Bated Breath?

Even though we haven't heard from you, most likely because it is a sensitive topic and you are embarrassed to ask, we know you're wondering about the aforementioned boob rash and sprained ankle. So, we'll tell you.

Boob Rash: there's a rash on a boob, perhaps from a spider. That's about it.

Sprained Ankle: it's big, and it hurts. That's about it.

The Discovery Channel called us yesterday for further details, but we're holding them off until we get an agent.

What you've really been waiting for, obviously, is the dramatic conclusion to all of the amazing scenarios we briefed you with yesterday. However, you will have to keep waiting because tonight, folks, we talk about cooking.

Lesson #1: they tell you to use rubber gloves when cutting jalapenos. You should listen to whoever "they" are. This is a fact that we know; however, one of us will be sitting with her hands in a bowl of cold milk in about ten minutes.

Lesson #2: while delicious, pomegranates are almost as huge a pain in the ass to cut as mangos. And while said recipe called for four pomegranates to equal two cups of seeds, we will be eating pomegranate seeds for the next week-and-a-half. Muffins, anyone? Fruit cocktail? Omelets?

Lesson #3: how the hell are you supposed to "finely chop" an orange? We are pretty sure that out of the two oranges we "finely chopped," only half of one actually made it into the salsa.

Lesson #4: double-check your shrimp, as "peeled and de-veined" might not actually mean "peeled and de-veined." Also make sure you have someone who is able to handle that part of meal preparation.

Lesson #5: if you are wanting to create a cheap and quick dinner in order to catch a conference call, a.) do not choose this expensive, time-consuming, labor-intensive recipe, and b.) check the date for the conference call.

Boob Rashes and Sprained Ankles

Well, the title pretty much says it all: why we haven't blogged for almost exactly three months. It's been fun, and you can thank us later for sparing you the details.

Remember how we talked not once but twice about our neighbors being careful who they elect for public office? Apparently they don't read this blog. We want to make you aware of a couple of facts:

1. One has to have a college degree to hold even a temporary, stand-in job in a certain business. However, one apparently does not have to have a college degree to exercise power in said business.

2. One can be selected to oversee decisions that impact others in our community despite being brought to court for his own irresponsibility.

Just sayin', readers: just sayin'.

In addition, to our civics lesson for the day, we decided to start our reentry into the blogging world with a few highlights from the last couple of months. Stay tuned for the stories in their entirety:

1. 2:15 a.m. (15 minutes after bar close): "I know you're leaving early in the morning for a 16-hour drive, but I'd like to give you a goodbye you'll remember. I only need 15 minutes." If by 15 you mean three, we think we're just going to keep sleeping.

2. 6:34 p.m. (after the world's longest first date): "If you ever try to mess with my family, you won't live to regret it! Also, you just missed out on the biggest **** you've ever seen!" Shucks.

3. 8:01 p.m. (shortly after our friend gets off the cruise ship in Miami, and four days after we dropped him off at the airport for said company vacation): "So, he totally hooked up with a 21-year-old from Dubuque." Shockingly, we haven't heard from him since.

4. 7:46 p.m. (on a first date): "I don't normally tell people this, but I'll tell you. I work at Adventureland." If only mouse ears were involved...

5. 9:15 p.m. (while hanging out with Thing One): Twinkle Toes says, "Maybe her friend wants to come over, too!" Um, doubt it.

6. 2:15 p.m. (while on a blind date): "..." We wish there were sound bytes, but alas, he did not say a word, so we proceeded to get blindingly drunk.

7. 2:34 a.m. (after being called twice and finally answering): "I am just so attracted to you. Like, I really like you. It's too bad we work together. Do you have friends with you?" Um, do you have any friends with you? Preferably friends who don't pretend to be single and whose cover is totally blown after seeing the car-seats.

8. 7:56 p.m. (during a dinner meeting for which the focus was our mutual work for a non-profit): capital "R" reason for moving to Iowa (and only other local volunteer for the non-profit organization) walks in with his new girlfriend: with jaw hitting the floor, nothing but a baffled stare. (Perhaps there isn't a sound byte to share because we contacted his other ex-girlfriend and unraveled six years of lies.)

9. 6:12 p.m. (on a first date): Why, Rocco, did you feel the unicycle was an appropriate mode of transportation for a 29-year-old? (Sadly, Rocco is not one of our made-up names and is, in fact, the only real name we've ever used on this blog.)

10. 3:34 a.m. (from a boy we met once): "Hey." Again, "hey" is not an appropriate way to start a conversation - especially at 3 a.m. - even more especially when we only met you once.

11. 10:20 p.m. (while we bloggers were on a long-distance call with each other and did not switch over to answer an incoming call): voicemail from Thing One: "I'm never f$%#ing coming over there again!" His anger lasted about 17 hours, as he bought us sushi the next night.

Stay tuned for the sequel! Hopefully it'll be more tomorrow than three months.

Still Broke & Single

We know we haven't blogged for awhile (sorry, Moms), but we experienced such a high level of douche-itude last night that requires an immediate response. After inhaling pounds of burritos and mini-donuts at the Latino Heritage Festival, trying to expand our cultural horizons, we visited a local drinking establishment. Immediately upon entering the bar at 3:00 in the afternoon, we were accosted by 25 loud, obnoxious members of the Des Moines chapter of Douchebags International. We just wanted to enjoy the beautiful weather of our "second Saturday," but this was not in the cards. Instead, this is what we tried so hard, unsuccessfully, to avoid:

• Men who refer to their wives as their "moms."
• Men who wear t-shirts with "Twat Yeah" on the back.
• Men who jump up and down singing every single word of Miley Cyrus's "Party in the USA."*
• Men who dance to Miley Cyrus's "Party in the USA."
• Men who repeatedly sexually harass the underage servers.
• Men who insist on wearing their cell phones on a belt clip.
• Men who lie about everything: their marital status, their children, their job, their age, their fiance's untimely death (sorry, dude - we don't believe you).
• Men who table hop, trying to find the girl who will most likely believe their crap stories, the girl most likely to not call them out, the girl most likely to bring them back to her college dorm room (remember, they have wives).
• Men who attempt to start fights for no apparent reason.
• Men who cheat at cards - and yes, this includes UNO.
• Men who ditch you immediately when your married friend arrives.

Now for the short update as to why we haven't posted for nearly a month:

• Kicking ass and taking names.

That's basically it. Included in this favorite activity of ours is the following:

• Trying to improve our health by eating better and working out. Shockingly, this does not include drinking copious amounts of alcohol and seeing just how much better we can cram into one meal.
• Starting school: teaching and learning. This whole work thing sure takes a lot of time and energy.
• Nerding it up every Tuesday night in Des Moines' premier trivia league.
• Hosting a Fantasy Football draft and talking a lot of trash.
• Not training for a 5k that we "ran" on Saturday.
• Prepping for the Wedding of the Century.
• Participating in a number of pants-off dance-offs.
• Hanging out at Des Moines' oldest cemetery.
• Joining every sports league Des Moines has to offer.
• Traveling to such amazing places as Knoxville and Melcher.
• Moving two apartments.
• Freaking out about money in general, and more specifically auto repairs on our two identical Corollas.
• Trying to find the one spot in the apartment that gets cell phone reception. And then apologizing to all our friends when the new phone resends every message from the last two weeks.

Basically, we've been trying to be semi-productive members of society. But we'll try to blog more. Sorry.

Dinner tonight utilized one of our recent purchases: a grill pan. We were so excited for this and deemed it necessary enough to spend a whopping $40 on it. (Remember, we're broke: that's a lot of money.) Upon cooking with said grill pan for the first time, we are perplexed as to how it's so different from a frying pan. Those fancy little marks sure are nice, though.

