This One's For You

I'm Dumping You

2008-08-20T18:14:00.000-07:00

I know but you've seen this coming right? Let's be honest- my life is way too boring for a personal blog. WAY too boring. Like, what could I talk about? Here's what I did today-

Got up at 9:40.

Ate corn.

Worked until 8:15.

Seriously. It's over. I've been spending too much time over at Creme's house anyway. If you need me, that's where I'll be.

Things I Am Learning

2008-08-04T10:52:00.000-07:00

If you don't have a garbage disposal and you put your garbage can on the deck outside, yes it will keep the smell out of your hot summer apartment but you will also come home for the weekend to find THOUSANDS OF MAGGOTS CRAWLING ALL OVER IT.

For Michael...

2008-08-01T07:28:00.000-07:00

Because it's Friday... and because who doesn't like to watch adorable little boys dance in their pjs?

Wow. Totally Worked.

2008-07-31T15:36:00.000-07:00

In case you were wondering...

Kim and Aggie's tip for getting rid of fruit flies totally works! Just stuck some apple cider vinegar and a few drops of detergent in a mug, piece of plastic with holes strapped over the top and voila! Five dead flies. Endless joy. Endless shot of me clutching mug between my hands of death, laughing maniacally over the insect massacre in my kitchen.

Sigh. It's been a long day.

In other horrifying insect news, I was falling asleep on the couch last night (only cool room in the apartment- don't judge me) when I noticed a GIANT furry insect-centipede type thing crawling into the linen closet. Suffice it to say I watched that closet for a good hour waiting for it to appear and try to eat my brain. Haven't seen it since. Now doubting my sanity. Are there any cases of bugs gaslighting a person?

For Toman and Preston...

2008-07-30T11:58:00.000-07:00

Think Gunner can take the title?

44 Pound Princess Chuck Needs New Home

Old Wounds

2008-07-30T10:58:00.000-07:00

Bodies are so strange. I mean, really. I now live in a third-floor walk-up and between moving and the regular comings-and-goings of everyday life, I must've been up and down those stairs at least 100 times in the last three weeks.

And was there even a twinge in my left knee? The left knee that got slightly banged up after yours truly was hit by a car four years ago and flopped into the middle of Beverly Blvd. like a grounded flounder? Nope, nothing.

And so now you can imagine my irritation that it's now KILLING me and I have done nothing to aggravate it whatsoever.

It must be about to rain or something. I mean, really. Stairs- nothing. Humidity- I crumble. What sense does that make? I can run in the Olympics but I'm also relegated to turning into Karen from Mean Girls, able to tell whether or not it's going to rain by my boobs.

Erm, in case you were wondering- there's an 80% chance it's already raining.

Book Report

2008-07-29T09:55:00.000-07:00

I haven't touched my book since May.

It's really a shame too, considering how hard I was working on it until May. But then Dad's video project and the two month hole that became moving just made it impossible to continue the 11 hour-a-day-working and writing pace.

But now...finally, things have settled down. I have one more solid weekend of apartment activities (assembling bookshelves and hanging up pictures) and the place is done. Aside from the parade of fix-it men (cable box busted after a week. Thanks a lot, Comcast), my mornings belong to me again.

The only distressing part now is that what I usually deem as a blessing when it comes to writing- my incredibly short memory (meaning I can reread something I've written with absolutely no recollection of writing it. It makes editing way more effective. It means I can read what I've written as if it were written by someone else. Is that normal?) is a curse at the moment. At this point, I have little choice but to start at the beginning and read the whole thing, editing as I go. While I'm excited about that, I'm worried about how long this will take. I want this book done NOW.

Writing is so strange. I need it and yet it requires so much, sometimes more than I think I'm capable of giving. If you're ever wondering why I love my header photo so much, there's the reason.

Awesome

2008-07-25T10:36:00.000-07:00

DRAG QUEEN ROBS BURGER KING

NEW ORLEANS -- A New Orleans Burger King recently got a visit from a drag queen with a gun, New Orleans television station WDSU reported.

Security cameras showed the man, wearing a dress with a revealing bust line and hair barrettes, climbed through the takeout window at a Burger King on May 11. He held the employees at gunpoint, demanded money, exited through the same drive-through window and drove away.

"By looking at the vehicle pull up, we can tell that's a pickup," WDSU crime and safety specialist Howard Robertson said. "And if you look at the rims -- you know that's not a Ford or GM. The other thing I wanted to look at was whether he got out the driver’s or passenger’s door to see if he had an accomplice, somebody who was driving his vehicle when he left. But he got out the driver's side."

Robertson said the thief is probably a genuine cross-dresser because his necklace matched the dress, his nails appeared to be painted and the wig was well made.

"Most of the time when somebody puts on a wig they're just trying to hide their identity by putting on something like a Halloween mask, but he's pretty," Robertson said.

Robertson said he was surprised the thief didn't cover his face, though he said it doesn't matter in this case."There's a strong possibility that this person is a cross-dresser and someone in that community will know this guy, especially if they see him on the TV, someone will know him," Robertson said.

Police said the suspect was about 6 feet 1 inch tall and weighed about 180 pounds.

This One's For Liz

2008-07-24T18:17:00.001-07:00

It's been a while since I did a dedication, which of course is the very bones of this site. While stumbling around, looking for something to write for the L.O.L.*, I found THIS which immediately made me think of Lizzie.

In case you don't know, Liz's grandmother is a hilarious old bird who enjoys hanging out at the pier in their town, sporting wacky hats and owl pins on her lapel. So of course this means whenever we see an owl, we send it to Liz.

There's a lot of lovely stuff in this gallery. The Pickled Panda reminded me of you, Becks. I think you should get a print for your cubicle. What do you think?

that's blog-speak for Labor of Love. Like it? I just made it up.

Newly Assembled

2008-07-23T14:29:00.000-07:00

This took TWO HOURS. My hands still hurt from the Allen wrench madness. It's severely cute in the office nook though.

COUCH!

2008-07-22T10:32:00.001-07:00

Couch is here!

Of Swedes and Men

2008-07-21T15:14:00.000-07:00

Raise your hand if you assembled your own office chair this morning and then sat in it and got to work?

Just me? Interesting...

Moving in has commenced. On Saturday I bought gobs of furniture from our favorite Swedish furniture maker.

Sunday I moved 31 boxes up 3 flights of stairs, one at a time (2 at a time when Liz came to help). And then went to Target and bought three more flights full of stuff.

In case you're wondering where I am for the next few days (weeks?? months???) I'll be sitting on my dusty floor, assembling shit. This is my life now.

July Birthdays

2008-07-17T08:20:00.001-07:00

A lot of people get busy in November. I have the evidence here because July is chock full of birthdays. Because I'm tired of sending someecards, I'm going to do my best to pay homage to each and every one of them here.

July 8- Hannah (niece)

July 8- Mandy (friend)

July 13- Lee (brother)

July 13- Lo (friend)

July 15- Adam (friend/temporary roommate)

July 16- Victoria (b. friend)

July 17- Jenn (sister)

I was not kidding. The birthdays do not end.

That's her on the left, next to my dad, today's birthday girl, my 2nd to biggest sister. I have a whole slew of pictures as lovely and precious as these on my computer thanks to Project Dad: The Movie. My siblings should be scared. Very, very scared.

July 30- Mark (my liege)

Sweet Lord it is HOT

2008-07-16T11:34:00.001-07:00

Too hot to blog. Too hot to talk on the phone. Too hot to click.

But not hot enough for this. That's the wonderful thing about being online all day- a virtual watercooler replaces, you know, a real watercooler. And you don't even have to work with any of them.

So, this video comes courtesy of a shared blip on my Google Reader, aka my virtual breakroom. Enjoy. Try not to laugh too hard though- causes massive amounts of sweating.

A Very Good Sign

2008-07-15T10:35:00.000-07:00

I believe in omens. I'm that type of girl.

I actually think, sometimes, that the Universe tries to talk to me through my iPod. Like when it's on Shuffle? And I'm wondering if I should stay or should I go now? And it plays Modest Mouse's "Float On"?

Think I'm crazy? Join the club, grab a piece of cheese.

Anyway... got apartment keys this morning. And you should've seen my face when the landlord handed them to me on a very specific, randomo keychain. Especially for a whiskey-loving girl like myself.
Well, hullo Jack. Here to welcome me to the neighborhood, are you? How thoughtful. How oddly comforting.

I Don't Know What This Is

2008-07-14T09:23:00.000-07:00

But I'm down.

http://www.drhorrible.com/

On the agenda for this week:

Monday- Find Liz and Adam's tape measure.

Tuesday- Get keys to new apartment! At 8:30AM! Go home and sleep until work starts!

Wednesday- Get cable/internet/phone installed at new, empty apartment. Inform the cable man that it is imperative I have working cable before I move in. I AM THAT PERSON.

Thursday- Go sit in empty apartment in morning. Measure important spaces for Ikea trip on Saturday. On list: Everything. Already my credit card is starting to weep tears of blood.

Friday- Rent massive cargo van. Proceed with caution.

I also have a gazillion birthdays this week- my brother, Lo, Adam, Vic, Jenn...It never ends. Why do so many people get busy in November?

LA LA LA

2008-07-11T09:11:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting at my desk and there's a specific Stickie on my desktop that is taunting me. I feel a little guilty about my aborted "Things I'll Miss" list about leaving LA. Surely I can do better than just #12.

So, here goes.

#11. Gilbert's
The first restaurant we went to when we visited LA, looking for jobs and apartments, and still the best Mexican food ever. I would sell you for a tostada right now. Pack your bags.

#10. Pavilions
A supermarket made the list. I know, I know. But I was seriously obsessed with my neighborhood s'market. They were so nice! And it was so cheap. Walking into the far crappier chain of markets in Chicago (I'm sorry but it's true. My DC friends will understand when I say it makes Giant look like Whole Foods), I felt a pang for my old hangout. And Vic's car died in the parking lot once and even though we lived a block away, we still ate bread and drank a bottle of wine we got in the store, waiting for the tow truck. Oh, memories.

#9. Sunset Blvd.
Specifically- Sunset Blvd. at 10am on Sunday morning, taking the long way home from Amanda's. Especially that windy part between Beverly Hills and Westwood.

#8. Del's
Some dive bars make you laugh at the sheer thought of them. Even though it played home to one of my most embarassing karaoke moments EVER (cue running out of bar), I know my friend Beal is probably there right now, engaging in purely shady behavior.

#7. My Mini Cooper

#6. That 5 Hour Drive to Vegas
Long, hot and totally worth it. Whenever people ask me if I'm flying, I laugh. That last hill before you see the lights of Vegas? One of my favorite spots in the world.

#5. California travels
I love me some mid-west right now but I am a travel bunny and California is heaven. San Diego, La Jolla, Santa Barbara, Santa Ynez Valley, Monterey, Carmel, San Francisco, Yosemite... Sigh.

#4. The proximity to Mexico
I never got to Mexico. But I like knowing it's there if I need it.

#3. Weather

#2. "The movies"
As a child of the movies, especially classic movies, LA was a dream come true. To walk the streets of Bogart, Tracy, Hepburn, and Lombard? I loved being a part of that. Forget all the bullshit. Movies are magic and they're made in LA.

#1. My kids- obviously and for obvious reasons
They made LA home.
Vic, Little, Beal, Michael, Marty, Amanda, Trendz, Becks, Buck, Lo and Eric, Hope and Josh.

Nephew Walks On Moon...

2008-07-10T15:42:00.000-07:00

Or really just walks. But still. As Buzz and Neil can attest, all that matters is that first, single step.

Revel in the sheer cuteness of my nephew Aidan as he entertains himself enormously by standing up, sitting down and clapping for himself. I hope he's always so proud of his accomplishments. However, I hope, in the future, that he's wearing pants for said accomplishments.

If you, for some bizarre reason that I don't understand at all, don't want to watch five whole minutes of this (and my sister's baby voice), the money shot is at 3:07.

Other things to note:

- That face Aidan makes when he laughs? The nose scrunch? That is purely my sister's face when she laughs. Whenever he does it, I get that funny little hitch in my chest.

- He can only suck his thumb when he's got Blue, that blue stuffed dog of his. The best is when he simultaneously draws Blue to his chest with one hand and his thumb into his mouth at the exact same time. Score another point for Pavlov.

- I mean, really. My sisters breed giant children. Also I am opposed to the Donald Trump hairstyle he's been sporting but he's not my baby so I have no say.

- Isn't he cute? You can't have him, he's mine.

Is This It?

2008-07-09T13:53:00.000-07:00

OMG, Petunia Face tagged me like a month ago and I've been in the black hole of moving. Better late than never right? Right??

I've never done a blog tag before. Forgive me my ignorance, the absence here of sure footing.

1. What did you do 10 years ago?
Grimace. Ten years ago, I was somehow surviving the summer between junior and senior year of high school. I imagine there was a lot of letter writing to my best friend Kate, who lived far far away in Boston. We had just moved, again, this time to the sweet little condo in Amityville. We would move one more time before I graduated from school, three doors down from No. 8 to No. 11. I'm pretty sure if I were 16, I was doing a lot of writing, a lot of sulking, a lot of SNL watching, a lot of daydreaming about college and leaving NY. I was quite the lonely teenager. So far this game is very depressing.

2. Five items on your to-do list today
Hmmm. Send Mandy a birthday card. Online marketing for Culture Clique. I have a super gnarly presentation at 2 (LA time). Later will be "So You Think You Can Dance" with Mark and the kids. Buy wine. Life is so much better at 26 than it was at 16.

3. Snacks I enjoy
Pink lady apples and yogurt covered pretzels.

4. What would you do if you were a billionaire?
I would write. Write, write, write. I'd buy a massive farmhouse in Connecticut and a little cottage in the English countryside. I'd have dinner tonight in Paris and then stay the rest of the week, practicing French with my tutor. I'd adopt a slew of sheepdogs, the big shaggy ones like Nana in Peter Pan. I'd commission Zac Posen to design me a line of dresses in size 10 only. Buy my parents a villa in Italy. Buy my oldest sister, a social worker/single mom, the house of her dreams. Buy my niece a princess. Buy my nephew a pony. Make my second oldest sister take care of said pony. Then buy her the entire Banana Republic Summer Collection. Oh, and pay off Kate's med school bills. And buy Mandy a store. And Vic a pirate ship. And Trendz a dinosaur from Jurassic Park. God, there's so much to do.

5. Places I would live
Connecticut, the English countryside, Italy (anywhere in Italy), Savannah, Austin, Nashville and Seattle. And maybe a lighthouse in Maine.

6. Bloggers I am passing the challenge on to are:

Sumeba Miyako- Cause she lives in a tropical island in Japan and I don't.

Lesson #1 about Working From Home

2008-07-07T12:46:00.000-07:00

Wearing a tube top and taking a video conference call makes you look naked. So there's one of my real life nightmares basically come to life.

Just thought you should all know.

Update

2008-06-30T16:57:00.000-07:00

Lord. Ok.

I no longer live in Los Angeles. Why is moving so exhausting and how does it take over your life completely for a month? Suffice it to say, I have mucho to say about the experience.

But right now, I'm just going to take a minute and update my profile to say Chicago. I'm going to relish the small, sweet, simple change in a few letters and thus the greater change my life has taken recently.

Until tomorrow...

#12

2008-05-29T18:51:00.000-07:00

What I'll Miss About LA- 12 Things with 12 Days to Go...

#12- My Youth

How maudlin is that? It's true though. As we speak, the Tree House is being packed up (well, not by me as clearly I'm typing). It seems to be resisting the whole process, if I were to be honest about it. There is no way Vic and I have accumulated so much junk in four years. I swear, the apartment itself is letting us know its displeasure by spitting out old papers and knick-knacks and Mardi Gras beads and bobby pins from INSIDE THE WALLS. That has to be it.

