When The Husband realizes that I spent a few of his precious Fourth of July minutes writing this (instead of hurrying home so we could get on with the celebration), he’ll kick my ass. No, he’ll give me that look. The one that says how did I not realize I was marrying a retarded monkey?

But it’s been a few days and I’ve missed you and, well, I figured a holiday would be the best day to write this. Because there’s something comforting about the fact that most of you won’t see this until tomorrow. Or even Monday. It’s like standing up to give a speech on how the state of the economy is even worse than we thought and the entire country is being laid off, but no one will show up to hear it until you’re gone. So, obviously I’m brilliant.

Okay, here it is. I’ve up and moved. Again. Peeps, please. I’m begging you. Delete me from your Reader and cross me off your blogroll. Because even I know this is getting ridiculous.

For my own sanity, I’m choosing to Just. Not. Care. Because if I let myself care, I’ll dwell on it for days. I’ll worry that I’m the worst, most obnoxious blogger out there. And I’ll call myself all sorts of colorful names… and, frankly, it’s just not worth it.

I could go on and on about how some features of WordPress have been fun, yet I’m frustrated to death with others. Since I made the move, blogging has felt like a job and unless someone’s willing to pay me as much as Dooce, well, I ain’t havin’ it.

Here’s the good news. I went and bought my domain. Actually, I did this a while ago and just never set it up. I was working on it, but… long, boring story. At least this way, if I choose to move again or 800 more times (which, knowing me, is not so far-fetched), I’ll always be at the same place. Hallelujah, right?

So, that’s all I’m going to say on the subject. See? This is me. Not caring. (Insert mass of trembling nerves here.)

I hope you all have an awesome Fourth of July. Many of you are in a timezone in which it would be completely acceptable to have already started sipping that cool adult beverage. (Like us here in California. Eight-thirty is a totally reasonable time.)

www.chocolateandwhine.com

I got the strangest sense of déjà vu just now while adding these photos and I’d swear I already wrote (or possibly dreamed?) this entire post once upon a time. And not just the post, but the fudge as well. I’VE MADE THIS FUDGE BEFORE. Weird. How do you feel about déjà vu? Is it a psychic phenomenon? A dream remembered? A memory of past events?

I’d like to believe it’s psychic ability. I always thought it’d be fun to be a psychic. Well, for things like winning lottery numbers and avoiding traffic, naturally. None of that doom and gloom stuff, thank you very much.

Thinking about this has me wanting to ask all sorts of random questions, but they’re all rather morbid, so instead I ask you this: would you rather have one wish granted today or three wishes granted in 10 years? (And there’s NO WISHING FOR MORE WISHES.)

Oh, yeah. Fudge. DO NOT make this fudge if you don’t like rich, creamy, incredibly easy and delicious fudge. ‘Cause you’ll totally regret it. And then I’ll have to come over and eat it so that you won’t have to look at it for one more second (because I’m accommodating like that) and then I’ll cry ’cause I’m getting fatter everyday. No. Seriously. This is why I will make The Husband PROMISE to kick me out of bed when my alarm goes off at 6 a.m. tomorrow morning because I need to get my ass to the gym.

This fudge is amazing. The recipe is for peanut butter and chocolate, but you could use any flavor chip combo you want. Mint. White chocolate. Butterscotch? I’m not sure you could go wrong with any of them.

Ingredients
1 cup chocolate chips
1 cup peanut butter chips
1 7-ounce jar marshmallow cream
3/4 cup evaporated milk
1/4 cup butter
2 1/4 cups sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla

1. Put the chocolate chips and peanut butter chips in separate, heat-safe bowls.
2. Mix together the marshmallow, milk, butter and sugar over medium heat.
3. Bring mixture to a boil, stirring constantly.
4. Boil and stir for five minutes.
5. Remove from heat and stir in vanilla.
6. Pour half the mixture into each bowl of chips; stir until melted.
7. Pour melted chocolate into foil-lined 8 by 8 inch pan. Quickly pour the melted peanut butter chips over it.
8. Let cool on the counter.

Work quickly, but safely. And try to divide the marshmallow mixture as evenly as possible. I didn’t pour enough into my chocolate chips which made it very thick and hard to spread. I believe this is what caused the obvious separation between the two flavors. But it certainly didn’t detract from the taste and my enjoyment of it.

