Woke up at 7:00 a.m.  It's been 56 hours with smoking,  I've been entertaining myself with listening to new CD's brought home from Lita's; not like I'd grade the hundreds of papers sitting in the living room with grades due Tuesday.  So far, Robert Cray's Shoulda Been Home is a winner, while I'll be passing Teddy Geiger and Nick Lachey to the first interested party.  Since Lita's CD organization requires advanced-level Concentration playing every few months, I was able to enjoy her Mott the Hoople CD quite by surprise when it turned up in a WEA sampler CD case from 2004.  I'm starting to get antsy, though.  David is a late sleeper, and I can't wake him with laundry stuff, plus the local laundromat is already packed by this time on a Sunday.  It'll have to wait until later, but at least I get to enjoy the soccer recaps in Spanish.  I imagine the ad for KMEX soccer announcers reads something like this in Spanish: "Seeking announcer for Sunday futbol.  Salary DOE, excellent benefits.  Will train.  Must be able to say 'Goooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooal!!!!!' for minimum of thirty seconds."

Last night, I received an email from a family member for "5-Minute Chocolate Mug Cake."  (No, I am not reposting it.  I'm starting to think that having sent it to anyone last night qualifies as a hate crime).  In the world of forwarded emails, Diana tends to be a bit selective; I generally read what she sends.  I can't say the same for others (some whom I've never met and ended up on their spam lists anyway).  I've always wondered who starts these phantom emails, these heterogeneous collections of syrupy angel-butterfly-flower-puppy photos, because I'd like to sit down and pick their brains for a while.  They are made of some special sunshine that I am not and damn glad not to be, but I still think I'd like to hear their take on Anne Geddes' real contribution to the zeitgeist of global happiness.

Anyway, the email caught me in a weak place.  After 56 hours, here was single-serving, instant chocolately gratification showing up in my inbox, and smoking is ALL about instant gratification and pain avoidance.  In fact, researchers in Portugal have uncovered evidence that there are nicotine receptors on the tongue, information I can't even begin to explore in a single blog, although I will attest that there are foods I love when I smoke that revolt or overwhelm me when I don't. http://www.scientificblogging.com/catarina_amorim/nicotine_receptors_found_first_time_mouth_raise_new_hopes_antismoking_therapies

You can't go around the Weight Watchers block as many times as I have without knowing where the cracks are in the sidewalks.  Still...after 2 1/2 days of not smoking...the sweet endorphin rush of cocoa, sugar, and fat...and ready in 3 minutes?  In the MICROWAVE?  IN ONE CUP?  (Do I need to make any further comment on the psychosis of addiction?  You see where this is going).   This became breakfast, along with whole milk I went out and bought on impulse last night.  It was good - no lie - as good as any cake mix.  It would have been even better if I hadn't omitted third TBSP of oil and the chocolate chips, which I covered by drizzling it with chocolate and caramel syrups. 



The fear of "Points" didn't stop me from making it, but I thought I'd plug in the standard recipe just to see.  23 Weight Watcher points.  23.  That equals 5.83 hours of walking at 3.5 mph.  Considering I get 26 points a day, I needed to stop all food consumption for today as of 9:30 a.m.  Having recently read Susan Shapiro's Lighting Up in which she discusses how her first attempt to quit smoking involved eating 20-25 Blow Pops a day (1000 calories),  you think I'd have known better.  It took Shapiro's psychiatrist pointing the calories out to her to make her stop blaming post-smoking weight gain on the nicotine.  

In retrospect, it was just cake...not the best I've ever had, but maybe after my next 5.83 hour walk, I might just come home and make another one WITH the chocolate chips.  In the meantime, I'm not seeing how eating stuff like this is going to improve my life in any way, so the recipe goes on the shelf.  For now, I'm following Dolly Cowen's advice to "Count it as a vegetable and move on."   I deleted the email, and perhaps the time it will take to Google it next time will give me pause.  For the next three months, if you see me heading for anything with sugar, kick me.  Hard.

I simply must mention how much I admire those of you who: 1. Can get Twitter to work, and 2. Make time for it.  I've noticed that I average one post a month since taking over Yearbook, my latest baptism of fire now that I can do a Domesday report like a big girl.  I couldn't let it all just get EASY for a while, right?  And now that I'm getting YB figured out, we have a fertility doc appt. Monday, because we have so much free time to raise a child.  For those of you who dread the spawn of others, I will do my best, should said child ever be born, to ensure that it is delightfully, amusingly precocious and not ask you to tolerate its foibles.  I would be just as happy with a pack of dogs at this point in my life, who will never mouth off to me, wreck my car, smoke pot, flunk Math, etc., but I will give this the college try for the sake of my husband, who would be a good and just father. 

Since I mentioned Domesday (the annual group financial report for you non-SCA'ers), I have to say that, between Darach, YB, and the pursuit of a house, 2008 was very much a year of crunching numbers.  Choosing English as a career, I believed, would shield me from dealing with numbers beyond doling them out to appropriate parties to keep body and soul together.   Upon first looking at the Regnum on the shire website, I distinctly recall seeing "Exchequer" and thinking, "There's a job I'll never do." (Snorts.  Guffaws to self.  Rolls eyes).  Actually, I don't mind it at all, now that I've been taught what goes where.  YB...had I but known it's a $100K budget, I would have fled in abject panic.  Nonetheless, we're about $24K down from breaking even with six months of selling time to go, and our rep shows no signs of panic. 

