Twits for Twat

So there I was, just wandering around the internet, randomly clicking stuff like you're not supposed to do and risking getting a virus or a Trojan or spam, although I have a pretty good antivirus program that I found clicking on some other stuff back before I had an antivirus, well I did have one but it was a free Norton trial which doesn't count because it took over my computer and ended up costing me $100 to get rid of, which means the damn antivirus was a virus or maybe a Trojan and spam too because it invaded everything and locked me out of my computer and gave me popups telling me to buy the paid version to fix what the free one screwed up, and then the geek at the computer store tried to sell me Norton because I needed an antivirus, since he'd just removed the only one I had, never mind that it WAS Norton, dumbass, anyway I have a good one now and I know it's good because if I accidentally click on Internet Explorer it won't let it open, which proves my antivirus program is smarter than most of the people on Facebook, who still use it and complain about it and HELLO, people, get with the current decade already.

Anyway, I was clicking those news bits at the top of the Yahoo homepage, you know, the puff pieces about the worst fashion trends of the year or things chicken processors don't want you to know or how Oprah is still richer and fatter than you are, and at the bottom of one of those articles from the L.A. Times, I think it was the one about the mudslides, I remember that because it made me wonder if we had any Kahlua left and I had to go check, I saw this other link to this article that I thought was a joke, but it's not April Fool's Day yet which made me go hmmm like the song says only not really because this didn't have a catchy riff, just a picture of some pregnant woman and an article about how she was getting her vagina steamed and WHAAAAA?

Hold up a sec.

OK, yeah, I read that right. Apparently hovering your lady bits over a pot of mugwort tea is a thing. I suspect everything is a thing in Los Angeles, at one point or another, but this is a new one on me. The Koreans have imported something new for vapid SoCal bimbos to take over and make trendy and feel smug about. I wonder if they'll be adding gift cards for twat-steaming to swag bags and giving them as hostess gifts. "It's all the rage!" Yeah, so was Zima. And the XFL. And Betamax. Those sure caught on, didn't they?

On the other hand, "Steamtwats" would be a great band name.

Biting the Big Apple (Pie)

Yesterday, I decided I was going to New York City. Totally spontaneous decision. By the end of the day I had it mapped, knew where to park, which ferry and which bus to take where, and had the car fueled up. This morning I set off, by myself, for my first-ever trip to NYC.

Other than getting temporarily off-track trying to find the ferry terminal in New Jersey, the trip went well. When I saw the city skyline, I was overcome by the sheer scope of it and the nearly-surreal feeling that comes with seeing it with one's own eyes for the first time.

I completely expected to get lost, or at the very least, on the wrong bus. But no... once I stepped off the bus, I walked up a few blocks and wound up exactly where I wanted to be. So far, so good. There was a movie being filmed, so I hung out a while watching that and chatting up security and photographers and policemen, all of whom were alternately hilarious, snarky and surprisingly friendly. Actually, everyone I spoke to, passersby and officials alike, were much more polite and friendly than I'd expected. I'd always believed what everyone said about New Yorkers having bad attitudes and it was a shock to learn that wasn't always the case.

Unless, of course, the attitudes referred to were those of people behind the wheel of a vehicle. Holy clusterfuck, Batman! Anyone who drives in the city has to be a schizo. One personality when outside a car, and a psycho-seething-roadrage-suicidal personality when inside one. People really DO drive on the sidewalks. Street signs, traffic lights and lane markers are arbitrary, apparently. And forget anything you've heard about crazy cabbies... the real lunatics are the bus drivers. I felt safer on the bus than I did anywhere else, because it was huge, had battle scars down the sides, and the driver didn't stop for any twit blocking an intersection. He just kept moving and expected everyone else to get the hell out of the way. Which they did. The gods of NYC are bus drivers, says me.

I met up with a friend who took me around to Grand Central Station and Times Square. At one point we passed a pie shop. Okay, wrong, it is impossible for me to PASS a pie shop. I bought pie. And why wouldn't I buy a pie on my first trip to NYC? Because, obviously. It's PIE. (Apple, natch.)

En route to a diner to meet up with my friend's lady, we passed the Sondheim Theater, where the Pee-Wee Herman Show was just letting out. We joined a group near the stage door and then Pee-Wee came out (in character) and talked to everyone for a bit. PEE-WEE FUCKIN' HERMAN. My inner child was delirious. Can a first impression of New York get any better?

Yes. Yes, it can. My friend and his lady were the best part of the trip. I won't name names, but I can say I felt a bit star-struck. I could just sit and absorb the character and aura of those two for hours. They're legends in their fields, accomplished and intelligent and insanely funny. Deadpan humor reigned. One of them was someone whose work I admired going back a good twenty years or more and the other... I can't even describe her. Simply fabulous. I was in awe. Yeah, I saw Sam Worthington and Kyra Sedgwick on the movie set. Big mofokin' deal. I was more impressed by my companions at the diner. Amazing people and I'm thrilled to have met them.

TL;DR:

• Went to NYC for 1st time
  
• Saw famous people
• Met friends
  
• Got pie
  
• Didn't get run over
  
• Reaffirmed hatred of New Jersey
  

NYC rocks. That is all.

Use the Schwarz!

Why isn't John Schwarz famous on this side of the pond? Guy's got a good look, great accent, and a lot of character. And not enough publicity photos. Up for a shoot?

The Stink world lacks my presence. Hmph.

*wanders off in search of a lightsaber*

Down Under, Up Over

Australians and Americans have a long-running attempt to out-snark each other. Aussies love to make fun of Americans, preferably without the Americans getting the joke (see Foster's beer commercials and Crocodile Dundee) while Americans are more straightforward with their insults (Yeah, that mullet haircut? You're welcome.)

Aussies speak a different sort of English, derived from so-called "proper English" and the influence of beer. I've suspected that Aussies are really descendants of Brits who got drunk enough to forget to be pompous and boring, decided they liked it, then were banished to Oz to avoid embarrassing the rest of Britain. The Irish portion of Australia just came over for the party and never left. (History claims otherwise. I like my version better.)

The language is, indeed, a barrier to understanding people from either place. Here's an example:

Aussie bloke: "He was wearin' thongs and a singlet. What a bogan."

What an American thinks: "Thong underwear and one-piece spandex wrestling tights? A bogan must be some sort of circus performer or aerobics instructor." (Then memories of Olivia Newton-John from that Physical video come to mind unbidden, to those of us unfortunately old enough to remember it.)

Aussie translation: thongs = flip-flops, singlet = tank top/wifebeater, American = fokkin' idiot!

Stateside, Macca = Paul McCartney. Down under, it means pretty much anything with a name beginning with Mc- or Mac-, but most often refers to McDonald's. Beatleburgers, anyone? There's two left... (goin' to hell for that, brb)

People in the USA make fun of Australian speech, but anyone who has ever been to the southern United States knows who has the funnier accent. (And they say Aussies talk weird? Pfft!) Conversely, Aussies use America as a running punchline, but the ones who want to be famous aspire to come here as proof they've made it big. And then they try to lose their accent to get better gigs. To that I say NOOOO! We actually love the way they talk. How about finding a gig that calls for an Aussie lead? Anyone ever think of that? Oh right, Crocodile Dundee. Nevermind then.

I have to touch on that for a moment. All most Americans know about Australia they learned from Paul Hogan, "Crocodile Hunter" Steve Irwin, and those damn Foster's beer ads. It's no wonder Aussies think we're idiots. Granted, some of the Dundee stereotypes were true, just like some of the ones in "My Name Is Earl" are also true. But it's not the big picture, of course. Not all Aussies are safari guides on crack, and not all Americans are trailer-trash hicks.

Going back to the Aussie culture collectively known as "bogans." Apparently they're a mix of American metalheads circa the 80's and rednecks. In the USA, these are/were two distinct groups, since most rednecks prefer country music, although the line often blurred with AC/DC-loving trailer trash as a subgroup. Here, rednecks can be great, salt-of-the-earth people, or they can be the stereotypical hicks portrayed by the media. For some of us, being a redneck is a source of pride and we resent the jabs from those who assume the title equates to dimwitted slackers with half a dozen kids and welfare checks spent on cheap beer. I suspect some Aussie bogans feel the same way. (Google "Sam Worthington" for an example of a cashed-up bogan, one of the better ones to be sure.)

This could easily turn into a "You Might Be a Bogan If..." series of one-liners, but we'd need the Aussie version of Jeff Foxworthy to pull it off. I hear Paul Hogan could use some extra cash.

I think the only way to really "get" Australia is to go there, submerse oneself in the culture, make friends with some dinkum Aussies and drink several beers. Apparently there's something in beer that triggers enlightenment, though for an American this might take several attempts. I'm willing to try. Anybody want to sponsor me on this educational expedition?

Monday, Buggy Monday

Most people hate Mondays. I have a love/hate relationship with them. For many years, Monday was my day off from work, so I didn't have the typical dread like most nine-to-fivers do of dragging myself away from the weekend to face the beginning of another workweek.

Lately I've been working every other Monday. Still not too bad, but I do get that drag-butt syndrome on the days I have to get up and go in. The off days are still great; in fact I really enjoy Mondays when I have the day to myself. The downside, of course, is that Tuesday becomes my Monday and brings all the stereotypical Monday crap along with it.

I've always wondered why Garfield the cat despised Mondays. It's not like he had to get up early and go to work. He's a cat. His Monday hatred was an excuse to sleep all day and be grouchy to everyone, which he did no matter what day it was anyway. (I sometimes adopt a Garfield attitude, and much like the cat, my attitude can be quickly reversed with the consumption of coffee and/or lasagna.)

