A Survival Guide for the Domestically Challenged

Stuff I Do When I'm Drunk.

Hello friends and lovers,

I actually have a legitimate excuse for not writing in a while!  Well, kinda.  Just go with it.  I've become a small business owner.  Yes, that is correct!  I am in the process of setting up shop - a cupcake shop that is!  Called Bonnie Cakes.  And it's in New Zealand.  So if you don't live here you probably won't be able to see it for yourselves.  So technically this could be a complete fabrication because, let's get serious, how would you ever find out otherwise?  I mean, half the world still thinks Americans walked on the MOON (pause for the uproar....)

So I've been knee deep in all that comes with starting a small business and having no idea what I'm really doing.  Good thing I know how to make a decent cupcake!  

How did I come up with the idea to open up a cupcake shop in New Zealand, you ask?  Well, thinking of this answer got me to realise that the very answer to this question can be the answer for many questions regarding choices I've made in my adult life.  The answer being:  I was DRUNK.  Just so you know, my mom would be MOR-TI-FIEEEEED if she heard this.  So please don't tell her I said that.  

But it is true.  

Alas, one night after a few...er...bottles...of wine (you thought I was going to say glasses weren't you - don't insult me - I am a professional!), the talk turned to cupcakes.  And then red velvet - something I consider myself to be well-versed in.  And a friend of mine said her brother was getting married and they couldn't find anyone who knew how to make red velvet cupcakes!  In my drunkeness I was absolutely (and probably over-dramatically) outraged!  Whatever do you MEAN no one makes red velvet cupcakes here?   And then somehow I found myself offering to do their wedding cupcakes.  Like you do when you're drunk.  I had pretty much forgotten about that entire conversation (and of most of the events of the evening, apart from when I yelled at a bouncer at a bar because he wouldn't let our man friends in because they weren't wearing collared shirts...I believe I told him he was provincial...fun angry drunk Bonnie at her best...) - anyway, I forgot all about the red velvet wedding until I get a call from said friend's brother's fiance asking me if I was available on the date of their wedding.  Let's get one thing straight:  drunk or sober, I am no quitter.  Besides, I've catered food before, how much different is it to do cupcakes for a wedding?  

You're probably going to think I screwed something up and made a huge mess of their special day.  I know, I would probably think that of me too.  But I haven't because the wedding isn't for a few months from now.  So ha!  

But what did seem to happen was a snowballing effect of people finding out about the elusive red velvet cupcake and wanting to try it.  So orders started coming in.  And people were loving them!  So I figured, why not give New Zealand a taste of America in the good ol' Sprinkles fashion and start a cupcake shop???  So that's just what I plan to do.

I guess by being intoxicated I acutally made quite a healthy life decision, whether I knew it at the time or not!  

Drunken decisions haven't helped me this much in the past.  

I thought I'd illustrate this with a few examples. 

* Christmas.  I'm 31.  Some friends and I go to a winery for dinner and the booze is a -flowin.  I spot the most amazing garden on their property with the biggest fricken artichoke plants I have ever seen with the most beautifully ripe artichokes I have ever seen.  I need to have an artichoke.  I take my butter knife with me and sneak over to the garden (in the dark), hop over the hedge and proceed to saw off an artichoke.  I run back and sneak it into my purse.  Without getting caught.

* Same night as above, giddy from my ingenious theivery, I decide to jump into the fountain out front.  My shoes were surprisingly not ruined.  I was also thrown into the trunk of a car, but this was not my choice so I don't count it in this list.  

* The Cook Islands.  I'm 30.  My brother and sister-in-law's wedding.  I was surprisingly well behaved until I was notified that we had a huge bar tab that needed to be spent.  And I was OFF!  A bus came to pick us all up and take us back to our hotels around the island.  I spot the most amazing captain's hat under the seat.  It has no owner, so I put it on.  I let everyone else try it on too.  I may (allegedly) have told a boy to "keep it".  So apparently he did.  Unbeknownst to me, this captain's hat actually belonged to an Air New Zealand pilot who was due to fly out that morning.  Apparently he went around each stop the bus driver had made and knocked on doors at 5 am until he found his hat.  I got the blame.  

* New Zealand, I'm 29.  I'm out at a bar with Shane and some of his friends.  We have just come from dinner at another winery (I'm seeing a trend here, are you?) - Shane's friend challenges me to a kart wheel competition.  Again, I am no quitter.  He goes (yes it was a HE who challenged me) and I think I've got this in the bag!  I give a little run and begin to proceed with my kart wheel when the heel of my boot makes unusual contact with the slick wooden floor and I completely eat it.  I had nerve damage in my hand and it tingled for over a month.  

Ok this is getting embarrasing.  I'm sure those of you who know me can add some stories.  And don't act like you've never done stupid shit like this before.  I know the truth!

