Cake Or Death? Uh, Cake Please!


I’ve tweeted my various experiments with almond-based cake, & I keep promising to perfect the recipe from Pati’s Mexican Kitchen cos the damn thing has too much vanilla in it. Don’t get me wrong; it’s good if you hate almonds.

Me? I LURVE me some marzipan something fierce so I want it to taste like that, except bigger and cake! If like me you have celiac disease or, unlike me, a nasty gluten or wheat allergy, this recipe is for you. Have your cake and DON’T get dysentery from it, too!

Another glorious side effect of the almond cake is weight loss. Now, I am by no means advocating the inhaling of cake in order to slim down. We all know it’s about calories in & out. However, this cake is so dense & full of protein that a small amount keeps my hunger at bay for a good long time. Since I’ve been making & experimenting with this cake, I’ve lost two pounds without changing anything additional in my diet. Granted, I’m not sucking down ice cream. But still! Delicious diet cake!

Here’s how you make this bitch:

Go to the store & purchase:
-2 cups of slivered almonds (I prefer toasted to blanched)
-3/4 a cup of sugar
-a teaspoon to a tablespoon of almond extract (to taste)
-8 egg whites, or 4 whole eggs
-1/2 a cup of room temperature butter
-raspberry jam/jelly
-a food processor

If you already have these things at home, you need not purchase them.

Preheat your oven to 350 degrees & butter an 8×8 pan.

Dump the almonds & sugar into the food processor & pulse into a relatively fine powder. It need not be as fine as wheat flour, but you don’t want it coarse meal, either.

Now dump in the extract & eggs, then smoosh the room temp butter in on top. Process until completely incorporated & smooth.

Pour the batter into the pan & put in the oven for 30 minutes. If a chopstick or toothpick comes out clean at the end, it’s done. Set on a rack to cool. While still hot, spoon a couple of tablespoons of jam (jelly if you don’t want seeds) on to the hot cake & spread it across the top of the cake once it’s melted a little.

Leave the cake to cool as long as you can stand it.

Here’s the honesty part. I cut the cake into 16 pieces. You may as well just cut it into four, as that’s how you’ll want to eat it. I tend to eat two little pieces at a time, so technically I should cut it into 8ths, but I like to pretend I’m having seconds.

It’s good warm, but it’s fricken amazing cold, cos then it’s more like marzipan. This cake is truly eyes-roll-back-in-your-head embarrassing-public-orgasm good. It’s amazing with almond milk or strong black tea, & I’ve been told it can probably be easily made as a vegan treat (by vegans who presumably want me to make it for them).

This a snap for even achy fibromyalgics like me or super lazy people to make. I think its even easier than my old shortbread recipe.

Wrap the top w/ foil & stick in the fridge for future enjoyment. I plan to try a chocolate topped version for when I want to impress women.

Best of all, the base recipe is a snap & you can modify to your heart’s content, which is how I ended up with this one. You can get fancy & do it in a spring form pan with parchment paper, but seriously, who cares? It lifts out of the pan more easily than brownies, so unless you want to decorate, you can just do it like a sheet cake. You could use different jams, or different extracts (I bet coconut would be good…Ooh with grilled rum pineapple on top & whipped coconut milk!).

What I’m saying is, even men can make this. Go forth & delight the womenfolk! No one will ever choose “or death”…except people with horrendous nut allergies, of course. Send them round the corner to get a plain old normal people cake, then. Weirdos.

Stay Positive, Assholes! Lol!!

As y’all know, I have the slightly charming, mildly irritating habit of trying to turn all itchy, nasty moods & circumstances into a positive. It’s kind of my thing to refuse to dwell, & it serves me well. Sometimes, though, due to the overwhelmingly obvious fact that I’m still annoyingly human, I remain irked despite my best efforts to get Pollyana-cheerful (e.g. watch Nyan cat several times). The following list of Positive Affirmations & accidental proverbs results. Enjoy.

Fibromyalgia means never having to say you’re not in pain!

Cat poo is your cat’s way of reminding you it’s still alive.

When someone adds you to a Facebook group without your permission, don’t get mad. You finally have proof that they’re an unredeemable asshole! Yay!

Twitter misunderstandings result from the sort of mind that desperately wants to read meaning into 140 character missives. “OMG PIE!! LOL!!! #FML!!” doesn’t mean you’re breaking up. Rejoice!

When someone desperately wants your attention but has done nothing to earn it, that is never your problem. The day you can adequately amuse 6 billion humans without neglecting your loved ones is the day that becomes your problem.

Conversely, for every person that acknowledges you, there’s another twenty watching in silence. They’re intimidated by your brilliance. Or are creepy science dudes from the future.

Even the smartest, kindest men are, at times, clueless about girls.

Laughing at my jokes is not flirting. It is expected.

