Onion skin

I’ve been making a lot of fajitas lately, which means I’ve been slicing my fair share of onions. This also means I’ve been crying a lot.

But not for the reason you might think.

The sulphenic acids may make me tear up, sure, but it’s the slimy onion skin between the crunchy layers that makes me flip my culinary shit. If I let an onion sit for a week or two, it invariably develops a gross film, not just on the outer layer, but between every layer.

In a word, ick. I wind up pulling slippery strands out of the skillet and praying I caught them all. When I bite into my tortilla and find a rogue skin, I can’t help but retch every so slightly at this root vegetable version of a loose strand of hair. And we all know how we feel about finding one of those in our Mexican food. Since hairnets don’t exist for onions (yet), I’m going to teach onions a lesson and eat a few leeks until they get their act together and are in season at the farmer’s market.

(photo: srgc.org.uk)

Waking up with a headache

For the second day in a row, I’ve woken up with my head throbbing. Yeah, I know I ate like crap yesterday. I got the memo about the pollen count. Yeah, I know I’m stressed. Yeah, I know I need to exercise. Yes, I’m aware that Tax Day is approaching. There’s no need to remind me, Body. I don’t need a subdural Post-it note slapped on my brain. Message received, loud and fucking clear. In fact, I can’t get it out of my head.

I want to beat my headache in its annoying face with a jumbo bottle of ibu but sadly, I’d be whacking myself between the eyes. Instead, I’m going to draw the blinds, turn down the volume, and hope that my brain pain recedes and that I can look at my MacBook without having to don my sunglasses.

(photo: fotosearch.com)

Motel art

When visiting Fallingwater a few years back, a guide told us that Frank Lloyd Wright designed low ceilings and lots of windows into the famous home so people would be encouraged to go outside.

Well, motel art is about as far away as you can get from FLW, but the result is the same. I want to flee the premises when I am in a motel room dripping with bad art.

But first, I go into the bathroom to see if my eyes are bleeding.

Thomas Kinkade-like landscapes, art that is reminiscent of the cover of Duran Duran’s “Rio,” prints of ships and sandpipers, still lifes that match the bedspread—it’s all one stinky art fart. Motel rooms are where art goes to die a slow, faded, badly framed death.

Next time, don’t take an Ambien to get to sleep. Take down the art, turn it around, and stick it in the closet next to the ironing board. You’ll sleep like a baby.

(photo: flickr.com/photos/ cjanebuy)

Silk flowers

Mom, commenting on the décor of the trailer she bought in Texas for the winter months: “My goll, you should have seen this place when we bought it. It was filled with rag-nasty plastic flowers.”

Me: “Ugh, I hate those. I mean, what’s the point?”

Mom: “Yeah, I threw them out and replaced them with some really nice silk flowers.”

Me: “Uh….”

I love that my mother sees a marked class difference between plastic and silk flowers. To me, they are all the same: fake, non-fragranced doodads I have to dust. Why clutter up your home with bouquets of immortal meh?

I realize you may not be home long enough to keep a plant alive or you have a black thumb or you can't afford to buy cut flowers very often or your cat could die if he chewed on a lily, but here's my question: Why do you need anything at all? If you like the look of flowers, just get a print of some sunflowers or put a daisy magnet on the fridge. Don't clutter up the place with phony ferns and bogus pots of orchids.

Nip these faux-ers in the bud and leave them where they belong: in a retail garden (i.e. Michaels, aisle 7).

(photo: www.plasticbinsblog.com)

Irish pubs on St. Patrick’s Day

I love me some shepherd’s pie and a pint most days of the year. But when March 17 rolls around, I avoid green and McPubs like the plague. Arse clowns in the cups assume fake brogues and dance around like leprechauns who’ve finally found their pot o’ gold. And mo chuisle, it's "Erin Go Bragh," not Erin go braless.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, you’re not even Irish, for feck’s sake!

Take off the dumbass green bowler—it’s your unlucky charm today, Danny Boy—so I can beat you about the ears with a shillelagh. Better yet, here’s a pipin’ hot pot of colcannon. If you want to be Irish, you’ll need to suffer a little.

