Someone Was Grouchy Today

Me. That would be me. I wish I could do a rewind on today.



But this little video made me feel better.

And so did this:



Tell me... I haven't watched Sesame Street, well, since I was probably 7 or 8 years old, but it can't still be this cool, can it? Little kids watching James Taylor? Now it's just about that squeaky Elmo puppet with the voice like nails on a chalkboard. I'm a Grover girl myself.

And here's one to end the night with. It's raining here. I'm going to bed and to listen to it rain. Have a good night, folks.

Dude, next time try a stilletto.

I've got several pairs you can use. These silver ones look pretty fierce.

Although you're probably in jail now. And I don't want to send a pristine and beautiful pair of tango shoes to Iraq. They were expensive. The shoes, I mean. (Iraq was--and continues to be-- expensive, too. In too many ways to discuss on my dumb little blog.)

***

Not that this has anything to do with anything, but it kind of reminds me of when we used to go to the zoo as kids, and sometimes the chimps would throw poo at the crowd watching them. Honestly, I don't know what else chimps throw, but they can throw poo quite far. (Obviously an animal in captivity throwing feces is a sign that it's under duress and it's not funny, but when you're under the age of 10--mentally or physically-- you don't think about things like that.)

People would scream and laugh and run away and then come back again, but stand a just a tad farther away-- this time where they decided was outside of the perceived Poo Danger Zone.

One time a chimp-flung piece of poo flew about two (hey, that rhymes) inches over the head of a man we were standing next to. All he did was whistle and say, "Man, they should get that chimp to pitch for the Giants."

Herein ends my juvenile humor for today.

not.

By now, you guys know how I am.

Magic Show or Spanish Inquisition

Tonight after work I went for a mani-pedi, especially because weeknights are better for a chance to hang out with my little friend C. She's at the nail salon with her mom after school.

We have our routine down now. She helps me pick out a nail polish color (she knows all of my favorites). Then she sits next to me while my feet are soaking in hot water, and she decides how she will "quiz" me, which is an extremely mild version of what I imagine the Spanish Inquisition might be like, except that my Inquisitor is a slender 8-year old girl wearing pink sweatpants and I, her captive, am just winding down from a long day of sitting in front of a computer and then coming home on the train. Usually our Inquisition starts with a spelling bee or she grabs a calculator to test my mathematics skills. You try doing long division or multiplication in your head while your hands are being worked on by a manicurist. It's not easy.

Tonight Little C. has a new addition in her quiz-meistering, a student's dictionary which is really more like a abbreviated almanac. She was dying to quiz me on the Periodic Table of Elements (little did she know that she wouldn't be able to stump me quite so easily because I loved chemistry) but before she got rolling, I made her look up what an atom was. Little C. didn't want to--she wanted to jump straight into the Inquisition (why am I never the quizzer? I guess it's the 8-year old's prerogative)--but I told her that if she didn't even know what an atom was, then there's no sense in talking about the Periodic Table of Elements. She reluctantly read the description of an atom aloud ("the smallest component of an element having the chemical properties of the element") before slamming me with two-lettered abbreviations (she got me on Fermium).

But then where the hell did these other elements come from: Ununtrium? Ununquadium? I thought Little C. was playing with me, but wouldn't you know it, there's a whole slew of elements that came out of hiding after I graduated college. It's hard to keep up, you know.

***

I was waiting for her to pull out her magic trick, but alas, no magic show tonight. The last time Little C. and I were together, I took her to the new science museum at Golden Gate Park. I think she liked the museum just fine, liked using my camera even more, and really liked the gift shop. But then I took her to the magic store down the street, Misdirections. I bought her one of those cheap plastic coin-hiding things. You probably had one when you were a kid. You pull out the tray and put a quarter in the hole. Then you slide it inside the case and there's some sort of lever that pushes a thingy-ma-bob and it hides the coin.

Little C. was very perfunctory with her magic trick, as she is with her Spanish Inquisition-style quizzing. She just kept hiding and unhiding the coin over and over again. It did not make for a very exciting magic show. Finally I told her, look, you've got to add a little pizazz to your act. Make up a story about this magic coin box.

