Deep Thoughts…

For your Friday amusement, two dog food commercials to ponder:


If I go out and buy Nutrish, will someone have a scrumptious sammy waiting for me when I come home? Or should I just knock myself out with my All Clad skillet because the thought of designer dog food hurts so much?


I don’t even know what to make of this. All I know is I am intrigued by Chef Michael and the jeans that are floating around his kitchen, seemingly without a head. Purina has reeled me in on this one.

Last deep thought for the day:

Dear Sir at the Vera Wang display at Kohl’s:


You are trying on women’s sunglasses. Please unhand them and return them to their rightful spot. Besides, cat eyes do not look good on you.

They call me Mrs. Crankypants….

That’s right, call me Mrs. Crankypants.

Yesterday I woke up with a stomach bug. Or let’s just call it the ping-pong flu, because a giant, painful gas bubble travels up and down your colon, leading to numerous trips to the bathroom. Like 2am, 3am, 4am and 5am. When you finally get up, you realize morning coffee is even out of the question. And when you look at your forlorn refrigerator and cupboards after a long weekend, you quickly assess there is not a food group appropriate to cure what ails you.


I finally prop myself up in the shower, and drag my sweats on. I had planned a trip to my favorite market in a neighboring town.  But flu=cannot drive far and I decide to bite the bullet and go to a place I’ve shopped at 3 times. It’s called Market Basket. And every time I go there, I think how bad can it be???

As I round the corner to the produce aisle, I quickly remember the BASKET in the store logo stands for BASKET case.

There is a sea of stock boys, along with several hundred senior citizens. Canes, oxygen tanks, blue wigs litter the landscape. And now, with the advent of cell phones, people are juggling their medical devices with their cells. “What’s going on at Brooksby Village this morning Gladys?”

I try and maneuver the minefield. I cannot find cucumber, and cannot GET NEAR THE CUT UP FRUIT. (Insert bleeps and bad language). I quickly assemble potatoes, soup and other things that I think will bind my food groups together, and try to leave the crime scene. EXCEPT, the person in front of me is questioning her total. And to boot, she wants a store manager to load her groceries in the car. And of course, she will wait right there in the register 4 slot, because she doesn’t want to move the cart with any type of forward gravity or motion, lest she throw her entire body out, because her girth dictates she is really aligned to orbit Jupiter.

I staggered home and plopped the groceries on the counter. It’s not even remotely half of what I want or needed. I still have the ping pong flu today, but guess what folks – I have a 5lb bag of potatoes and I can work wonders with it. I DO NOT HAVE TO GO TO MARKET BASKET. EVER. AGAIN.

Mrs. Crankypants is going down for a nap now, and will hopefully be in better spirits later this week.

A day without food….. is like a really crappy day.

“It was that time” my doctor said. Time for the “you are that age” colonoscopy, the one I had been trying to tap dance out of for awhile. I had had the procedure many years ago, and I knew it wasn’t painful.  But what you have to do beforehand is a KILLER.

And this is what I had to eat yesterday:


Well, let’s not call this eating. It’s Hollywood version of a colonic the week before the Oscars.

I was not prepared for the fact every time I looked at a paper, accessed a computer, or flipped a TV channel that food would call out to me.

There as the weekly food section in the newspaper. Hmmmm, Swordfish wraps with mango salsa. Grilled flat-iron steak with red wine sauce. I quickly fling the paper across the room like it’s a reptile or rodent.

I pause during my lunch hour. OK, maybe that chicken bouillion will fool me into thinking I am having a savory treat. That would be a no on that.

While watching TV,  I remembered that the Food Network was not even in existence last time I had a colonscopy.  I started watching Alton Brown cut up a side of beef for Brazilian barbecue…. what the heck I am thinking?  Is having access to a 24 hour food channel while purging yourself with Miralax good?

And WHOOPS,  just forget about the food blogs out there and thinking a new summer salad sounds yummy.

Well, I managed to navigate the rest of the minefields of the day and receive a clean colonscopy, thank you very much.


And now, I must go raid the cupboards to find additional gratification. And could Paula Deen make me something with about 5 sticks of butter in it?