Did I mention I need to go to the gym?

The beer bottles? I used them as a background for the pictures. ‘Cause I’m creative and resourceful like that. And I felt the need to share that tidbit with you. You’re welcome.

I suppose, if I’m being completely honest, I’d miss this if we moved.

Not that we’re planning on moving anytime soon, but you know, the whole being able to hop on our bikes and ride down to the beach thing is a pretty strong reason to stay.

And where else would we be able to ride our bikes past rows of multi-million dollar houses and play which one should we buy today? ‘Cause, you know, we totally have the millions. We just can’t agree on the house. Yeah, that’s it. We’re just livin’ the dream.

The Husband led me down to the wedge. (Or is it The Wedge? With caps?) Okay, I had to Google. (How sad is that? I LIVE HERE.) Here’s the link in case you’re interested. There’s a video, too, and may I just say that those surfers are freaking nuts.

Actually, I thought The Wedge was a PLACE, but turns out it’s a wave. Not really sure how that works, ’cause aren’t all waves different? How do you go to a wave?

After seeing the video, I realize that these waves are really very tame, but the water was so beautiful. And the beach so peaceful, most people having chosen the more easily accessible areas. And by “easily accessible” I mean they wanted to be close to the bars. And I can’t say I blame them.

We were out on our bikes for five hours. Five. And here’s the big difference between The Husband and me. When we got home, the first thing I did was get in the shower and then immediately take a two-hour nap. Because FIVE HOURS.

The Husband’s first order of business was to go jump in the pool. And then go meet up with “the guys” to play a little poker. He was out all day. Nonstop. Like the energizer bunny. After my nap, I was a total zombie. Well, not enough of one to prevent me from picking up J for a quick frozen yogurt trip, but still. I was exhausted.

And why can’t I stop watching these birds? There’s just something about them, the way they advance and retreat in their endless effort to find food. Or maybe that’s just what they want us to think. Maybe they really are just dipping their toes in and running away again when they realize how freaking cold it is. Like children. (Or my husband.)

Ignore the prime real estate up top, the disproportionately sized nose, the crazy left eye that’s always larger than its counterpart, my ridiculously pale complexion (you’d think I was dead or something), and the pointy chin.

Notice anything different?

Okay, I’ll tell you. My face… is HAIRLESS.

This is not an easy thing for me to talk about. For ten years (TEN!) I’ve gone through great pains to keep this problem hidden. But, in the last week, I’ve started noticing the improvement I was afraid I might never see. Not because I didn’t think the treatments would work, but because I was warned at my first appointment that even though I was a “good candidate,” the cause could be hormonal and something that wouldn’t be affected by laser hair removal.

I know what you’re thinking. That’s it? Laser hair removal? THAT WAS THE BIG SECRET?

And to that I say, YOU SO DON’T UNDERSTAND.

This was not a few random stray hairs that some women complain about. This was thick, dark mutant hair that grew across my lip, chin, and randomly across my cheeks and down my neck. And the monsters would grow back nearly as fast as I could destroy them.

I spent a solid forty minutes each morning plucking and trimming, too afraid to ever try shaving (God forbid it make the situation worse) and too nervous and embarrassed to try waxing.

Forty minutes. Do you know how much time that is? Do you know how much time I’ve wasted on this over the last ten years?! (And, in case you’re interested, that’s 2,433 hours or 101 WHOLE DAYS lost forever.)

I’ve wanted to get laser hair removal for as long as I can remember. But, again, I’m a procrastinator. An excuse-maker. A fucking lazy-ass. What finally lit the fire? Several weeks ago, I had this thought. What if I’m in a car accident? What if I’m hospitalized for days or weeks or months? What if I’m in a coma and I wake up to find I’ve grown a full BEARD?!

I’d be horrified. I’d have to move to a new state. No, a new COUNTRY. Because even though I knew I wasn‘t fooling anyone, I’d convinced myself that I kept said problem a secret. I’d leave the house each day and tell myself it wasn’t THAT BAD, no one could really tell, no one was really looking close enough.