"You mean I have to lie?" she says.

"No, not lie exactly," I try to explain. "You need to develop your patter. That's what magicians do. They have a fabulous story that helps to distract the audience so that they can't tell when and how a magic effect is done. The talking part of the act is called patter. You could also wear a sparkly ring or a fancy necklace and people would look at that too, and that would make it easier to trick them."

"Oh, good," she says, "because I don't want to lie." Bless her heart.

She went from having no patter at all to a fantastical 5-minute fable about a secret cave in Vietnam where behind a very special brick that only she could identify was this ancient carved jade magical box that hides coins through the use of mind powers, magic words (abracadabra just being one) and precise, flowing hand gestures. Actually, the story is so much more intricate than what I've described here. You're getting the condensed version because she does need to tighten her patter just a bit. I hesitate to say her act is a little boring, but because she's cute and very excited about her magic act, I pretend as if I've never seen this trick ten times already. Sometimes she goes around the shop and does her effect for each person getting a manicure.

I'm not sure which I enjoy better: the interminable magic act that consists of one very long and oft-repeated trick of hiding a quarter, or the incessant and thorough quizzing of a mind that's racking itself to do division to three decimal places without benefit of a calculator, or even a pencil.

Actually, I enjoy both forms of the Little C. Inquisition. It's not worth getting a mani-pedi without them. Although I need to buy her a few more effects for her magic show. I'm not sure whether the other customers appreciate her coin-hiding trick as much as I do.

***

ps.: It wouldn't be a proper post if I didn't free associate something here with a Monty Python skit, so for your general edification, I give you The Spanish Inquisition:

Dig Deeper

"And, everyone who ever had a heart
They wouldn't turn around and break it
And anyone who ever played a part
Oh wouldn't turn around and hate it."

~ Lou Reed, "Sweet Jane"

***

Here I am.

No, Oprah did not call.

No, John Podesta did not call.

Despite my apparent virtual fame (lol), I'm still here.

***

I can see now where those people who were on a season's reality tv show or that poor doofus Joe the Plumber got all bedazzled by some sudden portion of starlight and sunshine. Look at me! You finally found me!

I'm somebody!

Well, truth is that we were all somebodies before the searchlight, right? We all had a life. You don't need 6,102 hits in a day to prove it (truth be told, the vast majority of hits are not readers).

It's nice to think that some of you here suddenly feel like I'm the little golden nugget you found after spending hours in the cold stream, panning through muddy silt. And here I show up in the bottom of the tray, glinting at you. That's cool. But dig deeper. I dare you to read this blog. Not just the last three posts but a whole bunch of 'em if you really mean it. Then you can decide if I'm still golden and if we still have something to say to each other.

And for those of you who've been here with me the whole time, maybe months or more than a year, you know, as with your own selves, you scratch the surface and there's so much more than you can even begin to write. And then there are the things that will never get said at all, but you still hope that people can read between the lines. Or see it in a photo because words just aren't enough sometimes.

***

"If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing, or sing in writing, then don't write, because our culture has no use for it." ~ Anaïs Nin

A few types of comments jump out at me:

I'd love to have a blog but I don't know how.
I don't have anything to say.
I'm boring.

For those of us who've been blogging for a while, we've been more than pleasantly surprised that the act is a reward in itself. Our blogs become a virtual studio, an open creative space, and a salon where like minds congregate. There's no impetus to succeed or stand out; in fact, it's a place to get away from all that stuff: Stretch your brain while you exercise your fingers. Manipulate thoughts into words and see if that effort translates into something beyond what you meant.

So grab that brass ring and write and share, for reals. And if the blog doesn't feel like your thing, then go out and do something else. There are no real rewards at the end of the day, just your creativity and your happiness.

***

This morning I made my own infernal music loop (in response to the earworm saga yesterday) by listening to the Cowboy Junkies' cover of Velvet Underground's "Sweet Jane." But this time it's a song I really love, sometimes crave to hear (isn't it funny that you can crave a sound just like something to eat?) so I purposely wanted to hear it as many times as I could before leaving for work.