House hunting, budget balancing, crazy economy and so on have all had one common effect; that is, to engage my East Coast Dago Cheapness Gene.  We are saving for a house, or at least trying to save enough for  3% down on modest digs should they arise.  It took five months to talk me into buying UV coating on the senior pictures.  Our rep, Michelle,  noted her concern over my economical ways.  I protested, "Come on - your dad is Italian.  He's got to have at least one pair of pants with shiny knees."  Apparently, not only does he own slick-kneed trousers, but a shirt he refuses to jettison has eleven dime-sized holes and counting.   I love luxury too much to give up things like tonight's stay at a $200 B&B, or dinner at Novo, but I do have some really old clothes (my mom has promised she will burn my Green Express sweatshirt if I ever bring it to Pittsburgh again) and I bargain hunt like a tourist at an outlet mall.

Last night, this tendency manifested with spectral malevolence in my oven.   I've recently begun cooking for a number of reasons; namely, to create palatable dishes whose content I trust (peanut butter is off the menu) while managing to save money. Having been put on to Alton Brown by Lorenz, one episode I watched last week involved making a good chuck roast.  Imagine my joy in discovering that Ralph's had boneless chuck roast on ridiculous sale last week.   I've made decent pot roast before, knowing now that I was led into a fool's paradise of thinking it's a dish impossible to destroy.  Had I paid attention, I would have noticed that AB was using a bone-in blade roast, a much more rightly expensive cut than the disgusting little rawhide I bought.   I get that these things make a difference, just from learning to cook chicken with skin on and take it off later after years of eating boneless, skinless chicken breasts that tasted like garlicky shoe tongues.  But the gene kicked in, and the sale roast came home with me.

Conventional wisdom holds that good preparation and cooking can eventually render any roast into a fine meal, but this one probably needed a long, saucy bath in a crockpot.  I cooked it, and cooked it, and cooked it some more; four-and-a-half hours on low heat in a lovely tomato/red wine reduction with baby carrots and apple slices.   (The reality of a roast, I've learned, is minimal preparation and hours of long, hungry waiting).  What emerged was a golden brown, spicy-crusted football with delicious carrots, apples and sauce.  My husband knows from cuts of beef - his grandfather owned Stanley's Steakhouse on the Rincon - and his critcism of anything tends towards gentleness.  Still, his honest evaluation was, "It would have been delicious, but it's an awful piece of beef."   Sure, If I had left it in for, say, another three hours, it might have given up its collagen and tenderized, but we generally don't eat dinner at midnight.  I was confused enough watching Battlestar Galactica with him to pass out in confusion before 11:00 p.m., so we likely would have had 3:00 a.m. charcoal and a visit from VCFD.

Another lesson learned both in cooking and economy.  I've just had the last of the carrots and apples for breakfast.  This roast (what's left of it - we were starving and willing to chew and chew) will go into the trash on our way out to SLO.  The next roast I do like this will come from Whole Foods and will probably cost us our down payment, and the next cheapo roast will take a prolonged swim in the slow cooker.  Tonight's dinner at Novo will cost more than last week's groceries, be worth every penny, and I can't wait!

When I took over the Yearbook,  I harbored some delusion about spending six or seven months putting together a book, sending it in, and getting it back all bound and ready to go in a few weeks.  If I'd have known how big the numbers were that I'd be juggling, or that I'd have to take untrained staff from zero to production in under ten weeks, I'd have quietly accepted a class of afternoon frosh and called it good.  Sadly, this blog suffers for it, and all I ever have time for is the occasional meme.  I dig a good meme as much as the next meme lover, but I'm really hoping to get back to real writing soon.

(Non-sequitur: a special shot-out to Jon Stewart for reviving "jagoff" this week, the quintessential Pittsburgh cuss word.)

 1. Wrapping paper or gift bags? ------ Wrapping paper from family.  Unwrapping presents and extracting presents are not the same thing.

 2. Real tree or artificial? ----- Artificial and small.  We'll get real ones when we have a house, as it makes David very happy.

 3. When do you put up the tree?---- If and when we get around to it.  This year, we have not retrieved our baby tree from storage.  I may go out and get a tiny fresh tree, if I can find one.

 4. When do you take the tree down? --- Sometime in January.

 5. Do you like eggnog?----- I passionately hate it.  It's basically uncooked custard.  Ick.

 6. Favorite gift received as a child? --- I got this kit by which one could make eye pencils and lip pencils at home.  I made a couple of lumpy pencils and gave up, but I enjoyed it nonetheless, and it may have spawned my deep love of cosmetics.

 7. Hardest person to buy for? ----- My parents

 8. Easiest person to buy for? ------  David. If you can't find something for him at Think Geek or Fry's, he's truly lost his joie de vivre and should be medicated immediately.

