Welcome to Tall Curly Biscuit, the 4th funniest blog on the web. The best thing about having the word “Biscuit” in my blog title is that I no longer have to think about how to spell biscuit. This little blog is for all the folks who believe laughter makes the world go ’round.
Last weekend my friend V and I decided to make homemade dim sum to celebrate Chinese New Year. Neither of us is Chinese, but as Americans we’re always up for borrowing another culture’s holiday as an excuse to party. We searched the web for recipes, techniques, and advice to replicate the most authentic dim sum possible.
After learning more about Chinese dumplings than I ever thought possible (EVERYTHING IS A BUN), we headed to the nice, large Asian market 45 minutes away. We probably could have found most things in our suburb, but we also craved a certain kind of smoothie that we could only get at the Indonesian shop in the same strip mall. The smoothies have dark brown “floaters” in them, which are large balls of tapioca flavored with brown sugar. The balls are so large they require a special, wide straw. V and I first tried them last summer in an adventurous moment, and I didn’t like the floaters at all. The experience is like this: as you drink your fruity smoothie, you’ll see a big brown orb glide up your wide straw. Then, faster than you anticipate, the slippery ball will suddenly emerge from the straw and slide into your mouth. You’ll have to engage your teeth to get rid of it, but it will be chewier and more flavorless than you’ll expect.
The sensation is unusual, and I cringed every time a slimy tapioca ball hit my tongue.
Even though we both thought the floaters were a strange/gross experience, V and I both started to crave the weirdness again. Have you ever had a hankering for an unpleasant sensation, like sushi, the smell of sweat, or Bioré Nose Strips? That’s what happened to us over these floaters.
It's coming...
After satisfying the slimy ball craving, we headed to the market, where we purchased far too many ingredients containing the word “glutinous.”
We also picked up a package of chicken feet for visual effect on the table. I believe stew was their intended purpose, but we were hoping to add excitement to our tiny party.
We anticipated reactions from our families ranging from “EWWWW!” to just short of vomit, but we were sorely disappointed. The kids and husbands were surprisingly calm.
One friend suggested that I should be careful because guys will eat anything this shade of fried beige. Only, the feet weren’t fried—they were RAW and still looked like this. Also, they were pliable and rubbery. ICK! I bet some culture somewhere puts them in a smoothie.
After the dim sum evening, I spent the next day recovering (we assumed the Chinese would drink Cab if they had it) and ridding my house of the smell of oyster sauce. I had succeeded in no longer smelling like China and got ready to attend a Dave Barry lecture and book signing. Dave Barry! I was so excited! Dave Barry is my writing idol. I first read his articles and books in junior high, and his humor convinced me that good writing didn’t have to be serious, pompous, or boring. My son is a fan now, reading the same books I read and emulating Dave’s style in his Language Arts papers.
Dave has a new book out, co-written by Alan Zweibel (of SNL and Curb Your Enthusiasm fame). Lunatics is the name, and it’s written in the style of an improvisational sketch. The plot is outrageous, but while reading, I laugh-snorted enough to make my husband leave the room.
I knew I’d have 30 seconds while Dave signed our book, so I wanted to make a good impression—maybe he’d give me 15 seconds of writing advice! I planned my outfit and for the first time in my life actually cared about meeting a celebrity.
Oh, I’m positive that we made an impression on the whole crowd—not just Dave.
Twenty minutes before we planned to leave the house, my son made an Easy Mac (microwavable mac & cheese) for himself.
There are only THREE simple steps involved in making an Easy Mac (hence the name).
- Fill with water.
- Microwave.
- Stir in cheese packet.
My son forgot about the water part and skipped straight to the microwaving. In two minutes, our house was enveloped with toxic smoke and the bitter fumes of burning plastic. It was horrendous. Every fiber in our house absorbed the pungent smell, including our clothes and hair.
Easy Mac: not so easy for space cadets.
Even if we’d had time, changing clothes or showering again wouldn’t have made a difference—the fumes of charred plastic and flaming macaroni were so strong they invaded every room, including our closets. We could smell ourselves outside, in the car during the hour-long drive, in the audience….