The Boy had not heard this song before, and we slow-danced in our pj's to it. I nuzzled his neck. Margo Timmins has such a sexy voice.

Before I left for work, he says, "You know what Sweet Jane really is, right? It's heroin."

I figured the lyrics had something to do with drugs, but never gave it much thought. I just like the song. But that's what I mean. Dig deeper. There are little hidden truths buried all over the place. Not just here.

***

ps.: I took that photo a few weeks ago, in the Tenderloin before going to that talk about Benjamin Franklin I told you about. What's really attracting me lately in my photos as I sort through them are the ones that are full of contrasts or contradictions. This image in particular really says more to me than I can describe.

Seriously, you guys are going to get me fired.

First of all, I want to say helllloooooooo to all of you new visitors to tangobaby via Blogs of Note.

I love you all. I'm totally blown away that you're here.

Secondly, I am guessing that this shout-out from Blogger is randomly generated (although I am super grateful all the same) because I don't know what I've done of late to be noteworthy. A year and a half ago, I didn't even know what a blog was. But don't get me wrong, this is cool! Thank you!

Thirdly, I hope you'll come back to visit me again and not just this one time and I'll try to visit you all and not be some sort of blog diva who is stuck up and snobbish.

But fourthly, I am probably going to get fired because of this. I seriously have not done any work today and have been totally distracted and just sent a co-worker out to buy me a BLT just so I could write this post.

***

I have some questions about my being discovered (which is funny since I just wrote something about Lana Turner a few days ago--is this the blog equivalent of being a Sweater Girl? Probably not. I don't think I get to quit my day job). Up until this morning, I was just minding my own little bloggy business and cajoling my friends into looking at my photography on flickr and JPG.

Is there some sort of blog guru who selects us? To whom do I say thank you?

Can I quit my day job now? Does this mean I am an expert at something?

Am I going to have to start moderating comments because now I'm going to get all of these spam comments about erectile dysfunction? I would really hate to do that.

***

Just so you know a few things:

I love my little blog. But it's very very random, even to me. If you can make sense out of the myriad brain stuff here, then I applaud you. I just read over my whole list of tags and I'm covering a lot of bases in a very shallow manner. Although if you love old films (especially noir and silents), dance (especially Argentine tango), San Francisco, photography, eating yummy food until you have to unbutton your pants, quoting Monty Python, Dorothy Parker and Carl Sagan, keeping your passport in your wallet just in case and then once in a while having a philosophical moment, then I think we'll get along just fine.

And swearing. Sometimes I swear.

***

I am having a hard time keeping up with the comments (and was even before this explosion of attention) so please be patient with me (I'm older than you think) and just know that I am thrilled you're here even if you think you hear the crickets chirping on my end. I'll try to write back. I just have to not get fired from my day job until I get a call from my new agent.

Thanks for making my day. Now I don't hate my outfit as much.

xoxo

ps.: If you are a new reader here, then I should tell you that I never have a movie reference on the blog just willy-nilly. There are too many good movies that people don't know about and I'm just doing my share to be bossy and make sure that you see them.

Above is a photo for the noir Fallen Angel, which is a great flick and Linda Darnell is H-O-T. Hot hot hot and so is Dana Andrews. So rent it.

Cruel and Exceptionally Unusual Punishment

Before I get started, I have to ask you two questions:

1. Can you give someone up for adoption who is not related to you?

2. How do you try to forget a horrible song that's on infernal eternal loop in your head? What if there are two songs, equally heinous, alternating tracks and you can't stop them? (And a round of cocktails is not an option because it's 8:36am and I just got to work.)

***

Note: If you like Janis Ian or the musical Annie, you shouldn't read any further.

I know a lot of you really enjoy stories about The Boy. I am thinking of sending him to live with some of you on an alternating basis, kind of like some worldwide joint custody agreement.

We both have random bouts of insomnia, but the nice part is that we have it at different times of the night so we don't conflict and have to share the DVD player. But this morning The Boy had an early morning bout and was watching the first episode of SNL when I rolled out of bed.

