Pet Peeve Time

*climbs onto soapbox*

Pet Peeve time.

Maybe it’s just me, but...

I get really irritated with the increasingly common deployment of terms traditionally used (offensive as they are) to describe people with developmental disabilities as insults or put downs.

Retarded. ‘Tard. Short bus.

Pisses. Me. Off.

I know I’m hyper-sensitive because of Will’s situation and the worlds in which we predominantly travel -- the community of kids with special needs. My little guy is developmentally delayed. He’s bright (sometimes too much for his own good...) but has problems with communications. And is behind, age-wise, with his skill sets. We have no idea what his prognosis will be -- he’s made such fantastic progress and I continue to fervently believe his possibilities are endless. Regardless... these slams, such as they are, hit a little too close to home for me.

Anyhoo.

I prefer to think that people use these terms as put-downs more out of ignorance than anything. They’re really not processing the full impact of what they’re saying. And again, keep in mind that my intolerance for such things is heightened because of the way my life works.

But the cavalier way in which these things are said bothers me. Really bothers me. I feel like it’s my responsibility to stand up for those in whose name the insults are being tossed and say please stop. Now. I’ve even corrected friends of mine who said something -- without thinking -- in this vein in front of me. Can you say awkward? But I made my point.

Guess what. That kind of talk = not funny. In the slightest.

And it’s egregiously detrimental to the image, both externally and within individuals, of a segment of society that has a hard enough time just being accepted for who they are.

So -- please think before you speak. There are plenty of other words one can hurl in insult or teasing... just consult your local thesaurus. Or ask me.

Thank you.

*jumps off soapbox*

Ponder. Mutter. Ramble. Ponder some more.

Meme time again. Will actually took a nap this afternoon so I took advantage of the quiet to do some writing. However, my personal muse must have been out to lunch, for I was uninspired. Until I stumbled across this fun prompt.

1. Do you have a green thumb? How so/not?
Not. No way. No how. Not in this lifetime. I’ve single-handedly killed more plants than have been featured in a week’s worth of programming on HGTV. During Garden Week. Unfortunately, I really like plants and gardening. Just don’t have the aptitude for it. Cacti, African violets, more geraniums than you can count -- all met untimely ends under my care. And that’s just the tip of the bonsai.

Then there are the herbs. Oh my. What I’ve done to herbs. Criminal. I should be in Horticulture Prison.

Basil. Lots and lots of basil. Withered away.

Oregano. Gone-o. In the blink of an eye.

Cilantro. Never stood a chance.

Rosemary. Ahhh -- hearty, often insidious rosemary. I think it killed itself just so it wouldn’t have to spend any more time with me.

I keep trying to get those herbs to grow for me, though -- it’s a natural extension of my culinary obsession.

Can one have a success rate in negative numbers?

I think I might have found the solution to my herb issues: the AeroGarden. (Shut. Up.)

Finally, I can have fresh herbs for cooking. In my kitchen. Anytime. Never mind that there’s a machine that does all the work for me, including an Idiot Prompt when the water in the hydrophonic tank gets low or when I need to add the nutrient tablets.

Look Ma -- I’m growing herbs! See!

This is the South of the Border package, with globe basil and parsley and lots of cilantro. It’s going to be salsa time here this weekend. With store-bought tomatoes. But don’t think I haven’t pondered trying my black-thumbed hand in that arena... and summer is just around the corner.

That scream you just heard? Handfuls of terrified heirloom tomato seeds crying out in terror.

2. What is your best skill/ability? Why?
Oh man. I hate these questions. Totally make me uncomfortable.

Here goes.

I have a knack for being able to think on my feet -- and not just think, but convey those thoughts in a quick and coherent manner. This ability has served me well over the years, both personally (“Why are you getting home thirty minutes after your curfew?”) and professionally (“Why wasn’t my proposal for that project accepted? Do you not like me?”)

I first figured out that I had the touch in this area when I was a senior in high school and playing the lead in the spring musical production of Hello, Dolly! The sly (and very bored) tech crew decided to mess with me on our last performance night by putting a whole bunch of plastic insects and reptiles in the serving dishes for a dinner scene (Dolly and Horace eating at Harmonia Gardens -- she serves him.) I took the lid off the silver mashed potato dish and was treated to the startling sight of a fake roach and a couple of spiders nestled in with the ‘taters.

it didn’t phase me a bit -- which surprised even me. I just improvised a little while I made sure that the intruders never made it out of the bowl and kept right on going. With a well-placed smirk directed at the curious crew gathered in the wings, watching me with rapt attention. Silly boys. I later found out that it was that moment in which my future boyfriend (one of the tech dudes) realized that he might need to get to know me better (and boy, did he...) Go figure.

I’ve found myself in many an unexpected situation or facing a loaded question or forced to speak publicly on something at the last moment. And for the most part, I’ve come out of those situations pretty unscathed, flying by the seat of my pants. Many times I couldn’t tell you exactly what I said -- only that I said it. And for that, I am most grateful.

3. If someone asked a friend of yours, "Hey, what is one thing your friend is exceptional at?", what would they say about you? Why?
Hmmm. Interesting question.

I think that my hypothetical friend -- frankly, this would be any friend who knows me well -- would say that I’m exceptional at being strong in the face of adversity. Actually, I’ve had them say this to me in the throes of margaritia-fueled gab sessions when true feelings come seeping out like sap on a maple tree.

I’ve had to be strong. Especially since October, 2001.

For I’ve certainly come face-to-face with some tough situations. Having to make hard decisions about Will’s care. Needing to react quickly -- without really thinking about the circumstances -- when he’s in crisis. Planning for an uncertain future.

It’s the only way I know how to parent. This crazy, un-asked-for situation is my normal.

And strong is all relative.

I get very uncomfortable when people praise my parenting skills, telling me that I’m a supermom and that they don’t know how I do what I do. I hope that doesn’t sound pretentious, but it has happened before.

Listen. I’m just a mom. Plain and simple. Doing what I’d like to think any other mother would do in my situation. It is what it is. My version of motherhood.

Maybe I am strong. It’s not me alone, though. I’ve got faith and a Heavenly Father on my side. Thank goodness.

Mother Teresa once said “I know God never gives you more than you can handle. I just wish He didn’t trust me so much.”

Amen, sister. Amen.

Fine Wine of the Week

Bernadette Peters. "Not a Day Goes By."
From Sondheim: A Celebration at Carnegie Hall



Today is Miss Peters' 60th birthday (thanks for the reminder, Mr. Spears) -- and she's still as fabulous as ever.

She is, in my opinion, one of the premier interpreters of Stephen Sondheim -- my theatre god. She's transcendent and charming and accessible and you feel every note, every sentiment, every nuance when she sings.

This song is from Sondheim's "Merrily We Roll Along." It's a piercing one, as it talks of the lingering residue of lost love and the yearning that invariably and inextricably comes along.

And La Peters is magnificent.

Not a day goes by
Not a single day
But you’re somewhere a part of my life
And it looks like you’ll stay
As the days go by
I keep thinking when does it end
Where’s the day I’ll have started forgetting
But I just go on thinking and sweating

And cursing and crying
And turning and reaching
And waking and dying
And no, not a day goes by
Not a blessed day
But you’re still somehow part of my life
And you won’t go away
So there’s hell to pay
And until I die
I’ll die day after day after day
After day
After day after day after day
Til the days go by
Til the days go by
Til the days go by

Does It Do Windows, Too?

The Adventures of Captain Carlos is a mini-feature on Playhouse Disney about a boy (Carlos) who strives to make good nutritional and health choices. When faced with a decision on what to eat, he’s often tempted away from the logical, heathy options by the stereotypically bad suggestions (a twinkie, soda, candy) of his sister Maria. The show gives a pretty good message, actually. And is mercifully short and to the point.

For the record, Will is the main Captain Carlos aficionado in the house -- I'm merely an interested bystander.

Anyhoo...

Carlos' dilemma today was what to have for breakfast. A bowl of raisin bran or Maria's advocated doughnut.

That Maria. She's my kinda girl.

Argument against the doughnut: Full of fat. (Booo!) All sugar (Boooo!) Covered with icing and sprinkles (BOOOOOOOO!)

