kong (wearing holiday boxers with hearts on them). Inside the card it reads, "Happy Valentine's Day, from Your Love Monkey". He then reads my card (which I spent time thinking of what he means to me and writing that special message inside), proceding to say, "Wow. You really wrote a lot." (Gee. Thanks.)
    So, he gives me my gift, practically bouncing up and down with giddy anticipation after he tells me that he and his 8-year-old client spent 20 minutes playing with it in the store today (obviously NOT lingerie). I open the (white plastic) bag and inside is a Donald Duck stuffed animal wearing bunny ears. (Apparently, the store had run out of the Valentine's Day Donalds and had already put out the Easter Ducks, which my husband bought without realizing.) When you push the button, Donald dances around and sings a silly "love you" song in a true Donald Duck voice. However, the best part occurs when you pick him up by one of his ears. The little, miniature Donald frantically waves his hands and legs back and forth while yelling (in a duck voice) "Put me down!! Put me down!!" I cracked up hysterically as one dog tried the eat the Duck and another dog puked on the bed.... I'm pretty sure that was an unrelated, purely coincidental event, but it did happen nevertheless. Overall, I do believe the gift was a success:)

Mr. and Mrs. Amazing

   My husband has always had this amazing way of doing dangerous things without getting injured. I say that this is amazing, because I lack this skill entirely. So I can safey say that I stand in awe at his ability to go day by day unharmed. Not only am I incapable of doing dangerous activities, but I can't seem to make it through my daily routine safely (and trust me, I live a very SAFE existence!). Let's take yesterday for example. We were expecting company for dinner, so I spent the day cleaning and preparing food, not even having to leave the house for anything. I didn't use any overly harsh chemicals and my encounters with sharp objects were minimal. How then, you may ask, did I manage to give myself 3 injuries? Simply put, I am Me. And "Me" manages to find harm in the most unlikely of places.
  Injury #1 occured when I bent over. Yes, that's right, a simple bend at the waist (not holding anything heavy) was enough to re-tweak my old back injury. Therefore, scrubbing the tub was enough to bring me to tears. Injury #2 took place in the kitchen when I used an oven mitt (with a strategically placed hole in it) to take a tray of egg rolls out of the oven, burning a blister into the space between my thumb and forefinger. (And I was being so careful to use the mitt that covered my entire hand... I had already learned the hard way that the ones that don't cover all your skin allow you to burn the top of your hand on the rack above when you reach into the oven!). And finally, Injury #3 happened in the bedroom (and no, it wasn't THAT kind of injury). I was, like any good hostess, trying to make the house smell cozy and delicious, so I had lit a tart burner upstairs (NOT EVEN AN OPEN FLAME!). Unfortunately, I may have knocked said tart burner and spilled hot wax all over my hand. And yes, it was the same hand that I had burned 10 minutes prior while in the kitchen. My husband looks at me with such amazement... not because I carry the outstanding ability to do dangerous tasks without getting hurt, but because I'm a complete and utter disaster 7 days a week.

Little Pink Pills

   I have recently discovered my natural self, and I've decided that it is sooo much grosser than my medicated self. I always thought that birth control was a way to help with all of those female troubles that can occur for some women, and of course a way to prevent pregnancy. Since being married, my husband and had discussed "going off the pill", which we ended up doing. HOWEVER! My body has proven that it had grown rather fond of it's 10-year relationship with those 21 tiny, pink, miracle pills (slightly less fond of those 7 dumb, little white ones), so fond that it has tried to engage an active rebellion against me for pulling the plug on that friendship. I always heard that people lost weight once their hormones re-regulated from going off of birth control. Well, let it be known that this little inner revolt I have going on has caused an ADDITIONAL 9 pounds (which seems rather unfair to gain PRE-pregnancy weight, if you ask me). My skin has also taken on it's own battle against me by developing nasty sores that sometimes ooze all over by face, back, and chest (AKA adult acne, thank you very much... and the kind that DOESN'T go away for weeks!). Apparently my skin and weight management system decided to clue in the rest of my thyroid, telling it to swell up and make it difficult to swallow, creating the lovely choking feeling I had for 3 days earlier this week. And I suppose it goes without saying that I'm tired and slightly weepy (ok, I'm a train wreck) half the time (ok, most the time), making me an utter joy to be around. Possible Future Child, you better be nice to me. Because you're grounded upon arrival if I gain one more pound!

Shiver Me Timbers

   Last night my husband started to feel under the weather. Since he was getting sick, he was going to sleep in the spare bedroom. But upon realizing that the windchill was going to be -10, he decided that he needed to sleep upstairs so my body heat would keep him warm (I had to giggle at that one since I'm generally freezing cold everywhere I go). Being the good little wife that I am, I permitted his sick self into my germ-free haven where he proceded to yell out on and off during the night (scaring me out of my wits) while shivering so badly that I thought Molly was back to scratching herself again. Finally, around 4:30, he got out of bed and drew himself a warm bath. I staggered into the bathroom, squinting my eyes against the light, and found him behind the shower curtain, rocking and shivering in the warm water. I felt so bad for him but there was so little I could do (I mean, I filled his water bottle and offered to help, but other than bathing him, my hands were pretty much tied). So I did what any good wife would do. I closed the doors, turned on my sound machine, and went back to bed for 3 more hours. Hopefully tonight will be a more restful sleep (for both our sakes!).