He asks, "Hey, have you ever heard of Janis Ian?"

Of course I have. Janis Ian made me totally depressed about the idea of being seventeen many years before I was even a teenager. The only two songs I can recall my parents playing on the hi-fi set in the family room were "At Seventeen" and "Hey Nineteen" by Steely Dan (I just realized that's some sort of very weird coincidence... dumb songs about teenage girls... hmmm.)

I learned the truth at seventeen That love was meant for beauty queens And high school girls with clear skinned smiles Who married young and then retired

and

The Cuervo Gold The fine Columbian Make tonight a wonderful thing

There you have it. My musical childhood.

***

So The Boy starts singing "At Seventeen." Honestly, it's not just me. That has to be one of the worst songs ever written, right? Gads. And because I'm overly sensitized to it, I immediately get hooked on it in my mind. There's a deep groove in my brain where this song is lodged. I can even sing all of the lyrics back to him instantly and he's got this look of semi-admiration.

To punish him for sticking that song in my head before my eyes were properly open, I started singing "Tomorrow," from Annie, which is probably something that they used at Guantanamo Bay as a form of behaviour modification. And to my dismay, he's never seen Annie and doesn't know the song. He is immune to Annie. Cripes.

So now I am stuck on "At Seventeen" and "Tomorrow" playing on dual tracks. Mentally, it's the equivalent of stubbing your toe really hard on a big piece of furniture and then you got so mad you kicked the furniture with your other foot.

Please help me. I don't know what else to sing. And who wants dibs on The Boy's first visit?

UPDATE 10:02am: dutchbaby is mean. Funny, but mean. She just emailed me the lyrics to "It's a Small World." How can friends do that to each other? *Edvard Munch face screaming inside*

Holiday Tizzy

"I misremember who first was cruel enough to nurture the cocktail party into life. But perhaps it would be not too much too say, in fact it would be not enough to say, that it was not worth the trouble." ~ Dorothy Parker

***

I don't blog about work much. I'd really like to because I think you'd find the stories entertaining and we would be one of your better soap operas/fabulous reality shows, but right now I am just super-duper happy to have a job at all and I don't want to screw that up.

I know I have mentioned the whining, though. People here are expert at this. I cannot even begin to tell you about the rigaramole that has cropped up about our Holiday Party, but let me say that if someone complains about it at this point, the results could be dire (for them) because I had the unique distinction of jumping through all of the hoops by myself this year and am the sole Creative Party Planner and Go-To Festivity Organizer Person this time around.

Since I can't go into details, I will placate you by sharing the menu because if I tell more, I'll never stop tattling and then that would be bad for my economy.

***

Hosted Premium Bar and Reception Station

Antipasto: Select Artisan Cured Meats, Marinated Summer Vegetables, Marinated Olives, House Cured Wild King Salmon House Made Sea Salt Crackers & Grissini

Winter Buffet Dinner

Organic Young Carrot Bisque
Young Forni Brown Lettuces, Garden Herbs and Champagne Vinaigrette
Chef's Choice Vegetarian Pasta Dish
Bloomsdale Spinach Salad, Caramelized Onions, Applewood Smoked Bacon
Organic Heirloom Chicory Salad with Dry Cured Olives and Fresh Mozzarella
House Cured Wild Salmon, Young Lettuces, Fresh Shelling Bean Salad
Garlic Chive Crepes, Local Wild & Cultivated Mushrooms
Stuffed Baby Heirloom Squashes & Eggplants
Wood Roasted Young Chicken with Endive, Frisee and Goat Cheese
Roasted Sonoma Coast Lamb Leg, Garden Herb Crust
Devils Food Cupcakes with White Chocolate Ganache
Organic Apple Confit, Gingersnap Crumble and Vanilla Chantilly Cream
Pear and Huckleberry Tarts

***

Christina, did I do good? It sounds fancy shmancy. I just hope they have enough drinks beforehand to be happy campers. I threw darts at the wine list.

Vintage coolness and the photo I swiped come from Vintage Martini.