Vic is slowly moving her things into her new apartment across the alley. She's already turned her back on pretty much all of our furniture for pretty new things. She's actually paid full-price for a couch that's never been used. I don't think she's paid full price for a new object EVER.

So her pretty new apartment is being filled with pretty, new, adult-grownedup things. And I'm doing my damnedest to get it all back to Goodwill (time to go home now) or sold for profit which is looking unlikely. I have pretty much the same plan for my Chicago apartment. Mainly furniture that doesn't make my mother cry in the rental car on her way back to the hotel.

This means that the Tree House is in pieces. The other night, Vic and I packed in our matching sailor hats. I mean, if that doesn't say it all- I don't know what does. Here we are, picking out things from Crate & Barrel, all the while musing to each other, "Do you want the sombrero?" (No.) "What about the Roswell white board?" (Yes.) "Is this my signed Soul Decision CD or yours?" (It was hers. Dammit) "Why do we have two copies of The Cutting Edge?" (Please. I know why.) "Remember when Habs threw up in the bathtub?" (I missed that, thankfully.)

And just to drive the point home, today I went to the dry cleaners. The DRY CLEANERS, people. It's been so long that when I laid out all of my DCO clothes, I found a bra that had gone missing last October. When these clothes are clean, I will have doubled my wardrobe. All the while I kept thinking about that old Mitch Hedberg joke: "This shirt is 'dry-clean only'...which means it's dirty." Which made me chuckle to myself. And made me feel better that at least if I'm becoming an adult, I'm an adult who still thinks nothing can't be cured with a Mitch Hedberg line.

Moving Update

2008-05-21T19:22:00.000-07:00

Boxes mailed to Liz: 13

Offers on bed: 3 (1 is possibly a money laundering scam and doesn't count)

Offer on car: 1 and since rescinded (this is devastating. I need to sell it NOW! What do I do?!)

Drives down Sunset Blvd: 1 (possibly the last time. I remember when we moved here four years ago. Sunset Blvd was magic to us. Like "living in adult playland" as Vic used to say.)

Moments of "Omigod, I cannot believe I saved this for four years- what is WRONG with me?!": Oh, thousands. The best has to be the friggin' HAMMOCK I bought for $30 when I started my job even though I don't have a backyard or conceive having one for at least five more years. I mean, really.

Dear E!

2008-05-19T19:07:00.000-07:00

You and I are done.

First, there's this.

I mean, really. I go away for a few months and look what happens. No one cares about this woman, E! No one except maybe her kids. MAYBE.

But then there was this. This has really done it. You cannot be serious.

You know how I feel about Denise Richards, E!, don't pretend like you don't. You heard me every single time I swore at the television when a story about her and Richie Sambora popped up, every time I flipped through the TiVo guide and saw Starship Troopers playing. Even Drop-Dread Gorgeous, which I adore, is home to her vacant stares and flat line-reading.

I have news for you, E! When even your pubescent little brother has the wherewithal to tear his eyes away from this seriously beautiful girl and declare that she is the worst actress in the history of mankind and is so bad that she's RUINED his beloved James Bond movie.... dude. That is some seriously bad acting. She cannot even look directly into the camera for this photo. Does she have a lazy eye? Omg, is she blind, E!? Because I have to admit, if it came out all of a sudden that Denise Richards is stone-cold blind and has been fooling the public for over a decade, well then, that is pretty damn cool and maybe worthy of a pause from yours truly.

Because that would bring it to the level of THIS.

So yeah. Until Sonora Webster gets her own reality show, consider you and I finito but good.

Sincerely,
Me

Sometimes

2008-05-16T18:29:00.000-07:00

I think about how much I'm really going to miss working in this office...

Like now for instance...

There are SO many horrifying things happening right now...

2008-05-16T11:52:00.001-07:00

Like this.

I love Bittman. Batali and his sweaty, smelly crocks are all right. But Paltrow? Please, God. Why are you doing this? You know how I feel about the sound of her voice. The smug expression and equally smug sound bites on magazine covers. "I Simplify Everything." Yeah, it's amazing how simple things can get with bazillions of dollars.

You remember when I wrote this letter, God? Did you think I was kidding?

Dear Gwyneth,

You and I started off fine. I found you precious in movies like Emma, Sliding Doors, The Talented Mr. Ripley, Seven. I coveted your long blond hair and sweet British accent. Then I found out you aren't British but I didn't begrudge you! Oh, no, quite the contrary. Any child of Blythe Danner is a pal of a mine.

And then...when did we go wrong, Gwyn? It must've been after the Brad breakup, the Affleck breakup, Shakespeare in Love, the pink Oscar dress...It seems unfair to put all of this on your relationship with Chris Martin but I think that's where the trouble began. It's like when one of your friends get married and where they were only mildly irritating before, now they're now insufferable and you feel the urge to set fire to their townhouse whenever you drive by. Um, or so I hear.

So now I find myself unable to hear you speak. You talk about macrobiotic diets and you smugly tell reporters you never would've exposed yourself to the media the way Jennifer Aniston did, blah blah blah, and you refer to Anthony Hopkins as "An-tony" during an award presentation and suddenly I can't enjoy even Shakespeare in Love because your pretension has seeped in and stained everything, and it all has the stench of an Elizabeth Arden commercial or whatever that is that you're stumping where you roll around in wildflowers and play with puppies and your own happiness and, ugh, I'm too busy sitting in my own vomit to continue this any longer.

Please stop calling me. Accept that this is over. I don't want to come over and listen to any more new Coldplay tracks. I don't want to listen to you talk about how milk causes cancer. I'm not interested in what Moses did on the potty yesterday. The fact that I had to write that sentence at all is so wrong. You are all so wrong.

Sincerely,
Judi

I guess I have to be more graphic. The mere mention of her fills my throat with bile. Cease and desist immediately.

Please Buy My Shit

2008-05-14T13:44:00.000-07:00

The move to Chicago is in full swing. Right now I'm so overwhelmed at the thought of everything I have to do (sell furniture, sell car, pack boxes, ship boxes, clean apartment, paint apartment God) in two and a half weeks that I'm finding it difficult to breath.

In two weeks, we will be out of our home for three years, The Tree House, and Vic will be settling into her new place across the alley in Neighbor John and Neighbor Jen's old building because apparently she has to follow John's life to the letter (lest you forget that he used to live in our old apartment a couple of years ago and is responsible for our decrepit dish rack and the world's crappiest shower head amongst other things). And I will commence sleeping on her new hardwood floor and living out of my giant suitcase for two weeks.

But at least by then (June 1 aka 17 days, 10 hours, 10 minutes and 28 seconds to go- not that I'm counting) I will be pretty much done. The boxes containing all my measly belongings will be packed and dutifully mailed to Liz and Adam. The furniture, painstakingly collected over 4 years and countless thrift stores, will all be sold/given away. The Tree House will be as barren and empty as the first few weeks we rented it, when we were living half a mile away with He Who Will Not Be Named and were sneaking out at night to go visit it, to sit on our new living room floor in the dark and talk about how wonderful it would be when we finally moved all of our stuff in.

I'm listing all of my furniture for sale here too for any LA friends who are interested in my second/third/fourth/infinite hand stuff.

Look at that beautiful bed. Wouldn't you KILL for a beautiful bed like that? I realize most people strip the bed in cases like this but I so rarely have the opportunity to show off my Calvin Klein bedspread, aka the most expensive thing in my possession and no, it's not for sale.

Gorgeous! Spectacular! The best purchase I ever made on someone's driveway!

It kills me to part with this chair. It's small and squeaky and I would carry it on my back to Chicago if at all possible.

Look how chic and classy! And dusty! I promise to wipe this bad boy down, should you be interested in taking it home with you.

May's Reign of Terror Continues

2008-05-12T14:27:00.001-07:00

My grandmother passed away on Wednesday.

She was 94 years old. When my father wrote his eulogy, he gave it to me to read since I was his back-up plan, should the funeral service leave him too emotional to deliver it himself (I'm the usual go-to in these situations since I have a weird and kind of unnerving ability to maintain my composure in such circumstances). He told me that he wanted the people at the service to come away with an impression of his mother's whole life- rather than what we would more naturally focus on, which is the last twenty or so years of her life.

My grandmother was a strong, complicated smart-ass, for lack of a better word. Putting her next to my mother's mother, who is now 95, was always a study. My maternal grandmother is the epitome of sweetness, absorbing the world's joys and sorrows with an almost childlike innocence. Gram, on the other hand, was more likely to swear and ask you for a scotch on the rocks. Obviously, this isn't a complete picture of who she was but it's the one I've had in my head for practically my whole life. Hence my dad's dilemma.

And it worked. It painted the picture for who she was, for the near-century she was on this earth. In a strange way, it makes her more real to me- this 3-D picture I have of a woman who loved to dance, who dumped her fiance to marry my grandfather, who once socked the leader of a neighborhood gang who threatened my dad when he was 12, who, with the help of her siblings, helped raise my father's cousin, left motherless at childbirth, and remained devoted to him throughout her life. She shrugged off the Depression as no big deal. She worked in a chocolate factory and she was a lunch lady after my grandfather died.

Real is good. Perspective is good. We all want to live to an old age but we forget what that brings with it- that we can so easily be reduced to who we are at an old age, rather than who we've been our whole lives.

Unfortunately, with it comes yet more sadness and a little regret that we didn't ask the right questions or keep the whole picture in mind when we had the chance.

Whoa Google

2008-05-06T13:22:00.001-07:00

What is up with the quotes today? Usually random, check out today's pessimistic puppies:

Against stupidity the gods themselves contend in vain.
- Friedrich von Schiller

Punctuality is the virtue of the bored.
- Evelyn Waugh

The capacity of human beings to bore one another seems to be vastly greater than that of any other animal.
- HL Mencken

Geez, Google. It's not exactly like I turn to you for sunshine but still...

I Just Love It

2008-05-05T16:14:00.000-07:00

when one image of me is enough to give a person the whole big picture of who I am. Picture this:

Me walking up the four flights of steps to my office. Eating a giant Mrs. Fields chipwich.

While walking up, huffing and puffing through bites of vanilla ice cream and chocolate-chippity goodness, I passed a woman who works in the office. We gave each other a "she who takes the stairs" nod. I realized this woman now knows everything vital about me.

She knows I shop at H&M.

She knows I prefer to take the stairs for weight/slight claustrophobia issues (why else does a woman take the stairs?)

She knows I think that my taking the stairs entitles me to a giant cookie. While I'm walking up the stairs.

I mean, really, what else do you need to know?

Love Is...

2008-05-01T11:10:00.000-07:00

Love is weird. It is. It's so weird. You're walking around, doing your thing, everything's fine. Get the mail, make the calls, get in the car, eat, sleep, laugh, poop, cash or credit, everything status quo. And all the while, in your heart (in the symbolic figurativeness of your heart, that is. And I'm pretty sure "figurativeness" is a Jade word), there's this tiny miniature version of your mom, your little brother, your best friend, all the people you love who love you back. And they're just hanging out in there, relaxing, watching you go about your day from the inside. I imagine there are a lot of bean bag chairs involved.

And you don't really notice them, this small colony who, I'm sure if you were to take a peek and check on them, are super friendly and happy to be with you so they smile and wave a lot. They're just, you know, there. Always. You don't question it, the same way you don't question the air or how it's possible you can run further today than you could yesterday or why VH1 always seems to air Best Week Ever at the exact moment you want to see it. You get used to them being there. You feed them (with phone calls and letters and visits and Chipotle and field trips and TV on a Wednesday night) and you tend to them whenever you can- you tuck them in if they've had too much to drink, you lie for them to their boss, you listen, you ask questions, you comfort, you laugh. A happy colony, all in all, one big happy family. You carry them with you and you realize that there's a mini version of you, too, in all of them. I mean, that's love, right? Without the sonnets and the exclamations and the cheesy Adult FM songs.

And then something happens to one of them. They get sick. And suddenly you notice your own stomach doesn't feel so hot. They fall down hard but it's you who's got a hitch in your step. They cry and you feel your own tears start to gather. They prick and you bleed too. You and your poor bleeding heart. They're a mess and now you're a mess too because you're not a doctor, you're not God, you don't have the prescription, or the code, or the magic words but hell, at least if they're stuck in that hole at least you can be there too right? Misery ... company.

And because you're a mess- a bleeding, crying, vomity mess, and because you're lucky enough that other people are carrying YOUR miniature ass around, they start not feeling so hot. And sure, it's all to a lesser degree, but hurt is hurt and other people start feeling it and their people start feeling it and at some point, someone looks around at all the tears and pain and asks, "Is this really worth it?"

And the answer is always yes. Always. Because you might be curled up in your bed, wishing it was over, your insides a twisted jumble and your head too tired to think, but that colony inside is always moving, always working. They're the back-up team, the reserves. They assess the damage, they wipe their own tears for you away, they roll up their sleeves. They fix you in big ways at first. They pull a crank and get you to move your legs, they pry your eyes open, they force you toward the shower. And when it looks like you can manage at least the heavy mechanics, they get out the word to their bigger counterparts. And they show up. They make the phone calls, tell you bad jokes, come over uninvited, send you junk food in the mail, give you a kiss when you're not expecting it, take you to the beach, tell you you're losing too much weight, and tell you what's been happening to make them hurt, so you can listen and nod and feel again. So you can be for them all that they are for you. It seems so little but it's enough.

Yeah, love is weird. And sometimes, like now, it just hurts, a land mine right there in the pit of your stomach, waiting for something, anything to set it off and send the people you love, the ones you carry with you, scattering for cover. To leave you reeling and lost. Again it starts, it starts again. But once you've seen it through and know what it's about, how it works, that you'll be ok- do you ever wonder again, "Is this all really worth it?"

No. Because it always is.

Cheer Vol I

2008-04-30T13:39:00.000-07:00

The universe is conspiring to knock me on my ass today. I literally cannot speak to anyone without hearing yet something else that should send me into the fetal position. Death, illness, hospital stays, IV drips, people being cruel for unknown reasons. But I will not succumb! Mark my words.

I've always been brilliant at cheering myself up- it's a solid habit to develop and one of those rare things about myself that I've always been grateful for. I can remember the moment I figured it out too- in college, stuck in the doldrums for what must've been very dramatic reasons at the time (as all college depression tends to be. So much drama). For some reason I thought "Maybe I can snap myself out of this." So I started jumping on my bed (my roommate was out I think. I probably wouldn't have done it if she was hanging around. At 18, I was very self-conscious. Obviously such things dissolve in time. Is that a good thing?)

It worked. In no time I was laughing. I must've looked deranged. And I'm at work and unless I start leaping on my rolly chair, which will doubtlessly leave me cracking my head on my desk and with a serious concussion, I have to resort to Youtube, chocolate chip cookies and anything that makes me laugh.

So, here we go. Volume I. More things to come.

For Manna

2008-04-29T18:10:00.000-07:00

When you're blinded by the pain
can't see your way through the rain
hold still
a revealing voice says 'love is very near.'

Thinking of you...

These are a few of my fav-or-ite things...

2008-04-29T12:40:00.000-07:00

Do you know of my love of The Ausiello Report? Well, you do now. You also now know that I think Jessica Walter is a dagdum genius and while I'm scratching my head over Aunt Becky as the new Cindy Walsh, a part of my sweet little Full House heart is praying that John Stamos will somehow become involved now.

90210 Scoop: Jessica Walter to Play the Drunk Granny!

Jessica Walter by Jeff Vespa/WireImage.com

It isn't Kelly Bishop, but this will do rather nicely: Sources confirm to me exclusively that Arrested Development's grande dame, Jessica Walter, has been cast as hard-drinkin', faded, '70s-movie-star Tabitha Mills on the CW's fast-tracked-for-fall 90210 update.

