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Funny how horror can turn into glee with the right people.

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thewhitetrashgourmet:

Seems support comes in more than just 36DD. Thanks Maggie. Love you long time!

Originally posted on Misc. Maggie:

I like the word “Broad” and its connotations. One Tough Broad, to me, is one of the highest compliments a woman can receive. Joan Rivers, Suzanne Pleshette and one of my all time faves, Elizabeth Taylor… all Broads. I remember when Joan Rivers’ husband killed himself and she hit the road working. My mother always admired her for that; her husband bailed and left her with a little girl and an assload of debt and she shook it off and went to work.

I don’t know that I have attained “Broad” status but I will always work toward it. Broads are tough mothers, passionate partners. Broads live out loud in living color. Work hard, play hard. Drink, smoke, swear. No apologies. And if you are ever in trouble, you want a Broad on your side. Broads get things done. Broads have huge hearts, big brains, beautiful shoulders to cry on…

View original 360 more words

Fanning the Flames

Thanks to my good friend Le Clown,  I was just made aware of this lovely little tribute to yours truly.

Thought I’d give the people that understand what I do a chance to respond, send bags of flaming dog shit and the like.

I’m very busy at my job, working to support my kids and not being taken care of by any fucking man. I will take a time out and respond properly later but in the meantime have fun.

http://stakedintheheart.com/2012/10/16/and-we-have-a-four-scoopfree-cat-litter-box-winner-here

xoxo

TWTG

This is why!

 

Casting Call

I’m not sure how many of you are aware but TWTG is single again and on the prowl. I had been using a lovely little internet dating site called OKCupid. Now, I’m a big girl, and I can handle some bullshit but I’ve already taken my profile down. See, being the Queen of Everything has its advantages, one of which is having men flock to you by virtues of your, um, God given attributes. (Thank you parents and sweet baby Jesus for the boobies!) It didn’t take long to become overwhelmed by the sheer number of responses, which led me to consider a different approach:

I’m taking applications.

Now Hiring at TWTG Incorporated!

Position to be filled:         Boyfriend

Position vacated:             August 13, 2012

Requirements:

Day job (not as boyfriend, husband or gigolo)

Car (2009 or newer)

House (no roommates, kids don’t count)

Children OK but no psycho ex-wives

Adventure seeking, vodka drinking, affable and outgoing

Handsome (in my opinion)

Brains (mmmm, yummy, brains)

A sense of humor (if you can’t laugh at life, I have no use for you)

Please submit resume to thewhitetrashgourmet@gmail.com along with a photo and drink invitation (you are buying, buddy), to apply for a face to face interview. VEGANS NEED NOT APPLY! Anyone under the age of 33, I do not need to hear how age is just a number and you are so mature and don’t get along with women your age. I know damn well why you are cougar hunting and I just have to say, if I’m the cougar, I get to choose my prey.

Fig Seeks Bacon 

  • Fresh figs
  • Bacon
  • Chèvre (goat cheese)

    Cuddled up together

I didn’t include ingredient amounts because you can make as few or as many as you want.

Preheat oven to 400˚. Wash figs and pat dry with a paper towel. Slice each fig in half just below the stem (keeping the stem intact). Place about a teaspoon of chèvre between the two fig halves. Cut bacon slices in half. Wrap each fig with a half slice of bacon and secure with a toothpick. Place on baking sheet and roast for 20 minutes. Voila! Perfect small bite to impress dates.

Those loyal Subjects that have been reading the blog for a while know that I’ve had my share of internet stalkers. No big deal when you have a man in the house to deal with such threats. I could depend on my 18 yr old being home but that occasion is too rare to rely on. This is why no one gets an invitation to my house until I’ve first met them in a crowded, public place and sent a picture of their ID to my bite sized friend Autumn. Maybe I’ll acquire a hand gun, some mace and a large dog, just in case… not that I’m threatening you. I swear, I’m a sweetheart. Promise…

TWTG says, “I’ve had it with you people and your fuckery!”

TWTG Rides Again

I’m sheepishly, squeamishly, certainly sharing

I’ve had just about enough of your caring

My subjects, I’m sorry

Abruptly I fled, my head, oh my head

Slowly I’m dipping

My toe in the blog pool

Happily single – this girl ain’t no fool

Losing a lover, a friend and a partner

It hasn’t been easy

My art, my heart suffer

I’ll claw my way back

I’ll conquer the kitchen

Because we all know it’s me you’ve been missing

#randytravispenis

In trying to come up with Something To Talk About today, I got into a conversation with the boyfriend that was funnier and more interesting than anything I wanted to rant about. Rather than forcing myself to write when I wasn’t feeling it, I decided to transcribe our behind-the-scenes shenanigans into the only format that made sense:

Spicy Thai Popcorn

So authentically Asian.