OK -- that last one was mine. Doughnuts should be consumed in their purest form -- glazed, fresh, hot and right out of the Krispy Kreme oven whenever possible. Accompanied by a big glass of cold milk.

Food Porn alert. Pardon me for a moment... mmmmmm. Doughnuts.

OK. I’m back.

Argument for the raisin bran: Full of fiber! (YAY!) Apparently, eating bran is like spring cleaning for your body. And this sentiment was accompanied with a shot of cartoon raisins and bran flakes scrubbing and polishing a colon. Seriously.

Spring cleaning for your body.

Well, that’s one way to look at it.

Real Women and Their Well-Modulated Tones

Her voice was ever soft, gentle, and low; an excellent thing in woman.
~ Shakespeare, King Lear, V-iii

Well, two out of three ain’t bad.

The Cold, It Lingers. RIght in my chest *hack* And throat.

I’ve got a wicked case of laryngitis. My voice -- it’s a little froggy. A little spotty. More than a little husky. And very, very low.

Sultry? I’d like to think so.

Whenever I get one of these germy things that hangs on and on and on... and on, it invariably ends up squatting in my throat. Right around ye olde vocal chords. Often times, like today, I sound worse than I really feel. Which can sometimes work to one’s mischievous advantage. Not that I’d know anything about that.

I’ve been told I sound like a plethora of different people when my dulcet tones shift into low gear.

Brenda Vacarro.


Suzanne Pleshette (RIP).


Elaine Stritch.


Sheneneh (from Martin Lawrence’s eponymous TV series).


Out of those options, I think I'll take Vacarro. But don't ask me to pimp tampons -- even I have my limits.

My voice modulates on the low side normally -- I’m a second alto in any choir in which I sing. I have a worse falsetto than some dudes -- trying to sing along with Sting and Stewart this afternoon was a painful experience for the throat and the ears.

However, I can also drop the voice down in a 1-900 number kinda way, when the occasion merits such shenanigans. I once recorded the outgoing message on a (male) friend’s answering machine. His mother called and wanted to know “who that woman was”... when he told her it was me, she was not impressed. And never really looked at me the same way again. If you ever need any obscene phone calls made (from your phone, not mine -- caller ID, you know) I’m your girl.

Who knows how long this thing is going to hang around -- but if you have any ideas on how to further exploit my throaty self, I’m open to suggestions...

Yeah -- What She Said!

I received this message in an e-mail this afternoon -- I belong to a handful of groups on mybarackobama.com. I wish I'd written this, as it conveys my feelings in a succinct and powerful fashion. Thank you Cecilia Levin, for penning this and passing it along.

Dear Women Supporters of Barack Obama (and those who love them):

The women members of the Scholars for Obama Group (like so many of us) have been concerned about the emphasis on gender and “identity politics” in the current Democratic presidential competition. We strongly believe that the women supporters of Barack Obama could make a vital difference in this very tight primary process. By increasing our visibility, we have the potential to encourage women in states with upcoming primaries to look beyond gender stereotyping when casting their votes.

We believe that it is important to show American voters that the women supporting Barack Obama are individual faces. We are not anti-feminist, traitors to the “cause”, or lacking personal empowerment. Similar to Hillary Clinton’s backers, we are disgusted by and abhor any form of sexism that has been directed towards the female candidate in this campaign. We would love to see a female president some day, but right now our nation’s problems are too urgent, our times are too volatile, and our future is too precarious. We cannot afford to use our upcoming presidential election as a debate about feminism or to correct gender imbalances in our society. We stand behind the candidate that we believe is best to lead our country. We support Barack Obama and his platform, and we know he can achieve many of our shared goals as our president.


To voice our support we produced a photo collage and a video depicting the many and diverse women’s voices endorsing Barack Obama. Our images of over 500 female Obama supporters represent all races, ages, occupations, regions and life styles. View them, find a reflection of yourself in these individuals, and please pass this message and video link on to as many people and organizations as possible:


Our project resulted from a few women sharing ideas and dreams about how we could make a difference. Imagine if each of us takes action! We encourage every woman backing Barack Obama to become visible and let her voice be heard. Be creative, have fun, and always uphold your own dignity with the same respect and dignity that our candidate reflects in his own words and actions.

The women supporters of Barack Obama are not merely crunched numbers or statistics on a chart. We are your mothers, your wives, your sisters, your daughters, your friends and your neighbors. Our strength is in our powerful and united voice, echoing his words, “Yes, we can!”

We are such stuff as dreams are made on...

When a dream takes hold of you, what can you do? You can run with it, let it run your life, or let it go and think for the rest of your life about what might have been.
~ Patch Adams

The directive: Write five things you want to be when you grow up. Big dreams that seem like folly, but in your heart of hearts are very real and dear to you. Things maybe you have forgotten in the ebb and flow and toil of the everyday but that never really leave your soul. What would you do if anything were possible?

*deep breath*

OK. Here goes.

I. Be a writer. Published. Relevant. I’ve been writing as long as I can remember. When I was about nine, I decided to publish a family newspaper, using my mom’s old manual typewriter (circa mid 1950s) as my printing press. Needless to say, only one copy got produced at a time and that one was riddled with typos and terrible typing errors. But it was my first work. I loved the big family dictionary, often just opening it up, closing my eyes and pointing to a word to simply learn it and add it to my childish vocabulary. For the heck of it. These days, I’m doing the most serious, in terms of dedication and volume, writing of my life. This blog has been the most amazing outlet for me. I find myself thinking in terms of how something might play on the page. Carrying around a Moleskine in my various purses in case inspiration strikes. Gleaning inspiration from unlikely sources. Maybe I’ll get this dream right after all.

II. Be a singer. In a band. Rock & roll. Or jazz. Music is such an integral part of my life -- it’s always playing in some form or another during my waking hours. And while I love the thrill of acting and performing (even though it’s been years since I exercised that skill, such as it is) it’s the singing that I’ve always wanted to do. My voice isn’t bad -- it’s low as all get out, which makes singing chick parts more challenging, as my upper range has something to be desired. But it’s always full of passion and earnestness. Karaoke is about as close as I get these days -- unless you count singing along with my preschool choir. Which I don’t. My galpal has a crazy neighbor (I'm not kidding -- guy is nuts) who wants to start a band. Called Beer Supply. No -- I don't get it either. And he keeps asking me to join as a singer, both backup and for "girl songs, and to play tambourine. We'll see. Did I mention he's nuts? I'm tempted, though...

III. See the world. Travel anywhere and everywhere. Experience all this planet has to offer. I traveled a lot as a child, but in a limited area. I think I saw every single Civil War battlefield and monument south of the Mason-Dixon Line before the age of 14. And had my picture made at every overlook on the Blue Ridge Parkway. I loved those family trips. They just whet my appetite for more travel adventures. And while there are still parts of my own country I haven’t seen -- the Grand Canyon; New England (although I am going to Boston weekend after next); Texas -- I yearn to go to other countries, cities, continents. And now that I have my passport, I’m armed and ready to go. At least on paper.

IV. Own a bookstore. Not a branch of a big ass chain. A neighborhood bookstore with regular patrons and book clubs and music and children's’ reading activities and literacy programs/tutoring and big comfy chairs and a cat or two and the ability to order anything for anyone. So not practical, but wouldn’t it be loverly...

V. Be a mother. Of more than one child. This isn’t going to happen for me. Not anymore. Marrying at 33; having a very complicated baby at 37; making my priority to try like hell to facilitate the most opportunities for that baby so he can maximize his potential; having a spouse who doesn’t want another child; experiencing my first hot flash. All factors pointing to the big neon sign saying No More Chillins’ For You.

The possibility of having another complicated pregnancy was always at the back of my mind whenever I thought about expanding our little family. Scares the living shit out of me -- I could not do that to another child, much less my husband. Or myself. My guilt and pain regarding my body’s failure to protect Will still runs deeply with powerful currants and whitecaps through my soul. There's not room in that baggage I tote around for any more self-blame or neuroses. And the chances of that particular scenario playing out again would always loom large. I think I’m saddest about this situation for Will, as he will never know the joy of being a sibling, a big brother. My brother is one of my best friends --and I wouldn’t give that relationship up for anything in this world. A sibling would also be someone to be there for Will after we’re gone, and vice versa. I need to stop with this now...