Flank steak with chermoula, sauteed squash and zucchini, red roasted potatoes.

*We were the ones who played this at the juke box, trying to empty the bar of d-bags. However, this turned into a pissing contest among different groups of gentlemen, seeing who could play the worst song. Unfortunately for the rest of us, this lasted two-and-a-half hours. Lesson learned.

B is for Booze

We have decided that we are going to take a hiatus from talking about our number one favorite topic (bitching about boys) and are instead going to talk about our number two favorite topic: booze. Generally, we enjoy booze because it makes us funnier, smarter, cuter, better dancers and singers, more outgoing and willing to take chances; clearly, it only strengthens our best features. While we are content drinking on our couches and with our friends, we also subscribe to the following notion: "The family that drinks together, stays together." Thus, we have enjoyed a variety of familial drinking experiences this summer.

Recently, one set of parents visited from Florida, and as we were discussing all of the social events here in Iowa, step-mommy-dearest interjected with, "Does everything here involve drinking in some way, shape, or form?" Um, yes. This was a surprising question, considering that we come by our drinking problems honestly; neither one complained when we pulled out the two bottles of wine we stowed in the picnic basket for our six-hour tour of the Bridges of Madison County. They are good sports and whole-heartedly embraced the drinking philosophy of Iowa: "There's Nothing To Do Here But Drink." In fact, they even attended our friends' half-birthday celebration, which included midnight tree climbing (unsafe), road flares as birthday candles (dangerous), tiki torches at one of the city's busiest intersections (illegal), sprinkler enemas in the sculpture garden (immature), and too many trips down the slip 'n slide (really fun).* Awkward moment: trying to introduce your father to your friends who had apparently decided to take a nap in the middle of the multi-million-dollar sculpture garden. Dad didn't care; after all, we had also been drinking all day.

Because we are such philanthropists - and huge fans of open bars - we joined a second set of parents in Omaha for a charity event in the not-so-distant past. 'Tinis & Tunes was a benefit for the Ribbon Foundation and took place in the parking lot of the hair salon, which was transformed into a beach oasis...sort of. Shockingly, we steered away from our typical drink of choice (wine) and went straight to the liquor bar, chugging down copious amounts of vodka and gin tonics. Yum. These drinks helped us be not only the first ones on the dance floor (remember, we are really good dancers after drinking), but we were the only ones on the dance floor. Did we care? Nope. After all, we were by far the youngest people there and were only doing our young-person duty: we got the party started. Did we embarrass ourselves? Quite possibly. Did we make Mama proud? Most definitely. And, we won door prizes.

Just two days ago, we further strengthened familial ties by bonding over alcohol at our sister's going-away party...which took place at none other than a frat house. In addition to all of the well-wishes for our sister, the evening's activities included a rousing game of Circle of Death, heckling the losers during Catchphrase (yes, pointing fingers and screaming, "YOU LOSE!" did happen), and investigating the source of the persisting vomit stench. Please do not think we were there cougar-ing it up, searching for fresh meat; but what girl doesn't jump at the opportunity to go to a party on Greek Street?!

Perpetuating drinking among family members, we invited Sister and Her Boyfriend over for dinner tonight and cooked a delicious meal of tilapia with a puttanesca relish over parmesan orzo. Oh, with wine, of course.** And Trivial Pursuit.

Tilapia with Puttanesca Relish and Parmesan Orzo

*Interestingly, this same party prompted the hostess the following day to ask, "Where were the grown-ups at this party?"
**If anyone would like to spring for a 28-day stay at a facility in Malibu, please email us.

Disclaimer: we may be drunk, but we ain't stupid: a designated driver accompanied us to each of these endeavors.

I'm Ready For My Close-Up, Mr. DeMille...

To begin, we would like to talk about a recent publicity stunt we somehow pulled off - or, in retrospect, completely failed. A few months after soliciting ourselves for the singles issue of the local newspaper (and our desperate pleas for more attention ignored), they contacted us for an article about being "single in the city." Of course, we jumped at this opportunity: we are shameless self-promoters and had been featured in this publication many times before. We spent endless time preparing: discussed potential questions, conferred with friends and family, read previous articles to see the format, fine-tuned our resumes, picked out the perfect outfit for the photo-shoot that was to be taken while we were at home and cooking, discussed with our stylist the best hair and make-up for photos, etc. We wanted to be presented as smart, sassy, career women; after all, we have multiple degrees, have traveled the world, and have ventured into careers that only the boldest take.

And this is what happened:

Phone Interview: one of us was stricken with a severe case of verbal diarrhea, and here are a few of the little turds that came floating out of our mouths:

• "I played an instrument in the high school orchestra and took a lot of art classes." Really? The violin 12 years ago? And in high school? I guess I've done nothing worthy of note since then... (Have you seen "Never Been Kissed"? Hey, Drew Barrymore is my celebrity doppelgänger.)
• "I pretty much hate this whole dating thing. I want to skip the dating stage and go straight to the relationship." Come and get me, boys!
• "The most romantic thing I've done is made scrapbooks for two of my boyfriends." Obviously that's every guy's dream. Those two guys are lucky I made theirs come true. So lucky, in fact, that they left the scrapbooks with me.
• Quote from best friend/co-blogger: "She chooses to see the good in people, which can be a bad thing sometimes when it comes to shady characters." Truer words were never spoken - have you read the blog?!

Photo Shoot: not the photo shoot we were expecting. Instead of coming to the apartment for a glamour shot of us cooking something absolutely gourmet, we were caught off guard drinking PBR tall-boys, the classiest of brews, in a downtown establishment. We tried to get them to use this picture...

And so we don't get sued...

...but all we heard was "copyright, blah blah blah, lawsuit, blah blah blah."

Clearly this was a huge success: the boys are breaking down the door.

He Sure Has Cojones!

Even though one of us is currently out of town getting paid for one of our all-time favorite activities*, we both felt that this story was just too good to keep from you any longer.

We recently got a call from Political Candidate. Had this been just a few months ago, this communication would not be such a shock; however, since we had not heard from him and since he neglected to respond to a few very important issues that occurred as a direct result of him, this call came completely out of the blue. While we contemplated letting him head straight to voicemail, we decided to take any opportunity to slash his machismo, figured that it had to be that good, and answered. This is the conversation:

Burned: Hello?

Political Candidate: Hi, Burned.

Burned: Hi, Political Candidate.

PC: Do you still have those GED books** that I left at your house awhile back?

Burned: Probably.***

PC: Well, do you think that if you find them we could make an arrangement for me to get those back?

Burned: Maybe.

PC: Okay. Well, if you could just let me know when you find them, I'd really appreciate it.

Burned: Goodbye.

Click.

(Please note how difficult - and liberating! - it is for us to assume a one-word-response persona. If you can't figure out through this venue, we like to talk. A lot. And we sure have a lot to say to this character!) So, after the two of us intelligent women discussed PC's obvious idiocy, we came up with a wonderful solution and called him back five minutes later:

PC: Hello?

Burned: Hi! So, I just found those books, and I'd be happy to give them to you...

PC: Oh, great!

Burned: ...as soon as you give me back the camera! (Spoken in a super peppy, sing-songy voice.)

PC: (Dumb silence.) What camera?

Burned: Oh, you know, the one I bought you for Christmas a week before you broke up with me.

PC: Oh, I don't have that anymore.

Burned: Totally fine! I'll take the money instead.

PC: Um...okay.

Burned: Okay, great! Talk to you later! Bye!

Click.

We must explain, dear readers: we are not spiteful, malicious, vindictive women. Instead, we are actually quite compassionate, kind, and caring. However, we make an exception with PC. This ignoramus accepted an expensive camera****, several other time-consuming and thoughtful gifts, and presents for his two children, all of which totaled a nice sum of money; in return, he gave us nothing but a break-up for Christmas. In essence, he stole from a poor, hardworking teacher - and feels no remorse. All of our benevolence is tossed to the side when dealing with a sociopath.

