Doe, a Dog. . .

. . .a dingo dog,

Running to attack the squi-----iiirrels.
He will eat them with his teeth,
And while watching it I'll hu-----uuuuuurl.

But I'm glad he's not afr----aaaaaaaid
To go into the backyard.
Now he's back to his old self
A jolly, snuggly guard! [dog]

Spinach Dip for Fatties

I'm a sucker for a good spinach dip. A while back, I found a Cooking Light spinach dip recipe that is really good. It uses low calorie and fat sour cream and cheese and such, and the dip tasted great. I'd make it when people came over, or when I just felt the urge to eat 5 1/2 cups of dip (you know, the average Tuesday).

Last time we had people over for dinner, I wanted to make the spinach dip, but was being cheap and decided that since I already had the full calorie ingredients at the house, I would just use those (cheese, sour cream, cream cheese).

Not surprisingly, the dip was really f'ing good. I think my new fun game will be taking healthy recipes and fattening them up. Can I make this my job? And can my job start at noon, please? Thanks, universe!

Anyway, to make spinach dip that was once light but is now, uh, heavy, here's what you'll need.

Every cooking task requires the help of an assistant dog.

That's a whole bunch of parmesan. Mmmmmm.

Adapted from Cooking Light's recipe:

Yield: 5 1/2 cups (serving size: 1/4 cup dip and about 6 chips--or so Cooking Light says. In these parts, a serving size is more like 2 cups and one bag of chips.)

Ingredients
2 cups (8 ounces) shredded part-skim mozzarella cheese, divided
1/2 cup sour cream
1/4 cup (1 ounce) grated fresh Parmesan cheese, divided
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
3 garlic cloves, crushed
1 (14-ounce) can artichoke hearts, drained and chopped
2 (8-ounce) blocks cream cheese, softened
1/2 (10-ounce) package frozen chopped spinach, thawed, drained, and squeezed dry
1 (13.5-ounce) package tortilla chips (about 16 cups)

Preparation
Preheat oven to 350°. Combine 1 1/2 cups mozzarella, sour cream, 2 tablespoons Parmesan, and next 5 ingredients (through spinach) in a large bowl; stir until well blended. Spoon mixture into a 1 1/2-quart baking dish. Sprinkle with remaining 1/2 cup mozzarella and remaining 2 tablespoons Parmesan. Bake at 350° for 30 minutes or until bubbly and golden brown. Serve with tortilla chips.

It's your pick--spinach dip for fatties, or spinach dip for skinnies. (Go fatty!)

"Hurricane Gloria didn't break the porch swing--Monica did!"

We've already discussed how Matt is the big reader in our home, and how I'm functionally illiterate. Not only am I a distracted reader, but I am really slow, too. My tortoise-like style would be annoying anyway, but it's super annoying given that I married Matt: America's Brainy Speed Reader.

I always knew that Matt was a much faster reader than me, but I didn't see it in action until we began watching Jeopardy! religiously. When a clue comes up, I am not finished reading the first line of it when Matt is shouting out an answer. I don't stand a chance--unless the category is one of the following: the Bible (a guess one good thing came from Baptist school), Olympic cities, and art. Matt doesn't know anything about art. I think it's because he's colorblind.

He's more into books, anyway.

A week or so ago, Matt bought a slew of books from Barnes and Noble, one of which was Chuck Klosterman's Eating the Dinosaur.

Now, I can't really provide you a critique of the book, because I haven't read it. I might, you know, if I grow an attention span, tire of everything else I love, and become a bed-ridden insomniac. So, unless this perfect storm should arise, chances are I won't be reading the book. But I like the idea of reading the book. And I bet it's really good. Matt's been laughing really loudly while he's been reading it.

Chuck Klosterman's academic and insightful approach to pop culture is super fun to read (I've read parts.). In this book, he has a passage about one of my favorites, Friends. (That, since it was only a few pages, I did manage to read in its entirety.)

Here's a quick excerpt:

"Like almost all successful TV ensembles, the plots on Friends weren't a fraction as important as the characters and who played them--especially as the seasons wore on, the humor came from our familiarity with these characters' archetypes. People who liked Friends literally liked the friends. Audiences watched the show because they felt like they had a relationship with the cast."

Hmmmmmm. And what episode does he reference? "The One Where Old Yeller Dies"! (The one I referenced yesterday.) Basically, I am Chuck Klosterman. Except for, of course, the vast intellect and the coolness and the red hair and the beard.

For the record, though, Ross is my favorite friend.