Gag-a-rific!

   For the better part of 3 days I've been being choked by an invisible force between my adam's apple and my collar bone. I went to the doctor for one problem, he probed around at my thyroid for a while, and now I'm being choked 24/7, causing me to gag several times per minute. Let me assure you that yes, this is the most frustrating feeling I've ever had (not to be confused with the most painful....just thoroughly irritating!). Thank  you to the previously mentioned Dr. Pro-Appetite, he has NO idea what is wrong with my throat, but he's conviced that it's a matter that requires him to giggle repeatedly while I tell him about my situation. Seriously, the man is BEYOND lacking in the appropriate social skills department.
   There is always a silver lining in a day.... and in my day, this happens to be that my throat feels non-gaggy when I eat something (talk about a fantastic way to medicate!). Which is convenient because this happens to be the day when my husband greats me with a delicious breakfast, my partner shares a tasty lunch with me, and my man spontaneously cooks dinner (AND washes the dishes when he's done!). Don't let my gag fool you... I'm pretty pleased:).

Me And My Pro-Appetite

   It's an obvious fact that we have many doctors in America that are first generationers here. Perhaps you've had the joyful experience of going to your local primary care physician and feeling like you would've preferred to have videotaped the appointment and played it back with sub-titles, because without them, you have no idea what's going on. You could've just been diagnosed with Stiff Person's Syndrome and you'd never know (and yes, that's an actual disease). Or maybe you can understand the accent of your doctor, but the wording of the questions is so peculiar that you're STILL not sure that you get what's being asked! Well I struggle with both of these. I was at a new PCP (Dr. Zhang) this weekend. And I found myself getting thoroughly confused (by his AWFUL bedside manner, for one... but that's a whole other story) when he asked me if I have a "pro-appetite" in an asian accent. A pro-appetite? As in pro or con? Well, I thought about it for a second and answered that yes, I am in favor of eating. He seemed frustrated and said it again... and again and again. The blank stare in my eyes must've been getting on his nerves, but even the words he was using to explain himself were totally foreign to me (yes. pun. I know.). "You know, eat to eat? Fo fun? O not to eat, you starve?" Ok, seriously? What the heck is this man saying to me! It was about 5 minutes after he got fed up and moved on that it dawned on me.... POOR appetite! I basically spewed it out in the form of a question. "YES! Pro-appetite!" he answers. The note I wrote on my comment card at the front desk? Please get written questionairres of symptoms. ASAP.

Lean On Me

   It's been one of those weeks for me where I've felt out of sorts, discouraged at work, and like I'm just losing steam. I've had a fair amount of stress and exhaustion in the last few days, so when I arrived at home and was able to vent, my husband listened nicely and let me try to come up with ideas of things that would cheer me up. I began to get dinner ready, doom and gloom hovering over my head, when my man pulled me in for a big bear hug. I FINALLY started to feel myself relax. Covered in pork loin juice and standing in the kitchen, I let myself be calmed. Just as the sweet relief of my hubby's hug began to wash over me, he started to bounce me up and down and sing "Lean On Me". Then, in the middle of the chorus, he stops and exclaims, "Oh! I know! We can sing old negro spirituals! That will cheer us up!" I'm not sure if it was the pent up frustrations from the week or if it was just funny that a burly, bouncing Caucasian would get that excited about negro spirituals. But he was right. It did cheer me up :).

Just Plain Old

   Kids say the darndest things. Unfortunately, teenages just say rude things. I had a teenager say to me today, "You'd know that song if you weren't so old. What are you, like, 23 or something?" Luckily I like this child (and I honestly don't think she was trying to be rude... it just comes naturally to her). Had I NOT liked this sweet teen, I probably would have informed her that the sidewalk could get her back home just as well as my car. Not only am I old, but I'm 5 years older than she even thought old was. So that makes me older than old. I'm nearing 29, and I'll be honest, I think that's a lousy number. It's almost 30, yes... so that automatically makes me cringe. But I really don't like the number 29 (which is strange because I love me some prime numbers!). It would probably not be so bad being my age, except for the fact that I honestly feel OLDER than my older than old age... anyone else out there find themselves going to work, getting tired around 3pm, needing a coffee to get enough of a boost for the drive home, making some dinner, complaining about indegestion, and then retiring to bed to watch some HGTV as you snack on vitamins and multi-grain crackers? Really now, what kind of 28-year-old does this? Time to start looking through the AARP mail, downing the Gingko Biloba, and getting that ramp built.