[	Tags	|	mac and cheese yummy recipe awesome	]
[	Current Mood	|	hungry	]
[	Current Music	|	Bob Seger "Night Moves"	]

GREAT GRANDMA RUDER’S SUPER SECRET RECIPE MAC AND CHEESE

"Pulled Pork not included."

INGREDIENTS:

16 OZ Box Barilla Pasta.*

2 cans Cream of Chicken (Use Cream of Potato if you are feeding Vegetarians)

16 OZ Sour Cream

1 to 1 ½ Lbs of Cheddar Cheese** (Or more, I don’t know how much I use, it’s a lot.)

1 stick butter, melted

salt

pepper

1 soup can of milk.

Cook 16 OZ pasta.  If you don’t know how to cook pasta, first, kill yourself, second, follow the directions on the box.  Use any kind of pasta.  I like Rigatoni or those crazy Spiral thingies.  Or you can be predictable and use macaroni.  Conformist.  Although that is the name of the recipe, so, whatever, do what you want.

In a large bowl, mix the two cans of soup, sour cream, and can of milk.  Add salt and pepper (probably a teaspoon of each, not sure, I just put it in till it looks right).  Add 2/3 to ¾ of the cheese*.  Mix.  Melt butter in a bowl in the good old microwave.  Add it to the bowl, mixing as you add it. 

When the pasta is done, drain it (DURR) and add ¾ to the bowl for goopy mac and cheese, add all of it for dryer mac and cheese.  Mix. 

Use a 9 by 13 glass pan, spray the bottom with PAM.  Or use an equivalent size casserole or large soufflé pan.  If you have too much, use another small pan for the remainder.  Use your noodle!  HAH HA HA HA HA HAH HAHA.

Add remainder of Cheese on top.  DO NOT USE BREAD CRUMBS because they are gross.  This is a personal preference.  And since I hate breadcrumbs on my mac and cheese I will not give directions for them.  

BAKE at 350 DEGREES (Oh yeah, you should probably preheat the oven before you do all that stuff) for 30 minutes or until bubbly and golden brown on top.  Let sit for 10 minutes then eat the entire pan in your pajamas while watching a Kellie Martin movie marathon on Lifetime. 

*Substitute 1 lb shredded hash browns to make Cheesy Potatoes.  And I actually use bread crumbs on that.  Ask somebody else how.

**Please use good cheddar cheese.  The better the cheese, the better the mac and cheese.  I use a combination of three cheddars.  A Vermont white Sharp Cheddar, an Irish Aged Cheddar and Mild Cheddar.  Extra Sharp is good as well.  Buy the block and shred the cheese yourself, it melts better and is cheaper.  Or buy a big bag of Kroger Cheese and be lame.  Your call.

THE MAKES A LOT OF MAC AND CHEESE.  Depending on how many you are feeding, you may want to half it.  Half recipe feds 4 with leftovers.  Let’s face it, leftovers are delicious.

[	Tags	|	num3ers boredom stupid titles	]
[	Current Mood	|	aggravated	]
[	Current Music	|	Jason Isbell "Sunstroke"	]

Another Day at the Office
Written on Tuesday, April 26, 2011

            Boredom washes over me.  My mind searches for something to stimulate it.  Anything.  I look at the walls, hoping by chance that something is there to engage me.  Nothing.  Same old posters, discarded by other teachers, fished out of the trash and affixed to the pale white walls of my classroom.  Posters no one uses.  Ever.   

            One has geography terms.

            Two others are outdated maps of Ohio and the United States.

            That one over there is of the skeletal system.

            I wish one was of Rita Hayworth.  With a tunnel behind it so I can escape the boredom.  At this point, crawling through five hundred yards of shit smelling foulness would be a welcome respite.  Five hundred yards... that's the length of five football fields, just shy of half a mile.

            Get busy living or get busy being bored.  To death. 

            Has that ever happened?  Someone was so bored that they died from it?  Or do they just get so frustrated out of boredom that they think up clever ways to kill themselves and then, out of boredom, actually do it? 

            Let's see, I could hang myself with my laptop cord. 

            Or jam the spindle that holds the blank dvds into my eye, deep into my brain. 

            Or I could lick an electrical outlet. 

            I could staple my jugular over and over. 

            I could eat my lunch too fast hoping to choke and then hoping no one knows the Heimlich Maneuver. 

            I could jam the fire extinguisher hose down my throat then turn it on. 

            I could run head first into the discarded poster covered wall.  If I did that, I would probably pick the obnoxious math poster that features the cast of the horrible show NUM3ERS (pronounced by my friend Jeremy as "num three ers"). 

            Yes, that 3 is supposed to be a B. 

