Revenge is a Dish Best Served Baked

Please do not be alarmed by the recipe below. I assure you that I have not fallen prey to any latent Martha, homemaker-y tendencies; rather, this rare display of domesticity is motivated wholly by spiteful revenge, a language I speak far more fluently.

Once upon a time - i.e., last Tuesday morning - I ambled into my local Starbucks for my usual decaf latte and breakfast craving du week - some banana chocolate chip dessert-masquerading-as-breakfast thingy. Upon placing my order, I encountered not the usual chirpy compliance, but the following (via my Twitter feed):

Fear not, fearless readers - despite the early morning hour, I summoned my best patented Icy Glare and mocked Miss Snooty Fat Counter McJudgypants to the best of my decaffeinated ability.* Duly shamed, the barista then backpeddled faster than John Edwards faced with a paternity suit, and I triumphantly departed said coffee shop with both a free drink and dignity (if not my waistline) intact.

*Sure, I could have given her the benefit of the doubt & listened to the ensuing excuses, but that's boring. Thank you for understanding.

And so it was that I grew determined not to further line the pockets of the Starbucks of Judgment, but learn to bake my craving du jour myself. I bring you, as purloined straight from the e-pages of Epicurious here, what I like to call "Pretty's Full-Fat, To Hell with Them, Guaranteed To Piss Off Judgmental Bitches Banana Chocolate Chip Bread of Revenge":

Ingredients

- 1 1/2 cups all purpose flour

- 1 tsp baking soda

- 1 tsp baking powder

- 1/4 teaspoon salt

- 3/4 cup semisweet chocolate chips (Pretty Note: I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'd consider reducing this to 1/2 cup; I did a heaping 3/4 cup, and it slightly overwhelmed the banana taste)

- 3/4 cup walnuts, toasted, chopped (PN: I skipped this & will not next time; need to walnuts to cut the sweetness of the chocolate)

- 1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, room temperature

- 1 cup sugar

- 2 large eggs

- 1 cup mashed ripe bananas (PN: I did 4 medium bananas, approx. 1 1/4 cups, for moistness & recommend this amount)

- 2 tbsp fresh lemon juice

- 1 1/2 tsp vanilla extract

Preparation

- Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Butter & flour 9 x 5 x 2 1/2 in. metal loaf pan. Whisk first four ingredients in medium bowl to blend. Combine chocolate chips and walnuts in small bowl; add 1 tbsp flour mixture and toss to coat.

- Beat butter in large bowl / mixer until fluffy. Gradually add sugar, beating until well blended. Beat in eggs one at a time. Beat in mashed bananas, lemon juice, and vanilla extract. Beat in flour mixture. Spoon 1/3 of batter into prepared pan. Sprinkle with half of chips/nut mixture. Spoon 1/3 of batter over mixture. Sprinkle with remaining chips/ nut mixture. Cover with remaining batter. Run knife through batter in zigzag pattern.

- Bake bread until tester inserted into center comes out clean & top appears golden brown, about 1 hour (Pretty Note: Due to my wonky oven, I did it at 375 for approx. 45 minutes, which worked well). Let cool a bit, then turn onto rack & cool further.

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Not the Prettiest bread you've ever seen, but wait until you try it . . .

Verdict: Guaranteed to strike fear into the hearts of sanctimonious baristas everywhere - this is cellulite on a plate, and worth every bite. Again, I'd slightly reduce the chocolate chips & be sure to add the walnuts; as is, it's a bit too rich to be called a breakfast dish, even for this confirmed sweets hound, but would be a delicious dessert.

Any other judgmental trollops we can defeat via the power of baking? Beware the cranky pregnant lady armed with a Kitchenaid . . .

Signs You're No Longer Dating - Multiple Choice Exam, Part I

Please circle the answer that does not belong in each set; bonus points awarded for gratuitous explanation of selected answer.

1) The first sign that you no longer in that impressing one another, unicorns-and-rainbows dating phase is. . .

a) You wear sweats and/or worn, smelly college shirts in front of one another without apology;

b) You're able to mention your future and/or current children in front of one another without hearing the distant hoofbeats of the Four Horsemen of the Things Guys Don't Want To Hear Apocalypse;

c) You not only discuss in great detail your own, your pets', and/or your kids' bodily functions with one another, you also assign cutesy names to said functions such as "tinkle" or "toot";

d) Toot? Tinkle? Sweatpants? You'd never admit such things to your closest friends, let alone your (sigh) Mr. Wonderful / Mrs. Wonderful.

2) When your significant other calls and asks, "Hey, what did you make for dinner?", your first reaction is:

a) "Aaaaa! I'd better run to the store right now. What was that emergency casserole Mom used to make? I wonder if Mr. Wonderful / Mrs. Wonderful likes this one."

b) "Bwahahahaha!"

c) "Oh, crap, I forg . . . I mean, I actually think it's incumbent upon you to bring dinner home. Remember that time 3 years ago when you forgot my birthday? Right, I didn't think so."

d) "How does ordering a pizza sound?"

