Thanksgiving

The Cali girls have arrived in Nashville for Thanksgiving. And there are certain ways you can tell the girls are in da house:

• Well, the first sign is that case of wine spinning around baggage claim. That’s right – we travel with our own wine.
• Since the wine was all tucked underneath the plane, we had an opportunity to carry-on the bread crumbs. That’s right, a whole briefcase-sized bag of special California bread crumbs. I hope everyone likes them some stuffing. [we’re going to the heartland….and yet….we brought bread]
• You can tell the Cali girls are in town because there’s already been a petition started in my sister’s suburban Hermitage neighborhood to begin curbside recycling. [Petitions…it’s what we Californians do]
• Speaking of recycling, that box that was originally full of wine is now packed with reclyclables and compostables for the return trip [careful with that, baggage handling]

And the best way you can tell that the Cali girls are in the house…there’s a salad with dinner.

 

=)

Facebook

When the end of days occurs…it is somehow going to be connected with Facebook, I just know it. After resisting the FB lure for years, I have finally succumbed to this insidious hobby by “friending” three people. I had to get on there to track down a friend [Sarah] that seems to only be communicating via Facebook [Palin] these days.

When I logged on – the first thing that struck me is the constant stream of friend recommendations. Why does FB care if I only have 3 friends? What do they know about what’s coming that I don’t? This constant pressure to “friend” is like a pyramid scheme I haven’t figured out. [Has anyone checked to make sure this isn’t just some portal to Scientology?]

The second thing I noticed is that I already had like 57 friend requests. I don’t even know most of these people. And most of the one’s I did know were a little iffy:

• My entire third grade class.
• Every single last friend of Susie from my 3rd grade class. Isn’t there some etiquette about trying to “friend” friend of friends? In fact, there should definitely be classes of friends on here….Friends; Friends-of-Friends; Yeah-Her-Name-Sounds-Familiar Friend, She-Can-Help-Me-Get-A-Sale/Job/Loan Friend; I’m-Only-Friending-You-Because-You-Saw-Me-On-Rita’s-List Friend; etc. You know…categories…just like we have in real life. [What?? I’m in your crazy-blog-lady category?!?]
• The Prehab Center…I’ve only been on FB for 20 minutes and the Prehab Center knows enough to intervene?

Actually – I found the whole list overwhelming so I am sticking with my list of 3 friends. But I did enjoy looking at all the pictures people use. I LOVE the profile photo’s that look like professional head shots. Someone is either in sales or trying to “friend” an ex.

And why do all your “friends” get notified about everything you do? Do I really want to know that “Rita P and Your Boss are now friends.” Really, ignorance is bliss.

 

The worst part? If any of your friends are on-line, you are automatically asked if you want to “chat”. Oh great....“SaveMeTheCall” just went obsolete.

Fired!

Let’s be clear about who wears the pants in this pantsuit-wearing family…it’s Julieta, the cleaning lady/dog sitter/military junta. After a somewhat bumpy start [see post  >> http://savemethecall.blogspot.com/2008/11/that-cleaning-lady.html ], we have settled into a nice little routine around here that involves Julieta’s near-residency and a small stipend from Molly’s trust fund. Unfortunately, however, the apple cart went flying yesterday when we canceled our Thanksgiving “booking” for Julieta’s dog sitting [what?! It was two whole days notice!]

Knowing that last minute changes are about as popular as the pens I leave in my pocket on laundry day…I [of course] made RITA deliver the bad news [while I pretended to be trapped in my office on a conference call]. I guess Julieta stewed about it all day when not bouncing quarters off the bedding because as she was loudly and defiantly packing up, she apparently told Rita “I quit!” And while not explicitly clear, I don’t think she was just quitting the dog-sitting gig. I think we were getting fired from the whole package of bundled services.

You really want to see Rita freak? Present her with the hard reality of no one coming to clean up the mess I leave behind me. “Panic” is not too strong a word. I am completely oblivious to the Crisis in the Kitchen until Rita races into my office exclaiming “You’re the one who fixes these things…go talk to her!” ummmmm, okay honey, but I don’t really “fix” things as much as I capitulate – you got that, right?

So there I am on the side steps of the house, trying to talk some sense into Julieta and ensure that I don’t ever have to dust the wine room. It was not pretty. It was like every bad break-up fight you’ve ever had [Molly go inside, the grown-ups need to talk.] ….tears and shouting and hysterics [and that was just us] …every transgression that ever happened got trotted out…”I KNOW we canceled on you back in August and you’re right, we NEVER remember to replace the windex. How can we make it better? Can we just sit down and have a Family Meeting?” The neighbors probably thought we were crazy. [it didn’t help that Rita & I were still in our pajama’s at 2 o’clock in the afternoon – but hey, I work better in pj’s!] It was completely reminiscent of a Christopher Guest movie [I’m guessing I’m the Jane Lynch character].

Apparently, the key to negotiating with McC and Rita is to use broken English…cuz we folded like a cheap tent. “Okay, what if we pay you for the whole week ANYWAY? And you can still come over and spend an afternoon with…ummm “OUR” dog…and don’t even worry about doing the cleaning next week…take the week off. No?” Okay Julieta…I’m going to write down a number on this piece of paper…

I think in the end we are going to pay her extra to not come to our house, we will begin tidying the house before she arrives and we will…at least occasionally…refer to the dog as Molly Martinez.

But it’s fixed.

Beirut

As of late, our quiet little neighborhood has taken on the air of a spring-time market…in Beirut. It seems like the state of California fiscal situation is not so precarious that they can’t afford to replace every water and sewer pipe in the neighborhood.


As construction begins, I get to enjoy not only neighborhood streets that resemble any given road in Posey County Indiana [PoCo for life], but ALL of my work calls are now accompanied by the symphony of dump trucks, jack hammers and….wait for it….Molly in a constant state of ape shit.

And just to get us off on the right foot with all of this construction, the orange-vested men were in the front of the house yesterday with a camcorder filming our yard, porch and driveway. Imagine looking up from your morning coffee to see some strange man filming the front of your house. [America’s Most Wanted?] It turns out they were just making a record of the “before-scape”. [Nothing says “mass-destruction” like the need to FILM the yard that you soon won’t recognize]. Throughout the duration of their 10 minute movie shoot, there’s a little white dog hurling herself at the screen door while barking herself into hysterics. Make sure you get THAT on tape.

But at least they waited to shoot the scene until I started my third quarter conference call With. Half. The. Company. One of my friends asked why I didn’t just put the call on mute…but it was MY conference call. So I conducted the better part of the meeting while teetering on the edge of the back porch, trying to shout over the dog locked in the bedroom all while not taking ONE more step lest I fall out of range on the home phone. On the afternoon iteration of that same call, the CEO kicked it off by asking if my dog would be joining us for THIS review. Good times.

And they haven’t even started construction in our yard yet.

No Free Lunch

My last few work trips have actually been peace missions…opportunities to get out & meet some of the people on my team. I call it the Kinder, Gentler BTB tour [also known as the "no-one's-getting-placed-on-a-performance-plan" visit]. Aside from the REAL meeting with the site manager, the entire team-wide agenda generally consists of a tour, a quick pep talk/thank you and lunch with the team. The lunches are generally a hoot. Last week in Cincinnati we ordered Skyline Chili…thereby combining two of my least favorite foods (spaghetti noodles and soup-like-chili. I guess that’s what happens when you won’t approve overtime.) Of course, I shouldn’t complain because 1) at least it wasn’t spiked and 2) lunch for the ENTIRE team cost me $33.41. $33.41 for 6 people! “Ummmm….did I fail to mention that we weren't going Dutch? What? You used coupons?” I guess I should be embarrassed to report that lunch in the airport yesterday cost $26 [no coupons].

At the next stop of the tour – Hattiesburg, MS – we were REALLY extravagant and ordered Roly Poly sandwiches. Seriously, people – has no one heard of an expense report before? Of course, I was halfway through my Roly Poly turkey wrap before I realized the rest of the office was still saying grace [I thought it just got quiet when everyone started to eat].

In Lexington, we ordered sandwiches from "Butt Rub Bar-b-que.” I was going to ask them to repeat that, but I wasn't sure I wasn't in the middle of an HR violation. After lunch, I gave my whole big pep talk and went over results and how great the team is – my whole spiel. When I finished, one of the girls raised her hand (!) and the ONLY question I got was "how do you say your name again?"


I think I’m really making a difference out there.

Traveling Through

I'll admit...I often head to the airport wondering if something blogworthy is going to happen. A long blog = a long day.

Such was the case last Friday when I was in every airport on the eastern seaboard. Okay, okay - I exaggerate, but I did manage to buy a starbucks in five different airports, if that tells you anything. [Who is my travel agent again? oh that's right, it's the girl who can't remember to pack her power cord on a consistent basis.]

The day started at the unnatural hour of 4:30 a.m. at the Philly airport for my non-Southwest (!) flight. First, I didn't know that airports closed, did you? Arriving at the airport before it opens is REALLY demoralizing. Second, my watch said 1:30 a.m., traditionally considered the END of the day, and not the beginning of the day. Third, any boarding pass leaving from gate CXLD signals a really shitty morning. [When you ask the gate agents where gate CXLD is, they just look at you sadly on account of your bad luck coupled with your dim wittedness]. Not to worry though, the canceled flight was reinstated 15 minutes before [scheduled] takeoff. Little did I know I was boarding the Gitmo Express where my fellow passengers and I were going to be stranded for 75 minutes without so much as a cup of coffee ["Diet Coke.  I demand a Diet Coke"]

Who needed coffee, though, when the pilot came on the loudspeaker every time I started to doze off to declare that "I really don't know what's going on. [Boot up your laptop and find out?] But I am hoping we are going to have you out of here in the next 5 or 10 minutes". You know....I am not sure a clueless freaking pilot is on the pre-flight checklist, so I am guessing it's going to be a tad longer than a commercial break before we get going. And sure enough...the ground crew must have stayed up late watching the World Series because my 1 hr and 11 min flight took off 1 hr and 21 minutes before my connection in Charlotte.

Which meant I had PLENTY of time for that coffee in Charlotte.

