The Irishish Doesn't Suck

While I know it may not be technically true, in my book Irish Coffee simply refers to coffee that has become even more fun to drink by the addition of alcohol. Sure, Irish Whiskey is the traditional route, but that's not necessarily the most creative recipe ever. And I like creating new recipes! Sometimes that's a new blend for mashed potatoes, sometimes it's a new modification to a pie, but tonight! The coup de grace! A new whatever you call liquor in Irish Coffee!

Sam had a hockey game tonight, and what better way, short of a paper bag wrapped around a bottle, to drink in public than spiking coffee? Plus, it's damn cold in most ice arenas. Dual purpose beverage.

Of course, normally I brew up some coffee, and Sam Irishes it for me. Tonight, apparently, cleaning out his car somehow trumped my future beverage slash hockey game enjoyment.

He left it up to me.

Bad move.

I had about two minutes to choose my alky, and I honestly don't know the bottles all that well. Combine that with the fact that the bottles are distributed between the kitchen and multiple places in the dining room (we do it up right, y'all). It could have taken a disastrous turn. It did not. No, really!

At that point I just started pulling every bottle out of the assorted cabinets, snagging any that seemed vaguely coffee complementary.

And thus I grace you with my new recipe for Irishish Coffee! (Bear in mind that unnecessarily dirtying extra dishes in this house is a mortal sin. This is why all the measurements involve eyeballing, not because my motto is "the more alcohol, the better". I swear, that's not my motto.)

Brew up a whole bunch of coffee- whatever will fit in a thermos (or several), but with space to spare; into the thermos it goes. Find the Van Gogh Double Espresso Vodka (Double Caffeine- says so on the label!). Pour a bunch of this into the same thermos. Find the Irish Whiskey because something has to put the "Irish" into "Irishish". Pour that into the thermos, too. Man up- pour some more in there. Coffee sometimes needs lightener, right? Know what will lighten this? Add a hugely healthy splash of Godiva White Chocolate Liqueur. You don't need much because the alcohol content therein is notsomuch; don't waste too much space, but chocolate is chocolate, ladies and gents! Add some sugar because, yes, you manned-up with the Whiskey, but it's still got to be palatable. Use a straw to sip a bit of this still incredibly hot mix out of the thermos. Add a dash more sugar because you're still not that manned-up. Congratulate yourself on your ingenuity.

The final step is hearing your husband mention whipped cream, but not until the car has already left the driveway, and swearing under your breath at that obvious miss. Make a mental note- must reattempt recipe right after you get home from the game soon, but with addition of the heretofore neglected whipped cream.

Don't forget some sort of mug to drink out of at the game. Nothing says "lush" like falling ass over teakettle backwards off the bleachers trying to suck the bottom out of a thermos.

One of us is mature. The other is a mom.

Ethan: In a book in school, there's a picture of a boy completely naked.
Me: *shrug* You know what a naked boy looks like.
Ethan: Yeah, but I think that's completely inappropriate for school.

And this is where it would have ended, if it were up to me. But no.

Ethan: Some boys in my class were looking at it.
Me, trying to keep this conversation from turning into an interrogation: Where did this book come from?
Ethan: It came from Ms. {teacher's name redacted}'s room.
Me: And what was going on in the book?
Ethan: I don't know, I wasn't reading it. The boy was just standing there. Facing forward.

And before anyone asks, no, I did not complain/express concern to the school- for lots of reasons. For one, I am so not concerned- didn't want the conversation in the first place. For two, possibly Ethan misinterpreted it. For three, every kid is curious, it's no big deal.

For four? *At worst, I am not going to be the one outing little boys.

*Why, yes. Yes, that was a joke. Glad you recognized it.

Politicians Should be Subject to the National Do Not Call Registry

Somebody link me to one of those websites where you can create a petition... Okay, no, don't do that. Instead, if someone could just create one for me?

I propose a new law to expand the Do Not Call Registry to include those Asshole Political Candidates.

Yes, I'm still on this topic.

In the last hour, I have hung the answering machine up twice on calls for candidates. This does not include the two calls that didn't make it to the answering machine.

This also does not include the previous three days where I got three calls a day from the same phone number that turned out to be some polling group paid for by censored candidate running for censored political office. That shit didn't stop until I finally picked up the phone and screamed obscenities.

Am I normally this rude? No, never. Is this nonsense turning me violently angry? Abso-frickin-lutely.

You know what else? I've already made my decisions. All you will do is push me toward the other candidate. You think there's a ton of people who haven't already decided? Bullshit. They already did. If they're undecided at this point, they're going with the candidate running under the party they already associate themselves with. They only say they're undecided because they don't want to admit that they've done no research on any of you bastards and are going to vote blindly, anyway. The others that truly are undecided? They're not going to vote at all, regardless.