A Night with Pete Wentz

I'm not sure if you guys know this, but I was involved in a pseudo scandal a few years back.  Oh yes, even before Hell's Kitchen knew about Chef Bonnie, trouble was a-brewin.  I even made Perez Hilton.  (for those of you who don't know, that used to be a really big deal).  

 

The Scandal?  A sex tape with Pete Wentz - Fallout Boy's sexy bass player/now ex-husband to Ashlee Simpson.  Can you believe it???

Don't.  Because it's not true.  Well, it did actually make a few very minor headlines, but the act itself was entirely untrue.  You're probably thinking, how would I even come across Pete Wentz in my actual real life?  Well, friends, the answer is because I used to live in Hollywood.  And shit like that just seems to happen sometimes.  

I was in culinary school at the time.  I was in my pastry course and had made arrangements with my buddy Jeff that I would give him all of my glorious baked bounty if he would show up at the end of class everyday.  (Otherwise I'd go home and sit in my empty bathtub or under my desk and eat everything myself - Jeff apparently only made it as far as his car...but that's a different story - huh Jeff??) 

Anyway, so one day Jeff shows up with this guy he's friends with and doing some writing together.  We will call him Nate.  So we get to chatting as I had my freshly baked brownies to Jeff's hot little hands.  And it turns out Nate has written a short film and is going to direct it and and asks if I "know of anyone who might be interested?"  Ok so I used to act, I used to loooooove performing in front of anyone who would watch.  But I put a heavy lid on that box once I realized it wasn't what I wanted to do anymore.  Hence, going to culinary school.  The lid came down on the acting box when I was sitting in acting class one Monday afternoon and my wonderful acting teacher made a profound statement:  

You should only be an actor if you want to get up and perform everyday knowing you may never make a single penny out of your craft.

Oh HELL no! - was my knee-jerk reaction.  And I suddenly realized:  I wanted red carpet, and parties and fashion and paparazzi and all that shit that seems to be a bi-product of showbusiness.  Oh yeah, and MONEY.  But I didn't want to do what it took to get here, I realized.   Acting for film and tv is hard fucking work.  Stopping and starting and stopping and starting and getting up at 4 am for makeup and then standing around all day with nothing to do til they get to the one stupid scene you're actually in.  Yuck.  Not for me.  AND not to mention you just feel fat and ugly and not funny all the time after you show up to an audition and stand next to the most beautiful and funny women you'll ever see.  Nope.

As soon as I had this realization, I quit.  I hung my jazz hands up in the closet and began to ponder what was to become of my menial existence on this planet.  

Whatever, this is a lot of back story and I haven't really gotten to the real story.

So, cut back to Nate asking me if I knew someone interested in being in a short film.  With Pete Wentz.  He did actually say that.  I had no idea who Pete Wentz even was.  I had the feeling Nate wanted me to volunteer so I did.  And I auditioned.  And I got the part.  

So we do this movie, Pete Wentz and me.  And there is a really graphic sex scene.  And I realize that when actors say how uncomfortable sex scenes are - they mean it.  SO embarassing and awkward and uncomfortable.  

BUT when the film was finished, a piece of it got "leaked" to the press to make it look like it was a real sex tape.  But it wasn't.  But people got curious and started to download it.  So it worked.

Anyway, my point wasn't really to tell you about the sex tape scandal, my point was to tell you about hanging out with Pete Wentz, one night in particular.  And let this be said once:  Pete Wentz never hooked up, nor got it on, nor did anything intimate in any way.  Except for what was filmed.  But we did hang out together a few times after it was all over.  

The time I want to tell you about was when he texted me to tell me he was "having some people over" at his house and wanted to know if I could come.  Duh.  Of course I'll be going.  For sheer curiosity, if nothing else.  And I began to envision myself sitting around a dining table drinking wine with a bunch of rockstars...they would find me witty and entertaining yet intelligent.  I would awe them with my understated fashion sense.  We would make more dinner plans and I would end up in some gossip magazine going shopping with one of them....

I dig through my wine rack to find a suitable bottle of red wine.  We will definitely be eating, so what better gift to bring than a bottle of wine?  Especially a nice one, right?  

So it takes me like 2 hours to find Pete's house.  It's back in the hills on some virtually unnamed narrow road and I'm automatically starting to worry about where I'm going to park my car...

Oh.  Wait.  Isn't that....valet?  I find myself in a long line of cars outside of my destination waiting to be parked by men in uniform.  Erm...I thought the invite hinted at a small gathering...  Oh well!  The more the merrier!  You'd think this would have triggered my brain into thinking, gee I don't think they'll need your ONE bottle of red.  But it didn't.  And once my keys were handed over to the nice man parking my car (the shittiest car in the line, mind you, my pathetic 1996 Corolla sandwiched in between Rangerovers and Mercedes and all sorts of expensive crap!) , I made sure I had my trusty little gift in tow and marched towards the door...that was wide open...and as I entered this massive house I came face first with about a gazillion people, a dj, a full bar, and an entire catering crew.  

