Tag Archives: derp


I’m awkward.

If you haven’t figured that out by reading my blog, then I’m pretty pleased with myself. And thank you. But yes. It’s true. I’m awkward. Very awkward. I’m a steamy pile of awkward laced with awkward flakes.

How awkward, you ask? Tina Belcher awkward.

This is my “everything is okay” face.

For example, my ex just changed his profile picture. Now my romantic feelings for this particular person have been long dead, but when I saw this picture, I immediately sent a Facebook message that read: “Hey ho. That new profile pic. It’s um….. Uh… You’re gorgeous.” I then proceeded to literally run away from my laptop and flipped on Bob’s Burgers to avoid anxiety.

The great awkward doesn’t stop there. Oh no. That’d be too easy.

Tina 2

While I was in Seattle, my best friend and I happened upon half a dozen musicians. All of them were fun to listen to, but there was one in particular who was magical; attractive, talented, free-spirited. This mystical musician had CDs for sale and when I went up to buy one, I’m fairly sure I just held my cash far enough away from him that he had to reach for it across his stuff. I think I tried to say “I’d like to buy a CD,” and “You’re very talented.” I’m almost certain what came out was incoherent babble and some variation of “I’d like to buy you.”


Now let’s look at situations that don’t involve me spewing my rainbows everywhere.

I was 15. I was mad at my parents. We were at Denny’s and I ordered a Sprite defiantly (even though soda was acceptable). No wait. It wasn’t Denny’s. It was Village Inn. Definitely Village Inn. Because it’s a booth that was round and booth-y. It was definitely Villain Inn.

So I was 15 at Village Inn and I was mad at my parents. I was determined to be grumpy while I sipped at my sprite. I was keeping my mouth full of fluids so that mean words wouldn’t spew out of it. The server came to our table to take our orders. She was beautiful and it threw me off. I wasn’t angry anymore, but I was still sipping sprite. When my mouth was full, the server turned to me, tucked her hair behind her ear (which I think is adorable), and asked me what I wanted.

“Can I get the waffles?” I asked. With a mouthful of Sprite.

It came out “clnn igrt ffrrrles.” Sprite erupted out of my gaping noise void and cascaded onto my lap. Our server laughed. My parents laughed. I cried inside.

I’m hilarious. But super awkward.

Someone please love me.

Cooking With Tay (AKA Learning Lessons The Hard Way)

WARNING: This post may contain obscene gestures and profane language. Readers under the age of 14 are advised to leave.

So, you’re staying, eh? Well, I can’t stop you. Yet.

Among the few skills and talents I posses, cooking is one of them. Assuming, of course, that the moon is in Waning Gibbous, I’m single, God in His infinite mercy is looking down upon me, the local pagans aren’t casting their freaky voodoo*, and my astrology results say so. Tonight was not one of those times. The stars were un-aligned and the ensuing debacle – a sudden and ignominious failure, as it were – caused me such despair that I felt I might as well have cooked up a lump of fecal savagery. Needless to say, I was distraught. It needn’t be said.

The evening started off well; optimism flaring out of me the sun’s sensual radiance, stomach excitedly gurgling like an alligator trying to intimidate the baby bunny dangling from a branch it was accidentally dropped on to by the drunk hawk that snatched it up in the first place. I wandered down the stairs and charged into the kitchen, bringing my phone with me to record the marvelous feat I was about to commence.

Oh, dear, I thought as I opened the cupboards. There isn’t any bread. Or soups. Or other common household things we Americans find in our panties pantries. I simply must use whatever I can lay my perfectly manicured hands on. (Thanks Gage)

Here’s what I found:

  • A mini-orange
  • A white grapefruit
  • An apple
  • Honey
  • Cinnamon
  • Maple Syrup
  • Maple-flavored frosting
  • Salt

What a list! I attempted to cut up the grapefruit with the intention of making a sour-sweet fruit salad and ended up grinding the poor thing to a pulp. Literally. So the juice and pulp went into a bowl. I thought, no big deal. I still have the mini orange! I proceeded to peel and separate each of the carpels with juicy vesicles. I dropped them into the grapefruit pulp-juice and then added honey, maple syrup, and cinnamon (I didn’t have real sugar to sweeten this). It was at this time that I discovered a package of ramen noodles and decided, Hey! I can use the citrus soup to make some kind of citrus broth for my noodles!

Here is the result of that thinking:

Oh mercy. What have I done?!
Oh mercy. What have I done?!

It seemed harmless enough. It didn’t smell too bad. So I did what anyone thinking logically would have done. What? Throw it away? Pffft! Don’t be silly. I stuck it in the microwave.

Somebody! Anybody? Stop me! PUT AN END TO THE MADNESS!
Somebody! Anybody? Stop me! PUT AN END TO THE MADNESS!

After two minutes of cooking, I thought, that’s good enough! I pulled it out. The odor was like some kind of gas from the butthole of Satan. I was thinking, I’ve had worse! And I am reeeeeally hungry. Surely you can’t be that bad.

YES IT CAN! (and don’t call me Shirley)



I mean... Mmmmmm....
I mean… Mmmmmm….

So I proceed to devour half of this bowl of noodle-y butt venom. It doesn’t taste horrible. Every now and then I get spikes of bitter from the grapefruit so it kept things interesting. The noodles were super elasticized and rubbery so they were flopping all over the place like a limp duck… DUCK, you perves. As you can imagine, rubbery, elastic-y noodles and citrus juice can make for some pretty hilarious shenanigans. Unfortunately for me, the debauchery that unfolded happened to MY EYE.


After struggling to eat this heaping, steaming, reeking pile of dysentery** in a bowl, I decided enough was enough and to hell with the starving children around the world trying to guilt trip me into eating what would come to erode through our pipes and destroy our plumbing***.

Be gone, you foul, loathsome, whore of putrescence and abominations!
Be gone, you foul, loathsome, whore of putrescence and abominations!

After this mind-numbing meal vacated our home, I decided to eat the apple. But why stop there?! I had failed once to make something unique. Surely it couldn’t happen a second time.

I sliced up the apple, threw nearly a pound (nearly 0st 1.0000 stone) of cinnamon on it, added a little water and two heaping tablespoons of maple frosting, and tossed all of it into a blender.

Tantalizing, isn't it?
Tantalizing, isn’t it?

After creating what I can safely describe as “blender defecation” that had an delicious aroma, I poured them into cups.

Evenly poured. #boss
Evenly poured. #boss

It was warm, so I wanted to chill it. My stomach started roaring, begging for food. I went out to the garage fridge (we’re fancy and we have two empty fridges) and put these two cups in the freezer to chill. And look what happened.

Here you go, little guys...
Here you go, little guys…
Wait.... Wait... What are...? WAFFLES?
Wait…. Wait… What are…? WAFFLES?



DOO-DOO-DOO-DA-DOO-DOOOO. THAT’S TAY! Oooo-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho.

This is why you love me!
This is why you love me!

* I’m educated enough to know the difference between Pagans and Voodoo. Just enjoy the absurdity.

** Because SCREW grammar

*** It wasn’t that bad. It just was high in acidity.

PS. Going to bed hungry isn’t all that bad. Except I have to work in the early morning and don’t have any food for breakfast because I butchered what little fruit we had.