I’m used to mixing all the wet ingredients together and all the dry and then bringing them together (muffin method) or the creaming method. But this isn’t either of those. Plus, sugar should be a “wet” ingredient. I think I’ve head of putting the baking soda with the eggs before… doesn’t that cause some kind of reaction that helps with leavening? This is just kind of all around weird though. I’m sure it’ll end up with a cake in the end, but I’m not sure that it’ll be a good cake.
Dunno. Maybe keeping kosher? I deleted the spam with ironic extreme prejudice without reading it too closely. People like that don’t put* a high priority on making much sense.
*I originally wrote “People like that don’t poo”. I’m having a bad typing day.
Actually, it does look like The Pioneer Woman’s recipe for cake involves boiling the butter, water, and cocoa and then adding it to the flour/sugar mix. So maybe it really is the way to make chocolate cake.
I get to see Faraway Best Friend in September, when she’s once again bringing a bunch of high-school students to the States. She’s taking them to Chicago again, although the dates are kind of goofy. I’m still figuring out when I’ll be there, but it looks like Friday, Sept. 11, might be a Dopefest possibility.
::looks meaningfully at MBG and rigs and all the other Chicago-ish MMPers I’m forgetting::
I’m deciding which house I need to spend time in. I had definite grrrrr occasions at work today. I didn’t commit any acts of violence, although it was tempting.
So, where does one put a husband who bitches at you about not being social enough and then the next night strands you at home by yourself by taking the only reliable car (yours) to haul another woman (who has a perfectly drivable car of her own) to a play 45 miles away? And doesn’t tell you about it till he’s already on the road? And doesn’t bother to make sure you have keys to his car and can get home under your own steam before he leaves? He doesn’t need killing, but it does seem beyond Grrr Corner.
Perhaps the House at What-the-fucking-hell-is-WRONG-with-you Corner.
Smartie: You crack me up. You also have hit on one of my major stumbling blocks in this crazy-ass marriage–to wit, what is the big freaking deal? If I need to scream, I need to scream. NOT in public, not in front of the kids etc, but honestly–I don’t see what the big drama is. Of course, one can argue that what is the big drama with the screaming? Surely life needn’t involve screaming? But seriously, life is fucked up sometimes and needs to be screamed at. I think so, anyway.
Notice I am not saying scream at someone. I guess after years of being a nurse, I just don’t take this kind of thing personally. If you feel the need to scream, rant or carry on, by all means, do so. If in giving witness to your outburst, I help prevent a more deadly (either inward or outward) display, that’s all to the good, no?
I look at people who suddenly burst into tears or scream or blow up as people who feel safe enough around me to allow some of their anger to be siphoned off. Hey, I’m not saying it’s a compliment or anything, but it’s not the end of the world, either. (also note, I don’t advocate screaming etc as a regular thing, but sometimes you just have to say WTF, no?) CCL–you have progressed far beyond the H of BIWFYSU Corner and entered Batshit Insane Corner. Is this your husband? I’d say not for long… :eek: LiLi--I’d never kill him. Truly, there are two sides to every story and (I know this will shock all of you), sometimes I’m not very nice.
Dotster was nice enough to send me the lyrics to House at Pooh Corner, but I am not in the right frame of mind. I will attempt to rewrite it in the morning.
Yep, it’s my husband. I don’t know what on earth he was thinking. Actually, I do know what he was thinking–that this woman (who is our mutual friend and was going to carpool with us tonight anyway) suddenly had to fill in for a performer and had to be there early, and my car gets much better gas mileage than hers does. The fact that he was essentially ditching me never entered his gigantic pumpkin head. And the play in question is The Vagina Monologues, so I was left trying to explain to my cow-orkers that my husband ditched me without any explanation to go watch women talk about their crotches, but it’s not really how it sounds. Awkward really doesn’t even get into the same county with it.
Oh, I dunno–there’s a fine poetic irony that he did this while going to see that play.
I like it. If it were in a book, an editor would delete it by saying, “too implausible”.
Thank you all for your healing wishes. I’m sure it’ll be fine after I have it taken care of
Don’t be such a . . . :smack: oh! That’s where you got your screen name! :D:D
Maybe they don’t - maybe that’s why they send so much spam.