What the fuck was I supposed to do with my wine now?  I can't just carry it around with me the whole night and look like a boozer!  When I saw Pete I handed it to him, knowing this was going to make me look like a complete and utter idiot.  I think he thought I had taken it from the bar and just handed it to him in some weird drunken gesture.  

I did meet a few other famous peeps, drank with a few famous peeps, drank with a few normal peeps, and got into a long supportive conversation with one of Pete's guy friends going through a breakup.  Who then tried to hit on me.  Ok, time to go.

Driving home, I had a lot on my mind;  I had entered a different world for a few brief hours.  One I'm glad I got to see, because it made me realize that I was never meant to be famous.  Or like, that famous.  I'd never want to throw a party that big and consider it "having a few people over" - in fact, I don't ever want to throw a party that big at my house!  I want to throw parties where it's totally appreciated if someone brings a bottle of wine or 2.  That were hand-selected with love and care.  

Not that there is anything wrong with that life.  It's just a different life.  And not for me.  I'm too  much of a dork to be that famous.

Thoughts I Have When Working Out Heavily

Woooooah blogging overloooooad!  Slow DOWN already!  Ok, ok.  I'm sorry.  It's just how things work.  I'm a bit of a life binger:  I do everything full on or not at all (eh hem, like...erm...blogging).  So I'm on a little kick to be a better person in general, which means trying to get back into shape.  

That's not to say homegirl has ever been "in shape".  I think I had a few moments of being teeny but that's because of genes and the fact that I drank a lot in my 20s and didn't really consume much else.  Works wonders!  But you fall down a lot.  But as the years have gone by, I'd say I'm definitely not "LA thin" anymore.  Do you know there's actually that term out there?  Girls can be thin in the midwest but they are definitely not LA thinnn.  And when you say the "thin" in LA you have to elongate your nnn at the end.  Makes it more smug and annoying. So I guess it's a good thing I'm not living in LA anymore otherwise people might talk.  In New Zealand, I'm "tiny".  If I complain that I've gained weight I'm scoffed at.  But seriously - my pants weren't buttoning or zipping or any combination.  I'd like maaaaybe get the zipper half way up and squeeze my remaining self in there and that would last...oooh maybe like 2 hours...and then the button, along with the rest of me would have freedom.  Terrible feeling.  

So, of course, being Bonnie Binger, I can't just exercise in moderation.  Noooo.  Why bother?  It's all or nothing, bitches!  All or nothing!  So I've bought a bunch of Bikram Yoga classes because that made me feel good even though I haven't really been very motivated to go. If my Bikram Yogini is reading this, I SWEAR I'm coming back!  But doing just hot yoga where you sweat your proverbial balls off (well proverbial in my case) can't possibly be enough!  I need more!  

So I bought the Turbo Fire dvd set.  And have been going strong since Monday.  Not long, I know, but shit's happening.  Not like my pants fit any better yet.  More like just realizing how I have pretty much lost all semblance of athleticism I maybe never possessed.  I could at least get through a work out class without semi-dying.  Not that it would be graceful and/or coordinated.  Anyway, if you don't know about Turbo Fire, it's by Team Beachbody, those lovely insane folks that brought us P90X.  I've never had the desire to do P90X at all.  But then I was on Facebook and saw a chick who had a 30 day body comparison after doing this Turbo Fire thing and I was like holy guacamole! I NEED THAT! Of course my immediate thought is that I've bought the dvds aaaaaaaaaaan boom I'm skinny.  Ugh so disappointing your whole ass doesn't fall off as you open the box!  

So they give you this little work out schedule which is nice because you don't have to stand in front of your array of work out dvds while twirling your hair and go "which one do I wanna do today?" and then decide to go clean out your closet or order pizza.  Nope, they make it pretty easy.  And the first dvd I was scheduled to do was only 30 mins!  I'm thinking, awesome! This is going to be such a cake walk! **Get it, I'm a chef, cake walk?  Working out?  My talents are so wasted!**  

Well, anyway, I was wrong.  I've never worked out as hard as these for even like 30 seconds, let alone 30 mins.  And it was quite funny because the harder my little fat heart was beating the weirder my thoughts became.  It was like the little devil on my shoulder started speaking to me, but actually forcing my brain to think what devil bitch was thinking.  Like, being fat isn't so bad! Neither is cellulite!  Mischa Barton has cellulite and people still think she's hot!  Don't you want to stop and have a cookie?  Or just the cookie dough?  You've worked so hard already you don't need to go to the trouble of baking them!  And then my normal brain would kick in and all of a sudden it's telling me you're so going to puke your fucking guts out if you don't stop!  Seriously dude, stop jumping!  If you knew you were going to do this why the FUCK did you have wine and fried food.  I beforehand?  Are you a total IDIOT?! I DON'T WANNA DO THIS ANYMOOOOOOOORE!