I Am Legallyblondemel. I Am Six.

To crib from "Eloise", the greatest book ever penned for little girls and grown-up little girls alike, there are days when I suspect I haven't much progressed much in my 30 21 years. Thanks to the tag award & challenge bestowed on me by the charming ladies at Preppy Little Dress and The Dirty Martini Diaries, I took pause today to consider just some of these very qualities, or un-qualities, as it were.

I fear from the tenor of this week's posts that you might envision me as an old biddy creaking back-and-forth in her rocking chair, crocheting doilies as I recite Crane's Blue Book of Stationery chapter and verse (not that there's anything wrong with that!), tsk-tsking about Those Kids Nowadays, and speaking in the third person to my phalanx of cats. Although I'm most assuredly and proudly traditional in many aspects, The Pretty here can knock back a cocktail or six with the best of them, and is usually in active pursuit of doing so. Furthermore, I more often than not can be found holding the couch down, wearing my Tarjay jammies, attempting to do as little as possible save watching some inexcusable television* and telepathically willing the dishes in the sink to wash themselves already. *Seriously, citizens of Atlanta, I fear for you if your "Real Housewives" in any way represents actual neighbors. Seriously.

So in the spirit of the tag - except completely cheating, as I'm sharing just one random story here (ask away in the comments if you'd like to know any others) - and veering off the Pretty Path a bit, I bring you The Uncomfortable Drugstore Purchase, my most recent of which happened today. You know the one . . . involving feminine products?

Make no mistake, I make no claim as to being the only woman who is made uncomfortable by this; in fact, I think it's listed somewhere on the back of our Woman Cards that this buy be the most squirmy and awful 5 minutes of whichever day on which it unfortunately falls. I don't know why exactly this is uncomfortable at all, given that everyone who has suffered through that "Miracle of Life" video is entirely too familiar with the concept, in addition to the 50% odd percent of us who, you know, have lady parts and stuff, but nonetheless, The Purchase just doesn't seem to get less traumatic with age.

No, my claim to fame lies in my blissfully reliable cashier selection & resultant reaction to same. Without fail, each and every single time I enter a Walgreen's and attempt to furtively just buy the FPs and hastily get on with my day already, the following will occur:

- I will pick the slowest line, which at least has a friendly female cashier at the helm, only to be repeatedly and unavoidably called over to the newly-opened line. Do I really have to add that the cashier manning this new line is, well, a man, and usually some combination of handsome, a teenager, or a handsome teenager who completed Health Ed. not one semester ago?

- Upon placing my lonely FPs on the conveyor - because in these instances, I've inevitably forgotten to hide my purchases under cover of pretextual boxed wine or Q-Tips, the following uncomfortable exchange will occur, following the same 3 predictable stages every blessed time:

Stage 1
Male Cashier (all sunshine and unicorns and rainbow-y voiced): "Hello, Ma'am! How are you today?'
Legallyblondemel (avoiding eye contact as I mutter): "Umyesfineokthanks."

Stage 2
MC (eyes fall upon the FP while blood drains from face): "Oh, um . . . did you find everything OK?" (unicorns and rainbows have rapidly and irretrievably departed the building).
ME (suddenly seized by insane desire to abandon ladylike demeanor and grab said FPs, one in each hand in manner of pom-poms, jazz hands aloft, and bellow at the top of my lungs):

"Why, YES, er (peers angrily at employee nametag), Jared, I DID manage to find the TAMPONS! TAMPONS TAMPONS TAMPONS! Regular, premium, and super-unleaded TAMPONS! In Aisle 3, more TAMPONS than you can shake a stick at! Would you like to talk about it some more, Jared? I could just talk TAMPONS all day with you here at your delightful cash register!"

ME (what I actually mutter): "Uhyesfineokthanks."

Stage 3
MC (relief washes over his face as transaction with berserk lady finishes): "Well, have a nice day!"
ME (exhaling a sigh of relief): "Uhyesfineokthanks."

Anyone else fight imaginary mental battles with cashiers on the average drugstore run? No? Just me then? (crickets chirping). My one fun fact indeed . . .

And because I just can't bear to send you off on such an Un-Pretty note - if I haven't already sent you running for the smelling salts with this post - before I bid you farewell for the week while I go drink too much beer listen to good live music at Austin City Limits and host some visiting friends, I wish you the best, FP-free, most fabulous weekend imaginable.

Smootches,

Et Tu, J Crew?

We hereby hurl ourselves from the shopping wagon and dust off the royal "we" to bring you this potentially upsetting fashion alert. So as we did our daily usual stroll through the J Crew website, we happened upon this:

(credit: J Crew)

- and -

(credit: J Crew)

While we object to this style of jean far less than we do the skinny jean - we may have even cuffed a pair or two of wide-legged jeans back in early 90s day - we do take issue with J Crew so obviously cribbing from a certain Xenu-inspired celeb:

(credit: People)

As we often do when adrift in the throes of a fashion mystery, we asked ourselves - what would Fantasy GBF Tim Gunn ("WWFGBFTGF") do? Turns out Tim says this look of hers is a big ol' no, and we therefore feel even more justified in saying it - Katie, ergo J Crew, must be stopped.