Trick or Treat

They warned me that Halloween in Kensington (our neighborhood) was a popular affair. That they "bus the kids in" to take advantage of.....the absence of candy corn? Nonetheless, I thought the neighbors were crazy when we showed up at their house on Saturday night and found 6 Costco-sized bags of candy on hand. At first, we were worried kids were skipping the house, so somebody put tea lights at the end of the driveway and made a virtual runway for trick-or-treat landings.  I thought the combination of open flame and flammable kid costumes was a bad idea, but it sure pulled the kiddies in.

At any point in time between dusk and lights-out at 8:15 (a/k/a the "make it stop" point), there was a line of trick-or-treaters that was 20 kids deep (!) You would have thought we were handing out flu shots. There were so many kids that our little dinner party initially took shifts on the porch handing out candy. Rita was relieved of her candy-dispensing duties when she demanded to hear "trick or treat" before parting with the Milky Ways. [I was relieved of my candy-dispensing duties when I spilled beer in Spider Man's jack-o-lantern candy bucket. He's going to have a tough time explaining THAT one to his parents.]

Then our buddy Joe showed up in his grim reaper costume and became the permanent candy-giving ambassador for the house [costume = duty]. Things only got busier as the grim reaper kept shouting "I have cahn-dy" (apparently the grim reaper has the hint of a Boston accent, who knew). Anytime there was more than about six seconds of conversation at the front of the line, though, some kid in the back would yell "Hey mister - hurry up!" It all had the eerie feel of the department store Santa scene from "A Christmas Story".

But I can proudly report that Molly didn't bark once [except at the kid dressed like a mailman].

The next morning, it looked like the neighborhood had hosted an all night rave sponsored by M&M Mars.

Curb Schmurb

This is one of my favorite rental car stories...mostly because it's about Rita and not me =)

A couple of weeks ago we were in Albuquerque for the sad occasion of a memorial service. Even though we were only there for about five hours, we managed to thoroughly endear ourselves to Thrifty Car Rental.
It turned out to be a good thing we were 20 minutes early for the service, because on the turn into the church, Rita ummmm....missed?....the parking lot entry. But you know Rita, she is not one to let obstacles get in her way...even when made of concrete and painted yellow. So up and over (or through?) that pesky curb we went! While the ensuing impact knocked my Diet Coke flying, I counted myself lucky the airbag wasn't working that day.

Once the car finished its shudder and came to rest...I could tell we were in trouble. Mostly because my side of the car was sinking to the sound of "psssssssssssssst" emanating from the front, passenger-side tire. As I sat there, suddenly looking up at Rita, I KNEW it was not the appropriate time to start laughing. But when she asked me if I thought it was flat, I could only reply..."the tire or the axle??". tee hee?

The highlight of the event, however, was during the car return. I don't know how someone can hide one of those donut-looking spare tires - but Rita did it. Rita P. matched Juanita, our Thrifty Car Rental checkout girl, Move. For. Move. around that vehicle. Honestly...Rita somehow managed to keep herself between Juanita and the car at all times. It was a dance of deception, but a dance of beauty, nonetheless. And when Juanita finally opened the trunk (containing the flat tire/bent rim combo), Rita exclaimed "look at that big plane!" and slammed the lid as Juanita looked skyward. It was straight outta Monty Python, but it worked.
We only went 18 miles the entire trip in Albuquerque, but we needed 5 tires to do it. And SOMEONE lost their Platinum status at Thrifty Car Rental.
=) =) =)

Maddening

If you are not a fan of the TV show “Mad Men” – you may just want to skip this post.

Who knew that all you needed for a trendy TV show was a rotary phone?? [I think my house in Nashville had one right before the move…I had to unplug it for the dial-up internet.]

For those of you who don’t watch Mad Men – it is a show on AMC set in the 1960’s to which those of us who no longer need to watch Sunday night football are hopelessly devoted. (I am just amazed that in the 60s...three martini's at lunch made you terribly creative.)

There are even weekly chat logs all over the internet that thoroughly review each episode and what it might mean [not having to keep up with espn.com gives me extra time to look around the internet].  Some of the meaningful questions posed include the following:

• What does the wedding invitation for November 23, 1963, coming just a day after Kennedy's assassination mean? [Besides someone is in for a really shitty wedding?]
• What does the pink fainting couch symbolize [Ummmm, that a gay boy is on the writing team?]
• Oranges are a portent of death. So when Gene remarked that his ice cream "tastes like chocolate but smells like oranges," I figured he was a goner. [Really? don’t tell the Volunteer nation about that orange thing.]
• Does the Aquanet pitch showing four people seated in a convertible foreshadow the Kennedy assassination? [I really don’t think you get to elevate it to foreshadowing if it involves an Aquanet commercial]

My favorite scene so far is when the little girl comes running into the kitchen with the dry-cleaning bag over her head and her mother’s only response is “Sally! If I find a pile of clean clothes in my closet you are in big trouble…now run along”.

When they make a nostalgic show about the "naught" decade (the '0x years)...do you think they will just show a bunch of people blogging?

Obama's Boys Club

I don’t know if you guys saw it in the news on Monday, but Obama got knocked for having a “boys club” administration because his basketball games and golf outings don’t include women. Coincidentally, staffer Melody Barnes joined Obama for his Sunday golf game.  Which all made me think of a couple of things:

• You know Melody Barnes was thrilled about this assignment. Weekend golf with the boss AND her picture in every newspaper in the country in her golf outfit. [Nice ballcap Melody.]
• They used to let Michelle join the basketball games – til she kicked their ass
• Critics complain that almost half of his top advisers are male.
• Presidential basketball isn’t the hottest ticket in town. FLOTUS weekly bunco night is where the real action is.
• Next thing you know, he’s going to try to soften his image by talking about last week’s episode of Top Chef (but I can sooooo not believe Jen messed up her fish dishes during Restaurant Wars, can you?!)
• The man has two young daughters. Let him enjoy his basketball game before he has to get back to scrapbooking.
• Boys club – please. Hilary cleans up at the weekly poker game.
• I’m sorry, we just emerged from 8 years of John Wayne and you think THIS administration has too much testosterone?

Your Northwest Itinerary

Did you see the latest? You know that two Northwest pilots on their way from San Diego (!) who overshot Detroit by 150 miles and had to turn around at Eau Claire, Wisconsin? They “missed their exit” because they were on their LAPTOPS. I love it!

• Oh I SEE, please turn off and stow all electronic devices and anything with an on/off switch…so as Not. To. Compete. For. Bandwidth with your pilots!
• One of the pilots had 20,000 hours of flying time, but he was apparently watching DVDs through most of it. 
• “Look at this awesome video game I’m playing – those look just like real fighter jets coming to shoot down a commercial flight” 
• At least they quit claiming that they were just engrossed in Sully Sullenberg's new book.
• I hope their update to facebook was worth it. 
• The facebook update in question? Included a smiley face =)  
• They were allegedly trying to figure out the new scheduling software so they could get their PTO requests on the books… I think they’re going to get that time off, alright. 
• Ummm, as I sit here, I am thinking that maybe I shouldn’t be entering this blog from my boss’s staff meeting.

=)

Sarah Palin's Reading, Writing and Rhetoric

Sorry to be offline for so long.  I am hoping to be back posting this week or definitely next week.  In the meantime, did you know that Sarah Palin wrote a book (Christmas present for Maeve?).  So in honor of her book "writing", here's a little blog post courtesy of David Letterman:

Sarah Palin's Top 10 Tips for Writing a Book

1. Close the windows so you don't get distracted by Russia
2. Increase vocabulary, use words like "slanket"
3. First buy yourself 100 grand worth of writing outfitss
4. Don't write a word until the check clears
5. Limit yourself to one "you betcha" per chapter
6. You can never have enough stories about ice fishing or killing things with your bare hands
7. When in doubt, just type (wink)
8. Don't let writing cut into attending "Fire Letterman" rallies
9. Have the book translated for European countries like London
10. I'll try to find you some tips and bring 'em to ya. 

 

 

Who's the Boss?

Oohhhh - there's going to be a power struggle on Hilldale Rd. No, no - not between me and Rita [that one is long resolved  =)]...between Rita and the woman who cleans our house. And ummm....stays with our dog. The uh...13 [or so] nights a month we're not here.

It seems that Julieta is doing some rearranging while she is here. Me? I don't notice so much. But Rita is not happy surprised that Julieta thinks the mixing dishes stack a little better in the middle drawer. It doesn't help that I blame every mishap in the house on Julieta. "Who put all the limes in the meat drawer?" Julieta! [We have a meat drawer?] "Who put the water glasses in the wine glass hutch?" Oh - that Julieta! [I thought they were ALL wine glasses?] "Who stuffed the Titans pom-pom under the couch cushion?" - okay, okay...I better fess up to that one.

I thought about hiding the juicer in the cutlery drawer just to watch the fireworks...but then I figured a fallout with the cleaning lady/dog sitter/roommate would temporarily put me in charge of cleaning the house. I decided I would just move the mixing bowls back to where they started.

Meanwhile, whole pieces of furniture have moved around in my room and as long as it doesn't impede my path to the portable a/c - I don't even notice.

Dog Sitting

When asking others to check on your dogs while you're away - it is generally a good idea to Leave. Them. A. Key. No - in this instance, I am not the one who neglected to leave the key. Undeterred by what I've done to Molly's manners, my neighbors asked me to check on their brand new puppy a couple of times on Sunday. And while said neighbors left detailed instructions on timing, and portion control and kongs and whatnot....they skipped a certain salient fact....like how the $%#@&$ do I get in?

Thinking that a key awaits me under the welcome mat, I sauntered up to the house in time to begin a forty-five minute scavenger hunt for button, button, who has the $%#&@ button key. I don't think you can appreciate just how much cussing I am capable of when I am tipping over plants, looking under grill covers and crawling under porches, all while half-suspecting that I'm getting punk'd. Molly, who was with me at the start of this escapade, is strutting around the yard taking bathroom breaks in plain sight of one of the imprisoned dogs' view through the window - just to rub it in a little.