            Every time I see it I want to scream.  I should find the first person that used numbers for letters and murder them in the face.  Twice.  Was it the makers of the movie SE7EN.  That one barely resembles the letter it is substituting.  At least the 3 looks like a B.  A 7 and a V?  Maybe if you squint.  And turn around.  And pour bleach in your eyes. Bullshit. 

            I suppose Prince should share some of the blame, using letters and numbers for words.  I Would Die 4 U.  Nothing Compares 2 U.  Come on Prince, didn't the Minneapolis school system teach you anything? 

            Recently SCRE4M came out.  God damn it!  Just stop. 

            Numbers should be numbers.  Letters should be letters.  Otherwise, chaos. 

            Sorry, I meant ch40s. 

"How can you not be annoyed by that 3?  HOW!!!!?!"

Damn You, Value City!  Damn You to Hell!

Originally Written on Friday, January 28, 2011

            Value City Furniture must be destroyed!  They have a new commercial running on local stations that is driving me insane. 
            I love the band Queen.  One of my favorite Queen songs is “I Want it All” from the 1987 album the miracle.  It has everything a queen song should have:  amazing harmonies, loud guitars, an amazing Brian May solo, a tasty hook for a chorus, and well written lyrics. 
            Value City Furniture is making me hate this song.  At first I was kind of happy they were using a song from my favorite band.  Hell, Led Zeppelin is used by Cadillac and The Black Keys are on like 12 commercials.  I’ve had no problem before.  Except maybe the obnoxious use of the Vampire Weekend song “Holiday” in a car commercial all during the end of December.   
            Every morning, they run this commercial during the Channel 5 newscast.  Not just once, but like 87 times.  Sometimes, they run it twice in the same commercial break.
            Why?  Why do we need the same commercial in the span of 2 minutes?  I thought NFL Football on Sundays was bad with the running of the same 4 car and beer commercials.  Channel 5 and Value City have just upped the ante on obnoxiousness.
            Why have they decided to torture me with a song I love. 
            Have you ever been to a Value City department store.  I can’t vouch for the furniture kind but the department store is horrible.  Each aisle looks like a hurricane just came through.  Nothing is where it is supposed to be.  And good luck figuring out how they organize the clothes section.  Infants clothes in the big and tall section.  Ladies underwear next to toddlers pajamas.  Either they have the worst customers of all time or nobody fronts their shelves.
            It’s like the store planners just gave up organizing after 20 minutes:

            “Hey boss, where do you want these pool toys?”

            “In the candy aisle, next to the motor oil.” 

             The portion of the song they use is the chorus: 

            I want it all.
            I want it all
            I want it all
            And I want it now.

            Really?  Really Value City?  People want it all, and by all you mean your horrible selection of couches and coffee tables not good enough to sell at a real store?  And they want it immediately?  No waiting?  I doubt it, fools.
            And the name of the store.  Value City.  First of all, it’s not a city.  There are no skyscrapers.  Or public transportation.  Or public works.  Or any kind of local government.  Stupid asses.
            And value?  What’s the value?  Hey, it’s a couch that was marked $1500 now it’s $200.  It was a shitty couch when it cost $1500, which is why nobody bought it, now it’s a shitty couch at $200.

            A TYPICAL VALUE CITY SCENARIO:

               “Dis dem dare couch is on sale, Louisianna!  We should buy it for the backyard!”

            “Oh, Buford, I always dreamed about owning a yard couch!  I love you!”

            And then they make a baby on the couch in the middle of the store. 
               Ahhhhhh, young love.

            Please, Value City and Channel 5, I implore you.  Stop running this commercial so much.  Stop playing it twice in one commercial break.  Stop ruining a great song by hawking your sub par furniture relentlessly.
            That’s what I want.  And I want it now. *  

"A great song, ruined.  Forever!"

"The whole city is a bad part of town."

[	Tags	|	teens stupid old rant	]
[	Current Mood	|	annoyed	]
[	Current Music	|	Ryan Adams "Do I Wait"	]