An actress on her second glass of wine will tell you anything. Pour her a third!

Guacamole typically does not have ham.

The man who thinks he is winning your heart by correcting you on dumb shit all the time is the man for whom you will eventually be convicted of arsenic poisoning.

The cat’s wet nose/claws/baleful mew after 2 hours sleep is proof it’s still alive!

Your cat is still alive! You’ve exhibited the self control to never kill it! You are counted among the saints.

If you want everybody you ever read tarot for to leave you happy, always tell them the boy they’re dating will marry them. If you want them to actually come back to you because you’re right, tell the truth.

Nothing makes food taste better than laughter. Or is more of a choking hazard.

Nobody comes up with a more convoluted & self-satisfied explanation for things than the man who has not bothered to engage in common experiences.

Sour grapes make whine.

The only way to extinguish a behaviour is to ignore it. If you keep responding, you are picking a scab. And enjoying it.

If you go about life insisting that you’ve evolved past your hormones, you have a fool for a lawyer.

Occam’s razor creates THE best Brazillian.

Thoughts Without Context

I’m going to say something nice about the iPhone. Haters gonna hate; I’m sure your Droids & Datas & Daleks all have similar functions. But I love the notepad. I use it to make grocery lists, & also to write down now inexplicable things I wanted to remember, like this:


What was the purpose of that? Was it inspired by the conspicuously-absent-from-Twitter Killpundit? Was it a user name I briefly considered?

Here are some other notes, of varying import.

On January 5, 2010, I was evidently on the phone with Tabz, as I attributed these two statements to her:

“To me, he’s like…the Pope.”


“The pool is maturity.”

I recall wanting to make t-shirts out of these tidbits…t-shirts that would make sense to no one, t-shirts that hipsters would be over in 5 weeks.

I also write down what are to me significant visions, both waking & in dreams. To prove the dates, I’ve screen capped em:


This one I dreamed was a tweet:


On April 25, I wrote down “Oasis Wellness Ctr Thousand Oaks”, which I now recall has some kind of heat box that melts fat.

On April 27, I wrote this poem. I was apparently angry about the way someone treated someone I care about:

Look, bitch.
You’re a crass little piglet.
You flirt like an elderly whore.
Your mother had you in crinoline
Now you’re bracken on the shore
And your feeble lashes totter on the edge of
Something more.

About a month ago I wrote, during a function, “Advertisers are being SCREWED! Ben’s book!!!” I seem to be quite emphatic, & somehow Ben Shapiro’s ‘Primetime Propaganda’ was the answer.

In January 2010 I jotted this down. It might have been an idea for a blog post or letter:

“B4 my descent into illness-precipitated mealiness, I used to attend my fair share of hoity toity Republican soirée thingies.
Enjoy their $

By “enjoy their $” I’m pretty sure I meant that Republicans acknowledge money & don’t agonize over it like limousine liberals. PJ has to be PJ O’Rourke, but it could also be Pajamas Media. God knows to whom this was directed.

The rest of my notes include classified information about my car & shopping needs, though you can guess exactly what my last one says…

White corn tortillas

The Quick & Dirty Good Girl’s Guide To Sexting

Alas that we as a nation are now privy to the tender & cock-choking ministrations of Rep. Weiner over Facebook chat & Twitter DM. I am alarmed at the shoddy quality of his sexts, & I think that classy dames deserve & should demand more of their online nasty-chats.

The key to good girl sexting lies in first exercising discriminating taste in partners. Married congressmen are instant no-gos. All you’re doing is satisfying an ego that power to wield tax-payer monies did not suffice. You could let this guy donkey punch you & it wouldn’t be enough. So step back & enjoy this guide for the discriminating classy broad:

1. A lady never initiates.

2. If a lady is aware that a gentleman is married, she politely reminds him. My favourite reminders are “Oh, so your wife is into this kind of thing, eh? Am I talking to her? Hi, Maureen!”

One time, I did get “Oh, I’m so pleased, you filthy girl!” from the wife’s email address. So sometimes that can backfire.

Another is “Does your wife check your phone??” Usually, it stops there. If it doesn’t, one of 3 things is happening:

A. He’s drunk. Forgive him & still be his friend. Accept his inevitable apology. He may also pretend it never happened. He’s a good guy. Let it go.

B. He’s playing the same game he does w/ his guy friends (like “Know How I Know You’re Gay?”), but w/ you it’s less weird, cos you’re a cool chick & it’s never going to be about you two having anything like sex ever.

C. He’s a total prick. Abort! Abort!

3. If you’re playing a boy/girl version of “Know How I Know You’re Gay”, it will stay light, never be about you two together, & centre around sports or professional terminology in your field. Don’t cross that line if you’re not 100% sure he’s single. If you want to cross that line, I can’t help you.