I worked all weekend, so today is my Monday off. I had an early doctor's appointment, so no sleeping in. Strike one. I had to dress somewhat respectably and fix myself up a bit, so no lazing around in my jammies with my hair all askew. Strike two. Have to go visit the vampires at the lab for bloodwork. Strike three, I'm out.

It's raining today, but to me that's not a strike against Monday. I like rainy days. Unfortunately I have to go drive in it again instead of sitting by the window with a book and a cup of tea. The groceries won't shop themselves. And the bloodwork... ugh. If I see anyone sparkling at the lab I'm totally Team GTFO.

Hold the Mayo

Hubbo, reading Burger King advert for new burger: "It's what woohoo tastes like."
Me: "I thought woohoo tasted like pussy."
Him: "That's two different tastes."
Me: "God, I hope so."
Him: "Why? What's wrong with beef and cheddar?"
Me: *flat stare*

Just Stuff

So much has been happening, I don't even know where to begin. In the past 2 weeks I've hugged both a helicopter and a former pro wrestler (they were roughly the same size), gone parasailing over the ocean, had some quality time with family, paid too much for someone to make my hair look like it did in 1987, and sunburned my ankles. *Just* my ankles, nothing else.

I got deliriously hyper at an airshow, ate a lot of southern food (I love going places where you simply say "tea" and they bring you sweet iced tea, because that is the default and that's the way it SHOULD be, dammit) and got beach sand in the cracks. I almost miss that, to be honest. Also, beach hair is the best.

The little things in life make me the happiest. The problem is that getting TO those little things tends to cost big money. We'll be heading south again soon for the Official Vacation and I plan on partaking in as many little things as I can. Like the simple joy of having boiled peanuts to eat on the boat, along with a cold Coke... watching the dolphins (the critters, not the team)... knowing that someone who yells "GO COCKS!" is a local football fan, not a freak... hearing people say things like "I really shoulda taken a picture of that hog before we ate him"... the smell of rain and salt air mixed... sitting on the porch with a good book... Waffle House patty melts and Bojangles dirty rice... and a family so crazy-funny that comedians should be paying them for the privilege of listening to them for a few hours.

Until then I'm here with non-sweet tea and the occasional horse-and-buggy tied to the telephone pole downstairs. Yeehaw, y'all.

Fringe

I love to travel. I love seeing different places and people, getting into the vibe of an event away from home, connecting in some superficial way with others there doing the same thing.

That's the keyword: connecting. When I'm in a strange city, I'm not the only outsider. I'm not the only one who has no clue how to read the transit map, who stops to stare at the architecture, who pays attention to the kid beating on plastic buckets for quarters. I'm not the only one who takes pictures or raves over the local cuisine. I belong, simply because I don't belong.

I like being part of a bigger something. I like knowing that others are all connected, whether it's at a concert or outdoor market or tourist attraction, knowing that all of us are there for the same reason and thus we all have at least that one thing in common. Even when someone else simply stops to watch the kid play bucket-drums, that's one tiny thing we share even if we don't acknowledge it.

I've been in my tiny speck on the map for eleven years, and I'm still an outsider here. This was made apparent to me recently when I was snubbed for not knowing who the subject of a local fundraiser was, nor that he'd been killed the night before in an accident. "Everyone knows so-and-so," someone said, in that tone that indicated "everyone" meant "you obviously aren't from here or you'd know, and you're nobody if you're not local."

I'll always live on the fringe. Even if I had kids in the schools and attended church socials and fundraisers and town meetings, I'd always be From Somewhere Else. And I'll always be wanting to visit somewhere else, someplace I can connect with total strangers instead of being labeled by the neighbors. I'll never be completely happy here. I want this to be Home but I'll always feel like a guest. Aren't we all guests on this rock anyway?

Twitter. Or, Catching Up To The Power Curve

I've always been behind when it comes to the latest technology, fad, meme, etc.
I was on Friendster when everyone else had moved to MySpace, and still fought with MySpace when Facebook became the rage. I had a TracFone when everyone else I knew rocked smartphones. I drove a 1985 Buick when others had 2000-something vehicles with OnStar and GPS and satellite radio and traction control. I was going out clubbing when my friends were having babies and talking about diaper rash and chicken pox. And I was still wishing highwaisted jeans would come back in style because seriously, my butt never looked better than it did in Z. Cavaricci and Jordache.

I think I've caught up somewhat, despite my aforementioned and continual love of caption-cats. I have a Facebook page, a car that's less than ten years old, a Droid phone, a laptop... still no kids but that's not going to change... still no highwaisted jeans either but maybe that's a fad better left alone, if the current revival of neon track suits and belted tank dresses is any indication.

Let me comment on the kids thing a minute. I like kids but does everyone over 30 who blogs have them? I suspect this is the norm, since most people my age have children and of course they're going to write about them. This, my blog, is an Over-30-Without-Children zone. It may not feature photos of Brandon's First Poop or recipes guaranteed to get your child to eat their carrots, but as a non-parent I can't relate to those things and won't pretend to do so. I will, however, occasionally rant about something child-related because being childless does not mean I'm automatically vetoed from bitching about someone's obvious lack of parenting skills/common sense, mmmkay? Stupid is stupid and even non-parents recognize this in most cases. (For examples, see the many Facebook-posted photos of babies holding beer and cigarettes and sporting THUG LIFE captions.)

In a lot of ways I'm still behind. I got a Twitter account a while back but didn't use it until recently. I have found some funny stuff on Twitter. The ability to convey a story in 140 characters or less is an impressive feat. What bugs me, though, is seeing a request from JackA to follow JohnB "because he's funny" or "because he's original" or whatever, and I go to JohnB's page and it's all @replies to other people. It's like reading a list of lame jokes sans the corresponding punchlines. Or Leno cliffs-notes. Am I missing something here?

In other ways I'm waaaay ahead of the game. I refer specifically to my friends and co-workers who don't own computers and only socialize face-to-face (wow, what a concept. It'll never catch on though.) Around here a pickup truck with a snowplow is more important than a computer, and the head-count of one's cattle is more of a status statement than the number of Facebook friends. Therefore I'm often at a loss when I try to explain something I saw online, only to be met with blank stares and the implication that I'm totally bullshitting because that's so far beyond someone's scope that there's no way it's true. I have a friend who recently discovered he could get nekked boob pictures on his cell phone and he's ridiculously happy about it. Can you imagine his reaction if he had an actual computer with internet access? Okay, yeah, maybe the 'net has too many people like that already. Nevermind.

Anyway. Off to be domestic and clean stuff. Clean! Stuff! Nao! BLEH.

Cocoa Pebbles rock. That is all.

It's Only Just Begun

I had an excruciatingly painful root canal today. Apparently I have a difficult-to-numb nerve or something. (It didn't help when the endodontist said to the hygienist "Did we hit something? Where is all that blood coming from?" Way to instill confidence, Doc.) So for all you people who said it's not the big painful deal everyone makes it out to be, here's a hearty FUCK OFF.

As a result I am operating at minimum efficiency, stressed out, and my nerves are completely shot. I tried to sleep but twitched too much to get any rest.

On the bright side, this should make the rest of a predicted sucky week seem less sucky. So there's that anyway. And once this week is over, I'll only have 13 days to go until I can get my beach fix. I can smell salt water already, and the ocean breeze mixed with the tantalizing aroma of jet fuel and afterburners. DA PLANE, BOSS! DA PLANE! Hellz yeah... airshows make me happy. A happy me is a wonderful thing, except when it borders on spastic giddiness. And that's pretty funny to anyone else watching so it's all good. We'll all be stupidhappy. You know they sell beer at airshows? I'm going to hug a helicopter.

Oh, right, the beach. Yeah... sand between mah toez, lil crabbies runnin' around, and the sudden screamworthy burn reminding me that my dumbass self shaved my legs right before hitting the saltwater. That's always fun. Can't wait!

Today a friend made plans to go to Las Vegas, which triggered a longtime desire of mine to see a certain performer there. Way back almost 20 years ago I got a People magazine with their annual "50 Most Beautiful People" article, and one of them was this amazingly hot and seemingly talented strap acrobat (he "flies" on leather straps... kind of a mixture of ballet, trapeze and Peter Pan on acid.) All these years I've wanted to go see him perform. Today I found a vid of his act on YouTube and now I've lost the desire. It was good, but not the spectacle I'm sure it was 20 years ago when strap acts weren't so common and wearing long hair and a g-string made him look hot instead of "desperately clinging to the illusion of youth."

Also, "leather strap act" has all kinds of connotations to the uninformed. Great band name. They can open for GWAR. Or Lady Gaga. Whichever.

The highlight of my day: getting Viva paper towels for a buck a roll. If you've ever bought them, you know that this is a very good deal. If you haven't, you're missing out on the ultimate paper towel experience. Trust me on this. Go to CVS and get 'em while they're on sale.

Speaking of drugstores, why don't any of them sell bridge mix anymore? I can't find any around here and I'm jonesing for the squishy fruit ones. I also had a wild craving for a popsicle today, one of those tropical creamsicles in the green flavor. I blame the meds.

So I've fidgeted and twitched the day away, and it's now after 1 AM and there's nothing good on Woot and I'm tired of screencapping SamWo making goofy faces and it's too late to run the vacuum even though I do my best cleaning at night and I'm almost out of ginger ale and something is prompting me to go outside and look at the stars for a while and reclaim a bit of inner (and hopefully outer) peace so I think I'm going to go get some quality porch time with the universe. When all else fails, look up.

Birthday

Tomorrow is my birthday. As usual, I'm working. I never get my b-day off. Not that it's a huge deal; I mean, I'm over 30 now, so birthdays are just an excuse to eat cake and not much else. Who my age wants to be reminded that they're another year older? Meh. (Not that I'm OLD. Just oldER.)