No, I wasn’t hiding it. Most people are just too polite to say anything. It’s only children that feel totally comfortable saying, “Hey, you have a moustache!” Because kids don’t hear that painfully embarrassed screaming inside your head. They can’t sense your desperation to bury your head, no, your ENTIRE BEING, in the ground you stand upon.

WHY DID I WAIT SO LONG TO DO ANYTHING?!

My aesthetician is a wonderful women named Suzanne. She is sweet and kind and reassuring and when my eyes began to water during the last treatment, she thought I was crying and almost cried herself. I love her and may have to name my first born after her. Boy or girl. I’m not even kidding.

At my first appointment, she told me I’d have to stop tweezing and start shaving. Because hair grows in cycles. And the follicle has to be actively growing hair in order for the laser to work. Hearing her say this nearly sent me into a panic attack. I didn’t want to shave. I was horrified that I’d walk around with a five o’clock shadow on my face. Damn it, I’M NOT A MAN.

Turns out, it really wasn’t that bad (oh, except for the humiliated and feeling very unfeminine part). At least, it wasn’t that bad after the first few awkward days, during which you could have heard me curse and mutter “this so isn’t fair” quite often.

The treatments themselves are painful. The laser feels like hot rubber bands slapping against your skin. Thankfully, it only lasts a few minutes. I have three more treatments to go, if necessary. And I’ve seen such amazing results since the last treatment that I wouldn’t be surprised if I only needed one more.

Three treatments to finally rid myself of this agonizing problem. That’s a total of forty-five minutes. Spending forty-five minutes in painful laser hair removal over the course of three months has freed me from spending forty minutes EVERY DAY plucking hair OUT OF MY FACE.

I have felt such an abundance of relief over the last few days, it’s almost overwhelming and difficult to describe. It’s truly an amazing feeling knowing that I can wake up and face my husband each morning without worrying what I look like (well, except for my monstrous hair).

I can travel ANYWHERE and not worry about how I’ll “get ready” each morning or how much time will be wasted while we could be out and about.

I don’t have to worry about what someone might feel if they touch my face. (Not that I really want anyone touching my face, but damn it, THEY CAN IF THEY WANT TO. God knows I’ve spent quite a bit of time feeling it myself and reveling in it’s new soft, smooth texture.)

I’ll never again have to listen to The Husband nag me about how long it takes for me to get ready to go anywhere. Because now? It’s only takes me FIVE FREAKING MINUTES. I’m not even exaggerating.

And I won’t even have to worry about being in car accident. (Well… except for the obvious reasons.)

This… this is the most reassured and confident I have felt in a long, long time. Ten years, to be exact.

One of my favorite people tagged me with an Honest Scrap award. I think blog awards are really sweet and fun. I think they connect virtual strangers in a very unique way. It’s one of the things I really love about blogging.

However, I personally don’t often participate because one, I don’t like to leave people out, and two, once I feel at all forced to do something, I go running in the opposite direction. But I like the idea behind this one. I mean, I could talk about myself all day long. And it was fun to come up with things that I haven’t yet shared with you. So, here you go. You’re welcome.

One.
I smile and say hello to coworkers when I pass them in the hallway. (I’m polite like that.) (And I find it INCREDIBLY FUCKING RUDE when others don’t do the same.) But I find myself still smiling for a long time after I’ve moved on. I have to actually tell myself to stop. And it’s not like I was all that happy to see them. No, my thoughts have completely moved on to another subject, yet I’m still smiling like a fool. By myself. What’s awesome is when I look up with a shit-eating grin on my face to find someone staring at me.

Two.
I am constantly imagining how conversations will go. I think about what I’ll say and how I’ll say it. And I move my lips along with the conversation. I’m not even kidding. (And, no, I don’t do this while reading.) So, yeah, I basically walk around like I’m talking to myself.

Three.
I talk and think about vomiting a lot. I really don’t understand it. Whenever I eat something new, I think will this make me throw up? When The Husband hugs me, I always pretend to vomit on him if he squeezes too hard.

Once, at the grocery store, I said, “I think I’m gonna RALPH!” and then The Husband said, “Who’s Ralph?” This made me laugh. Later, while still at the store, I said, “I think I’m gonna HURL!” And before he could respond, I yelled, “Who’s HURL!?” This made me laugh uncontrollably. (I have a lacking sense of humor, but I make myself laugh constantly. The Husband says it’s not funny if you laugh at your own jokes. I know, secretly, he finds me hysterical.)

