Suffering Bastard

Suffering Bastard

Suffering Bastard and Pumpernickel Bread is not only my lunch menu, but also my new indie band name.


Best movie ever

It’s Groundhog Day, bitches. So I don’t have time for a real post while I watch hours and hours of my favorite movie as it loops on AMC. So here’s a picture instead


Compulsive Appreciation Disorder

I’m hesitant to call anything about my life a disorder because I know there are just a fuckton of psychiatrists out there just tapping their foot and waiting for the day that they can diagnose me with something.  But I have to confess this one, because I think me and the dude both suffer from compulsive appreciation disorder (We are such cads, you know.)

So what is Compulsive Appreciation Disorder?  Really?  I thought it was pretty self-explanatory.

Okay, so say you were asked the last time you said I love you.  And you’d be all, oh, this morning before my bugaboo went off to school.  Or when my loving life partner got back from whatever they do all day.  Or to the mail lady because you just got your extra special battery operated twat massager in the mail and you just couldn’t help yourself.

If you asked me, I’d say yeah, I said “I love you” for all those things, but I’d also have to admit I just said it like five times in the kitchen while we were cooking.  This is not a euphemism.  

I was cooking a paleo-friendly pad thai on the stove and he was doing the dishes and prepping vegetables for meals later this weekend.  And we just kept saying it.

Me:  “Dude, I love you.”

Him: “I love you too!”

Me:  “Really?  We have so much in common!  I love you!”

Him: “We should totally get married!”

Our house is filled with “I love you” and “Thank you for kicking so much ass” and “Man, how cool are we?”  All the time.

And you’re now sitting there thinking, oh, how sweet.  I love to hear about newlyweds who are still just so into the goddamned relationship that they talk like that.

But we’ve been married for fourteen years.  And it’s like this all the time.  Well, 95% of the time.  Somedays we bitch and snipe.  Maybe once every three months.  The rest of the time, it’s a motherfuckin’ compliment fiesta up in here.

And I love it.

I am a vulgar housewife and I am living with Compulsive Appreciation Disorder.  And I’ll say nice things about you too if you don’t watch your step.

Green Smoothie, Day one

So, I’ve decided to have thirty days of green smoothies because … well, because I like to do weird themed food things over set periods of time. Or perhaps I am filled with a deep-seated sense of self loathing that makes me want to torture myself with gobs of spinach drink.  Hard to say for sure.

For the green smoothies, I will be following recipes from this list. In order. One per day.

So for day one, I am drinking the Peanut Butter and Cocoa Spinach Smoothie from neverhomehomemaker. If you haven’t checked out this site, I recommend you do.

The recipe … hmm … it’s good, I guess. I think my banana was too small, so the cocoa powder flavor was way too potent. When I was making it I thought about cutting the amount down to one tablespoon, and I probably should have. Since I didn’t, I added another spoon of peanut butter, another banana, and a bit more almond milk and another handful of spinach. It’s decent.  It’s perhaps the most disgusting color imaginable.  Pro-tip. Drink this one from an opaque glass.  Or your Princess Bride stein.


As you wish.


Peace out, bitches.  I’ve got my smoothie in, so now it’s time to get Friday levels of drunk.  (Significantly higher level than Tuesday, but slightly lower than Thursday, because Thursdays suck and require a lot of drinking)

Motherfuckin’ Survivalism

Say, hypothetically, we meet on the street.

“How long could you last in a power outage?” hypothetical you asks.

“Um, why the fuck would you ask me that?” I reply.

You say something about whatever, because I’m not listening anymore, and then I kick you in the shins and steal your wallet.

Oh calm down, you are not even a real person.  Hypothetical.  Key word.

But later, after all that didn’t happen, I get to thinking.  How long would I last in a power outage?

Forever, bitches.  Because I’ve got motherfuckin’ survivalism.