10 before 10

Since I have only one fan/reader, I think it's unfair of me not to post things more frequently. After all, with just the one audience member, the pressure is really on. Feedback has been "more posts, more often".

So, here's the poop: Ten posts before 10:00AM

1. Sandra Lee's forehead is now completely immobile. There are more preservatives in that woman's face than in a whole TV season's worth of her artificial-extract flavored CoolWhip.

2. Winter has not been feeling well. It's been in bed with a slight fever of about 50 degrees. Well, guess who recovered, put on some clothes, and hauled its sorry, cold ass out of bed and into New England? No snow yet, but I'll keep you posted. As for the temperature, "Mine goes to 11."

3. Apparently, the BosNyWash corridor has too many LuxuryCondos(TM) and now must rent them. Pity the poor wealthy homeless, who are apparently living, where? In the abundance of luxury hotels in these urban environs?

4. A new season of The Real Housewives of Orange County. Yes, they're all the same, fascinating shade of beigey-pinky-rust. Yes, they all have the same bizarre, boob-and-nose-and-botox'd look. Yes, they seem to have many, many misguided values. But, damnit, Jeana Keough and Vicki Gunvalson work their collective asses off. Those women are self-made millionaires who've worked hard for their money. And as for Lauri Waring, at least she seems to show the occasional shred of common sense, and seems very kind. It's my guilty pleasure, yes, but there is some deeper nugget of the interesting to be found.

5. J. had the baby on Monday. It's a girl. Welcome to the world Miss Claire. I hope we leave this place in half-decent shape for you and your big brother. I'll do my part and go buy some energy-saving lightbulbs.

6. I miss my friends.

7. Company wants me to laugh. And he let me know that a class is available for such laughter. And that if I laugh more, my stress will be relieved, and my BP might go down. I know this: The email made me laugh. The work I do makes me laugh. But somehow, I suspect it's not the kind of laughter that Company was hoping for. Yes, Company is a silly thing, isn't he? And if you don't think that I should bestow personhood upon Company, then you haven't seen The Corporation.

8. Husband looks good. I'm jealous. I need to join a gym.

9. I admire Dominick Dunne's writing. He creates a wonderful sense of intimacy without being intrusive. He's honest, but in a gracious way. He also has a wicked sense of humor, and, while he writes about tragic, and often gruesome events, he never loses his compassion. He must live forever!

10. I dreamed of St. Barth's last night.

Things I Will Never Do

I am happy in my East Coast cerebrally protective pod of elitism. Yes, yes I am. And I realize that's the flip side of a certain coin. But in my protective pod, here are things I will never, ever do:

1. Go to Las Vegas.
It's everything that's wrong with America, and I have no need to support our ongoing wrongness of bigness, profligate waste, and the continuing insistence that we create cities and habitations where naturally, none should exist.

2. Go on a cruise.
Now, with all due respect to N. who is the on-air voice of a certain cruise line, I just cannot, will not, and flat-out refuse to cruise. See above, Las Vegas, RE: profligate and that pretty much says why, or read Kristoffer Garin's "Devils on the Deep Blue Sea".

3. Go to the Disneys.
See all of the above.

Post-holiday Post

Ooh, post holiday bloggy goodness. How nice.
And a new year.
And another month of writing "06" on everything and then having to cross it out.

Well, the vacation was nice, and so were the holidays. So, I suppose that helps. And there's a dinner party on Saturday! Yes, I can delay the onset of January for one more weekend. Thank you Miss Q for having a soiree.

And now for something completely different: Three reasons that should be valid for calling in sick to work:
1. My bra doesn't fit right and I can't concentrate.
2. I forgot to iron.
3. I don't like any of my shoes.

And now, three good things for the start of 2007:
1. The iPod seems to be working.
2. I got new slippers for Christmas! Warm feet just in time for New England to embrace global warming!
3. Hope. (Okay, okay, cheesy, but necessary.)

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.