Four.
I only read romance novels. I know I’ve already told you how much I enjoy them, but in all seriousness, I ONLY READ ROMANCE NOVELS. I try reading others. Actually, I have knocked back a couple of Sidney Sheldon books (I love love loved If Tomorrow Comes and Best Laid Plans) and I’ve even read Skinny Dip by Carl Hiassen which I thoroughly enjoyed, but these days I don’t even bother looking at other genres.

I’m sure many people would say I’m missing out, but they entertain me and make me happy. Even as a teenager, I read books by Richie Tankersley Cusick and Christopher Pike because there was always that little spark of innocent romance between the two main characters that’d make me sigh and my young, inexperienced heart go pitter-pat. I am a total sucker for a love story.

Five.
I check the locks in our apartment multiple times each night. I’m not sure if this is due to an undiagnosed case of OCD or if it’s just a lingering habit from my childhood, but I can’t seem to help myself. When I was a teenager, I was always the last to go to bed. My step-dad would say goodnight and ask me to lock up. But, even then, I’d check the locks, like, three or four times.

Once while my younger brother lived with us in Monterey, he came home and left the front door open. And I mean OPEN. I had heard him come in and, even though I tried to reassure myself he was responsible and locked the door, I couldn’t get the nagging suspicion out of my head. Finally, unable to sleep, I went downstairs just to check and found the door wide open and our old, fat cat wandering around outside.

Six
I find it impossible to use random numbers while editing pictures in Photoshop. They MUST be multiples of 5. For example: if I’m adjusting the brightness, the level has to be set to 5, 10, 15, 20, etc. Not 12. Not 18. Not 27. If I’m adjusting the exposure, the level has to be set to 25, 50, 75, etc. Sometimes while in the Raw editor, I’ll click on “auto” to see what settings Photoshop chooses. If I like them (which I rarely do) I’ll keep them, but not before adjusting the values to the nearest multiple of 5. (Because God forbid my recovery slider be set to something crazy like 17.)

Seven
I went to three different high schools within my freshman and sophomore years. As soon as I turned 16, I took the California High School Proficiency Exam and received my diploma equivalent. I then took two very light semesters at a junior college and haven’t been back since. Now, ten years later, I am preparing to register for a couple of classes come Fall and I’m terrified and excited all at the same time. I could care less about a degree. I just want to learn.

That’s all.

A few days ago, I was on the phone with my older sister and she sent me packing on a guilt trip that only a mother can accomplish.

She said, “Go bake something.”

To which I began screaming maniacally about my ever-expanding hips.

Then she said, “Every time you post pictures of something you’ve made, your nieces and nephews get a yummy treat. How can you deprive them?”

I called her a dirty word and hung up on her.

No, not really. But she wouldn’t let me change the subject. I had been wanting to make fudge (I had grand ideas about a swirling chocolate and peanut butter fudge), but I didn’t have all the ingredients I’d need and I wasn’t about to spend a small fortune at the store just so I could make fudge to take pictures of so my nieces and nephews could have a treat. I don’t care how cute they are. (They are pretty damn cute.)

She told me to bake something with whatever I had on hand. She said she had faith in me and then said “we’ll be waiting.” Bitch.

So, grumbling, I opened my pantry, found two bags of white chocolate chips I had forgotten about and started browsing for a recipe. Almost immediately, I stumbled upon this one. I had seen it before, had been interested before, and since I had everything I needed, I figured now was as good a time as any.

And they. Are. Were. Awesome.

I was concerned that the oat cups would be too salty. A whole teaspoon sounded extreme and when I tasted the dough, I thought, surely, it had to be a typo.

It wasn’t. But once the oat cups are filled with that sweet fudge, it totally cuts the saltiness. It’s a wonderful combination. And the cranberries? For those of you who don’t go for fruit in your desserts (you know who you are), you can hardly taste them. I’d say you could even omit them, but I think they add a little something that you wouldn’t want to take away.

They were seriously delicious. This girl?