 9. Do you have a nativity scene? ----- Two: one from Lenox, although incomplete, and a white from...Branson, MO!

 10. Mail or email Christmas cards? ------ I'm leaning towards a combo, but will probably mail this year.

 11. Worst Christmas gift you ever received? ----- A black sweatshirt with a zebra done entirely in glitter, along with a white one with an embroidered plaid Christmas cat.  WTF?

 12. Favorite Christmas Movies? ------The Family Man and The Shop Around the Corner...not traditional, but nice Christmasy messages

 13. When do you start shopping for Christmas? ----- Varies by year.  I've been done by Halloween some years, and just getting stated Dec 23rd during others.

 14. Have you ever recycled a Christmas present? ------ Yes. I've also tossed them out.   I have finally convinced my mom to stop spending her fixed income on shipping me clothing that I will never wear.  Those pieces I tended to keep around for a couple of years, thinking I could work out the guilt with closet time.

 15. Favorite thing to eat at Christmas? ------ Mom's stuffed squid when I'm in PA.  My grandmother used to make these massive ravioli at Christmas time.  Four to six ravioli constituted an entire meal for most adults.  Grandma's ravioli spurred competitions among the cousins, and my brother's record was twenty-four.  I thought we were going to have to hospitalize him.

 16. Favorite Lights on the tree? ------- Retro-looking ones with the flowery plastic rings

 17. Favorite Christmas song? ------ I tend to like religious ones, particularly "O, Come, O Come Emmanuel" in Latin, and traditional late 19th/early 20th century music.  

***Of late, I have noticed a tendency for renditions of "I'll Be Home For Christmas" to state "Please have snow and mistletoe, and presents on the tree for me."  On the tree?   Can somebody please inform me if you put presents ON the tree? 

 18. Travel at Christmas or stay home? ------- Travel to Pittsburgh when I can.  If you've never been in NYC at Christmas, I demand you get on a plane and go right NOW.

 19. Can you name all of Santa's reindeer?-----If I sing the song

 20. Angel on the tree top or a star? --- I like both.   I've been looking for a truly breathtaking treetop angel for  a long time.  

 21. Open presents on Christmas Eve or morning? --- Right now it's morning.  Once I have a house, it will be Christmas Eve, which was Grandma's ravioli night.  Still, I must watch Midnight Mass from the Vatican.  It's the one thing that keeps me from attending Midnight Mass. 

22. Most annoying thing about this time of the year? --- The secularization of the holiday, the crowds, and really bad Christmas music.  Mannheim Steamroller and Trans-Siberian Orchestra are clearly on the Muzak in Hell all year long.

 23. Favorite ornament theme or color?-- Don't currently have one.  I'm still nostalgic about my mom's tree.  I do like the red wooden apples I have. 

 24. Favorite for Christmas dinner? --- Italian: Feast of the Seven Fishes 

 25. What do you want for Christmas this year? --- Fragrances!  L'Instant de Guerlain, Prada, Chanel Chance, and the list goes on. 

Borrowed from Cavalaxis a meme I shall post later. I am grateful to be home, having passed a rough Saturday night in GWW Headquarters, in front of the flame-thrower-of-life. You'll have to ask for details if you like gore. In brief, I think it involves my gallbladder and my attempts to abuse it, and how my uggs will never be the same.

So, to the meme.

Post 10 things that are going right in your life right now, it doesn't matter how small. You're happy with your cup of coffee. You saw a flock of geese flying over. ANYTHING. Things that make you happy. Things that make you smile. No pressure. It's small and it's simplistic, but maybe for the time you are compiling your list, you'll forget about the bad going on and focus on something good.

1. I got to spend another war, albeit short, with my loving and lovable Darach family, each their own majesties.

2. We encountered the most beautiful rose-peach sunset sweeping across the hills of Simi all the way down the 118, trees and Italian cypresses silhouetted in black. Then we turned the bend to the 23 and saw tonight's first star against a smoky violet sky with a brilliant full moon.

3. Tonight I get to be grateful for the changed relationship between my father and myself as a married woman. I was able to pop over to his place for a few minutes to help him get his free credit reports and be home in less than an hour. Even if I go to Oxnard, he's coming with us, or we'll stay here with him.

4. I am, in a strange way, grateful for this unification effort...even if it passes. It's tested my faith and I feel stronger for it. I'm willing to accept new chapters in my life now, including moving to Oxnard in the heart of Darach, and maybe going back for a new degree.

5. I love autumn, and relish winter. I await November rain, Christmas lights, and coooooooooooooooold. I love going walking outside when I can see my breath.

6. I am learning that my husband knows how to handle me, and I love than he can.

7. My epiphany #1 over the weekend: I am forbidden to say to myself, "I would like to do..." I either plan it then, or push it behind another action item.

8. My husband's giggle during South Park, and his desire to narrate it from the other room.

9. I bought new knitting needles and yarn, and it's going to cool down in the next two weeks.

10. All of my plates (figurative) are spinning nicely on their poles.

Yeah, yeah, I know. I've actually been writing in my secret journal.

