A Decadent Disaster

 

I admit. I need this.

I would like to give you all an update on the progress of my cooking skills, which I so candidly swore would improve. I lied. Or rather, I was tricked into convincing myself they would improve. But I have to admit- I have not put much effort into this New Year's resolution. I've been so caught up in Half Marahton training that it's been hard to make the time (at least, that's what I keep telling myself). This excuse leads us to Valentine's Day Baking Blunder #2: Red Velvet Cookies.

My co-worker's wife was sweet enough to give us all some of these for Christmas, and ever since, I've been longing for another morsel of this Red Velvet heaven. I found a seemingly easy recipe online which even gave shortcuts like using the Duncan Hines Red Velvet Cake Mix. That cut down on half the steps and I still managed to mutilate this savory masterpiece.

All was going smoothly until it was time to make the frosting. These cookies are really cookie sandwhiches, bound together by a layer of suculent cream cheese frosting. Mmm. My mouth is watering in remembrance of what they tasted like back in December, and my stomach is dry heaving in remembrance of what they tasted like yesterday.

I was intelligently measuring my two tablespoons of milk over the entire bowl of ingredients, when the milk came bursting out of the carton into the bowl. I got my two tablespoons alright. Try two cups.

"Oh great. I just effed these up....hopefully they still taste good."

My boyfriend and roommate said nothing as they exchanged concerned glances behind my back. They silently vowed to take tums before bravely putting any dessert in their mouth that I made.

Since I dumped a whole carton of milk into the bowl, the cream cheese frosting was more runny than creamy, so I thought I'd put my baking expertise to good use by thickening up the frosting with even more powdered sugar than the four cups that were already in there. That made it manageable enough to glop on the cookies.

Finally, the moment of truth came. I walked my plate of  "tester" cookies out to the living room for my roommate and boyfriend to try. It was like a dare - we all took our first bite on three. I should have chosen truth. They were painfully sweet. Powdered sugar should never be used to thicken anything. They were instant stomach churners. My roommate could stand them more than my boyfriend and I could. At least someone could. That's one more than in previous attempts, right?

Another trip to the grocery store down the trash chute. Nothing says I love you like a botched batch of cookies.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but putting me in the kitchen might be the death of you.

The Puppy Hunter

I am making my loved one's sick. And I don't mean I gave them the bronchitis I was suffering through for the last two weeks. I talk about getting a dog ad naseum. I know I do it. I just can't help it. Looking for a dog has become an obsession. My boyfriend is getting to the point where he just wants to throw me off a cliff. I'm pretty sure my roommate is in the same boat. My co-workers and siblings are well on their way.

Checking petfinder and the local classifieds have become part of my online routine, just as much as checking my email or facebook account. I have dubbed it Puppy Hunting. My boyfriend and co-workers have been getting daily emails from me, updating them on the dogs I'm inquiring about and hoping to adopt.

Not much progress has been made since I candidly wrote the Dog Blog, when the Puppy Hunting was really starting to take off. It has been a tough decision all around. Do I want a dog a I can run with? Do I want a cute little lap dog? Should I wait until I move (the logical answer to this is yes but I refuse to quit looking)? What if I find a good deal I just can't pass up?

The dogs I have called about have all been adopted, or they're asking for two grand and my first born child in exchange for their AKC pooches. I practically insulted one breeder when I offered her $500 for her four year-old Shiba Inu (which is waaaay more than I'd like to pay). I could hear laughing in her response email. What kind of breeder did I think she was? She was breeding Eukanuba show dogs, hello! Although I never met this woman in person, I imagined her to be Parker Posey in the movie Best in Show. If you've seen this movie, you know what I'm talking about.

What's really been complicating the hunt is that the breed I initially set out to get is not the only breed I'm interested in now. My hunt for a pug has now expanded into a list that includes the following breeds (in no particular order):

• Pug
• Boston Terrier
• French Bulldog
• Lab
• Husky
• Shiba Inu

The more I add to it, the more indecisive I become. And the more I have to talk about it.

But alas, there's hope. Yesterday, I dragged my boyfriend, kicking and screaming, to yet another dog adoption event hosted by a rescue shelter (he really is good to me). While they didn't have any of the aforementioned breeds, I did hold a pekingese/chihuahua mix. While she was a cutie, I was so afraid that if I took her home, I'd step on her and kill her. I could hold her in the palm of my hand. She definitely wouldn't be running with me. I could carry her under my arm as I ran around greenlake.