Ate more than I can remember. (Like the nail polish?) I made the mistake of baking these after I got home from my last day of work before the weekend. Which means there was no one to pass them along to the next day. Which means they sat in my fridge all weekend. Which means I continued to eat them until, fed up, I finally threw the last remaining few in the garbage. IT HAD TO BE DONE. (Don’t judge me.) (Yes, I know that’s wasteful, but sometimes a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do… especially if she’s trying to lose, or at least maintain, her weight.) (I assure you, I don’t make it a habit.)

In case you couldn’t tell, the little fudge-filled oat cups really were delicious. Although, unless I can find a way to make these that doesn’t require the tedious work of molding cups and filling them, spoonful by spoonful, I’m not sure I’ll make them again.

Well, let’s not get hasty.

Oat cups:
1 cup butter, softened
1/3 cup brown sugar
3 cups oatmeal
1 cup flour
1 tsp salt
1 tsp cinnamon
1/3 cup dried cranberries, chopped fine

Filling:
(Note: I found that this recipe makes about 24 cups, which is perfect if you have a 24-cup mini muffin tin. I had a LOT of leftover fudge. Next time I will halve the filling recipe. But that’s just me. Please don’t yell at me if you decide to follow my lead and it turns out disastrous. Thank you.)
2 cups chopped white chocolate
1 can sweetened condensed milk
1 tsp vanilla extract

Directions:
Preheat oven to 350° and grease your mini muffin tin. (I used the spray stuff.)

Beat together the butter and brown sugar until creamy. Add the oatmeal, flour, salt, and cinnamon. Mix until combined. Add chopped cranberries and walnuts (optional) and mix until incorporated.

Drop dough by tablespoon into the prepared wells of your mini muffin tin. Using a tart press or the back of a teaspoons press down on the crust mixture until the crust is formed into a small well. (I used my fingers.) Bake for 5-6 minutes.

While crusts are baking make the fudge filling by heating the milk and chips over low heat until melted and smooth. Remove from heat and add vanilla extract.

Remove the partially baked crusts from oven (they should not be brown). If they’ve puffed up during baking, gently press them back down to form a well. (I used my fingers, burned them, and then used the back of my half-teaspoon.)

Fill each mini crust with fudge, being careful not to get any on the mini muffin tin or it will burn. Return to oven and bake for another 3-4 minutes. Remove from oven and allow to cool at room temperature. Chill for 20 minutes or until firm.

Using a sharp knife, gently pry the Fudge Cups out of the tin. They should pop out if you greased properly and the cups are firm.

(My sister… she told me to bake something. She didn’t say it had to be easy.)

The Husband and I walked to Starbucks the other day. My camera sat, neglected, on a chair beside the door and we both looked down at it as we slipped into our shoes.

“Do you want to bring your camera?” he asked.

I sighed. “No,” I said, “I don’t. I just don’t want to touch it today.”

“But what about your photo project?”

To which I cursed vehemently and declared, “I quit that stupid project! I just don’t want to take a picture every. single. day.”

And then I stormed out of the house never to be heard from again.

No, not really.

We left, sans camera, and began the walk down the long driveway that led out of our apartments.

Of course, as soon as we stepped outside the gate, The Husband froze.

“Honey, look.”

A family of ducks. Just walking waddling down the drive. And underneath the gate.

I think they were looking for the pool.

I love baby ducks. Well, I love anything mini. Especially those little mini bottles of booze. So cute!

In case you were wondering, I did sprint back to the apartment for my camera. Cursing the whole way. And I got a cramp, thank you very much.

This squirming bundle of cuteness was baptized on Sunday. The Husband was appointed Godfather which means I’ve had to endure my fair share of the all time worst Godfather impressions since then. Why do men do this? Is it programmed into their DNA?

There was, naturally, a party afterwards to celebrate. There’s nothing I like more than a loud party full of people I don’t know. (Please note the sarcasm.)

It’s not so much the party that bothers me (although The Husband is such a social butterfly that I often find myself standing somewhere, alone, wondering who to talk to now), but the arriving and departing that I find torturous.

I never know quite what to do upon greeting everyone. Are we going to hug? Shake hands? Swap spit? Grope each other? WHAT SHOULD I BE PREPARED FOR?

And the leaving… having to seek people out to say your goodbye’s and thank you’s and drive safely’s. More hugging. Someone save me.