To recap: Tabitha is the grandmother of the show's central teens, siblings ~~Brenda~~ Annie (Shenae Grimes) and ~~Brandon Walsh~~ Dixon Mills. As I reported yesterday, Lori Loughlin will play the pair's mother. The role of the dad (and Tabitha's son) has yet to be cast.

I don't know about you, by my excitement about this show just swelled tenfold.

This Just In: Dirt's Ryan Eggold has snagged the role of Ryan "the teacher."

Related:
• Hilary Duff Out, Degrassi Teen In at New 90210
• Exclusive: Lori Loughlin Is 90210's New Cindy Walsh

Just Once

2008-04-28T14:11:00.000-07:00

I'd like to see a movie where the single girl isn't so immersed in depression about not having somebody that her friends have to stage interventions...to find her somebody.

I'm referring to Must Love Dogs, which I sort-of-accidentally-not-really TiVoed on Saturday and watched on Sunday in a feverish bout of PMS-induced "nesting" that resulted in three loads of laundry, a loaf of homemade bread, two homemade pizzas, a batch of chocolate chip cookies and not one, not two but THREE different versions of fresh pasta. And yes, it's incredible to me as well that I not only managed to do all that but also watch a movie and work up a rant at the same time. Clearly, "I Am Woman" should be playing somewhere in this post.

If you find yourself in a similar predicament and it's a choice between Must Love Dogs and Britney Spears: THS the April 2008 version, go with Britney. Far less damaging. Relatively speaking.

I seriously feel for Diane Lane. This is an actress I adore, one who's had a fascinating film career, who appears to be aging spectacularly and (dare I say it?) naturally, married to equally yummy Josh Brolin who will always be a Goonie in my adoring eyes. She's not even that irritating in skin care commercials. And yet here she is again, playing a woman so hang-dog and lost about being alone that she could barely get herself out of her pajamas and bedspread cocoon.

Under the Tuscan Sun is a little easier to take, especially since she manages to pull herself up and actually, you know, get a life BEFORE the trusty romantic epilogue. But Must Love Dogs? Girl, your sisters should not be throwing an intervention to get you a guy. That is the least of your issues. When one of those sisters retorts that she can't possibly be interfering with your life, because you have no life? That is cause for alarm. Maybe this whole thing would be easier if you could pull it together.

Unfortunately, there's no romantic comedy cliche involving the revelation that there's a life to be had, pursued even, via solo. Running through the rain? Yes. Got that very realistic angle covered at least. Thanks to the movies, when I realize I love the guy and he's already leaving for the train station, I will know exactly what to do.

I guess for everything else I'm on my own. Ironic when you think about it, isn't it?

Tranny Cavern!

2008-04-24T19:20:00.000-07:00

Haven't been blogging because trannies have taken over my life. First, there was being accosted by a rockerbilly tranny band outside the El Rey last night. And tonight, my forage into the world of online marketing, and subsequently the cesspool of American culture that is Myspace, led me to a circle of untold treasure.

I found a tranny on Myspace.

This is important for two reasons. 1) When you spend an hour a day trying to find people to befriend for your business' profile, so you can subsequently bombard them with reminders that your product exists, you inevitably get depressed after your 42nd profile in a row of some ghetto white girl with her ta tas hanging out and glitter banners that shout out "I cut you bitch! Live ur dreams!" (Another thing I learned from Myspace: many, many girls under 20 have babies. This whole initiative we've been trying for the last decade to get teen pregnancy numbers down? Yeah, it's not working) I would link to one but I don't want one of these girls to hunt me down. They cut a bitch, know what I'm saying?

2) One tranny does not just mean "one tranny." It means we've stumbled upon groups of trannies clustered together, living and working together as friends. And clicking on one leads to yet more trannies. Each one more glamorous and fantastic and incredible than the last. And they have pictures! I love them all! If only Christian hadn't ruined the word "fierce" for the rest of us.

Meet Syren Campbell. She is amazing. She works in Birmingham, AL and I love her. I might just ask her to fly to LA and protect me should one of these Myspace girls hunt me down and try to mess me up. And then we'd go manicures, maybe a wax (me not her). Maybe get tickets for Dr. Phil, but not Tyra cause that bitch is CRAZY. And then we are going out on the town. We are getting drunk and no one can touch me.

The whole thing almost makes it all worth it. Almost .

Moving Sucks Part I of Endless Parts

2008-04-23T12:18:00.000-07:00

Seriously, moving companies need to settle down. You fill out one measly form (and then find out that a Pod costs $3,300 and subsequently have a heart attack) and whammo! I've been at work only a few hours and already have six voice mail messages and no less than 21 emails from different moving companies.

Y'all need to BACK off. Some dude just called my cell phone twice, not responding well when I hit Ignore the first time.

And if you're wondering out there why this is so frightening, let me just say that the thought of paying upwards of $1K for ANYTHING is enough to give me palpitations. Having them all jump me like a pack of rabid dogs makes the whole thing seem even worse, like they just can't wait to take my money from me.

All this for a bunch of boxes, a bed, a TV and my TiVo. If I wasn't such a sentimental packrack I would just toss it all and start over in Chicago (one of those boxes is full of old greeting cards, ticket stubs and yes, meaningful RECEIPTS. I know I have a problem- get off my back and out of my future scrapbooks)

God, I love the Onion

2008-04-21T20:00:00.001-07:00

Chuck Berry Remembers Call From Cousin About White Kid Playing 'Johnny B. Goode'

Thank My Lucky Stars

2008-04-21T10:14:00.000-07:00

Libra - April 21, 2008 There is a hard path in front of you, yet you can do what's necessary and still live your life in your own special way, even if this looks easy to others. Now, more than ever, your discipline can combine with a solid work ethic to stage a significant payoff. Don't think about cashing in your chips just yet. Rewards will follow if you just keep plodding along.

By Rick Levine

I am so tired. This morning I woke up and thought it was Tuesday. Yesterday was Sunday. Confusing a weekend day for MONDAY is, I think, one of the signs that you're close to having a mental breakdown. If I were Mariah Carey, my rep would be preparing a statement about my exhausted state right now, cautious about that moment when I lose my mind completely and start stripping on TRL. You know, again.

It's nice to get some acknowledgement that you're working hard, a little encouragement, even its from your generic daily horoscope. Actually, now that I think about it- is there anything better than a little positive reinforcement from THE UNIVERSE?

I feel better already.

100th Post

2008-04-17T19:04:00.001-07:00

Hooray!

And what better way to celebrate than with fun links and a pretty new header?

The beautiful header is courtesy of Jen who lives approximately 6,431 miles away (I looked it up because I'm a medium-sized nerd) on the world's teeniest island in Japan and yet still had time to whip it up for me. Gotta love technology. I'm also going to enjoy telling people who compliment it, "Thanks. I got it from someone in the FUTURE." Like Marty McFly sent it to me or something. Sometimes that 16 hour time difference really comes in handy (in case you were wondering, the rest of the time it bites. Stupid Air Force).

That's her in the blue at my Dynasty birthday party last October. (And that's me in the black in my oldest sister's prom dress. Jealous?)

If you're wondering about the confounded blond chick in the header, you need to consult your Classic Film dictionary. That thing she's staring glumly at is a 'typewriter' and I feel your pain, Jean. Writing is such a little bitch sometimes. And it's just my luck that I can't seem to do anything else.

Egregious Sin About to Happen

2008-04-17T13:35:00.000-07:00

In blog world anyway. See, I was toying with this food blog for a while but I got bored with it. I love food and cooking and blogs about food and cooking but I just don't have any interest in taking pictures of food I've made and that whole sharing recipes thing. Too lazy. I'd rather be eating. So the whole sweetly conceived idea kind of fell apart.

I have a point, I promise and I'll get to the Blog Sin part. So, I checked out Decorno's new food and diet blog Vodka Has No Carbs and I just can't get into it. And I was trying to figure out why I couldn't and how I could best explain my own relationship with food these days, when I realized- I'd already written the whole damn thing on my now defunct Food Blog.

So, yeah. I'm repurposing it here. (Cause I'd like to keep the piece, especially once I hit the all-too-scary Delete Blog on poor little Buona Forchetta). Begging your forgiveness.

PS I do occasionally repeat posts with my other blog but that's for work and I'm very tired and nobody's reading it anyway. ;) Keep my secret, will ya?

Oh, GIGI (originally written February 21, 2008)

If my life were a movie and Food was my costar, this would be the "Gigi" moment. I am standing in front of a chocolate fountain, just now coming to terms with something I think I've always known, deep in my heart (which, incidentally is as chubby and warm as I am). Food and I were meant to be. Who cares if Food is only, like 16, and when you think about it, it's kind of gross (wait, that's the real "Gigi").

We started out as friends, Food and I. Things were good. Hell, I'm Italian. Things were great. Then I was ten and things got a little too...out of hand. Basically, Food knocked me up. And I've been carrying that extra twenty lbs all my life to prove it. The combination of sheer appetite, hormones, too many fashion models and typical emotional stress resulted in fifteen years of a silent war with my own body. And when I mean war, I mean WAR. Full-out bloodshed. Endless casualties. Spielberg couldn't film this stuff.

It was my pop-culture-societal-values sodden Brain versus my Body and Food was the weapon of choice on both sides. Like in ancient Greece, if the God of War first instigated a battle and then turned himself into rocks and swords. I would parry with Weight Watchers and those 100 calorie snack packs. Detox juice diets. Two hour long gym sessions. Crying in dressing rooms. It would hit back with chocolate chip cookies and cream sauce. Talk of thyroids. A bag of fucking Baked Lays.

Up-down, flat-flabby, back and forth, day in and day out until fifteen (Jesus) years had eked by. And what was left? I know how many points are in a piece of pizza (7). I know how many calories I can burn when I run 5.0mph for 12 minutes (178). I know my highest weight (172) and my lowest to date (150). I can't remember all the nice things people have said about how I look but I remember all of the bad things, every single one. If you like I can reenact them for you, starting with the horror of a particularly gruesome moment in 7th grade that still makes my chest hurt (Let's not and say we did. Ever).

And now I'm 26. And I should not be this tired. But I am- I am more tired than a woman of 50 after an All-You-Can-Eat turkey buffet at the Sizzler. One day I woke up and thought, "How nice it would be to be released from this WEIGHT- not my own weight but the weight of thinking about it all the time. ALL THE TIME." Measuring and counting and weighing, hedging and guilt and agonizing. Not to mention how tired you get of thinking about yourself so much during the day (which is kind of funny considering how much I blog).

I never want to count another calorie in my life. I don't want to weigh a piece of chicken ever again. The next time I do a calculation in my head it's going to be so I can figure out the interest rate in my savings account or if I can afford a pair of Joe's Jeans, instead of whether or not I earned a cup of fat free ice cream at the end of the day.

I wanted to think about something else. I HAVE to think about something else, anything else. Forget my body- we need to start talking about my life now. I needed to get one before it got to be too late.

Thanksgiving passed, Christmas passed too. I dabbled with Weight Watchers one last time but my heart wasn't in it. I can kill at WW when I put my mind to it- I have the discipline of a drill sergeant, plus I LOVE making lists of things. And those public weigh-ins are fantastic motivators. The problem is I get bored eating the same things all the time. And I think, quite honestly, I really just hate being told what to do.

I was flying back to LA (which is itself a problem, when you feel like the largest person in a city that stretches 30 miles wide. 'Image' is King here and 'Thin' is its Queen) and was wasting time in JFK before my flight when I saw French Women Don't Get Fat, a simple blue book in the bookstore. I would've bypassed it, it wasn't the first time I'd seen it sitting around, but the line underneath it got my attention hard. "The Secret of Eating for Pleasure."

Pleasure. Eating. That sounded...familiar. I tried to tap into what my body was recalling without me and soon realized what it was...taste. I vaguely remembered taste. Something to do with salt and pepper? Right? I'd been dulled by too many years of fat free cream cheese and Jello snack cups.

So I bought the book and read it and I can tell you right now, it's not for everyone- nothing is for everyone. I told my friend about it but she'd already bought and read the book, said she did the Leek soup thing (gross) and the make-your-own yogurt thing ("Do you want to buy my yogurt maker?") But it spoke to me and not in a fad-diet sort of way- it was offering exactly what I was looking for- a way to love food and eating and not turn into one of those women who has to be airlifted off a couch. Or worse- to avoid finally hit my goal weight, only to find a life where I'm forced to maintain it by sucking down diet pills and limp McDonald's salads. Those women are incredibly grumpy. I want to be happy.

I'm a good student, I always have been. I do as I'm told because it's easier than it sounds- I avoid processed foods as much as possible (if it has more than two chemicals in the ingredients, I say no thanks- as much as I can. I mean, I did just eat half a Twix bar at the office. I'm not made of stone, people) I eat foods that are in season because, surprise! They taste better. I chew. I appreciate.

And I can cook now. What a surprise that turned out to be. I used to be a terrible cook, even with my distinguished pedigree (Hi Mama) I would try too hard while preparing for a dinner party and come up with something that was a passable mess but never as good as I imagined it would be. But I read something in Mireille Guiliano's book- it said that when you cook with the best ingredients you can find, failure is almost impossible. You'd have to be some kind of sadist to ruin it. So I tried it. I went to the Farmers Market near my house. I sprung for the $4 a box chicken stock instead of the old Swansons cans. I made Provencal Soup, Wolfgang Puck's recipe, because the ingredients are seasonal for winter.

It was so good I almost burst into tears, right there in the kitchen. I made something that I actually wanted to eat, even savor. It was FUN. I didn't hate myself afterwards. The only thing I counted was what's listed on my measuring cup. Who knew a person could live like this?! You know, other than the French.

Which brings us to where we are today. I cook as much as I can. I go to the Farmers Market when I can but I don't kill myself over (which is lovely and not a chore at all because it's outside and the insane Santa Monica people are fun to watch, elbowing people aside in their Pucci and flip-flops, pushing $1,500 strollers) Otherwise there's my favorite local supermarket (Pavilions- they are so sweet and friendly there, I swear to God. It makes such a difference) I cheat when I have to, ingredient-wise, because I am not made of money and my $30 a week budget was starting to suffer, though not as much as I thought it would but still. I am a single working girl (I've since upped it to $40 which has surprisingly made a big difference).

The only times I really eat out is when I know the place is going to be GOOD. When I eat something cheap and crappy, my taste buds betray me and let me know, "Yo, this is cheap and crappy." I ate a bowl of Instant Oatmeal the other day and could just taste the chemical sweetener. Gross. I couldn't even finish it.

I eat slower, I chew more thoroughly. Some of the French Women stuff doesn't work for me. Like "light candles when you eat" and "don't do anything but EAT". Sorry, sweetie, I'm an American through and through. I'm going to eat while I read a magazine or play Scrabulous on my computer during my lunch break. Or a book. Or watch TV. Or, you know, talk to another person. Crazy pants.

As for going to the gym, I go occasionally when I need to work something out in my brain. That's when I work out the best anyway. But I don't kill myself about it. I take the stairs at work, four flights a day- sometimes twice a day. It's a little thing but it's a difference. I walk in the morning. I sleep late when I want too.

