Fever. Of the spring variety.

I've got it, and I've got it REAL bad.

I want to laze about in the sun, or not laze but just be out of the office. I nearly drove off the road with my co-worker in my car because I saw a new patio bar open in town. I wanted to pull over with her the car and force (although I'm sure she would be willing) to blow off the rest of this beautiful afternoon and drink adult beverages.

I'm leaving work early as it is to go home and work on my garden so I'll get my fix. But like any good junkie, I know I could always use another hit.

I totally realize that this and the previous posts have discussed my addictions and their ability to rule my thought processes. And my wallet.

Also I'm completely aware of the startling frequency with which I've started sentences with the the word "I" in this post. I don't give a care.

Damnit, I need a cocktail.

The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire.

The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire.

We don't need water, let the motherfucker burn.

Except say washer instead of roof.

Yeah, that is right, my washer caught on fire saturday morning filling my basement with lots of smoke. And because my house has this fancy dancy security system the alarm automatically goes to the fire station so I got to meet a lot of fire men in my oh-so-sexy PJs.

Don't worry, I consoled myself with lots of alcohol on saturday night and ended up making an ass of myself in front of a bar full of people. I'm blaming it on this new drink from a local restaurant that I had with dinner (ok, ok, I had TWO with dinner in addition to a bloody mary), the drink has a fantabulous name: The O Face. Sweet. Because if you don't feel like a perv ordering it then you know you've had one too many. Or maybe if you've decided that in order to mock someone you know who wears dumb hats you empty out your purse and put it on your head like a hat. And, pose for pictures.

After my little early morning party with the firemen I was bushed, I'm thinking it was the super surge of adrenaline I experienced when I realized what was happening, and the subsequent crash that followed. I ended up taking 2 naps that day, which is something I rarely do.

Sunday was a much more productive day, because I went to the flower store and picked out what I would like to put in my beds (I need to supplement the seeds). Also I figured out how much mulch I'm going to need for my beds. Hopefully I will be able to get the mulch in this weekend so that it can start looking a little more fresh than the burnt out mulch that currently is in my beds.

Blah, blah, blah, plants, blah, blah. Someone should really stop me from talking about plants.

Spring babies

So here it is, I have an addiction. Rather, it is still in it's developmental stages, but I can quickly see it spiraling out of control until I am forced to sell my body on the street in order to keep myself well stocked with my drug of choice.


Yes, I've developed a heady addiction to the small tiny things from which plants and glorious herbs sprout. To most people this could be just seen as a hobby, but to date I've spent a good $60 on seeds.
I know that is a shocking amount to have spent on such little things that only cost $1.25 per package.

In my defense I've tried to grow things from seed before and really only had a good amount of success with basil, japanese eggplant and sage. This year, I'm attempting flowers for the first time and was experiencing some success earlier and then last week all of my strong little leafy babies died. Poof! dead.

Needless to say I got a little torqued up. I WILL NOT BE BROKEN BY SEEDS DAMNIT!

Clearly I have a green thumb, I can make lots and lots of things grow. And grow well. These are not exotic seeds, rather just your garden variety of coleus, lobelia, snow-in-summer, pansies, etc. This torqued up state resulted in me spending another $40 in Lowes buying more seed (even MORE than before) and more of those little magical expanding pellets (which remind me of those little pill shaped things you would get as a child that once put in water would expand into a fun farm animal-no? only me?). So I planted 180+ little pellets of seeds this weekend. I'm going with the strength in numbers, so if half die I still have half to plant.

Lets call it the Old Farm theory.

I'll let you know how it pans out.

For now, I'll console myself with my pretty tulips:

Cry Baby

Thats right, I've been crying off and on for the last 24 hours. Great big sobs that wrack my chest and make my head feel like it is going to explode. Even sitting here is making me want bust down into tears.


Oh, because I've watched the last 3 episodes of Six Feet Under.

Yes, I'm a big fat cry baby because of a TV show. I know it is lame and totally uncool but whatever. That show speaks to me, it shows the unprettiness that can exists in a family and how fucked up people are. Jesus, it is nice to know that people out there have fucked up thoughts/feelings/actions and that my stupid missteps are not something that define me as freak.

And, yes, I know that I'm speaking as if the people on the show are real. The season finale really got to me. I've watched the closing sequence twice and both times I've ended up a blathering mess. It wrapped things up for me in a way that I found completely satisfying, yet inexplicably sad.

Whatever. I'm done talking about it because I don't want to cry anymore. At least not today.

This weekend I did manage to make 2 of the 3 things that I wanted to make from Marianne's blog. Saturday night was the pan seared scallops and lemon risotto. The risotto was SUBLIME.