And then, just like that, it was over.  The work out, not my crazy brain thoughts.  But I had made it through.  And I didn't actually vomit although I really thought I would.  

And then the next morning I was so sore I couldn't even roll out of bed.  I kind of had to slide out like undies on satin sheets.  Chubby undies.  Not sexy.  

If you guys are nice maybe I'll post before and after pics.  But I really can't promise that because who knows how long this exercise kick will last.  Shane says I have to finish it because the whole set was like $100 and he's made himself my unofficial drill sergent to make sure I finish the whole thing.  Which is 5 months long.  Ooooooooooh I need to learn to do these things more quietly.

 

***But seriously, I would definitely recommend TurboFire especially for chicks who want to do something a bit hardcore.  If I can not succumb to my own thoughts and quit mid-workout then I think it will be amazing for anyone.  I'll keep you posted on my progress.  And be honest if/when I decide to quit.*** 

 

Oh Lenny Haffapig, Your Head Has Left You!

....And it is NOT in my belly.  And I did NOT do what I promised to do.  And I will get up and stand in front of you all to proclaim that BONNIE MUIRHEAD IS A LIGHTWEIGHT!  Yes, friends and foes, it is true.  I just couldn't do it.  

I kept walking over to our back fridge to have a look at ol' Lenny's noggin but I'd do that funny little sideswiping step like we all do when we're gearing ourselves up to doing something and then chicken out last minute.  Like, as if someone were watching me complete my task and I decide to use a diversion.  Hey!  This laundry needs to be folded like, rightthissecond gotta go!  Zip and I'm out of there!  No one really was watching me, of course, except maybe good ol' Lenny.  Our eyes never did make contact.  

I know this sounds pathetic, but I just couldn't do it.  I don't like seeing dead faces.  And yes I know, I knoooooooow dead animals are a fact of life and we eat them and everything dead was once living and there is a dead face in my fridge to prove it, I totally get all that.  In my head it totally makes sense.  But my heart and tummy just couldn't cope.  And tummy usually wins.  

I was having nightmares about pig faces.  My worst nightmare was actually about pig faces.  You're going to think I'm making this up, but this is a true dream and one of the worst and most vivid nightmares I have ever had.  I guess I should preface this by explaining I had this dream when I was taking Larium, which is an anti-Malaria drug.  Or a Malaria-preventative, if you will.  Not that I even needed it, apparently, because there are no cases of Malaria in Cape Town.  But my doctor thought to invoke the "just in case" clause.  So I'm taking these pills every day and I start to notice I'm having like the weirdest dreams.  Now, I have never truly dabbled in much drug use, therefore I cannot say for certain, but I feel that if I were on mushrooms or dropping acid, this dream would have made so much more sense.  

It's not even really a dream, just imagery, where I'm running through this dark warehouse-like place and I don't know why I'm running but as I run I'm bumping into things and realize these things are actually pig carcasses hanging up and they are everywhere.  Like all over this room.  And there is blood everywhere and then I realize I'm being chased by people wearing pig faces as masks (like real dead pig faces) and they are shooting at me.  

And that's the dream.  Nightmare. Thing.

Like Lord of the Flies gone like really really crazy.  

So one day after I have this nightmare I'm talking to some other exchange student and Larium comes up and she looks at me quite seriously and says, "so have you had the dreams yet?" And I'm like....YES!  Apparently this shit causes mad hallucination-like dreams.  I dumped the rest of it down the toilet and flushed.  Hell, I'd rather deal with Malaria then have night terrors again!  Good god!  

 

So I hope you can understand the level of terror I felt when I was researching how to get at those pig cheeks and find a picture of a flattened out pig's face because you have to take the face off to get to the meat - duh.  

I'll say it again, I just couldn't do it.

So I gave the head to a Maori friend of mine because apparently Maori get very excited for pig heads and love to make something similar to head cheese.  

Part of Lenny has gone to a good home.  He will be enjoyed elsewhere.  And my palms can finally stop sweating now.  

I'm sorry for being weak.  But that's just me.  Maybe next time.  

This Little Piggy ....

One of the perks of living in a farm-ish town in New Zealand is that someone is always trying to get rid of some sort of meat from some sort of animal they have just slaughetered - because they themselves have run out of freezer space.  Case in point:  my auntie-in-law Roslyn called Shane last week to see if we were interested in buying half a pig from her.  Of course we said yes, although I did have to think back when last I had visited her pigs and could this be one that I had seen and/or fed and/or had a connection with.  I think I'm ok.  I know it's a bit juvenile to be a chef and to worry about things like that still, but I still struggle with the idea of raising something considered a "pet", and then one day having someone come by and shoot it in the head, bleed it, and there.  Dinner.  But it's what people do out here and I have the utmost respect for it - because their animals have the best animal lives ever.  Really, I mean, their worst day on Earth is their last day on Earth.  I think there are people who don't even get that treatment.  

