This post is sponsored by Philadelphia Cream Cheese.
Easy Raspberry Cheesecake Double-Date Parfaits
Mike and I are always trying to be better about making friends. We’re two devoted introverts: I have an impressive dose of social anxiety and he just doesn’t especially put himself out there. But we both do well in smallish, casual get-togethers. Low-stress environment, simple food, no crazy cleaning frenzies beforehand. My latest idea for one of these is a homemade double-date night: one couple brings drinks and apps, the other provides dinner and dessert, and both play board games while ignoring the pile of laundry in the corner because WE’RE BEING CASUAL, Y’ALL. Or that’s the plan anyway.
Pomegranate Champagne Sparkler
I may or may not have spent the last half hour practicing my eyeliner in McAlister’s Deli (mirrored walls, for the win!) while working on a blog post. Sometimes I stumble into an acceptable application of eyeliner like a drunken monkey might stumble into lake, but usually my work is mediocre. Sometimes my eyeliner looks like the drunken monkey applied it, actually. Right now is one of those times. I’m not sure if it’s passable from afar or if I should be embarrassed to head to dinner with my friend in a few minutes.
Blood Orange Champagne Sparkler
Thanks to MeVee for sponsoring my live stream!
Have you seen those memes where someone jokes about having OCD because they organize their grocery list or evenly space their ornaments out on a Christmas tree? And have you seen the ensuing discussions about using the term OCD as a joke in this way? If you haven’t, it usually goes something like this:
Person 1: I’m so OCD! I have to color code my grocery list. LOL.
Person 2: Hey, that’s actually not OCD; OCD is a disorder that I have. Using the term as a joke makes people confused about what it really is, and less likely to take it seriously, and that bothers me.
Person 1: Ugh, everyone is so offended by everything these days! Lighten up! It was a joke. Relax!
Bloody Caesar with Veggie Skewer
Thanks to Clamato® for sponsoring this recipe.
My first Bloody Mary was decidedly a pinkies-up affair. I was visiting my sister in Lexington, Kentucky, and so we did what Lexingtonians do and went to a horse race. If you’ve never been, imagine the atmosphere of a football game except very fancy. Instead of wearing jerseys and drinking beer, you wear hats and drink Bloody Marys. And circle horses in a tiny catalog and pretend you know what you’re doing. And lose money. But I digress.