Some dreams come true. Some dreams stay stagnant. Some dreams fade away. These are mine. For what they’re worth.

There are many ways of breaking a heart. Stories were full of hearts being broken by love, but what really broke a heart was taking away its dream--whatever that dream might be.
~ Pearl S. Buck

I'm a Hag. And I'm Proud of It.

My friends need to get out more.

Seriously.

And not just with me, either.

I had drinks and dinner last night with two pretty savvy gal-pals -- as serendipity would have it, in the very room of our posh hotel where Nana tried to see Calvin Coolidge. It’s now a really nice restaurant with a fabulous bar area. Which is where we ate.

Anyway.

We were playing catch-up with our lives and what-not, and somehow we got on the subject of girls’ nights out. I mentioned going out with my friend and her “gay husband” to the local gay hot spot -- drinking, dancing, carousing, etc.

And they looked at me like I was out of my mind.

They weren’t familiar with the concept of a “gay husband.”

Gay boyfriend. Pal. Whatever. I use the term husband because as a señora, it works for me.

You get the picture.

That bastion of hep coolness and questionable taste, Urban Dictionary has the best definition under the term “gay buddy:"

A gay buddy, also spelled "gaybuddy" or "gay-buddy," is a homosexual male friend of a heterosexual female. While a girl may know several gay males, she will usually only have one gay buddy who she has nominated as being above the rest, the one she comes to for aid in such fields as relationship advice and fashion -- in other words, most anything that a gay guy would be helpful with or sympathetic towards.

The common gay buddy often fulfills a need for the girl, coming across as a non-threatening male figure, who can provide the guy's opinion without the usual sexually-motivated advances. A gay buddy is usually comedic, perhaps not intentionally but as a side-effect of the conversations that will ensue, namely involving the discussion of other hot guys.

Above all, a gay buddy must be trustworthy and helpful, as he is to carry the secrets of most of his fag-hags with the utmost confidentiality.

I’m a lucky girl -- I have two gay husbands/buddies. One who lives here (thank goodness) and one who unfortunately lives a continent away in Seattle. We dish, we laugh, we cry, we snark, we ogle.

We share common interests -- theatre, fashion, music, design, men. Although I find that my taste in men tends to run a little differently than theirs -- which is no big surprise. And I just discovered that my hometown GH is a registered Republican. Knock me over with a feather.

They appreciate me and my curves just the way I am right now -- a night out at a gay club is the best ego boost a girl could have. I leave feeling like a goddess. Who could ask for anything more?

I’ve always had gay buddies...

...my prom date

...many of my leading me in our high school drama productions

...the great unrequited love of my life. Duh. Now I know why it was unrequited in the fashion which I wanted it -- but at the time, he wasn’t out and proud and subsequently chipped away at my heart every time we we together.

I’ve been through AIDS scares and breakups and illness and other life issues with my gay pals. Still have my blown glass red ribbon that I wore EVERYWHERE in the early ‘90s, before such things became counterproductive.

Once I gave my galpals the condensed version of this definition, they got it. And now want to go out with us the next time we go clubbing.

Being a self-proclaimed fag hag with a gay husband or two...

It’s fabulous.

And so are they.

Alert the Media -- It's TMI Tuesday!

I actually should rename this Temperamental TMI Tuesday. Because once again, I wasn't all that excited about the specific questions for this week. And once again, I went poking through the TMI archives to find new questions to answer.

Here they are!

1. By what nickname(s) were you known as a child?
Girlie (from my daddy -- he still calls me this, actually); JJ (my initials); Janie (only to a select few); Jane Elizabeth (when I was in trouble...)

2. Do you have a favorite poem and, if so, what is it? Recite it (or a snippet) here, please.

Shakespeare's Sonnet 116
Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments
Love is not which alters when it alteration finds
Or bends with the remover to remove
O no -- it is a ever fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken
It is the star to every wandering bark
Who's worth's unknown, although his height be taken
Love's not time's fool
Though rosy lips and cheeks within his bending sickle's compass come
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks
But bears it out, even to the edge of doom

If this be error and upon me proved
I never writ, nor no man ever loved
(Typed from memory!)

I recited this beautiful piece for a Shakespeare festival when I was a sophomore in high school. And I've always remembered it. Had my pastor include it in the homily for my wedding.

At that same festival, I also played a small part in a scene from Henry IV, Part I involving Prince Hal and Falstaff. My character's name: Mistress Quickly. For the performance, we all wore t-shirts with Will Shake's picture on the front and our character's name on the back. What I wouldn't give to have my Mistress Quickly t-shirt still in my possession. It suits me now more than ever.

3. What is your greatest regret in life, something that you failed to do that you wish you did?
Moved to New York City immediately following college to seek my fortune. I coulda, shoulda, woulda. But didn't. Not enough cojones. Sadly. And every time I visit Manhattan, I am swept with a slight feeling of sadness and regret. For what could have been.

4. You are tired and hungry, but it's too late to cook. If any snack food were available to you, what would you choose and why?
Pizza. Sausage and onion. Flour tortilla chips and Chi-Chi's salsa. Ben & Jerry's Chubby Hubby. Twinkies. Pralines from Stuckeys. And a real Coke. None of that ubiquitous aspartame Diet Coke bullshit.

Can you tell I've considered this question before?

5. What is the oldest item of clothing (not jewelry!) that you wear regularly and what do you love about it?
My Timberland boots (15 years old) So comfortable. Make my feet feel secure. They look like hell now, with scuffs and scratches and faded leather. But I don't care. Once upon a time, I used to wear them with EVERYTHING -- jeans, shorts, skirts. Not so much anymore. Whenever I put them on these days, lace up the tattered shoelaces and snuggle my foot into the well-worn interior, it's like having a date with an old friend. Familiar and a guaranteed good time.

'80s Junket of the Week

Stewart Copeland and Stan Ridgway. "Don't Box Me In."



This was featured on the soundtrack to the movie "Rumble Fish." Never saw that flick myself (I know -- heresy for a Chick of the '80s...) but I've more than made up for it with the number of times I've listened to this song.

Stewart epitomizes cool here -- the brooding intense, very sexy musician. And Stan Ridgway's unique voice is the perfect complement to the harmonious discord.

Enjoy. Feel free to play this more than once. I have.

Spinning My Wheels

I had a feeling it was going to be one of those days.

I kept Will home from school today, as he was showing signs of getting my cold. It's now 2:30 pm and he's giving no indication that he's feeling bad at all. Bored, yes. Ill, no.

As a result, he's been all up in my business, itching to be entertained or coddled or paid attention to. Which I'm happy to do -- to a certain degree. Thank goodness our cable has a west coast feed for the Disney Channel, enabling us to have a two-fer of Playhouse Disney. That kept him occupied for a while. As did a showing of Match Game '75. Don't ask.

Needless to say, my grand plans for writing have taken a total backseat to motherhood today. Not that I had anything really scintillating on the docket. Although I do have a few things to say about that damn Ralph Nader and his entrance into the presidential mêlée. But that can wait, as it needs to percolate a bit more.

So I've been poking around the net, as I am wont to do on days like this. While listening to the B-52s.... she came from Planet Claire!

And I discovered this fun little thingy at Jason's night is half gone... blog. So I borrowed it.

Who is Your Ideal TV Boyfriend?

Created by BuddyTV

Yeah. This works. Not perfect (a little too earnest... I like a bit more edge and neuroses to my men) but he'll do. Until Alec Baldwin is an option on the list... somehow I think I might be waiting a while for that one.

ETA: Just took the "Which TV Villain Are You Quiz?" -- these results make me very happy:

Which TV Villain Are You?

More on Supernatural. Created by BuddyTV

Best. Time Waster. Ever.

I give you the two funniest videos I think I've seen in a long, long, long time.

WARNING: TOTALLY NSFW. 

But worth the watch when you can.

First, the one that started it all: Sarah Silverman on her boyfriend Jimmy Kimmel's late night show.


And then, last night, Jimmy countered with his rebuttal.

Enjoy. And try not to hack up a lung laughing while you do, like I did. HAHAHAHAHA!

Duh.