The Husband bought tickets to STOMP! for my birthday gift. The show isn't until January, but by buying early we're in the 2nd row. Woot! It's not the first time we've seen it but it never fails to be full of awesome. Something to look forward to during layoff season! I'm stoked.

Avatar in IMAX 3D is re-released on my birthday as well. I so want to see it in an IMAX theater, but there are none within reasonable distance. One of the downsides to living in the boonies, I suppose... pretty sad when you have to plan two days off and a hotel room to see a damn movie. (Even if the movie is eleventy-billion hours long.) Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating a bit, but seriously the closest IMAX is over two hours from here. I'll probably go watch it at the local film dump. Note to self: wear old shoes. Theaters have evolved a lot, but as long as children and flimsy soda cups exist, so will sticky floors.

I want to visit New York City. People are amazed that I live three hours or so from NYC and still have not been there. I want to do the touristy stuff, ride the subway, all that... but I also want to find a street table, have a drink and people-watch. Humans never fail to amuse me. We're an odd species and are only rivaled by cats in doing dumb shit, pretending it didn't happen, then walking off looking smug. New York is cannon fodder for someone like me who finds humor in just about anything. My talent is sarcasm, what's yours?

I had a chat with the boss today about places we'd like to go. Brazil and Australia were two we both agreed on (and I have friends in Sao Paulo, so if the money thing ever happens, I'm set.) Hubby wants to go back to Oz. He loved it the first time. Most likely because he was a young Marine who could drink and fight with the best of 'em and as a result probably has pretty skewed recollections. If I knew we could go I'd have to start training my liver for tolerance well in advance. (Side note: this discussion spawned another on which side of Oz is east and which is west... and there was some actual turning of heads upside-down... yeah, I'm just going to stop there. It was a long day. Shuddup.)

I want to go up in a parachute glider. I've said this before, haven't I? There was one flying over at work today and as usual, my response was to immediately stop what I was doing, stare up at the glider and say "Cooooooool." Parasailing would be fun too; hoping we get to do that at Virginia Beach next month, providing the weather cooperates this time.

Speaking of: 3 weeks till the airshow! Woot woot! Dear Oceana, please don't have hurricane conditions this time. I wanna see my Blues FLY, dammit. Love, Me.

Tomorrow night we're going to the Cell Block again. I will take certain liberties in exploiting my birthday, and some of them will be the right to consume vodka at will, dance like a dorky teenager and indubitably make an ass of myself at least once. Gonna be a good night.

Cake. That is all.

Sam Worthington, Recaptioned

Last night I revisited icanhazcheezburger.com, because, come on, caption cats are funny. (Cats in and of themselves are frickin' hilarious, so no surprise there.) As previously stated, I don't care how old the meme is, if it makes me laugh it's still valid. Also, once I get on a kick I have to let it run its course. Herewith, then, some LOLSams. (If he's not going to do comedy I will entertain myself, thankyouverymuch.) If you see any more photos of dude making stupid faces, pass 'em along so I can make less lame ones. Kthxbai.

Average Joe... errr Sam

This post is purely to indulge my inner fangirl. Sort of.

So... a friend told me I should google this actor, because he has nice eyes. Sure, okay, eyes are good. I don't fawn over celebs much (Johnny Depp being the occasional exception) but what the hell. I googled. She wasn't kidding. Then I discovered dude was in this movie some people might have heard of, called Avatar. Queued it up on Netflix, because I'd wanted to see it when it came out, but as usual I forgot about it.

My review:

1. Too f'in long. No matter how good the flick is, I don't want my involvement in the story interrupted by my bladder telling me I need to pee NOW, birdbeast action scene be damned. Remember when movies had intermissions? This needs one.
   
2. That was a crapton of cliches all rolled together. I pretty much knew how it was going to play out, but the CGI effects kept me watching to see how the cliches were delivered. It gets a pass for the transitions; that was some nice work.
   
3. Just how many of those ideas were swiped from Second Life, anyway? Several times I swore I'd just logged in to SL and was flying around my own virtual world, not watching a movie. The floating mountains? I actually said, "Hey, I have one of those!" and tried to mouse over for a better look. And SL has had futuristic machinima and hybrid human/animal avatars for years. Granted, it's not a new concept by any means, but the similarities bugged me at times. At least it was something I was familiar with.
   
4. Sam Worthington: now we're getting into the good stuff. The avatar character was okay, but Jake Sully, ex-grunt in the wheelchair, was more my style. And holy heck, he does have nice eyes.

I could watch it again (though possibly in two parts) and now that it's been re-released I may just do that for the 3D experience. And more Sam.

Meet Sam Worthington:





I want to feed him steaks, pick his brain and ply him with offbeat t-shirts.


I looked up some of his other movies. I have no interest in watching a Terminator sequel, the remake of Clash of the Titans (stop screwing with my childhood nostalgia, Hollywood!) or a sappy romantic drama. However, an old one about tapdancing construction workers is on its way here, because hello? Cute guy, workboots, dancing? I'm on it. This guy needs to do comedy.

Naturally I looked up photos, read some interviews, watched some clips and laughed/eyerolled at the slobbering fangirls on the forums. (Despite my first line, I have standards, and they do not include describing what I'd do to X actor or hating on his girlfriend.) I don't spazz around celebs. I'm the kind that would rather buy 'em a beer or three and talk.

Sam doesn't have the physique of an action star. He's not buff, he's not tall, he doesn't leave testosterone footprints everywhere he goes, and judging from some old movie clips he doesn't pad his britches for effect either. He's Everyman. Pasty, paunchy at times, grungy and unkempt at others, furry, with a clothing style straight off the street... someone on a forum said he looks like he should be driving a forklift at a Wal-Mart distribution center. That's what I'm talking about. His nonconformity to Hollywood's expectations of Action Hero is a relief in an age when even Stallone has to wear fake muscles. Go Sam! Now make some funny. I'll be here watching Bootmen.

Gratuitous bonus pic:


Aussie accents rock. That is all.

City of Brotherly Foodz

Saturday's trip to Philadelphia was a win. We dropped our friends off at the airport around 9:30 and took off for Center City and Reading Terminal Market. What we did all day was mostly eat and people-watch, although a fair amount of time was spent driving in circles downtown (dang construction and one-way streets!)

Downtown was crowded. People bounced off each other like pinballs, but surprisingly, every person who bumped one of us apologized even if it wasn't their fault. I don't know if it was because my husband is 11 feet tall or if people really *are* that polite in Philly.

We had a nice chat with an elderly man about fedoras and the train mural in the Metro station. We saw avoided a street demonstration (I still don't know what happened August 8, 1978, because I didn't ask any of the sign-carriers.) Several times, we drove past a huge building with an elaborate Pennsylvania Horticultural Society mural painted on the side; when we were finally able to get back, it turned out to be a Salvation Army. I was mildly disappointed.

On to the food. First stop was Beck's cajun grill in Reading Terminal Market (RTM, henceforth.) I had a bowl of crawfish and shrimp etouffee over white rice. Hubby had to have Gator on a Stick (gator sausage) and seafood salad. Good stuff. I'm a fan.

Moving on, I hit up my must-stop, Flying Monkey Patisserie, which has deliciousness everywhere you look. They're mostly known for their gourmet cupcakes. One went home with me along with a MonkeyBar for the husband.

I kept passing a southern-food diner, drooling over blackeyed peas, cabbage, collards, some beautiful golden fried chicken, and cornbread, but after reading the prices I said to hell with that. 13 bucks? I don't THINK so. I'll wait till we're down south in a few months. Crazy Yankees anyway, thinking Southern food is high gourmet... maybe it is up here in the Land of Scrapple but not where I'm from, Paula Deen aside. (There was, in fact, a man giving out scrapple samples on toothpicks.)

We finished our noshing with ice cream (hubby) and a vanilla malt (me) at the original Bassett's ice cream stand, the oldest business at RTM. Quite a feat, considering RTM is the oldest farmer's market in the country, having opened officially in 1892. We got a few packs of gourmet chicken sausage at Martin's (looking forward to the artichoke and mushroom flavor.) Then we did our produce shopping at Iovine's, picking up plums as big as apples and some taters before lugging our bags and ourselves back to the car 3 blocks away.

Afterward we attempted to get lost in the city. Wound up driving through West Philly (cue DJ Jazzy Jeff) and then up through the north side. Didn't get lost, but we did find a Checkers (Rally burger elsewhere) so I begged hubby to stop for me. That pushed my gastrointestinal limits, and hub had already learned that gator sausage bites him back, so we called it a day and headed home.

Next Saturday we get to do it again, though the friends we're picking up have requested cheesesteaks from Pat's in the Italian district.

Chilled buttercream cupcakes rock. That is all.

There's Nothing Like Prison Sax

Last night the husband and I made plans to go out. We were going to take one of our college exchange kids to a club so she could dance, but she didn't get back from the waterfalls in time, leaving us with the option of staying home or going out anyway. Since we were dressed and hadn't been to a city club in years, we went. I was feeling old and a bit apprehensive about going to a place full of young hipsters and club kids. I shouldn't have worried.

First off, we didn't go to one of the trendy, elitist or microbrew bars. We went to the Cell Block, which is exactly what it sounds like... it's a former, very old, downtown prison converted to a club. The stone archways and cells are still there, sans metal bars, so one can walk through and grab a hidden table around a corner or sit at one of the bars. The perimeter catwalk on the second floor is still there and overlooks the dance floor. It's a maze of rooms and semi-hidden bars, with one upstairs, at least one outside in the cellyard, and two or three downstairs. Last night there was a DJ spinning dance music for the main room/dance floor, a guy in a tiny upstairs bar singing and playing classics on guitar and sax, and a live band in a third bar/dance area in the back. I still don't think I've seen the whole place... I had a hell of a time just finding which archway led to the ladies' room. Tip: It's not the one with the stuffed prisoner mannequin.

