This week, I find myself having inappropriate, 10 o'clock news kinds of fantasies about my old Blackberry more than ever.
I despise these half witted touch screens. Both the Android and Apple varieties. I hate nothing more than finger smudges and little kid boogers wiped all over the display. Correction, I hate dirty screens and auto type equally. Auto type makes me look stupid. Blackberry never did. Only socially awkward and marginally loser-like. But I could work that thing with both eyes closed and nothing but two thumbs and my dry sense of hilarious sarcasm.
It takes so long to use this thing. I have to spellcheck constantly because the Android dictionary does jackass things like creating really ugly language moments by doing things like replacing my use of the word spellcheck with the word shuttlecock.
Now I might be a real slutbag, but I don't know what the fudge a shuttlecock is. What I do know is that sending such a word to, oh, say, my boss, could potentially be embarrassing. Detrimental, even.
What I'm getting at, lovers, is there's a lot I'd like to say right now, but I'm probably going to be found in a dark alley, skinning hampsters by the glow of my Bic lighter if I have to blog from this sad excuse for technology much longer, but I wanted to get a jump start because I'm a giver.
While being a paid Mom is not the same as being a real mom, what I've found is that having domesticity as a profession makes a girl incredibly organized and methodical about insignificant nuisiances like mealtime and budgets.
When I first started, I would do retarded things like braise brisket in homemade broths and dress them with Argentinian chimichuri.
That was stupid.
Grownups eat that when they have a Patron Margarita in hand at a fancy restaurant and are trying to get both laid and sauced in the same night. Because when you have kids, sex is about nothing more than efficiency, people.
Don't do that to yourself. No one cares and nobody is going to give you the golden star of best moms for it. You'll only feel frustrated and disappointed by the entire experience.
Rule #1: no one cares if you create the Taj Mahal of meals or a South African shanty town. Create nutritious meals based on simplicity. Have fun and be adventurous from time to time, but limit your expectations, investment and time commitment.
Rule #2: dont be a cheap ass. I know that those chincy Ziploc containers are like pennies on the dollar, but honest to God, please don't store your family's food in plastic. Plastic is scary. And if you've invested in the grass fed beef and the organic produce, you're shooting yourself in the Birkenstock by putting it in plastic. Invest in glass storage containers. Don't reheat in the microwave; if pregnant women shouldn't stand in front of one, why would you cook your dinner in it? Capitalize on glass, save yourself a few dishes, and simply reheat in the oven. That, friends, is called frig to fork.
You're welcome, Pyrex. I'll accept my sponsorship check now.
Rule #3: hold onto your seatbelts, my mind blowing third rule for domestic genius will have to wait. It seems that I have an infant that wants a bottle or something equally high maintenance.
Til we meet again...
I despise these half witted touch screens. Both the Android and Apple varieties. I hate nothing more than finger smudges and little kid boogers wiped all over the display. Correction, I hate dirty screens and auto type equally. Auto type makes me look stupid. Blackberry never did. Only socially awkward and marginally loser-like. But I could work that thing with both eyes closed and nothing but two thumbs and my dry sense of hilarious sarcasm.
It takes so long to use this thing. I have to spellcheck constantly because the Android dictionary does jackass things like creating really ugly language moments by doing things like replacing my use of the word spellcheck with the word shuttlecock.
Now I might be a real slutbag, but I don't know what the fudge a shuttlecock is. What I do know is that sending such a word to, oh, say, my boss, could potentially be embarrassing. Detrimental, even.
What I'm getting at, lovers, is there's a lot I'd like to say right now, but I'm probably going to be found in a dark alley, skinning hampsters by the glow of my Bic lighter if I have to blog from this sad excuse for technology much longer, but I wanted to get a jump start because I'm a giver.
While being a paid Mom is not the same as being a real mom, what I've found is that having domesticity as a profession makes a girl incredibly organized and methodical about insignificant nuisiances like mealtime and budgets.
When I first started, I would do retarded things like braise brisket in homemade broths and dress them with Argentinian chimichuri.
That was stupid.
Grownups eat that when they have a Patron Margarita in hand at a fancy restaurant and are trying to get both laid and sauced in the same night. Because when you have kids, sex is about nothing more than efficiency, people.
Don't do that to yourself. No one cares and nobody is going to give you the golden star of best moms for it. You'll only feel frustrated and disappointed by the entire experience.
Rule #1: no one cares if you create the Taj Mahal of meals or a South African shanty town. Create nutritious meals based on simplicity. Have fun and be adventurous from time to time, but limit your expectations, investment and time commitment.
Rule #2: dont be a cheap ass. I know that those chincy Ziploc containers are like pennies on the dollar, but honest to God, please don't store your family's food in plastic. Plastic is scary. And if you've invested in the grass fed beef and the organic produce, you're shooting yourself in the Birkenstock by putting it in plastic. Invest in glass storage containers. Don't reheat in the microwave; if pregnant women shouldn't stand in front of one, why would you cook your dinner in it? Capitalize on glass, save yourself a few dishes, and simply reheat in the oven. That, friends, is called frig to fork.
You're welcome, Pyrex. I'll accept my sponsorship check now.
Rule #3: hold onto your seatbelts, my mind blowing third rule for domestic genius will have to wait. It seems that I have an infant that wants a bottle or something equally high maintenance.
Til we meet again...
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