25 years Uterine Free and Loving Every Minute Of It

I recently reached the 1/4 century mark and I find myself contemplating those mysteries in life more and more often. As of late, my topic of choice is trying to make sense of the female psyche, an exercise in futility, I know, but there it is. Most intriguing is the daily pre-sleep lavatorial ritual and its A.M. counterpart. Our cramped bathroom is littered with countless creams and scrubs, lotions, spritz bottles, compacts, cotton application accoutrement of numerous varieties, and a wide array of fiendish looking instruments one might expect to find in some hellish torture chamber.

I can't quite wrap my head around their uses either. One bottle is used to pre-clean the face. Next comes the actual cleansing of the face in order to remove remove the pre-cleanser. After the face is thoroughly clean, a lotion must be applied to counteract the drying effect of the industrial strength detergent now slowly eating away at the outermost layers of skin. Next comes the blemish spot treatment, wrinkle creams and a full five minutes of mirror scrutiny, during which the discovery of any noticeable marring is bound to lead to the lave-proverbial 'rinse and repeat'.

Everyday this accumulates to a collosal loss of time. In an effort to save my female readers this hassle, (or any metro-sexuals) I've devised a much quicker method, fool-proof as well as expedient. Three minutes spent 'exfoiliating' with 80 grit sandpaper attached to the blades of a personal fan and a healthy dose of Robitussin applied liberally to the entire face. Ladies, you're welcome. Check back for tips on how to save time on make-up application

:This is a song by a gay guy..."

Recently at work giant of a gay man started quoting Scripture. While I can't for the life of me recall the reference number, it had to do with showing love to others. This was a rebuttal for making an insensitive remark about homosexuals, to which I replied equally insensitive to with, "Then stop being gay". Anyway, the occurrence made me think of the recent coming out of the Christian music superstar Ray Boltz. I can't quite grasp the thought process. Here's a guy who makes a living by spreading the Gospel through song, (albeit badly written ones), with what I can only assume is an extensive knowledge of Scripture, who seems to have no problem embracing a homosexual life style. It's possible some things in the Bible are clouded in shades of gray but homosexuality is not one of them. For a long time I was mad. "How dare he?" I thought. He's just one more guy making Christianity a puching bag for the media. But after a while it dawned on me...I'm really no better than him, and may in fact be worse. I have a truly filthy mouth and a brain that may be lacking in a moral filter. I still periodically turn to substance abuse to cope with life's wondrous banality and the very thought of sharing my faith makes me uncomfortable to the point of inanity. Man am I weak...maybe Santa will bring me a pair of stones for Christmas...

In lieu of physical violence...

It has become apparent that all chefs, aspiring or otherwise, are complete asses. This in itself is not necessarily a bad thing. Motivation comes in many forms, one of the most effective being verbal abuse and intimidation. However, it does make many things exponentially more difficult. As part of my Monday-Wednesday Fine Dining class, we are expected to partner with a student chef from the Tuesday-Thursday class, (all of whom are hacks), conceptualize a menu and implement it for a week's worth of dinner service. Hence the dilemma: each of us our sure that our respective palates are superior. In an effort to avoid coming to loggerheads, I thought I might poll my humble audience on their preference. To keep thing fair, the courses will be presented blind; you won't know who crafted each dish. Shall we begin?


First Course
- Red cabbage and shaved fennel salad with grapefruit and dried cranberries. OR
- Root vegetable salad, (carrots, parsnips, rutabega) with an orange-maple dressing and candied pecans.

Second Course
-Pan seared scallops with linguine and a champagne grape butter sauce. (this dish will also be dusted with finely ground roasted almonds) OR
-Scallops with caramel and butterscotch reduction.

Third Course
-Braised duck thigh with roasted parsnips and a celeriac puree. OR
-Black Cod Rouillade stuffed with ricotta and marscapone cheese and covered with bechamel sauce. (bechamel is a cream sauce, similar to alfredo)

Dessert
Caramel Bread Pudding OR
Creme Brulee.

While voting is important, the final menu will most likely go to the one who bitches the most...or throws the first punch.

For the Sake of Clarity

I thought it best to head off the quips of all you jokesters before hand. The previous post was not intended as a jab at homosexuality. Had it been about pirates of the butt variety and not those noble maritime seamen, you would have been treated to various forms of words like 'booty' and 'plunder'. Also, references to 'crude oil' would have taken on a much different meaning.

p.s. Each successive holiday season brings with it more reasons for hatred. This year it is a holiday themed commercial touting a male enhancement drug. As if this was not reason enough for the gnashing of teeth, they actually used the phrase 'and to all a good night'. I contemplated choking myself to death on a strawberry Swiss cake roll.

To Peg-Leg Pete,,,An Homage

While the United States may be the penultimate nation of all time, when it comes to crime, we are the very definition of criminal hackery. Idiots attempt to rob banks with water-guns and thugs are thwarted mid-robbery by their obscenely baggy trousers. Whatever happened to taking pride in your craft?

Take Somalia, for instance. While their country may be in a state of ruin, they at least have the decency to carry on crime in a vigorous, swashbuckling manner. That's right, Somalia has pirates. On November 18, Somalian pirates made away with a Saudi oil-tanker worth upwards of $100 million in crude oil. More impressive still is the size of the tanker. At 1090 feet, the length of the Sirius Star is comparable to 3 1/2 football fields. I wonder how one becomes a pirate? Perhaps I'll try getting shanghaied...

Back in the kitchen, woman, or I'll kick your teeth in!

Sunday night my wife received a visit from Omaha's finest. Fortunately I was at work because it seems they were responding to a domestic disturbance call. (Thank you 30 tops) Shortly after moving into our current apartment building, I became aware of sporadic yelling, most of which was incomprehensible. And while sitting idly by was not my first choice, I refrained from reporting the incidents primarily because I could not determine from which unit it was coming from. As it turns out, neither can my neighbors...they told the officers it was coming from our third story single bedroom. Upon first hearing this news, I was rather unaffected. I know I don't beat my wife and so does she. Rarely do I ever even raise my voice to her. Yet it seems that others do, and that speaks volumes. I ask you this, my faithful few, do I look like a wife-beater?

Dradle, Dradle, Dradle

There's somethings acutely magical about winter. Daylight retreats faster, making my days infinitely more bearable. In the air is a crisp, almost metallic smell, not unlike the taste of blood in one's mouth. Ultimately snow will make it's appearance, delicate flakes hissing gently as they nestle in amongst their brothers. Unfortunately with winter comes the impending bastardization of Christmas. Even a lackluster economy can't slake the blood lust of Hallmark, the biggest perpetrator of poisonous, yule-tide prose. Perhaps I'll become a Jew...