Sugar, sugar, sugar, sugar, sugar, annnd – six cups of Rice Krispies.
Or, more specifically:
Momma Wienkers’ Scotcheroos!
1 cup sugar
1 cup Karo brand light corn syrup
1 cup peanut butter, JIF (Because it’s practically candy.)
1 cup Nestle semi-sweet real chocolate morsels
1 cup Nestle butterscotch morsels
6 cups Rice Krispies
In large saucepan, combine sugar and corn syrup; bring to just over a boil.
Remove from heat and stir in peanut butter.
Mix in Rice Krispies.
Press into a buttered 9×13 pan.
Melt chocolate and butterscotch morsels – not chips, morsels – in microwave.
Spread over mixture.
Chill in refrigerator until firm, usually about 15 minutes.
Finally, indulge wisely – or look like this:
Or, you know, lick your own clit, if you’re a girl. Either way, “toot your own horn” is a prim cliché made passé by the continued hypersexualization of today’s popular culture.
No one says toot. No one but my mother when referring to the passing of gas, because she deems “fart” too vulgar a word choice.
Regardless of whether or not your personal bar on obscenity matches hers or mine, however, the importance of taking pride in one’s self remains inarguable. Of course, there is a thin membrane between confidence and arrogance that is best caressed lightly. But if you are always down on yourself, no one else is going to want to go down on you.
In your worth and this notion.
And, uh, those of you capable of heeding my advice literally – Call me. I wanna see that.
“Why do people call it ‘day drinking’?” One of my two officemates asked, recently. “It just draws attention to the fact that you’re getting drunk during the day!”
“That’s the point,” I laughed. “It’s an indulgence.”
“I try not to start until noon,” the other chimed in. “Like the saying goes.”
“Actually, ‘It’s 5 o’clock somewhere,’ is the adage.” I corrected her. “But, psht – I’ll begin whenever. The only reason it may not be until noon is because I’m still passed out from the night before.”
Real rough, this 21st century 20-something American life o’ mine.
If I’m rarely so sloppy as to fall on my face, but occasionally (read: frequently as of late) blacked out enough that I don’t remember making out with people by the time I get around to bumping into them again – does that sound like I have a problem with alcohol or promiscuity?
I would never make her answer that.
Mother may know best, but in this case it is probably best that she knows less.