So anyway, we've said yes to this half-a-pig and I've never seen Shane so excited.  It's like he's won the meat lotto.  Not only do we get this half-a-pig (sorry, I just like saying it - read it like "haffapig" - that's how I'm saying it), but we also get to pick what cuts we want the butcher to do for us.  So we decided on the following:

Shoulder to be cured and cut as bacon

Baby Back Ribs (duh)

Pork Belly (duh)

Hind leg to be cut up into three roast portions

So I'm pretty stoked.  This whole thing has made me feel pretty damn sustainable.  Like I'm just a little bit better than you.  But just a little.

So yesterday was the big day - our bacon had been cured, everything cut and ready to go.  Shane woke up like a kid on Christmas morning to go claim his best present ever.  He happily brings home his booty and gets even more excited when it all actually fits in the freezer.

Now, there's some things he didn't tell me about.  Or at least I wasn't exactly aware of.  Not only did we become the proud owners of haffapig, whom I've named Lenny, Lenny Haffapig, we've also got a lot of little...extras.  Little Lenny bonuses.  Like a bunch of extra bones.  That's cool, I make stock so that's fine.  The tail.  I wasn't really expecting the tail.  Why does this bother me?  Well it didn't until Shane brought it out and started waving it around in my face.  We gave it to Olive, who must have also thought it was Christmas again.  I'm not sure what she's done with it now, but it's gone.  So then I tell Shane to take out a roast for dinner tonight (man I sound like a fucking farmer's wife, dont' I?).  So we have this roast defrosting in the sink, which is all wrapped up still so neither of us really paid too much attention to it until it was time to pop it in the oven.  

Pork leg roast?  Nope.

Pork head?  Yes.  Pork head with snout and little ears and little closed eyes like it's sleeping?  Little Lenny Haffapig having a nice little afternoon nap?  Yes.  

Well shit.  I know most people would throw that thing out with the garbage and hope to the heavens they never open their bin again until trash day.  Which is exactly what I want to do.  I am fighting the urge to throw Lenny's head into someone else's dumpster and run like hell.  

But, alas, I'm a chef.  I am a CHEF.  Most chefs would feel blessed to have this beautiful bounty to work with.  Head cheese, pork cheeks, pig ears, all sorts of hidden shit in there to eat.  Plus, I can't be all smuggly sustainable if I throw out a perfectly edible cut of...meat...head..meat, whatever. If I throw it out that means Lenny died a bit in vain.  And we can't have that.

 So it's in the fridge looking at me.  And I'm looking back.  Lenny? What would you like your head to become? I think he'd like to be braised pig cheek ravioli.  I'm drawing the line with this - I don't have a saw so I can't cut the skull in half to do the whole head cheese thing.  

I'll keep you guys posted.  I can't believe I'm going to cut Lenny's face off.  I don't think I have it in me to do it tonight.  But when I do you'll be the first to hear about it.  

This post was brought to you by Lenny.  Lenny Haffapig.

An Addendum to my Last Post

Whew!  Feels so much nicer to touch type on a real keyboard then to do the 2-finger routine on a tablet.  I'm so glad my mom made me take typing in 9th grade.  I hated every minute of it, but am so glad she was so persistant about it.  Of course, I won't tell her that.  Ever. 

Anyway, what I wanted to add to my last post about being busy, is basically this - if you know you're going to be busy, the PRIORITIZE.  It's a simple word.  But very useful.  We are living beings which means we need fuel in the form of food in order to function.  It irritates the crap out of me when people say they're too busy to eat.  Then they're stupid.  That's like saying you're too busy to pee.  Let's see by a show of hands how many people are sooooo busy that they can't even pee.  Yeah.  Whatever.  So it's all about your priorities.  Like it makes sense that if your car runs out of gas, it doesn't go.  We always put gas in our cars.  Therefore we need to put food in our bodies.  

When I know I'm gearing up for a busy week, I take a few hours out of my Sunday to make some food options to put in my fridge so I don't have to think much about, "mmmm what sounds good today?"  I'm fucking BUSY, it doesn't MATTER what sounds good right now, I just need to eat SOMETHING!  I also try to make sure these "somethings" are reasonably healthy, yet hearty.  So on a Sunday I will turn on my tunes and chop to my heart's content.  I normally make a soup, a pasta or rice dish, and a salady thing.  And I'll eat this along with my boiled eggs, fruit and tuna for the week.  

No, this is not extrodinary culinary faire.  But it is necessary when you're too busy to think straight.  So don't judge me on my fucking cans of tuna.  

 

So here are some examples of little bits I'll cook that will keep nicely for a few days (I don't do all of these in one day, these are just examples, so calm down):

Minestrone Soup (on my website)

Pureed Carrot Soup with Orange (haven't gotten to it yet, but any purred veggie soup is good)

Tomato carrot soup (not sure if it's on there?)

Tortilla Soup (on my website)

Vegetable "fried" brown rice ( I don't like super fry it, just a little oil through it) or any Asian noodle and vegetable combination.