I have about 10 minutes of energy left, and I'm kinda buzzed, to tell the truth. Here's a meme so everyone will know I'm still alive:

Ten Things I Wish I Could Say to Ten Different People Right Now:
1) Why are you f-ing people doing this to your community?
2) Why is my responsibility to pay for other people's mistakes? (700 BILLION)
3) Thanks for the wine! (drinking a 2001 Syrah given by a friend)
4) Why won't you people stand up and do something!
5) Get me out of here.
6) We're moving to Vermont.
7) Come down off your high horse and join the little people.
8) Your child is going to be a serial killer. (Right on, sista)
9) OPEN YOUR F*****G EYES!!!
10) Wake me on November 5th (after I vote on the 4th). If McCain is president, put me back to sleep. If McCain is president and unification passed, rent me a U-Haul and point me towards Canada.

Nine Things About Myself:
1) When someone isn't eco-conscious, I'd like to slap them senseless.
2) I generally assume others are happy with their own lives, with or without me.
3) I prefer facts to emotion.
4) I would volunteer as a ghost hunter if I didn't fear inhuman hauntings.
5) I want to live somewhere smaller with a greater sense of community.
6) I'm not sure if I want kids, and time is running out.
7) I miss my mom in Pennsylvania every single day.
8) I want a dog so, so, so, badly.
9) I would give anything to be able to afford to work for a nonprofit.

Eight Ways to Win My Heart: (Robey already won mine, so this is for everyone else. He just said, "You're typing, and I can see the tiger in your eyes.")
1) Be a straight shooter
2) Be as concerned about the world around you.
3) Don’t assume I don't know what I'm doing b/c I lay low.
4) Trust me to help you when you need it.
5) Love dogs and/or wine.
6) Temper life with humor.
7) Have some sense of the divine
8) Finish #8 for me

Seven Things That Cross My Mind a Lot:
1) What will become of my children if I have them?
2) I need to do this and this and this and this and.....
3) Am I missing something?
4) I was born too late.
5) There's a manifesto in me somewhere (good, not evil)
6) When will I have a dog?
7) Somewhere, there's a cotehardie that needs me in it.

Six Things I Do Before I Fall Asleep:
1) Usually, take Ambien or Tylenol PM
2) Fret with household stuff
3) Set multiple alarm clocks
4) Baffle David with my incoherent end-of-day thoughts
5) Watch mindless cartoons
6) Leave glasses on, so David has to take them off.

Five People Who Mean a Lot:
1) David
2) Dad here
3) Mom and Dad back East
4) Linda, Lita, Kim (my trinity)
5) All the other people who may not know they're an integral part of my life

Four Things I'm Wearing Right Now:
1) Robe
2) Undergarments
3) A hat (always)
4) Exhaustion

Three Songs I Listen to a Lot:
(according to my iTunes Play Count)
1) "Give It To Me" by Madonna (Paul Oakenfold remix): the 2009 Yearbook Anthem
2) "A Little More" by Skillet
3) "I Take You With Me" by Melissa Etheridge

Two Things I Want to Do Before I Die:
1) See the aurora borealis (ROAD TRIP, TRISH!!!)
2) Go to Abruzzi, Italy

One Confession:
1) I don't have all the answers.

Time flies! Tomorrow, David and I celebrate one year of marriage tomorrow (how many "Get Out Of Being Labeled A Newlywed" passes does this buy me?), and it seems like the year just evaporated. We still haven't picked out wedding pics and it's our first anniversary. just grilled, a task at which neither of us particularly excel. I like to assuage my ego in this regard by telling myself that it's a sign of greater evolution; we've reached an apex where the ability to cook over fire has been bred out of our DNA. There's a serviceable plate of burgers on the table, but they don't taste exactly as I want them to taste. He's currently updating his online aquarium and feeding his virtual fish, while continously ignoring my requests to add a clownfish to the tank. We are dorks. It works. We are happy.

We leave for a cruise in the morning (my fingers were on the wrong row of the keyboard just a second ago; misplace your hands and try to type the word "cruise" several times in a row. I don't get out enough. Once, trapped in traffic, my friend and I made 147 words from "Chevrolet." But I digress.) San Diego, Catalina, Ensenada and back. We've opted to stay on the ship in San Diego and chill out, because we can always crash at my uncle's place in Oceanside later in the summer and hit some spots we've wanted to get to (Stone Brewery, Wild Animal Park, etc). Both of us love Catalina, so we'll wander around. We decided on the wine tour in Ensenada, because everything I've read says the city itself is mostly like TJ without the possibility of a hasty escape to the border. I can't believe we're actually going, because I always convince myself that only other people do things like this, I sit on my money like a hen on an egg, and never end up taking more than two or three days' vacation to the same places along the Central Coast.

We're still house hunting, and an article in the VC Star pissed me off so badly today that I wrote my first ever comment in the paper:

http://www.venturacountystar.com/news/2008/jul/13/navigating-the-housing-market-falling-prices-out/

A blanket statement to homeowners, particularly those who bought during the bubble - I'm sorry. I can't imagine how much it sucks to have bought a house at the top of the market and watch it lose half its value. I'm watching two friends of mine losing houses right now. At least for one, it was only a second property, but for the other, it's a primary residence. However, the absurdity of the last few years has to correct itself. The LA Times printed a couple of great letters today that mirror my sentiments; how on Earth did ANYONE who makes $26K a year and signed off on a $500K loan NOT know they wouldn't be able to afford the payments, ARM or not? I can't support the idea that everyone involved in this is a victim of the loan industry. You don't have to be a lawyer to get it - you just have to be able to count. I was offered a $600K loan by Countrywide in 2006, ARM or neg-am or interest only - anything but fixed, and a friend assured me, "California real estate will NEVER go down!" Ummm, yeeeeah. I'm with Horatio on this one: "If your mind dislike any thing, obey it." Natural Law apparently applies to economics as well as the asassination of Danish royalty.