I called a mutual friend whose seemingly sensible advice was to "just break in". But did she forget what burglar she was talking to? I would have been the Watergate burglar that got everyone caught. Besides, my idea of breaking-in involves a brick through the window, not sly little lock jimmying. Which is when I got creative. If you call every dog sitter in town - you will EVENTUALLY find one that has worked for your neighbors....and is willing to give their key copy to a perfect stranger... if yet another mutual friend...will vouch for you. It takes a village alright. By the time this little escapade was [finally] over, half the town had a vested interest in little Quincy's potty break. I'm thinking the neighbors bring their cell phones on their next bike ride.

But think of the all dog-sitting chits I collected in a single day...

Catastrophe

When catastrophe comes...I know what it will look like. It will look like Molly catching the skunk that has taken up residence in the back yard.

Which brings us to last night.

Molly is not a real light sleeper. I'm pretty sure a burglar would get the TV halfway outta the house before little miss Rip Van Winkle finally awoke from her slumber. [But once she did, by god, there would be a LOT of barking.] So when she got up to go out in the middle of the night last night - I thought it was a real potty emergency and NOT just a critter that she was dying to chase.

Knowing that skunks like to hang around Rita's all you-can-eat vegetable garden....I thought I better put Magoo on a leash to keep her out of harm's way. Ummmm...just for the record...if a skunk is right outside your patio doors...that leash is not going to do you a damn bit of good. JUST as Molly makes a move for the rustling bushes, my dazed-3-a.m-ass figures out what the @#$% is going on, scoops up my dog and DIVES for the indoors. Omigod - it looked like I was auditioning for the next Bruce Willis movie [Spray Harder?]

Molly...meanwhile...begins running from office to bedroom, attacking the glass French doors in each room, itching for a fight [that she will lose like an overmatched American Idol contestant standing in front of Simon Cowell]. When I finally catch up to her in the bedroom, she is standing face-to-face with Pepe Le Pew, who has clambered onto the back porch and right up to the French doors in order to show us who's boss. Now, I've never seen a real skunk before, much less in the middle of a 3 a.m. wake-up call. So the glass door separating us did nothing to prevent my complete panic. Sounding a lot like Howard Dean after he lost Iowa, my only contribution to the moment is a hysterical-sounding shriek that seems to freeze both of them. "Aiyeeeeeeee!"

Thank god I leave every light in the house on when Rita's not here, because when I finally come to my senses, I have to race Molly to the other end of the house before returning to close what seem like 72 windows to the back yard. Molly immediately runs to the side entry of the house, sticks her head out of the little kitty door and continues her taunting. Jesus christ, Molly - if it were a coyote would you go up and introduce yourself?? Get away from the doors!

I wondered why the neighbors looked at me funny this morning, but it's probably because they heard a door-slammin', dog-barking, girl-shrieking hissy fit coming from the house last night.

Pepe never actually did spray us, but I am pretty sure the outside of Rita's house has one HELL of a malodorous clear coat.

Dead To Me

The Titans have decided to start their season with 3 straight losses, pretty much putting the playoffs out of reach before we even exit September. Seriously - they have to break my heart in the first quarter of the season? So even as my ESPN the Magazine taunts me from the mailbox, I find myself with some unexpected free time for the remaining 13 Sundays of the NFL season.

Here are some ideas on how I can spend this new-found time:

• Figure out how to get a refund for 13/17th's of DirecTV's NFL Ticket.
• Try to glom on to English Premier League soccer [they watch it in bars each week - it must have potential. Go Bolton Wanderers?]
• I hear they have beaches out here.
• Maybe I should get out and travel a little. 
• Read Sarah Palin's memoir?  
• Write catchy little Christmas poems about the farmer's market? [The farmer's market being the alternative Sunday morning ritual. {sigh}]
• My mother would like to point out that CHURCH is always an option.
• Spend the day understanding what it must be like to be a Cincinnati Bengals fan.

At least the number of football blog posts will go down.

My Trainer

Okay - I know there's a recession and it's completely extravagant...but I totally go to a trainer. Every week. Once. When I'm home. (Okay - maybe it's not as extravagant as I thought).

And this trainer is a freakin' drill sergeant. Obviously, if you have to pay someone to make you workout, you kind of need tough - and she is tough. I had one session where I tried to fool the scales on my monthly weigh-in by not eating breakfast or lunch beforehand....passed out. The next workout was interrupted by my vomiting the turkey sandwich I ate a little too close to the workout's start. Notice I said interrupted and not canceled - I told you...she's tough. I have been known to shout "NO MEANS NO" in the middle of a [girls's] push-up, but there's never a reprieve with Louis Gossett Jr.

Each workout starts with our own unique ritual - she asks me how I did on food this week...I lie...she makes me do squats til I cry. I asked her what I could do about being a little "broad in the beam" [as my mother so affectionately (?) put it]. Her answer: "Eat less." Thank yoooooouuuu. But then she & I probably have different expectations. I am happy with merely changing the trajectory of my weight gain while she probably expects people to actually lose weight.

I didn't bother telling her about the whoppers and cheeto's episode.

But Where is the Rest of the Room?

From Managers Meetings to NYC. That's right, I came to NYC to join Rita for a few days while she worked in this market. Ummmm, I know hotel rooms in NYC are always smaller than the "real America", but the hotel we are staying in is a little ridiculous:

• It makes the tent from camping look positively spacious
• I cannot escape the sensation that I am staying in an RV. Seriously, everything in the room is three-quarters size. And judging by the noise outside, we ARE in the middle of traffic...maybe it IS an RV.
• I figured out why the bed doesn't have a footboard: 1) it won't fit and 2) so my feet won't touch it when they. Hang. Off. The. End. of my not-quite-full-sized bed.
• The cleaning lady doesn't even have to enter the room to clean it.
• Rita was right...you really can sit on the toilet and work on the computer balanced across the sink basin.

The Hampton Inn it ain't.

Managers' Meeting

Sorry to miss posts so far this week. I had organized a meeting at one of our sites for all my managers. A two day workshop/meeting for 10 people from around the country.

Now...you're a reader of this blog...just how "organized" do you think this meeting that I hosted was?

• Next time I tell people to control costs...I should make sure SOMEONE rents a car. 
• ummmm, how do I tell the President of the Company I forgot to put him on the agenda?
• So WHAT if everyone else's idea of a fancy company dinner doesn't include a sports bar and Monday Night football?!
• The meeting refreshments are heavily weighted toward Diet Cokes and bar-b-que potato chips. [Who knew water was so popular?]
• I guess I forgot the projector was hooked to my laptop when I toggled between my teammember's presentation and my blog. [I think my team all knows me a little better now]

 Should I consdier my team meeting a failure if "every man for himself" emerges as the team motto?

350Z

I haven't really had time to blog for today because I am trying to sell my car.

The main reason I am selling it is 1) it's loud [apparently I didn't read the fine print about sports cars] and 2) while I CAN put a bike rack on it... it feels for all the world like my $2,000 bike is velcro'd to the car with little more than a prayer to keep it affixed. The only bike rack that works is the one that you rest on the trunk of the car and its "arms" balance between the trunk and the hatch. It reminds me of that balancing wine bottle holder where an arc somehow supports the weight of the entire bottle. Not really the most reassuring image as I'm barreling down I-5, trying to keep up with friends who have real bike racks. Every single time I put that bike rack on, I spend the entire drive thinking about the blog I'm going to write when the aerodynamics of a California freeway conspire against me to achieve 10-speed lift off [I imagine it will float under the wheel of an oncoming RV and then my bike will become little more than an accessory for Flat Stanley.]

But hey...it's a seven year old car with 43,000 miles on it - pretty good. [And if the airport in Nashville had been 10 miles closer, I probably wouldn't have half that many miles.]

But I think the tires may need a little maintenance. My friend is helping me sell the car. It was all he could do to contain his shock at the noise the tires are making. “When was the last time you balanced these?” Maeve: “Balanced them on what?”

When it's clean and the tires don’t sound like a helicopter outta an episode of M*A*S*H any more, I may decide I like the car.

At least until the bike flies off.

Are you ready for some...

....FOOTBALL?!

As I have previously mentioned...football season is just not that significant out here in sunny California. I am trying to get everyone geared up for the Titans Super Bowl run, but I detect a serious lack of interest. Here are some of the signs that these Californians are just not that into football: 

• Their plans for December 25th center on "family, travel and the birth of Christ" rather than the Titans/Chargers game being played that day
• The only readers of this blog who know LT is in a walking boot live in Nashville
• Their concerns about blackouts relate to electricity, not home games
• They think ESPN stands for Environment, Science, Philanthropy and Nature
• They didn't even know to trash talk me after the Titans [Barely! Barely, I say] lost their season opener.
• None of them want to meet at a bar at 9:30 in the morning for kickoff.
• They completely miss the adorable charm of a few [4] Titans car magnets 

Look for the Titans to recover from their opening week loss when they host the Texans this weekend  =)

Groceries Schmoceries

Things really go to hell around here when Rita travels. I got home from my fight flight on Monday to discover el zilcho to eat in the house. I mean...I don't even think we have ingredients right now. Well...I take that back....someone obviously made a batch of pesto before traveling because we had about 13 containers of that, thank goodness. They're all sitting in the freezer right beside [what i'm guessing is] the watermelon-a-sicles (?) made by freezing leftover watermelon. [I'm all for not wasting...but who is going to eat those?] Throw in about 300 lemons [for some reason] and a cheese wheel of parmesan and you have the entire contents of our fridge/freezer. Rita (a/k/a MacGyver-in-the-kitchen) could probably make a 6 course meal outta that....but all I could make was a face. [This is exactly why people buy frozen dinners.]

And then...inexplicably...in the otherwise barren cupboards...there was a bag of Cheetos. Ummm...did someone break into our house and infect us with junk food? Oh wait a minute...I think I just ate the dog sitter's groceries. [I wonder where she put the rest of her stuff.]

Luckily, my mother had sent me a care package filled with chocolates. What is that you said, McSisters? You didn't get a care package from mom?? Hmmmm, wonder what that means? =)

Which, of course, led to a breakfast, lunch and dinner consisting of Whoppers and Cheetos. [Blog first, grocery shop second.]