How is it that I never realized until RIGHT NOW that Mick Jagger sings backup on Carly Simon's seminal "You're So Vain."

I'm listening to my Singer/Songwriter playlist on iTunes -- "You're So Vain" comes on and there, clear as a bell, is Mick's voice on the chorus.

Duh.

Wonder if this means that the song is really about Warren Beatty? Or if it's really meta to have Mick singing on a song about him?

Hmmm. That's making my head hurt. Time for caffeine and a NutriBreakfast. Then I'll ponder this some more.

It's going to be one of those days.

Cheese of the Week

Marvin Aday. Meat Loaf to his fans.
"Paradise By the Dashboard Light."



My favorite guilty pleasure song.

My ultimate dream karaoke song -- still looking for my own personal Mr. Loaf with which to duet...ahem.

One of my 371 roommates in college (seriously, I had a jillion of them) had the 8-track for this in her car, some sort of Dodge sedan. We would all pile into the car, go pick up some hooch -- I was into Ripple on these occasions (yes, me and Fred Sanford are probably the only people you know who drank Ripple) -- and then drive around, looking for action.

Note: while the owner of said car swore that she drove better drunk than sober (which was very logical when you were a 19-year-old party girl in 1983 -- I know, I know, I know...) I don't remember her drinking on our joyrides. We didn't have common sense about much in those days, but in that area, we executed a wee bit.

I'm a little rusty on all the lyrics to all the parts of this song -- used to be able to do Phil Rizzuto's schtick pretty much word for word. Not so much anymore. But when this song comes on the radio or pops up on my iPod, you best beware or get out of the way because I'm gonna sing it full force.

Just like Mr. Loaf.

"It was long ago and it was far away and it was so much better than it is today..."

Unconscious Mutterings

Killing time until (A) the Oscars come on and (B) the mister gets back from the grocery with the foodstuffs for dinner prep (Poulet au Frommage. Ultimate comfort food. Chicken, egg noodles and lots of cheese. No, it's not NutriSystem approved. It's all about portion control, baby. At least tonight. Back on the NutriWagon tomorrow.)

Stumbled upon this little exercise at Unconscious Mutterings -- one of those "first word that pops into your head" things. Try it. It's fun.

Protocol :: Diplomatic
Girlfriends :: Lifesavers
Shoulders :: Achy and in need of a massage
Coming home :: Comfort
Let it in :: Peace
Honor :: Valor
Tyler :: Florence (Food TV dude)
Thriller :: better in '83; always better than "Off the Wall"
Angela :: Lansbury and Bassett
The winner is :: To be determined

Sunday Seven: Take One

It's been one of those days -- I want to write, but I'm not feeling particularly inspired in any one direction.

Perhaps it's because I unearthed the very first short story I ever wrote in college.

And it's awful. Dreadful, really. In "I'm-a-twenty-year-old-with-some-angst-and-a-thesaurus" kinda way.

To be honest, there are a couple of good parts and I still like the basic concept. I can see what I was trying to convey. But the execution. Oy. And it's a riot to read because there's not one contraction in the whole piece. Making it obviously written by a Journalism school student moonlighting as a fiction writer.

It was enough render my usual writing hard-on completely flaccid and useless.

I am kicking around the idea of taking what I wrote 20-some-odd years ago and re-writing it. Might be a good exercise for me. I entertained the idea of sharing the original story here on the blog, but decided against it. Probably don't want to see it all the damn time -- or open myself up for the inevitable but entirely appropriate criticism it would garner. It's OK for me to criticize my youthful self -- not sure I want others to.

So I went hunting for a meme to at least give me something off which to bounce my creative balls. Spanish Fly for Writers.

In that spirit, I give you my interpretation of a Sunday Seven. From the very witty and literate blog, Patrick's Place. C'mon. How can you not appreciate a blog with the tagline " Fighting Double Standards and Poor Grammar Since 2004." Awesome.

This is the first Sunday Seven meme he offered, just over two years ago -- so I figured it was as good a place as any for me to start.

Here goes -- and as always, please feel free to comment or share. I live for that stuff, you know.

Rank the seven sins in the order that you most often commit them, one being the sin you’re usually most guilty of, seven being the sin you’re usually least guilty of.

Anger is manifested in the individual who spurns love and opts instead for fury. It is also known as Wrath.

Envy is the desire for others’ traits, status, abilities, or situation.

Gluttony is an inordinate desire to consume more than that which one requires.

Greed is the desire for material wealth or gain, ignoring the realm of the spiritual. It is also called Avarice or Covetousness.

Lust is an inordinate craving for the pleasures of the body.

Pride is excessive belief in one’s own abilities, that interferes with the individual’s recognition of the grace of God. It has been called the sin from which all others arise. Pride is also known as Vanity.

Sloth is the avoidance of physical or spiritual work.

My rankings:
1. Lust
2. Pride
3. Sloth
4. Envy
5. Gluttony
6. Greed
7. Anger

I vacillated on the top two slots -- both are almost interchangable with me. But went with Lust as number one. Blame it on my hormones.

And perhaps Gluttony and Sloth -- the primary reasons for My Fat Tuchus -- should be closer together. But I think *knock on wood* I have the gluttony thing kinda under control (thanks, damn NutriSystem), while the exercise thing is still a bugaboo with me.

OK. Spill it. How do your deadly sins match up against mine....

Afternoon Delight

I haven't wanted to spend time alone with a magazine since Donny and the Keane Brothers and Tony DeFranco were on the cover of Tiger Beat.

But that changed today when I opened my mailbox and found this:
And how was your afternoon?

A Word from the Domestic Goddess

The only real stumbling block is fear of failure. In cooking you've got to have a “What the hell?” attitude.
~ Julia Child

It was my Saturday afternoon ritual. Make a sandwich. Grab a cold drink. Go to my room. Shut the door. Turn on the TV -- a little black and while model. Change the channel to our local PBS station. Settle back into my black bean bag chair. And wait for that jaunty theme music.

I was twelve years old.

And Julia Child was my idol.

It was French Chef time.

Life itself is the proper binge.
~ Julia Child

I don’t know where I got my intense, passionate, almost obsessive love of cooking. My paternal Grandma was a damn good cook; my maternal Nana wasn’t bad. My mom cooked, but it wasn't her passion.

But me -- I not only inherited the cooking gene from my ancestors, I got bit by the culinary bug as well. My earliest memory is of my four-year-old self being lifted up to take a look at the Thanksgiving turkey roasting in the oven.

And I did time with a couple of kids cookbooks -- pouring over the Betty Crocker Cookbook for Boys and Girls like it was the Magna Carta, devising menus and mentally tinkering with recipes.

For some reason, my mother had a subscription to Bon Appétit magazine. Every month when the latest issue arrived in the mailbox, it spent about two days on the family room coffee table, then disappeared into my room. I cut recipes out like a girl possessed, treating them as lovingly as I did my pin-up poster boys from Tiger Beat. I’m not sure what I was thinking, as at that point in my life (and my family’s taste buds), there was no way I would be making 40 Cloves of Garlic Chicken, but I had the recipe. Just in case.

I don’t remember what brought me to my Saturday afternoons with Julia. Chances are I read about the programming lineup in TV Guide and just tuned in one day. Instantly hooked.

I watched Julia, with her non-intimidating style and deceptive skill, move ‘round her TV kitchen and create dishes the likes of which I’d never seen before in my home kitchen. Salade niçoise. Chocolate Mousse. Veal Prince Orloff. Which, of course, I knew about, thanks to a favorite episode of the Mary Tyler Moore Show.

Never use water unless you have to! I'm going to use vermouth!
~ Julia Child

So imagine my delight when under the Christmas tree in December ‘77, I found this.




Between that and the other fab book I received that year (Scarlett Fever - The Ultimate Pictorial Treasury of Gone With the Wind) I spent all of the 25th and most of the 26th reading until my eyes grew heavy with exhaustion.

As I read though my new treasure, my mind pondered all the possibilities. What would be the first thing I would make under Julia’s guidance and following her directions... which recipe would be the one that I would use as my jumping off point into the world of serious cooking.

The answer soon became apparent: French onion soup.

