You know, there was a lot of screaming during the election about how people don’t want socialized medicine. It will stop innovation. You’ll only get the medical care the government says you can get. It’s bad! Hmm. Let’s review the last few weeks, shall we?
The financial industry teetered. We bailed them out. So now the American people are basically shareholders in some of the biggest financial institutions in the U.S. Which to me seems just 2 degrees off of “liberating” the banks for the greater glory of the People. Viva la revolucion!
And now the car industry is ready to crater. And we’re going to bail them out too. But with the condition of government oversight of their actions. Terrific. Because that worked so well in the USSR. I’ve always wanted to drive a Volga.
But we definitely don’t want socialized medicine. Because socializing things is bad.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Mad Max would be shaking in his motorcycle boots
The style bitches at OMG were bagging on Tina Turner for this outfit. “What was she thinking?” they ask.
Let me break it down for you, OMG. This is what she was thinking:
- I’m Tina Turner, bitch. I can wear whatever I want.
- I’m gonna give the fans what they paid for. [This is obviously a stage costume. That picture wasn’t taken at the Piggly Wiggly. When Tina goes on stage, she brings it. You know when she walked on stage, which I’m dead certain was in a cloud of stage fog and back-lit (because she’s Tina), you know the crowd gasped. Which is what they paid for.]
- Look at these legs. [She’s 69. Y’all better recognize.]
- Thunderdome!
So, frankly, OMG needs to check theirselves. They aren’t worthy. Go pick on somebody your own teeny-tiny size. Leave the giants be.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
And now I know God loves me too
http://news.yahoo.com/s/nm/20081204/bs_nm/us_mattel_bratz
Thank you, Sweet Jesus (or whichever Eternal Force for Goodness in the Universe is responsible), for answering my silent prayers and getting those damned, ugly, misogynist, trashy, ugly, distorted-body-image-inducing, consumerist, ugly, ugly, ugly dolls off the market. And, now if you could only make the remaing dolls spontaneously burst into flames. It's not for me. It's for the kids.
And if you're not too busy, Jesus, please make every shirt that Hugh Jackman tries on also burst in to flames. That one's for me, Lord.
Amen
Thank you, Sweet Jesus (or whichever Eternal Force for Goodness in the Universe is responsible), for answering my silent prayers and getting those damned, ugly, misogynist, trashy, ugly, distorted-body-image-inducing, consumerist, ugly, ugly, ugly dolls off the market. And, now if you could only make the remaing dolls spontaneously burst into flames. It's not for me. It's for the kids.
And if you're not too busy, Jesus, please make every shirt that Hugh Jackman tries on also burst in to flames. That one's for me, Lord.
Amen
I know that Santa loves me.
Merry Christmas to me!
Merry Christmas to me!
Merry Christmas to me-eeee!
Merry Christmas to me!
http://www.latimes.com/features/food/la-fo-baconrecipes,0,3006834.storygallery
Go to the Front of the Class
http://news.yahoo.com/s/nm/20081203/review_nm/us_television_class;_ylt=AsU_vky.fdd.emgs92bfqyA9FRkF
Okay, this is my un-guilty pleasure. I loves me a good Hallmark Hall of Fame. Especially ones around the holidays. I just love flopping on the couch, wrapped up in a big blanket with a cup of cocoa and a giant box of tissues, ready for the tears to flow and the heart to warm.
And sometimes Hallmark de-liv-ers. ALL of the Sara Plain and Talls were tear-fests (and where I developed an enormous love for Christopher Walken); Miss Rose White didn't get me until the very end, then I cried like a baby. Sometimes they go a little too righteous and austere like the Painted House. A little bit of poor people, suffering nobly goes a long way for me. Or just plain syrupy (Riding the Bus with My Sister - ugh! ugh! ugh! WHY?). But when they get it right, there's nothing better.
I especially love the old school Hallmark commercials. Like the one where the little boy who, oh, hold on I'm going to cry, needed help reading comes back to read his teacher her Christmas card - whaaaaaaaaa! So good.
And this special features a teacher, which is almost guaranteed to make me cry. And bonus points for a teacher with a disability. I'm hoping there will be apple-cheeked children, a tough old principal who learns to care again, and maybe somebody who gets really, really sick, but pulls through just in time for everyone to learn a valuable lesson. Get the Kleenex!
Okay, this is my un-guilty pleasure. I loves me a good Hallmark Hall of Fame. Especially ones around the holidays. I just love flopping on the couch, wrapped up in a big blanket with a cup of cocoa and a giant box of tissues, ready for the tears to flow and the heart to warm.