Because we are fairly certain we will not be receiving $200 from this fool, we generated a few alternative ideas:

1. Write informative messages and draw insightful pictures on every other page of the books and send one to his ex-wife (who we are certain is no longer an ex) and one to his boss.
2. Send the books with an informative letter to the community college to which the books belong.
3. Hand-deliver the books to his office and ask to speak with his boss, or stop by his ex(?)-wife's house and speak to her about the imbecile she married.
4. Hold on to them until the next political election he is daft enough to enter.
5. Keep them forever and ever.

And we are open to any other suggestions you may have! Please, please, please enlighten us!

Brown rice and pine nut tabbouleh

*Judging people - more on this when she returns

**His job entails him working with high school dropouts. (Please keep in mind that the only reason we are defending this is so that we don't look like idiots - if it helps you to envision him as a GED candidate himself, by all means, go for it!)

***They are currently on the floor next to the paper shredder, two feet from where we were sitting - along with two of his library books.

****This is in addition to the camera he most certainly stole from our parents. We only hope his current girlfriends and/or wives are enjoying this new technology.

Stalking: Justifiable and Natural

Apparently fellows like stalking and "will call it cute, whereas they are indifferent to those who ask for the pleasure of their company" (Ramirez, 2007). In case you don't want to look up Ramirez, 2007 (although please do note our APA format), this quote comes from our new favorite guidebook, The Art of Dating: Necking, Petting & Popularity: Wisdom from the 1940s. Given our latest set of shenanigans, we picked up this handy little tool to help us navigate the shark-infested waters of dating.

To start, we would like to inform you of the many ridiculous encounters we have had over the last two weeks:

• The elusive Man of Mystery - yes, the one who spent time in the Thai prison, the one who had a severe accident in the Amazon - was once again culled away to a remote part of the globe where he clearly had no means of communication (something dangerous and sexy, we're sure). He finally resurfaced around 11:30 on Friday night; eager to hear about his adventures, we (one of us) met him at a local watering hole. (We meet at these sketchy locations to avoid the Des Moines glitterati, hoping to conceal his identity - or, more likely, to avoid running into people we know). Should we have gone? Absolutely not. Did we? Duh.
• Thing One - although he may have blown us off for the last two months (and subsequently asked us if WE had grown up yet), we felt the need to take him out for an expensive birthday dinner of sushi and cocktails. As usual, this was decision-making at its best.
• Boy - after he totally avoided us for several weeks, we also felt the need to invite him over for a delicious, homemade three-course meal. Shockingly, he did not blow us off this time. Not shockingly, we have not heard from him since.
• C-Squared - you may think he is new to the blog, but this assumption would be incorrect: this is just the first time he has been named. He is actually the impetus for one of our moves to the Midwest and has a past of causing much turmoil. Although we had both agreed to divulge any new relationships to the other, we found him at OUR dog park with another bitch (whose dog, by the way, sucks).

To reiterate, we picked up this tome to rescue us from our dating misadventures and to help us fine everlasting love, happiness, and security. (Who are we kidding? We were just hoping it could help us get a second date.)

Although this is not a create-your-own adventure book, we skipped over chapter one (the title is "Should We Date?" and our answer is "Duh"). We charged head-first into chapter two, "Dates to Avoid." While we expected to see full summaries of our previous blog entries, we actually read some new information regarding

• Girl-made dates: in case you were wondering, "the girl who asks for a date places herself in a humiliating position." Guys, you should be honoring us with your presence, not vice versa. Now would be a great time to start asking us out.
• Blind dates: these are apparently not a good idea. We may be set up with undesirable characters (but hey, we'd have dates), and we might lose our good names by going out with these individuals (which is why we go to sketchy establishments where we just don't care). Interestingly, blind dates are so bad that "the person you have dated may persist in seeing you again." (Please, please, please inform us as to why this would be a negative.)
• Pick-ups: if you are acting cheap, you will be treated cheaply, and if you had self-respect, you wouldn't make "chance acquaintances." What other chance do we have to make acquaintances?!
• Mail order dates: supposedly making light of dating and not taking "fellowship" seriously is a bad thing and leads to taking matrimony as a joke as well. Perhaps we should halt the blog publication...

...or not. Dating is at least bearable if we can make a joke of it! And as Ramirez reports, "Certain legitimate dating methods may be used," and these will be covered in the next chapter. Get ready, readers, for us to test out all these amazing, 70-year old strategies; stay tuned.

Mmm... Bang Bang Shrimp.

Mussels Josephine, take two.

Daters' Block

Brace yourselves:

1. ONE teacher's guide (Broadway Books)
2. ONE collection of personal narratives (Random House)
3. ONE research study (in progress, DU)
4. ONE scholarly journal article (WPC)
5. ONE poetry anthology (something for youth poets)
6. ONE literary magazine (MSHS)

Not enough. We are striving for further national publication. And we would like to enlighten you, our loyal readers, as to our writing process:

Please notice that we offering you a glimpse into the minds of pure genius. (Okay, that may be pushing it, but please DO notice the two empty wine glasses - after polishing off a good three glasses each - and the scribbled notes in the back of a planner.)

Now, we would like to present you with a hypothetical* situation relating to the topic of our (hopefully published) essay.

Let's just say, for example, that one of us joined an athletic team. And in the midst of her whole-hearted athleticizing, she met Boy. Boy was unlike any other (or at least unlike the last few): he was single, he was Girl's age, he had a college degree, he had a solid source of income, he seemingly maintained only a singular residence, he had no children, and he had a clean bill of health.

So, Girl talks to Boy. Boy invites Girl to athletic party; Girl accepts invitation and spends many hours in engaging conversation, carefree laughter, and, of course, copious drinking. Note: Girl did NOT cook.**

Blah, blah, blah.

Fast forward to end-of-night: Boy kisses Girl; Girl gets butterflies in her tummy and feels like she is 14 again.

Guess what happens next...

Fast forward to now: Wha Wha.

The phone is silent. Popular-social-networking chatter has stopped. A cold, nuclear winter has descended upon the distance between Boy and Girl.

Switching to "I" (warning, rant about to happen): what did I do wrong? Am I too fat? Am I too sarcastic? Am I too smart? Are my boobs too big? (Ha ha - like that's even possible!) Am I too nice? Does he not want to mix athletics with relationship? Is he involved with someone else? Am I "just a teacher"? Am I too socially-minded and liberal? Is it my public-school education? Do I have too many degrees? WHY DOESN'T HE LIKE ME? What is wrong with me?!

Switching to "we" and to "more general" (warning, rant continuing): should we keep our mouths shut sometimes? (Okay, yes. We should.) Do we have to compromise our values and integrity and beliefs to get a date with a "professional"? Are we too opinionated? Do we go into way too much detail on our blog***? Do we need to lose a collective 50 pounds? Do we need to wear make-up to the gym? Should we be wearing stilettos to the grocery store? Should we return a degree or two? (Just kidding - we like being smart.) Are we too intimidating?

We're not passing judgment, and we're not placing blame: we are just straight-up confused.

*Please note this may have happened three hours ago...

**Had Girl cooked, outcome may have been vastly different.

***Not widely read - but thank you, Bitches and Ya-Ya's!

You Asked...We Answered

We have created an additional blog for two reasons:

1.) We are sick and tired of you whining about this blog not including recipes.

2.) We have approximately 32 index cards, receipts, cocktail napkins, and scraps of paper that hold our gourmet recipes and thought a different system might be better.

So, please view Burned: Recipes of the Broke 'n Single for all of our recipes. From here on out, they will be linked to our blog posts, but for now, consider it a work in progress. And stop whining.