Who's yours?

FAJITAS!

Vending Machine Opus

One day when I was a little kid, I walked by a soda machine and pushed one of the buttons just to see if I could get a free drink. And wouldn't you know it, I did? I hadn't put in any money, but I got a free Coke. And so began my love affair with the vending machine.

[source]

This love affair continued through middle school, where I learned strategies to get more free snacks. These strategies mostly included shaking, kicking, and otherwise abusing the machine, only to get a bag of Skittles to fall out.

As I got older, I learned that there was karma involved in vending machines. On more than one occasion I was the victim of vending machine vandalism. I would pay for my snack, but the coils would turn on an empty space, and I would get no snack. Vending machine karma.

So I stopped abusing the machines. I was wiser and more mature, and I would be a decent citizen of the world. Part of being a decent citizen means not kicking vending machines.

When I went off to JMU, my whole universe began to open up. I had new friends and new opportunities, but, just as fascinating, I also had a new wide world of vending machines to enjoy. These machines included hot chocolate machines, machines that gave fountain soda with crushed ice, french fry machines, ice cream machines, and more. The snacks and beverages in these machines were far superior to anything I had experienced before. AND, I could use my meal plan to buy the stuff. No cash required, just my JMU ID. It was. . .amazing.

Ocean Spray ruby red grapefruit juice was one of my favorites; it was great for breakfast and it was good with cheap vodka.

[source]

In my old age, though, my vending machine interactions have become much less enchanting. In fact, about 30% of the time I seek sustenance from a vending machine these days, the experience ends in disappointment, frustration.

The only vending machines I really patronize are those at my school, and the snack machine is about ten years older than I am. It won't take dollar bills--not even the super crispy ones!--and half of the buttons don't work. And the soda machine has just as bad a performance record even though it is brand new.

And why don't these machines work? I imagine that it's because they live in a place full of obnoxious teenagers, and we all know that teenagers are notorious for vending machine abuse. Just wait until they experience vending machine karma. They'll rue the day!

The Loves of My Life

Matt, Mitch, and the couch.

1,000,000,000% cuter than a human child.

What kind of sick horsey snuff film is this?

A few things you might not know about me.

• I'm manic. I'm either super productive and getting one billion things done in a day, or I'm lazy, almost catatonic, and sleeping 15 hours a day. Lately, because of the self-improvement plan, I'm in a super productive phase.
  
• I almost always have the tv on when I'm at home alone. I'm usually not even watching it, but I like the background noise.
  
• I am a cryer. Big time. I cry when I'm sad, and when I'm angry, and when I'm happy, when I'm watching American Idol or Amazing Race, when I encounter anything heartwarming. Publix commercials and Cotton commercials are some of the worst offenders, but the worst thing of all is any situation in which an animal dies.

So. . .

Last night, while Matt was at work, I was being pretty productive around the house. I turned on the tv for some noise, and it happened to be on Bride Wars. My productivity began to wane, and I got sucked into Facebook, and for some reason, I didn't change the channel. The pathetic part was that the remote was right next to my hand. I wouldn't even have had to get up out of my seat. But, instead, I suffered through the last fifteen minutes or so of the cinematic masterpiece, then puked all over myself. (In a way, this experience was like the time I fell asleep during Usual Suspects, only to wake up at the very end. The surprise was ruined, and I feel like my movie narcolepsy robbed me of one of the best movie-watching moments of all time.) Let me ruin one for you: at the end of Bride Wars, both girls are pregnant. Thus the puking.

After Bride Wars, I mustered up the energy to change the channel to Robin Hood: Men in Tights. Good and good. But then that ended, and some horse documentary came on. (For the record, I don't give a rat's ass about horse racing.) It was called Barbaro.And I really wasn't into it at all. Something about a horse and "Barbaro, Barbaro, Barbaro, Triple Crown, champion, Kentucky Derby, blah, blah, blah," and so on. But then, when Barbaro was racing in the Preakness, he broke his leg.

Suddenly, I was invested. For the next 45 minutes, I watched as surgeons and rescue people and his owners tried and tried to save Barbaro. For the entirety of that 45 minutes, I was crying like a little baby.

Although I am a news junkie, I had somehow missed everything about this story. Maybe this happened during those years when I did not have cable? Who knows? I was going to turn the documentary off, but decided that I needed to stick around for what I believed would be a happy ending. And I really thought that happy ending would come. All signs pointed to happy ending. There was hopeful sounding music and everything!