Then a guy walked by with the most muscular, snotty Pit Bull I ever saw. He was trying to adopt him, but this dog was already taking his new owner for a ride on his leash. That dog was definitely walking him. When the dog calmed down to take a drink from a bowl for two seconds, the man exclaimed, "Oh my god! He drank that entire bowl of water in one gulp!"

Yeah....not quite the breed I had in mind.

But that's when I locked eyes with a tame, not so muscular, cute Pit Bull mix.

It raised it's eye brows as if to say, "Are you going to pick me?"

I walked across the room over to her cage, and she promptly jumped up and greeted me with a smile. I started petting her and she began licking my hand. She was so excited that I even came over to visit her. Everyone had been walking by her because no one (except for that crazy man) really wants a Pit Bull.

Then she sat down, as if to show me that she could be a good, calm dog. I was impressed at how smart she was. She was very aware that she needed to perform in order to get chosen. She kept looking at me with her raised brows even while she was calm and laying down.

I felt awful. I knew I wasn't going to adopt her, but I just wanted to take her home out of pity. Once she realized she wasn't going home with me, her eyebrows fell, and she laid back down, with her head resting on her paws in dissapointment. It killed me.

I learned some more logical advice that I probably won't follow: I have got to stop going to these adoption events until I can really bring a dog home. Otherwise, I'm going to depress myself. It's just so sad.

With that being said, I have made up  my mind to continue Puppy Hunting only at Resuce Shelter websites. No adoption events. No breeders. I need to give a home to a dog that really needs one. That Pit Bull may not have gone home with me, but it still captured my heart enough to redirect the course of this crazy obsession of mine.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but I will continue Puppy Hunting until I hit a bullseye.

Is that you, Benjamin Button?

I have yet another affliction I'd like to share with you. Not only was I blessed with a "special" toe, but over the last year, I have developed an interesting skin condition on my hand. It is so interesting in fact, that my sister has now dubbed it, my "Benjamin Button Hand."

You see, it started out as dry skin. I've had cases of eczema every so often so I figured it was just that and it would go away. But it started hurting. And getting dry. And getting wrinkly and gross looking. But it was just in this one spot. "It looks....old!" my sister exclaimed. Hence Benjamin Button.

It took me a long time to finally get it checked out at the dermatologist. Contrary to my sister's pop-culture based medical diagnosis, it turns out I have a condition called dyshidrotic dermatitis, which breaks down certain proteins in my skin cells between my fingers and on my palm. I only have this on one half of my right hand (and I don't recommend googling it).


Nonetheless, this is easily treated with a topical steroid cream. A common, no-big-deal condition.

Lately, I have been out of this cream for a few weeks, which has led my hand to continue its dry, crusty,  journey. I meet a lot of new people at work, and I often shake many a hand and wonder if the other person I'm meeting thinks they are shaking the hand of a field worker, rather than someone that types at a desk all day. I'll never know. At least they got their daily exfoliation.

Sorry I know I'm grossing you out. I digress.

So. Today. I decided it was time to get some more of that topical steroid cream. No more field-worker handshakes. My co-worker came with me to the pharmacy and asked, "What are you picking up?"

I said, "My anti-Benjamin Button Hand Cream." She's privy to its name.

"Oh," she smiled.

"Yes, it will reverse my hand's age in that one spot. My hand will actually go back in time." I laughed and was proud of my cheesy joke. That's when I turned around and saw the pharmacy clerk looking at me, questioning my sanity.

"Have you had this medication before?" he asked quizzically.

"Yes."

"Well the pharmacist would like to see you in counsel."

I guess I must have freaked him out just a little bit. I should have asked if I could shake his hand. :)

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but as you can tell, I really have no shame.

Sleep Talkin' Wo-Man

There are a lot of things people do to remedy a bad day: drink a glass of wine, eat fruit snacks, exercise, watch Jersey Shore, look up adoptable puppies online, bitch to their girlfriends (okay that's what I do...the list is endless). However, I have found one thing that surely zaps my sour mood every time - reading the blog, Sleep Talkin' Man.

Normally, I would not be encouraging you all to cheat on me and read someone else's blog, but this site is too great not to share. It recaps all the ridiculous and hilarious things this British guy says in his sleep. He lives quite the colorful life behind his eyelids. It's nice to know he's not the only one!

