L. Ron Lives On!

What a relief! Tom "Sofa Jumpin' Thetan" Cruise is set to make another Scientology movie! And, given the precedent for films based on the delightful scribblings of L. Ron Hubbard, I can hardly wait until Tom's cinematic ode to his guru opens.

And the best part? Posh Spice is playing an alien bride!

Finally, a reason to go back to the movies.

Hiding Under the Bed

It is National Hide Under the Bed Day, a holiday inspired by sick cats.

What? You say you haven't ever had a sick cat, let alone one that was worthy of inspiring a national day of hiding? Well let me share with you the origins and benefits of this day.

When a cat is sick, hurt, wounded, or otherwise feeling craptastic, it finds a dark, cave-like environment in which to crawl. Under the bed, in a box or paperbag, into your luggage...all of these are worthy contenders in the cat's mind.

The cat stays here, growling and howling, until A) it feels better, or B) you haul it out and stuff it into a cat carry-all and bring it to the vet, or C) it casts off its mortal coil and heads for kitty heaven.

(Note: Option B is very, very dangerous and will result in the shredding of your unprotected hands. I recommend the donning of oyster shucking gloves prior to extracting your sick feline from its cave-like hidey-hole.)

So, those are the origins. Now, for the benefits.

On NHUBD, you can wake up, not go to work, and find someplace warm, dark, and comforting to spend the rest of the day. No one will bother you, no one will ask anything of you. The world is, essentially, not there for the day.

Enjoy.

The TV threw up

And there are wires, not Christmas lights, dressing our living room. Husband is MacGyvering the TV set and the TiVo is now sideways. Not that any of this is really a problem, but I just really need to spew some vitriol at Sandra Lee. (We have a holiday special taped, and I saw preview. I simply MUST drink heavily and vent my spleen at the Preservative Queen as she creates new, nationwide markets for seasoning packets!)

But I cannot. The TV is still dismembered, and the TiVo is sideways, and I'm not convinced that Cook's Illustrated hasn't lied to me about no boil lasagna noodles.

I quibble with Cook's Ilustrated regularly. (And it's not because they keep turning me down for an editorial job, either. Well, maybe it is. But I digress.)

I think they do a fabulous job testing recipes.

I think most of their recipes are good.

I think the recipes are nicely layed-out, and easy to read.

I think most of the recipes take too goddamn much prep time

I don't care how many years the test cook took to determine the best recipe for fudge, or green bean casserole, the prep time takes forever.

Oooooh, how nice. The TiVo is once again connected to the TV set and all is right with the world because "Rudolph" is on, followed by "Santa Claus is Coming to Town".

And there's nothing this gal loves better than singing along to a claymation special whilst consuming a nice Pinot Gris.

Life is good.

Technology and plants

Technology and plants require that I provide them with some kind of unidentifiable, constant—yet very hands-off—attention.

That is why technology, plants, and I do not get along.

It's like this. You buy a plant. (Or, in my case, are given a plant.)

You think that all you have to do is water it and put it in the sun.

And that's where the plant gets you. It stares up at you, looking at you with its planty little leaves, hoping with its passive-aggressive chlorophyll-laden psyche, that you will not only put it in the sun, and give it water but that you will also:
• Think, at some point, to re-pot it
• Consider giving it nutrients other than water
• Prevent it from being blown off the porch in high winds while you're at work
• Buy it a nicer pot

And the list goes on.

And technological devices are exactly the same.

Take the iPod, for example. (Thanks to Husband, who stopped the blinky red eye. Music is gone, though.)

You buy the technological device. You bring it home. You become attached to it, but assume that, like a plant, it will need only two sources of sustenance: electricity and the occasional software update.

But no.

You become ever more dependent on the device. It worms its way into your life, slowly, like some kind of codependent bacteria. And suddenly, the device is expecting more than electricity and software. It wants.....peripherals.

Just like your plant.

And then the 40-mile-an-hour gusts blow the plant off your deck during an early and possibly global-warming-generated cold front, or say, your new sassy exec-u-bag resembling a doctor's bag pops open and your technological device rolls end-over-end down the stairs.

And that's it.

The plant is dead. The device blinks at you with its evil red eye. And you vow to stick to what you know:

Shoes.

More on cooking....and eating

Want to know why, despite your craving, you should think twice about satisfying your desire for a road burger and fries?

Check out Michael Pollan's
interview with Salon's Alex Koppleman.

So what can you eat? Well, if you're budgetarily free to spend, then Beantowners should visit Lionette's Market and buy something sustainable from a local farm.

If you're budgetarily hamstrung, then just make an effort to "shop the perimeter" at your nearby MegaMart, and do a little label investigation.

Here's the key: The longer the label, the farther from nature. Stick with shorter labels, and less artificial goo will worm its way into you.

Semi Homemade

I cook. I cook well. And I'm evil.

And that is why Sandra Lee, of The Food Network's "Semi-Homemade Cooking" makes me laugh with evil and condescending delight.

You must, simply must visit Armchair Cook. I simply cannot do Sandy justice, but Armchair cook can.

However, I can do better by a poor, misbegotten store-manufactured angel food cake than Sandy ever could.

I married MacGyver

Despite that fact that Husband has never seen "MacGyver", and bears only a passing resemblance to Richard Dean Anderson, I truly do believe he could fix anything using only his noggin, a sweat-sock, and some duct tape.

Now, we shall see if can work his magic on my iPod. It's blinking at me.

It's an evil, red, flashy blink.

I'm worried.

It's Lindsay's Fault

Okay, so I blame Lindsay Lohan. Or rather, I blame Heather and Jessica, the Fabulous Fug Girls. I will never, ever be as clever or funny as those gals. And I will never live in LA, either.

So here I am, blogging. Again. (I tried to create a blog page, but Safari crashed and it was lost forever in the Ether..net, that is.)