Maybe we ARE E! material

Lately, I've found myself watching more and more reality-esque TV (no, I have not yet watched the aforementioned Jersey Shore. I'm not quite there...yet.)

My latest addiction? Guiliana and Bill.

I know, right???

I have to admit, before I started watching this show, I couldn't stand Guiliana DiPandi. I would make fun of her on E!, calling her 'Big Head' and pointing out her possible eating disorder. And I remember Bill from when I used to watch The Apprentice. Back when Trump was just starting out looking for mini Donalds to take over the world.

But somehow, these two goobers have grown on me.

I'm fascinated by their somewhat-normal lives (extremely large paychecks and glamorous job rubbing elbows with celebrities aside), nights in doing nothing and that she calls him Boo Boo. Guiliani is silly, and even with semi-scripted dialog, makes me laugh because she reminds me of, well, me. And Bill, with his levelheadedness and dry sense of humor, is just like Mr. KK.

So I was thinking...if these two could have a show, maybe Mr. KK and I could have a reality show too.

And I'm pretty sure that if we did, an episode would be something like this:

It's a Sunday morning, Mr & Mrs KK enter the grocery store. KK is sporting her no-makeup look. She silently apologizes to the public.

Mr. KK: "Want your usual today?"

The twosome grab a cart and head to Dunkin Donuts for their morning beverages.

KK: "I'll have a hot chocolate today. With whipped cream."

The two start shopping. KK takes a sip of her hot chocolate.

KK: "Ouch! I burnt my tongue!"

Mr. KK: "That happens to you every time. Seriously. Do you want brussel's sprouts this week?"

Back at home, KK starts cooking up a storm. Beef stew, stuffed peppers, split pea soup. There are pots and pans everywhere. The Food Network fills the screen of the kitchen TV.

Mr. KK: "Who, exactly, are you making all of that food for?"

KK: "Us."

Mr. KK: "How many of 'us' do you think there are?"

Mr. KK decides to begin a home improvement project.

Mr. KK: "Want to go to Home Depot with me?"

KK makes a face and squirms on the couch. A trip to Home Depot is worse than having teeth pulled. Without Novocaine. But, in an effort to spend time together and make Mr. KK's interests her own, they decide to go.

KK: "What did you come here for?"

Mr. KK: "To look around."

KK: "Don't you have a list?" Who shops without a list? "I'm bored."

Mr. KK: "Look at these floor tiles. They'd look nice in the kitchen."

KK: "Are we buying floor tiles? And redoing the kitchen?"

Mr. KK: "No."

KK: "Then I don't want to look at them. It's a tease."

Back at home, KK prepares a nice Sunday dinner.

KK: "Let's eat in front of the TV. We have lots of shows to catch up on."

Mr. KK: "I'll set up the TV trays."

KK dishes out bowls of rigatoni with bolognese sauce.

Mr. KK: "This looks good...but what happened to all that other food you made today?"

KK: "I wasn't in the mood for that tonight. I was in the mood for this."

After dinner, Mr. and Mrs. KK relax on the couch with Vito, and fall asleep watching CSI.

THE END

iCarumba

Did you hear? Apple has a new-fangled techie gadget out there?

Of course you've heard.

Because you woke up today.

Just one more product that does everything for you. So all of those OTHER Apple products you own? Those were a waste of money! Just throw them away.

The iPad? It's going to change the universe. Turn the economy around. End the war. Keep Brad and Angie together.

iKnow it.

grab your aqua net and drakkar noir

How could I have missed the disaster otherwise known as "The Jersey Shore"?????

I mean, I knew it was a show on MTV, but how did I miss how RIDICULOUS the characters were???? (And yes, I mean characters, like as in "scripted TV"...there's no reality here)

I caught a glimpse of a few of them on Chelsea Handler last night; they must be doing the circuit. First of all, what is UP with that Snooki's hair??? Is she single-handedly trying to bring back the Princess Leia? Then there was Mike – aka: The Situation (The Situation? Really? Is there a nickname any lamer?) and DJ Pauly D (a nice Italian boy from...Rhode Island).

