Easy Peasy Ice Cream Cake for the Lazy and Crazy Like Me

I know. That title is terrible. But this ice cream cake? SO. NOT. TERRIBLE.

Make your own ice cream cake using ice cream sandwiches, chocolate sauce, caramel and cool whip for an easy, delicious treat | Ice Cream Sandwich Cake

So last week, Brian sent me an animated gif with ice cream sandwiches becoming a cake. With Brian’s birthday this past Saturday, and the fact that he NEVER requests things like that…I knew I had to make this cake. Of course, there was no how to on the gif, so I made it up as I went.

Yesterday, we celebrated my brother-in-law’s birthday, Brian’s birthday and sort of my brother’s birthday (he’s 30 this year, so we’ve got another party for him next week). I got all the ingredients to make this sweet little cake and dropped them off at Mom’s.

After dinner, I pulled out the ingredients and quickly whipped this cake into shape. It was seriously the easiest thing ever. And the 15 minutes? Totally included picture taking.

15-Minute Ice Cream Cake (serves 6-8)

Ingredients

  • 9 ice cream sandwiches
  • chocolate syrup
  • caramel syrup
  • Cool Whip

Steps

  1. Lay 3 ice cream sandwiches next to each other
  2. Drizzle chocolate and caramel over the sandwiches (this keeps the layers all stuck together-I also considered using real frosting or fruit)
  3. Lay 3 ice cream sandwiches in the opposite direction
  4. Repeat steps 2 & 3
  5. Cover the entire cake with Cool Whip
  6. Decorate as much or as little as you like
  7. Slice lengthwise for ice cream cake joy

BOOM.

Also, don’t you dare judge my super awesome chocolate caramel heart on the top of the Cool Whip. I forgot to bring maraschino cherries.

You guys, this was seriously delicious. Everyone enjoyed it. It got a little messy near the end–definitely more difficult to cut than I thought it would be. Just make sure you slice all the way through the cookie layers, and you’ll be good to go.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Turning thirty-five scares me, but not as much as the cost of that dress!

Hi everyone!  It’s April from First Time Mom & Dad.  In case you do not know me, which I expect, I am a filterless southern belle turned filterless southern belle MOTHER with, SURPRISE – A parenting weblog.  Yes, I am one of the 4 Zillion mom bloggers on the Internet.  Trust me, if I knew there were that many moms already trying to peddle cute photos of their kids attached to advice and narcissistic stories, I would have considered a different genre… but whatevs… I’m a mom, I have a kid, and I love to write…

I am so stoked to be guest posting today for Chrissy! Besides the fact I love Chrissy long time, I love this weblog long time too!  So here goes…

I am fast approaching my 35th birthday with a ridiculous amount of apprehension.  It’s not so much turning 35, as it is turning 35 without a job, focus, style or sense of who the hell I am anymore.  I had my first child a year ago and am only now coming out of the haze that is post-partum mixed with becoming a mother.  Trust me, both will turn your life upside down then right side up so you can see the dysfunction and mess lying in front of you.

Now that the haze has lifted, I realize that I have actually been out of the social and fashion scene for two years now!  I got pregnant 8 days after my 33rd birthday and now here I am… turning 35 with a closet full of maternity clothes piled on top of my old pre-pregnancy clothes and not a damn thing fits me anymore. Yet, I still have this goal of showing up to my 35th birthday like a rock star!

This attempt at rock star status has been in full swing since New Years day.  I have created a mini goal for each month leading up to my birthday in May.  January’s goal was to create more “me” time… or to find the ME in MothEr. I did OK with that.  I go out on my own at least three to four times a week to shop, or unwind and managed to have a two lunches and a one girls night out a month.  Trust me that’s EPIC for me.

February was all about Dump the Frump. Throughout February I did my hair and makeup and dressed nicely regularly. I painted my nails (toes too!) and coordinated handbags.  I instantly began to feel renewed and sassy, even when everything around me looked winter grey and dismal.

March has been all about New Mommy Autonomy. I finally recognized that I no longer need the new mommy crutch. Even though my son is a year old now, I was still running around calling myself a ‘New Mother.’  Which clearly was not true, and imagine the look on the person’s face when they asked how old my ‘baby’ was.  My baby is a man-child now; there is nothing baby about him. I am a mother, but that is not my defining role and should not be the first thing I tell someone when we meet!

So, here I am on the cusp of April.  Closing in on my birthday… Shit!  The biggest transformation is still ahead of me, my new mid-thirties look and style. The goal for this month is, “All about April” – or ME!  This coming month I’m working on what image I want to portray.  Since I am no longer the 32-year-old ‘happy hour’ princess (nor can I wear those clothes), or the pregnant or post-partum frumpy chick (thank God I can no longer wear those clothes!), it’s time for a Mom to Fab makeover!

To find some inspiration for this final leg of my journey, I picked up my favorite magazine in the whole word… The Enquirer… KIDDING! Self Magazine. I LOVE LOVE LOVE that glossy print Goddess! It is a perfect mix of my favorite things; food, fashion, fun workouts and quick tip sheets that I love to use to make false promises.