And oh yeah...Diet Cokes.

[And THIS is how I play the pity card for dinner invites]

Fight or Flight

My behavior really regresses with air travel. I had a less-than-enjoyable flight on Northwest [yeah, I didn't know they were still in business either] from Ft. Wayne Indiana to San Diego last night. First, we spent 25 minutes on the unseasonably warm tarmac in Ft. Wayne before the pilot finally told us that the air conditioning on the Cessna only works in the air? Oh puh-leaze. Air conditioning that runs on cumulus clouds [and unicorn horns?].

After our delayed flight finally arrived in Detroit...I knew my 45 minute connection was in jeopardy when the flight attendant flung open the doors of our plane saying "Watch out Tony...we have runners". Which seemed absolutely lost on Tippy the Turtle in front of me who seemed intent to meander his way through his connection.

After pushing Mr. Turtle [and about 23 others] out of the way, I finally reached gate Z86 and breathlessly asked the two waitresses at the gate if the flight had left. To which they responded..."Hey - we're in the middle of something important here."

Oh. No. You. Did-ent. And while I did not say...a) "I am going to take this $&#^@ ball and cram it down your $^#@) throat"; b) "You Lie!" or c) one single thing about Beyonce's video, I may have said..."Obviously not customer service" and/or "perhaps you could put away your crossword puzzle and help me get home." [ummmm.....BTW...I'm still waiting on my bags from that flight.]

And then...as I made my way to the back of this whacked out flight....I. Couldn't. Help. But. Notice.....the elderly Costanza-looking fliers in their matching fluorescent yellow t-shirt/ballcap ensembles obtained from the tea party-sponsored taxpayer march in D.C. this weekend. Oh PLEASE let me sit next to one of them....I'd have blogs for a year.

No dice. But not to worry....me and my inner Serena Williams caught up with one of them in the bathroom line.

Mother Nature's Bedroom

Wednesday's blog covered some of the highlights of the camping trip - but I can honestly devote an entire blog to sleeping in a tent. Really...38 is not the age where one ought to start sleeping in tents. I mean...by the age of 38, your body has become accustomed to certain things...like heat. And a bed without rocks.  Who knew I was such a wuss??  [that question is rhetorical!]

I noticed that camping paraphernalia seems tailored to the somewhat....petite [or maybe it's just Rita's camping paraphernalia?]. While lying in the "really big" tent we used, I could safely touch my feet to one end and my head to the other end. I was one yoga pose away from being out in the elements. And everything else was pretty compact too...little baby pillows and sleeping bags that almost stretched from your toes and your head. I was waiting for someone to hand me lunch on Barbie's first tea set.

And let's just talk about the "mattress pad". I know tall city girls showing up without the right any camping gear [I had my pen & paper!] shouldn't complain, but calling this thing a mattress pad didn't really set the right expectations. It was more like a workout mat without all the cushioning. After 30 minutes of laying on it, I would lose all feeling in my hip. So I'd flip to the other hip...and then to my plenty-padded ass...and so it went all night long 'til I dreamed of nothing but rotisserie chicken. No wonder people get up so early when they camp...it's a form of surrender.

I did learn one thing though...snoring is not terribly popular in close-quarter camp sites. (Not too much sound-proofing on those tents, y'know.) It took all of about 15 minutes at breakfast to figure out that "it wasn't the train, it was Maeve snoring". Rita and I were in the camping suburbs the second night.

But all in all - I was a good sport (and I would TOTALLY do it again.)

YOU LIE!

George Costanza's father was apparently invited to the State of the Union address last night. [Okay, okay...I know Obama's speech last night wasn't the state of the union, but "Presidential address to a joint session of Congress" doesn't exactly roll off the old blogging tongue, y'know.]

I had planned to blog some more about the camping trip, but then I saw President Obama get heckled during his speech last night by the Republican congressman from South Carolina. In case you missed it, Representative Joe Wilson channeled his inner fourth grader and shouted "YOU LIE!" at the President's assertion that the health care bill would not cover illegal immigrants.

I tried to check out Representative Joe Wilson (R-S.C.) on his web site...but it was experiencing an "Internal Server Error" [presumably resulting from 30 million people googling "heckling jackass" at the same time.  I'm guessing that's a little more trafffic than joewilsonforcongress.com has seen in a while.]

So I have developed my own notes on Representative Joe Wilson from S.C.:

• ANOTHER crazy politician from South Carolina?!? How crazy do you have to be to lose an election in that state? [psssst...South Carolina....Alaska called, they want their crazy crown back.]
• Has anyone told Michelle Bachmann she's now in second place for official Congress looney tune?
• Apparently...Rep. Joe Wilson is now qualified to be the Republican Vice Presidential nomineee in 2012.
• The guy shouts "lie" at the ONE point in the debate that is not subjective?? What part of "Nothing in this subtitle shall allow Federal payments for affordability credits on behalf of individuals who are not lawfully present in the United States" do you not understand? [okay, okay...not the best sentence ever constructed...but that qualifies as black and white in Washington-speak]
• Isn't Joe Wilson the guy married to Valerie Plame? Who knew he was a Republican?
• We just missed his John 3:16 sign

At least football starts tonight so we can get onto some legitimate heckling....GO TITANS!!!!!

She's a Good Sport

I guess every family has their own vetting methods. The Pirkl's strap you to the front of a raft headed down a class 4 rapid and if you stay on, "you're a keeper".  =)  [it looks something like this:]

I heard "she's a good sport" a lot this weekend, if that tells you anything about the trip. [I've decided that "She's a good sport" really means you're lousy at something - but you don't complain much.] Here are some other highlights from the weekend:

• Given the 50 degree water - the rafting company offered to rent us wet-suits. Something about wearing a costume that 5 other people have pissed in this week seemed worse than being cold. [At the time]
• The guide's safety talk that preceded launch lasted almost as long as the rafting trip. I went ahead and drafted my will during half of it, in case I "was pinned under the big blue sombrero [i.e., raft]"; "got wacked in the head with the t-grip of someone's errant paddle" or "got sucked right out of a lifejacket not sufficiently tightened". [Ummmm...can't wait to get started??]
• Know what's better than putting up your first tent ever? Putting it up in the rain. The freezing rain. Only to find out later it's been set up downhill. Good times.
• "That wasn't a mule deer you saw outside your tent last night Kirk...that was me." [Any good vacation involves being mistaken for a mule deer.]
• I seemed to be the only one who brought pen and paper on the completely water-soaked raft. The other five blogs I wrote didn't survive "The Meat Grinder" at Whitehorse Rapids.....

And while it may not sound like it from this blog...it was a complete blast. At least the parts where I wasn't under the big blue sombrero.

Packing

How does one pack for a 10 day trip that starts out camping in Oregon, proceeds to Corporate headquarters in Philly and ends at my sister's home in Ft. Wayne, Indiana? Stupidly, that's how. Since I just finished my packing about 4 hours before we got here [what...me procrastinate?], I thought I'd share my thoughts on packing for the mixed-use itinerary:

• An already tough packing assignment only becomes harder when, with regards to camping, your girlfriend tells you to "pack for rain...lots of it". Great...plastic clothes. Those should come in handy at Corporate. 
• "And oh...in addition to rain, it's supposed to get down to 42 degrees at night." Water sports AND the first snowfall...Have you guys ever considered a beach vacation?
• On top of everything else...I am packing in 103 degree heat in San Diego. [Have I mentioned no air conditioning in the house?] When I finally get to Philly, I am going to wonder why I have all these tank tops packed.
• Rita tried to lend me a pair of her sweatpants to wear "just around camp". Capri fleece sweatpants...they're all the rage. No, no wait....capri fleece sweatpants with the elastic gathering at the calf. [I think i saw them at the Wreck League] Ummm....camping is no reason to start looking like a troll around the fam.
• I don't need to pack the coffee pot, do I? Because between plastic clothes and coffee...I come down on the side of Folgers.
• I hope I grab the right bag at each leg of the journey or else it's pumps at the campfire and water wings at the office
• The Diet Cokes barely fit.

 Enjoy your weekend. Assuming all goes well....next post should be on Tuesday.

you know the story...

no post today, have to get ready for the big rafting trip.  Hope to have one more post up before I go incommunicado on the big river.  [all I can think about is A River Runs Through It..]

Blog-nificent

Should I worry that I have made almost 200 (!) posts on this blog?! I am not sure that this altogether healthy:

• I started this thing back in March of 2008…I’ve had college majors that didn’t last this long [and jobs and addresses and hobbies and …ummm…I’m going to go back to my blog now]
• I guess the jig is up on me being a workaholic, eh?
• I now expect people to already know my pizza prowess, all my best (?) Southwest tales and my dog’s latest adorable antics before I even talk to them
• I can find 150 hours to write blogs, but I can’t scrape together 3 hours to clean the garage [I probably shouldn’t point that out...]
• There’s a fine line between funny and “I'm calling to apologize”
• That Julie and Julia thing has REALLY created some unrealistic expectations for bloggers
• I have found that my work emails are becoming remarkably unwisely close to blog posts. My boss had to ask me the other day what was up with the smiley face =)

And just think of all the things I would have been better off doing…like my taxes, tending to my dog’s dental health or calling my mother [seriously…it’s called SaveMeTheCall for a reason]

 

Heat Wave

It was 103 degrees here over the weekend. I know because people kept asking…"do you know how hot it is!?!??” Given how few houses have air conditioning (including this one), the heat tends to make San Diegans a bit inelegant. [Molly has been walking around with an ice pack on her back for 3 days.] Rita and I spent half the weekend trying to steal air conditioning from other places. I’ve never been so happy to go to Williams Sonoma in all my life. But after driving around in the car’s air conditioning for 3 hours, my roommate Al Gore was starting to feel a little guilty.