Which leads me to my own entry of sleep adventures! (Yay egotism!)

I have always lived an unfettered dream life - vivid imagery, wild colors, impossible plot twists, unlikely or invented locations, and even dreaming in Spanish. It's never a dull moment with me, even when I'm not fully conscious.

As long as I can remember, I've always been told that I talk in my sleep (and grind my teeth), much like my new fave Brit.

However, my favorite sleep-talking story to tell is when I was sleeping next to my boyfriend a few years back (who by the way, makes odd noises and even sleeps with his eyes open on occasion. Sorry Honey. I'm telling on you).

So I'm sitting there sleeping, hogging the bed (which I am routinely accused of), when my boyfriend said, "Honey, can you scoot over? I'm hanging off the bed."

I was practically in a coma. Not a peep came out of me.

"Honey!" he tried to get me to wake.

I stirred a bit, "What? What's going on?"

"Can you scoot over? I don't have any room."

"Yeah but first you gotta take the plugs out of the back of your head."

He didn't think he heard me right. "What?"

"First, you have to take the pluuuuggs out of the back of your heeeaaadd!" I must have been dreaming about the Matrix or something.

"Right..." he took matters into his own hands, by pushing me to my side of the bed where I continued my coma until the morning.

I've also woken up screaming and crying due to whatever horrifying scenario was taking place in my head.

My first night in the dorms in college, I woke up my new roommate because I was screaming. I dreamt this creepy hand was slowly reaching toward me. That was all. The dream was about a hand. It was completely lame, but it was enough to scare the living daylights out of me. "Hi I'm Hana. Nice to meet you, new roommate. Did I mention I'm possessed?" That's a way to make fast friends.

But my most "active" sleep years were when I was a kid. I am able to vividly recall these incidents only because they were recapped to me in full detail after the fact. It's equivalent to what I assume waking up with amnesia is like- being told who you are, what you did, what language you speak, that sort of stuff.

One night, I sleep-walked straight into my parents room before they had fallen asleep. I just stood there for some time, looking confused (which is my usual expression, but I must have seemed even more perplexed than normal).

After a few moments of awkward silence hanging in the air, my mom put down the book she was reading and said, "What are you doing?"

"CH-CH-CH-CH-CHOMPER!!! CH-CH-CH-CH-CHOMPER!!" I started calling my hamster's name aloud in stutter while looking right at my parents.

My mom burst out laughing and led me back to my room where I continued to call my hamster's name into the dark abyss of the night.

On another occasion, I was having more of an adventurous dream.

My childhood bedroom was right across the hall from the bathroom. However, I felt the need to walk down two staircases to the bathroom inside the laundry room to take care of business. En route to this bathroom, I passed my mom who was downstairs watching Jay Leno.

"What are you doing up so late?" she asked me.

"Going to the bathroom! God!" I growled.

"Why aren't you going to YOUR bathroom?" she asked.

"Because I want to go to THIS bathroom!" I had perfected the "kid" whine.

I stormed away from her, and closed the laundry room door behind me.

After I didn't come out for some time, my mom came in after me and found me peeing in the corner of the bathroom, far from the toilet (I was 9 years old).

"You need to go upstairs and clean yourself off. Go get new underwear," she told me. Apparently I hadn't bothered with ANY formalities.

I trudged back up the stairs to my room. After several minutes passed again, my mom ran up the stairs as she heard me shrieking and crying.

"What's wrong?! What happened?!" she cried when she reached me in my room.

"I CAN'T FIND ANY GLOVES!!" I was screaming, waving a pair of gloves in my hand. "I CAN'T FIND ANY GL-UH-HUH-HUUUUVVS!!!!!!"

"YOU HAVE GLOVES IN YOUR HAND! YOU NEED NEW UNDERWEAR!"

At this point, I woke up and was really confused why my mom was shaking me and waving gloves and underwear in my face.

"What?" I said totally confused by what was going on.

"You need new underwear. You just pissed yourself in the bathroom downstairs, and you were carrying on about needing gloves. Go change!"

I laughed thinking how ridiculous this must have been for my mom. She's a saint.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but dreams are what great stories are made of.

I would love to hear the ridiculous sleep walkin and talkin stories you guys may have! Feel free to comment on this blog or on the facebook fan page. These are always great stories to hear. And be sure to check out Sleep Talkin' Man!