For the first time since I was a kid, my body and I are at peace. My friends asked me what my resolution would be for New Years and I said, "I'm not going to treat my body like a whore anymore. I'm going to treat it like a princess." No more punishments, deprivation, counting, weighing, obsessing. That time is over. I've stayed a 10 since this started and I actually think I might be a 9 now. But if I'm the same? The truth is I've started to like the fact that I'm a 10. Remember when Bo Derek was a 10? When frat boy idiots judged girls and held up signs rating their attractiveness? A 10 is hot. My curves ROCK. I'm not 102 lbs like my best friend but I don't think of us in those terms anymore- I could shrink down to 102 lbs (and subsequently be hospitalized) but she'll never be tall (love ya, Vic, but it's true. I mean, we live together. I have to see you in a bathing suit occasionally. For the sake of my mental health, I only think of your appearance as Short now. I know you understand.)

Plus, it'll be nice to think about someone else for a change. Now that the guilt is gone and the war is over, there's just so many more hours in the day to devote my brain to things endlessly more worthwhile- like the people I love and the shenanigans they get themselves into. How I can help. How I can make them, and myself, laugh a little more every day. It's not the world and it certainly don't look like France but it's not a bad start either, if I do say so myself.

Things That Are Awesome

2008-04-16T17:36:00.001-07:00

At 5:33 on a Wednesday... and every other time for that matter.

One Other Thing Before I Go

2008-04-15T21:31:00.000-07:00

Can I just mention how supremely irritating it is that I can't buy Bob Seger's "Hollywood Nights" on iTunes?

Supremely. Irritating.

I'm posting this here, now, so it's there when I need it like RIGHT NOW. God. Take me out of this godforsaken place, Bob.

Blog Glee

2008-04-15T21:15:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting in my office right now, it's 9:15 at night and I want to go home but I haven't hit my two page quota for my novel and I'm stuck in a serious ditch here, people, for real. The kind of creative anguish that comes when you know exactly where you're supposed to go and for the life of you, you just cannot get there. At this point, I couldn't write my way out of a paper bag. I can't even think of a better metaphor.

Otherwise known as the Dread Middle. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, let me just tell you that it royally sucks. I mean, I stayed, I'm sitting here alone in a dark office and I have nothing to show for it today but two wasted hours, one measly, greasy page of text I'll probably chop in editing, and a few dozen movie trailers I've watched online to get myself back into the mood. (PS The summer movie situation isn't looking so hot. God, I'm such a sad sack right now. Sorry.)

Having said all that and thus whining enough to fill a full glass, can I just say that there is quite possibly nothing that could have made me feel better than to get two of my favoritest blog-treats ever, which is 1) the world's sweetest mention on my friend Jen's own fantastic blog, Sumeba Miyako, including bringing up my short and oh so sweet brush with Internet fame this past summer. Even though she's only been blogging for a few months and is such a natural at it that I sometimes get the urge to hurt her.

AND a comment from a Blogger I seriously love and read every day. Petunia Face is awesome, in case you're slow and/or have not yet gotten the memo (my friend/coworker Michael is also a fan and it's almost impossible to tear him away from Facebook and TWoP so that's a serious endorsement there) and I think with these two little pieces of blog-heaven, I might actually be able to tear my ass out of my chair now. Thank God for that. I'm starving.

Oh, Mickey

2008-04-14T13:48:00.000-07:00

There are two types of people in the world- those who love Disney World and those who have been sucked of all joy and child-like wonder and instead prefer to sit back, roll their eyes and say smug, cynical things like "I'd rather have a fork jammed in my eye repeatedly for twelve hours than go there." These are the people who jump to tell you that Disney World is a terrorist's dream. And remind you how much money you'll spend to stand on line for hours on end with hordes of screaming, sweaty children.

To which, your only recourse is to nod politely and tell them they're absolutely right while inwardly feeling deeply sorry for them, because they don't get it and they never will and there's a loss there that they cannot possibly fathom, that they don't even realize has taken place.

I'm not immune to Disney's trappings- the endless lines, the price gouging on bottled water in 90 degree heat, the strategically placed souvenir store at the end of the ride. I don't turn a blind eye to any of it. But I get it. In fact, I was a pretty skeptical kid- my mom says that I used to just stare at the characters, studying them for inaccuracies, making note of their shoes and their hands and those little grates where the person inside can see out. I'd wonder out loud why the Easter Bunny was wearing sneakers and what was he doing in the mall anyway? Things did not get past me then. So, when I say I get it, I mean I understand even more than my child self.

My niece is four and she's at the age where she believes, whole-heartedly and without a doubt in her mind, that the real Cinderella lives in this magic place, that her tall, blonde, immaculate princess-self is standing there in the flesh, just wrapped her arms around her and signed her perfect signature in the little pink book that bears her likeness. When Piglet turns the corner, her eyes widen and I'm so lost in her reaction, that for a second it IS Piglet, straight from Pooh Corner and the books in my old room. I'm almost as giddy as she is.

People talk all the time about the maniacs at Disney, how they're practically Nazi Generals when it comes to their staff and rules. I don't doubt it. But you know what? It works. From the time you step off the tram from the parking lot to the moment you pass back out through the wrought-iron gates, every single employee you pass says hello. They smile and you smile back. They wave from their golf carts as they putter by and you wave too, even though you'd look at someone like they were deranged if they tried that with you on the street.

You walk in and you're struck by the sheer brightness of Main Street. It's just as clean and white-washed and gleaming as you remember, with the kind of colors and charm right out of Burt's street drawing in Mary Poppins. There's music playing everywhere, songs you remember and your niece is singing along too, every word just as familiar to her as it is to you now. You're not distracted by people arguing, trash on the ground, graffiti, teenagers taunting people and snickering, because none of that is happening. Road rage does not exist in this place. As crowded as it is, people say "Excuse me" and pat you on the shoulder if they're come too close to your feet. They're just trying to get a look at that castle after all and who can blame them? Every princess fantasy you've ever had, even when you were older and caught daydreaming about the very real Prince William (it was always Harry for me), this was the castle in the back of your mind. Tall and blue and perfect. I didn't even post a picture of it, because the one in my head is so much clearer.

And by the time you've taken in as much as you can with your eyes and your stomach is full and your feet ache and the sky gets darker and the fireworks start, there's one last hit- right to the gut. Forget who you are during the day- swearing at traffic, stuck in an office chair all day, listening to the same pop songs over and over, complaining about bills and learning about who's health is failing and what's on your to-do list- it's gone, it disappears as soon as a singular glow of perfect, yellow light shoots across the sky, right over your head, right to that castle, into your past when you yourself were only four and you believed in fairies. Of course you did.

It's cheesy, sure, but these days you'd be a fool to turn your back on it. I say, take the magic where you can get it before it disappears for good.

...Crickets...

2008-04-07T16:37:00.000-07:00

I realized last night as I was drifting off to sleep, that I hadn't spoken to another soul the entire day.

Not a single person. I mean, I left two voice mail messages for people but that doesn't count. And it wasn't like I spent the whole day in my pajamas. I went to the supermarket, went to the office for a few hours. I spent quality time in the kitchen- just me, a pound of mozzarella and various carbohydrates to stuff said cheese into. I did laundry. I mean, I put makeup on and real clothes and everything. I saw sunlight.

But it wasn't until I'd closed my eyes that I realized that, other than those two voicemail messages, I hadn't spoken a word out loud. To anyone. For almost sixteen hours. No calls, texts or emails either.

It was amazing.

Ok, wait- hear me out. I am not a hermit. I have a family I'm close to, I have a solid group of friends out here and scattered all over the place and I adore and appreciate each and every one of them. You just cannot deny the importance of nurturing relationships, people to love who can love you back, supporting each other, cheering them on, letting them console you...it's what makes the world a beautiful thing. I'm sure it's what keeps me from muttering to myself on a street corner somewhere.

And yet...silence is just completely, utterly underrated. I know mothers with young children (and older too, come to think of it) understand what I mean- that craving for just five damn minutes of peace, when there's no one to answer to, no mouths to wipe, no messes to chase after. Silence can be purely selfish- its insular and requires nothing from you. Actually that's not true- it demands distance, a detachment from others and their needs- whether its for your input, your time or your company.

I know people who cannot physically bear it- the silence of being alone. I'm sure you do too- they're either on the phone or email or on their blackberry, making plans for later in the day when they can actually see another person- that's really when their lives get color, when their day takes shape- centered around interaction with other people. The idea of going to a movie or a restaurant by themselves is unfathomable. Which is funny, because the idea of spending every single day like that- wrapped up in interaction with others, is beyond my comprehension. I would snap, I'm sure of it. I'd be ok for a while but eventually you would find me in the stall of a public bathroom, hands over my ears and my eyes shut tight.

Which worries me a little. Lately I've been thinking a lot about having kids- do I want them, when would I procure one (I like saying "procure" as if they're something I can find on Overstock.com), do I really want one or am I just supposed to want one? That last question comes up the most. A huge part of me does, the part that has a massive reservoir of love and nurturing and very specific opinions about parenthood all stored up (what do you expect from a person with 10+ years of baby-sitting experience behind her?). And then the rest of me thinks I must be insane, just plain crazy. It should be no surprise that its the same part that feels like doing cartwheels when I've had a full day without a peep from another soul. No surprise but very confusing, as you could imagine.

For Vic, Jenn and anyone else

2008-04-04T13:50:00.000-07:00

around the age of 25-35 who became shriveled masses of shrieking joy when they saw this:

Hilarious. First of all, may I just say that they actually all look really good (as it was when I was eight, my god this was a long time ago, I still only have eyes for Joey. I could not take my eyes off him. Where did I put my scrunchie?!). Second, I was watching this morning (thanks for tivoing it, Vic. I am sincerely going to miss that fabulous aspect of having a roommate when I move to Chicago) and just could not stop laughing at how these women were SCREAMING. They're all roughly my age, a little older maybe, but the fact that we're all adults and have jobs and husbands and children has fully disappeared into 16 year old hysteria at the sight of Donny Walherg. These women brought their NKOTB buttons for God's sake. I don't even know what to say.

Donny just looked so relieved at the reception. As my sister pointed out on the phone this morning, you just know they were having serious misgivings behind that curtain. The same feeling you get in those fifteen minutes right before you throw a party that no one will come and you'll be stuck with four bottles of seltzer and cranberry juice, a reminder you'll have for months of what a friendless loser you are.

I mean, some of these guys have jobs by now- for serious jobs, the kinds of jobs that require conference calls and sales quarters and golf outings. Not to mention new kids of their own. The equivalent might be if my father disappeared into the city one day and instead of going to the office, my mother tells me oh, so casually that he was a member of Wham! back in the day and they were getting together for some limited appearances, some gyrating dance moves and bringing middle-aged women on stage to sing to them, maybe give them a rose. What?! How do you recover from that kind of shift in reality?

And how must these guys feel? I mean, you cannot look back at the NKOTB days and not cringe inwardly a little. Think about what it means to them- it's like when you did that talent show in middle school and at the time you thought you were a badass for dancing to Motown Philly with your girlfriends on stage in front of every single 11-12-13 year old peer but NOW, oh my god, you just never want to think about it ever again. And what if some producer approached you now, today, and goes, "Hey, we really loved your act- what do you think about bringing it on the road?" What? Are you kidding? And they throw you millions of dollars and hold up a chart of the Spice Girls 2008 tour revenue? There's really only one thing to do.

Motown Philly, back again.

For Luis, Miguel, Teresa, Sheridan...

2008-04-03T13:48:00.000-07:00

So I know where I'm going to be this weekend....

Passions Props Sale (from Soaps.com)

Wednesday, April 02 2008

(NBC)

This week, we got the final definitive news that Passions would be ending after running, on various networks, for nine years. Although this is sad news for those of us who have stayed with it through its ups and downs, all things, good and evil, come to an end, even the mayhem in Harmony.

With the show now finished shooting, fans may start looking for a way to say goodbye in style. Luckily for them, there is going to be a golden opportunity to do so. "We are excited to offer the fans of Passions an opportunity to own a piece of their favorite show," says Stacey Ward, Director of NBC Universal Television DVD, Music and Consumer Products Group. The Group are partnering with Premiere Props to hold a public two-day estate sale of several thousands items from Passions. The sale will feature clothing, housewares and innumerable other items used on the sets of the show over the past several years. Wouldn't you like a chance to get a hold of Tabitha's bowl, Vincent's set of He/She costumes or Spike's pimp clothes, or the plastic fish guts that used to cover Kay when she came home from the cannery? Perhaps you're more excited by the, often flattering, green attire that tended to be favored by the Crane women, or the cleavage enhancing red and black dresses that Rebecca seems to adore so much? Then there are the many dancing shoes, the elaborate costumes from the fantasy sequences of Luis and Sheridan's past lives, or the overtly theatrical props from the many musical numbers that have delighted audiences over the years. No doubt there will be plenty for the avid fan to rummage through and smile at as the past is paraded before them with this wonderful opportunity to take home a piece of TV history.

(NBC)

The sale will be held at the CBS Radford studio lot in Studio City, CA on Saturday, April the 5th and Sunday, April the 6th from 8 AM until 4 PM PST. And please, if you go, be sure to come back and tell Soaps.com what you managed to snag!

For Michael

2008-04-02T13:39:00.000-07:00

I challenge you to watch this only once. I also implore you to pay attention the priceless details in this all-to-short commercial for what looks like the crappiest instant coffee known to man. Excuse me, coffee crystals.

- The couch covered in plastic. Listen carefully- that's dear Lauren making those squeaky sounds as she langorously shifts to savor the flavor of her fake coffee.

- Those glorious infections: "De-CAFF-inated"

- Whammo! Check out the rock when she puts that cup on top of that other cup (why is that necessary anyway?)

- "My favorite time of day is night." Wow. Can we be more general? My favorite type of pet is dog. You don't say? Also I'm not sure that even makes sense. Night and day are separate things aren't they? Opposites? To do with the existence of the sun? Right? Am I taking crazy pills?

I Present to You...

2008-03-26T10:39:00.001-07:00

Phil's future daughter....

Talk About Blog Guilt

2008-03-21T18:02:00.000-07:00

Easter is about Jesus and Jesus luuurves him some guilt. Ok, maybe not Jesus specifically but very much so the people who built his house.

Anyway. What could possibly make you feel guiltier about being lazy about your blog than hearing that women in Saudi Arabia are finding joy in creating and using blogs to talk about their world, in ways of open communication not previously available to them? It's like living with a parapalegic and going on and on about how all you want to do is lay on the couch for hours and not even move and oh my god today was so stressful with all the running around.

If you have any sense of perspective whatsover, you don't say that. You might think it but you'd feel pretty damn guilty about it. And you'd get back to work. In case you were wondering.

Happy Easter everybody!

For Becks

2008-03-10T10:15:00.000-07:00

Check out "Today's Reason to Drink", courtesy of Google.

March 10, 2008

Toast with a bloody mary in celebration of the premier of Buffy the Vampire Slayer in 1997. Please don't use real blood.

I might have to watch 7-10 episodes tonight after work to celebrate this properly. Love ya.

This One's For You, Kid

2008-03-06T14:59:00.001-08:00

Yesterday I talked about how strange and funny it is to write a blog, especially when it seems largely like you’re just talking to yourself. Today I realize the value in that quirky little fact- getting to say what I want to say, what I need to say, without being interrupted or talking but really internally dealing with how the other person is handling the information.

I’m not making sense. Simply put, today is my niece’s birthday. Her name is Caterina and she would have turned two today. Or she is two today, somewhere. She died when she was two months old.

My family has done a very good job in acting out a kind of living memorial to this person who was with us for such a short time. We light a pink candle when we eat together as a family on special occasions (and lately any chance for us all to be together is a special occasion). She has a Christmas stocking, we slip private notes and letters into it on Christmas, and put up her ornaments on the tree, all that. We celebrate her birthday, we’ve gotten together twice now. This year we released balloons on the beach and sent our birthday wishes with them- towards the sky, toward heaven, however you want to put it. When something good happens, something as small and miraculous as a great parking spot when I’m having an awful day, we say it’s Caterina’s doing. We look up and we say “Thanks, kid.”

