Late last week, I started writing a post titled "I Am Becoming The Honey Badger".
Because
honey badger don't care. Honey badger don't give a shit.
I had officially had enough with this
home selling business and no longer felt like being real estate's bitch. I realize that in most markets, having a home for sale for a month is totally no big, but for this market, it felt like it was
dragging. People in our building typically sell their homes in two to six days. We were getting steady traffic in our place - between two and five showings a day everyday - but no bites. As someone who works from home, I was starting to find it just a tad obnoxious having to keep the place uber tidy
and having to leave all the time to let people view our home privately. You know, so they could enjoy a quiet moment
to pee on our floors. Ah, YAH, IT HAPPENED. There is nothing like opening your doors to strangers to make one think less about the human race as a whole.
As you may recall, I was feeling so fed up that I even turned to
stupid no-good cupcakes and
Catholic superstitions that involved burying a plastic religious icon head-first in a pot of flowers. In other words, my mind was unraveling.
And then on Friday I finally turned to something
I liked:
my 1950s magazines and books. We always had fun with our
50s Housewife Experiments and our home felt so devoid of fun recently ... so I decided to honey badger it up and do some old school cooking and baking in my cute little dresses between showings. I didn't care if these concoctions ruined the depersonalized aesthetic of our home, because I just didn't give a fuck anymore. Not one crazy honey badger fuck.
My
Betty Crocker Picture Cook Book says:
Well, gee, that's all that was missing from people thinking of my condo as a home? Done! So I spotted a recipe for the ultra girly Pink Azalea cake:
... and added my own sweet touches to it. I'm not normally a "pink" kind of person, but this cake is simply adorable, especially once I housed it in a little glass cake dome:
Still on a wholesome kick, I made some strawberry pie:
I then came across an ad featuring the pre-Bob Barker host of
Price is Right, Bill Cullen, shilling for a tea company. Just me, or does he sort of remind you of
Matt Damon, if Matt Damon was completely drained of all sex appeal?:
And so, I made some home-brewed iced tea with lemon slices, baked some chicken breasts, prepped some corn on the cob and made some potato salad.
I was feeling really happy - finally able to get in the kitchen and DO stuff rather than delicately walk around my home afraid to disturb things. So, naturally, I took it too far: I decided to make The Crazy 50s Shit That Makes Me Laugh.
Remember
that green soup with dicks in it? Remember
the great names you came up for it? Well, I found the official recipe for it in my
Woman's Day July 1959 magazine:
Wanna know what it looks like in person?
No. Definitely not.
Too bad!
Not nearly as green. More, brown, really. Dick a la Sewage. Ah well, in the fridge you go! Just be grateful, soon-to-judge-my-home visitors, that I didn't just leave it on the stove top. Because I was tempted. Seriously, seriously tempted.
And the pièce de résistance in my cooking and baking spree? Want to take a guess?
If you'll recall,
the first "fancy" gelatin mold I tried to make did not turn out well. At all. It was a sloppy wet mess that exploded its contents all over the place - not unlike a teenager who has drank too many wine coolers in the woods behind her house. Certainly not speaking from personal experience there or anything. With this home situation being so out of our control, I decided that I was going to try to tackle something that had challenged me before, and I was going to succeed, dammit! I went for something layered and colourful with silly things inside.I was going balls out with this jello mold and if it splatted on the floor 30 minutes before our next showing, so be it.
Oh, what a thing of repulsive, fantastic, proud beauty:
That's lemon jello with lemons, orange jello with carrots and lime jello with celery. Sounds disgusting, but by golly, did it ever hold together well! I was one drink away from extending my arms and screaming out the window, "I'm the
James Cameron king of the world, motherfuckers!"
I gave the gelatin mold the "glory spot" in our fridge - right underneath the bulb. There would be no escaping it, should anyone viewing our home open the fridge. It was my crowing jewel in my collection of Food I Made Once I Stopped Caring About These Weirdos Coming Into My Home:
We then had people come in for a showing early that evening.
And on Saturday?
They gave us an offer.
Today the condition on that offer was removed,
so it's official. We've sold our damn condo!
Maybe it was
dear St. Joe (who is indeed also killing the flowers as I predicted). But maybe, just maybe, it was the jello mold. Both shall have places of honour in my new home.
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