And sometimes Hallmark de-liv-ers. ALL of the Sara Plain and Talls were tear-fests (and where I developed an enormous love for Christopher Walken); Miss Rose White didn't get me until the very end, then I cried like a baby. Sometimes they go a little too righteous and austere like the Painted House. A little bit of poor people, suffering nobly goes a long way for me. Or just plain syrupy (Riding the Bus with My Sister - ugh! ugh! ugh! WHY?). But when they get it right, there's nothing better.
I especially love the old school Hallmark commercials. Like the one where the little boy who, oh, hold on I'm going to cry, needed help reading comes back to read his teacher her Christmas card - whaaaaaaaaa! So good.
And this special features a teacher, which is almost guaranteed to make me cry. And bonus points for a teacher with a disability. I'm hoping there will be apple-cheeked children, a tough old principal who learns to care again, and maybe somebody who gets really, really sick, but pulls through just in time for everyone to learn a valuable lesson. Get the Kleenex!
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Up and At 'em, Atom Ant!
This morning, as I hauled my unwilling carcass out of bed, I realized that this is how I’ve started nearly every day for almost 40 years. Barring sick days and hiding from the world days, that adds up to around 14,000 times I’ve had to get up out of bed in the morning. I find that very depressing.
Because I hate getting out of bed. Early or late, rain or shine, hot or cold. The act of throwing back the covers and putting my feet on the floor is just bloody unpleasant. And that’s how you have to start every day. Sigh. And unless I start sleeping suspended upside down in the closet, I don’t see any way around it. Because, even when you try to avoid it, you do have to get up and out some time. If nothing else, a urinary imperative will eventually force the issue.
Really, the only true way to change it is to do something very Zig Zigler and change my attitude about getting out of bed. Be positive about starting the day, and throw back the blankets and greet the day with a smile and a hearty howdy-do! I don’t really see that happening. And unfortunately, I’ve never been able to convince people that I’m the reincarnation of Louis XIV and as the reigning Sun Queen, I should be allowed to conduct business from my boudoir. People just refuse to be my courtiers. So not fair.
I don’t know whose idea this starting the day with the rise and shine business was. But it’s just not working for me. Though I guess it’s better than the alternative. Just.
Because I hate getting out of bed. Early or late, rain or shine, hot or cold. The act of throwing back the covers and putting my feet on the floor is just bloody unpleasant. And that’s how you have to start every day. Sigh. And unless I start sleeping suspended upside down in the closet, I don’t see any way around it. Because, even when you try to avoid it, you do have to get up and out some time. If nothing else, a urinary imperative will eventually force the issue.
Really, the only true way to change it is to do something very Zig Zigler and change my attitude about getting out of bed. Be positive about starting the day, and throw back the blankets and greet the day with a smile and a hearty howdy-do! I don’t really see that happening. And unfortunately, I’ve never been able to convince people that I’m the reincarnation of Louis XIV and as the reigning Sun Queen, I should be allowed to conduct business from my boudoir. People just refuse to be my courtiers. So not fair.
I don’t know whose idea this starting the day with the rise and shine business was. But it’s just not working for me. Though I guess it’s better than the alternative. Just.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Go away, kid. Ya bother me.
So last Friday, I got free tickets to a show over in Addison. The show was supposed to be a small Appalachian church’s production of a nativity play. Sort of a show within a show kind of thing, though the nativity play was the dominant part of the production. It was all very nice, but as you can imagine, a bluegrass baby in a manger isn’t really my cuppa. But I thought my parents might dig it. I even had a fourth ticket, but a religious play was a bit of a hard sell for any of my friends. Shocker. This was a nativity that started at the beginning. As in “in the Beginning”, and hit most of the highpoints along the way. But it kept a sense of humor, and the religious aspects pretty open-ended and the preaching to a minimum. And the bit with Noah and the dove was probably in the top 10 of funniest things I’ve ever seen on stage.
The only thing that made it hard was that we were in the second to last row. And some kid behind me starts kicking the back of my seat about 20 seconds after the lights came down. And kept it up in this random tattoo (whump . . . . whump. . whump………whump) all the way through the first act. At the intermission, I turned around to ask the little dear to keep his or her feet on the floor, and found that the tot was actually a teenager. Maybe a tween. But definitely old enough to know not to kick the flipping chairs. I found myself so taken aback that I didn’t say anything at all. Mostly because I couldn’t think of anything more courteous to say than, “Were you raised in a barn?” And that might have put a pall on the evening.
Then when we sat down for the second act, she started in before the house lights even dimmed. And her mother says, “Honey, don’t do that. It’s hard on the chairs.” ??????? Well, let me tell you, it ain’t exactly a day at the spa for the person in the chair either. Once again, complete befuddlement. Once again because all I could think to say was, “Are you raising her out in the barn?” But I just decided to stiff upper lip it. She’s at least trying to take her kid someplace other than the mall, credit where due. I just tried to simmer down and enjoy the rest of the show (whump . . . whump). Lovely.