Four Years and Change

"I was going to ask you to play House, but I think you'd be a weird example for our children." ~ Susie from Calvin and Hobbes

***

Last week at dinner, The Boy and I were chatting over some Thai food and he said to me, "You understand me better than anyone else I know." He said it in such a sweet and sincere way that I wanted to jump across the dishes of food and give him a big smooch, but I restrained myself. I'll remember the way he said that for a long time. (Although sometimes I know him too well and it annoys him, like when your mom knows you're doing something naughty even though you deny it.)

***

Four years and almost 365 days ago, I met The Boy under circumstances that involved him thinking that I was British (and thus having a cute accent), that my name was Bridget, and that I looked good in a sweater (a la Lana Turner). Only one of those three scenarios somewhat resembles the truth.

The anniversary of our 5-year meeting is coming up next week, although neither one of us is quite sure of the exact date. I blew off an initial invite with him to see a Sunday matinee of Duck Soup (which he still mentions on occasion) and he was over two hours late to our eventual first date that might have been on a Wednesday (and that is what I counter with). But the rest of the "four years and change," as he puts it, has gone quite swimmingly, all things considered. Life with The Boy's been the best and brightest example in my life of where jumping into something (or someone) with total abandon and impulsiveness was the best thing I could have ever done. I can't even imagine what my life would be like without my Boy, all of these details that make up our days are like the colorful sprinkles on our Cupcake of Life:

He is all Brooks Brothers and I am all about $5 sunglasses and big rhinestone rings...
He loves Ealing Studios comedies and I love Stanley Kubrick (but we both agree on Billy Wilder)...
He'd throw me over for Carole Lombard (and I totally support him on that one), although he's the one that bought me the large vintage photo of Errol Flynn...
He has two expensive watches but is always late and I don't wear a watch but am compulsively early...
He's a Presbyterian and I am some sort of infidel...
He steals my fuzzy socks and I steal his t-shirts with the holes in them...
He likes Paul and I like George...
I've been to Paris, Venice and Buenos Aires without him but together we've been to a party at the Playboy Mansion and to Disneyland...
He bought the camera and I take the pictures...
He makes me laugh--a lot. I hope I make him laugh almost as much...

***

We always seem to be entertaining each other and not on purpose. Our life seems to be all about what happens when you could be surprised at any moment.

I look at all of our little quirks and our life together is like mish-mash of ideas and comings and goings, an intricate puzzle that wouldn't seem to harmonize but in fact meshes perfectly in many ways, on many levels. His neverending boyish charm and giant dimple suckered me, but it's his fine mind and genuine compassion that tethers my heart. Plus he's a good kisser. I'll probably get in trouble for saying that.

So here's to our random meeting, our random anniversary on whatever day we think it was, and to lots of years and "change" to come, Boy o' my Heart.

***

Photo of Harold Lloyd and Jobyna Ralston in a still from one of our jointly favorited movies, Girl Shy (1924). Thanks to Bill for directing me to DoctorMacro and the amazing images there.

Well, that makes Monday a little nicer!

My dandelion photo was chosen as The Daily Click at Shutter Sisters today!

Muchas gracias to eagle-eyed Ms. Johanna for telling me about it... I didn't even know the photo was there.

Happy happy. I hope your day is full of little surprises (nice ones only) today, too.

All or Nothing/Starting Small

Words of wisdom: As you advance in age, falling asleep on the sofa is not a good thing for your back.

It is either very early in the morning or very late at night as I write this. If I was dancing tango, it would be very late at night. As things stand now, it's just very early in the morning.

A year ago today I wrote this post.

I still have that dress, that perfume, that bracelet and those shoes. I still can conjure up the feelings I had that evening just by reading my words again and listening to the music in the clip. The tango is still in me; it's like riding a bike or having sex. Even if you don't do it for a while, at your core you still know how to. For the scant remaining tango dancers that might still read my blog once in a while, you know exactly what I mean. For you new readers that came later and have never danced tango, you can use your imagination about that feeling and you'd probably be right.