4. You’ve ascertained to the best of your ability that he is not married. He says something sweet, like that he’d love to be with you right now. You ask, coyly, “Oh yeah, how come? 🙂 ”

A. If he says “Yeah, come! Come on your FACE, bitch!” abort, abort.

B. If he says “Funny you should use that word, though I spell it ‘cum'”, you’re dealing w/ an imbecile but it MIGHT be fun. Go with this only if you’re drunk. Reign him back. Sexting is about titillation, not consummation. And insist he spell properly.

C. If he says “Cos I bet you smell pretty and feel warm,” YOU’VE GOT A PRO. Engage! This person once performed foreplay on a live adult woman! LIKE YOU!!

5. Make sure, before you go any further, that “LongDong758” is not your uncle, brother-in-law, etc. “You don’t live in Wales, do you?” is a good start.

6. Your job is not to get him off. He already did that five days ago from your profile picture & recipe for adobe grilled shrimp. He’s a man. Your job is to allow him to hone his wooage skills. Let him enjoy your delight in his humour. Sexting should be sorta funny or he’s taking it way too seriously & will be on a plane to your GPS coordinates before you can say “9 millimeters to the dome”.

7. The ONLY time you should get “all the way” sexting is if you’ve actually had sex in person. Then you’re just amusing each other while away. This is good for marrieds.

8. NEVER SEND PHOTOS OF NAKED BODY PARTS EVER. Imagine your nipples on TMZ. If that’s not acceptable to you, don’t do it. Cleavage is another matter. Would your father shoot somebody? Ok then.

9. Let him tell you a story & be the Choose Your Own Adventure for him. He says “If I were there I would want to hold you close to me.” You say “I would like that. What cologne are you wearing?” Then he’ll take it into sensualist territory. If you go straight to “I would press my tits against your chest!” you will be at “I CUM ON YOUR FOREHEAD” in two passes.

10. Let him be vague; it’s less seedy & less likely to end in virtual semen on virtual foreheads. If he wants to briefly discuss the sturdiness of walls, the glamour of curls & the brush of fingernails all in a flutter, give him the faint warmth of cognac on the breath, the press of hips & the fervent grasp of little hands with slender fingers. You can be all Nabokov about it without getting too literary. Unless you like literary. Or go to option B…

11. Option B: for bitches who hate books. Go on the virtual date w/ the step by step make out session. “I want to kiss you.” “I’d part my lips for you.” “Oh, I’d want to touch you.” “Where do you want to touch me? I might let you.”

He wants to be teased, because that’s more fun. If he goes straight to water sports, he’s a psycho & did I not already mention ABORT ABORT!??!

12. Seeing as how I’m a good girl, I’m not going to explain any further. What I hope you’ve gathered from this is that it should take HOURS for him to even think it’s safe to mention his wiener. He should be dancing around it like he has to pee. He should be leaning hard into the copy machine at work. He should be unable to get out of his truck without a newspaper in front of his crotch. He should be smiling and wincing every moment of his entire day until he can get home to a quiet place & simply text you those four magic words “God, I want you.”

And then, darling, it’s all up to you.

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Female + Twitter = Dodgy DMs

I’ve not done any investigative reporting for Pundit League or any other site in re: WeinerGate for one simple reason:

I’m a girl. I’ve been on Twitter over two years. I know exactly what happened.

If you are female & on Twitter & follow back at least 3 men, you have received a naughty DM whether you provoked it or not. I follow back over 900 people, so do the math. The reason I do not follow back all 1948 people who follow me is because, at some point in the past year, I learned that some people are freaking psychopaths. Folk have to earn my trust now before I allow them to DM me. It’s a sad & simple fact.

Of the 900+ I continue to follow back, I’ve received some very, very naughty DMs. Some were harmless joke flirting from friends who know my sense of humor like the inside of their own right palm. Some were drunken mistakes that I forgave (or continue to forgive). Some were over the top and pretty vile, & those folks got unfollowed or blocked.

Once or twice, I’ve received photos, & reminded those gentlemen that no DMd photo is private. They show up in your Twitpic or Yfrog public stream & then BOOM, they’re on teh interwebs forever. These days if a drunk lonely friend is DMing me some nasties, I try to stave off the inevitable photo post by reminding him before he does it.

If I’m close enough w/ someone, they can always text me. I’m only *that* close to one (maybe two?) folks on Twitter. I have also willfully participated in truly filthy DMing w/ a select group of those, like, two people. So I’m not here to proclaim victimhood. DMing with boys can be fun.

On more than one occasion, a gentleman has been DMing me for hours only to accidentally post extremely personal information to his public timeline by accident. This has been anything from incidentals about his genitalia to his phone number. It happens. I once accidentally posted a really cryptic but worrying piece of information to my public timeline that caused a really bizarre flurry of speculation amongst fans. One of things I love about Twitter for iPhone is that it makes accidentally sending DM to the public timeline almost impossible.

