Reasons why I want to hate Ina Garten....and one why I can't

Howdy. I'm the Barefoot Contessa

If you're anything like me, and you like to bombard yourself with pictures of domestic bliss you will never attain, you probably all know this woman. If not, she has a cooking show, try to keep up. And here are the reasons I really want to hate her:

1."Barefoot" MY foot

Yeaaaa right. Have you SEEN that kitchen?? Have you SEEN those trips she and her mysterious husband take?? The woman clearly owns shoes. They are probably $8 million. The tragic thing is, if we take any kind of hint from her hairstyle and ill-fitting blouses, they are probably ghastly. Like super expensive custom made clogs. Or platform flip-flops made out of 14K gold.

2. "Back to Basics"?

(This plays every episode after the intro, and every time I have to wonder which editor let that slide.)

Let's just re-create a scene really quickly and you'll see what I mean:

*Ina walks in placing her custom made bamboo fishing rod in the sterling silver umbrella holder*

"Oh, hello again. Today we'll be making homemade basil-pesto salmon puffs with a horseradish tarter sauce. Here's my handsome fish I just caught 5 minutes ago."

*Holds up fish carcass*

"Now, if you must catch it the night before, that's alright; it'll give you more time to whittle some mixing spoons and construct your own fishing smoker. I have mine all set up here. In you go Sir Salmon.

*She plops in the salmon who is magically cleaned*

"Now I've received numerous inquiries about using fresh herbs over dried. My answer to this, is that if you want to make easy, putrid food to be used as compost or to be thrown at others in ridicule, then by all mean use dried. If you want to make something delicious and edible so your absent spouse will look at you, then fresh is the only way to go.

Also, there have been many speculations about the fact that  I barely seem married, and that my husband rarely appears on camera. I would just like to assure everyone that he is simply a busy economist and is in no way connected to the French-Canadian mob. And the French-Canadians' one legacy Celine Dion is not being held for ransom in our basement  on a diet of my garlic herb bread and seltzer. No. And that yacht was a gift."

*Starts putting on wellies*

"Now to gather long-grain rice from your rice paddy for a pilaf...."

3. "Friends"

For as irritating as this woman is, she's more popular than a rooster in a henhouse. Seriously, why? She makes a Martha Stewart recipe look like a cop-out Lean Cuisine, and her Dutch Boy haircut doesn't disguise the fact that she doesn't possess a chin. She says things like "Chicken Salad Veronique" and "Zucchini Vichyssoise" with a straight face. She'd make Julia Child feel inadequate. All in all, I'd rather rub my arm with a cheese grater for an hour than be in the same room with this woman. I can only assume all her "friends" are highly paid and intimidated into silence by Ina's skills with a paring knife.

4. "She and her husband split their time between their homes in New York, The Hamptons, and Paris"

....Of course they do.

All these are reasons are enough to truly despise a person. And I desperately want to. But I can't....because....

I want to eat her food. I long to taste the zing of Chipotle Roasted Nuts. I want the playful flavors of Smoked Salmon Spread and Cucumber Tartine to tango upon my tongue. I want to live in her perfect pan-seared world. I want to rarely be around her and still reap the flavorful benefits.

I want to marry Ina Garten. 

Guys, grow up, grow a pair, or go home.

Ok. Here it is. Let's get real for a second. Like real Prada and not the fancy knock-offs that fell off the back of the truck and are now being sold half-price by the urine-soaked homeless. No we're talking real, authentic, designer handbags the prices of which could buy me food for a year.

Calm down. This isn't a political or ethical rant. But it is a rant. Here goes:

Men of the world: I'm gonna need you to stop.

I have this friend.....I know people say that, but really, this time I really do have a friend. And something happened to her recently. And it's happened to her and many other friends, many times. And it needs. to. end.

Now, I know we've all done things in or out of relationships involving members of the opposite sex (or same, go Massachusetts!) that we are not proud of. I myself have made many mistakes. Too needy, too clingy, too abrupt, too aloof, I mean, the list goes on and on. I've probably hurt people I haven't meant to hurt, and been hurt myself. Really most days it seems like dating is one big circle of hurt. Like a Curves circuit. Crap.