  • 1/2 cup popcorn kernels
  • 1 cup chili lemon peanuts
  • 1 cup shredded, sweetened coconut
  • 3 tbsp vegetable oil
  • 1 tsp chili oil
  • 1 tsp sesame oil
  • 1 tsp thai spice mix
  • 1 tsp  Spicy Chili Lime Popcorn Seasoning
  • 1/4 tsp powdered ginger

Heat oils in large frying pan. Add popcorn and cover. When popcorn starts to pop, shake pan constantly until popping slows. Remove from heat and continue shaking until popping stops. Mix peanuts, coconut and spices in a separate bowl. Pour over popcorn and toss.

Once again, thanks must go to my not-nearly-better half for putting together a strip. I told him he wouldn’t ever have to do another, since the last one was made solely as a tribute to Comic-Con. But I say a lot of things—I’m almost biblical in that sense. I suppose a confession is in order, as well: I don’t actually own a laptop. We made that part up. Somebody buy me one.

TWTG says, “I have risotto on my shirt and what looks like a booger.”

Red Alert

Oh, well isn’t that fucking fascinating?

I’m talking about my period today, men, so either click here for some masculine relief, or get ready to Purell your eyes. You can’t unread it. I’m giving you ample warning about this. Don’t come crying to me about any lost boyhood innocence—it’s not my fault you ditched the family living class in fifth grade. I’ll wait while you pack up your penis and skedaddle. No, really.

Hold on, let me smell if they’re still here. Nope. I don’t detect any beef, cheese or feet. I think we’re good.

Now that we have this post to ourselves, girls, relax. The discussion of my monthly visitor will not be directed by Dario Argento (which is an amazing reference—just ask the four people that got it), but I didn’t want to give those recently-departed assholes the smug satisfaction of being somewhat right. Whenever a woman is standoffish, men always retreat to the tired “it must be that time of the month.” Even though my eyes roll at that, it’s sadly true of me. I pride myself on being a reasonable woman. I try not to run on, react with or feed into emotion. Yet, every month (like clockwork, go figure), I succumb to what I’ve coined my Blackness. This is when all my ovulatory hormones decide to punish me for going unused, and twist me into a bloated ball of stabby goodness. It lasts for a single, don’t-fuck-with-me day, and serves as the precursor to the main event—I’d call it the red carpet ceremony, but that is the main event.

Here’s a story. Shortly after leaving my ex, I took the clown spawn to Pat & Oscar’s (now O’s American Kitchen) for some comfort food; as I sure as hell wasn’t cooking on this particularly Black evening. All the elements were against me—the stress of being newly single, the fragility of kids adjusting, etc.—and the slightest annoyance was going to switch my factory presets to kill. Alas, the restaurant had changed its menu. My favorite whole-roasted chicken meal was no longer there. But it was there last time. And every time before. And was the reason for going. That poor GED hopeful I took it out on. The things I screamed, the places I said he could shove that new menu. I don’t even remember all the details, I just remember waking up. Several years and some soul-searching later… yeah, I can safely say it was my finest moment.

And, shit, now I just want some Pat & Oscar’s.

Spinach Risotto & Italian Sausage

The only sausage for a week. Zing.

  • 1 1/2 cups Arborio rice
  • 4 tbsp butter
  • 2 tbsp olive oil
  • 1 shallot, minced
  • 1 medium onion, diced
  • 1 tsp garlic, minced
  • 4 cups chicken broth (more or less)
  • 2 cups fresh spinach, chopped
  • 1/2 cup grated parmesan
  • 1 tsp dried basil
  • salt & pepper
  • 5 Italian sausages

Melt butter with olive oil in medium sauce pan. Add shallot, onion and garlic, cooking until just starting to soften. Stir in rice and saute for 1–2 minutes. Add 1 cup chicken broth and simmer over medium-low heat, stirring often, until liquid is absorbed. Add liquid 1/2 cup at a time, stirring until absorbed after each addition. The entire cooking process should take 20–30 minutes. When rice is almost cooked through, add spinach, parmesan, basil and salt and pepper (to taste). While rice is cooking, place sausages in a frying pan, top with 1 cup water, cover and simmer until all the water has evaporated. Continue browning for a few minutes stirring occasionally. Serve risotto topped with sliced sausage.

What prompted such a crass topic? My nine-year-old is developing early, and while The Talk is still a few years away, her hormones are starting to communicate with mine. As such, she gets to share momma’s Blackness and become every bit the rainbow of kitten-giggling sunshine I do. The boys in this house better play nice, lest we clip them at the tip with a broken ashtray. True fact.

TWTG says, “I’m a well-educated drunk.”

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