Orzo pasta salad (orzo is great because it's so teeny it doesn't seem to dry out like bigger cut pasta when kept in the fridge for a few days)

Chicken salad (on my website)

Chopped Salad

Lentil Sweet Potato salad

What's more, with the soups, I make a double batch and freeze them in little individual containers so they're ready to go whenever I run out of fresh stuff, or feel like something different.  

Portion everything you make into individual serving containers.  Makes life so much easier when you need to grab and go.

Get it?  So you might have to have some repeat meals, but at least you won't be gaining like 30 lbs eating McDs or peanut butter cookies.  Oh I shouldn't have said that.  A peanut butter cookie sounds SO GOOD right now!

 

When You're Really, Really Busy...

I'm typing this post on a tablet in bed.  Because I'm really busy.  And smug.   I feel like one of the Peanut kids typing with two fingers.  like Schroeder playing the piano.  Seriously, how genius was Charlie Brown?  

Ok already derailing.  And I hate this tablet.  I can't get into a typing rhythm.  Good thing I'm not ranting tonight.  Or at least not publicly.  

I wanted to talk to you today about eating when you're busy.  I've had a really busy month and after spending the first portion of that eating my feelings - which i normally found in a pizza box or Thai takeaway container, I decided to take control and give myself some fridge options, along with some tips to not flip out and randomly shave your head.  You know when you're so busy you don't even remembered if you actually showered the day before?Yeah. Here's some ideas that might help you stay sane:

 

1.  Eat your fucking breakfast! I make sure i give myself a good 15 mins of am breakfast eating time.  You need hour energy so stop being a martyr and saying you don't have time.  Make time! my favorite breakfast this month is toasted whole grain bread with avocado, canned tuna and tomatoes.  I'm seriously quite full for awhile after I eat this.

 

2.  Boil eggs.  If you like eggs, boil 4 - 6 at a time and keep them in your fridge.  Take one with you for a snack.  I keep a little container of salt and pepper in my bag to go with my eggs.  So tasty and fast.  for the perfect boiled egg see my recipe section.

 

3.  Canned tuna.  I grew up HATING tuna because my mom used to feed it to our cats when i was little.  But I've gotten over it, especially when I found tuna marinated in oil instead of water.  It's not dry like the stuff in water.  It makes me feel upmarket.  Like I am eating the good tuna.  I'm not a huge fan of canned food, but we're hanging on the edge here! Do the canned tuna.  Plus it's a good source of protein teamed up with a healthy fat source.  in other words, it will keep you going when you want to rip your boss's face off.  

 

4.  Blueberries! Oh little gems I love you so much....when you're in season and don't cost like a zillion bucks a punnet.  I bring blueberries with me to snack on just in case I feel like eating my weight in  chocolate.  They're sweet enough to make you feel like you've treated yourself.  Well, maybe not entirely, but you're so busy you won't know the difference.

 

Ok I'm hating this tablet!  This is not increasing productivity at all.  But.  I'm no quitter...

 

5.  Lavender oil.  Every night after a hard day I grab a glass of hard liquor and jump into a hot bath with lavender oil. You know...that awesome newage thing we call aromatherapy.  It totally works.  Sometimes I rub lavender oil into my temples if I need a super strong hit.  Do something to relax before you pass out.  You'll sleep better.

 

6.  Speaking of sleep, if you reeeaally want to sleep well get yourself a wheat pack.  Heat it in the microwave and snuggle the shit out of it.  Shane and I fight over ours.  Olive, not so much.  It has seriously changed my life.  

 

I have more, but I'm getting tired and this stupid tablet isn't helping me to type very well.  I hope these little ideas help.  Remember: this too shall pass.  You can do it!

 

 

Why People Cannot Drop By My House UNANNOUNCED.

Well hello.  I'm not even going to ask how we all are because I'm in a mood.  I'm feeling a bit touchy. To add to this I've just seen my Typepad account has been spammed with weird comments.  Ugh I hate technology some days.  

I am writing this to clarify an issue I have with living in New Zealand because everyone seems to think I'm a bit of a crotchety uptight old lady.  Part of that might be true.  But I have reasons for being crotchety and uptight.  I can't help being old.  It's in my soul.  

As I have mentioned previously, it is quite common for Kiwis to just "drop by" over the weekend if they want to catch up with friends, family, pets, whatever.  And I've gotten a lot of flack for being quite vocal about not liking it.  "But it's because people like you that they stop byyyyyy..."  That's great.  I'm happy to catch up with people.  IF I FUCKING KNOW ABOUT IT and have time to a) put on some clothes b) clean my tearstained face and blow my nose c) hide all my laundry in the closet and d) turn off the tv and open the curtains so I look like I'm actually doing something with my weekend.  I really don't think this is too much to ask.  

To better illustrate this, I have a concrete example to share to further demonstrate why people cannot drop by my house unannounced.  