We have an offer in on one house for which the agent did call mine to confirm receipt. We figure that since she wasn't laughing or turning up her nose like the other lady did, maybe we're still in the running. If you don't hate me for the previous paragraph, think happy house thoughts for us.

A Happy Bastille Day to all.

I'm a Bulldog

What Kind of Puppy are You?

My husband:

I'm a Dalmatian

What Kind of Puppy are You?

I'm still here. Delving into summer projects is slowly decompressing me from the the school year, although I still still can't stay up past 12 or sleep past 7:15. I've restored the front of the apartment to a state wherein I would not be mortified to have people show up at the front door. Just think - it only took 2 weeks to clean and organize the front half of an 800-square foot apartment! Everything is put in its own place now, but it looks like one of those IKEA displays, "Living in 500 Square Feet." We're still looking for a house, but signs point to waiting a while longer being a prudent move.

Must start on the back of the place.


more cat pictures

From  Wilhelm:

What are You afraid of?

[ ] the dark
[ ] staying single forever
[X] being a parent
[X] giving birth
[ ] being myself in front of others
[ ] open spaces
[ ] closed spaces
[X] heights
[ ] dogs
[ ] birds
[ ] fish
[ ] spiders
[ ] flowers or other plants

Total so far: 3

[X] being touched (it's not my fave thing)
[ ] fire
[ ] deep water
[ ] snakes (as a concept, no.  In proximity with venom, yes)
[ ] silk
[ ] the ocean
[X] failure
[ ] success
[ ] thunder/lightning
[ ] frogs/toads
[ ] my boyfriends/girlfriends dad
[ ] boyfriends/girlfriends mom
[ ] rats
[X] jumping from high places
[ ] snow

Total so far: 6

[ ] rain
[ ] wind
[X] crossing hanging bridges
[X] death
[ ] heaven
[ ] being robbed (am I present?)
[XXXXXXXXXXX] falling
[ ] clowns
[ ] dolls
[ ] large crowds of people
[ ] men
[ ] women
[ ] having great responsibilities
[X] doctors, including dentists (doctors, no; dentists, YES)
[ ] tornadoes

Total so far: 9

[ ] hurricanes (anyone think to put earthquakes on the list?)
[X] incurable diseases
[X] sharks
[ ] Friday the 13th
[ ] ghosts
[X] poverty
[ ] Halloween
[ ] school
[ ] trains
[ ] odd numbers
[ ] even numbers
[X] being alone (more appropriately, being without David)
[X] becoming blind
[ ] becoming deaf (already have tinnitus, so this is a real possibility)
[ ] growing up

Total so far: 14

[ ] creepy noises in the night
[X] bee stings (ALLERGIC!)
[ ] not accomplishing my dreams/goals
[X] needles
[ ] blood
[ ] dinosaurs
[ ] the welcome mat
[ ] high speed
[ ] throwing up
[ ] falling in love
[ ] super secrets 

Final Total: 16

If you get more than 30, I strongly recommend some counselling
If you get more than 20, you’re paranoid.
If you get 10-20, you are normal.
If you get 10 or less, you’re fearless.
People who don’t have any are liars.


Why this reminds me of this poem, I have no idea:

Macbeth...wherein are three Scottish murderers charged with the slaying of two people, and one escapes. They should be ashamed to call themselves Scottish.    However, in comparison to WvF's score, it seems to indicate that romance kills, but haggis is forever.

Link: The Which Shakespeare Play Are You? Test written by macbee on OkCupid Free Online Dating, home of the The Dating Persona Test View My Profile(macbee)

Love this meme. Breaking C (I'm just like that), but inviting all comers. This is like "Tell us how OCD you are" for me:

a. list seven habits/quirks/facts about yourself
b. tag seven people to do the same
c. do not tag the person who tagged you or say that you tag "whoever wants to do it"

1. I can hear when running water changes temperature from cold to hot.

2. I am the most comfortable when my hands and feet are warm and the rest of my skin is ice cold. I also dislike sunlight most of the time. I would be happiest somewhere like Seattle, and I married a man from Florida.

3. I love the sound of animals eating crunchy food.

4. I must verbally acknowledge the presence of dogs when I see them, even while driving. I prefer dogs to babies, which makes me a little nervous about this whole family planning adventure in which we're involved.

5. Riding Cavalaxis' coattails (which is a little like being on a magic carpet ;), I am fascinated by the paranormal, although not thrilled about things demonic. Perhaps my Catholic background has dulled my palable sixth sense, but three people have told me they've sensed "blue energy" around me, and either seen orbs or felt a presence and/or heard voices connected to me. I also think my husband has a poltergeist following him, because since he moved in, black clothing - lots of it - disappears from our apartment.