Summary:
1. Cells make good coolers.
-Hubby thought it was neat that one of the cells was turned into a beer cooler, with a custom arched door to fit the old stonework.

2. A woman who sings lead (competently) on Journey and Guns n' Roses songs is awesome.
-The Big House Band featured an extremely large guy and the aforementioned gal on vocals, and they were impressive. Her voice did not match her appearance at all. His did... think John Popper of Blues Traveler. He also played some good saxophone. In my own personal opinion the bass player was the highlight of the band. I'm a sucker for bass. I had to thank him after their set and I think he appreciated it... bassists are notoriously overlooked.

3. A man who will sing Neil Diamond in a club full of twenty-somethings deserves a tip.
-Domenick Swentosky was the upstairs performer. He sang a lot like Willie Nelson in that his vocals seemed to be half a beat behind the music. Impressive setlist, great sax and harmonica, a very unique performance in a world of cookie-cutter artists. He performed Sweet Caroline by request and pulled off Tom Petty quite well also.

4. Bullrider or not, some scars need to remain hidden, mmmkay?
-Our first interaction was with a tattooed, very intoxicated and exuberant bullrider from Texas, hat and all, who insisted on simulating his riding technique on the barstool next to me. Repeatedly. He also had to show off all his rodeo scars, which involved removing his shirt at least once. Fortunately he found another audience so if he had any scars below the belt I was spared from seeing them.

5. Any pizza is good at 2 AM.
-In the main hall to the club there is a small snack-bar type counter (sign on wall: "If you grab pizza you will be charged double!" Despite the plexiglass shields I guess there are some enterprising drunks who made this a problem.) I'm not a big fan of plain or pepperoni pizza, and I'm picky about it besides. But we'd eaten early, so by closing time that pizza was smelling gooood. The clubgoers seemed to have a custom of buying a slice as they filed out of the door, so we joined in, then sat on the prison steps outside eating our pepperoni pizza (which was just as good as it smelled, by the way.) Having that snack bar there as people leave is genius.

6. What seems to be a lucky break- getting a free parking spot directly in front of a downtown club- is not so great when it's blocked in by police cars.
-As we finished our pizza, a fight broke out across the street. I hadn't seen a good fight in ages so naturally I went to observe/pick a side/cheer on the bruisers. However, I learned a city fight is serious business, unlike a redneck bar fight where the only stipulation is "take it outside, y'all!" In this case, bouncers with headsets acted like a SWAT team, swarming the lot across the street and yelling for those not involved to get back on bar property. Police were there in seconds. (The last redneck fight I saw lasted a good half-hour before a squad car pulled in; I believe they deliberately delayed showing up so they'd miss most of the confrontation. Also, that was a GREAT fight.)

A policeman detained my husband as a witness. We couldn't leave anyway because a squad car was blocking my car. Three more blocked the fight area and two more waited on the street. I counted at least eight police officers (husband says ten) and all for some guy who punched another one in the mouth and a very loud, belligerent drunk woman throwing a slew of foul language around. The reaction was overkill, if you ask me. Let 'em fight... there are shootings and drug deals and other far more serious crimes all those policemen could be stopping.

7. If a bartender doctors a drink by adding sugar, find another bartender.
- I hate sugar in my drinks, with the exception of coating a lemon wedge for lemon drop shots. I asked the lady for a bubblegum Three Olives shot because I'd never tried it. She gave me the shot but added cherry vodka and something else, with the result tasting *exactly* like gagnasty cough syrup. When I made a face, she took the shot and dumped it in a rocks glass with some other stuff, then added sugar... that was the only drink I did not finish. Bleh. I decided it was time to test-drive the downstairs bar and stuck to Hypnotiq on the rocks after that.

8. Sequins are never completely out of style.
-There was a woman standing on the patio outside the bar, in the dark, but I could see her thanks to her collection of glow-stick bracelets and her sparkly sequined dress. After roaming the rest of the club I realized she was not alone in her bad taste. There were enough sparkly people to fill the cast of the next Twilight movie. Also, the eighties comeback is official thanks to the large number of people wearing blowsy off-one-shoulder belted shirts (one was zebra-striped, even!) And for once *I* was not the one in non-trendy clothes, since white tanks, jeans and black leather NEVER go out of style. I had at least five clones running around.

9. Don't act stupid in front of co-workers.
-This should be a no-brainer, right? Well, we hadn't seen anyone we knew until around midnight, when one of my co-workers found us. By that time I had a nice happy buzz going on. Now, one of the things Hubby and I do is point out attractive people (usually females) to each other. I mean, he usually just sits around while I dance or chat, so a bit of eye candy keeps his boredom at bay. We've done this since we first started dating. Co-workers who have never seen us outside of work don't understand this and immediately suspect us of being swingers when I come up and say "hot chick in the black mini, check her out!" Gonna be some fun gossip at work this week. Woot.

10. My husband is not always the tallest guy in the bar.
-Last night he was out-sized by a musclebound meathead in a pink polo shirt and a biker who looked like he ate the last person who crossed him. Good times.

Pizza with red chile and parmesan rocks. That is all.

A Week Full of WIN! (Sort Of)

The router hasn't arrived yet, so hubby is still without teh innernetz. I kept him occupied though... the kitchen sink hot-water tap started leaking, so I asked him to replace it. That was more of a project than either of us planned.

That faucet is so old that nobody makes parts anymore, and everything hooks up backwards from standard replacement parts. (1st trip to home improvement stores.) There are no handles that have the correct spline, and no valves or o-rings that seat correctly, so I just bought a whole new faucet set. (2nd trip to stores.) Then he discovered, by way of putting his finger through it, that one of the drain pipes was nearly rusted through. We made a third trip to Home Depot/Lowes, got a PVC drain kit (which is also threaded backwards from ours) and he managed to get it all together, working, and not leaking. Yay Hubby! (I could have done it, you know, except that I lacked the upper-body strength and appropriate cuss words to wrench off the old fittings. Also, sometimes you gotta let the man do the man-jobs so he can strut around afterwards.) :-P

That was Friday's project. Thursday was our wedding anniversary; we dressed up and went out to eat. It was a good night and nothing (that I know of) broke, except maybe my tummy from eating too much. Ah well, it was a special occasion, doing one of the things we both love... noshing on stuff smothered with cheese. w00t!

Earlier that day I'd been called into a meeting with my boss and the general manager and informed that everyone's vacation time was getting standardized to two weeks regardless of time served. I was due for a 4th paid week this year, but like everyone else, I now have two. I expected this. I'm still taking my scheduled time off, albeit without pay for the last week(s), and Boss, in an aside, told me I could use my days off to pad my vacation. I was going to do that anyway but thanks for giving me permission.

Our local Fireman's Carnival started last night. It's small enough to fit entirely in the town park next to the pool, so it's not some huge major WOW CARNIVAL! dealie. But they have those famous hand-cut french fries that this area is known for, with malt vinegar to put on them, and one booth cranks out homemade cinnamon doughnuts periodically which put any of those chain-store doughnuts to shame. And I also like to play bingo. (I like Buicks and I play bingo and gripe about "those damn kids"... by the time I'm an old lady I'll have it all down pat!)

Just now got a phone call from a co-worker who is having a pool party/cookout today. He's invited our college exchange students over, the ones from Brazil and Ukraine, so I think B and I will head over and pick a few of them up en route. There are five now, three guys and two girls, and hubby is happy about the prospect of seeing 20-something foreign gals in bikinis. He's easy to please. Here's us three from a trip to Knoebels a few weeks ago, about to get re-soaked:


It's gonna be a good day! Now I need to go find lighter fluid and a watermelon. I'm out.

Carnival corn dogs rock. That is all.

Coin Toss: Not Quite What I Was Expecting

A few snips before the main post:

On some women, stretch pants have no choice.

The other day, my husband said I should try getting in better shape and suggested taking up running. He retracted his comment when he learned that I can run pretty damn fast when he's scared and I'm pissed.

What's the difference between Santa Claus and Tiger Woods? Santa stops after his third ho.

Hooters has a new review process for prospective waitresses. Each applicant is handed a bra and told "Here, fill this out."

What do a tornado, a hurricane, and a redneck divorce have in common? Each one costs somebody a trailer.

One of the most expensive things in the world is a woman who is free for the evening.

In California there is a six-month waiting period to file for divorce, but only a 15-day waiting period to buy a handgun. It's nice to know the government is giving us advice on how to work out our problems.

*********

On my dresser, I have a silver catch-all tray for change and Chinese fortunes and whatever else happens to be in my pockets at the end of the day. The coin pile eventually takes over, and every six months or so I cash it in. Usually I get about $40 and use the money for something fun for my husband and I, like going to the local carnival or buying dinner at someplace besides Super Ho-Tang Mega Chinese Buffet ("Now Have Frog Leg!"). Yesterday I wanted to take a drive to the city for reasons I won't divulge, because you'd laugh and/or roll your eyes, but since it was the day before payday I was a little short on gas money.

I'd noticed that the coin pile was getting out of hand. My husband has started using it to dump his own change, and the silver tray was invisible under the coins that were threatening to slide off the dresser. A few forward-thinking dimes and pennies were already making the leap, on occasion, into my shoes on the floor below. I got my coin bucket (a plastic frozen margarita tub) and dumped in half the pile, planning on visiting a coin-for-cash machine on the way out of town. I love those things... I'll gladly pay 9.8 cents on the dollar to avoid the three hours it usually takes me to sort and stuff coins into paper rollers.

