Hot Mama’s Recipe for Hot and Heavy Homemade Shells and Cheese: Cook 2 cups of mini shell noodles. While they are boiling melt 2 T butter in a saucepan. Once melted, at 2 T flour. Stir til blended. Add ½ c milk, half a small block of Velveeta and a couple big handfuls of shredded Colby jack. Sneakily eat a quarter of the cheese mixture on crackers while the noodles are still boiling. Add a couple more handfuls of Colby jack to cover the evidence of your binge. Spray a pyrex with Pam, stir noodles and cheese mixture and pour in pyrex. Top with more cheese and some breadcrumbs. Bake at 350 degrees til bubbly, about a half hour…or until one of your kids yells, ’aw MAN, mom, I don’t like THAT mac n cheese, I want the real kind that’s in the box!!!”
Hot Papa loves homemade shells and cheese. As a matter of fact, he loves a lot of things that I do. He loves that our house is always clean when he gets home. He loves that I care for our kids every day. He loves that I do his laundry, make his coffee, and make sure that he always has manly personal hygiene products. He loves how I smell, the size of my boobs, and that we still find each other sexy after 6+ years of being together. He does not, however, love my inability to keep track of my things. As a matter of fact, it downright irritates the crap out of him. On any given day, you can pretty much guarantee that I have lost my phone, my glasses, the lid to the peanut butter, my left shoe, my right glove, my lighter, my hoodie, or any combination of these items. A typical afternoon conversation in the Hot household goes a little something like this:
Hot Papa: I tried to call you a little bit ago to see if you needed anything from the store…why didn’t you answer?
HM: Wellllllllll…I can’t seem to find my phone.
HP: Jesus, Hot Mama…what do you think you did with it?
HM: I don’t know, the last time I used it, I was outside talking on it.
HP: Well, did you look out there? And why the hell are you wearing my favorite Jack Daniels hoodie? Don’t you know that hoodie is sacred ?
HM: I was just about to go out to look for it, but I couldn’t find my hoodie or my shoes. So I am wearing yours cause I always know where your hoodies are.
HP: Do you know how much it annoys me when you wear my hoodies? A lot cause when I put them on after you, I look like I have boobs.
HM: Whatever…can you just call my phone again so I can see if I can hear it?
HM: How did my phone get in the pocket of this hoodie??!?!?
And so on and so on and so forth. In my defense, I have a lot to keep track of. Namely our two children. And, may I add, I do not intentionally lose my things and it’s not that I don’t care about my things…it’s just that they are things, and I am busy trying to keep tabs on humans. Hot Papa, however , always knows where his things are…isn’t he just so damn special? You can imagine my surprise when, the morning after my birthday celebration, as we were walking out the door to go pick the boys up from my moms, Hot Papa can’t find the keys. So I ask him the same thing he always asks me…’where did you put them?’ And he gives me the same answer that I usually give him which is ’well, if I knew that, then I wouldn’t be in this predicament, now would I?’ We search high and low for those damn keys…looked in the usual and unusual places. I went through my purse 50 times. Checked behind the radiator. I even looked in the fridge because, as cliché as it may sound, I actually did put my keys in the fridge once. We searched for an hour, high and low, and Hot Papa, who is usually pretty even keeled and laid back, was letting his frustration get the best of him. My mom was calling wanting to know when the hell we were going to be there to get our kids. I was standing around feeling pretty smug and saying things like “Retrace your steps.” and “Are you surrrrrrre they are not in your coat pocket?” Heh heh, karma is a bitch.
What happened next was a moment of pride that will forever live in my heart. I looked at our entertainment center and I see THE KEYS. Right there, sitting on the top shelf, in the same exact spot where Hot Papa always puts them. I picked them up…the jingle sounding like a sweet, sweet song, and I said, “I found them, honey. You know, you should really try and keep better track of your stuff.” Hot Papa was fuming and I was thinking this might be the highlight of my week…possibly even my year. (No wise cracks on how lame my life must be if THAT is the highlight of my year, please)
Fast forward to Christmas morning. Good old Saint Nick has a sense of humor…the elves must have been watching us during the lost key incident because in Hot Papa’s stocking was a Keyfinder. If you have never had the luxury of having a Key finder (and by luxury, I mean the ability to spend $5 in Target) then you do not know how a Keyfinder works. It works by whistling. You whistle, it beeps, and there you are. Keys are never lost . The downfall to this particular Keyfinder is that it beeps constantly. The dog barks, it beeps, the kids cry, it beeps, romantic interlude in the living room…you guessed it BEEP BEEP BEEP. The worst part was that the sound of my own voice seemed to set it off more then anything. This only gave Hot Papa ammunition to pick of me. The slightest inflection, or hint of excitement and that little f’er was beeping. Hot Papa, would say, “See SEEEEEEEE how you SOUNNNNND, Hot Mama? You are always yelling and you don’t even know it!”
The novelty wore off in about 2 days and Hot Papa and I had both had enough. We WANTED to lose our keys. We tried taking the Keyfinder off and putting it upstairs but my damn voice still carried enough to set it off. Hot Papa tried literally jumping up and down on it, but the Keyfinder prevailed. I stuck it outside on our back porch and this is where it remains to this day. Still beeping, always beeping . I was on the phone with Wormy the other day, standing outside and she says to me, “what is that god awful beeping sound?” That, dear Wormy is the sound of regret. Oh, and it is the sound of proof…proof that my voice is much more high pitched and annoying then I could have possibly imagined. Note to self: Learn sign language.