Needless to say, Rita was a convert on using the recently installed portable air conditioning in the house. We sealed up one room and turned that portable jobbie up as high as it would go. And I mean sealed up. Every window was closed, the French doors locked tight, even a towel stuffed under crack of the door to the hallway to keep one iota of Freon from escaping. One of my friends called it the panic room…and he was right. If you open that door and let out 30 minutes of coolness…I. Am. Going. To. Panic. By the middle of the afternoon, Molly had her legs crossed, Rita was battling frostbite and the French doors were covered in condensation. [I thought about tagging the window with a “Wash Me” scrawl…but decided the hottest day of the year probably wasn’t the best time to test how funny I am.]

When I finally did leave our walk-in cooler for provisions [trips to the wine room being replaced by trips to the popsicle drawer], I opened the hallway door to a complete wall of heat. It was like a scene from Backdraft. [And just for the record – popsicles last about 13 seconds in that heat, so enjoy your soon-to-be kool-aid.]

Well, gotta run…Rita's out of town, so Molly and I invited ourselves over to the air-conditioned neighbors for breakfast.

Born Loving Flannel

I didn't get around to writing anything for the blog today...so instead I will just include another clip of one of my friends from her comedy routine. I think I can relate.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L_K0fG0B8sQ

Molly's check-up

I hate taking Molly to the vet out here because I always feel like they are trying to “upsell” me into some platinum-like procedure for Molly Magoo. [C’mon guys, she eats poop. Of course her stomach is going to be upset from time to time – no need for that MRI.] Not that Molly doesn’t deserve it, of course, but this IS the puppy that attempted suicide on at least two occasions. [Who knew that rat poison was so downright yummy to dogs?] For much of her life [the Tennessee years], platinum health care meant access to a stomach pump after she had consumed whatever toxin her mother had inadvertently left lying around. [Mother of the Year]

But I try to make sure she at least stays healthy. So I found myself at the vet last week getting her little back-side blemish checked out. First of all, let me just report that Magoo is down to a very svelte 25.3 lbs. [if this adult calorie dog food continues to work like this..I may give it a try].

Imagine my surprise when the entire check-up cost only $36 [the blemish-rating was “harmless”]. However…..the vet DID recommend that we do “some serious dental work on this cute little girl.” [Apparently, they noticed the breath too.] And by serious, they mean "would you like to hear about our finance plans." Aye yi yi. For the money involved, I keep wondering if she’s going to end up with a gold grill when they bring her back to me after “surgery”. [Maybe I can customize the grill to say “grrr” when she opens her mouth]. I'm all for pearly whites...but do they have to be made of real pearls?

Well…I gotta run so I can work on competitively bidding my dog’s health care.

'Twas the Night Before Kickoff

It is officially only two weeks til the start of football season and the anticipation is killing me! I am channeling that anticipation in the little poem below:


Twas the Night before kickoff, when all through the borough
All the creatures were stirring, especially the pro’s
The banners were hung from the rafters with care,
In hopes the Lombardi soon would be there.

The linemen were primed, too hyper for bed
While visions of tackles danced in their head
And you in your jersey and me in my gear
Had just settled down for a quick pre-game beer

When out in the sports den there rose such a clatter,
I sprang from my chair to see what was the matter,
Away to the TV I flew like a dart
Gawked at the Sportscenter and held onto my heart

When, what to my curious eyes should appear,
But a story of grit, of spunk and Colts’ fear.

It was a brilliant old coach; a strong, clever mister
I knew in a moment it must be Jeff Fisher
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them to fight;
“On Collins, on Bullock, on Boiman and White”

“To the top of the zone, to the top of the wall
Now pound the ball, pound the ball, pound the ball all!”

He spoke not a boast, but a pledge to be kept
And dis’d on his critics with joy and with jest
“The Titans will win it, and win going away,
Happy Season to all and to all…let us play!”

Pizza, pizza, pizza

I told you Rita’s nephew and I had a lot in common. The thing I forgot to mention is that we are both excellent pizza makers, as demonstrated by the pizza night that he and I hosted during his visit. Let me just tell you that I have proven sooooo inept in the kitchen that making pizza is now seen as a major accomplishment. [Ohhh…the soft prejudice of low expectations =) ]

To celebrate the the first meal I have made since she met me…Rita enthusiastically contributed a pizza stone from Williams Sonoma to the cause. [Apparently, even pizza gains culinary legitimacy with Williams Sonoma.] I love the thing because it practically forbids you from cleaning it…"do not soak or wash stone in water, nor use detergent, soap or other cleaning fluids as stone is porous”. I read that to say…in the interest of avoiding Palmolive-flavored pizza – do NOT do the dishes. Done.

My grueling preparations for pizza night included finding the pizzeria that sells already-made dough. That’s right…pizza doughballs that are just waiting for the hand-tossed moves of this Noble Roman’s alumnus. Once you settle on pre-made dough…there are only…like…FOUR ingredients to pizza. Nonetheless, Rita’s nephew and I somehow needed to hit six different grocery stores before we had the pepperoni-and-cheese bases covered (there’s no side items on pizza night!).

So let me just get this right…all of the ingredients are pre-assembled…you are forbidden from cleaning the cookware and the only hard-to-emulate cooking technique involves food flying through the air. Is there a cooking genre I am MORE suited for?

Julia Child it ain’t…but blog-worthy it is.

Labor Day

Apparently, Labor Day is the new Christmas. Rita’s family and mine are each getting together for separate Labor Day gatherings. My family is gathering in Nashville and renting a pontoon boat on the lake. Rita’s family…meanwhile…is planning a 3-day rafting trip down the Deschutes rapids. That’s right, I’m a pontoon-boat McConville mixing with the rapids-rafting Pirkles. [But please note that my whole family is going to be on a lake during daylight hours. Now may be the time to pick up sunscreen stocks.]

Rita keeps promising that the “camping” excursion is catered. The outfit running the trip is supposed to “set up your tent and have it waiting for you”, which ought to be especially handy after the water rescue I will undoubtedly require. Last week, however, Rita’s sister sent an email asking if anyone had an extra sleeping bag because “we have one kid’s bag that will probably work for Rita, but we still need one for McC [well…she didn’t call me McC – but I still have to make sure this blog doesn’t show up when you google my name]. Schlepping for sleeping bags does NOT bode well for our “catered” camping excursion. “I told you so” is NOT going to be any consolation when the self-constructed tent collapses on us at 3 in the morning. [oh, who are we kidding – our tent won’t make it to midnight before it collapses.]

I can’t help thinking that my invitation is centered on sheer entertainment value. Tall girls in water wings are always hooty. [I bet you will be able to trace the outline of my water wings from the trail of mosquito bites.]

And just imagine the blogs.

Family visitors

Rita’s fifteen year old nephew came down to visit us from Portland last week. It was a fun week. I realized, however, that I share a lot in common with a fifteen year old boy…:

• Exactly the same palate. Cokes + Pizza – Salads = breakfast
• Have both seen Dog the Bounty Hunter [much to Rita’s dismay]
• Neither one of us knows our way around San Diego
• We can both kick Rita's butt at domino's
• He is, however, a better cook and decidedly less messy

I actually thought Rita was going to hyperventilate from laughing when, during dish-washing, her nephew spontaneously said…."Maeve, we have a lot in common because we both have trouble focusing on things we don’t want to do.” So young…so wise.

Wreck League

There comes a point in every “tomboy’s” life when she graduates from the world of competitive sports and enters the next phase of her life…the city rec league. Whether it’s softball, basketball…or even bowling, there’s often a Brett Favre-like inability to know when to hang up the sport-specific shoes. [Eventually…it just gives way to watching Monday night football…but it’s a process.]

So the other night I went to watch one of my friends play in the Over-40 city basketball championships, featuring…every female gym teacher you’ve ever had. [I think the number of knee braces outnumbered the # of knees.] I was especially impressed because the Over-40 championships immediately preceded the Over-80 (!) league championships. Do me a favor…if I’m still trying to play basketball at 80, will you immediately call the Death Panels?

I guess when you reach the Over 40 league…the game is 3-on-3 half-court. And the court at your local grade school gym is not even full size to begin with. One girl managed to play the entire game without moving six inches. Which seemed to match her cardio ambitions pretty well. But just to give you some idea of the brutality involved…the 75 s.f. court is policed by two referees. Honest to god, these girls don’t let the postage-stamp sized court stand in the way of clocking their allotted fouls. [And by fouls…I mean assault.]

They pretty much give up on team uniforms in the Over 40 league as well. Well actually…everyone has on a uniform shirt…they just don’t match. But while the uniforms are all different, the hair styles are the same. You know what I’m talking about…“Over 40” is apparently the Mullet Generation.

Except for my blog-reading friend, of course…she was the shining exception to every mullet, knee brace, foul-giving observation. =)

Bonfire of the....

So last weekend, a group of folks out here in San Diego finally took advantage of our surroundings and had a bonfire at one of the fire pits on the beach. And rather predictably…it provided a little fodder for the blog:

• We did NOT start the raging California wildfires, thank you very much.
• What does it say about our bonfire-attending group that we had to pop the top off a beer bottle with a lime juicer? That’s right…I travel with a group that can juice a bushel of limes beach-side…but don’t have a bottle opener. Who am I hanging with...Frasier and Niles?!
• Something about sitting on the beach watching a bonfire naturally launches a discussion of Gilligan’s Island…I was voted most likely to be Gilligan. Hey! I resemble that remark. [Really?...not the Professor?]
• Are we sure Joe asked his neighbor if we could burn the wood that used to be his back yard shed?
• When you don’t make fires very often…you tend to get a tad exuberant with your fire-making. Like…how-can-we-burn-the-equivalent-of-a-shed’s-worth-of-wood-and-still-be-home-by-9:30 exuberant. [Answer: a whole quart of lighter fluid…don’t tell my roommate Al Gore]
• And when you do hyper-burn three cords of wood…I don’t care how long that coat hanger is…you're going to broil not only that s’more you’re working on…but also your eyebrows and at least the first two layers of your epidermis. You can have a s’more or blister-free skin, but not both.

We plan to do it again when the air quality recovers.

Healther Skelter

Okay - I know the elections are over, but until football season REALLY starts, I'm still playing fantasy Senate cloture with MY free time.

And the topic of the hour seems to be health care. With regards to Obama's health care plan...Sarah Palin called it "evil"....which makes me think it's probably worth voting for sight-unseen. [Sort of like if Paula Abdul calls something "strange" you'd probably run right out and try it.]

