Arrrrr!

It is almost worth violating the terms and conditions of my most current free dating site to show you the gentlemen callers I have attracted. Please select one below:

a. the chubby roller blader (yes - this is apparently still a thing)

b. Glasses McEyepatch

c. 90's sitcom dad

I don't jest. But I do acquiesce to some degree: I also received the nicest email that yes - even on my dusky cheeks - bloomed a blush. 

To love! ...hopefully sans eye patch

LW

The Brightside of Single... aside from keeping house poorly

As previously mentioned: I am not in fact a wife (outside of the future projections in my own head)


As a plucky woman of the 80's I'm always for getting out there to find that enigmatic man that appreciates quick wit and meals almost from scratch. But by June Cleaver this was too much - I had to share.

On a very popular albeit pedestrian dating site a man expressed interest in meeting me.

While I can take any form I wish I have the highest utmost standards for my male arm candy. What can I say? I like em beautiful.

This man...


This man looks like an atrophied thirty something turtle (both with and without the beard). He was slightly gingery (don't be creepy - you know that's nasty). His eyes looked like he'd been up all night imagining your relationship including robust scenes of how he was cheated on and then planning his revenge.

Not a winner winner chicken dinner.

But then it got better: he's an artist.

Included voluntarily is the image below.

I really should just stop writing. This does deserve a drop of the mike, but I just can't help myself?! Wwwwwho? Wwwwhat? Wwwwhy??? I sputter. Also what's the focus on detailed hands. Does this mean something? Can that crime show with [Dharma's] Greg and Shemar Moore profile him? I need insight. No, actually I don't.

His interests include glasses and piercing. He writes, "I can be intense" in his profile. You think?

If posting this is wrong I don't wanna be right... but I do wanna be single. Toasting my lack of cray cray boyfriend with chilled white wine with a drop of cranberry sauce (don't hate - he'll get you if you do).

I-Just-Got-Sick-[Probably-Because-of-Time-Spent-With-My-Family] Ode-to Bridget-Jones-Turkey-Curry-Soup

A dashing young gent (not a true candidate to make me a wifey, but a good time nonetheless) recently asked me what my hobbies were. He was wonderful and swept me slightly off the floor (metaphorically as I am of the sizable set) and passed the evenings well during my Jamaican Thanksgiving Adventure. But his question threw me. Is regularly drinking with friends a hobby? Watching the Amazing Race? No? No? Really? um...

Lazy blogging? Occasional sewing? Cooking... or buying dinner?

I've got to become more rounded.

Resolution: take up archery, a man, and a language.

Will keep posted.

I-Just-Got-Sick-[Probably-Because-of-Time-Spent-With-My-Family] Ode-to Bridget-Jones-Turkey-Curry-Soup

1. Saute onions in a huge pot (cast iron feels v. Pilgrim-y) (please disregard the genocidal tendencies implied in said comment)
2. While it's cooking chop up 2 tomatoes and 4 or 5 cloves of garlic. Add em to the pot.
3. Dump in a bunch of curry powder
4. Add a hot pepper or hot pepper sauce if you dare (and honestly, you should)
5. Slosh it all around on the heat
6. Add a thumb sized chunk of peeled ginger chopped into fat coins (the size of bubble yum or larger) and bruised with the back of your knife
7. Add water and/or chicken stock

8. Wait for your mother to bring round a whole turkey and/or carcass. In my case: wait for mother to bring round a whole bird... a whole undercooked bird. Good thing you're making soup.

9. Add [slightly pink] turkey meat
10. Add a bag of frozen peas and boil until mom's chicken is actually cooked

Top with that spoiled yogurt you took to work and didn't eat and then put back in the fridge. (Oh comon- it's a delicacy in some countries... probably)

Dumping potatoes or carrots in wouldn't hurt either.

Drunk Cooking

While the turkey burger and eggs were slammin'...

I drunk washed the dishes and drunk grabbed the large bottle of olive oil and then proceeded to drunk spill said olive oil in an arc across the kitchen. Jackson Pollack would've been jealous.

Was going to take a picture, but let's be honest: nobody likes a homely photo.

What makes this a truly lazy wife moment: yeah. I left it there. I rubbed in the splashes across my hand (grrreat moisturizer) and then went to watch TV on demand.

Hey, at least I remembered to buy paper towels on the way home. What? I live alone biotch. I can do what I want.

In sober reflection,
L.W.

Investment Cleaning

So, you know, this blog is like, for lazy ho's right?

But clean lazy ho's. Paradox? Think again my friend.

I like a clean bathroom. Nay, I love a clean bathroom.

Know what I don't particularly love: cleaning my bathroom. Lazy woman solution: car wax.

No, not for your legs or your down there zone - for your sink! To cut down on the frequency of needing to clean your sink and counters try this:

-clean once, properly, with real cleanser (comet - dude, it's like a. awesome and b. one dollar) and a scrubbing sponge (I had an ex boyfriend who only possessed soft sponges... how can you clean like that?!)

-dry with your dirty towel (comon - you've got to rotate the hand towel eventually)
-take a little regular liquid car wax on a cloth and give it a pass across all the surfaces you cleaned

-wipe clean with the other side of the cloth et voila!

It's slippery, it's shiny, it's nearly impossible for dirt to stick to. You'll have to scrub again at some point, but having a smooth protected surface is a fo sho dirt deterrent.

Just don't do it on your tub floor or you'll be in traction.

Hollaaaaaaaaaaa

My fridge stinks.

Freezer too.


Lazy wife solution: close it!*




*perhaps this is why I am actually not a wife

In The Words of Usher...

This...

This is indeed my confession.

And yes, I'd better tell it, better tell it all. And yes, I damn near cried, cried when I got that - no, OK, I'll stop.

But truth, let's get things straight right off the bat: I am nobody's wife [yet].

However, I am [apparently] vain - my use of brackets around the term 'yet' might indicate to some that there's a gentleman or heck - a lady waiting in the wings to agree to tend me the rest of my life.

There's not.

Yet.

See, while a rapidly-approaching-thirty spinster, I have the optimism of a brace-faced A-cupper (something I actually know little about what with ample genetics, etc.).

Nonetheless, I am a lazy wife. I will be a lazy wife. I need my own lazy wife.

Born to a family that wasn't interested in supporting the lifestyle I wish I'd become accustomed to I learned proper floor sweeping techniques, the wonders of bleach, and how to start dinner before my parents came home. Yes, in their infinite wisdom my family and the fates conspired to teach me the ways of self sufficient housekeeping.

Luckily, growing up in sax-man Clinton's sitcom 90's I became adept at such nouveau conventions as half-assing a room-cleaning, leaving just enough dishes scattered around the house to avoid parental directives, and a penchant for speed-baking from oh so handy cardboard box cake mixes.

Shake and serve on the rocks: The Lazy [wannabe] Wife.

So, I come to you with a love of through cleaning... and a sense of boredom halfway through. Expect me to show you food that is prettier than yours, original clutter re-shuffling ideas, and the occasional figurative face plant (see: 'pesto soup fail' or 'why Nigella is famous and I'm not'). I sew. I craft. I cook. I entertain. I never break a sweat. I recommend clinical strength deodorant.


Let's keep home... half-assedly together.