6. According to my husband, diorganization upsets me almost to the point of pain. It puts me into a state he calls "gerbil mode," in which I cannot stop moving until some semblance of order is restored, running like a rodent in a wheel.

7. I have a scar that, when viewed sideways, looks like South America. It resulted from a fall down the stairs at age seven. Again, the sixth sense; not normally a defiant child, I argued intensely for not wanting to go down the stairs to put away my crayon can on the shelf right before the tumble. My elbow dislocated and popped through the skin. It took six nurses, my grandfather and my dad to hold me down when they realigned it. Yummy, huh?




Why is some of this so accurate? Run, Alia:

I know everyone around me plays RPG games. My husband's choice of game depends on his mood; if he wants company, then it's World of Warcraft. When he wants to chill by himself, it's Diablo II (especially since the birthday fairy brought him the expansion pack). Maybe it's a Pisces thing, but I don't do the killing bit. If there's a GTA character that hides under a bus bench and cries, that's me. The one time I DID try to play one of David's WOW characters, I mostly smacked it headfirst into a wall for a few minutes before accidentally plunging it off a cliff.

Aside from the usual preloaded games on the computer, I have four others: Scrabble, Word Mojo (when Scrabble just isn't sexy enough), Yahtzee, and my fave, Polar Bowler. Yes - I live on Main Street, Dorkville, USA. I know. I recently reloaded PB on the computer after the file went corrupt, having forgotten how addicted I become. The object is simple: fling a polar bear in an innertube down an ice alley at ice bowling pins. This appeals to me; the bear is happy, I am happy, nothing dies (although you get booed by the invisible audience if you throw a gutter bear). The better you play, the more characters and lanes you unlock, including a walrus on a snowmobile and Santa in his sleigh, but I find the bear has the most satisying combination of arrogance and skill, along with a great collection of Hawaiian shirts.

Witness his behavior after this fine spare:



I managed to get two new lanes unlocked, and I'm not even going to ponder the fact that I bowl best at Papa Stumpy Lanes:





PB contemplates his next move:




24 more get-ups 'til summer.

I do not have a criminal mind, apparently. I do have a mind to occasionally worm out of a tight spot, or to keep the peace with a well-placed white lie, but generally, I am a straight arrow. Perhaps if I deviated a bit from the norm, I could come to understand how tweezers pose a threat to security. Mine were the subject of scrutiny this morning at the Ventura County Superior Court, infinitely more fascinating to the guard than the fact that my hand was injured and wrapped in a bloody napkin.

Having received my fourth annual summons for jury duty (they NEVER summon my retired father, who's just itching to go), I decided to get it over with. I figure if I can run the gauntlet of "one day, one trial" in April each year, it might prevent me from ending up stuck on a grand jury some entire summer. Actually, the jail term I'd serve for courtroom histrionics if they ever tried to put me on a grand jury would probably eat up most of the warmer months. It's not specifically jury duty I dislike; it IS a necessary civic duty. Rather, the sensation of being penned in for the day creates rabid oppositional defiance in me. Despite the fact that visits to the courtyard necessitate repeated trips through security, I HAVE to get out of the building at least twice an hour.

I hit the cafeteria for breakfast after orientation, and chose a chair which, looking normal, turned out to have a seat disconnected from the two front legs. It was sturdy enough, but envision the swift, mindless motion of shifting closer to the table - butt up, chair in, butt down. Now imagine my finger sliding between the jagged metal of the broken chair and the seat, with my ample hindquarters closing in. Some instinct kicked in, or I'd have probably sheared off the tip of my finger. In retrospect, it was just enough drama to distract me from my captivity, although I wasn't sure where to get first aid. There was NO WAY I was wandering out of the complex while getting called to a panel, and having to do this all over again with two hours already served.

With my bloody hand elevated, I marched to the other side of the scanner, and the guard asks, "Do you have tweezers in there?" Why do people ask these questions? I could only think of Hamlet: "How if I answer no?" Seriously, if I said no, would I be off to jail, or would he assume he'd been seeing things? You have the The Great Eye, Wizard; you tell me - do I have tweezers? Then he says, "Can you take them out please?" I don't know what possessed me to answer, No. I'm bleeding. They're in the makeup case. YOU take them out." He did, and wasn't too pleased, but sent me on my way after a little more bitching on my part.

What am I going to do - pluck someone to death? As much as I twitch during jury duty, I've never considered fashioning a shiv out of my tweezers and stabbing any of the staff or fellow prospective jurors.

All of this reminded me of warnings I found in my IPod "Readme" file:

"You also agree that you will not use these products for any purposes prohibited by United States law, including, without limitation, the development, design, manufacture or production of nuclear, missiles, or chemical or biological weapons."

"THE APPLE SOFTWARE IS NOT INTENDED FOR USE IN THE OPERATION OF NUCLEAR FACILITIES, AIRCRAFT NAVIGATION OR COMMUNICATION SYSTEMS, AIR TRAFFIC CONTROL SYSTEMS, LIFE SUPPORT MACHINES OR OTHER EQUIPMENT IN WHICH THE FAILURE OF THE APPLE SOFTWARE COULD LEAD TO DEATH, PERSONAL INJURY, OR SEVERE PHYSICAL OR ENVIRONMENTAL DAMAGE."

