It seems Jennifer Aniston has been eating baby food in order to “give her body a boost” according to The Daily Mail.
Good luck with that, Jen. You see how well it’s been working for this fellow baby food eater.
In what was my least popular poll to date (it seems you all are either not music people or you really hate Mondays) the Bangles eked out a win with twenty-five percent voting for “Manic Monday” as their favorite song about Mondays. Tied for second place with twenty percent of the vote were “Blue Monday” by New Order and “I Don’t Like Mondays” by the Boomtown Rats. I’m going to have to go for New Order on this one.
Today, I want to know what you think about cheese. But not just any cheese, my chickens. No, I’m talking about cheese being made from human milk. Gael Greene at The Daily Beast wrote about one chef who attempted to put it on the menu at his restaurant, but wound up serving it at his home instead.
When I was a wee lass in elementary school, I had a few strikes against me. I was taller than all the boys, I was smart, when I played sports my parents made me wear these kind of glasses (Complete with head strap, of course. Good grief, why am I admitting this publicly?), and most importantly, I brought horrible lunches to school.
This was back in the day when options were extremely limited, since at that time nobody carried ice packs in their lunchboxes. And when I say lunchboxes, I mean lunchboxes, as in made of some kind of metal. We had none of these pansy soft-sided things the kids use today. Our lunchboxes could be used as impromptu seats or weapons, depending on the circumstances.
Anyhoo, I was the kid that nobody would trade with. I mean, who wants to trade for a room-temperature apple? My mother had recently completed her nursing degree and so foisted upon me the most healthiest of lunches imaginable. Dude, we are talking whole wheat bread when nobody but nobodyate whole wheat bread. Except maybe geriatrics looking to try out the newfangled Atkins diet, but certainly not your local fourth grader. Wonderbread was king, and I was the Duchess of Dullsville.
Keeping that in mind, I make sure that my son does not suffer the same lonely lunch fate that I did. No way was my kid going to watch everyone else trading food and be stuck with an orange as his best shot. I make sure that it’s healthy, but I always manage to pack some sort of treat.
The other day the Munchkin said to me, “Mom, you pack the best lunches in my whole class. Everybody always wants to trade with me.”
I almost had to wipe away tears as visions of a young me vainly attempting to trade a natural peanut butter and orange marmalade sandwich (on cardboard wheat bread, natch) for a Twinkie flashed before my eyes. The look of utter disbelief on the prospective tradee’s face stays with me to this day.
And they say you can’t live through your kids.
Valentine’s Day got a tepid response from most of you, with fifty-four percent of you saying you were just all right with it. Thirty-six percent think it’s for suckas, and a very enthusiastic eight percent think it’s fantastic. I personally think it is kind of silly, although I certainly wouldn’t turn down some chocolate if it happened to come my way.
Today I’ve got a question that is admittedly not your run-of-the-mill poll question, but I was having a debate with a friend of mine, and I NEED TO KNOW.
Well it looks like the majority of you are in agreement with me that Daylight Savings Time sucks. I absolutely hate having to deal with the changing of the bedtime, although with the Munchkin being older, it’s not as bad. But, I’m going to have to deal with the Munchkinette later on, and I’m already bitter about it. Studies are currently being done to examine exactly how much energy DST saves, and preliminary results show that it isn’t really a whole lot.
Today I have a burning need to ask what your plans are for Thanksgiving…
I’m thinking of making this a feature here on Teeny Manolo, because it seems I heartily dislike quite a few things.
And instead of going to therapy or taking some Zoloft, I will instead vent about it in this space and make myself feel better. For free!
I have seen this commercial numerous times, and with each consecutive viewing, my loathing of the message increases tenfold.
Kelly Ripa, I think you are as cute as a button, but damn girl, you are rich! You don’t need some lousy applicances to make your life easier! If I had your bank account, I would simply hire people to do all of this for me, rather than flying around the house like an elf on crack.
There’s a union rule, apparently; every blog must include at least one post about Michael Jackson at least once a week until the world screams STOP! So here it is; Michael Jackson’s Sweet Potato Pie. As if Michael Jackson baked. Or ate.
From CDKitchen:
Ingredients:
3 Eggs
1/2 cup White sugar
1/4 cup Butter; melted
1/2 teaspoon Salt
1/3 cup Milk (about)
1 teaspoon Vanilla extract
1 teaspoon Ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon Ground nutmeg
2 1/2 cups Sweet potatoes (fresh or canned; heaping cups)
2 tablespoons Fresh lemon or orange juice
1 Pie shell (9-inch); unbaked
1/2 cup Pecan halves, optional
Directions:
Beat eggs and sugar. Add melted butter, salt, milk, vanilla, and spice. Blend egg mixture with mashed sweet potatoes and lemon or orange juice.
Pour into unbaked pie shell or greased 1 1/2 quart baking dish. Garnish with pecan halves if desired.
Bake in preheated 400-degree oven 10 minutes. Reduce oven temperature to 375 degrees; bake 40 minutes longer or until golden. Serves 8.
Tactfully, it doesn’t say whether those 8 are adults or children.