The only thing that made it hard was that we were in the second to last row. And some kid behind me starts kicking the back of my seat about 20 seconds after the lights came down. And kept it up in this random tattoo (whump . . . . whump. . whump………whump) all the way through the first act. At the intermission, I turned around to ask the little dear to keep his or her feet on the floor, and found that the tot was actually a teenager. Maybe a tween. But definitely old enough to know not to kick the flipping chairs. I found myself so taken aback that I didn’t say anything at all. Mostly because I couldn’t think of anything more courteous to say than, “Were you raised in a barn?” And that might have put a pall on the evening.
Then when we sat down for the second act, she started in before the house lights even dimmed. And her mother says, “Honey, don’t do that. It’s hard on the chairs.” ??????? Well, let me tell you, it ain’t exactly a day at the spa for the person in the chair either. Once again, complete befuddlement. Once again because all I could think to say was, “Are you raising her out in the barn?” But I just decided to stiff upper lip it. She’s at least trying to take her kid someplace other than the mall, credit where due. I just tried to simmer down and enjoy the rest of the show (whump . . . whump). Lovely.
Does Not Compute
Here’s one thing I’ve noticed about street people – they are able to say 2 completely contradictory things on one breath without any noticeable strain. And I’m never able to figure out whether they actually believe what they’re saying, or just expect me to.
For example. Last night I’m on my way into a store, and a lady sitting on the sidewalk with several large bags (make your own inferences) calls out to me: “Hey, there! I’m not panhandling or asking for a handout or anything, but do you have any money you can spare?” ………………………………..Uhm. Now I did not have a dictionary on me, but I’m pretty sure asking a stranger for spare change would be pretty close to the definition of a handout. And since I noted the glaring absence of a bell, a bucket or a Santa suit, I’m going to have to say that if you are in public asking a person for money, you are either a panhandler or the CEO of a car company. Now I wouldn’t want to admit I was running GM either, but given that she wasn’t wearing a $5,000 suit, I’d have to guess that she was indeed a panhandler.
So that leaves me the question – is she in such a level of denial that she can honestly ask for money, but not consider herself, well let’s just say it right out, a beggar? Or is it part of a con in which I’m supposed to think, “Well, she just said she’s not a panhandler. She just needs money”, like it’s a totally different thing? I think there’s a lot of both those types of people out there on the streets. And it’s virtually impossible to tell which one you’ve got standing in front of you in that moment. The bad one and the sad one look exactly the same.
For example. Last night I’m on my way into a store, and a lady sitting on the sidewalk with several large bags (make your own inferences) calls out to me: “Hey, there! I’m not panhandling or asking for a handout or anything, but do you have any money you can spare?” ………………………………..Uhm. Now I did not have a dictionary on me, but I’m pretty sure asking a stranger for spare change would be pretty close to the definition of a handout. And since I noted the glaring absence of a bell, a bucket or a Santa suit, I’m going to have to say that if you are in public asking a person for money, you are either a panhandler or the CEO of a car company. Now I wouldn’t want to admit I was running GM either, but given that she wasn’t wearing a $5,000 suit, I’d have to guess that she was indeed a panhandler.
So that leaves me the question – is she in such a level of denial that she can honestly ask for money, but not consider herself, well let’s just say it right out, a beggar? Or is it part of a con in which I’m supposed to think, “Well, she just said she’s not a panhandler. She just needs money”, like it’s a totally different thing? I think there’s a lot of both those types of people out there on the streets. And it’s virtually impossible to tell which one you’ve got standing in front of you in that moment. The bad one and the sad one look exactly the same.
Monday, December 1, 2008
The Thanksgiving that Almost Wasn’t
The title was a toss-up between what I used and A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving. For the number of times I wanted to throw back my head and just say an old fashioned Peanuts-style “Arrrrgh!” Could not get one thing to go to plan.
First, I didn’t get out of work until late. So, I’m behind the clock as it is, with a timetable that needs to accommodate 2 pies, and preparing the green bean casserole to be ready to go in the oven first thing T-day morning. And I need to stop at the grocery store for eggs and foil. And miracle of miracles, I breeze right through. I figure this is a good sign. Everything will go just fine. Optimist.
I start cooking the cider for the Apple Cider Pie recipe I got from the Washington Post. Then I’m baking the sweet potatoes for the other pie. I’m rocking. I’m rolling. I do the gluten free nut crust for the sweet potato pie. I put it all together and throw it in the oven, that for once I’d remembered to pre-heat. Bam, baby! I am on fire.