Another Rant About the Youth of Today

            Attitude.  The little comments under the breath.  The sullen looks.  The moping.  What the hell do teenagers have to be so upset about?  They have no real responsibilities.  They have manufactured problems that are mostly manufactured by themselves. 
            Being told what to do.  How to act.  Where to go.  And they hate that.  But, when left to do it themselves, they usually screw it up.  They have to learn from mistakes.  They have to make mistakes to learn from them.
            We are creating a generation of slackers.  I’m sure this has been said about every generation since the beginning of time. 
            “Young people today have it so easy.  When I was young we had to get up and plow the fields and milk the cows and build a barn, all before sun up.”
             But I see something brewing now a days.  In classrooms and hallways.  I hear excuses and protests for the simplest of activities.  Normal everyday things like taking a test or reading from a novel are met with outrage and whining.  And not just every once and a while but everyday.  And not just from the struggling students but from the bright ones. 
            Nobody wants to do any work.  They want to coast through. 
            Now, don’t get me wrong.  I have done my fair share of slacking off.  I’ve cut corners and taken shortcuts.  I’ve half assed plenty of jobs and projects and papers.  But I have never complained about the work.  Constantly.
            So, what’s changed?  Why is it OK to bitch and complain about something that should be commonplace and expected?  Haven’t then been in school all this time?  Shouldn’t they know that are going to do work until they graduate?  Where is all this protest coming from?
            Are they bored?  Are they not challenged?  Or are they just lazy and self-absorbed?
            Or all the above?
            We’ve been hearing the age old excuses of not being paid.  Students are saying that they would rather just go get jobs than have to school work.  I tried to explain to them that education is important and blah blah blah.   It sounded phony coming out of my mouth.
            Our society has invented the adolescent in its present incarnation.  We have pushed back adulthood further and further.  We group them altogether in a confined space with their peer, tell them when to eat and what to do, and then sit back and wonder why there is conflict, drama, teenage pregnancy and bullying.
            We are coddling our youth.  I’ve seen it many times.  Parents don’t[ want to have to deal with their children being upset.  They turn on the DVD player in the minivan for a 10 minute drive to the store.  Keep them complacent.  Don’t rock the boat.  Giving them choices when no choice should be given.
           An actual exchange between a dad and a 5 year old:

            DAD:  “Son, I’m going to the hardware store, do you want to go with me?”

            SON:  (Playig his DS)  “No, I want to play my video game.”

            DAD:  “Ok then.”  (Walks away disappointed)

            Really?  He is 5.  You are the adult.  He goes where you want him to go.  Don’t ask him if he wants to go.  Tell him he is going.    
            It seems kids are ruling their parents. 
            I was in the waiting room at my Doctor’s office.  A teenage girl with a cast on her leg sat with her mother.  The mother asked the daughter about her job, something along the lines of when she was supposed to work next.  The daughter’s tone as she answered was what I would call bitchy.  Now, maybe she was upset at her leg being hurt, I don’t know, either way, her tone was uncalled for. 
            It’s official, I am an old person.  I am criticizing teenagers.  I am one step away from being on my front porch with a shotgun yelling at people to get off my lawn.  It’s a cliché because it is truth. 
            As you get older, something snaps.  The music they make is not as good as when you were a kid.  The movies they make are not as good as when you were a teenager.  Television is crappier.  Slang terms are stupider.  Beast.  Swagger.  PWN.  Pop culture is annoying.  The world has gone and left you behind.
            Before you know it, you are stuck inside a non descript building surrounded by others your own age with people telling you when to eat and what to do. 
                Sound familiar?

How You Know You're Old

            Annoying.  So annoying.  Every one of them.  I have lost my patience.  I have no tolerance for idiocy. For ignorance. 
            I am officially old.  That’s how you know.  You no longer take part in the stupidity.  Because it’s not your kind of stupidity.  You don’t understand their kind of stupidity. 
            What they think is funny is not funny.  Their humor is sub par.  It lacks wit.  It lacks finesse.  It is random words strung together.  No meaning. 
            I am wise.  I have wisdom.  After years of being on this planet, interacting with others, absorbing the things I see and hear and feel, I am knowledgeable.
            And I use my wisdom to my advantage.  I observe my surroundings and act accordingly.  I know how to react to different situations. 
            At work:  professional, courteous, nice.
            At home:  vulgar, uncouth, myself.
            At a dinner party:  good natured, laid back, attentive.
            At a funeral:  solemn, respectful, quiet.
            I didn’t become this way overnight.  No on/off switch flicked and suddenly I got it.  No, it took years of trial and error.  Guidance.  Observations. 
            That’s what growing up is all about.  Trying things, failing at those things, trying other things.  Having good models to watch and learn from.  I wasn’t simply told how to act, I was shown.  And like any good sponge, I absorbed.
           But, it seems different now.  It seems like a prolonged span of idiocy is the norm.  Many have no real responsibilities.  They are left to coast through.  They are not held responsible for their actions.  They rule the roost.  They are not being prepared to be an adult.  They are just kids with grown up bodies. 

