Aunt Peaches

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Things I Want for My Birthday

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Woke up this morning to find a cicada buzzing around under my covers. In bed. With me. 
If you have never seen a cicada, understand that this is not a good thing. A Cicada is an insect somewhere between a horse fly and a cockroach, roughly the size of  a fat man’s thumb, aggressive and loud, somewhere between 15 – 20 years old. It is an ollllld ass bug. And it was in my bed. So I screamed, got the vaccum cleaner hose, sucked it down. Now it’s buzzing and thumbing around in the vacuum canister as I sit here writing this. Not gonna feel bad. Nope. Eff him. Let him rot for an hour. It’s my birthday, and monster bugs in the bed is a helluva way to wake up.
Mingo candles by Mod Cloth. 
Yup. My birthday is Sunday. I’ll be 35. Bill Murray will be 64.
Weird fact: Bill Murray and I were born on the same day in the very same hospital. I’m not sure what the makes us, but I’d be cool if he like wanted to show up and dance at my party. Just sayin’.
And while we are on the subject, and I am feeling put-upon and entitled by surving the Cicada Horror of 2014, here are some other things I want for my birthday:
1. Benedict Cumberbatch dressed as Mr. Darcy coming out of a lake in a wet shirt. Why is this not a cake topper? Who is going to make money off of this one?
2. A tour of the world’s finest cat cafes. An excellent place for a birthday party!
3. Whose flamingo bike is this and how do I get it? Pinterest is no help, they don’t ask these kinds of questions on Dateline, and I for one demand answers. 
4. The David Bowie exhibit is coming to Chicago’s Museum of Contemporary Art in four days. FOUR DAYS. I’ll start working on my eye makeup tomorrow.
So that is what I know about that. Now I’m off to release the hellion cicada from his dusty chamber, followed by a morning of epic thrifting in farmtown and some apple picking — my favorite birthday tradition. 
Happy weekend!




They Don’t Make Hallmark Cards Smutty Enough For You

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Dear America,

Hey Lady! How you livin?

I know, I know…It’s been a rough week for you. First your supreme court released The Kracken, then your soccer team flunked out of the World Cup (it was sweet how you thought that was going to go somewhere). The good news is it’s your birthday. HOLLA! Who else gets to mark their special day with hundreds of thousands of cookouts, millions of cans of domestic beer, and highly calculated explosions of gunpowder? That’s all you, America. Git it gurl!!!!

Last year I wrote you a letter asking you to be less slutty. I’m not really sure if you are there yet, especially since that Edward Snowden started releasing your snapchats, but I can tell you are working on it. And that’s cool. Because I’m working on me too.

We are in this one together.
And isn’t that what you want for your birthday? Togetherness.
This weekend all your peoples hanging out in their swimsuits, living it up, instagraming their hotdogs…yeah. That’s a pretty good way to celebrate. I know I’m not always your biggest cheerleader, and sometimes when I go in for a hug I slip potato chips down your buttcrack, but that is what friends are for. I take advantages, you take my taxes, and we give each other Hell. And I am confident we are both better for it.
So here is to you, Lady Liberty.
Potato chip hugs to you are yours on this day of independence!
Happy Birthday!

  Peaches

Happy Birthday, America

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Ammmmmmerrrrricccca!!!!!

Girl, you crazy bitch. How are you?! We haven’t seen each other in…what?…No…Has it been? Well you know me, I never miss a birthday. Happy birthday Girl!  How old are you again? …WHAT! Damn, you do not look your age at all. Two-hundred and thirty seven? Crap. That is olllllld. Is it the botox? It’s the botox.  Don’t give me that horsecrap about clean living – I’ve seen your emissions tests. Well fine, you don’t have to say, it’s your birthday. Be that way. I get it. When I turn 237 I’m not saying boo to a goose. You go Girl! You tell ’em how it’s done!

Any big plans for tonight? Yeah. I know that drill – warm watermelon and hot dog water. Yum-Not. Who wants that? Girl, you remember that one year when we snuck out for your birthday and went out to Applebee’s and got hammered on blue lemonade with maraschino cherries? AHHHHH!!! Yes!!! Oh man, that was a crazy night. We ate screaming eagle nachos until it gave us beer bellies and then you got up on the bar and sang Garth Brooks until they dragged you down, kicking and screaming. You were all, “You can’t stifle my freedom of speech! Don’t you mess with my civil rights! I will pound your butt, you haters!” and they were all “Calm your ass down, America. This isn’t the time.”