Oh, wait, is something really on fire? No. It’s just the nuts in the pie crust have swelled up over the edges and are burning around the edge of the pie pan. I go back and look at the recipe. Sure enough. It was supposed to be a no-bake crust. Damn! Absolutely nothing I can do about it now, other than turn on the Vent-a-Hood fan, wipe off the edges and tell everybody they can eat the middle of the pie even if the crust tastes like Kingsford Sure Fire.
Fine. Fine. I can’t let one or two little problems slow me down. I’m on to finish the apple pie. I layer my apples, finish the cider filling, lay down the crust, cut out the little vents, crimp the edges. Looks pretty if I say so myself. I pop it in the oven and sit down to review my green bean casserole recipe. Sniff. Sniff. What’s that? Oh, it’s just that I didn’t pinch the edges well enough, and I’ve got an apple cider volcano in my oven. If my 4th grade science project had erupted that well, I’d probably have gotten into the earth sciences and have my own show on National Geographic TV by now - Gotta Love-a Lava. So, now I have to wait until the pie finishes, then clean out the oven. It is now midnight. It will be 1 before I’m ready to start the beans.
Or would be ready to start the green beans if I hadn’t bought cream of chicken soup instead of cream of mushroom soup. Aarrrrgh! For one crazy moment, I consider just going ahead and telling people that it was a new recipe I was trying out. But Thanksgiving is no day to go off the reservation on a classic dish. So, I had to table the green beans until morning when I could go back to the grocery store and get the mushroom soup. I go to bed at 1:30, knowing I’d need to get up at 7:00 to make it to the store. Sigh. No rest for the wicked. Or at least very little rest for the occasionally naughty.
In the end, everything tasted fine, more or less. But I could hardly keep my eyes open to eat it. In the final review the apple cider pie was rated good by those who ate it: http://projects.washingtonpost.com/recipes/2008/11/19/lost-nation-cider-pie/ . The sweet potato pie was rated as excellent (even with the overly toasted nut crust, my bad) http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/calleys-sweet-potato-pie-recipe/index.html . And well, the green bean casserole was green bean casserole. How much can you expect?
First, I didn’t get out of work until late. So, I’m behind the clock as it is, with a timetable that needs to accommodate 2 pies, and preparing the green bean casserole to be ready to go in the oven first thing T-day morning. And I need to stop at the grocery store for eggs and foil. And miracle of miracles, I breeze right through. I figure this is a good sign. Everything will go just fine. Optimist.
I start cooking the cider for the Apple Cider Pie recipe I got from the Washington Post. Then I’m baking the sweet potatoes for the other pie. I’m rocking. I’m rolling. I do the gluten free nut crust for the sweet potato pie. I put it all together and throw it in the oven, that for once I’d remembered to pre-heat. Bam, baby! I am on fire.
Oh, wait, is something really on fire? No. It’s just the nuts in the pie crust have swelled up over the edges and are burning around the edge of the pie pan. I go back and look at the recipe. Sure enough. It was supposed to be a no-bake crust. Damn! Absolutely nothing I can do about it now, other than turn on the Vent-a-Hood fan, wipe off the edges and tell everybody they can eat the middle of the pie even if the crust tastes like Kingsford Sure Fire.
Fine. Fine. I can’t let one or two little problems slow me down. I’m on to finish the apple pie. I layer my apples, finish the cider filling, lay down the crust, cut out the little vents, crimp the edges. Looks pretty if I say so myself. I pop it in the oven and sit down to review my green bean casserole recipe. Sniff. Sniff. What’s that? Oh, it’s just that I didn’t pinch the edges well enough, and I’ve got an apple cider volcano in my oven. If my 4th grade science project had erupted that well, I’d probably have gotten into the earth sciences and have my own show on National Geographic TV by now - Gotta Love-a Lava. So, now I have to wait until the pie finishes, then clean out the oven. It is now midnight. It will be 1 before I’m ready to start the beans.
Or would be ready to start the green beans if I hadn’t bought cream of chicken soup instead of cream of mushroom soup. Aarrrrgh! For one crazy moment, I consider just going ahead and telling people that it was a new recipe I was trying out. But Thanksgiving is no day to go off the reservation on a classic dish. So, I had to table the green beans until morning when I could go back to the grocery store and get the mushroom soup. I go to bed at 1:30, knowing I’d need to get up at 7:00 to make it to the store. Sigh. No rest for the wicked. Or at least very little rest for the occasionally naughty.
In the end, everything tasted fine, more or less. But I could hardly keep my eyes open to eat it. In the final review the apple cider pie was rated good by those who ate it: http://projects.washingtonpost.com/recipes/2008/11/19/lost-nation-cider-pie/ . The sweet potato pie was rated as excellent (even with the overly toasted nut crust, my bad) http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/calleys-sweet-potato-pie-recipe/index.html . And well, the green bean casserole was green bean casserole. How much can you expect?
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