A few weekends ago, Shane and I were having our usual lazy Sunday lay-in.  It's our one day where we don't get up early, and usually don't do much at all until after about noon.  I love Sundays for this very reason.  This particular Sunday, I could have done without.  So Shane thinks he hears something outside and ambles to the kitchen to have a look out the window.  And he's naked.  And he is looking out the window and calls to me that there is someone on a motorcycle outside our house.  And then I hear all sorts of shouting and swearing from Shane and a big OH. MY. GOD.  So I jump out of bed (sans clothes) to see what's going on.  

For whatever reason, our beloved dog Olive had decided to take a huge dump in the kitchen and Shane has stepped right in it.  Hence the ohmygods and fuck fuck fucks.  The whole house starts to smell of dog shit.  

And of course, it is just at this very moment, there is a knock on the door.  Shane and I look at eachother in absolute horror.  I starts hobbling towards the bathroom while I'm left to contemplate hiding, grabbing a robe or cleaning up this awful smelling dog poo.  

I decide to grab a robe.  And answer the door.  Because whoever is coming over unannounced is going to get a good whiff of why it is better to call before coming by.  It turned out to be one of Shane's long lost high school friends who he hasn't seen in like 10 years.  And it is here where they have their reunion, in a shit smelly kitchen with me, my hair standing up on top of my head, in a bathrobe, cleaning up my dog's accident.  He hasn't been back since.  

And I think I've proved by point.

The Kiwi: An Anthropological Generalization in Ten Bullet Points

Greetings Earthlings.  We know it's been awhile.  I have no excuse but complete and absolute aversion to this website.  I have no real reason why, everytime I sat down to write, or thought about writing, my brain would go "oh nooooo no no nooo no."  Like Phoebe from Friends, kinda.  But more drawn out.  

But I have been quite busy.  I've been busy quietly studying the inhabitants of this land I now call home. Not the Kiwi BIRD.  I don't know much about these birds because they're super endangered and they only come out at night and really only in highly protective prisons - but it's to protect them from us and ferrets and stoats and stuff.  I'm not sure if they realize they're held captive.

Anyway, today I'm talking about Kiwi humans.   I have been jotting many observations in a small notebook about these Kiwi people.  Actually in a small notebook located in my head.  I'm fairly certain these are all completely over-generalised and not super well thought out.  But they are just "off the cuff", so to speak.  So here we go.

1. Kiwis Can Fix Anything.  There is an analogy about using no. 8 wire.  I didn't even know what this was until our next door neighbors got locked out of their house and I witnessed my husband attach said wire to a long pipe, stick it through a window, around the key that was in the lock and unlock the FREAKING DOOR.  I seriously need to go to boy scouts just to even attempt to keep up.  They think I'm weird for not knowing how to light a fire.  Who lights fires in California?  The only fires I've ever been around are forrest fires and they're not as useful.  

2. Kiwi Guys Have Great Legs.  I know this because...

3. Kiwi Guys Love Short Shorts.  I'm not sure what it is, maybe it's all the rugby.  But I am obsessed with Kiwi Guys' Legs.  Yes, my husband knows this.  He's got them as well. Here, let me show you what I mean:

 

Ladies, meet the All Blacks rugby team.  I know these are professional rugby players and could seriously crush walnuts between those meaty thighs, but I'm serious.  All Kiwi guys have great legs.  Let's let the photo lead us to number 4:

4. New Zealand Has the Sexiest Rugby Team. Ever. 

5. Kiwis Think Vegas is the Coolest Place in the World. Muslims go to Mecca, Kiwis go to Vegas.  I've never met an entire nation who is so obsessed with the idea of going to Vegas.  Either that or I've just met a shit ton of like-minded people.  They even add "Vegas" into some of their more boring cities as a joke. "DannyVegas", "InverVegas" - Kiwis will know what I'm talking about.  

6. Kiwis Are Shitty Drivers. Ok, I come from LA, land of the shitty driver.  So I'm allowed to know one because I am one.  The difference between shitty LA driving and shitty Kiwi driving is that Kiwis never exactly have a plan as to where they are going so they are never on that mission Angelenos are on.  Like when you have to merge from the 110 to the 101 and you know you have like 20 seconds before you miss it and you have to basically hold your breath and pray that whoever you cut off is going to be alert enough to slam on the breaks because if you don't you'll be stuck in traffic for another hour until you can turn around and try it all again.  (breathe).  Yeah.  Kiwis aren't like that.  This is because Kiwis aren't ever in a hurry.  Which leads me to #7:

7. Kiwis Are Mellow. I've realised that I am a highly strung person.  I'd caught glimpses of this revelation in LA before, but I never really truly noticed the extent because I was surrounded by a bunch of other high-strung people.  Moving out here has made me a massive pimple on the surface of very smooth skin.  Gross, I know.  Sorry, it was the only analogy I could think of.  And Kiwis really don't tolerate highly strung people when they get really highly strung.  Like when I get frustrated and turn all American on some poor person I can see their eyes slowly fade away.  It's like they just turn off to it completely.  I can imagine they only hear "blah blah blah blahblahblahhhhhhhblahablahblahblabhablhablahblaabohasllsh".  I'm taking yoga now to become one of them.  It's been really hard to not PLAN my entire day.  No one really plans things here.  You want to hang out with someone, you rock up to their house and see if they're home.  If they are, awesome.  If not, oh well.  I come from a culture that is basically born with a smartphone calendar app planted in their brains.  Even as kids, our parents set up play dates.  Everything is scheduled.  It's really weird to just...not.  I have yet to get used to visitors coming by unannounced.  Everyone has told me to take it as a compliment, because it's obvious people like me if they're stopping by.  It just always seems to be at a bad time.  Like, I'm walking around naked because I haven't decided what to wear, or the dog just shat in the dining room and the whole house has permated with the god-awful smell of dog poo.  It's at these moments the doorbell will ring.  I guess the good thing is that Kiwis really don't judge you on the state of your house, or me without makeup on (I draw the line with clothes though - I don't want any friend to judge me without clothes on!).  So, basically, I'm adjusting to this.

8. Kiwis are the Friendliest People you will Ever Meet. I guess #7 makes perfect sense.  Obviously Kiwis are friendly.  The NZ passport has access to the most countries in the world without an entry visa - therefore they are the highest price on the black market.  Honestly!  Kiwis travel a lot because, let's face it, this is a pretty small island with not too many people on it, so most young Kiwis are encouraged to go explore.  Everyone loves a Kiwi.  It's just fact.  PLUS because they travel so much, they are very open to travelers in their own land.  A Kiwi will go out of his/her way for any tourist who asked him/her a question or has an issue.  They are the type of people where honesty boxes are still about and a man's word is still worth something.  The problem is that Kiwis can be really naive.  I worry for Kiwis who come to LA.  People will eat them alive.  I want to protect them from all that is bad.  They need to stay in Hobbiton and be safe from the evils of this world.  

9. Kiwis are Friendly...Until They Enter a Grocery Store. Ok, I'm going to totally contradict myself now and say that Kiwis are quite possibly the meanest people upon entering a grocery store.  It's so weird.  I've literally been run down by old ladies on a mission to get their prune juice.  And if you make eye contact with fellow shoppers and smile, they look at you like you aren't wearing any clothes.  Maybe it's because I shop wearing no clothes.  Kidding.  Sorry, dumb joke.  Maybe that's why they glare at me.  For awhile I thought it was just me and they could sense my American-ness.  See, I'm the dead opposite - while being slightly untrusting of people on the street, I become Miss America in the Question and Answer section as soon as I enter a the automatic doors of a grocery store - my teeth even make that "ting" sound as I smile.  No one wants anything to do with it here, except for the guy who works the seafood counter.  I've had many nice chats with him.  He's the only saving grace to my shopping trips.  My husband has backed me up on this.  Apprently, Kiwis get a bit aggro when food shopping, he believes, because they see it as a chore they don't want to do.  I guess in LA, people escape to the magical world of Trader Joes and Whole Foods because it's our only connection with the earth, the land.  Out here it's basically in our faces, so why would people want to waste their time in a grocery store?  So I get it.  But it's still weird.  

10. Kiwis Talk About the Weather.  A LOT.  Every single freaking day, at least 5 people will say some comment about the day's weather.  I too, have come to make comments about the weather.  Because the weather changes every 8 minutes.  It's true.  I guess having "weather" is new to me.  Angelenos freak out if it rains for half a day.  I have to keep telling myself, "It's green here because it rains.  It's pretty because it rains." - it's my new mantra.  Over and over and over again.  No day is ever the same as the next.  It's the Witman's Sampler of weather.  Thanks, Forest Gump, now I get it.  So, due to this constant change of climate and percipitation, it gives people lots to talk about.  Unfortunately, it's given me a lot to complain about.  However, a beautiful day is covetted by all - never taken for granted as they are in LA.  

 

So there you have it.  These are my top ten observations in my first year as a wannabe Kiwi.  Despite the cultural adjustments I've had to make and the frustration that goes along with that, New Zealand is a truly beautiful and amazing place to live.  

If you are reading this, Department of Immigration, I hope you will factor this in to my residence application.

 

Shut. The F. UP.

Hey peeps, I know it's been like a month, and I know I owe you a goodie, but I have to share this with you because I am so FREAKING jealous this little guy didn't wander into my house and park up on my couch:

Read the story:

http://www.nzherald.co.nz/nz/news/image.cfm?c_id=1&gal_objectid=10772980&gallery_id=123076#8395358

I'm seriously breathing in and flapping right now I'm so happy!  

 

I PROMISE I'll write something for real.  Soon.  Consider this fashionably late :)