Good times. Good times.

Look, okay, I’m just going to say this. I know we haven’t been as close in recent years and I want to clear the air. You know how got ticked off I got when I found out you were wasting my tax dollars on stupid crap. I know, I know, you are using it to clean up stuff. I get that now. Thing is, look, I don’t judge you for having chronic yeast infections, I judge you for not seeking proper treatment in the first place. Because Girl, you know what Dr. Oz says? If we don’t each take care of our innards, it’ll start affecting our outards. Did I say that right? Outards? Okay, you get it. I am an Outard. Your well-being affects me, and I want you to take better care of yourself, okay?

Here is the thing, America. I know you know how to party but I want you to act a little less slutty. Why must you hit on every oligarchy with crude oil? It’s gross. You know they only want one thing. And here is another thing; I want you to start taking care of your kids at home before you take care of your dealer at Monsanto. I want you to quit watching Fox News and start reading a newspaper once in a while. I want you to quit stirring up fights when you go to out of town parties, okay? Because I didn’t want to have to tell you this America, but everybody is talking about it behind your back and I like you enough to say it to your face: Nobody like an imperialist, America. Nobody. That might have been cute in the 90’s but that won’t fly anymore.

You are so much better than this, America. You are amazing. You are the land of opportunity! Innovation! Industry! Diversity! Free Wi-Fi! You have so much going for you. You have given me so much and I love you for it. It just breaks my heart to see you this way. It’s like I want more for you than you want for yourself. Don’t be like this. Can’t we hang out again like old friends?

Girl, I really mean that. I really do. You have such a pretty face and you don’t even know it. Okay. That’s all I’m going to say. It’s your birthday and I don’t want to rag on you, you crazy bitch you. You are awesome and you deserve a fabulous birthday party. You can bet I’ll be there with flags and fireworks just like everyone else!

So here is to you, America. First blue lemonade is on me!

Peaches

Tacos for Everyone: Happy Birthday Lola

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It’s now been five years since Lola (formerly known as Lolabelle the Magnificent) arrived home from the shelter.  Five years of dancing in the rafters of catladyhood. Five years of waking at dawn to the sound of bathtub yodeling and the scampering of fury, ham hock legs running the length of the house, back and forth, back and forth. Five years of hugs. Five years of hats. Five years of Lola.


We celebrate this day of wonder with long naps, bad breath, and a hefty helping of Lola’s favorite treat – goldfish crackers.  Later on, Lola will snuzzle up on the warmth of a laptop keyboard and watch Mexican soap operas on Youtube, thus honoring her spicy Latina heritage and keeping her occupied while dinner preparations take place – a takeout feast from her favorite restaurant, Wholy Frijoles.

Tacos for everyone! Happy birthday Lola!

Confetti Cake Toppers

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Cold evenings in late February. Cottage pie with friends. King cake for an appetizer. Chocolate cake for dessert. Paper valentines on the walls. Mardi Gras beads on the door. Paper hats on our heads. There is so much to celebrate…

Cake Logic

I have a five minute rule about cake decorating. It goes like this: No spending more than five minutes on decorating a cake.

I really built the lead-up on that one, didn’t I?

See, I don’t think I, or anyone for that matter, will spend more than five minutes eating a slice of cake. And by that logic, that means I will spend less than five minutes appreciating a cake. And by that logic, why would I, or anyone else for that matter, spend a whole afternoon making something that will be consumed and destroyed in a speck of moments.

This is what I call cake logic.

This is why I like about cake toppers – they dress up any cake and you get a keepsake at the end of the night. And in this case, even if you toss the topper out, nobody has to feel bad about it because it did not cost any time or money to make. Huzzah much?

The idea for these cake toppers piggy backs on THIS tutorial for hot glue hearts I made for Elizabeth Banks’ blog last week. If you saw it already you can probably skip this post. If not, click here to check it out yourself.