So just stop it.

Oh, and... remember, back at the beginning of this rant? I had a point? No, really. Yeah. I'm absolutely serious about political candidates being subject to the Do Not Call Registry. They're running for a political office. That position is paid, right? Mostly, anyway? That can't be not-for-profit, even if the entire thing is paid for with donations. But mostly I find it to be harassment. That should be enough.

Dear Political Candidates,

I am going to give you a hint- not even a hint. No interpretation needed. Please pay attention to the following:

I am going to vote for whichever of you bitches does not send me any junk mail. Also, you have to make sure that your stupid supporters go back and pick up all those roadside signs they so carefully lined my commute with. Stop killing my planet. Planet killers.

The intelligent among you (bahahaha! Ohmygod, I am funny.) will point out a conundrum. What if more than one of us doesn't send you junk mail? Then we shall have a tie breaker! Whoever has fewer "my opponent is an asshole because" ads on television earns my vote! Now, I know it's hard to run a campaign based on your own strengths rather than your opponent's perceived weaknesses (aka the crap you either made up, exaggerated, or dug out of a dumpster), but I know you can't do it.

I Hate You So Much,
Sarah

I'm wearing purple today. Purple is cool.

Being you is cool.

Unless you're a bully.

Bullies suck.

Spellcheck does not recognize the word "epilator". It would prefer "depilatory", "ventilator", "dilatory", or "mutilator". All are oddly fitting.*

Today, ladies and gents, we are delving into the world of epilators. We begin with a brief explanation of just what an epilator is (I do have one or two male readers, I think). It is a hair-by-the-root removal device. Too brief? Let me elaborate.

This is a torture device, fit for baby rapists and puppy bakers. Only I could never do this to another human being, even if they were a baby rapist or puppy baker. It's inhumane. This is coming from me- a woman who would gladly slit your throat and watch you bleed through your grasping fingers if you were to ever touch one of my children. But I would not use an epilator on you. You're welcome.

It took me weeks to get through the first pass. I could only ever bring myself, when venturing from the knee up, to do the smallest area of skin at a time, and once I had finished a patch, I had to skip the next night. I could not mentally take the pain two days in a row.

There is all sorts of hell to be found between my knees.

I'm sort of proud of that sentence. I'll let it soak in.

The inside of the knee is just about as sensitive as it gets. I would hazard to say that it has more pain receptors than the inside of the elbow or even the philtrum. It's obviously not the most tender part of the body (gee, Sarah, glad to hear that), but it's by far the most sensitive place from which I will ever remove hair.

Truth be known, it's so much easier, months later. When epilating, I can feel it still, below the knee, but it only registers as a tiny pinch instead of "I'm pretty sure this thing is actively searing my skin off my body." (This is not an exaggeration, by the way, because there were times that I did stop, just to be sure that I really wasn't actually ripping skin off. I would tentatively move the epilator out of the way with "please god, let it still be skin and not raw flesh" chanting through my mind.) Above the knee, it's still not fun, but I no longer have the tourettesy outbursts that caused the paint to peel from the walls and the children to go running from the room, legs scrambling frantically through the air like Scooby-Doo characters trying to gain traction.

And the results? I like it muy mucho (Aladdin quote, anyone?). I'm even willing to wear skirts and shorts in public. Sam is so pleased that, whenever I venture into this realm, he brings me wine and painkillers. More wine? Can I refill your glass? The pain killers kicking in yet? He's also not so scared of snuggling with me at night- no cheese graters under the blanket to defend his own legs against.

All in all, a winning choice. I just had to wait for the blood-red haze to die away to see it.

*It is depilatory; you think you need a ventilator while using it because you are going to die; I was very dilatory in completing the job because ohmygod the agony; and, well, mutilator, no explanation needed there.

More from Ethan. He's the most entertaining.

We see a woman with multiple facial piercings walking toward us in the mall- not just several, but every conceivable nose, eyebrow and lip piercing.

Sam, quietly to me (obviously not quiet enough): I wonder what else she has pierced.
Ethan: Her ears.

I don't recall the circumstances, here, but we'll just assume it's a typical day.

Me: Bloody hell!
Ethan: That's what Gordon Ramsey says... except it's beeeeeeeeep.

A commercial comes on television for a show called "Deadliest Warrior: Viking versus Samurai".

Ethan: I think it should be "Something versus Ninja". 'Cause ninjas always win.

We are at a hotel breakfast buffet. Ethan is deciding what he wants to eat, but is disappointed to find that they only have strawberry or strawberry/banana yogurt. He is only a fan of vanilla:

Me: I'm sorry, but most people don't eat vanilla yogurt.
Ethan, with genuine confusion: What do they do with it, then?
Random Other Customer: *snort*

He's not for sale, but perhaps I'll rent him out. (Just kidding, CPS.)