Because we responded to your request, now respond to ours: please forward any names, numbers, email addresses, court records, custody arrangements, divorce settlements, or any other information that may make one of your acquaintances eligible in our eyes (keep in mind that "eligible" is a flexible term, although our deal breakers are job, car, independent living situation).

Happy cooking - and boyfriend finding!

The One Where We Talk About the Food

Seeing as we have been on family vacations for the last four weeks, our opportunities to meet eligible bachelors have been relatively limited. Long Island Tea fish bowl races with the 'rents, parties where we are relegated to the kids' table, and Renaissance Fairs with the relatives, albeit quite entertaining, don't exactly make for ideal conditions to prowl.

In keeping in the same vein, we decided to spend Monday evening doing quite the same: creating an anti-male environment by hosting a cleaning product party. This is similar to a Tupperware party, a jewelry party, or a naughty toy party, except these products clean toilets. Essentially, it is an excuse to get a group of friends together, eat good food, and drink a lot. As glamorous as that may sound, it's a horrible men-meeting arena.

While we could bore you to tears - or exploit the inherent humor in hosting a cleaning party - we are going to instead take this opportunity to actually talk about the food we prepared. Coincidentally and due to popular demand, we will now start linking our recipes to our blog. However, after multiple mojitos and two bottles of wine, this will not be happening tonight. In the meantime, though, you can find most of these recipes by typing key phrases into Google. Stay tuned.

Last night, somewhere in the middle of consuming an entire bottle of rum (intended to "test out" the mojito recipe for tonight- hey, practice makes perfect) followed by a bottle of cheap Chardonnay (intended for the party tonight), we decided our menu should be Cuban inspired due to our newfound love of rum and our new kitchen toy, the muddler.

And then we promptly nixed that idea and moved into the other hemisphere with an Asian-themed menu: spring rolls, edamame, peach salsa (yes, we realize this does not fit in anywhere, but one of us, for whatever reason, was really attached to this recipe), and crab rangoon pizza.

Look at these beautiful spring rolls, stuffed to the carelessly-sealed seams with tofu, rice noodles, avocado, carrots, cucumbers, green onions, and basil. We served these with a delicious spicy peanut sauce but were too lazy to take a picture of it.

We tried to mimic the edamame appetizer from one of our favorite restaurants (that we refuse to name until they decide to advertise on our page, which is highly unlikely until we solicit their sponsorship). Because there were no men at the party, we decided to spice things up a bit by liberally dousing the dish with some heat and enhancing our men repellant for a few days until we sweat out the ginger. We promise it tastes better than it looks - at least we assume that's the case...turns out neither of us tried it.

Clearly we are not food stylists or photographers by any stretch of the imagination since this looks like we poured salsa out of a jar or made a chunky tomato soup. However, this peach salsa delicacy required three ingredients (THREE, people!) and was quite challenging - there was, after all, a knife involved.

This evening's main course was another recipe that we shamelessly ripped off from another of our favorite restaurants: crab rangoon pizza. As if crab rangoon weren't unhealthy enough with the massive amounts of cream cheese and mayonnaise, we had to take the filling and spread it all over a piece of bread and douse it with mozzarella cheese and sweet chili sauce. This is the ultimate "I give up" recipe: why don't we just coat ourselves in Crisco and nominate ourselves as the targets in a greased-pig contest? We'd wave the white flag, but it's coated in lard and too heavy to hoist up the pole. Suey!

Excuses, Excuses

In lieu of no new potentials (and, in fact, because of the demise of previous possibilities), we have decided to turn our conversation to one of our favorite past-times, something that occupies most of our waking moments: making excuses for guys' ridiculous and completely unreasonable (and by most standards, completely inexcusable) behavior. Is it an exercise in creativity? Complete fiction? Or delusional tendencies?

On our part: all of the above.

For example, maybe he hasn't called us in the last six months because he is in a Thai prison. Or quarantined with H1N1 (or a hot, sexy, tropical disease). Or, and this one's for real, buying a house.

For example, he didn't tell us he had two children from two previous relationships because someone just made that up - he would've told us if that were the truth.

For example, his lack of communication skills are the result of growing up on the streets of East Los Angeles, and we are completely okay with this because former gang life is an endearing quality and one we seek out in potential mates.

For example, the fact that he has girlfriends in nearly every state of this country is reflective of him not feeling he has a home here, as he immigrated from Guatemala in eighth grade; he is just trying to find his identity as a new American.

For example, he does not really have a drinking problem, despite him passing out and drooling on himself in his running vehicle in our driveway and receiving two OWIs because he does go to work everyday and is very successful.

For example, he wears a Hooters waitress outfit because it's funny any day of the year, not just October 31st. Right? RIGHT?!

For example, it's okay to have two girlfriends of the same name in the same graduate program at the same school because hey, it cuts down on conversational confusion.

For example, you can do whatever you want to do because hey, you were in the Olympics.

For example, you can grab our boobs in public in front of our professional colleagues because we have the same values. (Um...those values are...oops: we need to reevaluate this one.)

For example, it's understandable that he has problems committing to one relationship because he has been armchair-diagnosed with Reactive Attachment Disorder as a result of his crappy childhood. (Keep in mind, this is not an official diagnosis: one of us may have - and use liberally - a copy of the DSM.)

For example, maybe he hasn't called us because he's been out of town. For the last six weekends.

For example, maybe he calls every night at 2 a.m. because we are so amazing, and he is too shy and needs some liquid courage to talk to us.

For example, his stunted social skills are a result of him growing up in a small, rural community; really, man-ginas aren't funny...to anyone...anywhere.

For example, after spending a weekend together, we are sure that their hasty departure had to do with them needing to be back in the office...stat.

For example, we are sure he didn't pick one of us up an hour late from the airport and drop us off three hours early while she was throwing up from the movie theater hot dog (apparently this qualified as a dinner date for the girl who flew from Iowa to California, the girl who paid for the plane ticket and the hotel room), because he had a rough childhood growing up and, again, grew up amidst gang-life in LA.

Interestingly, gang-life and crappy childhoods seem to be great excuses - we mean reasons...REASONS, people - for ridiculous (but oddly acceptable) behavior.

And now for the food that we turn to for comfort in times like these... In ode to our ethnic, alcoholic, maladjusted, gangsta ex-boyfriends...mojitos.

Popularity Contest

It's Raining Men! (Okay...Drizzling)

After cooking dinner tonight, we were unsure of what in the world we could write about: we haven't experienced any significant emotional trauma in the last three days (more so just annoyance, kind of like a splinter that is just underneath your skin), we had an enjoyable weekend, and nothing overly scandalous occurred...shockingly. Perhaps there was a lack of alcohol, good decision-making, a full moon - the reason is unclear, especially because, as usual, there was plenty of alcohol, potentially poor decision-making, and definitely a full moon.

Upon further reflection (okay, one more glass of wine), we realized we did, in fact, have plenty to explain for entertainment value.

• Wednesday night, 11:31 p.m.; Thursday morning, 12:13 a.m.; Friday morning, 12:33 a.m.; Friday morning, 12:43 a.m.: We receive two ignored phone calls, two ignored text messages, and are two super-annoyed girls who have learned their lesson and will not "come over and cook dinner" in the middle of the night.
• Saturday morning, 1:45 a.m.: One of us is called upon, as apparently we are not "girlfriend" material but rather "taxi service." This would be okay if we were getting something (i.e. gas money, people) out of it. Perhaps he should return to that Thai prison.
• Saturday morning, 10:45 a.m.: Piecing together the events of the night before, one of us exclaimed, "I did what?!"
• Saturday morning, 10:46 a.m.: One of us untagged herself from the other's Facebook photos.
• Saturday afternoon, 2:30 p.m.: One of us attends a World Cup party with a new guy and has a blast. (He has a real job, a real house, real friends, and no sign of a girlfriend/wife/significant other. Therefore, in fear of pulling one of our classic moves and messing it up before it even starts, we will refrain from further mentioning him in this venue. See? We're learning!)
• Sunday evening, 6:57 p.m.: Upon waiting for the arrival of the guy we swore we would not mention again, on a patio in downtown Des Moines, we were approached by Lance Eisenstädt (see previous post) who was entering the establishment for a solo dinner. Because we hadn't had enough awkward experiences with him in the last two weeks, we decided to invite him to join us. And had a lovely dinner.