Anyway. I got my stuff together; with my hands full of cell phone, shopping list, cooler bag, water bottle, and bucket, I left the house and started down the stairs.

Some advice: Margarita bucket handles will not support the weight of a bunch of coins.

The handle came off on the third of sixteen steps. The bucket did not just turn upside down and stop, nooooo.... it bounced off every. single. remaining. step. My stairs were now covered with a coin avalanche all the way to the downstairs door. I issued a loudly appropriate four-letter word and went about scraping them all up. Coins don't slide too well on carpet, by the way.

Thankfully this was the worst thing that happened all day, unless you count hitting a turtle on the road. I felt horrible, but it was the turtle or oncoming traffic and I chose the least likely to inflict personal injury. Sorry, turtle. Squirrels are quick but stupid, so I only feel a momentary twinge should one happen to commit suicide under my tires, but turtles can't help being slow. I usually pull over and move them off the road but this one was in a 55-MPH zone in traffic. I still felt bad though.

The tally at the coin machine surprised me. I got tired of dumping change about three-quarters of the way through the bucket and cashed out... almost 90 bucks! Whoa! After the fees, a tank of gas, and a breakfast burrito I had plenty left over for my city run. And still more in the bucket, and the rest at home on the dresser... next month's local Fireman's Carnival is covered. (How many bingo games and corn dogs does one need, anyway? It all goes to a good cause so whatever I can spend is guilt-free, but still.)

Despite nearly getting broadsided by some twit from New York driving a PT Cruiser, the rest of the trip went smoothly. On the way home I had a banana Slurpee, retro radio playing the good stuff, and cruise control set on a mostly-clear highway. Got my shopping done and still made it home in time to have supper ready when Hubby came in. w00t!

Banana Slurpees > any other flavor, and they rock forever. That is all.

Snaps and Snarls

Someone I know has been driving me bonkers on Facebook, because she Capitalizes Every Word Of Every Sentence All The Time. She just announced she's about to get her Masters in Information Technology... this chick holds 3 college degrees And Still Writes Like This? *headsmack*

Every time I see someone on Facebook leave a comment that says "your stupid" I want to reply "Yes, you're right. You ARE their stupid." I don't, but AAARRRGGHHHHH

"Here's a sneak peak!" Whoa, how did that mountain get in here? It must have gotten by without me noticing! Sneaky mountain!

"We have lot's of item's to chose from." Okay, how about a grammar textbook? No? Surprise, surprise.

"You just type it and click and viola! There it is!" Hmm, I got this instead. Too bad I can't play.

I have another friend,,, who uses commas,,, instead of ellipses,,, and usually in places ellipses wouldn't even be appropriate,,, do I even need to say,,, why this is annoying,,,

"omg ur nt gona bleve ths, ashlyn is ttly on team edwrd" So much wrong in such a short space, worsened by any reference to sparkly vampires.

And yet...

GIMMEH MOAR NAO! just strikes me as hilarious. Probably because it's both phonetic and deliberate. I jumped on the cat-caption/LOLspeak bandwagon when that meme first hit. Why? Because, again, it's deliberate, and it's like converting your Facebook language to Pirate... a whole new world of simple amusement. And come on, it's cats. With funny captions. Captions that can apply anywhere, anytime, to almost any situation, and most people will LOL or ROFL or +100 rep because they get it, even if the comment or reply is posted sarcastically. ESPECIALLY if it's sarcastic, for that matter. Hey, all you "this meme is so dead" people: bite me. It's not going away. LOLspeak is as much a part of the internet lexicon now as www-dot-[whatever]-dot-com.

OMGWTFBBQ! rocks. That is all.

Reverse Polarity, now playing at my house!

Today was the Monday I didn't have yesterday.

I was off on Monday. That was nice, after five days of dealing with a new employee who was more prone to wandering off, swatting at birds and randomly singing snippets of Mariah Carey songs for no discernible reason whatsoever than actually working. My tolerance meter dove steadily southward until, by Sunday, I was ready to shove a bird up his kiester so he'd have a reason to sing falsetto. Monday, therefore, was a good day.

Today, Tuesday, I was dreading going back to work; however it turned out to be one of the better days I've had there in a while. I was sent to Hell Section, our most primitive greenhouse. It's muddy and the gnats were out in force, but I was alone and nobody bothered me all day. I even got away with listening to my iPod instead of whatever crap radio station the other crews usually have on. And, most importantly, Falsetto Boy was a quarter mile away- well out of annoyance range.

I came home feeling great, despite PMS cramps. I'm usually too burned out to even LOOK at a plant outside of work, but today I brought some herb pots home for the kitchen and set them on the windowsill, planning to find a bigger container to make into an herb garden. The chives and parsley must have been in a funk because, as soon as my back was turned, they threw themselves off the sill and landed upside-down on top of the air conditioner's vents. Husband brought me the vacuum to suck the dirt out of the A/C. I used the hose with an attachment, but there was still enough suction for the main vacuum head to eat the rug fringe and throw the belt. Last time I put the belt back on I broke a nail and gouged two knuckles so I didn't even bother this time, I just handed it to Hubby. (I'm not the "OMG I broke a NAIL!!!! My day is RUINED!!!" kind of person, but I'd just gotten my first manicure in 6 months, to the tune of $30, so yeah, I was pissed. And I was not going to repeat the bleeding knuckle part, manicure or not.)

So, okay, that sucked but I had stuff to do. Moving on...

I started supper and all was going great. Delicious cheese ravioli and Italian sausage, mmm. The ravioli came with a pack of cheese-and-bread-crumb topping. I opened the junk drawer for the scissors, leaned the opened pack against the microwave on the counter, and then somehow gravity reversed itself just long enough for the pack to flip over and empty its contents into the drawer. Now I'm sifting batteries and other stuff out of a pile of cheese crumbs. I'm not emptying the drawer (it's a JUNK drawer, you know what that's like... 40 lb. of miscellaneous accumulated gadgets that don't have a home anywhere else) so I scraped it out with a cardboard battery package and a sponge.

I chatted with a friend online while supper finished cooking, telling him about my mini-disasters. I ended with "I'm going to try to get the food in my mouth, but the way things are going, I'll probably dump it in my shoes or something." I didn't. But a ravioli did make a break for it, leaping from my bowl, bypassing the (easily wipeable) placemats, and plopping down on my clean linen tablecloth. Husband just looked at me, raised his eyebrows, and said "Go to bed."

Since that was the third bad thing that happened since I'd been home, I figured I was safe for the rest of the evening. I said I was going to stay up a while since I go in late tomorrow. Hubby took that opportunity to inform me that the hard drive died in my not-yet-paid-for laptop. And it's out of warranty. Of course it is, why would I expect anything else at this point? Oh, and he dropped the cooling-fan pad and some part broke, but he was sure he could fix that. The $15 laptop pad is now functioning, but the vacuum is still beltless and the hard drive is going to set us back quite a bit. And I'm pretty sure the next time I turn the A/C on I'm going to get a faceful of peat dust.

On the bright side, my nails are still intact.


Ice cream sammiches rock. That is all.

Food Ramblings

Kids, for the most part, are picky eaters. They haven't developed their palates yet, or expanded their food interests beyond Happy Meals and macaroni & cheese. Some parents work around it, some cater to it, and some instill lifelong hatred for brussels sprouts in their kids by forcing them to sit at the table until the sprouts are eaten. (This was my parents' attempted approach; fortunately, my inner foodie took over once I got older and I suffer very little dislike for things I was forced to eat.)

Some kids do retain their pickiness, for a variety of reasons. I know a guy close to my age who, for years, would only eat peanut butter sandwiches. He has a "texture" issue, I think, which I can understand since I have it as well, but on a much less drastic scale. (Tapioca is high on my "oh HELL no" list. And don't put crunchy stuff like pickle relish in my tuna salad please.) Some have allergies (which seem to be more and more widespread these days) and some are diabetic, and some are just reluctant to try anything new for whatever reason.

I was thinking about this earlier as I made myself a bologna sammich. I've held on to a lot of my childhood food favorites in addition to everything else I've tried since then. White bread, mayo, and one slice of bologna was my favorite lunch; I never was a PB&J person and still don't care for it much, despite loving the individual ingredients. Oscar Mayer cheese hotdogs are another one. As disgusting as the general consensus (and nutritional label) says they are, I still have to have one now and then. And just like it had to be when I was young- no bun, no condiments, just stick a fork in it and eat from both ends till it's gone. Cap'n Crunch peanut butter cereal makes the list despite roof-of-mouth damage every time a bowl of the stuff is consumed. Raw radishes are up there, along with dill pickles. As a young adult on my own, I ate Ramen noodles out of necessity, but I still buy them simply because I like them.

There are a few foods I've either never developed a taste for, or completely lost any desire to eat. My grandmother used to make us peanut butter and honey sandwiches, which I loved then, but now? No thanks. I never did like Cheerios in any flavor. I still haven't convinced myself to like raw tomatoes on sandwiches or burgers, but cooked ones I'll eat in anything else. (I read somewhere that it takes a person ten tries before they "learn to like" a given food. Those tomatoes are being stubborn and defying that statistic. I WANT to like them... it just ain't happening.) Miracle Whip is also on the "oh HELL no" list, as are bread-and-butter pickles (the semi-sweet ones). Oh, and ketchup does not go anywhere near a hotdog, thankyouverymuch. That was the only way I'd eat one as a kid, but now the very idea turns my stomach.