As I was flipping through the pages of my old friend, I came across a dress I loved! Most times Self publishes cute clothes I can afford, like a summer maxi from HM that only cost $30. So, I look over to the side for the info on the ‘Shift’ dress and see that it’s by Moschino with a price tag of $2,995.  I honestly did a double take!  WHAT THE FUCK??? THREE THOUSAND DOLLARS!! For a long t-shirt? (Or as my husband called it, a bloody tea towel!) Really?  To add insult to injury, the bracelet the model was wearing cost $600. For fuck’s sake! Thankfully she wasn’t wearing any shoes, because I am certain I would have dropped a load in my pants had this tiny outfit crossed the $4000 mark.

photo 1photo 2

I’m sorry, ok not really, but I have to ask, Does the dress give a happy ending? Does it clean itself?  Does it make you look three sizes smaller?  Is it made from a cotton that is so hard to find an entire village has to be employed to collect it from the caves of Neverland? Why is this short Shift dress $2,995????  I know I have been out of the social and fashion scenes for a couple of years, but what the hell has happened that we are now expected to pay 3k for a mini-dress?

We are still in a recession right?  Don’t get me wrong, I understand fashion coming at a price. Pre-baby I would pay a couple of hundred for a great pair of denim jeans or a few hundred for well tailored business suit, but never for a summer garden dress! I like to think before my days of becoming a mother I would still think that was crazy.

I admit, now that I am a mother I live on a strict budget so the value of money has COMPLETELY changed to me.  I can no longer, consciously, drop more than $50 on a great pair of jeans, and really that number is closer to $35.  Still, my financial situation aside, I just cannot ever imagine a day will come where I will justify that kind of a purchase when the world is still in the shits.  A donation of half the cost of that dress would feed 10 villages for a month! And possibly medicate the villages as well.

This whole in-and-out makeover that I have been undergoing these past few months has taught me that not only has my outward appearance and lifestyle changed, but also my outlook on life and the world in general. I still do not know for sure what I want to be when I grow up, but what I do know is I better figure it out and fast, because I am growing up quickly now that I am a mid-thirties mother.  I have no doubt I will ring in my 35th birthday like a rock star, but I can guarantee you even if I get a miracle financial boost between now and my birthday, I will NOT be wearing a $3,000 dress with $600 bracelet stumbling around in a $800 pair of stilettos, that life is not mine, THANK G!

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Cheers to the Forest Fire

I promise I’m not really an asshole. I have a point.

(Hey Mom, let Dad read this one. Also, don’t cry. It’s awesome to have such great memories.)

So, Saturday was my dad’s 70th birthday.We were chatting about my blog, and he asked how he could read it. I explained it to him, though I’m not sure if he still understands. He’s really cute when he says, “Quirky Chrissy.” One day I’m going to film it and put it up here. But he asked if I ever wrote about the forest fire. I hadn’t, but I knew that I had to.

Mom shamelessly plugs my blog–I can tell she’s really proud that I am able to write about the crazy and make it sound adorable and endearing. I love that she does it though, because it spikes my readership. Moms are good like that… but she forgets to show my dad the tales I write…and he’s the opposite of tech savvy. His last technological achievement was playing Pacman on a table top machine. (Oh and the cell phone I made him get by bribing him with the Notre Dame Fight Song ring tone).  But he’s the best dad ever.

No one can believe that he’s 70. Especially not me. Back in my heavy drinkin’ days… Dad was one of my favorite drinking buddies. My first legal shot was with my parents. I used to hang out with dad at the family bar, doing shots of Jamo, showing off my mad skills that I learned in college (like how to open a beer bottle with my forearm), and reigning as Princess Flaherty, by my dad’s side.

My first legal shot

My first legal shot. Happy 21st birthday to ME. (Less than 2 hours later, I would have no idea which hand I wrote with, which was up, or that my skirt should be below my belly button…not above it.)

One of my earlier memories is of my estranged sister (obviously, before she was douchey and estranged), Deven, telling me that MGD was the best beer ever. I looked her square in the eye and said, “When I grow up, I’m going to drink Bud Light, like my daddy.”

And I did.

Of course, not for a while. My parents were pretty brilliant in the boozin’ world of raising kids. Nothing was ever “off limits” so to say… there was no mystery in alcohol. “Can I try?” was always met with a “sure, one sip.” This would typically be denied after a whiff of the beer, cognac, whiskey, wine, etc. in question.  But occasionally, my brother and I would go in for the kill and take a tiny swig, which we found revolting. Alcohol is definitely an acquired taste.

So we didn’t drink. We made it through high school relatively straight-laced. Friends of our parents called us the “stepford children,” because we weren’t drinking and driving, doing drugs, having sex, getting arrested, or any of the other crazy shit that many of their own children were doing… we were goodie two-shoes’. (I was terrified of my mother’s wrath…rightfully so, obviously. I was also afraid of getting caught and kicked off the cheerleading team. I fear reprimand. In life. Still.)