            Don’t think for a minute that I am absolving myself of idiocy.  On the contrary, I take full responsibility for my moronic actions, past present and future.  I can remember endlessly quoting SNL and movies and TV sitcoms.  I can remember coming up with some of the stupidest sayings, things that we thought were hilarious. 
            Making devil horns and saying Metallica in a goofy voice.
            Talking a lot about Satan (in a mocking fashion.)
            The Olympics Triple cast.
            Making fun of Burger King dinner baskets. 

            The list is so long that I’ve forgotten most of it.  And for good reason.  None of it was all that funny.  My adolescent brain had not the skills to fashion truly humorous ideas.  Sure, some of them were probably OK.  But only to those likeminded in dumbassery.
              So, I can give a pass to the imbecilic nature of what passes for pubescent comedy.  To a point.  I still will be annoyed.  And that, my friends, is how I know I am old. 

"Every one of us in 40 years."

MY SURGERY PART THREE:  The Green Button of Joy and Happiness     

            They wheel my big and tall bed to my room, somewhere on the 4th or 6th
floor, who can really say for sure.  The bed barely fits through the door, given its big and tallness.  My mom, dad, sister Eryn and niece and nephew are ushered out as they figure out how to get my ginormous bed into the tiny room.  I am heavily drugged from the surgery, so for all intents and purposes some of the following account may be
partially, if not totally, fabricated from my swiss cheese of a memory.  They situate me in my room, which is a private single.
            The nurse goes through her regular rigamaroll.  What’s my name?  How
much pain am I in?  What did I have done?  Do I have any allergies? Through the haze I answer. Then she holds up what looks like an outdated video game controller
hooked to my IV regulator via a long white cord.  The video game controller has a single glowing, green button on it.
            “This is your pain medicine.  You can push the button every 20 minutes
or so, as needed,” she hands it to me.  “Only you can press it.  It is illegal for anyone else to administer your this medicine, including me.”
            Sounds like awesome stuff.  I take the glowing green button of
happiness and place my thumb on it.
            “No whammies, no whammies, and . . . STOP!” I say and I plunge my
thumb down on it.  The green light turns off and I am filled with awesomeness.  It’s a good thing this stuff is hard to get otherwise I would be using it right now.


            Every hour or two they come in and scan the barcode on my bracelet.  Then they ask the same series of questions:  What is your name?  What procedure did you have?  Are you allergic to anything?  How is your pain on a scale of 1 to 10?
            I’m never asleep for long before I am awakened with this series of
inquiries.  The glowing, green button of happiness helps.
            I sleep in a drugged stupor for the night, my iPod plugged into my
ears blasting Queen and Pearl Jam.  Early in the morning, before sunrise, a hot blonde nurse comes in and, after the usual interrogation and meds, she says that we are going to go for a walk.
            This is it, I have to move and get up from the comfy confines of my
bed.  Luckily, my glowing, green button of happiness (let’s call it GLADoS) is coming with me since she is attached to my arm.
            I swing my leg over and attempt to sit up.  In doing so, I am reminded of two things:  1.  I have incisions on my stomach, right above my belly button and below my man-tits.  Five of them.  They feel tight.  2.  Something is attached to my willy whacker.  It tugs on it as I sit on the edge of the bed.
            Now, for those of you in the medical field or who have had a surgery, you know that they put a catheter in your urethra so you don’t urinate all over yourself when you are under anesthesia.  In laymen’s terms, they shove a straw in your pee pee hole so you don’t piss all over the surgical team as they cut you open.  I had forgotten this so it was a bit of a surprise when I was so rudely reminded.
            Like Darth Vader at the end of Episode III, I rose to my feet.  I
took a couple steps and felt alright.  A little light headed, but alright.  We took a lap around the quiet hospital floor.  It was good to get out of the room and to know that I was able to escape should they start trying to run strange experiments on me.
               I continue to (ab)use GLADoS every chance I get.  Then, a little after 3 in the afternoon, a new nurse informs me (after the usual round of questions, pokes & prods, and nasty medicine) that she she is taking me off GLADoS.  I panic. 
            "Why?" I ask.  "I love my little glowing green button of happiness.  It is my only friend.  DON'T TAKE HER AWAY FROM ME!  DON'T!  I WILL CUT YOU IF YOU COME NEAR IT, BITCH!!!"           
              Ok, so maybe I didn't say all of that, but it is how I felt.  She walked out of the room so I could have a moment alone with GLADoS.  I can not (and will never) repeat what was said.  Just know that it was the hardest, most emotional thing I have ever gone through.  
                I will never forget you GLADoS.  Never.  *pours some COLT 45 forty ouncer on the ground then touches two fingers to my chest and points them toward the sky*

"There was even going to be a party for you.
A big party that all your friends were invited to.
I invited your best friend, the Companion Cube.
Of course, he couldn't come because you murdered him."