Things I enjoy now that I hated as a kid include the aforementioned brussels sprouts, asparagus (a relatively recent development; my sister said they tasted just like boiled peanuts, and danged if they don't!), grits, baked ham with pineapple (Mom used Spam slices, hence the hatred), and spinach. That last one came from my husband the northerner. I grew up with "greens"... turnip, collard, mustard... good greens. He grew up with canned spinach, which to me is an abomination when the fresh stuff can be found. He doesn't like my greens and I just don't get that... they're so much better! But in order to compromise, I make his spinach sometimes, and compensate another time with a big ol' pot of collards. And I've learned to like canned spinach, so that's a small victory, I suppose.

We've really had to adapt to each other's preferences, the hubby and I. He's not too terribly picky though. He likes boiled potatoes with green beans and hot bacon dressing (a sweet-and-sour glaze that I never would have put on a potato, but it's a local thing I guess) and pickled beef tongue (which he makes when I'm not home because the smell alone would drive me outside anyway) and head cheese (just, ew) but he isn't fond of white rice, anything lemon, or teriyaki sauce. He thinks I'm weird for eating pickle sammiches, but he can root around in deer innards, emerge with a slimy kidney or two, and think "supper!" Who's weird here? The guy who watches Andrew Zimmern on Bizarre Foods and says "That looks good, I'd try it" to almost every episode, yet won't eat a pierogie? Or me, who will happily nosh on eel sushi rolls but can't stand salmon in any form? It's been interesting, to say the least.

We've come a long way from our childhood tastes, yet some things just never change. In my house you'd probably find a box of Fruity Pebbles next to the shredded wheat, Hershey's syrup in the cabinet with the liquor, and Spaghettios stashed in between the kidney beans and bags of jasmine rice. We may not always eat right, but we eat fun, and wasn't that the great thing about being a kid?


Banana popsicles rock till the end of time. That is all.

Big Brother Gets in Your Car

I just read an article about a school in Belfast, Ireland- St Matthews Primary- whose principal has asked parents not to wear pajamas ("pyjamas" over there) when dropping off their children. I saw this article in a few places and read through a hundred or so comments. Rather than dive into the cesspool of internet comment trolls, I thought I'd post my thoughts here.

I can sort of see his point. If parents are bringing the kids into the school, or checking them in, anything that involves getting out of the vehicle, then by all means appropriate attire should be worn. But if Mother-Of-Five is just pulling the car to the curb and offloading the little anklebiters, who the hell cares what she's wearing? And why would that be ANYBODY's business but hers?

Some common sense must be used. Obviously Mom would be embarrassed if she were in a fender-bender and had to leave the car or speak to police in her nightie, and same for Dad if he had to fix a flat tire in his boxers, but whose decision is that to make? Not the principal of the school. The kids attending have a dress code; their parents do not. (It can be argued that there should be one, considering the clothing some people choose to wear on inappropriate occasions, but that's a whole 'nother rant.)

Speaking of dress codes: this ball started rolling when Tesco in Cardiff banned shoppers from wearing sleepwear in their store. Over here in the United States, pajamas are de rigeur among the teen and college set. I was a bit put off by it myself, considering most of the so-called jammie bottoms were tight, folded down to expose more skin, and had words like TOO HOT and SEXY emblazoned across the butt. Wonderful clothes for the twelve-year-olds I usually saw wearing them. The older teens and college kids, not so bad, but I still wondered when it became socially acceptable to wear jammies anywhere outside the house. (Side note: I occasionally wore the funkiest jammies I could find to go grocery-shopping when I was younger, but back then it was a statement, not a trend!) Now some schools have a regular "PJ Day" that encourages this trend. Don't even get me started on the male butt-hanging-out thing. Why is this okay? No really, it's obscenity, not fashion. If I want to see asscrack I'll buy a magazine. I do NOT want to have a random stranger's intimate crevices forced upon my eyeballs.

Another, more recent trend is Public Snuggies. You know what a Snuggie is. Basically a fleece blanket with sleeves. People are now wearing them to bars, parties, etc. Sporting events I get, but bars? Really? The next cheesy pick-up line is "Hey baby, I really love that pink floral Snuggie, is there room in there for two?" (Yes they DO make double Snuggies, by the way.)

Back to the Pajama Mamas. And Daddies, so we don't stereotype. I realize there are many variables that influence someone wearing pajamas out in public. Some are ill and going to the doctor, some have just finished the night shift and changed clothes before dropping the kids off and then going home to bed, some have hectic mornings getting the children ready and plan to come back home to gussy up for the day, and a few people are- to be honest- just lazy/slobby/slutty, depending on the nature of the sleepwear. Any woman (or man!) who wears lingerie to drive the kids around is looking for attention of the sexual sort. Sweatpants and top? Meh, whatever. I've done that on rare occasions. Not my best look, but it's not a big deal. Nightgown with no shoes and no bra and nothing over it? Either she's having a really bad morning or she just doesn't give a damn. Regardless, if the kids are dressed and clean and at school on time, and the "offending" parent isn't waltzing around the building in a sheer teddy and garters, I say let 'em wear what they want.

This brings me (at last) to something I've mentioned to the husband on several occasions: Men With Hats. Back in the days of our grandparents and beyond, a man was never seen in public without a head covering, and ladies always wore hats to church and social functions. A man ALWAYS took his hat off indoors. It seems the only segment of the population still following this bygone trend is the military, who have strictly-enforced hat and uniform regulations. And maybe cowboys still do it.

I want to bring it back. There's something nostalgic and a bit romantic about a man tipping his cap to a woman, and a feeling of pride when everyone removes their hats for the display of our Flag (an event most commonly seen these days at NASCAR races.) I can take or leave the Carmen Miranda-bird's nest-Kentucky Derby extravagant ladies' hats of days past, but I do wish more women would wear great hats. I've semi-trained Hubby to take his hat off inside, although sometimes if there are a bunch of others wearing ball caps and we're at a gun raffle or something, I don't bother asking. But at my grandmother's house, in nicer restaurants, etc... hat off please.

And I'd like to see the days of the better-dressed gentlemen return, when belts and hats and shoes (not flip-flops) were considered the standard instead of exposed boxer shorts and undershirts worn as outershirts, or not at all. That's another thing I don't want to see, especially while I'm eating... armpit hair. Have the decency to cover that nasty mess when you're inside a restaurant. (Following the PJs in Cars logic, drive-through is fine.) Am I old-fashioned? Maybe a little bit. I'm also a bit hypocritical as well. If I'm going anywhere other than work, I will not leave the house without makeup and at least an attempt at getting my hair under control. My belly will not be hanging over my jeans and exposed from pubic bone to ribcage, nor will my asscrack be begging for someone to stick a quarter in it. At work, it's scrungy clothes and no makeup and hair under a hat. (If I had a job that wasn't so dirty ((as in DIRT, you pervs)) that would be different though.)

So, yeah. Society as a whole has slacked off, but I don't believe anyone has the right to tell anyone else what to wear in their cars, or the privacy of their homes for that matter. I'm not holding my breath waiting for Wal-Mart to adopt a no-pajamas policy either. They'd lose too much business. If the principal of that school in Belfast ever visited a Wal-Mart, he'd probably faint.

Union suits rock. That is all.

A Case of Taco Belly

I wrote this a few weeks ago, right after the passing of Taco Bell founder Glen Bell. I meant to post it here, but had the forum where it was being discussed open and posted it there instead and just forgot to copy it over. Anyway...

I may be on the other side of the fence, but I love Taco Bell. I've been eating there regularly (i.e. once or twice a month at minimum) for... umm... almost 30 years. Do I get a medal for that? "The Cast-Iron Stomach Award" maybe?
At one point, when I was homeless and near-broke, their cheap food was all I ate for weeks on end.

Some memories from a diehard Taco Bell lover:

Taco Lights, that were discontinued because that awesome flaky shell shattered in a zillion pieces before the prepper finished making one.

3 generations of cinnamon crispas (AKA churros and cinnamon twists)

Chilito, now known as the chili-cheese burrito, which is unfortunately only at select locations, none of them within 100 miles of me.

My former local Taco Bell used to be open 24/7 and had a breakfast menu. I have fond memories of the steak breakfast burritos.

I almost choked to death on a Mexican Pizza once, when a piece of the shell lodged in my throat. I Heimliched myself on the table corner, but undeterred, I still went back. It was 10 years before I ate another pizza though.

I'm not obese; in fact, I was skinnier when I was eating there weekly (or more often) than I am now. (diuretic joke goes here)

Once I inadvertently caused the front-counter registers to lock up; the manager had no way to fix it, and the closest one who could was unavailable until the next morning. They had to run all orders through the drive-thru register until then. (Note to any Taco Bell employees: if someone says they want one of everything to go, they're obviously being a smarta$$. Don't try to out-smarta$$ them by ringing it up.)

After the closest TB to me burned down, I would drive 45 miles to another one to get my fix once a month. Note: Taco Bell food does not reheat well at all.

I don't care what they say... guacamole does not come from a squeeze tube. I love guac, but I'm certain that stuff they have has never been in any proximity to an avocado.

After extensive testing by rats in an independent franchise in Manhattan, it has been determined that Taco Bell does not cause cancer. It does, however, cause store closings, YouTube hits, and a whole bunch of hungry rats plotting to take over the Chick-Fil-A across the street.

Hybrid-corn taco shells are not the worst thing you could be eating.

D'ya think Mr. Bell's coffin had to have the blankets folded burrito-style so nothing would fall out? And were the good bits all squished on one end because the undertaker was new on the job?

Good Gravy!