I often think about why I haven't danced in months. I could say it is my personal finances that prevent it, or I could paint sweeping generalizations about the drama of participating in tango society or I could point fingers at specific people disguised in anonymity. Part of the reason is that tango, for some, requires a kind of immersion that is not copacetic with "real" life. To experience tango, for some, it's an all-or-nothing scene. Compromise is hard.

And I tend to be an all-or-nothing person.

Some people come to tango and it's like enjoying an apertif: they drink their cocktail, enjoy it, and then move on to dinner. And then there's the other people: they start with one drink and then stay until the bar closes. For them, tango cannot be practiced in moderation.

I think about going back to dance, but in the limited way I could manage, that would put me in the perceived lower echelon of random occasional dancer and that doesn't seem to be worth the effort. The retirement home of Tango.

So now I'm in this space where not dancing is like coming out of a bad romance: I don't want that guy in my life anymore, but I still think about him. Perhaps if I was younger, I would have made the sacrifice.

***

Speaking of being younger, last night I went to see something that was pretty awesome. In the inspiring, look what kids are doing today kind of way.

About five blocks away from my house is a circus school. I kid you not. The whole works: acrobatics, juggling, contortion, aerial silk and ropes. Of course they have adult classes, but I wonder how many adults could stick with such an education, even if they had comprehensive health coverage.

But those bendy and talented kids--they put on quite a show for us, a crowd of friends, family and a few random neighbors like me. It was a cross between an Andy Hardy movie (hey kids, let's put on a show in the barn!) and a seedling class of Cirque de Soleil future talent.

As much as I was enthused by the young performers and how capable they are (and slightly cringing at times in a protective reflex that someone was going to get hurt), I mostly felt so glad that these kids had the opportunity to discover something they loved from a very young age, practice it so they were advanced and talented enough to perform, and still have many years ahead to make their talents deepen. The little Julie inside me was more than slightly jealous of them having that chance. The older Julie knows not having found that creative niche as a kid has driven me to explore many kinds of outlets, tango included, but that creates the bedrock of my personal dilettantism, too.

Sometimes I feel like I'm too old to be good at anything at the deepest level. And the other part of me thinks I just haven't found that thing yet. And a tiny voice says that all of these thoughts surface in the wee hours because I should be sleeping right now.

But you'll be relieved to know for my own personal safety that I did not sign up for circus school.

Yet. They have an open house where you can try the flying trapeze and more on December 20. Hmmm.

Image: Tight-Rope Walker by Jean-Louis Forain, 1885.

Look at It This Way

"You cannot depend on your eyes when your imagination is out of focus." ~ Mark Twain

"One does not see anything until one sees its beauty." ~ Oscar Wilde

" The question is not what you look at, but what you see." ~ Henry David Thoreau

"I am a part of all that I have seen." ~ Alfred, Lord Tennyson

"What has happened makes the world. Live on the edge, looking." ~ Robert Creeley

"The real voyage of discovery consists of not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes." ~ Marcel Proust

"My spirit has ways of seeing that my eyes cannot comprehend." ~ Philippe Benichou

"Art is not what you see, but what you make others see." ~ Edgar Degas

"The eye encompasses the beauty of the whole world." ~ Leonardo da Vinci

"One eye looks within, the other eye looks without." ~ Henri Cartier-Bresson

"Seeing is a gift that comes with practice." ~ Stephanie Mills

"With repetition, the alternate approaches become clear, options open." ~ Robert Genn

"No object is mysterious. The mystery is your eye." ~ Elizabeth Bowen

“There are always flowers for those who want to see them.” ~ Henri Matisse

"Your vision will become clear only when you can look into your own heart. Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakens." ~ Carl Jung

"I go to nature to be soothed and healed, and to have my senses put in order." ~ John Burroughs

“Vision is the art of seeing what is invisible to others.” ~ Jonathan Swift

“Only those who look with the eyes of children can lose themselves in the object of their wonder.” ~ Eberhard Arnold

***

Thanks for seeing here with me. It's late...I'm sleepy. More later.

xoxo

WWMD? (What Would Michelle Do?)