The chit-chat in between, I don’t mind too much. Although, the camera has become quite the nuisance in that department. Now conversations revolve around what kind of camera is that? How many focal points does it have? Can I touch it? (I kid you not, this is a real conversation I had with another guest on Sunday.)

People, it’s a CAMERA. You have one, too. Mine’s just bigger.

There usually comes a point during most parties where I’ve had just the right amounts of time and tequila to find me feeling comfortable and, I’d even go so far as to say, having a good time. The conversation is easy and relaxed and those dreadful farewells are in the distant future…

Unfortunately, I didn’t quite get there on Sunday. I keep telling The Husband he should carry tequila and candy with him at all times, just in case, but he laughs like I’m telling a joke. (Now I know how Stewie feels.) (You know, because no one ever takes him seriously.) (You’d know this if you watched Family Guy.) (Please watch Family Guy.)

I hate that my actions, or lack thereof, caused my husband to get inappropriately involved with another woman. (I know I’m not responsible, but…)

I hate that, because of the choices he made, I’m now suspicious of every fucking move he makes.

I hate that I’m afraid to ever bring anything up for fear that he might get mad and twist my words and suddenly I’m the bad guy.

I hate that his subconscious mind is causing him to act out in a way I could never have expected.

I hate that, because of it, he’s embarrassed and doesn’t want to talk about it. (I’m his wife.)

I hate that, when confronted and questioned, his first reaction is to lie or avoid the truth.

I hate that our recent history gets rehashed every time we have a serious conversation about our relationship.

I hate that all of our serious relationship talks always include the phrase “if this works out…”

I hate that the thought “I wish he would just leave me” sometimes crosses my mind when I have to confront his frustration and impatience over pain he caused.

I hate feeling happy… and constantly worrying that he doesn’t feel the same.

Standing on your feet for eight hours is brutal.

Standing on your feet for more than one is brutal.

Okay, don’t be a baby.

My back aches. I’m getting old.

But not as old as my husband. Thank God.

Shit. Jon’s birthday is on Saturday.

I can’t believe he wants a cake instead of cake balls. I mean, bites. Cake bites.

Mmmm. Cake.

I haven’t baked anything in a long time.

I wish I didn’t feel so overwhelmed lately.

Didn’t I take this job so I wouldn’t be overwhelmed?

I wonder if I’ll be laid off.

I wonder if I’ll be fired for blogging.

I wish I was a better writer.

I wish I didn’t feel like I ran out of things to say as soon as I moved to WordPress.

I wish I was better at making people feel better.

I’m too sensitive.

I get it from my mother.

My mother, who acted as if I’d just kicked a puppy, when I said I didn’t enjoy sailing.

Actually, I didn’t even say I didn’t enjoy sailing.

But I suppose it was pretty obvious when I kept saying “maybe” and “we’ll see” when she asked if I’d go again.

I can’t believe she bought a boat.

I got seasick.

I didn’t think I was prone to seasickness.

I guess it only makes sense. I get carsick all the time.

But I’ve been on boats before and never felt sick.

Well, not sailboats.

Fuck, that thing bounced around a lot.

If I’m getting on a boat again, I’d rather it be on a lake.

I wonder if we’ll ever move to Minnesota.

We could buy a house in Minnesota.

God, we’ll never be able to afford a house in California.

And we’re about to go into so much debt getting Jon’s teeth fixed. Repaired. Replaced.

I need to make a dentist appointment.

And a counseling appointment.

I wish there were never any awkward moments.

Sometimes my life feels like one big awkward moment.

Like today, when I accidentally referred to my male boss as a “mom.” You stupid idiot.

Well, he kind of acts like a woman.

I will totally be fired for this.

As long as I’m making as much as Dooce when the time comes.

Oh wait. Ads. WordPress. Maybe not.

Why does it bother me so much that I’m no longer running BlogHer ads?

Who really flippin’ cares?

The money it would cost to be able to run ads on the blog would far outweigh that which I’d earn.

That’s just dumb.

Why is it so important to me to feel as if I belong?

I wish I didn’t like candy so much.

Seriously, I wish I didn’t.

Being able to cross ‘my weight’ off the list of things to worry about would be a tremendous relief.

I’m hungry.