I love gravy. I'm certain it will be one of the staples on the buffet in Heaven because, hey, it's GRAVY. And gravy = ambrosia. Did you see that episode of King of the Hill, where the sushi restaurant in Arlen served sushi rolls with gravy liberally poured on top? I have no doubt that someone has done that in real life. Rice and gravy goes together like... well, rice and gravy. And that's a hard habit to break for some of us.

Against the demands of the Southern half of my blood, I have tried not to make gravy too often. It's grease, flour, and salt, basically, none of which are healthy- which is why it's sooo gooood. However, I do indulge from time to time. It's harder than you'd think to turn out a perfect pan of the stuff. It took quite a while for me to get the knack and I still don't have 100% success. My mom makes the best ever, but when asked for her secret, she just says "Stirring" and kind of smiles to herself. I think she adds a pinch of crack cocaine. It's that addictive.

After many nights watching her do her magic, I finally figured out the secret to making the absolute best gravy in the world, and even though she's probably going to disown me for this, I'm going to share the recipe right here on the blog. Yes, you are about to learn how to have the most delicious food topping imaginable... put it on biscuits, pour it over rice, mix it up with your taters... I guarantee you won't find better anywhere.

To begin:
Open all your cabinets, cupboards, pantry. Find all of those little envelopes of gravy mix, the kind you make with water. Also pull out any jars of pre-made gravy you have, doesn't matter what flavor- it's all going to get mixed together anyway. If you have any in cans, even better... add 'em to the pile.

Now get a huge mixing bowl, the biggest you have, or a stockpot, or any container large enough to hold all that stuff. A five-gallon bucket works well. Put your container next to the counter and sweep the entire mess of that garbage labeled "gravy" into it and carry it outside to the trash bin or dumpster. Dispose of it without another thought. Then go to my mom's house and wait for her to feed you. (She will... southern women are born and bred that way.) If you're extremely lucky, you'll get shrimp gravy; otherwise expect chicken gravy, unless it's between paydays, in which case hamburger n' onion gravy will be served. And that's okay, because it doesn't matter what kind it is, Mom's will be better than any other you've had.

That's my own family recipe right there. I'm hopeful that in another ten or twenty years, I'll have it down myself, but until then... Mom rocks. That is all.

If It Ain't Broke, It Will Be

The moment I walked into this apartment, I wanted it. We'd been searching for a while, but the ones we found were either too run-down, too ghetto (what passes for that here) or too short. Yes, too short... low ceilings and doorframes are common in older buildings and houses in some areas around here, and my 6'4" husband refused to live anywhere that required ducking constantly. In the last place we looked at before this one, the ceiling fan blades were at his neck level, right next to the bed. So when we found this one, with high ceilings and doorways, crown molding and century-old charm (not to mention a large bay window) I signed the lease before I even saw the rest of the place.

Ten years later, it's time to get out. Aside from previously-mentioned issues with the landlord, or rather, the landlord doing stupid things... he is a decent guy, just not sure of his reasoning... the minor annoyances have become major ones. Reminding myself "it's an old house, that's to be expected" no longer works.

For example, our water rusts everything faster than you can say corrosion. I mentioned to the landlord a few months back that the sink stopper and attached hardware were eaten through (for the second time) and we'd had to take out what was left. He said it needed a new one (obviously) but we haven't seen one yet. The toilet is getting harder and harder to flush. From day one, we've had to feather the water taps in the bathtub because they slip inside; sometimes a quarter-turn will freeze us out, others it takes a full turn to get any cold water at all. When we first moved in, the overflow drain wasn't even hooked up. It just poured water directly on the top of the downstairs neighbor's bedroom ceiling. And of course, the hot water doesn't ever last as long as anyone would like.

This brings me to yesterday's event. I was home early from work, with a sick stomach and horrible backache, and a hot bath was on my to-do list. Now, I love me some bathtime. Epsom salts or bubbles or bath oils or just hot water, doesn't matter to me. A couple times a month I forgo a shower to soak instead. I have an inflatable bath pillow and a stack of reading material ready whenever I am.

And I was ready. I got the hot water going, dumped in a happy amount of therapeutic bubblebath and settled in, planning on soaking till my toes pruned. I knew by then I'd have enough hot water built back up to rinse off. Two minutes later, my happiness turned to confusion. My precious hot water was going down the drain! Sticking my toe over the drain cover, I could feel suction. I sat up and worked the plug lever a few times, and then it stopped moving... while halfway open. I hollered for the hubby and thought fast. I did not want to be covered with soapy bubbles with no hot water to rinse off, and a cold rinse after being chilled all day sounded like the other side of hell at the time. I quickly used my thumbnail to unscrew the single screw holding the screen in the drainhole, yanked it out and jammed my heel in the hole to save what was left of the water. I'd already apprised hubby of the situation, and after he determined that he couldn't move the lever either, he ran to get a screwdriver to take it apart.

Picture, if you will, a woman with an already unstable tummy, lately prone to barfing at any given moment without warning, naked and covered with suds in a tub, wedged at one end with one foot braced against the wall and the opposite foot jammed in the drain. Add to this a man leaning in with his elbows in her lap, wielding a screwdriver, frantically taking apart the stopper mechanism, jerking the entire rusty mess out and doing... something to it, I don't know what, I was preoccupied with not barfing, but he got it moving again... and cramming it all back together without injury to either party.

We saved three inches of semi-hot water, but I still had to rinse cold. NOT happy.

Let The Stupid begin!

I really shouldn't be surprised at the stupidemic going around, but when it afflicts certain people it becomes cannon fodder. Today's example is courtesy of a business that has been around for over 30 years, and the stupidity has followed it through several owners. I think it's in the water.

Yesterday was my first day back at work since mid-December. I should not have expected anything to be different, but one can always hope... even though over the ten years I've worked there, the lack of common sense among certain elders of the tribe has become legendary among the lesser villagers.

We have three plants, each with their own loading docks. Yesterday a truck delivered 14 pallets, which were supposed to go to Plant A, Dock X. The pallets were stacked about 10 feet high with flowerpots. Instead of sending the truck to Plant A, Dock X, someone in management had the driver go to Plant B, Dock Y for offloading. This required an in-house forklift driver to move each pallet from Plant B to Plant A. Just a minor inconvenience in a normal workplace, but we aren't normal. Nope.

The forklift driver has to go through three garage doors to get from B to A. At each one, she has to stop, unhook safety belt, climb down, open the door, get back on forklift, rehook safety belt, drive forward 6 feet, then repeat the process to close the door behind her. 3 times, in each direction, for 14 separate trips. (We have to keep the doors closed due to it being 37 degrees outside and heat on inside.)

This in itself would be enough to make a half-hour offloading job take half a day instead, but it doesn't stop there. The first and second doors are all high enough for her to drive through with a 10-foot-high pallet, but the third door is only 8 feet high. Now she has to drop every one of the 14 pallets before the third door, get a ladder, unwrap the shipping plastic, take off the top 2 feet of flowerpots and re-stack them on additional pallets before she can once again get on the forklift and do the door thing to move each one to the planned destination.... which is right NEXT to the dock where they should have been offloaded in the first place. She was still working on it this morning, along with two other employees brought over to help.

Why didn't they offload at the first dock instead of creating so much extra work? "Having that dock door open for 30 minutes would create a breeze and somebody might be bothered by it." Never mind that the driver had to repeatedly open and close the other doors where there are actual flower seedlings and oil heat running... someone might get a bit of a draft in the conveyor area, where NO ONE WAS WORKING for most of the day.

I told the forklift driver that this kind of stupidity is job security for us. Didn't make her any happier about it though. And that kind of thing happens all the time. Gotta love it.

Time to focus on... oooh shiny!

Today is my last day of freedom. Tomorrow I go back to work after a month and a half off, and although I'm dreading it more than ever, I have to think positive. In order to think positive I have to get the negative out of the way so it won't keep resurfacing. Blog therapy FTW.

Cons:

• My internal body clock reverts to Night Owl when I'm off. No more staying up till 3 AM and sleeping till 11. Mornings are going to suck. I haven't seen a sunrise since mid-December.
  
• Despite all the extra time I had to sit on my butt in front of the computer, I didn't get a lot of writing done like I'd planned (and plan every time I'm off.)
  
• When I know I have a long stretch with no deadlines, I procrastinate, thinking "I have a whole 'nother month to get to that." It's down to a matter of hours now and I still haven't done half of what I planned.
• I'll have to be on my feet for nine hours a day, but I haven't had the money for new work shoes. Okay, I did have the money, briefly, but I opted to spend it on a friend's kids instead. My priorities take a hard left when it comes to long-term needs vs. making someone else happy for an evening. Gotta work on that. Or not. :-)
  
• I'll have to plan out my crops on Farmville so they won't wilt. *eyeroll* There's another con... waaaaay too much time spent on that internet crackbag called Facebook.
• Back to heat -n- eat for supper most of the week. I'm pretty good at throwing a meal together on short notice, but I've been spoiled by having entire days to plan and cook. I'll have to make the days off really count now.
• I have to clean out my lunchbag, which has been sitting, forgotten, in a corner since my last day at work. I'm hoping I didn't leave a sandwich in there. Ew.
• I'll have to interact with other humans again. Which would be fine, except these particular humans, for the most part, are ones I'd prefer to avoid. Stress levels will be through the roof. I already know that a coworker has turned in her schedule for the entire year, and every day she has requested off will be a holiday or one I need off myself, but she's effectively blocked anyone else from those days by being "first" to request them. I also know that I am not scheduled off for almost any of the car shows my husband and I attend.
  

