super slushie recipe

Two nights ago, after dislocating my shoulder, I threw myself an intensely unsatisfying pity party.

I told my brother I'd pay good money for a big ice pack. He quickly responded with this recipe and didn't even ask for a check in the amount of the aforementioned "good money."

the ingredients
1part rubbing alcohol
3 parts water
gallon-sized zip-top bag

the techniques
Combine ingredients in a gallon-sized zip-top bag and freeze for several hours or until ice crystals form. Place it gently on busted wing.

don't actually drink this slushie

tips and techniques
Always keep a layer of fabric between your skin and your new ice pack, lest (as my ER doc said) "we see ya right back here for frostbite."


- Bhan blogs via iPhone powered by BlogPress

scaffold

Somewhere in the course of my severalteenth move, I misplaced a pretty sweet little skinny mini step-ladder.

Given its dainty design, I doubt the movers stole it. More likely it accidentally ended up in the rummage sale, or left behind.

Seeing as how I did use it to paint two ceilings, I call it a good investment.

Geez. I can't even keep writing. This is the world's most boring blog post of all time. Just Google it. You'll end up right back here. Back to the Random Word Generator. Let's hope this time I get 'costume' or 'argyle' -- two words about which I have *very* strong opinions.

he said he said she said

Here's a non-fictional account of recent text exchanges that made that made me snort-laugh and cry-giggle. 

Cast of characters

Siobhan: she's had a hard workout followed by two fast glasses of cheap red wine

John: Siobhan's boyfriend. He's tall and adorable and they're in lurve

J.R.: One of Siobhan's favorite friends and a longtime coworker. He's gay, mmmkay, and is also friends with John

Act 1

in which Siobhan finds herself 

a little buzzed, and 

a little lonely, and 

a little far from home

Siobhan to John: Send me a picture of yourself.

John to Siobhan: << Insert sexy yet PG-13 shirtless pic. Fleece blankie visible in the corner >>

Act 2

in which Siobhan finds herself

attempting to provoke her friend 

into jealousy over her boyfriend

Siobhan to J.R.: I don't want you to be jealous of how hot my boyfriend is, but I really want to send you this pic.

J.R. to Siobhan: Please do! 

Siobhan to J.R.: << sends PG-13 shirtless pic of John to J.R.>>

J.R. to Siobhan (and. I. quote.): This may be the gayest thing you could hear: Are those fabric samples?

Siobhan to J.R.: Wait. You're gay?!? [I like to ask him that about once a week.]

J.R. to Siobhan: I thought maybe he was sending you a picture about his new appoulstry. [he means upholstery]

INTERMISSION

Act 3

in which Siobhan finds herself 

losing her boyfriend 

to her #1 gay

Siobhan to John: I had to send your pic to my closest girlfriend, JR. He responded by asking if those are fabric samples in the corner of the pic.

John to Siobhan: Did you explain that that is one of my quilts?

Siobhan to John: Oh my god, you two should be girlfriends. IT'S NOT ABOUT THE FABRIC! 

John to Siobhan: JR is cute. 

Siobhan to John: Stop it. 

Siobhan to J.R.: John wants you to know those are his special blankies. You two are going to be very happy together. 

fin.

heartbreak

Don't worry. My boo and I are very much together and in love. This article kind of describes how I got there with him.

“We must see all scars as beauty. Okay? 

This will be our secret. 

Because take it from me, 

a scar does not form on the dying. 

A scar means, 'I survived'.” 

Little Bee by Chris Cleave

Many, many moons ago I had a sometimes-turbulent, intensely passionate relationship with a man. Let's call him Guy.

Our time together, which spanned a few states and years and chapters of our lives, was truly the stuff of romance novels. You've basically never seen a girl more in love with someone than I was with Guy.

I also hurt him terribly, and he hurt me terribly. Unintentionally, but still. Incredible, gut-wrenching, soul-sobbingly heartbreak ensued when our relationship finally ended.

It took me years and several more failed relationships before I literally woke up one day and realized I was ready to move past it. My heartbreak had finally, thankfully, healed. Healing arrived in the form of understanding.

Finally, I understood that the final break-up felt like a horrible car accident. The relationship did not survive, though I did.

The wreck resulted in scars. Scars never go away. They may fade over time. They don't hurt forever. They go with me everywhere.

The corner of my heart occupied by the relationship is like a grave site to me. A place where I sometimes go to think about the past. I don't live at the graveside. I don't contemplate the grave every day. Sometimes it makes me sad to visit, so I don't stay very long. When I leave, I feel thankful.