And it’s not maudlin or somber. Or dramatic. We’re not all shrouded in black and weeping like old Italian widows. Our lives haven’t stopped in deference to tragedy. There’s a picture of her on my desk, yeah, but no shrine to what should’ve been. It’s been two years. If I had to describe it, at least for myself, this stuff is all touched with a little sadness, yes, but it’s also just, you know, The Way Things Are Now. My oldest and dearest friend’s mom calls it Grief Weaving, a way you integrate the memory of someone you love, whom you’ve lost, into your life. And yeah, that’s what we did. (And maybe it's just because your mom gets it, Kate, but I know you understand. Sometimes you’re the only one who does and I appreciate that more than you will ever know)

If I were in New York, close in geography to my family, today would be easier in a way. If I were a little quieter at dinner or silenced my phone or snapped at someone unnecessarily, it would be understood why. But no, I had to be an independent brat and I chose to live 3,000 miles away and this is the part that sucks. Because as close as I am to my friends here, my Urban Family, and the people I work with, you can’t help feeling like they just don’t want to hear it. Not in a cruel way, of course, not in an altogether unsensitive, blase way. More in a humoring nod, don’t-ask-questions, change-the-subject kind of way.

You pray that the undercurrent of discomfort is not them saying, “Get over it already.”
Because I love all of these people for good, solid reasons, I assume it has to do with them not knowing what to say or what I need on a day like today. You love me and you should care and so I’m just going to tell you. This is what I want. No, this is what I need. Don’t change the subject. Ask me how my sister is. When I tell you we celebrated her birthday, ask me what we did and who was there. You don’t have to ask me what she was like when she was alive. I don’t want to make anyone sad. I won’t cry when I answer. I won’t go into long, drawn out detail. I won’t make you go to a dark place in your own heart where your own grief still lives. It's like when I ask you how your last vacation was, what you did and where you stayed and what it was like- I’m asking because I care, because it was important to you. It's not much different from that.

But you know what- it’s fine. I feel better already. Because all I wanted to do today was say her name out loud and I did it. And so I ended up doing it here, largely to myself. That’s fine. I’m done. Like most important things in life, what I really needed turned out to be just that simple.

Blogging to no one is kind of hilarious

2008-03-05T16:16:00.000-08:00

It's really just like talking to yourself. I'm not talking about this adorable space. Trendz just yelled at me over IM to update the damn thing (hence I am here. Ask, Reader #1 of maybe 5, and ye shall receive) since it's now March. The truth is I've been doing double duty at my new food blog which I didn't want to mention because there's something SO so gay about a foodie blog (i mean gay like retarded, not gay like homosexual*) and I'm slightly embarrassed about it (I'm also half-assing it. I have no interest in writing recipes and taking pictures.)

So, yeah it's hilarious. I mean, you assume all blogs start this way right? You're just kind of talking out loud and hoping some random person will stumble upon you, right? How often can you email people you know about it? If they don't care, they don't care- spamming your friends is exhausting and makes you feel like a giant loser pest.

But talking to yourself? I can dig it. I don't know- I don't mind it really. I must be tapping into my vast pool of vanity or something (and oh, how that pool has sustained me over the years). To be honest, I really only became a writer in the first place so I could read my own stuff one day (I'm serious. Can you get more VAIN than that?! It's one of those things that makes me appalled and want to disown myself, if that were possible. And the part that loves Me thinks it's so funny and great. I can't win here)

So yeah, I don't know where I'm going with this. Explaining my absence maybe? I've also been reviewing on Culture Clique like CRAZY (70 reviews! My coworkers think I'm crazy), trying to help the cause and all. So yeah, that's all I have to say.

Oh, except that last week's issue of The Onion is on our table in the office kitchen and this story makes me laugh EVERY time I pass it and see the headline:

Victim Of Mall Shooting Determined Not To Die In Yankee Candle

BUFFALO, NY—"I told myself there was no way in hell I was going to let them find me curled up beside a stack of Jasmine Housewarmer jar candles," said David Mull.

* thanks for doin' all my offendin' for me, Sarah Silverman

Oh, MARIAH!

2008-02-28T18:16:00.001-08:00

Why do I feel like since that last post, the only things I can talk about here pertain to bra burning and femi-nazis?

Ok, ok. I solemnly swear to uphold the allegiance all women should share that they will embrace our feminine power, strength of character and intellect as a vibrant and flourishing people, and finally reclaim the respect we deserve...

But first, laugh at this Mariah Carey video. (Come on, she's leading a UNICORN around!)

Worst for Women in Pop Culture

2008-02-26T17:42:00.001-08:00

As Hillary Clinton prepares for what is widely believed to be her last debate, I'm forced to wonder about Sex and Politics. I know, I know- it's not as glamorous as Race and Politics but when you hear Pat Buchanan disparage Clinton on MSNBC because her voice reminds him of his wife yelling at him, once again making her campaign about the physical (her hair, her laugh, her cry, her clothes) not on the strength of her experience, character and ideals, where else is there to go really?

And the truth is...I've said for a long time that we would have a black President before a woman President made it into office. Racial discrimination is still a serious, dangerous, ever-present threat to our society. But so are the rampant social perceptions of a gender that currently outnumbers men in this country and yet still only maintain 16% of the Senate and 16% of the House.

And this stuff? It ain't helping the cause. With that, I give you the worst that American pop culture has to offer. Every one of these things puts us "in our place." It's a very bad place. We don't think for ourselves here. We're judged on how we look instead of our brains. We have to beat the crap out of each other because of a guy. Repeatedly. And then come back and do it again in a year. We only want to be liked, but not respected. We talk the talk but we don't act on our ideals.

And we're not putting up much of a fight against any of it.

Reality TV

Why? Take your pic from the big Five, MTV, VH1 and E! Our personal favorites in the Backwards Steps category: any show that sends 12-15 half-naked women scrambling through the world's most degrading challenges over 1 dude who you would avoid at all costs if he approached you in a bar. Even you, Bret Michaels. I would flirt with you for maybe a minute and then go discuss with my friends how awesome that was and why you can't embrace the fact that you're bald. I would not subject myself to scrounging in a dumpster for your guitar pick. Don't get me started on Flavor of Love. I love Public Enemy as much as the next person but let's be honest- Flav is basically a homeless guy who can tell time.

The makers of pretty much every new network television show for the last five years

Why? A few weeks ago, Entertainment Weekly dedicated an article to why networks are having such a difficult time finding the next "Sex and the City," why shows like Lipstick Jungle and Cashmere Mafia are tanking. Gee, I wonder. Let's put aside the fact that Movies and TVs' biggest prevailing problem is that they believe people will swallow a shitty script if the production values are high enough and you get Pat Fielding in your corner. But let's ignore that. Maybe it's because we don't RECOGNIZE these women. Am to believe that some 5'11 former model turned movie exec/mommy/married to hot hubby is anyone I know? How do I relate to her? Why do you want me to care? Let's even ignore the Insanely Beautiful Hollywood Woman versus the Rest of Us theory and just say once and for all what women want to see. It's simple and shocking- it's exactly what men want to see too: Multi-dimensional characters facing realistic, interesting issues and situations. Most disturbing is that these series are supposedly written by women. You've been in LA too long, ladies.

The Katherine Heigl box set (Knocked Up and 27 Dresses)

Why? Full disclaimer- I loved Knocked Up. What I hated was hearing star Katherine Heigl's comments in the press afterword about how demeaning the movie, all of Judd Apatow's work really, is to women. “It was hard for me to love the movie” because it’s “a little sexist…it paints the women as shrews, as humorless and uptight, and it paints the men as goofy, fun-loving guys.” She then proceeds to shill 27 Dresses, about a women's obsession with getting married. And how she's been a bridesmaid 27 times. Which means all of the other women in her life are also obsessed with getting married. Marriage is fine. It's a beautiful institution. But is this premise really what we need? Is this Doris Day reverb? On the grand scale of all we can accomplish as human beings, this is all we can find to talk about?

Marie Claire

Why? I realize I could've taken the easy way out and just stuck Glamour and Cosmo here but Marie Claire really infuriates me. At least Glamour and Cosmo are exactly what they claim to be- they focus on sex and looks. They pretty much haven't changed since I was a teenager- the bar is low. And sex matters, so does the multi-billion beauty industry. Marie Claire is worse because it claims to be more. It insists on including World pieces, the intention of which I applaud. But the pieces themselves? Ugh. The last one I read, had this byline: Teenage girls are grabbing guns and joining the outlawed New People’s Army in the Philippines. Here, a rare glimpse at their secret lives. Fascinating, right? Yeah, well. It was two pages long. Mostly pictures. And pretty much the only copy focused on how these women couldn't have sex or had to keep their boyfriends secret. "Every aspect of NPA life is regulated, including romance; premarital sex is forbidden." It's one thing to truly believe that all women are whores. It's another to know they're not and treat them like that anyway.

The Biggest Loser (what's in a name?)

Why? It's hard to discredit The Biggest Loser on NBC. The show is moving in its intention to get the morbidly obese back to fighting shape, in most cases saving these people's lives and giving them back to their families. Not to meant inspiring the fattest country on the planet. The focus is on exercise and healthy eating over dangerous plastic surgery. Cheers, yay, go for it! But...did we have to call it The Biggest Loser? I'm sure some network honcho patted himself on the back for that one. Truly, the best titles encompass two or more meanings. And here the meanings are... The winner of the show loses the most weight. The biggest loser of weight. And the second? Fat people are losers. One of these people is the biggest loser. It makes both the men and the women look bad. It's needlessly cruel. In my opinion, NBC is the biggest loser here, when it comes to that whole karma thing (See what I did there? NBC? My name is Earl? Karma?)

This makes me happy

2008-02-26T13:48:00.000-08:00

Seriously, insanely happy. Look at that! Look! Revel in the cuteness of that!

Sometimes there's justice in the world.

Best for Women in Pop Culture

2008-02-25T16:43:00.001-08:00

Every once in a while, I feel some damn pride in the world and I feel necessary to share it. With that in mind, I dedicate this puppy to my girls and a few forward-thinking guys too.

And to the suits who call the shots- I'm gunning for you. Where there's a Best Of list, there's a Worst Of not far behind and the list is long and depressing. It needs to be addressed, even if it exists here where only I can see it. I'm thinking of calling it, "Stop treating us like stupid whores."

Queen Latifah's Jenny Craig commercial

Why? Latifah's take on the weight loss-spokeswoman franchise is refreshing- turning it into a pledge to get a little healthier over succumbing to some unrealistic Size 2 For Everyone mantra.

Reese Witherspoon

Why? I will admit that I have a spastic "Reese is on the cover- must have magazine" twitch. I can't help it. I've stopped fighting it. As someone who is consistently wondering why women continue degrade themselves all over pop culture and, separately, why affluent parents have become so frightened of their children as to coddle/spoil/ruin them for the rest of mankind, any time Reese Witherspoon opens her mouth I breath a sigh of relief. She believes in discipline. And manners (she writes thank you notes. C'mon). And she believes women should be portrayed a way that doesn't crucify the whole gender. They should play to their strengths and use their brains. And then she actually goes out and makes movies that prove her point- ahem, we're looking at you Heigl (are you smirking out there that Legally Blonde didn't quite make the list? Maybe you should watch it again. And pay attention this time.)

Reality TV- Amazing Race, How to Look Good Naked

Why? One asks contestants, of both sexes, of all races, size and creed, to use their wits, guile and resolve. Shocking. The other seeks to undo decades of poisonous programming that an imperfect body is a reason to torture yourself until you have to squeeze yours eyes shut in a dressing room or hide under the covers instead of going to a party with your friends. In a week. The results never fail to bring me to tears.

Tina Fey

Why? Say what you will about the first female head writer of notorious boy's club Saturday Night Live- that is a big deal. So is her work on 30 Rock, which just might be the most important sitcom since Seinfeld. So is being named one of 2007's 100 People Who Shape Our World by Time magazine. So is just shrugging it all off and going back to work.

Dove ads

Why? Dove's biggest statement is To make more women feel beautiful everyday. God, it's nice when a company actually walks the talk. It would've been simple to attempt to prove this statement by filling ad space and commercial blocks with the same long-tressed, perfect-skinned, stick-thin, Who Are These Women? models that everyone else uses. Instead, Dove gives us women we actually recognize. And now I use Dove. See how that works, advertising cronies?

The makeup artists/costumer designers of Crime TV- All the Law & Orders, Cold Case, The Closer, and Medium

Sure, you get them all dolled up on the red carpet and they're knock-outs. But on the small screen? They're a little working mom-schlubby (Alison on Medium), they routinely forget to brush their hair (Lily on Cold Case, Brenda on Medium), they ignore or downplay makeup completely and wear clothes that make SENSE for the job (the cops and lawyers on Law & Order). The result? We believe these women are who they say they are (You hear that, Ally McBeal?). And a special bonus to Patricia Arquette for famously turning down the demand that she lose 25 lbs for her role, arguing that she is exactly what a real working mother of three looks like, just as she is.

Ugly Betty

Why? Tell me if you've heard this one. A chubby girl with braces, bushy eyebrows and a Guadalajara poncho walks into a high fashion magazine office and the world at large goes crazy with love and joy. Where have you been all my life, Betty Suarez? I sure could've used you when I myself was a T-shirt-over-the-bathing-suit kind of girl.

The How-To Women of the Food Network (Except you, Sandra Lee. Sorry- there's something about your Stepford Wives persona that I cannot stomach)
Why? Wait. Food is the enemy. How come y'all don't all weigh 110 lbs? How come you're not telling me to stick to my fat-free cream cheese diet? The lesson learned here is more than just how to whip up egg whites. It's about appreciating the blend of creativity and efficiency, savoring all the world has to offer and perfecting the art of making something out of nothing. Things all women thrive at when they give themselves the chance.

Spanglish

Why? Because it's a great movie. Because daughter Bernie is too familiar and just breaks my heart. And it has this passage- "American women, I believe, actually feel the same as Hispanic women about weight. A desire for the comfort of fullness. And when that desire is suppressed for style, and deprivation allowed to rule, dieting, exercising American women become afraid of everything associated with being curvaceous...such as wantonness, lustfulness, sex, food...motherhood. All that is best in life."

For Graham and Lee

2008-02-25T12:44:00.001-08:00

This picture is amazing. It's exactly what I need to see on a Monday- Christopher Lloyd leaning casually up against a time-traveling Delorean. Now if I could just see Harrison Ford in the front seat of the Millenium Falcon, we'd really be talking. Ok my geek is showing. Gotta go.

For Vic T! A TREE HOUSE HOTEL

2008-02-22T14:21:00.000-08:00

Ok, if you have not played with Stumbleupon.com yet, run and do not walk NOW. You give them a list of topics you're interested in and then download a little bar on your web navigation bar thing. Then, when you're bored and click the Stumble! button, a new website pops up for you to try.

For example, I love Food. Clearly. So, I click on Stumble! and what do I get?

Ok, it looks not that impressive to you but this is like porn to me, people.

So, I was playing around and I had put Travel as my interest. I get to Unusual Hotels of the World and what do I see right away?

A Tree House hotel! Check it out here. My favorite part is this guest quote.

Guest Feedback

"Its nice and snug i like the room"
-U.K. 25 Oct 2007

So funny.

For Little... dogs, of course.

2008-02-22T13:56:00.000-08:00

http://www.flyaboveall.com/dogs.htm

An Early Wedding Gift for Trendz and Buck

2008-02-21T11:11:00.000-08:00

A ROBOT DINOSAUR YOU CAN RIDE!!!!

I call dibs!