I'm sorry, I know they're "smiling" and "happy" but that just looks excruciating. 

I digress. So my friend. She's awesome. Like a female Randy from "Say Yes to the Dress". She's sassy, and fun, and she'll tell it like it is. That dress makes you look fat? She'll tell ya you look like a cow dressed up for a cheese commercial. But in a super nice way. She's gorgeous and really just great. Boys seem to like her. I mean, they really like her....at first. Then, suddenly, soooo suddenly, seriously, like less time than it takes for Nicholas Sparks' main characters who used to hate each other to magically fall in love, they drop off the face of the earth. True, perhaps she and these boys weren't in an "official" relationship, but let's examine the evidence:

A) They tell her she's "glowing". Which, yes, could be an alert to a severe reaction to radiation exposure, but I'm thinking it was complimentary.

B) They call her just to "chat". All the time. From all the men I know and have talked to, this phenomenon is about as common as managing to watch a show without seeing one of those damn ASPCA ads during breaks.....I'm saying it's rare. Which I've been told means a guy digs ya.

C) They kiss. Now I know we're all not Amish, and for most of us this isn't as big a deal as it used to be. But  come on. It's not THAT casual yet. Like, I don't walk up to my Starbucks barista and go to town on his mouth because he made me a bomb Earl Grey Latte...I might want to but I control myself. 

The defense rests.

And sure, sometimes it happens. You just don't jive with someone, so you digitally free them from your phone contacts and skip on your merry way. I am a huge employer of the Houdini act. But for men I didn't MEAN to meet. Let me take you back, to a little town I like to call Chicago, 2010. The Blackhawks had just won the Stanley cup. I had won the attentions of this guy, we'll call him *Ben.

*I call him Ben because we met at a celebration at a bar and I have no idea what his name actually is. Also I know what you're thinking, but this was a G encounter. The only one night stand this chica enters into is with pans full of brownies. So much eating at night....so much morning shame at the edible carnage. But that's another story.*

Anyway, I met Ben. And from the moment we met, twas understood that ours was a love forged in the consumption of $4 Long Islands and flamed by the confused, misplaced, fair-weather (on my end) excitement over the win of a Chicago sports team. And like all Chicago athletic legacies, of course it didn't last.

And in a few weeks when he called me to hang out I was perplexed. Not only because he was saved as "Fedora Guy" (his choice of head-wear was apparently more memorable than his name) in the outer recesses of my phone, but because I had always known that our affair was based upon pretentious discussions about Joshua Radin and Percy Shelley, and was doomed to be as brief and fleeting as Patrick Kane's attention span. So I never called back. And that was that. No harm. No foul. Because on some level we both knew. Jeeze, I'm really hitting it out of the park with these sports references tonight. Go team.

No, but it was fine. Because we talked for three seconds one night. We didn't know each other. 

But you boys out there. You know the girls you string along but never call. Why? Cause guess what, I've been on the other end a time or two. And really, we just want to know. Give it to us straight. I promise we won't explode, or god forbid, cry at you. We won't go postal or threaten to jump off a bridge. You're not that great, and we have uteri (is that the plural? ew), not personality disorders. Contrary to popular thought, our ovaries do not make us psychotic. 

So calm down. We're big girls, and we're stronger than we look, mostly because of jerks like you. WE and our uteri (*shudder*; I can't believe that's the plural) will be FINE. You, well? We don't care.

And you. You boy out there. You made sure you got to know my friend. And you had an understanding. And then you chose to cut and run, despite that understanding. And that is why, young lad, if I ever find you, I will strangle you with your large and small intestines, until you  beg for death, provided the removal of said intestines, doesn't kill you initially. Either way. It's gonna suck for you. 

So, men of the world. Stop with the games. Stop with the lies and the evasions. Enough. We can take whatever you can throw at us and then some. Because if you do decide that you want to stay with us, well, ok I guess. But if you are an idiot and ditch us we get to eat ice cream and watch Titanic on loop for a few weeks. So either way. We win.