These analogies help me move forward with the experience of having loved and been loved like that. I stopped trying to forget and finally realized I could remember. Honor the time he and I spent together, mourn the loss a little, and move forward in my life as a woman changed by a relationship. 

vodka christmas cake recipe

Once again this year, I have received many requests for my vodka Christmas cake recipe so here goes.

Please keep in your files as I am beginning to get tired of typing this up every year. Made mine this morning. 

the ingredients

1 c sugar

1 t baking powder

1 c water

1 t salt

1 c brown sugar

lemon juice

4 eggs

1/2 c nuts

1 bottle vodka

2 c dried fruit

the method

Sample a cup of vodka to check quality. Take a large bowl, check the vodka again to be sure it is of the highest quality then repeat.

Turn on the electric mixer. Beat one cup of butter in a large fluffy bowl. Add 1 teaspoon of sugar. Beat again.

At this point, it is best to make sure the vodka is still OK. Try another cup just in case.

Turn off the mixerer thingy. Break 2 eegs and add to the bowl and chuck in the cup of dried fruit. Pick the fruit up off the floor, wash it and put it in the bowl a piece at a time trying to count it.

Mix on the turner. If the fried druit getas stuck in the beaterers, just pry it loose with a drewscriver. Sample the vodka to test for tonsisticity.

Next, sift 2 cups of salt, or something. Check the vodka. Now shit shift the lemon juice and strain your nuts. Add one table. Add a spoon of sugar, or somefink. Whatever you can find.

Greash the oven. Turn the cake tin 360 degrees and try not to fall over. Don't forget to beat off the turner. Finally, throw the bowl through the window.

Finish the vodka and wipe the counter with the cat.

tips and techniques
If you have a sphynx, wrap him in paper towels before wiping the counter

writers' block

You know what sucks? Writer's Block. It sucks because I want to spell it writers' block. It sucks because I contracted it. In fact, given the timing, I think I contracted it from my boyfriend.

You know what else sucks? I'm sitting here at a busy Starbucks. Have a few minutes to kill before my hair appointment. There's a perfectly lovely blond wearing awesome purple shoes sitting in the chair beside me... but she's a hair-player-wither. She habitually touches and pulls and detangles her hair every... let's see... 3 seconds. It's making me crazy. But not crazier than her. Hair-toucher. Maybe she should keep my hair appointment and cut it all off.

I digress. Back to writing about my writer's block. Hey, this is my blog so I'm going to spell it WRITERS' BLOCK. There are many writers, and some of have The Block. And there you go.

Did you know my friends granted me a lifetime pass to use the phrase "and there you go" -- from the dad, a genius of a character, in My Big Fat Greek Wedding -- because I once tagged Nia Vardalos in a tweet and she tweeted me back? Well, I did. And she did. And there you go.

See? I just ran into it again. Sat here for probably two whole seconds contemplating what to write next. Two whole seconds is, inside my head, basically an intolerable eternity. Just as my dad, sister, boyfriend, brother, brother-in-law, step-mom and her sons, my best friends, and my casual acquaintances can tell you. Eternity.

Writers' block as a term is starting to make more sense to me. Bhan's Block. As in, I'm basically getting in my own way. My blog started to achieve what for me felt like some success and so I applied new and increasing, rather than steady and continuing, amounts of pressure on myself to make it even wittier, catchier, bigger, awesomer.

What I really could have stood to hear should have listened to is some advice to just keep doing it. The fact of the matter is that many friends (you know who you are. jerks. kidding.) did reach out and gently nudge me. The more I was nudged, however, the more I felt like the next post couldn't possibly live up to Huff the Magic Marker. So I kind of froze.

Writers' Block is, therefore, like a block of ice inside of which I froze myself.

I hate myself for knowing this isn't Luke Skywalker

The longer my hiatus, the more reasons I gave for not writing. I was really just convincing myself.

Boobs. Just checking to see if you're still reading. After all, I realize this isn't the most riveting article ever in the history of anything.

My friend Ben fancies himself a writer and opera singer, so today I sought out his advice on how to thaw my Writers' Block. He suggested several clever ideas, to almost literally warm back up the way he warms up his voice before launching into an aria.

I even looked up Writers' Block on Wikipedia.

I just paused again. Cracked my back, stared at the ceiling momentarily. Maybe I should put some funny pictures in this article. Meh, I will if I wants ta. (I did.)

The lighting in this place makes me wants ta curl up and take a nap, but my double-shot tall gingerbread latte will keep from seriously entertaining that possibility.

I... think that's about it, kids. Love you, and your shows.