Onion soup sustains. The process of making it is somewhat like the process of learning to love. It requires commitment, extraordinary effort, time, and will make you cry.
~ Ronni Lundy

The recipe looked simple enough. Not many ingredients to bog down a new cook. Nothing too unusual to intimidate. And it was something that everyone in my immediate family might dig.

And so I began a ritual that I would continue to this day. I’ve been making Julia’s French onion soup for thirty years. Happily. When I was single and living on my own, it was my family’s traditional Christmas Eve dinner -- everyone would come to whatever hovel I was living in at the time for soup, salad, wine and conversation after the Christmas Eve church service. These days, I make it when the air turns cool and the palette craves a bit of familiar sophistication.

My cooking technique has improved over the years, as have the tools of my trade. And I think the soup I make now reflects the maturity of its creator. But honestly, there was something so perfectly delicious about those first batches of soup my idealistic teenage hands made. I infused the hearty melange with my youthful enthusiasm and zest. It in turn gave me confidence and a sense of self not known before. I wooed men with my soup. I cared for ailing friends with my soup. I helped to ease the grieving process of loved ones with my soup.

While poking around for pictures and whatnot to accompany this little piece, I did some reading about Julia and her life and accomplishments. The most interesting tidbit -- and the one I shall remember always -- was what she had for her last meal the night before she passed away.

French onion soup.

Bon Appétit!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Julia’s Soupe à l'oignon
3 Tb. butter
1 Tb. olive oil
1 1/2 lbs. or about 6 cups thinly sliced yellow onions
1 t. salt
1/2 t. sugar
3 Tb. flour
6 cups organic beef broth
1 c. red wine
1 bay leaf
1/2 t. rubbed sage
salt & pepper


Melt the butter with the oil in a dutch oven and add the sliced onions and stir up to coat. Cover pan and cook over moderately low heat until translucent, about 15-20 minutes, stirring occasionally. Uncover pan, turn up heat to medium-high and add salt and sugar. Sugar, by caramelizing, helps onions to brown. Stirring frequently, cook for another 20-30 minutes until the onions are deep brown and jam-like. Meanwhile, heat broth to a simmer in a separate pan.

Lower heat to moderate and add flour to onions. Cook for about 2 minutes, stirring continuously, to brown the flour. Remove from heat and whisk in one cup of the hot broth. Add the rest of the broth, wine, bay leaf and sage, and bring to a simmer. Simmer for 30-40 minutes, seasoning to taste with salt and pepper.

Soupe à l'oignon gratinée (which really is the only way to eat it)
The soup!
1 baguette
olive oil
1 1/2 c. grated Gruyère/Emmentaler/Baby Swiss and Parmesan cheese, mixed

Cut bread into slices about 1 inch thick, paint lightly with olive oil and arrange in one layer on baking sheet. Place in middle of preheated 325-degree oven for 15-20 minutes until beginning to brown lightly; turn and brown lightly on other side for 15-20 minutes. These are called croûtes.

Ladle soup into heat-proof bowls and top with a couple of the croûtes and grated cheese. Broil until bubbly on top. Serve.

Warning: hot melted cheese is akin to culinary napalm -- if not careful, you could burn the hell out of the inside of your mouth and render your taste buds helpless for a short period of time. Eat wisely. It’s worth it.

Dining with one's friends and beloved family is certainly one of life's primal and most innocent delights, one that is both soul-satisfying and eternal.
~ Julia Child

Gratuitous Photo of the Day

I'm just gonna let this one speak for itself.

Oh. My. And yee-haw.

Hos Before Bros? Who Knows...

This corporation has a strict 'bros before hos' policy.
~ 30 Rock (THE best comedy on TV today)

I am a woman. Obviously.

I vote. Also pretty apparent.

So, using what I recall as basic equation logic... does it follow that a voting woman automatically has to vote for a woman?

Must I apply the adage 'hos before bros' to this situation?

I’m all about Girl Power. Giving a boost to other members of my gender whenever possible. I belong to a women-only volunteer organization -- was even president of said group. Fact: Women are notoriously tough on other women (I can say that because (a) I am one and (b) I’ve witnessed this first-hand.) And I work really hard not to be one of those kinds of chicks. Empowerment. Support. Validation. All important to me.

Being as woman-centric as I am, I’ve been asked the following question more than once: "Aren’t you voting for Hillary?"

Hmmm. Do I have to vote for a woman candidate? Am I obligated by common physical composition to support the chick on the ballot?

Therein lies the rub. And the conundrum facing female voters this election season.

I say no.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hey, MSNBC, CNN, and yes, NOW (and doesn't that one hurt the most): I just got back from the big secret National Vagina Convention and we decided that women are in fact capable of independent thought and are not contractually obligated to check the box for the candidate with the box.
~ a very pithy and wise poster, screen name Francie Nolan, from Television without Pity.com

When I vote, I give serious time and thought to how and for whom I’m going to give my support. My choices are totally based on the person. Not gender. Not race. The person. Especially in such a critical election as the one before us.

I totally agree that this campaign season is groundbreaking, with two contenders sporting labels that heretofore have not been seen in viable candidates. It’s historical and I’m thrilled I have the opportunity to participate in this scene-changing election.

But I don’t vote based on labels.

Just because I have a vagina doesn’t mean I’m genetically obligated to vote for a candidate with a vagina.

Just because I’m a caucasian doesn’t mean I have to vote for the candidate that looks the most like me.

Just because I’m a WASP doesn’t mean I have to vote for the WASPy-ish candidate.

When it comes to shit like this, I think with my head and my heart, not my reproductive organs or the color of my skin or my religious preference or my ethnic background.

I vote for the person. And what she or he has to say. How they conduct themselves. What they believe in.

Frankly, I don’t need to vote for a woman to demonstrate that I support my gender. I put my time and my money where my mouth is on that one. I’m voting with an eye towards the future -- not for a fight that’s already been settled for the most part. In theory anyway. Believe me, I’m grateful to the thoughtful and smart women who came before me and fought to insure that I would and could be taken as seriously in any workplace as a man. I watched the news when I was a wee lass, seeing Betty Friedan and Bella Abzug with her fab hats, speaking on behalf of, well, me. Young as I was. I read the papers and newsmagazines -- Gloria Steinem was all over the place. I sang along with Helen Reddy... "I am woman/Hear me roar."

Too young to participate, but old enough to watch and appreciate.

Things are different now for my gender, in the workplace and in our American society. For the most part and if you're looking at the big picture...however, I will admit there are still issues. But that’s another rant for another day.

(Although take a look at this op-ed piece which argues that having a woman as president is unconstitutional. It’s good for a laugh.)

Anyway.

The things my peers and I are concerned about -- balancing work and family and money and self -- are issues relevant to both genders.

It’s not a woman thing. It’s not a man thing. It’s a person thing.

I would be doing myself and the country and yes, my gender, a disservice by automatically and rotely voting for Senator Clinton. The struggle to give women the right to vote would be seriously marginalized if mandates were placed, even informally and societally, on for whom we cast our vote. We’ve come too far for such insulting and demeaning histrionics.

And yes, the female vote is, once again, critical to the success of the candidates. Soccer moms, urbanistas, seniors, single chicks. All important. Wonder if Susan B. Anthony ever anticipated that our reproductive organs would become such hot commodities and bargaining chips when she helmed the suffragette movement... what would she say about all of this?

Hillary. She’s OK. But for me, Barack is better.

Plain and simple.

I wouldn’t be going too far out on a limb to say that whoever the Democratic nominee is in November will get my vote. That’s basically a given.

But right now, in the white-hot scrum of this electric Democratic primary, I’m on the side of the candidate that I think would be the best for our country.

That person just so happens to be a man.

I think I’m a better woman for supporting him.

Does feminist mean large unpleasant person who'll shout at you or someone who believes women are human beings. To me it's the latter, so I sign up.
~ Margaret Atwood

By the way...

... my fat ass isn't quite so fat anymore.

I'm wearing denim capris that are two sizes smaller than what I was wearing when I started the damn NutriSystem back in December.

BOOYAH!

And this with a small amount of creative license -- the more than occasional adult drinky-poo and a couple of real meals, albeit moderate ones, during the week.

I'm not nearly ready to film a Success Story commercial. Yet.