Where are all these houses, I’d like to know, and is there one on “Figure out what the hell you want me to do before you ask me to do it, dammit” corner?
I gotta say, that looks like a damned good chocolate cake–dammit, now I want some! I’m going to have cake on my birfday, though, if I have to move heaven and earth…
Rigs, I’m a huge believer in getting your feelings out–screaming isn’t a favorite of mine because it makes my throat all scratchy, but I’ve been known to purchase five pounds of slightly overripe fruit and chuck it at a wall until it’s a reasonable facsimile of a Jackson Pollock painting. With bees! Men who try to control women’s vocal expression of their feelings are a HUGE pet peeve of mine, generally because the tight assed mofo hissing at you for DARING to increase the emphasis of your speech or to raise your voice a whole FIVE DECIBELS HIGHER while you’re gasp IN PUBLIC is usually the same shouty bastard who bullies and screams whenever he can get away with it in private. As though it matters whether or not somebody else is around to hear it. :rolleyes: Then they expect you to apologize for your feelings and will throw it in your face for the next ten years. I preemptively avoid this sort of thing by establishing right early that I’m an extremely easy going person who nevertheless has a vicious temper when roused and that I’m liable to be quite extravagant in my expressions if I’m provoked enough.
When I’m royally pissed I usually like to drive a very twisty bit of road very, very fast. It focuses my attention and I can listen to loud aggro music, sing along at the top of my lungs and talk to myself out loud. Very out loud…
hands one of these :smack: to rosie No, really, ya think?!
Well, the dogs remain unwashed. Himself, when he finally rolled out of bed, declared himself unequal to the task of bathing the dogs today and insists it will have to be tomorrow. I’ve been tasked with making sure he gets up at a reasonable hour to accomplish this task. My squirt bottle is ready…
I was on my way to bed when my phone started blinking with a new email. Now I am too angry to sleep. A short synopsis:
The 1947 television that TVMan restored for me also has a record player. When we first got the tv, the record player wasn’t working. TVMan sent the cartridge out to a record player specialist (herein known as King Moron) to be rebuilt and paid in advance for the repair. We got the cartridge back from King Moron and it worked for about an hours’ playing time. In the meantime, TVMan had noticed that there was another minor problem with the player so we sent the whole thing including the cartridge back for repairs. Ten months later King Moron calls and says that the player is finished and he’s done a complete restoration, without our authorization. Would we kindly send him a large chunk of change and he’ll send it back. Skipping ahead… King Moron realizes the error of his ways and sends it back to us without any additional money required. He fixed the cartridge, but flat out lied about having ‘fully restored’ it. As a matter of fact, it was still working, but not as well as it had been, mechanically, before we sent it. TVMan reinstalled it into the television console and the catridge worked… for about 20 minutes.:smack::mad: Further attempts to communicate with King Moron on both my part and TVMans’ have resulted in much banging of heads against the wall. Today I sent a very clearly worded letter saying please fix my cartridge again or refund my money minus shipping. I got a one sentence email in return. It said, “The cartridge in there is a rebuilt one.” Huh?
I don’t care if the damn cartridge was built under the new moon by African Pygmies, I JUST WANT THE DAMN THING TO WORK! I’ve crafted my response but am awaiting TVMan’s input before I send it off lest I be too harsh.
Don’t forget “and wants you to squee in glee at his latest hobby-you-don’t-give-a-shit-about acquisition and holler fit to bring down the roof in bed and, of course, never sneeze or cough or anything like that (men fart, ladies don’t and if you’re his woman you’re a lady).”
IOW, they’d like women to be like modern teevees and have a “mute/unmute” button Or perhaps people in general.
We have all kind of houses, Pie. I now have in my head an image of a “throwing Pie with claws fully extended at morons, Wolverine/Colossus’ fastball style.” For those who weren’t reading X-Men, oh… 30 years ago, pre-movies-and-cartoons-Wolverine was about 5’4," chunky and with claws, Colossus was thereabouts of 6’8" and very strong, Colossus would throw Wolvie at their enemies sort of like a human knife (normally at giant robots or suchlike, or the censorship guys would’a had a fit).