So, yeah, I’m sure we made an impression on Dave Barry—the same kind of impression as a refinery on fire.
Our fumes singed Dave's & Alan's nose hairs.
Someday he’ll write something about those stinky people he meets on book tours, and I’ll know it’s us. That would be exciting in a way. He might even start craving the smell of burning plastic for some seemingly inexplicable reason…
Dave, you are welcome to come back to Texas anytime, where we will treat you to slimy floaters, chicken feet and burned Easy Mac. Yeehaw!
Hello, friends. Thank you all for reading my little bloggy-blog! Today I had an adventure with big balls of goo that I can’t wait to tell you about, but for now I have another post. Also, I’m in the process of adding blog links to my page. I read lots of ’em (blogs), and one that might make your day better is an easy little read on www.truthordairy.blogspot.com. It’s written by a woman who gave up a tech job to run a dairy farm. Her email updates arrive in my inbox sometime between midnight and 6:45 a.m., so I get to read her post first thing in the morning along with checking all the Groupons. It’s peaceful to read about farming.
Today she said this: “Kris said that these cheeses are the easy ones to make – but they still look like a lot of steps to me. I said I much prefer baking, especially desserts like … pie. Thus, the phrase ‘easy as pie.’ No one says, ‘Easy as a temperature-controlled with lots of steps cheese.'”
Okay, now for today’s disturbing story:
I Ate My Twin, But She Still Haunts Me with Her Crazy Eye
Every time I see myself in the mirror or in a photo, I think about how I devoured my twin in the womb. She still controls half of my body, though.
I first read an enlightening piece of science-meets-Newsweek (or some other near-tabloid) several years ago, and I haven’t looked at myself the same way ever since.
The article was about a man who had a tumor that turned out to contain extra kidneys, teeth and hair. Doctors suspect that he absorbed a twin in his mother’s womb, and for some reason the twin/tumor started “growing” again. I don’t remember much about the article’s finer scientific points (if there were any) so I looked up this condition on the internet.
Aside from horrifying pictures, I found that there are several variations and abnormalities that can cause tumors such as this. If you’re curious, start with http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fetus_in_fetu.
Anyway, back to the original article. The scientist speculated that this happens far more than is ever researched or discovered. She hypothesized that many embryos split into two beings during very early development and that one twin absorbs the other quickly thereafter. This happens so early in the embryo’s formation—usually before cell differentiation— that it doesn’t affect most individuals by producing tumors or other complications. Here’s the freaky part, though: she also conjectured that twin absorption could account for most people’s asymmetrical body parts. For instance, if you have one arm that is longer than the other, you may have eaten your sibling. You disgust me.
Just kidding—I’m guilty, too. One of my eyes is a slightly different shape and slant than the other. My right ear is lower, and my left foot is shorter. One side of my scalp grows thicker hair than the other.
Every time I see a picture of myself or look at my eyes in the mirror, I think of my twin. I bet she’s evil, and is responsible for most of my failures.
If I don’t want to get out of bed in the morning, it’s her being lazy again. She’s also messy and gross. It was her who farted really loud in class that time in 5th grade. She’s made me miss good opportunities and blurted out stupid things at the wrong time. She might be writing this right now—it’s tough to say. If you hate this article, it’s her.
Evil deeds include—
Oh, thank goodness I prevented her from finishing that sentence. In addition to failures and faults, her lower ear also causes my sunglasses to tilt slightly off kilter.
When I look at myself, I see two of us. The only question is: which one is the crazy eye, and which one is me???
This doesn't deserve a caption.
If you have mismatched body parts and think that you may have something to confess, please post pics on Twitter under #8mytwin or tag Tall Curly Biscuit in a Facebook post. I’ll try to re-post them all here. Oh, and creativity is never frowned upon, unless it is totally inapro-pro (kid word for inappropriate. I say it so much we gave it a snazzy nickname.) Don’t worry–my standards are lax. I just told my daughter to put some peanuts in a bag and take her nut sack to school tomorrow.
I can’t wait to see your pics! Entertain us, please!