They were talking about their night out in LA, where they ran into Leonardo DiCaprio in the VIP section, who quoted their stupid catchphrase to them ("GTL, baby!" Which, as I found out last night, means "Gym, tanning, laundry", which is pretty much what these muscle-headed greasy idiots do all day long, besides shop for hair gel and tank tops from the Boys Department).

Maybe I should try out for the next season?

What do you think?

i couldn't tear my eyes away

The other night I saw the show "Hoarders" for the very first time.

OH.
MY.
GOD.

Not only was I totally repulsed, but I started to worry that I was a hoarder! I started doubting my normalcy. Should I have that many cookbooks? Is it bad that I can't walk with all the shoes in my closet? I keep buying Vito toys without throwing any away...and I turning him into a puppy hoarder???

HGTV: you complete me

Now, please come and complete my house!

I've been watching so much HGTV that I've been dreaming in damask wallpaper, and hearing little voices in my head whispering phrases like "open concept" and "water feature".

Even Mr. KK is starting to feel the effects. The other night during dinner he exclaimed, "If I hear the name Jamie Durie one more time, I'm going to kill myself." Perhaps he was being a little dramatic. Afterall, Jamie Durie IS America's best new import. Who only remodels the backyards of millionaires. With no shirt on.

So then I had one of my brilliant* ideas. I spend SO MUCH TIME watching HGTV, wouldn't it be great to be ON HGTV?

Hells yeah!

Hey Carter Oosterhouse (I just love saying his name) or Genevieve Gorder (I even loved her during her barefoot designing on Trading Spaces), I'm talking to you! I have a space for you to remodel! Come on over!

Our beautiful house has an attic, that runs the length of the house, that is completely unused.

Unless you define "being used" as area where we throw all of our crap, including:
• every photo I've ever taken since high school
• our luggage
• 4 crates of books
• wrapping paper for every major holiday
• filing cabinets
• envelopes of tax documents dating back to 2001
• the dead flies that somehow make their way in to their untimely death on the rug

It's a perfectly good space! It would make a tremendous novel-writing nook! If only it had heat! And I didn't bang my head on the eaves every time I go up there!

So I filled out an application for Dear Genevieve. And, in retrospect, I'm wondering if it was legit. It was on a webpage for 'Leopard Films'. Sure, it had a nice beauty shot of Ms. Gorder, but there was no link whatsoever to HGTV. Also? There were typos in the questions. So it's very possible that a psychopath set up the website, is collecting valuable information (such as my name and address and phone number!) to come and get me.**

*Ideas are not always as brilliant as they seem.
**Sometimes my imagination can also run wild. Sometimes.

i'm pathetic. here's proof.

Many, many, many years ago, in an attempt to get over an ex-boyfriend, I took a continuing education polymer clay class. We learned to make Christmas ornaments.

So that year, I made a million Christmas ornaments. And the year after that, I made them and sold them to people my parents worked with.

(Hey, it was early in my career and I was poor. And bored.)

It was fun. I was pretty good at it. It proved to be a nice distraction.

I was retelling the story to a coworker in December, and she asked to see them. So I took photos of a few of my ornaments and showed them to her.




She was so impressed with my creativity and skill that she exclaimed, "OMG! These are AWESOME! I feel like you should be doing this, and that you're wasting your talents here!"

And for a split second, I believed her.

I had a glimmer of hope.

I saw myself sitting at home in my not-yet-built attic studio, molding and sculpting Christmas ornaments. Crafting angels' wings. Putting a carrot nose on a snowman. Vito playing with his toys at my feet.

And it was wonderful.

Then my email binged and slapped me back to reality.

brussels sprouts AREN'T evil

Being married has opened my eyes to many things – unclosed toilets, power tools and sweat.