I'll be honest, I can't really follow the ins and outs of the plans themselves, but I sure do enjoy the clips of each town-hall meeting/cage match. I've seen a couple of these clips now and I swear...every one of the screaming "questioner"/crackpots bears more than a passing resemblance to George's parents on Seinfeld. Half the time, I can't tell whether these people are screaming about "socialized" medicine killing old people, Obama being born in Kenya or a dinner that didn't qualify for the early bird special. [If I were some of these people, I'd be scared about death panels too.] Honestly, it seems that the medium age of these Yellers is about 82. Which I find ironic since all of these town criers are probably already getting Medicare coverage [the ultimate public option].

I dunno...if I have to pick between Obama's plan or the plan that Frank Costanza is yelling about....

Travel anyone?

I'm posting today from Moline IL. That's right...not quite Iowa, but you can see the corn from my window. Which led me to think about the signs that I may travel too much:

• I know where Moline IL is.
• Forget miles – I've started booking hotel rooms based on their cable package [the NFL channel AND Jon Stewart, I'll take it.]
• You start referring to the dog-sitter as your roommate
• Your dog-sitter, in turn, starts to refer to you & Rita as "Molly's other mommies"
• You have so many Southwest tickets that can finally bribe people into coming to see you [thanks again for that visit Mikee]
• Your girlfriend finds out what town you're in from your blog =)

The Beds Are Jumping

When we last visited the 3 “what-do-you-mean-they’re-not-gay” boys renting my house in Nashville, they were busy remaking my little cottage home into the TKE house. If you need a refresher course, you can check out some of the earlier posts...

As my house is a duplex, yet ANOTHER boy has moved his testosterone into the separate upstairs apartment, ensuring that Lord of the Rings is playing on a continuous loop somewhere in my Nashville house at all times.

It’s been an eventful tenure with these renters. Let’s see…there was the break-in… the downed tree across the driveway…basement flooding…lightening striking….[Is no one else concerned about the escalating expression of nature's wrath here?] But this week…my property manager calls to tell me that the exterminator found BED BUGS in the house. Are. You. Kidding. Me? Think about last time you heard of a friend having bed bugs. That’s right. NEVER. Why? Because your friends wash their sheets….oh….at least every NINE months or so. While not the model of orderliness myself…rarely do I require ORKIN to make my bed.

When told that the exterminator treatments [plural!] were going to cost $180…the tenant insisted that “we don’t have that sort of money”. There’s 3 of you….you don’t have $60 a piece to rid yourself of pestilence?

I'm thinking of posting someone's "bedbug status" on their Facebook page.

Aflutter for Butter

I struggle to eat well on the road as it is…but when I offered to take my New Orleans team to lunch today, I let them pick the place. Which is how I ended up at Copeland’s “New Orleans” chain restaurant. Now look…I love a corn dog as much of the next guy. But a Wednesday-afternoon lunch hardly seems the time for a carbohydrate body wrap.

I knew we were in trouble when we ordered the spinach and artichoke dip (!). Which came with bow-tie pasta (!!)…that had been deep fried in some spicy [read: battered] coating. Should I worry if the veggie-named appetizer comes shaped like a stick of butter??

After the entrée’s were ordered, the unthinkable occurred. The restaurant’s deep fryer…. broke. Gasp! [We got those crunchy little bow-tie pastas in the very nick of time.] Looking around the table, I, for one, prepared for tears. Seriously, you only have ONE fryer for this whole grease-encrusted joint?? What is it – the size of a jacuzzi? Seats four? The restaurant manager tried to tell us the three menu items they could still make sans fryer and I tried to figure out what part of their Cobb Salad depended on ready access to hot oil. There was complete anarchy at table 11 until the manager promised free dessert. Peace through cheesecake.

Luckily, the broken deep fryer panic only lasted about 10 minutes before it was repaired and the order of the universe was restored. Bring on the “Seafood Platter”, which turned out to be a completely monochromatic platter of shrimp, clams, fries and catfish. Yum. My body would just like to know how much longer we are going to ricochet between Rita’s organic squash blossoms and Copeland’s House of Oleo. I kept thinking “I ran a marathon once and I didn’t eat this many carbs during the entire 18 week training season….could you please pass the Crawfish Bread.”

Well…better go - I’ve got left-over cheesecake to eat.

I jinxed myself...

...with that post Friday. Haven't had time to blog since.

In New Orleans today, and should be able to post tomorrow.

Blogging for Dummies

Did anyone else notice 21 posts this month? Okay...half of them said “no post today,” but whatever. I thought about penning my own “Blogging for Dummies” how-to manual, but it turns out that “Blogging for Dummies” [in addition to being redundant] is quite a serious trademark infringement. Who knew?

So in lieu of a whole volume, I will just list what I consider to be the keys of successful blogging:

• Generously define success
• Have easy access to caffeine [Most blogs are best written after about 840 mg of caffeine.] This blog sponsored by Sixbucks
• Blog in the Palin era
• Have no serious loyalty to the truth
• Don’t let the mortified looks of your family discourage you from taking notes at every family event
• Apparently….suggesting upcoming dirt on your mom’s visit is good for blog traffic…..[I see how many time you checked the site yesterday Sis.]
• Have a bunch of friends with nothing better to do than read blog postings…

=)

Visit Highlights

As previously mentioned, my mom and niece Michal were in for a visit this weekend. While the visit was actually fantastic, there were a COUPLE of moments that were a little tough-and-go:

• A minor imbroglio about whether shrimp, in fact, fell under the “no face” rule for my vegetarian niece. I guess, on second thoughts, the person doing the eating really OUGHT to be the arbiter of that.
• Michal found out that her birthday present/Southwest airline ticket only cost me $5
• The awkward moment where we had to challenge mom’s assertion that it was Michal who had smoked in the bathroom [kidding, kidding, there was no smoking in the house! ]
• The Mexican standoff on butter vs. margarine for the apple crumble [my fat-loving ass did not have a dog in THAT fight]
• Michal found out what Molly’s bully sticks are made of [you’ll just have to look it up]

Overall it was an AWESOME weekend. We (and the gucci couch) are ready for more visitors!

Mom's visit

We just finished our long weekend with my mom & my 24 year old niece, Michal [that’s right – HER name is Michal. The names are just a McC thing…]. I thought I would offer some highlights from the weekend:

• My sister Nic helpfully reminded me that “Michal doesn’t eat anything with a face”. Well now…whatever happened to just saying “vegetarian”? I don’t really need to think of my food’s features when deciding who to serve it to.
• My OTHER sister’s contribution to the weekend’s itinerary – “take them to that hang-gliding place. You could see the nude beach through the camera zoom lens!” [Mom loved it, by the way]
• With mom AND Rita cooking, I got to wash dishes I never even knew we had.
• Michal and I returned from our dog-walk around the neighborhood to find my mom regaling the yard guys to the point that they were Laughing. Out. Loud. And I’m pretty sure they don’t speak a word of English.
• Only ONE of Rita’s really, really good bottles of wine is gone. [And that’s from BEFORE mom got here =)]

Tune in tomorrow for some of the lowlights =) [smiley face down payment]

My Editor...

....missed a deadline today, so no post. [I thought it best to thoroughly edit any posts about my mother's visit - lest I permanently end up in the dog-house.] Will hopefully be back on-line tomorrow.

Air Conditions

Now I know how Tipper Gore must feel.

So while we purchased not one, but TWO portable A/C’s, it turns out we’re not actually supposed to USE them. Okay, okay – I may be exaggerating a LITTLE…but usage is definitely frowned upon. At first I thought it was because we didn’t want to run up the electric bill. But then I realized that we were trying to REDUCE, reuse, recycle. We are supposed to use these things “for when we are sleeping”. Ummmm, call me nuts, but shouldn’t we use them at the hottest point of the day…not the coolest? =) [smiley face]

And let me just tell you, Rita can be outside, behind the house, in the garden and STILL pick up the nano-second I sneak in and turn the air on [of course, it’s a dead giveaway when Molly sprints from the other end of the steam house for a drop of precious coolness for her fur-lined self].

I keep trying to work out a cap-and-trade system with Rita. Like…I will recycle one more yogurt container for 20 minutes of A/C. And I’ll even wash it out like you’re supposed to. But really, I think Rita and I ARE a cap-and-trade system. All her conservation and meanwhile I haven’t turned a light off since 1997.

Talk about an inconvenient truth.

No Post Today

Sorry gang, with my mom and niece in da house - I am focused on my hostessing skills and don't have time to blog. But I should be back on-line on Monday.

Job Evaluation

I usually have a firm rule to not blog about work. I call it the “this-blog-is-all-fun-and-games-til-McC-gets-fired” rule. That is why you have not heard anything about the job description that one of my supervisors prepared that included this honest-to-god, I-am-NOT-even-embellishing job requirement for her staff:

“No holloering. Unless it’s positive.” [Her spelling, not mine]

But I recently got my 6 month review and I figure it’s okay to blog about work if it’s about me, right? I may have changed some of the words, but here’s what I think my boss was trying to tell me:

• It’s great that you are feeling more comfortable in your role, but please quit using the f-bomb on all your conference calls.
• We’d like to recommend a SLIGHTLY different approach to team-building in that we would like to see you actually….ummm, quit scaring off your team
• We’re glad you’re a VP too, but “because I said so” is not an appropriate response to a policy question.
• Would you mind not wearing those khaki’s with a pen stain on the pocket where you ran them through the washing machine?

And the best advice I’ve gotten yet…"You know…you should be suspicious if your team laughs at ALL your jokes.”

