iamsurly's Open Salon Blog

Vintage Recipe Cards: Frankfurters In Crust

Tue, 24 Nov 2009 10:11:52 -0500

Further adventures in really bad food photography from the 1970's!

Ingredients

8-ounce package refrigerated quick crescent rolls
1/3 cup mustard-pickle relish
6 frankfurters
2 tablespoons evaporated milk
1 tablespoon sesame seeds

Directions

Preheat oven to 375°. Unroll crescent rolls to a rectangular shape, pressing seams together. Spread relish over pastry, leaving a 1-inch border all around. Place frankfurters in rows of three down center of pastry; bring sides of dough together over frankfurters and press to seal; press ends of dough to seal. Place seam side down, on an ungreased baking pan. Perforate top of crust with the tines of a fork; brush with evaporated milk; sprinkle with sesame seeds. Bake 15 to 20 minutes - until golden brown. Slice crosswise to serve.

Serves: 3 to 4

Preparation time: 35 minutes

Approximate calories per serving:350

Suggested Menu

Waldorf Salad
Frankfurters in a Crust
Creamed Spinach
Strawberry Sundaes

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

Tue, 24 Nov 2009 02:11:18 -0500

Frozen Ham Chucking as an Olympic Sport. Who is with me?

Kerry Lauerman: I See Your Bad Sign & Raise You

Sat, 21 Nov 2009 22:11:31 -0500

Seen Today At The Grove Shopping Center in Los Angeles

Honey, Can I Have Money For A Hooker? Please?

Sat, 21 Nov 2009 16:11:40 -0500

Yes, these very words were uttered to me this morning by my adoring husband. In previous pithy posts I have divulged bits of the nightmare that is my husband's life since he married me. While he is a good and kind man, were it not for his marriage to me, he would still be living in the same hovel buried four feet deep in junk mail and dog hair that I found him in eight years ago. Life with me has had it's ups and downs, but for the most part he's come out even, if not a bit ahead.

In our house I don't really make him do much in the way of chores. Except for the obvious man work that is the obligation of his gender and his status as a kept man. He is required to do the dogs' bidding and to indulge their every whim, as well as to pick up their shit in the yard. He is in charge of killing or removing from my sight all rodents, vermin, arachnids, and reptiles. Once a week he takes the garbage bins from the side of the house out to the street for collection. For the rest, I have a maid. (You didn't actually think I did any of the housework did you? Pfffft!) In exchange for his efforts Dave is rewarded with frozen pizzas, pasta with jarred sauce, and a never ending supply of chips, cookies, and Twinkies. I spare no expense, as I am also the household finance manager, in my quest to ruin his health.

In the early days of our relationship I also rewarded Dave for good deeds done with sexual favors. Blow jobs during Dallas Cowboy's home games, quickies before I left for work, and as a rule we rang in most holidays with a good dose of lube and a hand job. However, in recent months an unexpected bladder problem has sidelined our sex life and my libido, and Dave is getting nothing for his efforts or his patience.

Long story short, when I was younger I had a condition that required having my urethra stretched every 3 months for about nine years. If you've ever had this done you know how much it sucks. If you haven't, count your blessings. Even with the sedatives that my mother would give me before we left for the appointment, I had to be strapped down to the bed like a mental patient and to endure a procedure that I'm sure took 5 minutes but in my mind lasted for days. To this day I get chills up my spine when I think of those visits, and I want to vomit any time my mother mentions the doctor's name.

As a result of the medieval tactics employed by my urologist back in the day, it appears I have developed scar tissue over the years that periodically flares up and fucks with my life. When I was with my last long-term boyfriend, I experienced regular bladder infections that had me making late night trips to the ER on a regular basis. In hindsight I think that the infections were my body's way of telling me that my beau and I were essentially incompatible. Something that I should have recognized in the beginning and not after 7 years.

