I tried to cook and ended up passing out, BUT NOTHING WAS SET ON FIRE!

So against my Hubby’s wishes, I cooked this weekend!  Granted there has been one or two slight mishaps during my last culinary explorations, I believe we all remember the great turkey fire of ’13.

But my favorite little lady, and cook extraordinaire, Tracy posted this AMAZING recipe for Guinness candied bacon on her blog scratichitcook.com. And seeing how the main recipes included everything I like, Bacon, Alcohol, and Sugar. I decided to give it a try,  I mean it only involved 3 ingredients, how hard could it be?!

What follows are the texts that I sent to her as the disaster began unfolding…

WTF! I’m having some serious issues with this bacon recipe!!

First off the only brown sugar options at the grocery store was light or dark… your recipe calls for just brown sugar… APPARENTLY THAT DOESN’T EGSIST!!…  WHICH SHOULD I BUY!?!?!

I went with dark

photo 2 (11)

I only use 1/4 cup of Guinness?? WHAT DO I DO WITH THE REST?!?! it seems so wasteful… 

It’s 9:00am here… what time does that make it in Ireland?

Never mind, I figured it out.

photo 4 (4)

What kind of description is “frothy”… is this frothy!?!?!

photo 3 (5)

What the hell is a baking rack?? Can I  just use my rack in the oven??… that seems messy.

Never mind, I MacGyvered a turkey rack thing…

photo 1 (12)

Okay this thing only fits 2 slices… this is gonna take a while to cook a pound of bacon.

photo 5 (3)

PS I’m spooning the bacon… HAHAHAHAHAHA, I mean instead of “brushing it” like you put in the recipe… I may be on my 2nd Guinness…

OMG!!! 10 minutes on each side is taking FOREVER!!! I’m on my 4th turn with the same first 2 bacon slices!!!

OKAY on my 3rd Guinness and the first two slices are done!

30 MINUTES TO AN HOUR FOR THE BACON TO COOL!! How hot is this bacon, like the center of the earth got??!!?? I’m so hunngy… and drank

(30 minutes later)

Oh Sweet Baby Jane, that’s good

And it was good, like really freaking good, Hubby said it tasted like fancy restaurant bacon! Tracy replied later that day, apparently she had been hiking during my complete text melt down. However, I didn’t get to read her reply until later that night, as I was passed out on the couch full of amazingly yummy bacon and a whole lot of Guinness. But hers was a simple reply…

I freaking love you

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Some couples hold hands… some don’t.

Laying on the couch reading an old paperback I had found under my bed while hunting for a MIA flip flop, I stopped reading to ask Hubby if he had ever used the word taradiddle in a sentence, cause the author had just used it in the book and I didn’t think he had used it correctly, even though I didn’t know what taradiddle meant,  but I looked up to see this…

Hold my Foot


Had I been thumping my foot and Hubby had grabbed it to stop the annoyance?

Was he watching something scary on TV and had reached out for my foot like a security blanket?

Maybe his hand was cold and he was using my constant body temp of a thousand degrees to keep him warm?

Or maybe, maybe he just loved me and holding any part of me, even my unpedicured man foot that had obviously lost feeling to touch, was all he needed to be content in his life… or at least this moment.

Ya, let’s go with that.

p.s. Taradiddle – noun – A petty lie. Pretentious nonsense.

p.s.s. The author had used it correctly.

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I stepped on something, almost died, and now my neighbor locks his doors.

I was raised country, which means my feet are always bare.  The minute I get home I’ll flip off my shoes and refuse to put them on again until I have to head out to join the civilized world.

In my younger days I use to keep all my shoes in the trunk of my car, so the minute I was done meeting social requirements, I could just throw my shoes in the back until needed again. However, after a flat tire incident in a rain storm that took Hubby 2 hours to fix, because of the shear mass of shoes he had to dig through to get to my spare, all shoes have since been moved into the house.

Anywho, I was enjoying my natural bare feet state while outside last night trying to get Orko to poo so we could go to bed, when it happened.  I stepped on something alive…

Now being a country girl this is no big deal, but I live in Arizona now, and the things that are outside at night are freaking freaky and want to kill me or at least seriously gross me out.

Here are the images that quickly shot through my mind.

Scorpions... Where are we?!? Fucking Egypt!?!?!?!

Scorpions… Where are we?!? Fucking Egypt!?!?!?!

Tarantula... Where are we?!? Fucking South America!?!?!?!

Tarantula… Where are we?!? Fucking South America!?!?!?!

Giant Cockroach... WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU HOLDING IT!?!?!?!

Giant Cockroach… Where are we… OH MY GOD WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU HOLDING IT!?!?!?!

Okay let’s take stock, my foot wasn’t hurting, so I was pretty certain that whatever was under my foot was either too shocked to attack, was dead, or had bit/stabbed me and I had gone numb as my body was shutting down and my death was eminent.

Me: Please be dead, please be dead, please be dead.

I raised my foot and saw him…

Cute Lizard

I had flattened a baby gecko… I WAS A MURDER!! I HAD EVEN PRAYED FOR HIS DEATH!!!

I fell to my knees and and began begging for the dead gecko’s forgiveness. Orko ran over to see what had my attention and promptly ate the gecko.


Orko cocked his head at me confused and then spat out the slobbery, squished gecko. It hit the pavement, laid there for a moment, and then took off at full gecko sprint for the hedges.