But no. Oh no, Barbaro--after months of rehabilitative efforts and surgeries and pain and anguish--dies. His owners and all of the people who loved him said their goodbyes, and it was done. The f'ing horse dies! And all this after I've grown so attached to him that I can't even think about his sweet face without breaking down in tears.

So I wept. Mitch kept looking at me like I was a crazy woman, which I totally am. He tried to lick my tears with his healing dog kisses.

Matt called to ask a quick question, and I tried to pull myself together. He heard through it, however, and was alarmed. "You sound sad. Is everything okay?"

And I broke down again. I explained--through snot-filled sobs--all about Barbaro and how he died and how horrible it was. As soon as I said the name of the horse, Matt said, "Oh no. Yeah, that horse dies. If I'd been there I would have told you not to watch it." (Sort of like how he's forbidden me from watching Marley and Me.) This is a prime example of how work will ruin your life.

And it reminds me of a Friends episode.

Where was Phoebe's mom when I needed her most?

Cream Cheese Blondies

I wanted to celebrate Veteran's day with this.


But I couldn't find it anywhere! I had to settle for this.
And it's pretty good, but it's no Ben and Jerry's pumpkin cheesecake. Plus, it's LIGHT. Ugh. So I had to fatten it up somehow, and I wanted cream cheese.


My solution: cream cheese blondies. I found the recipe here, but afterwards stumbled across my friend Martha's recipe, and it appears that recipediva could also be called plagiaristdiva. She used Martha's recipe, yet on her little profile she is a "self-proclaimed expert cook." And she has a picture of a stupid baby for her picture. I think I've just made myself a new enemy. Move over, Comcast! Move over The Amish!


But I digress.

Once the blondies were finished, and Mitch and I had together polished off about a third of the pan of them, I decided to heat them up on a skillet, and throw the pumpkin ice cream on top.

I can't resist a dessert on a skillet. And, once paired with the blondie, that ice cream didn't taste light at all. . .
Here's MARTHA's recipe, not the one from my enemy, recipediva.

Ingredients
Makes 9 large or 16 small squares
11 tablespoons (1 stick plus 3 tablespoons) unsalted butter, room temperature, plus more for pan
1 2/3 cups plus 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
3/4 teaspoon salt
1 cup packed light-brown sugar
3 large eggs
1 1/2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
6 ounces cream cheese, room temperature
1/4 cup sugar

Directions
1.Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Line a buttered 8-inch square baking pan with parchment, allowing a 2-inch overhang. Butter lining (excluding overhang); set pan aside.
2.Whisk together 1 2/3 cups flour, the baking powder, and salt in a medium bowl, and set aside.
3.Put 9 tablespoons butter and the brown sugar in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment; mix on medium speed until pale and fluffy, about 3 minutes. Add 2 eggs and 1 teaspoon vanilla; mix until combined. Reduce speed to low. Add flour mixture, mix, scraping down sides of bowl, until well combined. Transfer to a large bowl.
4.Put cream cheese, granulated sugar, remaining 2 tablespoons butter, 2 tablespoons flour, 1 egg, and 1/2 teaspoon vanilla into the clean bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment; beat on medium speed until just smooth.
5.Pour half the blondie batter into prepared pan, and spread evenly with an offset spatula. Spoon two-thirds of cream-cheese mixture on top, and spread evenly. Drop dollops of remaining batter on top (spacing about 1 inch apart), and spread. Top with dollops of remaining cream-cheese mixture, about 1 inch apart.
6.Gently swirl cream cheese mixture into batter with a butter knife, running the knife lengthwise and crosswise through layers. Bake until golden brown and a cake tester inserted into center comes out with a few crumbs but is not wet, 45 to 47 minutes. Let cool completely on a wire rack before cutting into squares. Blondies can be stored between layers of parchment in an airtight container at room temperature up to 2 days.

**The only thing that I did differently was that I folded in walnuts after step 3.

Just to be clear, this is Martha's recipe and not my own. And I am not an expert cook. I am good at finding recipes and following them. Stupid recipediva!

Comcast = Big Brother

It's a case of life imitating art.

Yesterday, mostly in jest, I wrote a post damning Comcast for not having the most recent episode of The City available on On Demand. I was 85% joking, but had been genuinely annoyed on Thursday night when I couldn't find out what happened with Whitney and the boy with the crazy white teeth. I do recognize how spoiled I have become, however, with all of this technology that I take for granted. And I know that there are many people in the world who don't even have On Demand, and that I should count my blessings.