So, then I went off to college. And my dad bet me that I was going to come home and say, “Hey dad, pass me a fuckin’ beer.” He was always is always putting “fuckin” into my potential quotations. His biggest fear was always me meeting my future mother in law for dinner with this beauty: “Pass the fuckin’ potatoes,” which I would never say in front of Brian’s mom!

Not wanting to lose a bet…I made it a point to dislike beer. And find some nice older student to buy me liquor. As evident from previous posts about my college drinking habits…this was not a problem. For the first week, I called home every night. And every night Mom would ask, “Did you get drunk yet?” And every night I would say, “Nope, not yet.” Until one night on Geisert 8. And all hell broke loose.

So when my parents came out for parents weekend…and took me on a massive stock-up grocery trip at the Super Walmart…I was a little surprised, yet ridiculously excited when we walked down the booze aisle, and Daddy said to me, “What do you want?” I was like a kid in a candy store. It was the greatest thing ever. For a college freshman. I picked up a bottle of Smirnoff Raspberry and a bottle of Malibu. They were pretty much gone before my parents left for home that Sunday. I. Will. Never. Drink. Them. Again. Ever.

I came home that summer and not once did I ask Dad to pass me a beer. I still hated beer. I said, “Pass the fucking vodka.” And he laughed. The following summer, Dad and I shared many Bud Lights over long chats by our pool. One night we were talking about cheers and toasts. My dad looked at me, and said, “Christine, you come from a family that would drink to a forest fire.”

And so every once in a great while, Dad and I will drink to the forest fire. But only the ones that are done on purpose. We’re not monsters.

 

 

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

I Kissed a Girl

OK, so we all know that a pretty decent percentage of college girls eventually kiss someone of their own gender for one of three reasons.

1. They’re truly experimenting with the girl on girl thing.

2. They’re drunk.

3. They’re drunk AND looking for attention from dudes.

There may be other reasons, but those were the important ones.

So at some point during junior year, Claire and I decided that we hated men…after the Lumberjack and the Ethiopian respectively broke our hearts. Who needs ’em?! Right? We swore off men and decided to become lesbians. Except since neither of us is really into girls…and we still secretly wanted boyfriends, we became lesbian boyfriends (in name only.)

Do not discount the “in name only” part. We had a serious bond that could withstand the test of time. And marriage. And babies. (Yes, Claire still considers me her “lesbian boyfriend” despite her fancy house and husband and child and 3 dogs…although I still think one of those dogs should be mine…you know for balance. She could still have visitation rights…)

Rightfully so, this is mostly a giant joke. But on Penny’s 21st birthday (in which I was defo still under age, but using Mama Missy’s state ID for access to bars), The Lumberjack and the Ethiopian were both kinda hanging around…along with a lot of other handsome fellows.

Claire, Penny, Sheila, and I got shmammered that night. Penny kept shouting to the world in an adorable sing-song voice, “Who’s the birthday giiiiiiiiirl?! Penny’s the birthday girl!”

Near the end of the evening, Claire and I were explaining to our ex boyfriends the lesbian boyfriend relationship. They didn’t get it. “Wait, you don’t kiss? You should kiss.” And there in the back room of Gorman’s in front of a huge audience of drunks, Claire and I shared a ridiculously un-passionate kiss. It was then that I knew I would never. Ever. Be a lesbian. When you’re into dudes, kissing a girl is like kissing your hand (if your hand were to kiss back.) This is not to say that she wasn’t a good kisser–she was. Just you know…there was nothing there.

Of course the Ethiopian and the Lumberjack were significantly more impressed, as were a large portion of the male audience. Case in point: Girls kiss girls to rile up the boys.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Happy Birthday Julia Child!

Dear Julia Child,

I did not have the joy of knowing who or what you were until you were manifested in the visions of Julie Powell, courtesy of her blog turned book turned movie. I love the manifested version of you. I don’t actually know whether or not your love story was as beautiful as Julie Powell imagined it, but it doesn’t matter. Because I really enjoyed her movie about her Julia Child obsession.

Julie Powell is one of my heroes, and as you were one of hers, by proxy you become one of mine. I love to cook, so this is not such a far stretch. In fact, just last week, I assisted my roommate in a French feast for three, including endive in puff pastry, croque madames, a cheese platter, and a delightful salad. Of course, I mostly did the endive. Man, the French enjoy butter.

In honor of the Olympics, we cooked our way around the world. Julia Child style, we celebrated France with a feast coated in butter and surrounded by cheese.

Yes, the unseen part of that stick of butter is all in the food, along with at least another stick. And no, we didn’t die of clogged arteries. Yet.

I remember watching the Julie & Julia movie, and thinking to myself that you, Julia Child, led a pretty interesting life, and of course Stanley Tucci made me love you. So between Julie Powell’s writing and Stanley Tucci’s acting, Julia Child rocked my world.

So I looked you up. A writer and a food lover, I cannot help respect and appreciate you for what you were. An inspiration. OK, so maybe the food sanitation police weren’t down with your cleanliness. And maybe the fat content in your food wasn’t low. But you were funny. You were sassy. And you loved what you did.

That’s all one can hope for.

 

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!