THANK GOD the sun is shining today, and it’s almost warm. I can’t believe I have ever considered, even for a second, moving to a cloudy place. Since I grew up in the plains during a 10-year drought, I think of rain as an excuse to stop regular life, stay indoors, and relax. I didn’t even own an umbrella until I was 23. It’s still hard for me to fathom actually accomplishing anything when it’s rainy.
Rain is all well and good until it continues for, ummm, three days in a row, at which point my relaxation becomes unmotivation, which spell checker says is NOT a word. Fine, then. Laziness.
Don’t get me wrong—every summer my husband and I look up house prices in the Pacific Northwest because August becomes freakin’ unbearable in Texas. We can’t help but dream of rain, clouds, and cooler temps in the midst of the oppressive sun, but I’m crazy to think that either of us could take the rain and cold combo for more than three days.
Anyway, I’ve had a hard time getting motivated during the past few cold, cloudy weeks. Yesterday my husband traveled again for the first time in a month, and I wasn’t productive after 2:00 PM. I’m not sure I checked on the kids’ homework—I just asked about it and believed whatever those liars told me. I gobbled Girl Scout cookies while reading a newspaper article about workout regimens. We ate cold sandwiches for dinner. I put some raw veggies on the table, but when nobody (including me) opened the Ziplocs they’re stored in, I put them right back in the fridge. Hawaii Five-0 took the place of book time. I wasn’t a bad mom, but I wasn’t a good one, either.
Just after Christmas, I was going to write a ridiculous story about Forever Lazys that required me to buy one, make modifications, and wear it, but the box says, “Lazy General’s Warning: If at any time while wearing the Forever Lazy you start to experience feelings of energy and/or ambition, please seek medical attention immediately!”
I thought I was gonna cry when I read that because WHAT IF I NEVER HAD ENERGY AGAIN??? I thought there was a legit possibility that I wouldn’t take the stupid thing off to shower for at least a week so I haven’t opened the box yet.
Just two nights ago, I searched the frumpiest online shopping sites I could think of for some new sweatshirts. I didn’t want workout clothes per say, just a new shirt or two for an outer layer to keep me warm while I’m at the computer. They had to be really thick and heavy. Preferably long. And, I specifically wanted something with NO ZIPPERS, ‘cause zippers seemed so formal….like I had plans to leave my desk.
I foolishly asked my husband’s opinion before I ordered, and he, of course, thought the sweatshirts were ugly. (They were awful—just shy of the Forever Lazy.) Then I got really offended because he looked up some clothes on SportsAuthority.com, and I thought he cared too much about my looks. (Not because he wanted me to work out, but because I KNEW he’d choose something with a zipper. And we all know that if your husband wants you to wear a zippered workout jacket, he is a superficial, chauvinist pig.) Also, the word “sports” in Sports Authority seemed too energetic. “I AM NOT WILLING TO PAY FOR SHIPPING JUST SO I CAN LOOK BETTER!” I yelled. Sure…blame it on the shipping. I didn’t even look at what he’d picked out for me. I was rude and stormed off to the bathtub to warm my frozen body.
Now that the sun is out and I should receive my spring J.Crew in the mail any day now, I have hope. Pink pants are in sight!
I need these, but in bright pink.
Today I got outside, played tennis, and wore a jacket with a zipper. Thinks are looking better, except for the gray wool socks I’m wearing. Those remain hideous.
“Pink pants, pink pants, pink pants,” I will repeat to myself until March. Maybe I can even think about tackling the Forever Lazy project, although I wish it came in pink, too.
Hello, Dear Readers.
This week I had lots of family in town for my dwarf second cousin’s funeral; it was like a circus, but not because of the dwarf. Various characters stopped by my house to say hello and have a glass of tea.
Yesterday, my aunt and cousin came over with my grandmother. My cousin had never been to my new house, so I gave her a quick tour to show her all the remodeling we’ve completed. When we bought the house six years ago, it was stuck in 1992 with an Asian twist. The countertops were pink tile, and all the walls were pale lavender. The den curtains were the background from Glamour Shots, and statement Oriental wallpaper hung in almost every room. Even the flowers that bloomed that first spring carried on the pink and purple scheme. I admired the previous owner’s dedication and thoroughness, but since I’m not a geisha, I remodeled immediately.