I then began dancing around with Orko jumping along with me, and that’s when I noticed our neighbor standing a few feet away holding a garbage bag. He nodded at me, I nodded at him and we went our separate ways.

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Emmy was hit by a garbage truck… I was struck blind… and everyone laughed… bastards.

SO, a girl I work with was in a fender bender yesterday, and today, everyone was sharing car accident stories with her to make her feel better.  After I finished telling my horribly sad story, everyone was laughing… bastards… here’s the story.

Emmy was beautiful.

She was green and sparkly with tan leather interior and shiny rims. Her full name was Emerald Pretty Pretty BMW Baby, but for short we called her Emmy… well technically I was the only one who called her that. Hubby refused to call her by either name and only referred to her as “the car”… bastard.

So Emmy, Hubby, and I were driving on a side street when a woman 2 cars in front of us decided she HAD to have the parking spot she just PASSED and hit her brakes, causing the car behind her to hit its brakes, and the car behind them to hit there brakes, and hence me to hit Emmy’s breaks… and we all stopped… and everything was fine.

I started to tell Hubby that was close when I heard brakes of a really really big vehicle locking up behind us… and…. BAM SMASH HOLY SHIT AAAAHHHH EMMY NOOOOOOOO!!

It was a garbage truck… a garbage truck had just violently assaulted my Emerald Pretty Pretty BMW Baby… violently assaulted.

Hubby: DAMMIT! Are you okay?

Before waiting for my reply he jumped out of Emmy and ran to check on the woman in front of us who I had BARELY bumped into, leaving me behind. I was sitting frozen in my seat slowly coming to the realization that… I was blind!

Me: I’M BLIND!!!!!

Garbage Guy getting out of truck: OH MY GOD!

Hubby: WHAT!?!?… it’s your hair you spaz, push your hair out of your face!!

Me: … I CAN SEE!!!!

Hubby then had to go over and check on Garbage Guy who had slumped to the ground after my blindness scare… he was fine… bastard.

In the end Emmy was declared totaled by my insurance company, an insurance company that I quickly dropped after the accident.  Not because our policy increased, but because when I called to report the accident the insurance agent asked what damage had been done to the vehicle that hit us and I said “The garbage truck? I think his license plate may have fallen off.” … and the agent laughed… he laughed… HE LAUGHED REGARDING A DEATH IN OUR FAMILY!… bastard.

Truck copy

This is what I see when ever I pass a garbage truck… although maybe without the eyes… that would just be creepy… bastard.

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What do you do after getting skin cancer and having reconstructive surgery… GO BUY A FUCKING CONVERTIBLE… SCREW YOU SUN!!!

Ya… so my nose is still healing after having plastic surgery to cover the hole that my skin cancer removal left… and I just bought a convertible… SHUT UP! I know what you’re thinking… oh and did I forget to mention I live in Arizona… SHUT UP I KNOW!

But fuck it! My car died and it was time to replace it and I’ve always wanted a convertible and you gotta admit, Orko and I make it look good.


… that title goes to my 70+ sunscreen… that I bath in 3 times a day…

No time to explain, get your sunglasses, sunscreen, and get in!!!

No time to explain, get your sunglasses, sunscreen, and get in!!!

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Don’t question my love dammit… Someone hand me a fork!!

Is that not the most confusing title ever!?! I had a MUCH better one, but it was also the final line of this post and I felt like that was having your desert before your meal… which also totally goes with this story!

Anywho, Hubby is allergic to eggs, and he’s also allergic to sugar and fruit when eaten within 4 hours of each other… he’s special.  So if he eats all 3 of those items at once, this hasn’t been proven, but I’m pretty sure he’d blow up.

Last night he came home with 2 big bags from the Cheesecake Factory, which has been around forever, but somehow Hubby has just “discovered” it and now wants to eat there like EVERY day.  And you totally could, and not have the same thing twice, cause their menu is a freaking novel!

SO, as I’m unpacking the bulging bags, I pull out this…


Me: BABE! What the hell!?!

Hubby: What?

Me: Eggs, Sugar, AND fruit; this will kill you!

Hubby: I know, but it looked so good… I had to get it.

Me: But it WILL KILL YOU!!

Hubby: … maybe just one little bite…

Me: NNNNNOOOOOooooooooooooooo

It was like a movie people, in slow motion I hurtled myself in front of Hubby, and shoved the entire slice in my mouth.

This just totally proves my love for hubby… I’d take a cheesecake for that man!

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CIA CAT IS DEAD!… oops hold on…

You know your cat is fracking old when she’s napping on the couch and after staring at her for a while you begin to realize something… HOLY SHIT! CIA CAT ISN’T BREATHING!!!!

OMG I don’t know cat CPR!!! Is it like regular CPR!?!? AAAHHHHH it doesn’t matter, I don’t know regular CPR!!!

So you run over and start screaming into her face “BREATH CIA CAT, BREATH YOU EVIL BASTARD”, and all the while you’re thinking of the good times… okay, ya you got nothing… but still, you find your eyes misting and you start clinging to her, rocking as you whisper her name in her ear…  her twitching ear.


CIA Cat: meow


CIA Cat: meow *yawn*

Me: oh go back to bed you asshole… I love you.

CIA Cat: *snore*

Posted in CIA Cat, Humor | 3 Comments