Mom's Coming to Town

Well – my mom and my niece are coming to visit this week. In preparation for mom’s visit, there’s a couple of things I needed to take care of:

• Cancel the business trip I had inadvertently scheduled for the day she arrives [I’m no Nicola, that’s for sure]
• Identify something slightly more stable than an air mattress for my mother to sleep on. I preferred to purchase the lower priced sofa-sleeper, but Rita ultimately prevailed with a slightly more couture version. The fact that we are putting mom in the master bedroom should tell you everything you need to know about the new Gucci couch.
• Get some wine for this house, by god…Oh wait, I forgot about the wine room we have. There’s no spare bedroom – but there’s a wing of the house dedicated to the wine inventory [just as it should be!]. Which seems to say “please join us for a glass or ten, just don’t plan to stay” [that was pre-Gucci couch, so that’s not true anymore]
• Ummm….install central air conditioning?! Nice HEAT WAVE we’re having in the land-of-no-central-heat-or-air (!). Seriously – it’s 87 degrees and we have no central a/c. Meanwhile, my mom has installed the climate of the north Atlantic in her own home, so this knee-sweating ambience is NEVER going to do. We do have one of those stove-sized, portable air-conditioner jobbies that you can wheel from room to room for a little mobile chill. I’m thinking of strapping it on my mom’s back for the weekend.

At least there are no subways involved so I stand a decent chance of being on time to pick my mother up from the airport. I must remind myself to mapquest directions...

Wait For It..Wait For It

Okay – this story has been a long time coming because it actually happened during our trip to Argentina in the spring. [And no – the voters of South Carolina did not pay for OUR travel].

Despite a great deal of modernization, the Argentineans still don’t seem fully committed to certain amenities like…air conditioning. Which is why I and my three co-travelers were riding with the windows down in a taxi in Buenos Aires immediately following a huge torrential downpour.

About halfway through the ride…in some freak conspiracy of nature and traffic…a giant WAVE of petrol-infused water…splashed from the wheels of a passing bus…through the driver’s side window….and all over…ME. A wall of dirty-ass water that miraculously hits not another soul in the whole car. President Kennedy’s magic bullet did not take a more improbable path through a vehicle - leaving my fellow passengers untouched while I sat there like Droopy Dog. Either I was running low on my Karma Bank or in some Argentinean baptismal miracle – it was time for me alone to be saved during the taxi ride to the hotel.

And talk about “ick”. This traffic-spawned tsunami was half day-brie and half motor oil. It’s a good thing nobody smoked because they would have set me off like a bottle rocket. And so much for Latin chivalry. The taxi driver wiped the five droplets of water off his arm without so much as offering me a tissue [as I sat there like some refugee from a Carol Burnett skit].

Everyone ELSE jumped out of the taxi ready for dinner. I, on the other hand, looked like I had spent the afternoon running through a pipeline sprinkler.

Apparently....my turn in the cosmic dunking booth?

Karma Bank

My sister [who really is going to wish she was reading this blog] has a grand theme to life that we are all working from a Karma Bank. That’s right, your good deeds build your Karma Balance and….well…you’re misdeeds….

So if either of us says a particularly catty witty comment, we like to call it a “withdrawal from the Karma Bank”. And my sister will freely admit that she rarely runs a karma balance surplus despite her life’s work teaching teenagers. [i.e., she is REALLY witty] =)

And I just got to thinking that I keep making frequent withdrawals from the Karma Bank lately:

• All of my blogs on Sarah Palin
• The blogs about my brother
• Okay, okay – every non-Nicola blog I’ve ever posted
• Whatever the heck I did to earn the nickname “BTB” at the office…which...come to find out….means Big Tall Bitch. Seriously.
• Walking around with doggie bags like I really am going to scoop the poop [don’t tell Rita]
• My behavior in the “A” boarding line of my Southwest flights
• What do you MEAN Molly’s karma hits my account?!!

More Southwest Tales

Look – I can spot a Southwest Business Select passenger a mile away. They smell like an expense report. So when some hapless soul wonders into the front of the boarding line with half-eaten pizza and a dazed look – I know they’re not in the right place. And so it was earlier this week as I waited to board my cross-country flight, when a young, ditzy woman with a gi-normous yellow beach bag wondered into the spot for A5 [in front of me] and stopped.

In such instances, I TRY to be polite – I really do. But most of the time these dingbats are shielding their boarding pass like it’s a state secret and are oblivious to the other 59 people lining up according to some…system. [It’s not the Rosetta Stone, people, it can be deciphered] And THAT is generally when I start to get a little….ummm…pushy.

I merely suggested that “about 30 people are going to need to get past you in a minute.” Innocuous, I thought. But when the gate agent starts asking for the "A" boarding group…a certain mob mentality takes hold…I mean…there are exit row seats at stake here. As I nudged [only nudged] past dingbat, I MAY have editorialized a little…“well, lady…just as predicted…you and your Subaru-sized beach bag are RIGHT in the path of 30 people who are lined up CORRECTLY”. From which this oh-so-witty exchange followed: “Oh…world traveler” “That’s right lady – it takes a lot of savvy to count to 30”. [The promise of a little extra leg-room makes me crazy.]

After I smugly settled into my almost-exit row seat [damn those through-fares] I anxiously watched the gi-normous yellow bag settle into the row across from me, lean over and say...“Well hello Bitch. Looks like we can travel across the country counting to 30 together.”

Southwest Primer

I keep forgetting that everyone in the world doesn’t fly on Southwest three times a month. Since I tend to blog a lot about crazy people who travel [and they're ALL crazy], I thought I might need to offer a refresher on Southwest travel. First, there are no assigned seats and you board by a letter/number sequence – A1 through 60, B1 through 60 and then the general “you’re screwed” set that is the “C” boarding group [or as half the Southwest waitresses flight attendants like to say: “C” stands for “C a middle seat – take it, that’s yours”].

This letter-imposed hierarchy is in effect unless you 1) pay extra money to be a ”Business Select” [read: sucker] passenger (and then you are assigned A1 through A15) or 2) single-handedly supported Southwest’s Q2 earnings report and then you are given a permanent assignment in the high “A’s” [I’d like to introduce myself – I’m Ms. A16 and you’re in my way]. The guy walking down the aisle looking for seat C14? Yeah….he’s never flown Southwest before.

Shew. I think I am going to put that in one of the “widgets” of my blog – a permanent footnote that will come in as a handy reference to the 40% of my blog posts that seem to relate to Southwest. I had to do this reminder because the moral of tomorrow’s blog is “careful who you are mean to in the boarding line of your Southwest flight”.

Happy Beerthday

So now I can finally blog about the *surprise* birthday festivities. The irony is that Thursday’s actual-birthday night pub crawl was followed by Saturday’s *surprise* microbrew crawl. Hmmmm, does anyone see an issue theme here?

That’s right, Rita surprised me on Saturday by organizing a tour of various microbreweries in San Diego. How fun is that? What made this all the more special is that most of the 7 or 8 people who joined us don’t even drink beer. [Perhaps they just joined because they didn’t want to risk missing another rousing chorus of Whiskey in the Jar]. It really is so odd…nobody in Nashville drinks wine and nobody in California drinks beer. Must I bridge EVERY cultural divide?? [I’m still working on that football thing.]

Honestly – it’s like the Mississippi river is the demarcation line of alcohol. Tanins to the west, hops to the east and never the twain shall meet – or as Dr. Seuss put it: Red State, Blue State, Cab state, Brew state.

But when my wine-drinking friends DO engage in beer drinking, they are apt to say things like…”ohhh I taste apricot on the finish of this beer – don’t you?” Ummmm, I generally taste another beer on the finish of my beer. Just sayin’

And with the conclusion of the pub-crawlin birthday festivus…we officially return tomorrow to more installments about Southwest travel.

Pub Crawl

Before we get to the Saturday *surprise* birthday festivities, let me recap last Thursday’s actual birthday night event. Given my choice of any plan – I opted for a pub crawl in the neighborhood:

• Who knew that Rita lived in Tin Pan Alley? No joke, there are like 14 bars within walking distance of her house. I knew I moved out here for a reason.
• Next year, I think we'll introduce food at stop 2 and not stop 13
• The Irish drinking song “Whiskey in The Jar” must come with the juke box starter kit – because we played it at EVERY single bar we went to. Someone put so many quarters into the jukebox at the The Ould Sod that it’s STILL playing there.
• My mom’s visit to San Diego is now planned
• You know it was a good night when members of your party are alternatively doing the moonwalk and a two-step (neither one being location-appropriate at the time, but no matter). It does look a little funny to see your neighbor moonwalking to Whiskey in the Jar, but the girl with the pool glove kind of liked it.
• Tell me again how Joe and Emily ended up entangled in the boot of that Audi? I might be wrong – but I think they came out wearing each others’ shirts.
• The pool hall was a particularly interesting stop. It spawned its own mini-list:

1. Ummm, do NOT challenge the woman with her own pool cue to a game of pool a) you’ll lose b) she thinks it’s flirting
2. I’ve been to a pool bar or two in my day (I am from Southern Indiana, afterall) and didn’t even know they MADE pool gloves. It’s like a glove for only your index finger & thumb – so as to leave your other fingers free & clear to grip your beer
3. Where else can you get an hour’s (or hours) worth of entertainment for 75 cents?

Books

Rita got me the Kindle for my birthday. How cool is that? It is a pretty appropriate gift given my propensity to read these big non-fiction tomes while criss-crossing the country. Seriously, in 2007 and 2008, I read the book “Harry S. Truman” by David McCullough. At 975 pages, the book was akin to carrying around the actual bodyweight of our 33rd president. Given that I read about 3 pages an hour…the book saw me through two winters. Which means it traveled from Evansville to Philly to Rio to home. If they had stamped it like a passport, it would have at least become interesting.

So a Kindle should be MUCH more convenient. At first, I was a little ambivalent about the Kindle because I wondered how I could pretend to be smart to the people sitting next to me on the plane. Oh well...everytime I think I am going to impress the person sitting beside me with my newest historical opus, they pull out something like the Bible and I feel foolish.

Actually, I have fairly diverse taste in books. My recent shipment from Amazon consisted of “Are You There Vodka, It’s Me Chelsea” and “Gandhi and Churchill”. I’m sure they were all equally offended by the company being kept in the shipment box. Guess which of the two I actually finished.

Well…gotta run, time to download Sarah Palin’s new autobiography.