Congressmen Weiner is doing the exact same song & dance one of my DMers did after he was found out. My DMer just happened to not be a public figure. But he *was*, it turns out, married.

If Nicole Gennette *was* the intended recipient, she did the same classy thing all we DMd women do…let it go. Sadly, Rep. Weiner did not. What’s worse than a married congressman DMing his schlong to a young woman on a lonely night?

Lying about it. A lot. Making things worse for her.

No theories here, folks. I didn’t even have to use clairsentience to sort this one out. Pure experience, listening, & seeing.

So no, guys, I won’t be outing any of you for your dirty DMs. But if you fuck one up & drag my name into the news doing it, I will not protect your dumb ass. Ok, I probably would. Never mind.

Friends That Dreams Are Made Of

I have the awesomest friends ever. They’re even awesome in my dreams, which I will get to in a second. First, let me expound upon the virtues of my roommate, Tabby.

Tabby: [DAH-bee] n. 1. A creature of brain & determination, rooted in insight, who is good at thinking & doing. 2. A rare breed.

My headlights went out on my car. This person, the Rock Tabster (another incarnation of her name), Snoop Tabby Tabs Esquizzle (as she is an attorney) researched what my car model needed, bought the bulbs on the way home from work, & battled Korean engineering at great personal sacrifice to change the bulbs out. She didn’t have to do this; she didn’t need to do this, but she did, without being asked. She is awesome.

She was also in my dream last night, as were several of my other friends. It was pretty bitchin’. If you like over the top gritty action shit, this dream would be your favorite film.

It was set in a quasi-post-apocalyptic Los Angeles. There had been some kind of major incident, not bad enough to destroy the city, but there was some intense damage in parts. It seemed to involve an international conflict as LA was uncharacteristically hardened, self-sufficient, & patriotic…like the country but with high rises, lights, & Mercedes.

Picture a partly blown out condo…mine & Tabby’s, but the utilities were all working. We’d made a makeshift patio out of what was left of my bedroom & were watching CNN on my TV. Kurt & Irina were there, as was Ben & the person known on Twitter as Salty Hollywood. We were surveying damage across the nation & loading assault weapons when one of my favorite songs played of its own accord on my iPhone; I picked it up. “Hi Adam. We’re all here.”

“Good, good. Meet me, Pig, & Krupke at Ventura & Sepulveda. The task force needs to start tonight if we’re gonna nip this bullshit in the bud.”

We all got in Tabby’s Camry & rolled over slightly damaged & debris-laden streets to the location. Adam, Pig, & Krupke were in a Hummery jeep with guns mounted up front. Everybody did “man hugs” & mounted up as other vehicles filled with other local friends pulled up.

It was an odd mix, as I’m friends/good acquaintances with both diehard conservatives & flaming liberals in this town. In addition to the folks in our vehicle, there was another w/ Andrew, Nolte, Gaz, Shelli, & Larry + wife. Another with Dan, Edith, my boss, & Jen. James, Beth, Shannon & Dwight must have driven up for the occasion. Thad, Ezra, Meredith, Holly & Chris were apparently in town, too.

Adam & Kurt gave us a run down of the plan & we were off. Every single building we passed, whether high rise, apartment complex, or taco stand had an American flag hanging or draped from it. We stopped at a big bank where the flag was backwards. Pig let a short burst out in the air to get the inhabitants’ attention.

A very slim, balding, besuited banker came out. Tabby trained the jeep gun on the building while the rest of us jumped out & greeted the banker. He looked terrified.

“You in charge in there?” Adam gruffly asked.

“Uh, yeah. I’m in charge of mortgages.”

Ben snorted.

Kurt walked up to him, “Sir, are you aware that your American flag is hung incorrectly?”

The guy looked up. “Uh, no? What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s the other way around, dumbass,” Adam said, not without humor, walking up to him. “Our team can fix it for ya.”

The guy blinked. “Uh, yeah! Yeah! Please, by all means!”

Krupke covered the entrance while myself & some of the others got a rig set up. Keep in mind, I am terrified of heights, so this is not something I would normally do. I handed Adam my weapon & got up there with Ben & Salty. We were up around the eighth floor, got the flag turned around, & lowered ourselves down. We packed up the rig & continued down Ventura, the team doing something like 25 more places before calling it a night. People cheered as we rolled on.

We then had a giant taco party & I woke up.

This dream was even more fun than the time I was blonde & took out 80 mob guys with two Glocks & a knife. It was also the first dream in five days that didn’t feature Stephen Kruiser in a Mexican street market, which is weird cos he has guns & is also a friend.

I don’t know what was more fun…running around LA open carrying with my people or seeing LA actually give a damn about the flag. Either way, I drank a lot of margaritas at that taco party.