Happy Valentine's Day

2008-02-15T09:50:00.000-08:00

Ok, yes this is a day late but I took a sick day yesterday (it seemed easier than walking around and growling at everyone all day).

A Valentine gift from my brother. So funny.

It's really Patrick's voice that kills me.

5 Things You Need To Properly Make Fun of The Grammys

2008-02-11T15:33:00.001-08:00

1) A halfway decent memory.

2) Validation of your feelings. I like the AV Club because they keep everything short and snappy. Witness this little gem: "Because he lost to Hancock, Kanye West can’t complain about how not getting Album Of The Year was the result of a black man not getting a chance; but anyway, he seemed more than satisfied with his Best Rap Album win, which gave him an opportunity both to show off his new “Mama” fade and pontificate on the state of modern hip-hop—at least until the producers interrupted him with “wrap it up” music, which West quickly put a stop to by playing the My Mom Just Died, Assholes card.

3) An outlet for fashion disaster. MSN.com, Yahoo and Go Fug, of course. Although, why the fug girls haven't yet tackled Alicia Keys (Sausage Outfit 1 and Leggings Catastrophe 2), Aretha (sleeveless? Really?), Stevie Wonder, and Rihanna doing her best imitation of Denise Huxtable circa 1987 is beyond me. At least they got Beyonce and Solange.

4) The comments on this video posted on Youtube. This made me cry too, buddy.

5) Cher.

Grammy Redux

2008-02-11T13:32:00.001-08:00

I have many things to say about this year's Grammy's, aka The Big Thigh Convention. (Not that I'm complaining- I'm just surprised I wasn't invited to celebrate)

But, first and foremost, did anyone else think Will I Am's tribute was reminiscent of any time you had to make up a poem about something when you were a kid- like on your dad's birthday or Thanksgiving or something? You'd stand up and read something about the day and, so cute- it rhymes! and everyone would cock their head and smile at how precious you are. Except Will I Am is a "performer" and not 8 years old. Lisa Simpson could've done better than that. Hell, Bart could've done better than that.

For Mark- WHAT?!

2008-02-08T11:40:00.000-08:00

From Gawker-

Tyra Banks May Have Had An Unfortunate Accident

"Former New York "It" boy and Paper magazine blogger Fabian Basabe writes on his blog today that the supermodel turned TV personality, um, soiled herself at Fashion Week. Basabe was filming an interview in the W suite at the tents, and suddenly a whole cadre of people barged in and kicked him out. The reason? Tyra needed to change her clothes. Because of the incident. Apparently they had a spare change of clothes all lined up which makes him wonder if it's happened before. Obviously we have no real confirmation on this. I'm not really sure if Tyra Banks pooping herself is newsworthy, but maybe Basabe's continued usage of the icky term "messed herself" is? Apologies. [Fabian Basabe Blog]" (Gawker)

For my sisters who know this to be true...

2008-02-07T12:11:00.000-08:00

And anyone else who has been pregnant and/or has witnessed... Pregnant Lady Face Morphing!

Oh J-Lo. This is so surprising. Maybe it's catching and Marc will flesh out a little too by osmosis.

For Liz who needs it...

2008-02-06T17:45:00.000-08:00

And for Mark, love ya, who I miss. Enjoy the Fug Girl's tribute to our favorite interplanetary magical creatures.

What a day.

The smartest thing I did today...

2008-02-04T16:20:00.000-08:00

was find and claim a long-forgotten jar of organic peanut butter in the office kitchen, sneak four Famous Amos chocolate cookies, crumble them in a cup with a tablespoon of peanut butter and nuke the bastard.

The dumbest thing I did today...

2008-02-04T16:19:00.000-08:00

was forget my lunch at home. Grrrrrrrrr.

For Little...twice in one week...

2008-01-31T13:49:00.000-08:00

Not that I'm trying to make up for something...or something.

Anyway, Preston shared some of her favorite blogs with me and I think you'll love this one- since you're into interior design and all. Check it out.

http://decorno.blogspot.com/

As a side note so the rest of you can writhe in jealousy. This week and next LA is celebrating Restaurant Week! 3 course meals at some of LA's dishiest places for low, low prices. Tonight, Little and I are hitting Chaya Venica, which we never would've been able to afford otherwise. Will report back tomorrow. :)

For Kate...

2008-01-30T17:49:00.000-08:00

See?! All in good time. I could not think of a more perfect dedication for my dearest, oldest friend.

Witness Kate's mom in this article. For those of you who do not have the pleasure of knowing Maureen Walsh, may I just say- she is awesome. And now she's outdone herself in terms of her own awesomeness. Which, quite frankly, I figured was impossible.

She's opened a grief counseling center in Weymouth, MA and let me tell you something- short of my own divine parents, I cannot think of another single person on this earth whom I would want to comfort me in hard times. The following article is long but I'm showing it in its entirety anyway because it's my blog and I do what I want.

So there.

‘Grief Weavers’ helps clients integrate death, loss into life

By Maureen Walsh

Wed Jan 30, 2008, 12:10 PM EST

Weymouth - “It’s for the best,” more than one person told 18-year-old Amanda Wadsworth when her baby died in the womb at seven months. “You’re young. You can have other children.”

Wadsworth and her fiancé Christian Rubins are now 26 and planning their wedding in two months, but their lives together have been forever shaped and changed by the stillbirth of their daughter, Mackenzie Elizabeth, on December 13, 1999.

“She looked just like Chris. She had a ton of hair. She was a carbon copy of her father, except her fingers were really long and dainty,” said Wadsworth. “Losing a child is indescribable. When I think back to that day, it’s the exact same raw pain, even eight years later.”

To cope with her ongoing feelings of loss, Wadsworth was referred last year to Grief Weavers LLC, a new bereavement support practice founded by two board certified thanatologists: Emily Lazar, MS, a genetics counselor, and Maureen Walsh, RN (no relation to this reporter), a school nurse and health educator.

Grief Weavers helps clients suffering many different kinds of loss to acknowledge and understand their grief and integrate it into their lives.

“We know that you don’t get over it, that there’s no such thing as closure,” said Lazar. “The new theories about loss are about continuing the bond to the person who is not there. The relationship hasn’t ended, just changed.”

Grief is about more than death and dying, she said. Some clients are coping with infertility, with a medical diagnosis, with children’s feelings of loss in a divorce. Others are coping with so-called “disenfranchised grief,” a grief that is not recognized or supported by society.

It’s a myth, she said, that people go through stages of grief and then they’re done. “It’s an evolving process as new events and changes occur in one’s life.”

The first year after her daughter’s death, Wadsworth said she was focused on getting pregnant again. She miscarried soon after Mackenzie’s first anniversary.

“After that, we decided we needed to focus again on us, on our relationship. I hope we do have a healthy baby after we get married and have a ‘normal’ life, but our lives are forever changed because of her.”

Something missing

“Amanda was a young teen mom with no support,” said Lazar. “She knew something was missing in her life. She felt empty. She felt stuck. She felt like people expected her, because she was young and not married, to get over it and move on.”

“Grief Weavers helped her to be able to acknowledge her loss and to share her memories of her daughter. The beauty is that she is still with the same person and they are getting married. She’s done a lot of work, but it took her eight years. It’s been a real struggle.”

Wadsworth and Rubins also had to contend with the discomfort many people feel around those who are bereaved, and the short time the culture allows people to grieve openly.

“It is uncomfortable for people to sit with those in pain, but it’s what people who are grieving need for the most part,” Lazar said. “When the calls and the cards stop coming is when people are in need the most.”

“For a long time, I didn’t know it was okay to talk about Mackenzie,” said Wadsworth. “It helps just remembering her and knowing other people remember her. Even though we don’t have other children, on Mother’s Day Chris will say ‘Happy Mother’s Day’ to me and I’ll do the same to him on Father’s Day.”

“On her birthday, we’ll say, ‘Oh, she’d be...’ For a couple of years, when she’d be two or three, we went to Edaville Railroad for her birthday.”

Wadsworth and Rubins are learning to weave the loss of their daughter into the pattern of their lives. They hope one day they can provide peer support for other bereaved parents, and Wadsworth has simple advice for those who don’t know how to offer comfort.

“There’s no need to try to say something to make them feel better. Just listen, let them talk about the baby, let them cry, give them a hug. Those things are far more helpful.”

Journey of loss

As a genetic counselor at South Shore Hospital, Lazar has spent 20 years helping individuals and couples cope with high-risk pregnancies and reproductive loss. Several years ago, her own son, born slightly prematurely, died suddenly from an infection.

“His name was Matan Lev, which means ‘a gift of the heart,’ and that’s what he was all about,” Lazar said. “He had two amazing weeks of life. We try to honor the moments that people have had with their loved ones, because every moment counts.”

Her son’s death made her realize the need for more support for people beyond the initial period of loss, Lazar said. She enrolled in a 60-credit-hour program on death, dying and bereavement offered through the National Center on Death Education at Mount Ida College.

There she met Maureen Walsh, school nurse at Saint Francis Xavier School in South Weymouth, and a certified coordinator and facilitator of Rainbows, an international grief support program for children. Both completed the course and passed the board exam for certification by the Association for Death Educators and Counselors.

“As a nurse, I was always interested in caring for people who were terminally ill,” said Walsh. Anyone who is grieving has always been a strong interest of mine.”

The Rainbows program she facilitates at St. Francis Xavier is geared toward children who have suffered loss through death, divorce or abandonment, she said. Small groups meet weekly for about 15 or 16 weeks and follow a curriculum that allows kids to help each other under the guidance of a trained Rainbows facilitator.

“Kids grieve in bits, in small bites,” said Walsh. “It’s not unusual for a child to be told that Grandpa has died and then to say, ‘I’m going to play now.’ Kids learn about the world, about grief, through play. They can only take little bits. They keep coming back to ask questions.”

Up to the age of 8 or 9, many children can’t comprehend “forever,” she said. Even when death has been explained to them, they may continue to ask when Daddy is coming back.

“Kids also re-grieve at every developmental stage in life. If their father died when they were four, they will re-grieve when they go to middle school, when they go to high school, maybe when they make the baseball team and Dad’s not there, when they graduate and Dad’s not in the audience. They never get over the grief.”

Divorce is another loss that children grieve in different ways throughout their lives, she said, and involves other issues, such as going back and forth for the holidays, parents dating and stepfamily relationships.

“Healing art” is a particularly helpful tool in helping children to grieve. Walsh asks children to bring in clothing and other scraps of material that they associate with their loss, and she helps them to make a small quilt or a pillow.

“They have a memory to take home with them. They can wrap the quilt around themselves if they need comforting,” she said. “We can transfer pictures to material and they can write memories around it. They can do all sorts of things.”

While the children are helping to make their memory quilts or pillows, they are also sharing their memories and their feelings with Walsh. “The big thing is, it’s a vehicle for communication with the child, and it’s also a memory maker for the child,” she said.

Grief is normal

Lazar and Walsh began laying the groundwork for Grief Weavers in the summer of 2006 and incorporated in September 2007.

“We’re a support practice. We’re helping people through the journey of loss at all ages,” Lazar said. “We have expertise, but everybody is the expert in their own grief. Everyone experiences loss, but it takes skills that we don’t grow up with. We walk with them and give them suggestions and support and reassurance that they are not alone.”

Grief Weavers offers individual, couples and group support based on the “companioning” model of Dr. Alan Wolfert, PhD, director of the Center for Loss and Life Transition, which trains facilitators to assist people who are grieving.

The name “Grief Weavers” comes from a folk-tale-style story written by Walsh while she and Lazar were facilitating a group for bereaved parents who had experienced pregnancy, newborn and infant deaths.

“It’s a beautiful story about a couple’s journey on the loss of a child and how they learned the only way to deal with the pain is to weave the loss into your life,” said Lazar. “You have to take on the components of that person’s life that you can carry with you.”

“Grief is a normal process of life,” said Walsh. “While people who are grieving may need help, that doesn’t mean they are sick or broken. We are not treating them. We’re along for the journey.”

Grief Weavers LLC is based in Weymouth, but serves clients throughout the region. Many groups meet on Saturdays and Sundays. Services are provided on a flexible, sliding fee scale, and no one is turned away because of inability to pay.

Goals for the new bereavement practice include outreach to those who are grieving through hospitals, physicians, funeral homes, etc.; increased support for men who are grieving; development and training of a peer-to-peer support network; and ultimately a grief center to provide 24-hour drop-in support and resources for all who are dealing with loss.

For more information, contact Lazar at 617-669-6573 or e-mail elazar@griefweavers.com or contact Walsh at 781-856-4702 or e-mail mfwalsh@griefweavers.com.

For Pam...

2008-01-30T13:51:00.001-08:00

I'm sorry, but does Pam's fiance Joe have something he'd like to tell us? Because he looks a LOT like designer Chris Benz. Anyone? Bueller?

For Lee

2008-01-29T19:35:00.000-08:00

Finally, the perfect tribute to the beauty and majesty of Power Rangers (and I'm talking good, old-fashioned Power Rangers of my youth.)

Enjoy little brother.

For Preston and Toman

2008-01-28T18:44:00.000-08:00

While preparing for Singapore...

I found this blog when I was looking up info for the book Trail of Crumbs featured below. While it's useless to me, where I sit in Southern California, I thought you might find it fun. Maybe you'll get some restaurant ideas for your trip this spring.

http://www.trailofcrumbs.blogspot.com/

For Little...

2008-01-28T18:32:00.000-08:00

Long time coming. I can't believe there are still people with no dedications to their name! Rest assured, it has nothing to do with my love for you, all of you who are still nameless on my little archive to the right over there. I think of you all often- it's just that I haven't found anything worthy of your notice yet!

So, in the spirit of Better Late Than Never, I grant an excerpt from a book that sounds awesome that immediately made me think of Little. First the description from Amazon and then the excerpt. Enjoy. (Courtesy of USA Today online. Love ya!)

Summary
On making Sunee's acquaintance in the introduction to this charming memoir, it's hard not to envy the young woman swimming laps in the pool overlooking the orchard of her petit ami's vast compound in the High Alps of Provence, but below the surface of this portrait is a turbulent quest for identity. Abandoned at age three in a Korean marketplace, Sunee is adopted by an American couple who raise her in New Orleans. In the 1990s she settles, after a fashion, in France with Olivier Baussan, a multimillionaire of epicurean tastes and—at least in her depiction—controlling disposition. She struggles to create a home for herself in the kitchen, cooking gargantuan meals for their large circle of friends, until her restive nature and Baussan's impatience with her literary ambitions compel her to move on.

Excerpt from 'Trail of Crumbs"

By Kim Sunée

Where I Am

Let me start by saying where I am. I've always thought that knowing this much may help me understand where I was and, if I'm lucky, to better know where it is I'm going. Luck. I know something about it—it got me out of an orphanage in Asia and across the waters, through various port cities, to right here, in France, where I am.

Looking out onto the foothills of the High Alps, in a damp Missoni bathing suit, I'm sitting on a cane-seat chair that once belonged to the father of the man I love. The father is long dead, of cancer, too much alcohol, and not enough tenderness. He's buried in a monastery high in the hills of Ganagobie, just a few kilometers from here. Olivier, my companion of nearly three years, is somewhere on the property. I hear his voice every now and then as he goes from room to room discussing colors with Ariane, the artisan from Carcassonne he has hired to repaint the walls of the entire house before the end of summer.

"Ici, un bleu chaud, pas clair. .. là, du vert foncé. .. à la main. .. Tout." He wants warm, chalky blues, strong greens, and everything rubbed in with bare hands—the reason Ariane charges so much money. Ariane lights a cigarette and, after taking a long, dramatic puff, stops to nod at the appropriate moments.

Tout, I repeat to myself, trying to say it like Olivier, but the o and u together is a sound I still have trouble pronouncing. Tout, not tu. Everything, not you.