As someone who loves the glamour of the olden days, especially from the movies (gowns by Irene and Adrian in particular), these sketches of what current designers would love Michelle Obama to wear to the inaugural ball are a lot of fun.I haven't watched the Academy Awards for several years now. I'm not really into seeing the people now considered to be "stars" all dressed up because they don't really interest me.

But I really really admire Michelle Obama, so I'll be thrilled to see her looking fabulous on her big day.

I'm not a huge fan of this Betsey Johnson dress, but I love the sentiments that Betsey expressed about the person she was thinking of when she drew it: "A true-blue lady," "A pearl of a girl," "A gardenia of white for one so bright," and especially "Shoes for a heart of gold."

The rest of the sketches are here at Women's Wear Daily. Which ones do you like?

***

If I could have one drawing of a favorite dress, it would be this:

From an upcoming auction on December 11: It's a sketch by Irene for the beautiful black gown that Rita Hayworth wears in You Were Never Lovelier. It is the gown in my favorite scene in the film (yes, I've posted it before but I'll never tire of it) and no one is more gorgeous than Rita in this number.

From the Hollywood Auction 33 catalog:

LOT #195

Irene costume design for Rita Hayworth in You Were Never Lovelier

(Columbia Pictures, 1942) Original costume design sketch by Irene accomplished in ink and pencil on a 12 ½ in. x 19 in. leaf of artist’s illustration paper tipped to an artist’s board. Featuring Rita Hayworth as “Maria Acuna” wearing a black gown with flowing train and a lace bodice.

$800 - $1000

Watch This Space

Honestly, guys, having a cold really drains all of the smarts right out of you. I have no idea what to write a post about.

Plus, I sneezed really hard and loud (not on purpose) and I think I gave myself a sneezing concussion today. Can you do that? I think you can. Ow.

So here are some funny photos to look at in the meantime.
They bring back memories of my days as a makeup artist doing weddings, but I don't remember ever having to shave someone's pits.

See ya after my second Coldbuster Jamba Juice kicks in.

I Think My Food Combiner Is Broken

Warning: This is one of those silly posts. I am going to blame it on my head cold.

***

I think my food combining instincts are going completely wonky. I think because I had been left alone as a Bachelorette for two solid months that I became a weird culinary hybrid of frat boy, ascetic/hermit and kosher foodie with a vitamin B deficiency.

I am not going to say how many nights I had popcorn for dinner while The Boy was away. I am not going to say because 1) it's embarrassing to think about how many times I ate popcorn for dinner and sometimes breakfast, and 2) I don't remember. It was that many. And those nights where the side dish was Cherry Garcia ice cream. Nope, don't remember those either.

***

I am going to blame my little friend Chipmonkey for this popcorn fetish. She came over with her nutritional yeast (which I had never even heard of before October 11 as I am not in any way a vegan or a health food person, you know that) and her popcorn and started my whole craving/obsession at my Movie Maven's Movie Marathon for America thingy. And now I have an enormo can (12 oz.!) of nutritional yeast in my kitchen. And the only thing it tastes good on is popcorn. I have been eating loads of both ever since.

Today, I had stale popcorn and a side of pickled herring in sour cream for breakfast. The Boy always looks at me like I am Cat Woman when I eat these fishy things (and will not be kissed and runs away from me) and in the midst of eating this "breakfast," I really do have to stop and wonder what is wrong with me. This meal can't be as bad as Mia Farrow eating the raw liver in Rosemary's Baby, but it's still not quite right.

Why do I never want to eat normal foods for breakfast? Why is the only decent sounding meal to me this morning something that could be in a Monty Python skit? Yes, I eat the herring with these guys reciting in my head ("... and then you must cut down the mightiest tree in the forest with...... A HERRING!"). Do you do this? Eat foods that immediately make you recite Monty Python scenes? ("And Saint Attila raised the hand grenade up on high, saying,’O Lord, bless this thy hand grenade that with it thou mayest blow thine enemies to tiny bits, in thy mercy.’ And the Lord did grin, and the people did feast upon the lambs and sloths and carp and anchovies and orangutans and breakfast cereals and fruit bats and...")