It has also broadened my palate. Before meeting Mr. KK I had never had broccoli rabe – or rapini – and now it's a staple in our house.

Same goes for brussels sprouts.

It's not that I didn't like them, but I'd never had them before.

And I have to tell you...they are just so darn cute! Like little cabbages!

My new weekly purchase at the grocery store is this:


It's like my own little personal stalk of sprouts.

Of course, it means we end up eating brussels sprouts for at least 2 to 3 meals a week, as the stalk yields about 100 sprouts.

Sure, they're an acquired taste. And I'm pretty sure they make your pee smell weird like asparagus.

Here's my latest way to love them...totally stolen from a restaurant.

Brussels Sprouts Hash
serves 2

10 brussels sprouts, halved and sliced very thin
(like you're making cole slaw; this can be done on the mandoline I'm sure, but I'm afraid I'll lose my arm, so I use a knife)
1/4 cup pancetta, diced
1 cup chicken stock
salt and pepper

Over medium heat, brown the pancetta in the pan until it's somewhat crispy. Add the sprouts and season with salt and pepper. Stir every so often to prevent spouts from sticking to pan and browning too much.

As they are cooking, I usually add some chicken stock to help scrape up the yummy bits, and help the sprouts cook (so they don't burn).

Cook and stir sprouts until desired doneness. I like mine with a little crunch, so I usually cook them for about 15-20 minutes.

*****

jean therapy

I need some.

Because my most favoritest, perfect-fitting, look-awesome-with-anything jeans are on their last leg.

No pun intended.

I found them on a trip to Boston, in my favorite Marshall's on Boylston Street, stuffed in the jeans rack. They're not a popular brand name of jeans, like Seven or True Religion or Joe's. It's like they were made special for ME.

They are starting to thin and become worn, and I fear one day I'll be strutting my stuff down the sidewalk and the ass of my beloveds will tear. Or I'll bend down to pet Vito and the seam in my crotch will split.

In any imaginary scenario, I'm left with rips/holes/tears in my favorite jeans, and my Hanky Pankies hanging out.

I'm a short, curvy kind of girl in desperate need of new jeans.

Help! Who makes your "make me feel sexy" jeans?

setting a precedent for the rest of the year

It's the first holiday of the year, and I'm actually getting a chance to take advantage of it. Unlike last year, when I had to work every holiday.

But, as Murphy's law would have it, I'm feeling under the weather, so I'm enjoying my day off, stuffed up and sniffling on the couch.

I'm making the most of it by re-watching Julie and Julia. Watching a movie about cooking...and blogging...while blogging.

Quite a nice day off.

i'll raise my martini and toast to anything

Today is National DeLurking Day!

And nobody loves a made-up holiday like I do!

(Especially ones with logos!)

It's a celebration of all the "lurkers" out there...those bloggers that pop by your blog and read, but might not comment.

So, if you stop by 'will work for shoes' to visit, but don't leave a comment, how will I ever know you've been here? Please, come in! Make yourself comfy! Poke through my posts. Maybe drop a comment or two that you've been here. Can I get you a snack?

NOTE TO THE HOLIDAY INVENTOR: "Lurkers" sounds so negative. Maybe we rename "National Silent Visitors Day" instead?

eavesdropping

Well, not really.

More like, sitting at my desk minding my own business not being able to concentrate because everybody talks so frickin' loudly.

Excerpts from today's conversations include:

"How's your uterus?"
"Oh, it's full term. It's R-E-A-D-Y."

"Is it the hormones?"
"Totally. One minute I want sex, the next I want to cry, and the next I want to kill my husband. I guess I shouldn't say that last one so loudly."

"Are you still breastfeeding?"
"I'm trying. It's hard being at work full-time."
"When do you want to stop? When she's a year?"
"That's the plan. We'll see how my boobs are doing."

What happened to talking about what you're having for lunch? Or what your weekend plans were? I don't need to hear about your bedroom fantasies and nipple pads.

a little story about The Girls

It happened in the grocery store, in the aisle with the canned beans.