In addition I had a bottle of champaign and yes, I used a straw for a couple glasses. (I have a serious affinity for straws and bubbly drinks.)

And then Sunday was the gastronomic feast of filet, artichokes and potatoes with béarnaise sauce.

Sorry this post is such a damn downer. No more Six Feet Under for me, it kills the funny.

PS. I just fucking cried at a Cheerios commerical. Pppfftthhh!

On Blogs

The internet has such a plethora of things to read I often find myself completely engrossed in a topic that has little to no relevance in my life. Like adoption blogs. I'm completely obsessed with them, I've always wanted to adopt but clearly I'm at a point in my life where I'm so not ready for children. Yet, my heart rises and falls on super witty women (and the occasional man) who tell me about their travails through the system. Mary-Mia is my favorite (yes, I'm a cruel lady and play favorites), as she and I share the same fondness for mexican food and chocolate. Plus her candid writing style draws you in and makes you feel like you know her personally (even though I'm completely intimidated by the shear number of people who comment on a regular basis for her website).

At least with food blogs my hunger gets revved up and I can go home and make a delicious treat. Marianne's fantastical (yes, it is a word damn-it) photos and lush writing style have cause me many a trip to the store for some sort of ingredient that I need to recreate one of her dishes. Or at the very least she inspires me to pull out on of my cookbooks and try that recipe I keep saying I have to taste. This weekend for my sunday night dinner (I try to make Sunday night meals a bit more lavish than most nights because that is the way my parents did it and I'm nothing if not a lemming) Marianne's most recent recipe: Steaks and Artichokes with BĂ©arnaise Sauce. And if I get really saucy this weekend I might give her brioche recipe a shot. In the same vein I've been dying to try her pan seared scallops with wilted spinach and lemon risotto but I'm waiting for scallops to go on sale. For some bloody reason I'm having issues with paying the outlandish prices that Kroger is willing to charge me for the luxury of seafood in this landlocked Appalachian town.

And because her name is becoming ubiquitous with blogging, Dooce . Who knew a former Mormon that discovered the fun of tequila and other illicit substances could be downright hilarious (although I'm sure that she in no way needs tequila to make herself funny).

The Saucy Trollop will be undergoing some cosmetic changes as I fiddle with things because I'm never content to leave well enough alone. Many thanks to Marianne for coming up with the name when I was under that mental roadblock. Also too, I've got a creative fire lit under my ass lately. Which would be fine but I also have oatmeal on my ass. And I mean literally oatmeal on my ass, well, on the ass of my pants. Way to sit in your morning breakfast genius.

A Trollop Rants

So here I am, writing another blog. My first blog was specific and thus did not allow me to branch out and discuss the things that were not relevant to (well, I could have but I felt that no one wanted to read about my gardening when really they wanted to hear about my boob job). But I digress, and I like it. I like going off on tangents that have completely nothing to do with one another. And this is my forum to do it.

Today I'm going to write about the fun, fun, fun night I had last night. And by fun, fun, fun night I mean the most annoying night ever with the most drunken stupid assholes I've had a chance to confront. Last night at 2:45 am I was awoken to the sound of someone smashing my flower pot. And yes, I know that is it's singular form because the other 3 flower pots have all been previously smashed by other asshats. So I throw on a jacket and shoes bust on outside to pick it up and maybe catch one of the perps.

And I did! I actually caught one guy who was pee-ing against the side of my house (because what is a little piss on my house if you've already broken my flower pot), I ask him if he did this (holding my broken pot aloft). He says he didn't but his roommate did, but refuses to give me his name. I berate his drunken ass for a few minutes and he accidentally gives up his first name, Aaron. This was my favorite part of the coversation:

Me: Who is going to pay for this goddamn broken flowerpot?
Aaron: Hey! Hey! Hey! There is no reason to start swearing!
Me: Are you fucking kidding me?

Then like someone on some sort of western ranch I tell him to get the hell off my property. He starts to argue with me because I'm swearing, and I repeat to him to get the hell off my property. Then the asshat tries to shake my hand, I refuse and he acts all offended. I repeat a third time for him to leave and pretend to walk away, except as soon as he has his back turned I hide so I can see which house he walks into.

It may not be his house, but someone there knows him. I want my $30 for my flower pot goddamnit.

Should I list all the things that have been broken/stolen in the last year and half?

My huge dining room window had a beer bottle thrown through it.
All 9 of my flower boxes were ripped off my porch and thrown into my driveway.
4 broken flower pots
Driver's side mirror ripped off my car
My super expensive stand mailbox was ripped off my front porch
Broken french door window in my foyer
Baby blue paint thrown on the front of my house
Propane tank for my grill stolen
Then they came back and took my new fucking gas grill

I think that is it-I think.

Right now, I really hate college students.