Birthday celebration

I like to subtly remind people that my birthday is coming up…mostly by saying things like – hey it’s my birthday Thursday. This year, however, Rita has beat me to it by inviting a group of friends in San Diego to a special Saturday birthday celebration tomorrow (apparently she didn’t get the memo about celebrating AFTER my birthday, but it’s okay because I’ve outgrown such things). But here’s the kicker, I don’t have any idea what the Saturday celebration involves. That’s right – a complete unknown. So after some understandable discomfort resulting from my lack of total control of the proceedings, I am now getting quite excited about the event.

Here are some of my theories on what Rita may have planned for the all-day surprise celebration:

• An all-day garage cleaning festivus. (I keep telling Rita that branding it a festivus does NOT make it festive)
• I have no idea because Rita gives really, really bad clues…e.g., we have to drive there [well at least that garage thing is out]. You should wear something comfortable [good to know that I shouldn’t be uncomfortable during this particular celebration], food will be provided [and I was SO sure I would be cooking for my own birthday]. Really – a LOUSY clue giver. [Did I mention lack of control of the event?]
• It starts at 9 am – so it must involve the breakfast beer
• I take this as a good sign – so far, nary a single seating chart has been prepared
• It couldn’t possibly involve those big fat sumo costumes again – it isn’t going to be anywhere near 103 degrees on Saturday
• Wait a second…a secret event…a group of friends…is this an intervention!??!?
• I don’t know what it is…but I think Jon Stewart is going to be there (expectations for the event have obviously NOT been managed appropriately)
  

At least I am reasonably assured of having something to blog about next week.

Dining Out

Rita & I recently joined our friends Joe & Paul in an excursion to a one-of-a-kind restaurant. It was no accident that we ended up at this particular restaurant because the foodies in the group (hint: not me or Joe) have been stalking this place for years. All it took was the Great Recession and voila – reservations are available to the common folk.

This restaurant is apparently famous (fame being relative, of course) for pioneering new ways of preparing and serving food in the most extravagant aesthetic way possible. By way of context – if Rube Goldberg were still alive, he would be in charge of table service. For example, one course was served on a pillow. That’s right – a pillow. But wait, there’s more. A pillow filled with lavender-infused air. As the pillow deflated, lavender escaped and mingled with your rhubarb sorbet. Are you freakin kidding me?? (The waiter did NOT appreciate my comparison to a “pot-pourri satchel who’s fragrance would enhance your entire underwear drawer”.)

The steak course (and by course, I mean 2 inch square of wagyu beef) was presented alongside a ceramic vase­ on the table containing dry ice and herbs. When our waiter added the water to the centerpiece, clouds of rosemary-infused smoke began erupting from the vase and cascading onto the floor. And I mean ALL over the floor. Between our particular table of patrons and the billowy smoke effects, we were one Donna Summer song away from official gay-bar designation.

The presentation of each course seemed to escalate throughout the night until I was certain the last course was going to be shot out of a dessert cannon from the kitchen (I was NOT that far off).

I find it challenging enough to deal with any food that isn't served in its own wrapper. If you provide a course inverted on its head, suspended over a soup bowl or dangling off a wire – you better expect some tablecloth casualties from the food “day-brie” that will go flying around me. (Obviously “aethestics” do not call for low-centers-of-gravity that might otherwise assist when Lucy Ricardo’s bumbling cousin comes to dinner). By the second course, the restaurant had allocated one whole server to nothing but my spillages.

And the topper…Rita bought the cookbook.

Is Sarah Palin Breaking Up with Us?

Sarah, don’t do it. I still have two more months ‘til football starts and I need SOMETHING to read on the internet during all those conference calls. Surely it will take more than one rambling, incoherent resignation speech to stop the juggernaut of Caribou Barbie.

Have you honestly seen any other failed VP candidate cause this kind of a stir? Lloyd Bentsen lived to be 105 and never accumulated this much publicity. (My apologies to Lloyd Bentsen if he’s actually still alive – but it would underscore my point.)

Actually, in this particular episode of Northern Exposure – it's the pundits and professionals that are the most fun to watch. People who would otherwise be in President McCain’s cabinet right now are busy engaging in an especially catty episode of Gossip Girl all over the pages of Vanity Fair magazine. Bloggers have started a “Shoe Watch” in anticipation of the rest of the story. And Sarah Palin is alternatively “crazy like a fox” or “one nutty buddy” depending on whether you lean Wall Street Journal or New York Times.

I read the text of her resignation speech which…I swear…contained 17 exclamation points and 2 smiley faces. As Gail Collins wrote: “Truly, Sarah Palin has come a long way. When she ran for vice president, she frequently became disjointed and garbled when she departed from her prepared remarks. Now the prepared remarks are incoherent, too.”

But me? I couldn’t help but feel inspired to “effect positive change outside government at this point in time on another scale and actually make a difference for our priorities.”

Oh, Sarah…I can’t quit you.

Cooking Class Part II

So the class that I gave Rita for her birthday was all Vietnamese cooking. Mostly I picked this class because I thought it included sake (turns out sake isn’t Vietnamese after all…).

I expected the teacher to be a little Asian woman. Imagine my surprise when we were met by the whitest 2nd whitest woman in San Diego. She immediately had my sympathy because would you want to be the one to teach cooking to Rita (or worse…her trusty sidekick Papa John)? I knew when she passed around the scrapbook of her recent visit to Vietnam that we were in for a long night.

My key takeaway from the Vietnamese cooking class is this:
A good cook in Vietnam only buys live animals because then they know how their meat stock died.

I don’t know about you…but to me…the sign of any good meal is its dependence on an autopsy. And my friends want to know why I don’t want to join them on their next trip to Vietnam. [“That steak looks lovely – but how was it feeling the day before it died?”]. You know…”eat what you kill” has a MUCH better connotation in the consulting world.

The other valuable tidbits I took away about Vietnamese cooking:

• Fish sauce lasts forever [ummmm….so do Twinkies? Do we know how the fish in this sauce died?]
• Fish sauce is the Vietnamese equivalent of ketchup [smelly, sticky, nuclear-winter survivin’ ketchup]
• If it takes forever to fry your crispy noodles, than your oil is too cold [For this I went to class?]

And my BIGGEST takeaway from the TV-like cooking show…it’s a lot easier to be a great cook when someone else cuts everything up for you. Unfortunately, Rita learned the same thing =(

Cooking Class

I didn’t blog during the height of the birthday season…but that doesn’t mean I didn’t take notes. Specifically, I took some notes on the cooking class that I signed Rita and I up for as one of Rita’s birthday gifts. [Can I just say….if we are talking about me going to a cooking class…than my presence REALLY IS my present]

The class is taught in the back of a cooking store and is a complete racket. You walk into a TV-studio-worthy kitchen with its giant island and three stoves and 8 burners and every single participant says “I could sooo have this kitchen.” So the class is only the loss-leader to steer you towards the store’s remodeling services.

There were also about a dozen TV screens situated all over the “classroom”. I was all excited because I thought we were going to class in an upscale sports bar. Turns out the TVs are all trained to the teacher’s every move. Rita looked mortified when I asked if someone could turn the fridgecam to Jon Stewart for the husbands in the room. (I might go for the remodeled kitchen if it comes with 8 flat-screen TVs….and the NFL Ticket…just sayin’).

The nice thing about cooking class is that you can take lots of notes for your blog and people just think you’re writing down recipes. Which is why you should tune in tomorrow when I give you the highlights of Vietnamese cooking.

You Should Watch This...

I've got nothing to post today...so i thought i would link to one of my friends who has a HILARIOUS stand-up routine. This is an excerpt of her debutante bit in her routine...it is excellent:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=spwj937C5HM

Check it out.

What's in the News These Days?

News coverage of celebrity deaths has become a cottage industry, hasn’t it? I can only imagine the number of LA residents whose full time job involves listening to police scanners all day, trying to recapture the magic that was Anna Nicole Smith.

At least the coverage since Michael Jackson died last Thursday hasn’t been THAT over the top (all things being relative). I was in the San Diego airport [shocker] watching CNN spend the first 30 minutes of their coverage running nonsensical footage of an entry gate while a trailer across the bottom of the screen indicated that “media outlets are reporting Michael Jackson’s death”….ummm, YOU’RE a media outlet, CNN. I don’t think you get to hedge your bets on this death thing just in case Michael Jackson turns out to be in the back of an ambulance with Dr. Phil. I mean…you’re CNN for chrissakes…not a blog.

Upon final confirmation, CNN immediately cut to Al Sharpton giving a presser in Harlem. Seriously? I know Michael Jackson had his issues, but I think he deserves better than Al Sharpton as an official spokesperson. Besides, just because you’re black and crazy doesn’t mean you get to speak for all black and....eccentric.

But it was no more than 11 minutes after he died, and CNN had a 400 word obituary up on their website. I know they pre-write these things for the next most likely candidates, but Michael Jackson? Does Miley Cyrus know her obituary is already written?

I bet the only person in America who really wants more of this Jackson coverage is Mark Sanford.

Summer Hours

I am back blogging again...but I have negotiated a Jon Stewart-like schedule - Monday through Thursdays with Friday's off. So tune in tomorrow when I don't air a re-run.

But Molly Hasn't Changed...

I may have taken a hiatus from blogging…but rest easy that Molly hasn’t changed a bit. While she hasn’t bitten any mailmen lately, she DID trap one of our dinner guests in the bathroom last month. (I mean of COURSE she’s ill-behaved. Let’s count how many dinner parties she attended during the first 11 years of her life in Nashville…ummm, yeah there was that one…lessee, and that other night….oh yeah, that’s right… ZERO would be how many dinner parties she attended before moving into the Williams-Sonoma sponsored epicenter of entertaining fetes here in California)

And there was that one incident where she nibbled on the neighbor’s finger…and it required stitches…and who even KNEW that you have arteries in your finger anyway??? Puh-leaze.

But even with her curmudgeon side, she has COMPLETELY conned the dog sitter into thinking she is starving to death. Yeah, you know the little Spanish cleaning lady who can’t seem to tolerate ME – yeah, she’s slipping Molly puperoni on the sly. “But ze is so hungreee.”

But ALL of that is going to pale in comparison to the story I will have to tell if she ever catches that skunk in the back yard.