While one of us is flying high on the wings of a potential something good, the other clearly needs to go back to the drawing board.

(Addendum to previous post about where to not meet men: the middle of one of the city's busiest roads while you are chasing your dog - who apparently did not want her picture in a rainbow lei broadcast over the Internet - who jumped out of the window of your moving vehicle.)

Dinner tonight: seared filet with mixed-herb gremolata, roasted seasoned asparagus, garlic naan, and a fresh berry cream tart. (Note: this will not be prepared when trying to impress a certain someone who will not be mentioned again in this blog, as it nearly burned down the entire apartment complex. However, it was very, very delicious.)

Is This Thing On?

As many of you may know (or more likely probably did not know or care), we were interviewed as dating experts last week by a live-streaming radio show. While one of us spent the day at work and in grad class like a responsible adult, the other polished off a few bottles of wine after earnestly promising her co-interviewee that she would stay for "only one drink."

Oops.

Because of our amazing culinary reputation, we naturally assumed there would be at least one question regarding our mad skillz in the kitchen, so this is what we focused on during our car ride downtown.

Wrong. Now we know not to prepare. For anything.

After stumbling into the studio with our neatly written index cards and red wine hives, our mouths dropped to the floor when we noticed our co-panelist, the only male in the room. Was it Brad Pitt? Barack Obama? No: closer to a cross between Lance Armstrong and Alfred Eisenstädt; this man could have been one of our blog subjects, had he agreed to more than one date with yours truly.

Thankfully, there was a technical error, and instead of talking to our international fan base, we entertained the five of us in the soundproof booth. Some of our favorite questions included

• What is your favorite pick-up line? (Um, "hello" usually works... Although, "I have a tab at the bar" is music to our ears.)
• Are your blogs for real? (Um, yes. Do you think we can make this up?)
• Where do you meet men? (Um, we don't. Have you read our blog?!)

This final question prompted us to reflect (for all of 30 seconds) on the best places to meet potentials. While that list for us is very limited, we could write a novel (or a blog) on where not to meet men. And so we share with you, dear readers, our lessons well-learned:

1. A radio interview about dating when you have already (unsuccessfully) dated the only male panelist.
2. The gynecologist office: clearly, they have baggage (or will in approximately nine months).
3. Friday night at home watching TLC marathons of "Toddlers in Tiaras" or anything involving a white dress.
4. North Dakota.
5. The recycling room at the grocery store. (This could work if we recycled cases of import beer rather than boxes of $2 wine.)
6. The Pride Parade. (Pretty sure Mr. Leather Iowa is not interested in us, regardless of how cute our dog looks in a rainbow lei.)
7. A sports bar at 9 a.m. in the morning.
8. Craft stores.
9. Parties with the smug-marrieds.
10. The produce department at the grocery store. (Thanks, Tracy.)
11. NRA meetings. (Thanks, Lance Eisenstädt.)
12. The premier of Eclipse. (We know it doesn't come out until June 30th, but we're just guessing.)
13. Church. (We could say this with more certainty if we actually attended.)
14. Planned Parenthood lunch-and-learns. (Yes, we are politically active. No, boys probably don't want to know about VD Investigators.)
15. The dog park without a dog.
16. Kleinfeld's in New York City.

After our dinner of coconut-crusted fish with a red curry sauce, Thai rice, and sugar snap peas, we are hitting the pavement to bring you more updates as to where to not meet men. Dedication, we tell you.

There Are A Lot of Stinky Fish in the Sea, Too

In light of our recent negative experiences, we have decided to cast a wider net in the dating pool, trolling uncharted waters to see what we could reel in. Before we set the hook, we have to reel them in to see if they measure up to our admittedly low standards. Sometimes there is a snag in the line, sometimes they don’t always make it to the boat, and sometimes, especially recently, they get so covered in oil that they can’t even swim. And notably, we now more thoroughly understand the necessity of catch-and-release.

Our first guppy was brought to us by a superior fisherwoman – the queen of the sea (and by that, we really mean our workplace). While he certainly measured up in certain ways (humor, open-mindedness, good punctuation), the spark just was not there. So…we baited the hook and cast again.

God bless technology because while the first gentleman was introduced via email, the second was acquainted through a long-distance phone conversation, in which we were trying to open a new checking account. After the requisite “how’s the weather up there?” (we suspect that people don’t really know where Iowa is and therefore use the weather to try and figure it out), we proceeded to have an hour-long conversation about sports, music, and travel. We were able to peruse his photos on a popular social networking site, and to our pleasant surprise, he was, in a word, HOT: hot like the sun that scorches the Texan land where he lives… Clearly, this has lots of potential.

Casting the net even further, we were able to track down a previous suitor – yes, the one we had ditched in favor of the crazies at the casino – using technology as well. After piecing together what little information we had about his first name, his profession, and his hair color, we – in a word – stalked and emailed him. (Disclaimer: if you establish a profile on a popular networking site, you are asking to be found.) We set up a date, and he walked right past: mistaking the brunette for the blonde in the profile picture, forcing the brunette to text him and him to awkwardly tell her that she should change the picture so that it is her alone and not false advertising. Not surprisingly, there was not a date number two.

Another fish that somehow got snagged in our net was caught at a mutual friend’s birthday party. After a few hours of talking and enjoying each other’s company, he proceeded to ditch the 26-year-old for the teenagers who had illegally entered the bar. We tried to explain to him that despite his position as a local rock star (status questionable), he was not nearly famous enough to pull that shit. Several weeks passed without hearing from Music Man, and then he surfaced out of nowhere. We attribute this resurfacing to his realization of the frailty of life due to the passing of his musical friend (who, surprisingly, actually was famous) and needing to connect to what’s really important, creating something substantial in this fleeting world. Turns out, though, that while he was quite interested in meeting up, it was only to sell – not give, SELL – us tickets to his upcoming gig. We (not-so) regretfully declined.

Thankfully, one of the men we met last summer had mysteriously reappeared from what we can only assume was an extended stay in a Thai prison or a severe accident in the Amazon. He must have undergone a lobotomy or attended a boyfriend-boot camp, as he is now calling sober at 8 p.m. as opposed to drunk and needing a ride (no pun intended) at last call. He agreed to meet for a drink after a disastrous dinner date with another suitor, and it was actually a pleasant experience. However, he has been promising a second date for the past two weeks, but fingers crossed, this is because he is becoming a grown-up and not backsliding into douche-baggery.

To get through the current environmental crisis and to effectively sift through the dregs of our nets, we realize we need a new strategy: we will sharpen our hooks, we will perfect our bait, and we will cast where the fish are biting – the sushi-grade fish, of course, not the bottom-feeding catfish. Des Moines, get ready for the Deadliest Catch.

And what better dinner tonight than beer-battered fish tacos with tomato/avocado salsa, brown rice, and a fresh fruit salad?

Shameless Plug

We forgot to mention that we are one step closer to world domination and are being interviewed on a local radio show this Tuesday evening at 9 p.m. Luckily for you, even though it is a local show, it is streamed live over the World Wide Web. Tune in to YP Live to see and hear us talk about being single in the city. We believe we are being advertised as "dating experts," which we at first took as a compliment but have more recently realized as perhaps not the most illustrious title: we simply have a lot of experience in the dating world because we suck so horribly at it. We either make poor choices in men, or, when lucky enough to make a good choice, generally blow it by doing something stupid.