Good Shopping versus Bad Shopping

And you would think there is no such thing as bad shopping. Well, yes there is, when your spouse tells you he’s been wearing the same color combination for the last month or 2 and is sick of it. Oops, I didn’t notice.  Well, yes I did, but I didn’t feel like battling that monster called MACY’s.

Two things I dislike about Macy’s:

1. It bought out my beloved Filenes.

2. The stupid coupons in the paper never work. I mean, who can read the list of exclusions? In the end you might get a deal on a fabulous Charter Club blouse????


You always get to the register and they tell you they aren’t any good.  But maybe, they can give you that 20% if you sign a pact with Satan, where Satan is a department store credit card that you just don’t need or want.

In fact, when I finally chased down a sales clerk to ring this little number in, she told me “TODAY WOULD HAVE BEEN THE DAY THE COUPONS WORKED ON THIS. And by the way, don’t you want one in another color?


Well no, this one hip tunic will be fine for today, because I have incurred an injury carrying a metric ton of Docker’s around in this bag and need to ice my wrist down now:


As a treat on my way from from this outing, I stopped at Lowe’s Garden Center, and had an interesting discourse about the merits of Thai basil with a lovely woman. I also a nice chat with another woman hauling potting soil wearing Dolce & Gabbana kitten heels, and thought, now this my friends, is a great shopping experience.

Left Wing Condiments

Last week, the President took a road trip and ate at lunch Joe’s Hell Burger. (Hmm, sounds pretty darn good!)

Apparently, he had the audacity to get his burger with spicy mustard. Or dijon. Whatever Joe’s had back there. And he chowed down.

In the meantime, in a land called Fox News, there arose a furor. Is ordering a burger with spicy mustard un-American? Shouldn’t we be using good old American ketchup for our burgers??? Why yes, said Sean Hannity, calling our fine leader, “President Poupon”. (Guess what blockhead?? Gray Poupon is made by Kraft Foods, makers of the fine orange macaroni we all grew up on.)

And besides, we at Chez Meg and Leo eat our burgers equally unconventionally:


Leo usually goes for the Country Dijon. The others really go better on panini.

I go for these on my medium rare cheeseburger:


As you can see, I go for the spice. I used to love plain old ketchup as a kid, but guess what right-wing pundits? Our taste buds change when we get older, and we no longer crave high fructose corn syrup in our dipping sauces.

And will I be considered a Communist if these are discovered in my pantry?


So go forth people, and liberally pile whatever you like on your burger. It’s the American thing to do.

First Alert for Dummies

So Leo and I are working in the yard this past weekend. Planting herbs, admiring our handiwork. Suddenly, I hear voices coming from the house, along with a high pitched screeching noise.

I investigate, and apparently, our entire house was alive with the sound of smoke detectors, screaming: SMOKE! EVACUATE, EVACUATE!

Only, there was no smoke. Anywhere. We checked the whole house. I started pressing the buttons on the detectors I could reach, in a frantic attempt to stop the noise. And then, we just stood there. Leo was like, what shall we do? I said, well we can’t call 911, that is for an emergency. We are only mere idiots. So we look up the informational number of our local fire department, thinking they can give us advice.

EXCEPT, we can’t find it anywhere in the phone book. Nor, can I even read the phone book.


Leo, of better vision, finally finds the number. Note: it’s in a section of the phone book called “Government”  Bureaucracy. Well, that makes sense.

In the meantime, apparently neighbors far and wide have heard the sound, and smartly called 911. Mr Policeman WHOOPS down our driveway, and asks if we have a fire in progress.

No Sir, we are just stupid. He checks the house to be safe, declaring, WOW, nice house. We know.

He radios the Fire Chief, who buzzes over and shuts our alarms off. APPARENTLY, there is a head cheese alarm that tells the others what to do.  And he was super nice about it, telling us if we needed any help, don’t hesitate to call. Thank you Mr. Fire Chief, for explaining our alarm system to us, cause we sure were clueless.

That’s right, we are the FIRST ALERT for DUMMIES couple.

Now, I at least have posted the informational numbers for our local police and fire departments.


We have new batteries ready to swap out in all the detectors, too.detectors

Although I poke fun at ourselves here, always check your detector batteries and have important phone numbers handy.  Don’t be FIRST ALERT DUMMIES like we were!

Be safe.