After he has finished instructing Ariane, Olivier will busy himself with various tasks: opening bottles of red Bordeaux, negotiating tickets for a performance of La Bohème at La Scala, and tasting the mint sauce for a fresh fava bean salad I have chilling in the refrigerator. He'll do this and more while waiting for me.

I have just finished swimming forty laps and am trying to catch my breath before the long evening ahead. It is midsummer, the longest day of the year, perhaps one of the longest years of my life, and I'm barely twenty-five years old. It's almost dusk, the first starlight splinters through the slender leaves of the linden trees. If I open the upstairs window wide enough, I can catch glimpses of Olivier's daughter, Laure, and her best friend, Lulu, the caretakers' daughter, as they chase each other barefoot through the orchards. They have eaten so many wild berries and plums that their small round mouths will be stained for days.

Maybe because they are French children, or because I want them to be like me, I think they enjoy being at the table. But today the girls have so thoroughly stuffed themselves they will not be hungry for dinner. It seems we are always finishing one meal and preparing for the next. This is the way it's been every day, every season, for the last three years together with Olivier. But tonight's meal seems different somehow. I have taken extra care to tend to all the details.

Sophie, the caretaker's wife, and I were first at the market this morning, choosing small, ripe melons only from Cavaillon, the fattest white asparagus, and long, fragrant branches of fresh lemon verbena. The best salt-cured ham from Bayonne, fresh pork livers, and juniper berries for a terrine still warm from the oven. Our friend Flora gathered poppy leaves and wild mushrooms to bake with yard eggs and flowering thyme to accompany the lamb. Olivier always roasts the meat and chooses the wines. Laure and Lulu helped shell garden peas, the bright green juice spreading across the prints of their tiny fingers. And they played with pastry, smearing rich butter into the dough and cutting out hearts and stars before helping me to wrap it gently around wild peaches. Zorah, the Moroccan housekeeper, has been baking large golden moons of semolina bread all day.

All this for Olivier's family and our friends who have come from both small surrounding towns and as far away as Marseille and Paris. Some will stay through August and maybe into September. They watch as I begin to cook and then ask me questions about where I'm from. Olivier's friends from deep Provence still think it exotic—an Asian face telling stories in French about la Nouvelle-Orléans, le jazz, la cuisine Créole. Olivier, who loves to be in the kitchen, feels that I am better suited for it—he thinks it is here that I am happiest. And because I'm young, or haven't yet mastered the language of opposition, because I don't quite know what it is that makes me happy, I oblige as they gather for the spectacle: Midas and his Golden Girl.

Later, with full stomachs and slipping, slightly tipsy, between crisp, heavy linen sheets, the visitors will ask one another: What more could she possibly want? If they looked a bit closer, would they notice that despite Olivier's insistence on making me the mistress of the house, I still don't have a clue as to what is expected of me? And that Laure is both fascinated by how different I am and envious of the love her father bestows on me? Her mother, Dominique, a French woman whose beauty has been pinched with bitterness, sends letters filled with threats due to the pending divorce and malicious remarks in reference to the chinoise Olivier has taken up with.

But they do not see any of this, because in the face of gastronomic pursuits, I appear fearless and without age. I am filled with courage as I take on two ovens, three refrigerators, one neglected caretaker's wife, a few sleepy housekeepers who turn about like broken clockwork, and a soon-to-be-official stepdaughter who loves me instinctively but hasn't quite figured out why I am sometimes distant, melancholy.

As always, at some point toward the end of the meal, Olivier will propose a toast, pleased that I can make a daube or soupe d'épeautre like the best of the locals. Laure will lean into me, her small ear pressed just at the level of my stomach, and she'll whisper to me that it's grumbling, that I must still be hungry. Then her giggle will turn into a deep, rich laughter, like a drunken sailor's. This always makes me smile. Olivier, who's always searching for a sign, will see this and think that I am almost happy. And sometimes I think so, too, believe that I have buried my constant need for departure. I always remind him, though, that this is really not my home, that I am just a small part that completes his world and not the whole of it. Nonsense, he declares.

After years spent expanding his company while ignoring the yearnings of the heart, Olivier tells his friends and family that meeting me has proven that love—despite its elusive market value—is also an enterprise worth investing in. And sometimes I believe him, because being loved by him makes me feel whole, makes me forget sometimes that life was not always like this.

With Olivier, I am the least lonely, and I love the family he has tried to give me, love this country that will never be mine but whose language and markets and produce, flavors and secret recipes, I have come to know and desire as well as any native.

Later, when I tuck the children into bed, Laure, cranky and still smelling of suntan lotion, complains of a bellyache. She holds up her tiny hand to mine, marveling at how close they are in size. Tu t'es coupée. You cut yourself, she remarks. And then she shows me her green fingertips, stained from shelling the spring peas, before she and Lulu giggle themselves into a half sleep.

Sometimes, late at night, Laure asks to hear the story about how I met her father, in a cold country, how he rescued me from winter and brought me to be her American belle-mère. Then she hugs me with all the love of a ten-year-old stepchild, as she has been doing ever since we met.

Before I turn out the lights, she makes me promise to take her and Lulu along wherever it is I may be going tomorrow. Mais il faut revenir avant qu'il fasse nuit. She wants to be back before nightfall. She has been having nightmares lately that she is lost in a forest, and just before dark her father comes to save her. Mais parfois, j'ai peur. Je ne sais pas quand il reviendra. Sometimes she's afraid; she never knows when he'll return. Et toi? And you? she asks. I hug her one last time, amazed and surprised at how a little human being can already sense so much.

I wait a few minutes more until I hear Laure's breathing slow down, until she finally lets go of my fingers. If I move too quickly, though, she grasps my hand again. Tu te rappelles la premiére fois où l'on s'est rencontrés? Do you remember when we first met? she mumbles. Yes, I nod.

IT WAS SUMMER 1993; she would soon turn eight. Olivier and I picked her up at her mother's in Forcalquier, the nearby village, just about a kilometer from the house here in Pierrerue. I was still expecting boxes to arrive from Stockholm, where I had been living when Olivier and I first met. While waiting for Dominique to move the rest of her stuff from the house, Olivier had rented a huge apartment in Aix-en-Provence for us, but we spent most of the time in the Pierrerue house anyway. He and Dominique had been separated almost a year when we met. She lived part-time with Laure in Forcalquier and the rest of the time in an apartment in Paris. Olivier was paying for both and more, all because this was what Dominique demanded, knowing he would do nothing to jeopardize custody of his daughter.

When Laure and I met, she greeted me with the customary kiss on both cheeks. I remember thinking how much more radiant she was than in the photos Olivier had shown me. A Venetian blonde with violet blue eyes, resembling, she claimed rather proudly, neither her mother nor her father. She ran her tiny hand along my smooth skin before turning to her father to say that she wished her limbs were brown and freckleless like mine.

"My name ees Laure, what ees your name?"

I told her slowly in English, but then she responded in French that she was learning my language in her school this year. Muscular and animated, breathless with questions, she seemed to understand I was the new woman in her father's life. She had never met anyone named Keem. She wanted to know how old I was, where I was from, but twenty-three and New Orleans meant nothing to her.

"Je te montre le jardin?" When we got to the house, she took my hand and showed me through the gardens and the fruit orchard. "Voilà mes arbres." These are my trees. She stood firmly on the ground. Like her father, she knows and loves where she is from. "Cerises. Figues. Mirabelles." She waited, like a patient schoolteacher, for me to repeat after her as she pointed to the cherries, figs, and tiny yellow plums. "Et des pêches de vigne."

Together we stooped to pick up fallen wild peaches. Blood peaches. It was the first time I had ever seen a wild peach. I held one up to the light, broke it in two to study the scarlet veins running through the flesh.

"Do you sleep with Papa?" Laure asked, picking distractedly at a scab above her knee. Her question seemed so natural, so French, but I was still torn between nervous laughter and scolding.

"Yes," I answered firmly, biting into my first pêche sauvage ever. I had never tasted anything so delicious and forbidden. I almost wanted to cry, not from joy, but from some distant awareness that we would pay dearly one day for such sweetness.

I kiss Laure's ear good night and wish her sweet dreams, and she whispers it back to me. Sweet dreams. It is one of her favorite phrases she has learned in English.

As I walk back downstairs to the remnants of the dinner party, I think of what I will teach her tomorrow and the next day, because soon, in a month, two, a year from now, I may be on a high-speed train back to Paris. On the TGV, men will look at me and see a foreign woman in an expensive dress and sandals, carrying a soft leather bag, and one of them may ask me to spend a moment telling him something it looks as though I should know.

Staring out the train window, though, I'll think of all the things I have yet to learn, and I might catch a fractured glimpse of this same woman and see her for who she really is: a lonesome voyager, with uneven tan lines, knife cuts on her hands, and a heart speeding fast toward the season of fall.

Wild Peaches Poached
in Lillet Blanc
and Lemon Verbena

We picked pêches de vigne* direct from our trees in Provence. If you don't have access to wild peaches, use ripe yet slightly firm and blemishfree white or yellow peaches. Substitute aromatic Pineau des Charentes Blanc, Monbazillac, or your favorite white wine for the Lillet Blanc. I've experimented cooking these in red wine, and the peaches, although delicious, are not as pretty.

6 medium-size ripe wild peaches*

1 (750-ml) bottle Lillet Blanc

1/3 cup sugar

2 to 3 tablespoons honey

1 (3-inch) piece orange rind

Squeeze of fresh orange juice (from 1 quarter)

4 to 5 fresh lemon verbena sprigs, plus leaves for garnish

Cut an X in blossom end of each peach. Plunge in boiling water, about 30 seconds. Remove and peel peaches. Place peeled peaches in a large, wide, heavy-bottomed pot. Pour Lillet Blanc over. Add sugar, honey, orange rind, and juice. Gently crush lemon verbena leaves with hands to release fragrance and add sprigs to pot. Bring to a boil, reduce heat to medium, and poach, occasionally turning peaches gently for even cooking, 20 to 30 minutes (depending on ripeness) or until peaches are tender when pierced gently with tip of knife. Carefully remove peaches and place in a large serving bowl. Turn heat to high and cook poaching liquid 6 to 8 minutes or until thick and syrupy. Pour over peaches. Let cool and chill in refrigerator at least 4 hours or overnight. Garnish with more lemon verbena leaves. This is also delicious with a swirl of crème fraîche or soft vanilla ice cream and grated Amaretti di Saronno cookies. Serves 6.

For Adam...

2008-01-28T14:01:00.000-08:00

I stumbled upon this recipe on the Food Network website. It is, of course, courtesy of the our First Lady of Butter and Sweet Cream, Ms Paula Deen. Enjoy.

Elvis Gooey Butter Cakes

Recipe courtesy Paula Deen
Show:	Paula's Home Cooking
Episode:	An Elvis Twist

Cake:
1 (18 1/4-ounce) package yellow cake mix
1 egg
8 tablespoons (1 stick) butter, melted
Mint leaves, for garnish
Whipped cream, for garnish

Filling:
1 (8-ounce) package cream cheese, softened
3 eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla
1/2 cup peanut butter
1 whole banana
8 tablespoons (1 stick) butter
1 (16-ounce) box powdered sugar

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.

Combine the cake mix, egg, and butter together and mix well. Pat into a lightly greased glass 13 by 9-inch baking pan. Prepare the filling.

Beat the cream cheese until smooth. Add the eggs and vanilla. Add the peanut butter; beat. Add the banana and butter and mix well. Add the powdered sugar and mix well. Spread over the cake mixture. Bake for 45 to 50 minutes. You want the center to be a little gooey, so do not over bake. Top each cake slice with a mint leaf and dollop of whipped cream

Quickie update...

2008-01-28T13:46:00.001-08:00

My first week without gossip smut is going surprisingly well! Thanks to the support of my understanding roommate, whose hesitant questions of "Is E! True Hollywood Story still ok?" made me smile. Honestly, I have no idea. I'm worried about E! altogether. If the purpose is to eschewing the paparazzi, then I'm not sure ANY E! programming is ok. This will be toughest given my love of The Girls Next Door. Does it count if the show stars D list celebrities willing to whore themselves out for reality television?

These are questions I was not prepared to answer. But I will say that I did not touch US Weekly and though I did glance over the headlines at the supermarket checkout, I did not flip through any of them.

Minor hiccup coming soon: Amanda and I were "hair models" at the International Salon and Spa Show in Long Beach this weekend (So much to say. We modeled extensions. Possibly one of the most hilarious situations I've ever found myself in. Although I'm not the one who ended up looking like Jessica Simpson- cough) and among the incredible deals usually only afforded salon and spa owners and cosmotology students (like Bed Head for $4! And new fun stuff like a pair of tweezers with a light attached! We were like kids in a...well, a beauty supply store.) was the publisher deal for magazines. Know how your local hair stylist can afford so many subscriptions? I do. And they were sweet enough to grant me the same deal. As a magazine junkie, let me just say that I blacked out, but when I came to I had six new subscriptions to my name- at such a low price, I almost needed a drink after the paper was signed.

The special bonus to all who signed up? A free subscription to OK! The gossip devil clearly devised this situation to ensnare me. Doesn't mean I have to read it. And I'm not paying for it so I haven't violated my agreement to myself. But still... To quote Michael Corleone from the Godfather marathon over the weekend, "Just when I thought I was out...they pull me back in."

For Michael, Mark, Liz and everyone else

2008-01-25T16:44:00.000-08:00

who already knew this...

One of country’s hugest stars, Dolly Parton is also music’s most significant female artist

By Kim Morgan

Whitney Houston may have made the song even more famous, a humongous, record-breaking international hit, but no one, not even the talented Miss Houston, can sing “I Will Always Love You” like Dolly Parton can.

It’s not that Parton’s country soprano is technically the greatest voice in popular music, but there’s just something extra intimate and heartbreaking about her version that makes you feel the words so much more intensely. It’s not surprising, really, since the country music legend wrote the song herself (reportedly about her ex-singing partner and mentor, Porter Wagoner) and the sweet, stripped-down tune clearly means something very personal and private to her. But the song’s massive crossover success is interesting — that this wistful, pretty reflection has made her millions and millions of dollars over the years shows that Parton understands what constitutes a terrific hit song.

But that’s no surprise since Parton (aka “The Iron Butterfly”) knows what she’s doing in both music and business, which has contributed to her monumental success as a female recording artist. With 25 No. 1 singles, 41 Top 10 country albums, loads of awards and nominations, big-screen success as an actress and, yes, a theme park named for her (Dollywood), Parton is beyond mere celebrity — she’s a striking symbol of the American dream.

This slight, big-chested blond woman — born dirt poor in the Smokey Mountains of Tennessee, the fourth of 12 children — is one of our most prolific songwriters (I’ve read reports stating she’s written over 5,000 songs and released nearly 350) as well as one of the most significant recording artists — ever. But again, Parton’s glory always goes back to her subtly powerful storytelling voice and her beautiful, special songs, including “Jolene,” “The Bargain Store,” “Coat of Many Colors,” “Here You Come Again,” “9 to 5” and (obviously) many, many more, underscoring how little her creative output has to do with her curves, her big personality and her now campy appeal.

Parton is always quick to a quip regarding her glamorous appearance, most famously saying, “It takes a lot of money to look this cheap” — but there’s nothing cheap about the artist. Never mind all the money she’s made over the years, anyone filled with this much talent, smarts, heart and soul is an unforgettable class act.