Tune in tomorrow for an updated list of suitors, and tune in Tuesday to see just how drunk we can get between grad class and a live radio interview.

Ready to Rumble!

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Like most single ladies do, we spent our weekend on the prowl.

Yesterday, our first stop of our 12-hour summer kick-off event was a sports bar for the USA-England World Cup game. We entered the English pub with high hopes: we are athletically-minded girls who enjoy the nature of competition, we can talk somewhat intelligently about most sports, and thanks to years of training from our collective five brothers, we can drink most men under the table. However, when we arrived at said destination, the only room available was in a dark corner behind the bar-mounted video game. While we appreciated the patriotism of the giant foam finger and Mad Hatter Stars and Stripes, it would have been nice to see the game and potential date-ables (and for them to see us). Making the best of the situation, we ordered several pitchers of warm Bud Light (sorry, bartender: $10 pitchers of imported beer is not what we call a deal).

To celebrate the victory (the tie was a win in our books) and to foreshadow Germany's performance over Australia today, we headed downtown to a Biergarten where we proceeded to drink large quantities of warm German beer while listening to a raucous rendition of "London Bridge is Falling Down" by the Des Moines branch of Douchebags International. Unfortunately, the older women who were on "Crawl for the Cure" did not find the young gentlemen nearly as endearing as we did, and they were firmly escorted to the exit.

After our entertainment disappeared, we made it to our third stop in our attempts to drink around the world (no free t-shirt at the end of this journey): a classy Mexican restaurant. We parked ourselves in a primo location of the fabulous patio just prior to the Saturday night dinner rush, hoping to enjoy the beautiful summer air and watch the pretty people of the city schmooze over cocktails and guacamole. Alas, a relaxing evening was not in the cards for us: our two friends (a married couple, don't get excited) were spotted by three ridiculously inebriated acquaintances who unfortunately decided to join in (i.e. ruin) our night. After being peed on by a baby whose mother did not pack additional diapers, stepping on a pint glass that one of the acquaintances haphazardly threw on the cement patio, being called an "f-ing bitch" too many times to count, and apologizing profusely to every other patron on the patio, we finally had had enough: we were going to fight. Just kidding: we left.

Thank God for $5 Sangria.

Because our sense of decorum prevented us from lashing out on people who actually offended us, we decided to take our posse to another bar: to challenge a foursome of international visitors to a rousing game of shuffle-puck. After engaging in an intense battle of psychological warfare and utilizing all methods of intimidation, we made up for the World Cup tie and soundly trounced ass against Spain, Puerto Rico, and Peru. Go USA.

Our weekend did not end there, though. Not only are we interested in athletics, we are also very socially minded and wanted to show our support for everyone in our community by standing on the corner and waving a rainbow flag during the Pride Parade. Interestingly enough, one of our ex-boyfriends was proudly throwing Tootsie Rolls from one of the floats... (Did we mention ignoring red flags?)

Because this was probably not the best place to find a date (we apologize, Mr. Leather Iowa 2002 - we are as uninterested in you as you clearly are in us - can you hear the whip cracking?), we headed to yet another World Cup game, this time at a friend's house. We entered the basement party with a six-pack of beer and some Gatorade to replenish the electrolytes we were about to lose, and found ourselves in the company of two married couples. Again, not the best place for singles.

We topped off the entertaining - yet unsuccessful - weekend with a small dinner party for our sister and her boyfriend. (Once more, could we plan this any worse?) On the menu was spicy shrimp linguine, pan-friend okra, and steamed broccoli, followed by a cinnamon-sugar cheesecake topped with fresh red raspberries.

Recipes for Disaster

Many of you are probably wondering what brought us to this desolate intersection of broke ‘n single, what caused us to be wandering down this lonely highway of solitude, stepping over the broken bones of relationships past, constantly replaying mistakes made on the giant screen of the sky in front of us. (Apparently, our lives bear striking resemblance to Dali’s paintings.) After all, we have not always been broke ‘n single – okay, we’ve always been broke, but that doesn’t feel quite the same as when you’re broke and not single.

A Brief History – Very Brief (so little time…ours and yours)

Please allow us to “Benjamin Button” you back to where it first began…

Part One:

A pattern may have arisen based on previous entries, but I would like to clarify the men I have been associated with in the past: an Olympian, a Brazilian soccer player, a political candidate, a published author - all socially-minded, somewhat gainfully employed individuals. I have seen their resumes, and I would hire them. However, none should have been hired as “boyfriend.”

In discussing the latest in the string of failures, I would like to caution you as to where you throw your vote in the next local election. While at first he appeared to be a knight in shining armor, he turned out to be quite the frog among princes. Although he was waving red flags like I was in the last lap of a stockcar race, I ignored all of them:

• One ex-wife and their son
• One allegedly soon-to-be-ex-wife and their son and her son from a previous relationship
• No visible means of financial support for all three children
• Friends and family unaware of “pending divorce” (and his failure to produce paperwork)
• Questionable details regarding past
• Lack of communication and disappearance for days at a time (don’t be mistaken: it was somehow my fault)
• Ownership of a time machine that magically transported him 660 miles in a mere hour-and-a-half

Clearly, I should have been dating the baggage carousel at O’Hare International. The break-up was such a surprise that it took me nearly six weeks to figure out why I shouldn’t immediately get back together with him.

Part Two:

Heyyyyyyyy! While past involvements have been fairly unremarkable, one may wonder how I found myself in Iowa in the middle of January. Not only did I choose to travel from a tropical paradise to Tornado Alley*, I opted to do so during the biggest blizzard of the year. This was all for a boy – a boy who failed to tell me that he

• Had a girlfriend
• Of five years
• Enrolled in my graduate program
• Taking the same classes as me
• Whose best friend lived across the street from me

Interestingly, this would have been good information to have prior to moving 1,300 miles from home – for a boy about whom I apparently knew nothing. This mirrors a situation I found myself in six years ago when my live-in boyfriend came home from a business trip with a fiancé, who apparently knew nothing about his girlfriend of five years. P.S. Girlfriend (me) had moved almost 3,000 miles across the country to live with this douche-bag who salsa’ed very well. Oh, sweet irony.

We are about to go crazy-English on yo’ ass: how do we combine our obvious cynicism with the inherently humorous and ridiculous partners we have had? We searched high and low for Oedipal themes throughout our relationships but found none. Clearly we haven’t learned our lessons from these past adventures (have you read our blog?), and we likely won’t anytime in the near future. But don’t worry: the dating scene in Des Moines, Iowa, is alive and well. After all, we do have advanced degrees, are pretty funny (have you read our blog?), are semi-good-looking, and have wide-ranging interests – so, in effect, we're perfect. Thus, it can’t be that hard, right? Right? RIGHT?

*Don’t worry: my kit is prepared with a helmet, whistle, flashlight, water, and dog food.

Cha-Cha-Cha

Dear loyal and faithful readers,

We hope you are still with us after a week-and-a-half hiatus. We apologize, but life calls. While we prefer to be largely irresponsible most of the time, wine isn't free, and we had to take care of business. However, we are back - with a vengeance.