You saw the first tutorial? Okay. Great. (Temporary Update Feb 2014: Sorry if that link does not work right now. Elizabethbanks.com transferred to a Tumblr site and the URL was never transferred. I’m told they will update it, but in the meantime, just read the rest of the post. I think you’ll get the crux of it. Thanks guys!) (Another update March 2014: click here to find it courtesy of the wayback machine)

Can you see where this is going?

Materials:

  • Parchment paper (buy a roll at the grocery store by the tin foil – NOT WAX PAPER)
  • Confetti shreds (click here for directions)
  • Hot glue and hot glue gun
  • Toothpicks

Let’s get this party started, shall we?

Lay your parchment paper on a flat surface and start drawing with the glue gun. Need a template? Use a pencil to write down any number or shapes first.

While the glue is still hot (read: work quickly) insert a toothpick in the base. Then go back over it with another round of glue and dump the whole thing with confetti. See any bald patches? Go back with more glue, more confetti. Lather, rinse, repeat. Assuming you already have some confetti ready to go, this will take you 90 seconds tops.

So that was easy. But why stop at numbers? How about letters? For you initials…or maybe a secret message?

Next birthday I’m going to spell out my whole name in confetti and cake. Who is with me?

 

The Rumspringa of Dessert

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I may or may not have spent my birthday dinner at a Medieval Times (“Dinner and Tournament!”) eating chicken legs with my fingers and wearing a paper crown that barely squeezed over my head. It was amazing. There were long-haired horses and sequined wizards and pina coladas served in glow-in-the-dark challices.

I may or may not have considered buying a commemorative place mat.

I may or may not have greedily reached directly into the path of a 10-year-old girl named Kaytlyn while attempting to grab a pink carnation mid-air shortly after it was thrown into the crowds by The Green Knight, who was, clearly, aiming that carnation in my direction. After all, it was my birthday. Okay it was her birthday too but I’m 23 years her senior which means I have 23 less years to catch pink carnations from guys on saddles. So don’t act like I didn’t have it coming, KAYTLYN.

Because it was my birthday (and if that isn’t a good excuse to eat crap, I don’t know what is) I decided to shelf any health-conscious food choices for a couple of days. Okay maybe it was four days. Ease up.

I had been looking forward to a scoop of fried ice cream from my favorite Mexican restaurant for months but it paled in comparison to the pastries and treats that paraded into my life this weekend. Using my new-found-carefree-33-year-old sense of abandonment, I happily drove a fork into each one of them.

It was Heaven. It was gluttonous. It was the rumspringa of dessert.

Sigh…

Now it’s Monday. The glow has worn off and all I want is an Alkaseltzer and a bucket of raw vegetables.

Hello salad bar.

*** For anyone (like me) who gets annoyed by people posting a excessive instagram photos of food (like me), you should read this sometime.

Happy Birthday to Us

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It’s true. Lola has major coffee breath.

And yes, it’s also true: I’m proud to say that this this little blog was born one year ago today. Hooray!

According to wikipedia, today’s July 1st birthday is shared with Pamela Anderson, Princess Diana and Canada. Note, if you ever want to feel like an uncouth fat kid, find a way to group yourself in with world’s most famous, beautiful, skinny blond chicks, and an entire nation of ridiculously nice people. 

At least my horoscope fairs better, You can experience bursts of creativity and energy that help you to further your goals. Healthy risk-taking is likely this year, as you are more able to spot an opportunity when you see one.

Sounds good. Lola and I are celebrating with fish fingers and The Liza Minelli of Cake. Who is in? 

And yes, I know what you are thinking: A cat with coffee breath AND fish fingers? Who can turn that down?

You’re so right. I better scoot before folks start beating down the door. 

But before I go, in case I never said it, thank you…

Thanks for reading, thanks for commenting, thanks for stopping by. Thanks for writing in and sharing. I started this thing as a simple way to record some thoughts and projects before I lost my mind and ran out of brain space…I never imagined it would bring me joy and introduce me to such wonderful people. The last year has brought so many new names and faces into my life, well, I feel like I know some of you already. I hope you feel like you know me too. The way I see it, this isn’t the anniversary of my blog, it was just the beginning of our conversation. 


So happy birthday to us!