I thought weapons of musical destruction had more to do with the garage bands that play ACHS at lunch. Anybody that can create a biological weapon with an IPod should be hired for NASA or a Bruce Willis film, or both, IMMEDIATELY.

Making it more tempting to have offspring:

http://www.cafepress.com/dogs_of_war/1696652

Most of us have seen this, but it's so delicious:

The Jean-Paul Sartre Cookbook
by Marty Smith, Portland OR
forwarded by Alastair Sutherland (kaidan@ix.netcom.com)
from Free Agent March 1987 (a Portland Oregon alternative newspaper), Republished in the Utne Reader Nov./Dec. 1993

We have been lucky to discover several previously lost diaries of French philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre stuck in between the cushions of our office sofa. These diaries reveal a young Sartre obsessed not with the void, but with food. Apparently Sartre, before discovering philosophy, had hoped to write "a cookbook that will put to rest all notions of flavor forever." The diaries are excerpted here for your perusal.

October 3
Spoke with Camus today about my cookbook. Though he has never actually eaten, he gave me much encouragement. I rushed home immediately to begin work. How excited I am! I have begun my formula for a Denver omelet.

October 4
Still working on the omelet. There have been stumbling blocks. I keep creating omelets one after another, like soldiers marching into the sea, but each one seems empty, hollow, like stone. I want to create an omelet that expresses the meaninglessness of existence, and instead they taste like cheese. I look at them on the plate, but they do not look back. Tried eating them with the lights off. It did not help. Malraux suggested paprika.

October 6
I have realized that the traditional omelet form (eggs and cheese) is bourgeois. Today I tried making one out of cigarette, some coffee, and four tiny stones. I fed it to Malraux, who puked. I am encouraged, but my journey is still long.

October 10
I find myself trying ever more radical interpretations of traditional dishes, in an effort to somehow express the void I feel so acutely. Today I tried this recipe:
Tuna Casserole
Ingredients: 1 large casserole dish
Place the casserole dish in a cold oven. Place a chair facing the oven and sit in it forever. Think about how hungry you are. When night falls, do not turn on the light.
While a void is expressed in this recipe, I am struck by its inapplicability to the bourgeois lifestyle. How can the eater recognize that the food denied him is a tuna casserole and not some other dish? I am becoming more and more frustated.

October 25
I have been forced to abandon the project of producing an entire cookbook. Rather, I now seek a single recipe which will, by itself, embody the plight of man in a world ruled by an unfeeling God, as well as providing the eater with at least one ingredient from each of the four basic food groups. To this end, I purchased six hundred pounds of foodstuffs from the corner grocery and locked myself in the kitchen, refusing to admit anyone. After several weeks of work, I produced a recipe calling for two eggs, half a cup of flour, four tons of beef, and a leek. While this is a start, I am afraid I still have much work ahead.

November 15
Today I made a Black Forest cake out of five pounds of cherries and a live beaver, challenging the very definition of the word cake. I was very pleased. Malraux said he admired it greatly, but could not stay for dessert. Still, I feel that this may be my most profound achievement yet, and have resolved to enter it in the Betty Crocker Bake-Off.

November 30
Today was the day of the Bake-Off. Alas, things did not go as I had hoped. During the judging, the beaver became agitated and bit Betty Crocker on the wrist. The beaver's powerful jaws are capable of felling blue spruce in less than ten minutes and proved, needless to say, more than a match for the tender limbs of America's favorite homemaker. I only got third place. Moreover, I am now the subject of a rather nasty lawsuit.

December 1
I have been gaining twenty-five pounds a week for two months, and I am now experiencing light tides. It is stupid to be so fat. My pain and ultimate solitude are still as authentic as they were when I was thin, but seem to impress girls far less. From now on, I will live on cigarettes and black coffee.

Courtesy of the goddess Ani DiFranco:

thirty two flavors

squint your eyes and look closer
i'm not between you and your ambition
i am a poster girl with no poster
i am thirty-two flavors and then some
and i'm beyond your peripheral vision
so you might want to turn your head
cause someday you're going to get hungry
and eat most of the words you just said

both my parents taught me about good will
and i have done well by their names
just the kindness i've lavished on strangers
is more than i can explain
still there's many who've turned out their porch lights
just so i would think they were not home
and hid in the dark of their windows
till i'd passed and left them alone

and god help you if you are an ugly girl
course too pretty is also your doom
cause everyone harbors a secret hatred
for the prettiest girl in the room
and god help you if you are a phoenix
and you dare to rise up from the ash
a thousand eyes will smolder with jealousy
while you are just flying past

i'm not trying to give my life meaning
by demeaning you
and i would like to state for the record
i did everything that i could do
i'm not saying that i'm a saint
i just don't want to live that way
no, i will never be a saint
but i will always say

squint your eyes and look closer
i'm not between you and your ambition
i am a poster girl with no poster
i am thirty-two flavors and then some
and i'm beyond your peripheral vision
so you might want to turn your head
cause someday you might find you're starving
and eating all of the words you said

My friend Lita once brought Trader Joe's appetizers to a party. I can't exactly remember the filling, but it involved puff pastry with some kind of cheese and fruit, and possibly caramelized onions. I enjoyed them, but one of coworkers nearly gagged, referring to her as "Satan's Little Baker." I don't bake often, but I'm fairly certain that, this weekend, I nearly relieved her of the title.