(Note: during this post and possibly both previous and future posts, we may have found a wrinkle in time [which, thanks to Madeleine L'Engle was one of our favorite books in the third grade]. At this time we would also like to pay homage to James Frey and apologize to Oprah.*)

Memorial Day weekend: a time to reflect upon the sacrifice of brave Americans who paid the ultimate price for our freedom. In order to commemorate the holiday, we decided to do the most American of all activities: cook a great dinner, take a wine walk, and trespass on private property. The dinner, as you'll see below, is a delicious rip-off of a prominent seafood chain's signature dish. The wine walk occurs regularly following long hours in the kitchen: pouring wine from our classy glasses into Solo cups to walk the forested streets of Des Moines' upper-crust neighborhoods. The trespassing occurred when one of us and our esteemed guest for the evening garnered some liquid courage and thought it wise to explore the private, secret gardens of one of the largest historical mansions in the state. The third, less daring partner, remembering an event that resulted in her being handcuffed at her high school, waited at the end of the mile-long driveway, on the other side of the road, in the dark, armed only with her Solo cup, saying for the first time ever, "I learned my lesson."

So Friday we did the most American of all activities (breaking and entering), and Saturday we celebrated the diversity of our country by dining at an upscale Mexican restaurant (and ordering the cheapest thing on the menu) and attending a Salsa party. While we arrived at the private club on the 34th floor early enough for dance lessons, we opted out: after all, we have watched enough Dancing with the Stars. However, when the dancing commenced, we realized that instead of watching the TV show, we should have ordered the Zumba videos and worn our sparkly, feather-trimmed gowns...leotards...bikinis. Alas, we hijacked an already-occupied table** in the darkest corner of the room and proceeded to make fun of every single attendee. (Girl with dress-size denial and the unfortunate haircut: we sincerely apologize to you.)

However, we did end the weekend with the reds, whites, and blues: there sure was a fun band at the winery!

*We collectively hold two degrees in English.

**Purse and shoes at a table does not signify "occupied" to us - especially if they "accidentally" fall off the table.

(Our dessert for the evening: Jamaican Coconut Pie, swimming - toward America - in an ocean of rum. It was most likely this, not the several bottles of wine, that made for a rough Sunday.)

All Bets Are Off!

We once again tried to remedy our broke status by jumping on the opportunity when Thing One and Twinkle Toes invited us to a casino. We got the request - no, DEMAND- for our presence when we were nerding it up (having a total blast) at Political Quizbowl 2010. (One of us has been continually referred to "and your friend," which we have concluded is a result of Twinkle Toes not remembering names...) Of course, we immediately bolted out of the bar to drive quite a distance to meet these two, leaving a seemingly nice, successful, eligible bachelor - who actually approached us - behind. Too easy, too easy. Makes too much sense. That would have been the right thing to do, but we're journalists now and make sketchy decisions in the pursuit of truth, justice, and the American Way (the American Way, of course, being fodder for a trashy reality TV show).

However, all was not lost: we were able to cobble together what little information we had about this kind young man, piecing his identity together through his place of employment and a popular social networking site, and sent him a message apologizing for our quick exit and suggesting a cocktail at a later date, despite him suspiciously drinking water out of a plastic cup at the bar. If this trend continues, this "relationship" is a no-go.

Where were we... Oh yes: another hot-spot off of I-35 in the middle of Iowa. When we arrived at our destination, our two gentleman callers needed assistance in retrieving their vehicles that were, by all accounts, a mere ten miles away. An hour later, we miraculously found the trucks and convinced one of them that driving was not such a great idea. Due to a few wrong turns and killing a small animal, the drive home took a while longer. One of us was able to atone for a lifetime of sins because she had no CDs and was forced to listen to the only radio station: a mix of Christian rock and sermons.

Approximately two hours after our initial arrival at the casino, we were ready for the fun to commence. When was this fun supposed to start exactly? Was it after the Dynamic Duo fed hundreds of dollars in the slot machines and won nothing? (Hmm...) After they repeatedly asked the desk clerk if she wanted stale popcorn they had bought at the gas station next door? (Bad idea?) Or was it after they marked their territory by peeing in the garbage cans in the hotel rooms? (Red flag!) Perhaps after one of them climbed naked into the bath tub in a hotel room that was not his? (Abort mission!) Maybe after the guys were asked to leave the casino because they appeared to be too intoxicated? (Danger! Danger!) All of this occurred in between drinking warm bottled beer (us) and spitting tobacco into empty bottles (them).

The following morning at breakfast, after trying to solve the oil leak in the Gulf, finding federal funds to alleviate the massive cuts in education, and putting a stop to the domestic terrorism that is plaguing Thailand, three of us choked down runny eggs, stale French toast, and egg rolls (oddly enough on the breakfast buffet) while Twinkle Toes specially ordered a tuna melt, which he then thought may have been a bad idea following a night of warm beer and chewing tobacco. After breakfast we were left standing in the lobby alone because Thing One announced, "I gotta poop" and jetted upstairs, and Twinkle Toes saluted, said, "See ya," and peeled out of the parking lot.

Ah-mazing.

After a long recovery period, we decided to get together to recollect the night's events: were our minds playing tricks on us? Did we make it all up? Was it all a dream? Surely all of that could not have happened! Alas, our stories matched; it was true. You can't make this stuff up! We soothed our troubled souls with a meal of comfort food: chicken marsala, brown-butter gnocchi, sauteed spinach, and, of course, garlic bread.

Wir Haben Velveeta Gern

We would like to first apologize to our Irish, Italian, English, and whatever other ethnic culinary traditions from which we hail for always defaulting to German food. It is easy, it is cheap, and we have "the pulse of German cooking" on speed dial.

Despite paying for an annual gym membership, we just recently started going regularly. (By "just recently started," we obviously mean "today.") Prior to our workout, we made an action plan and identified exactly what we would need for dinner tonight. Although, we left this at home and had to improvise. We did, however, know the basic ingredients and thus set off to our local grocery store to purchase said items. After opting for a cart over a basket due to sheer laziness, we piled a few pieces of produce in, only to realize that our favorite urban grocery store did not carry white asparagus. So, instead of doing the easy thing and selecting another side dish, we unpacked our cargo and set off to Option B. While we typically make it a policy not to travel outside of the Des Moines city limits*, our relentless pursuit for white asparagus caused us to cross the border - to West Des Moines. (Unlike Arizona, we look to the West for imminent threats to our social well-being.)

Because we worked out this evening, we decided to go for German Grandma's comfort food. This included a lot of eggs, flour, milk, and butter. Apparently half a block of Velveeta wasn't enough. (While we're on the topic, we have three questions for you, Velveeta: why is the large box cheaper than the small; why, oh why, are you not refrigerated; and when did you make an appearance as a staple in German cooking?) It is a good thing that one of our dads is a cardiologist: it looks like we'll be paying him a visit shortly.

Findings of the evening: white asparagus is not worth the gas money to travel outside of our radius. Next time, real asparagus, you win. Velveeta, you are way more delicious than we gave you credit for - our apologies.

*Along with our grocery shopping, we also confine our dating distance to the city limits. Sorry, Altoona: 14 miles of city traffic is just too far. If you're in West Des Moines, you might as well be in China.