The former curtains could have doubled as a backdrop for stunning photography.
We talked about the crazy 1992 style, and after I reminded my older, beautiful cousin of when she probably posed for Glamour Shots photos, there was a pause in the conversation. She must have been reflecting on those gorgeous, feathered photographs. Suddenly, my grandmother ended the silence by commanding me, “Show them your underwear, Angela!”
No, she’s not crazy, and I’m not usually an exhibitionist. I knew exactly what underwear she was talking about and why she wanted me to show them. I’ve kept them in a special place for six years now.
You see, I had a potentially severe accident, and the underwear are my proof of the Zoolander Miracle.
In Zoolander, Ben Stiller is a male model whose signature runway move is stripping off his underwear with his pants on.
Five summers ago, my husband and I remodeled the kitchen ourselves when the kids were out of town for a week. We worked our fingers to the bone stripping wallpaper, texturing the walls, and painting. By the end of the week, we were exhausted and very high on paint fumes. The last day, my hubby drove to pick up the kids while I stayed at home to finish painting. I stood on top of the counter and painted over my head while listening to John Mayer for the millionth hour that week. As everyone came home and walked through the door, I started to climb down from the counter. I was really tired and light-headed. Unfortunately, I realized too late that had hooked my shorts and underwear on the cabinet knob.
Did I mention that my house was built for tall people? The upper cabinet is higher than normal on the wall. As I jumped down, my underwear remained hooked securely on the knob, and I HUNG SUSPENDED BY MY PANTIES FROM THE UPPER CABINET. It was like a scene from a medieval torture chamber — the ultimate wedgie — and all my body weight depended upon a small piece of Victoria’s Secret cloth now harshly pulled into my nether regions where a chastity belt would have been. As my husband and the kids looked on in confusion at mom hanging helplessly with arms flailing, THANK GOD the panties ripped, and I fell to the ground.
All my husband could say was, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!?”
I looked up with incredulous fear on my face — I was like a ghost across the room watching myself do this — and I pulled a Zoolander. My husband and the kids were still frozen in the doorway, and as they stood there, I pulled my panties out and off even though my shorts were still on. I tried to explain what had just taken place, but I was shaking from fear at the thought of the damage I’d just inflicted on myself. After a few self-examinations, I found that I was just fine, although I was weak and shaky for about three hours after the adrenaline receded.
We’ve had some good laughs about the incident since then.
I keep the underwear in a special place as a reminder of that miracle, and also because it makes a great ice breaker when new guests visit the house.
“Hey, you want a glass of wine? Oh, and let me show you my underwear!”
*Since you are a treasured guest on my blog, I’ll show you my panties.
My young daughter wisely reminded me that things I post will stay on the internet forever, but I uploaded anyway. Also, I staged my fruit bowl to look better even though this is a picture of my ratty underwear.
I’m borrowing from Saturday Night Live, but REALLY??? I just received a fancy brochure in the mail advertising a local private school, and one of the pictures under the heading “Spiritual & Moral Development” features three 3rd grade teachers who were sent to Bali to learn about environmental sustainability. BALI! As in the beautiful island 9,000 miles away.
I’m sure there’s a prudent reason why the school chose to send teachers to Bali instead of the local recycling plant or natural science museum. They probably had to come up with yet another creative method to dispose of all the giant piles of money crowding the school hallways. Plus, their Internet was down so they couldn’t Wikipedia “thatched roofs” to learn about sustainability the way you and I could. Sad, really.
I contacted the school for comments, but the secretary was on a yacht (work related), the art teacher was participating in Gender Obsolescence Extreme Human Performance Art (continuing ed credits), and the science teacher was on a shuttle bound for Mars so he could get a better grasp on the planetary curriculum for 2nd graders. Another teacher was in Ghana to learn about poverty (true story!)
This is an official invitation to those school administrators:
Please come over with an extra briefcase full of cash and send me on a Spiritual and Moral Development trip. I’m totally depraved, and I’ve been teaching my kids pedestrian information like how to make cupcakes, use commas, and appreciate Gwen Stefani. We could use some divine inspiration from Spain, Thailand, or Turkey right about now. I’m also open to Bali if that’s all you’ve got.