My poor husband was introduced to my bladder early on in our relationship. Although I've not had infections since I met him, I have had a host of other issues. We had been dating a month when I announced to him that I would be getting my tubes cauterized. An announcement he took well and was supportive about, but it was his ability to survive the aftermath of the side effects that assured me he really was the nicest guy you'll ever meet. In the days following the procedure, the swelling that resulted from it did something to piss off my bladder, and I suddenly found myself unable to pee. Let me tell ya, this is not a happy thing. By the time I made my way to the urologist's office, a new one not the same sadist I saw as a child, I was in hysterics. At 35 years old I was reduced to a terrified 3 year old just by walking into his office. I am pretty sure it was the fact that I was upsetting the other patients in the waiting room (all of them geriatric) with my wailing and not the fact that I was escorted by my cousin Daniela dressed as a transgendered pirate for Halloween that got us ushered into a private room on that first visit.

Time and medication sorted out the episode and life went on as normal... well as normal as it gets around here. That was until shortly before I left for Jamaica. My bladder decided, for reasons known only to it, to start acting up again. More nerve wracking trips to the doctor, more pill cocktails to try and get things in working order. Only things aren't yet back in working order and I'm terrified that this time is the beginning of a lifetime of issues and meds that have all kinds of fun side effects. Currently I have dry skin, a flaking scalp, pee varying shades of blue and green, fall asleep at the drop of a hat, and my colon is locked down tight. My glamour and allure have gone on vacation and poor Dave sits watching football on TV trying not to know that I'm lying on the cold tile floor of the bathroom giving myself an enema and reading Martha Stewart Living while it takes effect.

Sex is completely out of the question. The mere idea of it makes me shudder. Instead of feeling good I spend the entire time wondering if it's going to exacerbate the situation and longing for the days when sex was fun and bad sex was at least a good time to think about what to buy at the market. The current version of that list includes a lot of lube and some how-to manuals to spice up the average hand job 'cause that's all the poor bastard is gonna get.

No, you can't have money for a hooker honey. Not yet, at least.

From The Realm Of Things I Do Not Understand: Men's Fashion

Fri, 20 Nov 2009 12:11:29 -0500

Last night while watching the train wreck that is The Real Housewives of Orange County on Bravo there was an advert for an upcoming show called Launch My Line. This gentleman, and according to Google a longtime fashionista called "Dandy" in New York, Patrick McDonald was the participant that they showcased. My first thought? Are you freakin' kidding me?

It's one thing when someone like Avril Lavigne, Sarah Jessica Parker, Jacquelyn Smith or Rachel Zoe start a fashion line. These are people who are actually fashionable. Patrick McDonald? I'm sorry but since the death of the Teddy Boy trend of wearing Edwardian clothing I don't think this look has really been fashionable. At least not amongst the men I know.

Now I have some friends who are actually fashionistas. A good friend of mine and his wife have their own acclaimed fashion lines and are always in the fashion rags. My sister designs jewelry and customizes bathing suits for super models in Malibu. I have, in my day, shopped in most of the great fashion houses and am patiently waiting for the day Giorgio Armani designs a line for Target so I can go back to wearing his stuff. So when I say I understand fashion for the most part you know I have street cred.

Having said that... I do not get Tartan suits, Peter Pan hats with feathers, or eyeliner unless you're Ozzy Osbourne. (In the 80's I totally got the guys with eyeliner, but then I also went weak in the knees for guys with parachute pants. It was an era, so you'll forgive me that.) I shop for the husband because he is not capable of doing it himself. I buy him nice pants at JCrew, sweaters at Banana Republic, boxers at Target, and shoes at DSW Shoe Warehouse. If we had money to spend and places to go, perhaps I'd dress him in Armani with a splash of Prada and a dose of Ferragamo. However I can guarantee you my friends that not one item I would purchase for him would have spiders, feathers, or rhinestones.

In this day and age fashion lines that are fiscally successful are launched by Sears, JC Penny, Target, Walmart, and K-Mart and bear price points in the $19.99 - $59.99 range. This is where the average person will shop and buy Jessica Simpson's shoes, Mary Kate and Ashley's skorts, Isaac Mizrahi's coats, and the ubiquitous Jacquelyn Smith's cashmere blend sweaters. So, it is my presumption that the goal of Launch My Line is to help the show's winner launch a successful line. I just don't know where they expect to merchandise the Tartan suits and hot pink ties amongst the Dockers, Levis and wife beaters.

Now I don't mean to throw stones. I am sure Mr. McDonald is a perfectly charming man, but I just don't see how his look is going to play at the Walmart in Peoria.