My post went up at 10:57 a.m., and at 1:35 p.m. I had a comment from none other than my mortal foe, Comcast. To save you all of the trouble of scrolling and clicking, here it is.

Hi Mandy,

I will check with my local contacts regarding this. If a show is not available on On demand, it is by choice of its network, not Comcast. The shows are supplied by the network. If the new shows are not supplied by the network, it will not be available on On demand.

What area are you from and what is the latest episode on your On demand?

Regards,

Mark Casem
Comcast Customer Connect
National Customer Operations
We_Can_Help@cable.comcast.com

I feel like I've committed thoughtcrime. Is Comcast going to lock me in a room with an army of jumpy frogs until I admit that Comcast is the best cable provider on the planet?

I can't decide if Comcast's blog stalking and commenting is good customer service, or if it's just creepy. What do you think?

(Oh, and let me give a shout out to Mark Casem, just in case he's reading this one. Mark, my husband says that you have nothing to worry about, that we're never cancelling our service because he relies too heavily on the services you provide. Also, he doesn't want to anger the Comcast gods. Please don't hurt us by taking away our cable, DVR, and internet.)

We need a nap.

We're not sad, just tired.

We have had a long week, and the self-improvement plan permits naps on Fridays and Saturdays.

See you in about three hours.

XOXO

Mandy and Mitch (a.k.a. E.T. and Elliot)

Pizza Pizza

Here's what I got today with the coupon I earned from ellipting.

Damn you, school with a Papa John's pizza line in the cafeteria!

Comcast--FAIL!

Dear Comcast:

I know that we have a long history together. Remember the good ol' days, those filled with Family Ties and Joe Millionaire and high speed internet? Remember all of the hours that we have spent together, and all of the dollars that I have sent your way?

I am growing close to ending our friendship. It's a give and take, you see. I give you what could amount to a car payment each month, and you give me fast internet service, DVR, more channels than I could ever watch, and On Demand. Or so I thought.

Comcast, your On Demand is a suckfest. Why, when I go to watch this week's episodes of The Hills and The City, do you only have the most recent episode of The Hills? Listen, if it's one or the other, I choose The City. The Hills jumped the shark long ago. Sure, I still watch it, but it's become less and less enjoyable and more staged than ever. But The City is hip and fresh, and stars Kelly Cutrone! And I love to hate Olivia even more than I loved to hate Spencer Pratt.

This is not the first time you've denied me an episode of the best non-reality, reality soap opera on television today. No, because last season I never got to see the finale because of your On Demand ineptitude. I want The City and I want it NOW.

Fix it! If you don't, consider our long-standing friendship effectively ENDED.

Yours truly,

Mandy

Post Office Crush

The only thing I had to do yesterday was to go to the post office. That was the ONLY THING. (Of course, I created additional tasks for myself, one of which was to bake cream cheese blondies.) But the post office was closed. Veterans Day.

The closure of the post office was disappointing partly because I couldn't cross anything off of my to-do list, but it was really disappointing because I felt that I'd been denied the opportunity to rendezvous with my post office crush, Byron. I love Byron, and I have for years.

I even snapped a picture of him today.

Byron is the opposite of the post office stereotype. He's happy, friendly, unarmed. He also flirts with me (or so I tell myself), which is disarming. "Mailing a package to Virginia, are we?" and "Anything perishable in here?" (I guess you had to be there--these were said in a decidedly flirty manner.) I just giggle and look away, coy girl that I am.

The first time I saw my post office crush I knew we had a special connection. You know how you can tell, what with the eye contact and the smiles and the great customer service. The second time I saw him I was with Matt, and I told Matt that I had a crush on one of the workers. Matt knew immediately which one had caught my fancy--Byron, tall, handsome, witty, a winning smile. But, because Byron is about 50 and about as unattainable as they come, Matt didn't feel threatened. And knowing my track record on crushes, I must acknowledge that there's about a 90% chance that Byron is gay.

But I hope not.

What would be a menial task is now fun with a chance of romance. I stand there in line, with two grouchy women and the shining light of Byron taking customers. The entire time I stand in line I try to manipulate the situation so that I can go to Byron's line. "Hey, old lady, do you need to go ahead of me?" "Move it, kid, I was here first!"

And then Byron and I share a moment, and I look at his name tag, learn his last name, and try to decide if it'd be creepy if I tried to friend him on Facebook.

Yes, it would pretty much be the creepiest thing that ever happened.

Miniature Pets!