Pros:

• Steady paychecks again.
• More exercise, more fresh air, more sun
• I strongly suspect my muse will come back to me, and I'll find myself writing songs and sketching in the margins of my job lists. Not having the time to do something greatly increases the odds that one will be inspired to do it. Why is that, anyway?
• I'll be singing again. I have to sing at work; it keeps me from going completely over the edge. I dance too and I don't give a damn who sees me. You have your coffee or Xanax, I'll take music and an impromptu waltz to keep myself awake and semi-sane, thankyouverymuch.
• I do happen to be scheduled off for Valentine's Day (meh), Easter (meaning I'll be expected to attend a family function, meh), my anniversary (which coincides with 4th of July weekend, w00t!) and ONE car show out of six (Ford Nationals, my second-favorite, so that's not too bad.)
• I've learned just how much I love cooking. I didn't do a lot of baking, a previous love, but focused instead on getting better at cooking meat. This was formerly the Man's Job, as I've never been a big meat-eater at home. Now it will take an act of Congress to get him to cook for me since I've proven I'm better at it. :-P
• Of the things I planned to do, I'm pleased with the ones I accomplished. Still more projects left on the table, but knowing they're not insurmountable helps. "I'll never get this done!" has become "I can do a little of this every day, and eventually it will be finished."

I'm sure the wit I'm known for will return soon. I just have to get back into the swing of things and let the muse find her way back through the sludge. *cue Jefferson Airplane*

Meanwhile, hubby just came home and miracle of miracles, is making cheesesteaks. Hubby's cheesesteak > everyone else's. They still rock. That is all.

2010: A Make-Space Odyssey

By this time of year, just about everyone has either made New Year's resolutions or broken them already. I've done neither because I procrastinate like that. This year I'll try to stop putting things off. OK, that one goes on the "will be broken almost immediately" list, because one thing I don't procrastinate about is procrastinating.

Yeah, so. Resolutions. Let's start with the realistic ones...

1. Buy a house (this has been a goal for a few years now.)
2. Stop helping people so much. No really... I always wind up overextending myself, my bank account, and my peace of mind (such as it is) worrying about other people. I'll continue to help, but without involving myself quite so much.
3. Be mouthier. How is this possible, you wonder? I'm pretty balls-out straightforward most of the time. But I'm talking about something different... poor service, low quality products, things I've paid good money for that fall drastically short of the ads. I'm one of those that will get something, find it's stale or spoiled or doesn't work, and think "Oh well, it's too much trouble to take it back and I really don't want to offend anyone." Or customer service will be so horrible that I'm still upset about it a week later. TaHellWitDat. Next time some insolent, condescending twit deliberately insults me while they're working, their manager is going to hear about it. I don't care if they get in trouble; people like that need to either learn some manners/people skills or get a quick-and-dirty reality check. And STOP THROWING MY APPLES AROUND. I didn't spend my own time hand-selecting non-bruised (and overpriced) apples just so some nitwit can go grocery-bowling down the conveyor to the bagging area. Then Nitwit II slam-dunks them on top of the canned goods. While I'm on the subject... if I make a salad on your salad bar, and I very carefully put it down right-side-up at the register, do NOT turn it sideways to fit it in the damn bag. Get another bag. Idiot.
4. Stop going off on tangents so much. See #3.
5. Eat more avocados and fish.
6. Learn some new recipes, and actually use some of the cookbooks I have. Learn to make good biscuits. And make more from scratch instead of conveniently prepackaged ingredients. Ooh that's gonna be a hard one!
7. Take more photos.
8. Bail out my closets and office area.
9. Start seeing a chiropractor.
10. Start going on Sunday drives with the hubby again. We slacked off on those due to gas prices, but every time we do decide to "take the long way home" we see something new or interesting and have a good time. It's OUR time, something we love to do together, and the few extra bucks a month in gas is worth it.

Made to be broken:
1. Avoid TastyClair pies.
2. Stop wasting quarters in bubblegum machines with toys in them.
3. Learn to like raw tomatoes.
4. Cut back on the amount of pasta we eat.
5. Stop being so annoying.
6. Act and dress my age.
7. Quit my job. (Meaning, actually go look for another job.) Or better yet, become financially independent enough to quit working and go back to school.
8. Go out shopping, visiting, or whatever just once without lipstick. Yeah right! Every purse, bag, coat pocket, car console and lunchbox I own has at least one lipstick or gloss in it.
9. Get a short, cute hairstyle.
10. Don't spend so much time on the internet. (Stop laughing. No really, I mean it. OK... ok, yeah, that is funny, go ahead and laugh. We'll see who's laughing when you ask me to find something online for you and BAM I have it in 30 seconds even though you spent three hours looking because you're frickin' clueless. So there.)

In other news, Punxsutawney Phil's life was spared for another year when he predicted six more weeks of winter this morning, punctuated by the snow that started falling a short while ago. Yay! I hate spring even more than I hate that damn groundhog.

My hibernation ends Thursday, when I am dragged back into the working world. Bleh.

TastyClair pies still rock. That is all. nomnomnom

I Want Vodka, Too!

Aunt Becky over at Mommy Wants Vodka posted a contest for her readers. It's more like one of our Blogger Challenges, which is great because I like those even if I always forget to actually DO the challenge.

Anyway, one of the three ways she posted to enter the contest (which I am doing for fun, even though the prize is an Amazon gift card, and I JUST last night used mine to buy my husband a Wii game even though I dropped a buttload of money on the Wii itself and was hoping to use the gift card to buy- get this- books, but hey I'm generous) is to answer her interview questions. So, vodka martini in hand, here goes...

1) Dave and I have a long-standing feud over cheese in a can. He thinks it’s food of The Gods while I think it’s probably Of The Devil. Your take?

I mentioned Easy Cheese in a recent post. I've never bought a can of the stuff, ever. I ate it once on a cracker at someone's party, but there were also barbecued Spam hors d'oeuvres, so I'm thinking it was someone's extremely low-budget wedding reception. Which, of course, are always fun. Food of the Devil? No, just one of his minions who invented the term "Processed American Cheese Food."

2) Is there any way you can think of to make the elder Gosselins go away? I AM ALL EARS.

Change the channel? I have no idea who they are, but I don't watch TV too often, and I stopped reading Hollywood blogs a couple years ago when I realized Britney Spears was the punch line of WAY too many of my jokes. Sure, she's an easy target, but why give her any more publicity? I'm hoping she'll go away. And take the Gosselins with her, to appease Aunt Becky.

3) Who is your ridiculous “I can’t admit this to anyone in polite company lest I be banned from life” crush?

Patrick Stewart. Hmm, no, a lot of people love him. Brent Spiner, AKA Data from the same show... in full android costume... saying "Of course, I AM fully functional." Oh, and Milla Jovovich in The 5th Element. I'd totally hit that. Or all 3 at once.

4) If you could fuck it all and pursue your dream (assuming, of course, you were going to be GOOD at it), what would that dream be?

I would be a stormchaser! My dream is to become financially independent, quit work, and go back to school. I'd take meteorology and auto body shop. No, really. My stormchasing vehicle would have some wicked ghost flames on a flip-flop paint job. (My other dream was to have a book endorsed by Oprah, but she killed that one.)

5) They say “living well is the best revenge.” I think they are wrong. Do you?

I think it's true to an extent, but only for those who always wanted to not only keep up with the Joneses, but run over them in their overpriced SUVs while yapping on their iPhones and sporting designer stiletto heels and perfectly-coiffed hair. For me, the best revenge would be having enough money to bribe everyone at work to quit on the same day in the middle of our busiest season. Take that, asshole owner who took our breaks and overtime pay away!

6) What is the most humiliation you’ve experienced in public that you’d be willing to admit to The Internet?

Oh dear. Some of my family read this. There are things I'd admit on someone else's internet, under a pseudonym, with a proxy IP address that couldn't easily be traced back to me...

OK, there's one. I got into a fight with a girl at a bowling alley once, and was wearing a zip-front denim skirt (hey, it was the 80s). Naturally we had an audience because people just gravitate to catfights. When I kicked her, the skirt unzipped completely, exposing my red and green Christmas underwear. It was June. I was called the Ho-Ho Ho until someone else did something stupid and everyone forgot about me.

I also once set my butt on fire in front of a group of older guys I was hoping to impress. Dancing too close to a bonfire + holes in jeans + those ripped strings hanging down = an entirely different meaning to "hey, she's got a hot ass!"

7) Are you honest with The Internet? Like, if I came over to your house tonight (heh)(I’m coming over, yo)(heh) would I be surprised at who I found?

Only if I'd ever shown you photos of myself. I admit that photo editing programs are my friends, and I am very selective about which ones get seen by people I've never met. Otherwise, it's Just Me As Always. You'd find a short, vivacious (read: loud) redhead who would fix you a drink, cook supper, and apologize for the current state of the house. Then we'd find a bunch of stuff to bitch about, praise what was praiseworthy, and make tasteless jokes and puns. The husband would wander in from time to time, give us the hairy eyebrow, then disappear back into the Man Room shaking his head.

8 ) If you could have one talent that you don’t currently possess, what would it be?

Good question. From a personal standpoint, I'd love to be able to draw and paint extremely well. From a this-will-make-me-money standpoint, either singing, or being 100% motivated to finish one of the half-dozen books I've started and get them published. Okay, motivation would be the one talent I'd like either way. Also I want to know how the hell to use an eyelash curler without personal injury.

9) There’s not always room for Jello. Is there?

Ew. Only one person I know makes Jello that I will go out of my way to eat, and that's a friend's mother. She makes this layered thing every Christmas with four colors of Jello, and one of them is coconut or marshmallow or something, and to me it's not Jello but Manna From Heaven. I rank it up there with pudding pies and Godiva, but not quite as high as cake.

10) What’s your guiltiest of the guilty pleasures?

Cake frosting.