Yeah, I'm kinda proud of myself. Which is a new feeling. That I'm enjoying. So there.

Pimp Corner: AI Edition

Yeah, you read that header correctly... I'm pimping out my pals. In a good way. And unlike HRC and WJC, I'm not ashamed to admit it -- or to use that vernacular.

First up: Run, don't walk to my good friend Susan DiPlacido's blog, Neon Fiction. Aside from being a hell of a great author (if you like a good, steamy read with engaging characters and actual plot, I can highly recommend anything in her oeuvre), she's a riotous and spot-on American Idol commentator. Plus, she often telestrates with great visual aids. I love her and her work, if you couldn't tell.

Next: For some more great observations and visuals, check out Wildhair (aka Miss Riss) and her musings on the AI events of the evening.

Finally: If you find yourself making snide comments to your cat about the national insanity that is American Idol while the show is rolling on your telly, come make yourself at home with the AI Live Chat at Sean Daly's Pop Life blog. We'll give you much more feedback than your cat and probably commend you on your excellent commentary ability.

It's an AI world right now, people. We're just living in it. Might as well have fun.

Koo-Koo-Ka-Choo

Benjamin: Oh my god.
Mrs. Robinson: Pardon?
Benjamin: Oh no, Mrs. Robinson. Oh no.
Mrs. Robinson: What's wrong?
Benjamin: Mrs. Robinson, you didn't... I mean, you didn't expect...
Mrs. Robinson: What?
Benjamin: I mean, you didn't really think I'd do something like *that*.
Mrs. Robinson: Like what?
Benjamin: What do you think?
Mrs. Robinson: Well, I don't know.
Benjamin: For god's sake, Mrs. Robinson. Here we are. You got me into your house. You give me a drink. You... put on music. Now you start opening up your personal life to me and tell me your husband won't be home for hours.
Mrs. Robinson: So?
Benjamin: Mrs. Robinson, you're trying to seduce me.
Mrs. Robinson: [laughs throatily]
Benjamin: Aren't you?

She's back. With a slightly new name. But the same sensibility.

My alter ego: Mrs. CJ Robinson.

She's still sitting on a barstool, with a cigarette holder in one hand (for dramatic effect only) and a Grey Goose & Tonic (with lots of lime) in the other, slightly smeared lipstick adorning her mouth. The shade? Probably MAC Cyber.

She and her friend, who is nursing a scotch rocks, are once again gossiping and making slightly inappropriate comments about the young men who frequent the watering hole. Periodically she throws a glance towards one of the gentlemen and gives a knowing smile.

If Vivien Leigh had a Roman Spring, then I'm definitely having a Florida Spring.

Here's one big reason why... this guy:
American Idol contestant Michael Johns.

My cyberpal Marissa and I think of him as our Love Kangaroo.

Hop. Hop. Hippity hop.


Hide in the hiding place where no one ever goes.
Put it in your pantry with your cupcakes.
It's a little secret just the Robinsons' affair.
Most of all you've got to hide it from the kids.

Sure, I'm being mega-shallow. And rather contradictory to my recent and deeply-held protestations that my biggest erogenous zone is my mind. But sometimes, the hormones want what the hormones want. And who am I to argue.

Honestly, I'm old enough to be his... favorite aunt. But that really doesn't matter when I'm staring at him from the confines of my living room, debating on whether my affection runs deep enough for me to actually pick up the phone and vote for him.

Last night, it did not. But honestly, I don't think my Love Kangaroo is in any danger of leaving my TV screen anytime soon.

Hot damn for that.

The PTA, Mrs. Robinson,
Won't okay the way you do your thing
Ding ding ding.
And you'll get yours, Mrs. Robinson,
Foolin' with that young stuff like you do
Boo hoo hoo, woo woo woo.
(an alternate verse from Frank Sinatra’s cover of Mrs. Robinson, found on his 1969 album My Way).

By the way, let me also introduce you to one of the contestants for the upcoming season of Dancing with the Stars:

Christian De La Fuente.


It's going to be a good spring for Mrs. CJ Robinson. Oh yeah. A very good spring.

Fine Wine of the Week

Francis Albert Sinatra and Antonio Carlos Jobim. A Medley, including "Corcovado", "Change Partners", "I Concentrate On You" and "The Girl From Ipanema."



This is the epitome of aural sensuality, at least to me.

Laid back, languid Sinatra singing, ciggy in hand; Tom Jobim providing the sensual bossa nova underbeat.

So evocative of a time and place gone by, yet still timeless.

If you dig this, I highly recommend picking up the album the two recorded together in the mid '60s: Francis Albert Sinatra & Antonio Carlos Jobim . You won't be sorry.

Brace Yourself... it's TMI Tuesday!

Sad truth: I'm too damn old for today's TMI Tuesday questions, which deal with tattoos and pierces and combinations of which are turn-ons and other such youthful inquiries.

So I went and answered a set of questions from a few weeks back...

1) Do you have/ever had any dating or sex superstitions? (Wear 'lucky jeans' on first date, always light a vanilla candle, etc.) If so, what are they?

Candles are good. Very good. For lighting and aural atmosphere. And I used to wear a matching bra/panty set on first dates. There was security knowing I had on some bitchin’ undergarments. Not that the boy in question would get to see them, mind you.

2) If you were stranded on the old deserted island, and a genie appeared who could only grant you one wish -- to bring one of the following people to join you, who would it be?
- your spouse/significant other
- an unrequited love or some person you've had a crush on
- an old/past love
- your best friend

Truth be told, while my spouse would be a great choice, deep down I’d want to have my old love (the one of the great goodbye letter) with me. We might fight like hell, but when we weren’t arguing, the conversation would be amazing -- we’d never run out of things to talk about -- and the sex would be fantastic. There. I said it. Total TMI.

3) Tell us "weather or not" you're in the mood -- how does rain, snow, sleet, scorching heat, sweltering humidity etc. affect your libido.

Being here in Florida, not so much with the snow. But when it’s sweltering and humid and the air is thick and sultry, the libido heats up too. Very primitive and inhibition-less. Oh -- rain is a bit of alright, too. Both inside and outside...

4) Are you a crying drunk, an angry drunk, a 'I'm drunk, let's screw' sort of a drinker? (And, if you do not drink -- which one of those things is the reason?)
I’m a fun, giggly drunk that morphs into a "I’m drunk, let’s screw" kinda girl.

This has proven to be both a blessing and a curse over the years.

5) Who turns you on the most & why:
the activist
the author
the care-giver/healer (nurse, doctor, masseuse, herbalist, chiropractor etc.)
the comedian
the educator (professor, teacher, mentor etc.)
the model
the musician
the politician
the scientist

I have to go with the author. Cerebral. Thought-provoking. Articulate. Words, words, words, All major turn-ons. And there’s usually a wit that goes along with all of that as well. Whew. I'm flushing just thinking about it.

Bonus (as in optional): Looking back, what's the one thing you've done which was supposed to be erotic, but didn't quite work out?
Once upon a time, a phone sex encounter didn’t go quite as planned. Bad phone connection and not being in synch with the dude on the other end of the line led to a fairly disastrous event.

And now I’m totally blushing from sharing all this nonsense.

Anyone else care to share? Please?

That's spelled j-a-n-e -- like Tarzan's friend...

I'd like to make the case for me to be the next Mother of the Year. Whenever applications come out.

Today, on the way to Will's school to get into afternoon car line, I made two stops. The grocery store. And the liquor store. To buy a bottle of the tequila that was used to make the Agave Nectar Margaritas I slurped down Saturday night. Thank goodness I'd taste-tested the stuff before I bought it -- or saw the price. I've never paid that much money for a bottle of alcohol in my life. There was a time in the distant past when I could have paid for a whole keg with what that one bottle of Mexican Fun Juice cost. But it's worth it -- damn, is it smooth. And I'm too old and snotty to drink cheap booze.

No such luck with the agave nectar -- too fancy-pants for my neighborhood A-B- Sleeze, I suppose.

After collecting Will, I decided that perhaps I might want something not quite so high-brow (and potent) to drink tonight while watching American Idol.

So off we went to the drive-thru liquor store that's on our way home. For wine coolers. Shut up. They're yummy.