Matt and I have spent much time debating whether or not Mitch needs a dog brother. Pretty much every time I see a puppy and smell puppy breath, my entire being yearns for a new pup.

Through our deliberations, however, we've realized that we are good as a trio, and that another dog would not necessarily increase the quality of Mitch's (or our) life. He's an only dog. He's also spoiled.

I think I've stumbled upon a solution, though. Why another dog? Why not another type of animal? Mitch has, of course, decreed that no cat enter our household, but would he be happy with a miniature hedgehog brother, Millard?

Or a pygmy horse, Mickey?

I know I would love to give Mitch a goat brother, Miguel.

The best is the micro pig, though. I'd name him Mario, and I think he'll be a great addition to our little family.

Come on. These pictures make me shriek because I'm so overwhelmed by the cute. Absurd.

(I stole all of the pictures from The Guardian. Read the full article, and see all 20 pictures of miniature pets.)

Under the Dome

[source]

Matt: [returning home from Barnes and Noble] . . .and I got the new Stephen King book.
Mandy: Oh, so I won't be seeing you for a while?
Matt: No, I'll be good. I mean, I'm gonna read it, but I won't sit and read it while we're hanging out or when you're trying to talk to me.
Mandy: Oh, okay.
Matt: On a related note, don't talk to me for a while.

A Host of Fears (a post from Mitch)

It's not easy being a dog. (Supposedly, it's not easy being cheesy, either. But I think it would be pretty fun to be cheesy. Fun, and delicious.)

Here's why it's hard to be a dog: you get really scared of stuff.

See, when I was a young pup, I wasn't afraid of anything. And then, gradually, I began to have bad experiences.

First it was the handle on that stupid white reclining chair. I got my puppy foot stuck in it and broke my foot. That sucked soooooo bad. You know how much you have to go to the vet when you have a broken foot?

Then it was bicycles. I don't have a good reason to hate bicycles, I just do.

And I hate bags of golf clubs, too.

Then came my fear of thunderstorms. I wasn't afraid of thunderstorms until a couple of years ago when my great aunt Doo Doo Brown told me about how scary they are. She said that she'd been hit with the booms, and that it stung.

And now any loud noise makes me think of a thunderstorm and I get really scared--so scared I put my tail between my legs!

In the same vein of the loud noises comes being around my dad while he's watching football. He claps and yells and I hate it. I usually run to my mom for protection.

And now I'm afraid of my yard. More specifically, I'm afraid of the squirrels in my yard. They throw acorns at me and taunt me, and the other day there were two of them going completely crazy. It was like a bicycle and a thunderstorm and Daddy watching football all rolled into one. Oh, and they attacked me. It's a good thing that I have my rabies shot.

So now I am afraid to go into the back yard. This really sucks because that's where I go to get away from my dad while he's watching football. It's a real catch 22.

My first solution to overcome fears: BARKING.

I barked at the power lines at the park to tell those park squirrels to tell my yard squirrels who's boss.

But it didn't really take away the fear. When my mom opens the door for me to go out, I just stand there.

And ask her if I can please just get a litter box. But then I remember that only cats have litter boxes, and I hate cats, so that's a no go.

I pretend that I can't go outside because I have an itch on my face.

And I try to scare my mom by telling her that there's a murderer outside, and that we should both just go lie on the couch. But she's too shrewd, and she doesn't fall for it.

And she keeps hasslin' me. And I don't want to. (I'm actually her elder now, if we count in dog years. I think she should do what I say.)

I try to charm her with my smiles.

And I do some handsome poses. But to no avail.

But then I smell something that smells like it might be delicious. What is that? Grilled squirrel kebabs? The Real Simple recipe? With an Asian flavor profile?

You had me at grilled squirrel kebabs. So I make my way down, slowly.

And as soon as I get off the steps I know I've made a horrible mistake.

I'm a dog, and I can sense fear, and I can sense evil. (That's why I always bark at the mailman; he's both afraid and evil.)

But, with Mom's encouragement (even though I suspect that she is playing some horrible joke on me), I inch my way to the yard of fear. I want these kebabs.

It's a scary, scary world, filled with bicycles and golf club bags, thunderstorms and dads who watch football.

But I'm Mitch, and Mama didn't raise no fool. Mama did, however, raise a dog with a discerning palate, and that dog is wanting squirrel kebabs.

I'm doing it. I'm going to the yard, squirrels or no squirrels. And my legs are shaking, my knees are weak, and I can't seem to stand on my own four feet. I'm all shook up, but I think I'll make it. Wish me luck!