Katie looked soooo adorably chic just weeks ago, back when she was playing Society Lady Dress-Up and stealing Birkins out of Posh Spice's closet. Therefore, Katie, we urge you to go back into the closet - insert obvious Tom Cruise joke here - and please take our usually reliable J Crew with you.

What do you all think? Have I missed something here, or is this as Britney-at-the-VMAs-level tragic as I suspect it is?

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Important, Secret Note to Readers: We hope you weren't put off by the Snark Factor and subject matter of last night's posting . . . we promise that we're the very picture of dainty feminine delicacy. Uh, well, most of the time. You definitely don't want to see us dancing, for example, but fortunately we're able to avoid that most of the time thanks to that kind feature of post-high-school dances known as the "bar."

Important Note to Motorcycle Man in My Blind Spot

Pretty HQ
123 Princess Grace Way
Principality of Monaco, by way of Austin, Texas

Dear Motorcycle Man in My Blind Spot:

I simply had to write and tell you how elated I was to see you throughout my morning commute. Lest I become lonely during those pre-caffeinated minutes, there you were, driving at my exact speed, right next to me, EACH and EVERY time I wanted to change lanes. My invisible friend, you sped up when I sped up, slowed down when I did - all at an awkward arm's length while avoiding eye contact withe me, in charming manner of junior high slow-dance partner.

Oh, the ten minutes I spent trapped behind the 18-wheeler inexplicably perched in the highway fast-lane while you blocked my path to move around him - delightful! Who am I to get to work on time, when I can instead spend Precious Moments watching your too-short Dockers flap, flap, flapping in the faux-rebellious biker breeze just so?

Dearest, it would be unforgivably selfish to keep you for my own personal commutes, so I simply insist that you seek out alternate female companionship on tomorrow morning's drive. Every woman should experience that bumper-to-helmet intimacy that we just shared. In fact, I firmly believe that sharing you is the best idea since Chelsea Clinton discovered the flatiron. Otherwise, we might be forced to beat you with a motherloving flatiron, and we certainly don't like to encourage violence here at the Pretty, do we?

Smootches,
Legallyblondemel

PS - Princess Pilates - you who pulls her mat thisclose to mine despite the near-empty studio - you're on deck, sweets.

Signs You're Not in That Romantic Dating Phase Anymore and Stuff

Me: "Hi honey, you're home!"
Anonymous Husband: "Hi! I'll be right back - let me run to the bathroom." (shuffles off)

AH: (shuffles back with gleeful smirk on face) "SO, I take it someone has been in the bathroom recently?"
Me: "I have no idea what you're talking about. We've been over this. As a lady, I don't do that sort of thing."

AH: "Riiiiight. So the dog was tooting in the bathroom again, eh?"
Me: "Exactly. You really need to do something about that. Anyways, what's for dinner?"

(And they all lived happily ever after. The end.)

The Texas Chronicles, vol. "The Higher the Hair . . . "

. . . the closer to God," or so the saying goes.

So over my lunch hour today, in the small town outside of Austin where I work, I pull into a mailing center to drop off a business letter. I expect to see the usual, chemically enhanced employee staring back at me sullenly, when lo . . . what light through yonder postal service breaks? It is the Ginormous, Glittering Banjo Necklace, and I am the surprised one.

(imagine more rhinestones - I mean everywhere - and a banjo the size of a housecat v. the guitar)

Attached to this eye-searing bauble- which, I kid you not, was fully encrusted with rhinestones and the size of a tangerine - was a woman of indeterminate middle age, thanks to her skin being leathered to a crisp, alligator handbag brown. Her neon pink tank top and bedazzled bangle bracelets (the sort you and I had and loved circa 1986) only served to accentuate her teased, frosted, Crystal-Gayle length mane. I stood there for a moment, FedEx clutched in hand, transfixed by her sparkleocity and mammoth coif. Finally, I forced myself to leave my envelope at the counter and hurried back to my admittedly non-sparkly car.

I don' t want to convey the wrong idea about Texans; sadly, the vast majority here are not running around clad in sequined musical instruments.* That I see the genuine, quirky, bedazzled article every so often, however, is just part of why I enjoy living in The Great State.

*Unless they are from South Austin and doing so as part of an ironic political statement.

Me Blog Pretty One Day

This puts me about 1,007 years behind the literary popular crowd, but whatever . . . I just discovered this genius book. If I somehow get reincarnated as a supremely talented, male writer, I'd hope to write a fraction as well as this. Some dark subject matter that might not be for everyone, but this is required reading if you like your snark mixed into meaningful and cleverly written personal stories.

That is all.