Meanwhile, young William is in the back seat, hair blowing from the open windows and sunroof, singing along LOUDLY to the radio. Particularly "Start Me Up." And the "dead man cum" part. I couldn't get the window up fast enough at the stop light to prevent him from sharing his music with the car in the next lane. If you were next to us on First Avenue South this afternoon, my apologies.

So keep all this in mind when considering your nominee for Mother of the Year. I give good interview, too.

Pardon me while I dislodge my tongue from my cheek. I need to go chill my 'coolers for tonight.

PS: What kind of hostess would I be if I didn't share the margarita recipe that started all this nonsense:

Partida Agave Nectar Margarita
1-1/2oz. Partida Tequila Blanco, Reposado or Añejo ( I went with the Añejo)
1 oz. lime juice (app. the juice from one lime)
¾ oz. pure, organic Partida Agave Nectar (had to order this, unfortunately)
¾ oz. pure spring water

Shake all over ice -- serve either straight up or on the rocks, salt or no salt. All personal preference.

My Life On Screen

All television is children's television.
~ Richard P. Adler

Television and I have been likethis since I was knee-high to Inch High Private Eye and Phyllis Diller had yet to have her first face lift. Yeah, it's been a long time.

The phrase "before my time" has no meaning to me in regards to television (or actually, to most things, thanks to my sharp curiosity and voracious reading habit), as I grew up watching reruns of shows produced well before my natal day. Still do.

So it probably will come as no surprise that my childish yet fertile imagination ran wild with the creative possibilities of television. Some kids were dealing with imaginary friends and the nuances of playing Cops and Robbers. Me -- I was figuring out which sitcom characters reminded me of members of my family.

Did you ever think about life as a metaphor for television?
~ Chuck Palahniuk


Exhibit A: My Nana and what I saw as a physical resemblance to Endora from Bewitched. (aka Agnes Moorehead). Same dyed reddish hair. Same twinkle in the eye. Nana never did wear caftans or that fab blue eyeshadow that were Endora trademarks -- but nonetheless, my six-year-old self still saw a likeness.

Exhibit B: My Daddy Pete (maternal grandfather) and Ricky Ricardo (Desi Arnaz, of course!).

I never knew my Daddy Pete -- he died when my mama was only five years old. Dropped dead of a heart attack while shaving. As she was so very young, all I really know about him is from pictures and family epherma. He was a Spanish teacher at the local junior college. In the Navy Reserves. Had a wicked sense of humor. And was a dashing, handsome fellow. He and Nana spent quite a bit of time in Havana before Mama was born -- back in the days when a trip to Cuba for the weekend took no time at all from Florida.

So I think that when I tried to conjure up an image of Daddy Pete, I gravitated towards the closest relatable persona -- Ricky Ricardo. A dashing Cuban with a wicked sense of humor and an infectious smile.

This may seem rather weird (hell, it seems weird to me), but it gives me a strange sense of comfort. Even though I never had Daddy Pete as an active part of my life, I did have Ricky Ricardo. And my nana is long gone from this world -- so a glimpse of Endora gives me a visual image of her instantly.

And it works for me. Which is all that matters.

By the way, I did this same thing with my parents. I'll just give you the visual of their television counterparts -- which should come as no surprise...



Television! Teacher, mother, secret lover.
~Homer Simpson

Cheese of the Week

Tom Jones. Englebert Humperdinck. "Games People Play."



Tight pants, testosterone and yes, chest hair. I'm just going to let this one speak for itself.

And if I'm not mistaken, that's Billy Preston on the Hammond. Triple the awesome if I'm right!

Enjoy -- and if you want to throw your panties/boxers at the screen, I won't tell...

Brain Flatulence

It's a good thing I'm charming. And reasonably witty.

Because sometimes, I am a complete idiot. Especially when it comes to matters involving the left side of my brain.

I just received an eBay purchase in the mail (actually, it came over the weekend and I'm just now getting around to opening it up.)

It was advertised as a GIANT Promo Poster for the Who Rocks America Tour, circa 1982. I saw that tour when it hit Orlando and the late, great Tangerine Bowl -- fantastic show, weird bill. The Who, Joan Jett & the Blackhearts and the B-52s. The latter of which got literally booed off the stage, accompanied by a hailstorm of crumpled up Schlitz beer cups. The groovy nuances of Fred Schnieder and Co. were lost on that Who-lovin' crowd. That was also the show after which my then-boyfriend and I experienced coitus interruptus courtesy of the Tampa Police Department after we got caught parking in a city lot on our way home from the show. But again, I digress...

For some reason that escapes me now, I ended up with a tour poster, which I hung in my dorm room -- Roger Daltry and his tight pants were the main attraction. And when I saw this being advertised by a seller from whom I was buying some CDs (Julian Cope and The Teardrop Explodes) I thought that having a replica would be kinda cool. A bit of nostalgia and all that jazz.

I should have looked at the dimensions more closely.

This thing is friggin' huge. A virtual planetoid. Might have its own weather system.

The damn poster is 48 X 72. Four feet by six feet. GIANT indeed.

What the hell was I thinking?

I had planned to hang it on the closet door here in the office. That's not gonna happen. It could seriously be wallpaper for the entire inside of said closet.

So now I have to figure out a way to store it safely and hope that someday, I'll have a wall in a place in my house where a piece of my youth and a symbol of my middle-aged incompetency can reside.

I'll let you know when and if that happens. Don't hold your breath.

Hail to the Chief

So, it's Presidents' Day -- that hybrid holiday which is an amalgamation of the birthdays of Misters Washington and Lincoln and now salutes all of our illustrious leaders.

I myself don't have a presidential anecdote -- although I did hear Bush the First speak at a Homecoming function at UF when he was Vice President. My dad had the opportunity to spend time with Bill Clinton on the campaign trail back in '92 -- and he still says to this day that a more charismatic man he's yet to meet (even though we're both more than a little irritated with WJC due to his antics on this current campaign trail... but I digress.) And my paternal grandmother may or may not have met Harry Truman, being a daughter of Missouri and a Yellow Dog Democrat herself -- the details are fuzzy. But man, did she love him.

But I'm reminded of the snippet of a story my maternal grandmother -- hereafter referred to as Nana -- told me about trying to go see Calvin Coolidge. (I Wiki-linked him, because if you're anything like me, you might need a refresher as to where he falls in the presidential scheme of things.)

Apparently President Coolidge was in town, staying at the very posh Vinoy Hotel. And rumour had it that Mr. Coolidge found the food in the main dining room too fancy for his more simple tastes and instead opted to eat in the employee cafeteria. Hmm. I often eat at the Vinoy -- and the food is damn fine. He didn't know what he was missing.

While he was at the hotel, there must have been some big to-do for him. Nana wasn't too specific on details (or else I was too young to remember them all) but she told of sitting on my grandfather's (known as Daddy Pete) shoulders to peer in one of the large vertical windows that looked into the room where President Coolidge was speaking.


That is so something I would have done. Even though I suspect that my political views and those of old Calvin differed greatly. But to take advantage of the chance to see a president as up close and personal and as casually as through a window -- hell, yeah I would have gone.

Opportunities like that are rare -- actually, they're basically non-existent any more, what with Secret Service and security clearances and the proliferation of media everywhere gives us the feeling that we are with the entourage anyway.

But the thought of my Nana, who I knew as a proper, loving but no-nonsense elementary school principal, sitting on her husband's shoulders, trying to get a look at a President just makes me smile. Taking a risk, doing something totally cheeky. While I wish I knew more of the details of this particular piece of family lore, what I know and have inferred gives me just a little more insight into how and why I'm programmed the way I am.

Here's to Presidents' Day and the men who held that office, y'all. And to being cheeky.

Sick Day

Ugggggh.

The head. It poundeth.

The nose. It sniffles.

The throat. It rasps.

The ears. They muffle.

The chest. It hacks.

My cold is still here, getting the best of me.

Thank goodness Will is off of school today, simply because I can stay in my pjs -- which are a pair of black lounge pants and this groovy t-shirt I got in Key West.

That's the back of it there over on the right. Yes, that's Aunt Esther. And Grady. And a tatoo that says "Elizabeth." Awesome doesn't even begin to describe it...