KIM MORGAN is a film writer who runs the MSN Movies blog and has contributed to many outlets including LA Weekly, Reel.com, The DVD Journal, The Portland Mercury, Salon and The Huffington Post. She was a main film critic for the daily newspaper The Oregonian in Portland and served as DVD critic on TechTV's "The Screen Savers." She has also appeared as a guest film critic on AMC's "Movie Club," E! Television, Reelz, and most recently on “Ebert & Roeper.” You can read her writing at her blog "SunsetGun.com."

Oh Habs. I miss thee.

2008-01-25T15:20:00.000-08:00

Do you think it's crazy for me to drive up to your old house on Mansfield and knock on the door, requesting to watch the Complete Jane Austen on PBS with whomever opens the door? Cause I'm kind of tempted. It'll be just like that Seinfeld episode when George watches Breakfast at Tiffany's with the strangers who rented it first. Except with British accents. And they'll probably call the police.

Sigh.

Consider this my Dear John letter

2008-01-24T19:20:00.001-08:00

Dear Sirs/Madams,

This letter will make no great impact on you but it's a big deal for me.

For years now, I've been a loyal consumer of celebrity gossip. I have the subscription to these types of magazines, I routinely pick up your title at the supermarket and airports, I peruse the popular gossip sites when online, I watch E! news. I gasp and share tidbits with friends about what Britney's done now and that Angelina's adopted another baby. Until this moment, I've eaten it up.

The last few months have proven more and more difficult for me to continue this way. I guess in truth it started back with the consistent coverage of Paris Hilton's arrest. Something about the way the cameras gathered around her cop car, I suppose. I have no love of Paris, her fame baffles and annoys me, but something did not sit right with me about that scene. Or any of the thousands that followed. And then Amy Winehouse. And Britney Spears. Pictures of these people in such acute pain and discomfort. I was watching E! the night of Britney's hospitalization and the feeling in my gut just worsened- watching the media attack that ambulance felt viscerally like a group of vicious animals descend on an injured prey. And now Heath Ledger.

I have the People.com headlines on my Google homepage. That's how much I have fed off this stuff. First, seeing the media display outside his apartment as they wheeled his body out on a stretcher and now the incessant updates, the speculation of his relationships, the paparazzi siege on the mother of his child, the comments by people who undoubtedly had little to do with his real, personal and deeply private life. What's happening now would undoubtedly be Heath Ledger's worst nightmare. It overshadows the legacy he's attempted to leave in his all-too-short life. I can no longer sit by and let his feeling of repulsion grow. Especially when I realized I was the reason for the problem. After all, why would you dish it out at all if I wasn't willing to pay to take it?

So no more People. No more US Weekly. No more E! Or TMZ. Or Perez. This is it, I'm done. It's a small thing and it will make no difference in the way things are until enough people make the same decision and the magazines, television shows, and gossip blogs start seeing it where it really hurts- in the wallet. And when will they- we- hit our limit? When a celebrity's child is hurt or killed? When it drives Britney Spears to suicide? Would that be enough? I don't think it would. Do you?

I've heard all the arguments. This is what the people want. These people have everything, this is the price they pay. It's fun and harmless. It's just a magazine, it's business. Hell, I've made most of those arguments myself. But the time for excuses and laziness is over. I'm sick of feeling sick to my stomach. I don't want to be part of the problem anymore, I don't want to be the reason anymore. Instead, I've decided to get a life. My conscience, my heart and my decency depend on it.

Thank you,
Judi

PS I tried to send this to E!, TMZ, and US Weekly but they don't give out their email addresses. Feel free to forward to whomever you wish. This belongs to them as much as it belongs to you.

Something That Was Awesome When You First Saw It...

2008-01-24T12:52:00.000-08:00

For Vic, Amanda, Becks, Trendz and Buck too

2008-01-24T09:51:00.001-08:00

Tickets for Coachella go on pre-sale in ten minutes! To celebrate this momentus occasion, I present to you "Great Dancing," submitted to me by Preston. Enjoy!

For Neighbor John, Jon (CJW), Beal

2008-01-16T16:32:00.000-08:00

Last night, Vic and I made a very important decision. It took much discussion and a lot of back and forth. Basically, we were stuck in the age-old dilemma: New episode of Law & Order: SVU or new episode of Rob and Big?

Very different choices, to be sure. On the one hand, there are 75 episodes of SVU on during the week, but only ONE of them is brand new (Tuesday nights, last night) And then MTV's scheduling geniuses will undoubtedly play the episode of Rob and Big about 800 times over the next week, probably culminating in a marathon on Sunday where they show it over and over again, interspersed with a True Life here and there.

Having said that, we chose SVU. As much as I love them, there is no real substitute for Chris Meloni when he's in Rage at All of Society mode. We did catch the last few minutes of Rob and Big, though, and discovered:

They went to turtle racing at Brennan's! Which, if you live in Los Angeles and have not been, is fantastic. Good luck getting in now. Actually, it IS Rob and Big so you might not have a problem (love ya).

I tried to find a clip for you, John, (CJW), and Beal, but this is the only one that's up from last night's episode. If one shows up with the crew at Brennan's, I will repost- promise.

And now a little treat for the rest of you. Our big night at Brennan's about a year ago, before NJ moved to Japan and Jon moved back to DC for law school, is most memorable not for the turtle racing but for the conversation that followed between myself, Vic and Beal. Beal was telling us a story about a time she went camping with her friends. I love Beal to pieces but for the majority of her stories I tend to think "this is going to end in either a cornfield or a meth lab".

So she's explaining about this disastrous camping trip- one of the points being that none of her friends brought any water, just beer, and how absurd it was to go without WATER for a camping trip and she says it was so bad that she and her friends had to brush their teeth using the cooler water. Except she mumbled, "Had to brush our teeth in the cooler water" and I was SURE, a few beers in myself, that she said "had to brush our teeth in cooter water" and I looked at Vic who also looked at her strangely so then I was CONVINCED she said cooter water but it's Beal so I tried to shrug it off except the mental image was so... you know. I had to ask. "Did you say, cooter water?"

She looked HORRIFIED. I insisted that Vic misheard her too. And instead of agreeing, Vic just cocks her head and said "Actually I thought she said 'cougar' water" and makes this kind of paw clawing the air motion (if you see her, please ask her to do it for you. It almost killed us) which makes even LESS sense- i mean at least cooter water sounds like a legit, gross, thing. But cougar water?

Anyway. Beal maintains that it isn't the fact that we misheard her so completely that was so funny/appalling but rather that I had just shrugged it off as a Beal thing.

AAAAANNND SCENE.

The Moment We've All Been Waiting For

2008-01-15T16:53:00.001-08:00

January 15, 2008. My last day as a receptionist! And it only took four years.

I can't believe I just wrote that. I may vomit.

For Vic, Amanda, and Liz (in particular)

2008-01-14T14:42:00.000-08:00

The Spice Girls Greatest Hits is streamed free on AOL this week. I'm listening to it right now. I really don't know what to say about these songs. There are so many things... first of all, if I didn't know what it was and you told me it was the soundtrack for a made-for-TV Disney movie, I would believe you.

Second of all, there's the private success of these girl-women (women who act like girls? Wogirls? I like that) Sporty Spice is INSANELY wealthy thanks to writing a bunch of super successful songs. We all know what happened to Posh (that would be Becks and her transformation into some other-wordly, fantastic being. Possibly sired by Karl Lagerfeld and Edina from AbFab. Let's face it- how can that combination be bad?) And Scary having Eddie Murphy' s baby. And there's that great version of "It's Raining Men". Thanks, Ginger. As for Baby, I guess we should just be grateful she seems normal and isn't one of Hef's girls. She fits the criteria all right.

Omg, 2 Become 1 is playing. I have to go.

For Everyone in the Universe

2008-01-10T16:32:00.000-08:00

ROB AND BIG IS BACK!!!

And they think we're in a TV crisis...please.

OMG for my brother

2008-01-09T10:03:00.001-08:00

The last five seconds of this trailer made me choke with laughter.

For Vic, Myself and Sarah Jeanne

2008-01-08T09:38:00.001-08:00

Courtesy of Lizzie: "Kittens in cat wigs!"

I'm not sure if I've ever been this horrified. And it's so so early.

This one is for Liz, Vic and myself...

2008-01-07T14:39:00.000-08:00

Who in the course of this past weekend each wore an element of Paris Hilton's fugly outfit, shown below and appropriately fugged here .

In our defense, ALL of these items are cute separately. (Liz, is that seriously your jacket? It really looks like it) In case you were wondering, here's the breakdown:

Fedora: Vic T
Jacket: Liz (worn inside out to protect it from the downpour in LA this weekend)
Flowy/Hide belly shirt: Me (of course)
Leggings: No one. Gross.

No Britney-Feeding in '08

2008-01-07T13:15:00.000-08:00

It's happened, I've reached my limit. There was a moment over the weekend- I was watching the footage of Britney in the ambulance for the fifth time* and I decided enough is enough.

Specifically, it was the way the photographers were attacking the ambulance... physically ATTACKING it with cameras and I can no longer ignore the ick feeling in my stomach. It's just so...savage. Yes, she's crazy. Message received. And she taunts you and steals lighters in your presence and maybe is dating one of you and that's gross but still. The whole scene was something out of the wild, like watching a pack of thirty hyenas pounce on a wounded billy goat...and then watching the video on Youtube.

So no more. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that this will pass, that I'll wake up tomorrow morning Peggy-Sue style to when the biggest scandal was her choosing Wade Robson over Justin Timberlake, which we should all just accept is where this whole hot mess began. I refuse further information. No, People.com, despite what you think, I do not need to see your to-the-minute updates on Dr. Phil's special about Britney and what a source said Jamie Lynn was wearing when she heard the news, etc. etc. I find it repulsive that you have a column of Most Read Headlines and the majority of them consist of brilliant one-liners like "Brit's Dad breaks down!" and "Lynne Prays" and "Kevin lays low." I no longer care to be a party to this. It's making me nauseous.

Besides, all of this attention is taking away from other fantastic headlines I can ignore/laugh at such as "What Jessica Alba thinks of Zac Efron" (omg who cares? WHO CARES?) and Nancy Kerrigan announcing her third pregnancy (see response to Jessica Alba/Zac Efron Non-story and intensify it with secondary response "This is not 1992. So I don't care.")

I might not even read US Weekly this week. Or...not all of it. I'll only read the lame style pages! and reviews no one cares about! (The day I see a movie because US Weekly says it's good is the day I end my own life) and that last page with the bad fashion! And MAYBE Stars They're Just Like Us ("They drop their Netflix!")

I'm only human, people.

* Thank you, E! for the round the clock coverage. As always, I find your commentary on the tenacity and hounding of the paparazzi hilarious, as half your staff is flipping upside down on a cop car to get a good shot.

Happy New Year!

2008-01-03T11:21:00.000-08:00

Oh, BRITNEY. Starting off with a bang...and inspiring the first awful headline of '08

Britney Pap-Happy with Her New Guy

thank you, People.com for the most cringe-inducing headline I've read all day. Ew.

For Vic, Trendz, Beal and anyone else who enjoys watching Bret Michaels on his quest for true love

2007-12-20T12:21:00.000-08:00

Meet the cast for Season 2! Um, I'm sorry- Girl with Mohawk- are you Nora, that chick from Season 1 of Project Runway? Because you really, really look like her a lot.

I am ridiculously excited. That girl front row far left looks like a porn queen. And also like she has to pee, like now. Then there's Lauren Hutton in the back there. And a couple of really stupid-looking brunettes doing the coy finger-to-mouth move. Clever, girls. Very clever.

For Preston

2007-12-20T10:37:00.001-08:00

Ask for a dedication and ye shall receive (she moved to Okinawa, Japan last week. It was either this video or one with people doing a lot of karate)

For Jon...

2007-12-20T10:34:00.000-08:00

Whose love of the British royals is both well documented and hilarious.

Queen Elizabeth II Becomes Britain's Oldest-Ever Monarch

THURSDAY DECEMBER 20, 2007 12:30 PM EST

By Tim Nudd

Queen Elizabeth II Photo by: INF

At 81 years and 243 days old, Queen Elizabeth II becomes the Britain's oldest-ever monarch Thursday, passing Queen Victoria.

Buckingham Palace has calculated her age down to the hour and says Elizabeth will officially set the new record at around 5 p.m. Greenwich Mean Time, or noon EST, the Associated Press reports.

Elizabeth was born on April 21, 1926. She ascended to the throne in February 1952, when she was 25 years old.

She still has some way to go if she is to set another record held by Victoria – that of longest-reigning monarch. Victoria became queen at 18 and reigned for 63 years and seven months. Elizabeth would pass that mark on Sept. 9, 2015, when she would be 89 years old.

Elizabeth became a grandmother for the eighth time on Monday, when Prince Edward and his wife Sophie welcomed a baby boy.

OMG Y'all

2007-12-18T16:38:00.000-08:00

Jamie Lynn Spears is PREGNANT. Lord, here we go.

For Manna...

2007-12-18T13:59:00.001-08:00

A "This One is Just for You" special report

2007-12-17T18:03:00.000-08:00

Since this is a dedication blog, I feel it is my duty as Dedication Master (and yes, that's how I refer to myself these days) to keep you abreast of all things fantastic regarding dedications.

So it's the holidays which is a great time to reveal my adoration for Christmas music. I'm a big sucker for cheese aka Sentimental Fromage and its combination with holiday festiviness is something I cannot resist. I don't fight it. I don't make excuses. I blame my father.

Anywhosall, as soon as Thanksgiving is over my first order of business is to find The Christmas Station. Because in every city, there is always a Christmas Station. And it should come as no surprise that it's usually the lite FM station that takes up the cause.

You might see where I'm going with this but just in case you don't... Lite FM means something other than Kenny G and Celine Dion... it means Dedications.

I had forgotten all about this. I MAY have blocked it out, actually, but now that I've rediscovered it, I am totally and completely hooked. Thank you, spirits of Christmas Fromage, for delivering the motherload- Christmas song dedications on Lite FM.

I was listening the other night on my way home from the Grove on Friday night (something else I've since blocked out- what a nightmare) and I got the usual dedication treats. That smooth lady DJ's voice crooning, "Bobby would like to wish Karen a very merry christmas. He sent us this message earlier- You are the love of my life. I cannot believe I get to spend another Christmas with you. You are so precious to me." And the song was some atrocious instrumental version of Jingle Bell Rock on a xylophone. That the DJ declared one of her all time favorites. I mean, I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.

So here's my little Holiday Time gift to you, dear readers. Two of my all time favorite Dedication Masters... Delilah (whose hair is a subject unto itself) and Boston's David Allan Bouche which might just be the best Lite FM DJ name in history.

http://www.magic1067.com/bedtime_page.shtml

http://www.delilah.com/home/home.html

For Vic T, Tracy and Nicole...

2007-12-17T13:55:00.000-08:00

UM... so MSN.com, which already won my eternal affection for playing Arrested Development for free online after it was cancelled, continues to climb the Hugs N Kisses ladder with THIS little nugget of joy.

Namely playing the Roswell pilot so Katherine Heigl fans can get a Monday morning fix that doesn't involve Grey's Anatomy, her film work and her omigod-Katherine-stop-talking-before-you-hurt-yourself-further inducing interviews in major magazines.

Whatever. I'll take it.

For anyone reared in the '90s...

2007-12-14T16:10:00.001-08:00

I just wanted to say that it's 4:06pm and my Pandora Holiday Standards station has decided to throw Monica and Brandy's duet "That Boy is Mine" into the mix. Sandwiched in between Perry Como (somewhere my father is crying with pride that I'm actually admitting his version of Santa Clause is Coming to Town is actually superior to others) and Bing Crosby's "White Christmas."

What is Pandora trying to say? Are they inferring that the boy in the song is Jesus? Monica and Brandy are fighting over Jesus? That would be kind of hilarious actually... especially the music video. I need to call South Park asap.