Being someone whose culinary adventures should be accompanied by a rousing rendition of Wagner's "Ride of the Valkyries," I should have known better than to attempt an ice cream birthday cake for David.  While my husband jealously guards his privacy, I will tell you that my inquiring about past birthdays led him to actually snarl at me like a Yorkie protecting a Milk-Bone.  They were not always good ones.  He tends to downplay his birthday, would hamstring me if I gave him a party, and will never tell me what kind of presents he wants.  I figure I have to undo twenty-ish bad birthdays.  Look for your invitiations to a whopping big party on his 47th birthday or so.  Given this, the first married birthday cake was going to top all cakes, ever: a masterpiece of unparalled proportions.  Lemon Rhapsody in Carbs! 

"Ice Cream Cake" is what he said he wanted, although he never specified "homemade;" having been the test subject in some of my previous cooking experiments, he NEVER would have asked for such a thing. Price out a custom cake at Cold Stone, and you'll see why I decided to bake.  I had considered Baskin-Robbins, but they couldn't do the flavors he'd like best.  I figured, it's CAKE - how hard is it to bake a CAKE? And I've already made fabulous ice cream in the ice cream maker, so why not try the "premium" recipe and make him the perfect ice cream birthday cake? I'd found a great recipe for frozen lemon custard on Epicurious.  Off to the store.

There's a reason they call it Epi-CURIOUS.  Note all of the rhetorical culinary questions in the previous paragraph.  

Actually, I remembered that I'd planned to do this halfway through a bottle of Rusack Pinot Noir at Enoteca Toscana, 4:30-ish on Friday (his birthday was yesterday, but he had the weekend off and I'd planned for the cake to be a surprise).   Dashed off to Kim's, s little buzzed from the Pinot, to pick up a Springform pan, and she had extra lemon cake mix and frosting as well, saving me a trip to Ralph's.  Woo-hoo!  I get thirty precious minutes back.   If any gentle reader happens to have been at my shower or wedding, you know that Kim bakes amazing cakes, and I'd thought to ask her to make this one.  However, she has two small children, a business, and is attending esthetician classes full-time.  She'd have done it if I'd asked, but I couldn't.  I don't know where she finds her energy reserves.  Her schedule would reduce me to pile of smoldering goo.  Plus, I wanted to serve my husband my very own creation, made by his wife with her own hands and ingenuity.  

Imagine me in my kitchen ( I always look a little worried and puzzled).  At Kim's suggestion for a richer cake, I replace the water in the recipe with half and half and toss in a package of pudding mix,  beat every lump out of the batter (which I later discovered is an error), and pour it all into the Springform.  The air is suffused with lemon.  I zest lemons and thaw strawberries for the custard.  I have an hour and half until David gets home from work.  Life is good.  About forty minutes later, the cake is golden on top.  I decide it's time to do the knife test, to discover the GELATINOUS MESS in the center.  After breathlessly explaining the situation to Kim, she asks, "You didn't pour all of the batter into the Springform, did you? You should have baked two layers separately."  How in the hell was I supposed to know that?  She tells me to tent the golden part with foil and let it keep baking.  Finally, the knife comes out clean, and out comes the cake, after a commiseration call to Alia in which we regale each other with tales of failed lasagna (hers) and crunchy sprouted pea stew (mine).

The plan was to freeze the still-warm cake overnight, as this causes the steam inside to crystallize and makes for a nice moist cake, not to mention making it easier to handle.  After a reasonable period of cooling, I popped the Springform on my gold-crowned beauty.  The bottom? CHARRED.  Black.  At  7:30 p.m.,  I tossed it in the freezer anyway, thinking I'd cut off the bottom.  The custard is another story.  Suffice it to say that I don't think it takes the people at Epicurious an hour to cook custard.   By 8:00 a.m. Saturday, I had already dissected the cake (thankfully, there was still enough for two respectable layers), made the ice cream, layered and refroze, figuring I'd ice it later and hope for the best.  Unripened, the premium recipe cream REALLY tasted like sweet lemon-strawberry mayonnaise.  Still, we had an ice cream birthday cake in the freezer.  Working title: The Lemon Lump.

We joined Linda for Renaissance Faire and dinner at Villa Sorriso on Sunday, and after a long lovely day, the cake was to be the crowning achievement.  I cut off half, and iced it all up, at which point it looked like a half a smiley.  A thought occurred: I have decorating gel in the fridge!  I'll add a cute little face!  Rather than describe it, I'll let the picture tell the story.

I present the Angry Lemon Birthday Football Frankencake:



P.S. It was surprisingly good.  We grabbed two forks and ate the whole half-cake.
 

after recovering from respiratory dreck this week. Still a little phlegmy (such a tasty word, isn't it?). Off to the land of real Italian food, where people can pronounce my maiden name without stuttering. A very happy Easter/Equinox/weekend to all. Home on the 27th. If you see my Robey wandering about, ask him if he's remembered to eat that day.



xoxo,
C-