On the docket for today: a bunch of movies on the DVR -- "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas"; "Victor/Victoria"; "She's Having a Baby." And the big ass Hollywood/March issue of Vanity Fair. Plus a nap.

My only regret is that it's shaping up to be a beautiful day here -- high in the upper '70s. Maybe if the tide has been stemmed a bit this afternoon, Master Will and I might take a stroll down to the park for some R&R.

Although the chances are good that I'll go in my pjs. It's shaping up to be that kinda day.

~~~~~~~~~

Addendum, 11:15 am: So much for watching my DVR movies -- Playhouse Disney is ruling the roost today. Better to amuse myself elsewhere than have to deal with a crabby Will. The compromises of motherhood...

Hairy Proof

Sigh. I'm still on my chest hair kick...

Here's a picture of me (Shut. Up. I know the glasses are awful, but they were trendy at the time. Why I didn't have my contacts in is beyond me... and check out my curly version of the Pat Benetar crop...) circa 1982 in my dorm room at the University of Florida. Notice Big Tom on the closet door behind me. Not as hairy-chest-centric as I remembered, but probably good enough for my 18-year-old self.

I think my parents and brother were up visiting for a football game when this was taken -- the fact that such a picture even exists and me wearing my sorority jersey are the tell-tale signs.

Good times, good times.

And good chest hair.

'80s Junket of the Week

Check it out... one of the intro clips for MTV's seminal alternative music program 120 Minutes.


I LOVED this show. Truly, madly, deeply. It featured the music that I was either listening to or, thanks to the show itself, music I was about to listen to. I can remember coming home from wherever and watching whatever was left of the show that night, postponing sleep until I had my music video fix. I also just discovered, in one of my insomniac moments, that VH1 Classic is running a version of 120 Minutes in the overnight on the weekends. Caught The Pixies and The Waterboys in the wee small hours of this morning. Awesome.

Anyway... back in the day, it didn't hurt that I had a thing for the smirking, smart-ass, late '80s host, Kevin Seal. Watch this clip. No wonder I wanted to marry him and have adorable, snarky, dark-haired children together...



Found this site which has a remarkably comprehensive set of playlists from the show's fairly lengthy history.

Here's the list from January 29, 1989 -- which featured one Kevin Seal as host.

The Pogues - "Yeah Yeah Yeah"
New Order - "True Faith"
Julian Cope - "World Shut Your Mouth"
Lou Reed - "Dirty Blvd."
Camper Van Beethoven - "Good Guys And Bad Guys"
The Replacements - "I'll Be You"
The Feelies - "Away"
Special AKA - "Free Nelson Mandela"
The Saints - "Grain Of Sand"
X-Ray segment - Cowboy Junkies with interview of Margo Timmons
Cowboy Junkies - "Sweet Jane"
Violent Femmes - "Nightmares"
Nitzer Ebb - "Control I'm Here"
The Pursuit Of Happiness - "Hard To Laugh"
Midge Ure - "Dear God"
The Smiths - "The Boy With A Thorn In His Side"
Ciccone Youth - "Addicted To Love"
Sonic Youth - "Teenage Riot"
The Lilac Time - "Return To Yesterday"
They Might Be Giants - "They'll Need A Crane"
Lime Spiders - "The Other Side Of You"
Echo & The Bunnymen - "Bedbugs And Ballyhoo"
Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds - "The Mercy Seat"
R.E.M. - "Stand"
A-House - "Call Me Blue"

Wow. Stuff on there I still listen to regularly and stuff I haven't thought about in years. Might be time to track down some of these forgotten tunes.

In honor of this late, great show, I give you...
The Replacements. "I'll Be You."

The Envelope Please...

My college roommate, the Divine Miss L., is once again hosting her Oscar Pool. Normally, I love these things -- and usually do very well. I had a winning streak going for about three years straight in the late '90s BW = Before Will.

But this year, I'm at a bit of a loss, not having seen ANY -- I repeat, ANY -- of the major films or performances. There was a time when this would have been considered heresy in my world -- I was a movie-going machine, making sure I saw anything and everything that was worth seeing when it came out. Sometimes with a pal or group; sometimes all by myself. A Saturday afternoon solo double feature was one of my guilty pleasures.

Not no 'mo. Motherhood and grown-up hood and other assorted hoods have precluded my attendance at the cinema. Cannot remember the last time I saw a movie in a theatre.

Thus my predicament. I've read all about the films in question and the performances up for debate. But reading is not the same as seeing.

So... I'm looking for suggestions to help me at least make a decent showing in this pool.

Here's a list of the biggie categories, with my current choice indicated in the bold italics. Any and all help would be appreciated.

DON'T BE SHY ABOUT POSTING! Please!!!

My pop culture goddess status is at stake here. And that's my most prized cred. At the moment.

~~~~~~~~~~

Best motion picture of the year
"Atonement"
"Juno"
"Michael Clayton"
“No Country for Old Men"
"There Will Be Blood"

Performance by an actor in a leading role
George Clooney in "Michael Clayton"
Daniel Day-Lewis in "There Will Be Blood"
Johnny Depp in "Sweeney Todd The Demon Barber of Fleet Street"
Tommy Lee Jones in "In the Valley of Elah"
Viggo Mortensen in "Eastern Promises"

Performance by an actor in a supporting role
Casey Affleck in "The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford"
Javier Bardem in "No Country for Old Men"
Philip Seymour Hoffman in "Charlie Wilson's War"
Hal Holbrook in "Into the Wild"
Tom Wilkinson in "Michael Clayton"
(note: Bardem is the safe bet, but I'd love to see Hal Holbrook walk away with this...)

Performance by an actress in a leading role
Cate Blanchett in "Elizabeth: The Golden Age"
Julie Christie in "Away from Her"
Marion Cotillard in "La Vie en Rose"
Laura Linney in "The Savages"
Ellen Page in "Juno"

Performance by an actress in a supporting role
Cate Blanchett in "I'm Not There"
Ruby Dee in "American Gangster"
Saoirse Ronan in "Atonement"
Amy Ryan in "Gone Baby Gone"
Tilda Swinton in "Michael Clayton"

Best animated feature film of the year
"Persepolis" : Marjane Satrapi and Vincent Paronnaud
"Ratatouille" : Brad Bird
"Surf's Up" : Ash Brannon and Chris Buck

Achievement in directing
"The Diving Bell and the Butterfly" , Julian Schnabel
"Juno”, Jason Reitman
"Michael Clayton" , Tony Gilroy
"No Country for Old Men" , Joel Coen and Ethan Coen
"There Will Be Blood" , Paul Thomas Anderson

Best foreign language film of the year
"Beaufort" Israel
"The Counterfeiters" Austria
"Katyn" Poland
"Mongol" Kazakhstan
"12" Russia

Achievement in music written for motion pictures (Original score)
"Atonement" Dario Marianelli
"The Kite Runner" : Alberto Iglesias
"Michael Clayton" James Newton Howard
"Ratatouille" Michael Giacchino
"3:10 to Yuma" Marco Beltrami

Achievement in music written for motion pictures (Original song)
"Falling Slowly" from "Once" Music and Lyric by Glen Hansard and: Marketa Irglova
"Happy Working Song" from "Enchanted" : Music by Alan Menken; Lyric by Stephen Schwartz
"Raise It Up" from "August Rush" : Nominees to be determined
"So Close" from "Enchanted" : Music by Alan Menken; Lyric by Stephen Schwartz
"That's How You Know" from "Enchanted" : Music by Alan Menken; Lyric by Stephen Schwartz

Adapted screenplay
"Atonement" , Screenplay by Christopher Hampton
"Away from Her" , Written by Sarah Polley
"The Diving Bell and the Butterfly" , Screenplay by Ronald Harwood
"No Country for Old Men" Written for the screen by Joel Coen & Ethan Coen
"There Will Be Blood" , Written for the screen by Paul Thomas Anderson

Original screenplay
"Juno" Written by Diablo Cody
"Lars and the Real Girl" Written by Nancy Oliver
"Michael Clayton" , Written by Tony Gilroy
"Ratatouille" , Screenplay by Brad Bird; Story by Jan Pinkava, Jim Capobianco, Brad Bird
"The Savages" Written by Tamara Jenkins