(photo: blogs.pitch.com/fatcity)

Victoria's Secret

Body by Victoria? Gimme a break. Body by mom, dad, and my trainer. The last time when I was in Vikki’s—someone gave me a gift certificate—every fucking bra was padded. Every. Single. One.

In the black and pink world of Victoria’s Secret, everyone wants bigger boobs. Call it crazy, but some of us don’t. In fact, some of us even have resorted to surgery to knock our knockers down a size or two. Get called Dolly Parton Jr. once in fifth grade and you won’t be wishing for a Body by Dupont anytime soon, Alessandra Ambrosia.

And what happens when the secret is revealed? A hand goes in for the grope as the player gets to second base, only to discover a thick molded barrier and a squishy chicken cutlet. Mmm, appetizing.

Giselle, I’d punch you in the boob but I know it wouldn’t hurt because of your lacy shield so I guess I’m just going to have swap out the cutlets for some rocks and whip you with a real over-the-shoulder boulder holder.

(photo: victoriassecret.com)

THIS…is ah-MER-a-kin idol!

This…drives me BATshit crazy. When Ryan Seacrest announces each Idol episode in the same portentous way, I cringe. A low-rent Dick Clark, Peecrest tries to give AI added import. As if he needs to. We get it. It’s a TV phenom, no question. But it’s not the fight of the century. With four words, this box of hair makes it sound like we are about to watch Jesse Owens take on the entire Third Reich or Oprah cage fight Bill Gates.

We’re not.

We’re about to watch nervous teenagers sing.

Ryan, spend a little more time buying your soul back from the devil and a little less time dragging out the cheesy lead-in to Idol. It’s already full-up on cheese, both tasty and stinky.

Punch in the Face out.

(photo: blog.placesaroundflorida.com)

Little boys with long hair

True story: Dave Matthews walked into our neighborhood coffee shop with his kid. As I was pouring cream into my Americano, I asked him what her name was.

Oops.

In his Dave Matthewsey way, he muttered, “He’s a boy.” Then he kindly added, “He is wearing sort of a girly hoodie.” It was lavender. As I commented on how evolved his son was, I was thinking that it wasn’t the hoodie that confused me. It was his long hair.

August—that’s his name—had silky blond locks. They weren’t Ryder Robinson long but they were mos def in need of a haircut.

I understand the need to keep your little one a baby as long as possible. However, babies don’t have hair long enough to dust their playrooms. Most don’t have any hair at all. Maybe you were wishing for a girl. Maybe you really, really like Bo Bice. Whatever the case, this look is not making the cut. It drives me as crazy as Gymboree on a Saturday morning.

Set your kid on a path to proper grooming and gender identity, and chop his mop. Otherwise, I might have to crash into you or send some fire ants marching on your ass.

(photo: knockedupcelebs.com)

Vanity plates

Personalized license plates are NOTSOGR8 in my book. In fact, IH8EM. The vehicular equivalent of the tattoo, what sort of 6 or 8-letter phrase are you going to slap on your SUV’s ass to define yourself? Seinfeld’s ASSMAN is ASSIN9, in my humble opinion. A lot of the plates are pretentious and blowhardian in nature (0-60IN4 or WISHURME), some—clearly owned by Stifler’s peeps—are downright grody (8 ER OUT? Really, Illinois? Really?). There’s a ginormous motor home sporting “GLBL WMR” which should really say “I M PRBLM”. Some unoriginal chuckleheads are using online acronyms—if you are ROTFL, who’s driving the car? I’m not rolling on the floor, dude. I’m right behind you, willing myself not to rear-end you in hopes of denting your metal tramp stamp.

My friends in Delaware will pay upwards of five figures for one of the rare black low-numbered plates. They view it as an investment and a status symbol. This sort of boggles my mind, especially when they tell me how much the single digit plates go for (the number “6” plate went for $675,000 in 2008). What kind of vehicle deserves to host that sort of marquee plate? Is there a place for it on Air Force 1’s vertical stabilizer?

I suppose a vanity plate is a way to show off without shelling out buttloads of clams. There is one plate that I can get behind, both on and off the road. A hearse’s plate that reads “U R NEXT.” Yep, buddy, you are. Because I M GUNIN 4U.

If you were forced to get a vanity plate, what would it be?

(photo: coolpl8z.com)