Mr. KK was checking off the list when I suddenly started twisting my torso like a contortionist, and flailing my left arm against my side.

MR. KK: "What are you doing?"

KK: "OHMYGOD! My left tit is SO itchy! All of a sudden!"

Instead doing his husbandly duties of creating a nice shield from the other crazy shoppers who are up at this ungodly hour on a Sunday, Mr. KK simply stands there, staring at me.

MR. KK: "You look ridiculous."

KK: "Oh, really? I'm sorry. It's just that I want to RIP OFF my boob because it's SO FREAKIN' ITCHY."

It's about 8 degrees out, so I'm wearing about 27 layers of clothing, making it nearly impossible to get a good scratch. Even if I unzip my parka and sneak a hand inside, I still have a scarf, zipped up track jacket, long-sleeved t-shirt and a bra to get through.

In the frozen foods aisle, Mr. KK leans over and gives my left boob a squeeze. (We can do that kind of stuff because we're married. It's weird when strangers do that to you.)

MR. KK: "How's it doing?"

KK: "It was fine until you started the sensation again."

if Vito stars in a made-for-TV-movie about abusive parents, I shouldn't be surprsied

Because we do things like this to him:


And like this:


PS: Vito, if you get a movie or book deal, it would be great if you could contribute to mommy's new kitchen – er, the family budget.

resolutions for the rest of the world

I could use this post to talk about MY New Year's resolutions – to gain 50 (readers, that is); get my novel underway; and make this the year I leave my effing job (I don't care if I have to work at the Gap) – but instead, I thought I'd use this time to share some resolutions I'd like everyone else in the world to make.

You know, to MY life easier.

To the grocery store bagger:
• I know you don't like it when I try and bag with you (you've told me to stop before), so if you could please resolve to just bag my items how they appear on the belt, that would be just great. I take the time to lay them out how I want them grouped together; that way, I don't end up with a 28-oz. can of crushed tomatoes on my bread and my cold cuts squished under my milk.

To the the Dunkin Donuts drive-thru abuser:
• The purpose of the drive-thru is to make a quick stop on the way to work. So, I beg you to try and NOT go to the drive thru when you have 27 things to order (especially when you are required to wait for half of your items to be made, holding up the line). Also? Could you not pay with a credit card?

To the pigs at work:
• Putting your dirty shit in the dishwasher is easy. Try it this year.

To Vito's vet:
• When I make an appointment with you to have Vito's nails clipped – because he cries like a girl when most people try but for some reason you're like the nail-clipping dog whisperer – I'd really appreciate it if you made the effort to stay at the office for the appointment. When you leave the clipping up to the techs, we're left with a dog with that has to wear the Hannibal Lecter muzzle, gets only 3 nails clipped and poops on himself.

To my esthetician:
• Can you please stop canceling on me? Please?

Happy New Year!

novel update

(Lori from FF, pay close attention!)

In a way, I have started my novel.

It's a memoir.

I have the storyline.

I have a title.

I've begun outlining chapters.

I've even named some of the chapters.

Progress, right?

Not to mention, I bought that cool sign to hang in my novel-writing nook at home.

(NOTE: start renovating attic for novel-writing nook.)

it's a sign

While browsing quaint little shops in Annapolis over the weekend, I came across this cute, hand-painted sign that I HAD to have:

Careful, or you'll end up in my novel.

Is that not the best sign ever?
(And if buying this sign isn't the motivation I need to write the novel, I don't know WHAT is!)

As I'm checking out, the kooky saleswoman says, "My husband's friend got him a t-shirt with this saying on it."

KK: "Really? Is your husband a writer?" Perhaps I was talking to Dean Koontz's wife.

"No," she replies, "but he asks a lot of questions."

Um, right.

Guess what, little boutique-owning kook pot?

YOU just made it into MY novel.