I'm wondering what made me combine these two foods, like if there was a reasonable physiological cause then that would explain it. They're both white foods? Salty foods? Have no real nutritional value foods? Or I've learned my food combining from years of Monty Python watching?

My tangobaby food pyramid is very bizarre. It consists primarily of har gow, Funyuns, Junior Mints, Ovaltine and popcorn. And sushi and bratwust. Now I am even grossing myself out.

***

I recently discovered, through a cute little Minnesotan transplant at my work, about such things called hotdish. I partially thought that hot dishes only existed in Lake Wobegon, but no--hotdish even has its own wikipedia entry. But now I find that there is even such a casserole creation that is topped with Tater Tots. And another one made with herring!

Perhaps I am really a Midwesterner at heart? Can someone please help me with my food identity?

***

The only other thing I am going to leave you with now is a clip from Stephen Colbert's A Colbert Christmas because it is a very funny song about nutmeg.

The Colbert ReportMon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c

A Colbert Christmas: John Legend

Colbert at Christmas
Colbert Christmas DVD

Green Screen
Bill O'Reilly Interview

If you don't come back to this blog for a while, I understand. I don't know what comes over me sometimes. But if you do eat weird things that make other people look at you askance, I really hope you'll fess up so we can start some sort of self-help group together.

A Moment of Appreciation

“How very little can be done under the spirit of fear” ~ Florence Nightengale

I took these photos on Saturday (unfortunately that sunshine and blue skies I told you about have succumbed to grey and dreary weather today). I myself have succumbed to a little cold so am home sneezing. (ps. Jamba Juice Coldbuster is a nice idea, but certainly not a preventative.)

***

Laguna Honda Hospital is one impressive place, sitting atop a hill with views that extend all the way to the Pacific. I love its 1920s architecture, although I learned the hospital was established in 1866 as an almshouse to take care of the Gold Rush pioneers. You know how I love this sort of knowledge. The Boy says that Bing Crosby and Bob Hope used to perform Christmas shows here in the auditorium for the hospital's residents. Now Laguna Honda is a long-term care facility and rehabilitation center that takes care of the poorest residents of San Francisco, who suffer from AIDS to Alzheimer's and everything in between.

The stylized statue portraying feminist and nursing pioneer Florence Nightengale is beautifully designed by Swedish sculptor David Edstrom and was made a gift to the hospital in 1939. There's something about the sparse, clean, no-nonsense lines of this woman's statue that suits the memory of her. I love the sweep of her gown, her neat hair tucked into her cap.

I remember reading a biography of Florence Nightengale when I was in college, or maybe even high school. It was at the beginning of my penchant for all things Victorian, and my adoration of Victorian-era women, adventurers and crusaders of all sorts (some women, some not). Florence Nightengale in particular made the world a much safer place by almost singlehandedly creating the role of the professional nurse in a time when the vicious Crimean War had the doubtful distinction of being the first "modern" war. And women definitely had no place in such a scene and were vehemently opposed when Nightengale first started her nursing activities. But Florence Nightengale never gave up: "I attribute my success to this - I never gave or took any excuse."

I have two young friends on their way to careers in nursing and thought maybe they would enjoy a little history of how their much needed and wonderful profession began as we know it.

***

I only mention this next tidbit because it made me laugh today. It has absolutely nothing to do with Florence Nightengale. My baby sister, mother of the famous Little Curly Girl and her new sister, Princess Chubness (until I make up a better name), is also home sick today. On the phone, her voice sounds like little Gremlin who's sucked on a helium balloon. By contrast, I sound like a picture of health.

I sent her an email because I do feel today, if Sneezing were an Olympic Sport, that I would at least have won a silver medal, if not gold. My sister has outdone me. In her reply, she "would medal in the Smelling Like Spit-Up Olympics. Also, the Most Days Wearing the Same Clothes Olympics."

Her Olympics are so much more hardcore than mine. I am giving her my Medal in Sneezing because I am in awe of her Mom-ness even while having a horrible cold. I post her reply here because 1) as a new mom, she never has time to read my blog, and 2) even if she does read this, she won't mind that we're laughing because she's that cool.

And she makes cool kids.