How Do You Spell "Hor d'Oeuvres"

Our first catering gig went off without a hitch, other than the food being done an hour-and-a-half too late (we wouldn't want to break our tradition) and the two single girls of the bunch missing the season finales to "Say Yes to the Dress" and "Four Weddings" (shows that, interestingly, air when lonely single girls are home alone on Friday nights). However, we were able to catch marathons of VH1's newest hit show, "Undateable" all weekend. Although the show was aimed for men, we thought we might get tips on where we go wrong (or, things we do right):

• We do not own Hawaiian shirts - even for Hawaiian Shirt Day at work. However, we have fake flower leis and Mardi Gras beads galore.
• We throw out all items of clothing prior to unfortunate yellow sweat stains (and by "throw out" we mean "donate to Goodwill and let them throw out").
• We have been known to drop the occasional "BOOYAH!" but only to show potentials that we watch ESPN.
• We may or may not own nunchucks.
• We wouldn't mind honing our skills at Guitar Hero - but only to ace "Don't Stop Believin'" on expert. We definitely do not aspire to be in Rock Band.
• We do not own jean shorts, and we laugh at anyone who does. Also, we strictly adhere to the "one-piece-of-denim-at-a-time" rule.
• Since we are so passive-aggressive, we readily employ the rule "Do not ask out via text message" and, in fact, avoid "asking out" period.
• One of us may need to ditch her Ed Hardy gear to avoid being picked up by The Situation. (This may have been advised nine months ago, but hey, we live in Iowa and missed that memo.)
• Neither one of us drives a windowless van.
• We are not wimpy drinkers and are very okay with boxed wine - especially if it costs $2. And, we do know better than to order wine at a sporting event and instead opt for $6 tall-boys of Bud Lite.
• We do not wear bluetooth equipment but had a lot of fun with the headsets while working at Old Navy.
• The "no tank tops" rule does not apply to us because we're girls, and they make our boobs look big.
• We can't decode vanity plates despite two advanced degrees in English.
• Oh yeah: and we can cook - and host kick-ass parties to boot!

Both of us took the day off of work to prepare for the most recent party. Given the fact that we were intensely hungover, it is nothing short of a miracle that we accomplished what we did. Granted, our prep time took three hours longer than anticipated, likely due to a puke-stop in the Target bathroom and intense calculations as to just how much money was left in the bank account prior to spending a small fortune to feed eight people. We broke the labor down like this: one in charge of the three D's (decorations, desserts, and drinks), and one in charge of the rest of the food.

Unfortunately, we did not take a picture of the Jungle Juice contained in a small trash can or the playlist that included every cheesy graduation song ever written. If you would like, we could petition Guitar Hero to pick up Vitamin C's "Graduation: Friends Forever" or Natasha Bedingfield's "Unwritten." We are sure that after listening to those on repeat for five hours we have them memorized.

The homemade truffles were started in a drunken stupor the night before. After all, wine does go with chocolate. It is shocking that they turned out as well as they did, especially after forgetting them in the refrigerator until an hour before the guests showed up.

Clearly the most difficult dish of the night: hand-dipped chocolate-covered strawberries.

The third (and least successful because it did not involve chocolate) dessert of the evening: fruit salsa and homemade cinnamon-sugar chips. Those would have turned out better if we had an oven that didn't burn half of everything we put in it.

The ever-popular asparagus roll-ups made a reappearance - and obviously quickly disappeared, as this tray was full 30 seconds before the picture was taken.

We heard the barbecued shrimp was good but were too slow on the uptake to try any. Also, we should have soaked the skewers, as we almost burned the apartment complex to the ground. Good thing we disabled the smoke detectors prior to cooking.

We're not sure the Swiss chard and bacon dip should have turned out with such a vibrantly pink hue, but whatever we did wrong made it absolutely delicious. Thanks, Martha.

Perhaps the most popular dish of the evening, the parsnip-chorizo-Manchego "sandwiches" were made completely blindly: who has ever tried a parsnip?

Clearly, these were horrible, and everyone hated them. We topped endives with mandarin oranges, chevre, candied walnuts, and a balsamic glaze - and promptly devoured all of them.

This was a two-part hor d'oeuvre: antipasto skewers with a pesto dipping sauce.

Last but not least, we have a homemade guacamole with non-homemade tortilla chips. Apparently everything we served accompanied some sort of chip or skewer. (This also includes our centerpieces: photos attached to skewers stuck in sand - see to the upper-left of guacamole for proof.)

Due to three dinner parties within seven days, we have decided to take a break and just cook for ourselves. For at least a week. Or until someone asks.

We Surrendered the V Cards

Because it is Monday, we need to recap our weekend. At first, we thought there was nothing to discuss, as it was relatively low-key. However, upon clearer recollection (i.e. visiting a certain website), we discovered there are some items of interest. First, after our bash of a dinner party on Friday night, both of us retired to our separate homes for bed - we were far too tired for any further excitement. However, Thing Two thought differently and called one of us at approximately 3:52 a.m. Apparently he (or his alleged girlfriend) was not pleased with the non-answer and felt the need to retry on Saturday night; please stay-tuned to the ongoing drama of this soap opera.

Second, while enjoying a fine ale (whatever was cheapest on tap) at our favorite establishment (whatever is closest to our homes), we enjoyed a game of Shuffle-Puck with two fine gentlemen, henceforth known as Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dee's friend. (As far as we know, this is the last time you will hear about Tweedle Dee's friend.) A good time was had by all, but Tweedle Dee and friend did not ask for our numbers, undoubtedly because we kicked their butts. Note to self: to get a guy, let him win.

Third, at the same establishment, our favorite bartender (Tweedle Dum), who had the night off and was absolutely wasted, asked one of us for her phone number so that they could watch a World Cup game together this summer. Please note: the World Cup does not start for over a month, and one of us realized that is plenty of time to brush up on her international Futbol. (Hello Internet!) Upon realization that Tweedle Dum did not know our names without our credit cards in front of him, our entry in his phone read, "Hot Soccer Chick." (We may have utilized some creative license with that name...) Will he call? Doubtful. However, we do know where he works. And lives: with Tweedle Dee down the hall from one of us.

Aside from pulling out the Santa plates, we have run out of new options for our tablescape. We decided to jazz up tonight's entry with a beautiful iris that we picked out of our friend's backyard. (If we can pick the flower by pulling muscles while stretching over the fence that divides property line, it is legitimately ours...we mean, hers.)

To take a break from eating leftovers - thankfully the eggplant parmesan was delicious since we've been eating it for three days now - we made a beef stew; in addition, we felt we needed to eat as much meat as possible given our foray into the world of vegetarianism. Please note that the stew was an acceptable meal to cook in May only because it was 50 degrees at most and raining the entire day. We poured the stew over a bed of organic white rice and accompanied it with a side of roasted cherry tomatoes and asparagus...and iris.

(Take that, Sandra: we made this tablescape for FREE.)

Donner, Party of 9

Dinner Party #2 (the day after Dinner Party #1) started off less-than-ideal for several reasons:

1. We were absolutely exhausted due to a lack of REM (thanks, hangover-sleep).
2. We asked all of the couple friends we invited to bring a single friend; we had a dinner party with three couples and our sister.
3. We, for the second time in a row, attempted a completely new meal.
4. Half the eggplant we bought was rotten. This was discovered after researching how "brown" a normal eggplant should be. (Remember: overachievers. We Google everything.)
5. Eggplant takes three times as long to prepare as the recipe suggests - and five times longer than anything else in the entire world.
6. Ladyfingers are twice as difficult to work with as eggplant, making tiramisu a colossal waste of time.
7. Anchovies are gross.
8. We ran out of alcohol. Far too early.

Despite the "cons" of the dinner party, a fabulous time was had by all because, to quote Jill, Jill Zarin, we "run with a fabulous group of people." (The quotation must be read with an obnoxious Long Island accent. And by "obnoxious," we really mean "regional" and apologize to all of our Long Island followers.)

Because one of our nearest and dearest is a vegetarian (we promise not to hold this against her), we were not quite sure what to do. All our recipes involve some sort of meat, usually in large quantities, and the "v" is a dirty word. However, we searched high and low to steal a recipe from one of our favorite restaurants. Thus, "Broke 'n Single" eggplant parmesan over hot naked fettuccine, along with a side of homemade Caesar salad, was born. (We would like to ignore the disastrous tiramisu we spent too much time and money preparing and instead focus on the leftover Key Lime pie we actually ended up serving...)

Totals for the evening:

Bottles of wine: 10

Guests for the evening: 9

Cons: 8

Time spent making tiramisu: 2 hours

Time spent throwing tiramisu away: 2 minutes

Long Island followers: 0