Work? Ugh!! Not feeling like working today. No…

Work? Ugh!!

Not feeling like working today. Not even feeling like writing the column. In fact, I don’t want to participate in life today.

I don’t want to lay in bed and watch TV, nor do I feel like eating. Eating has become my least favorite activity over the last two days, and I can only hope that the byproduct of my emotional messiness will be a reduction in the number on the scale. That’s about the only good thing that can come out of this, as far as I can tell.

Also, I got kind of drunk last night, which means that I’m moving kind of slow. I went to a bar alone, and it’s been so long since I’ve done that. I almost forgot what it was like — the dynamic, the people that you attract, etc. Maybe I’ll do that more often? Maybe I’ll do a few things differently? I guess I’ll make that decision on a different day — a day that I feel more like participating.

Test from the Universe I’m going to be cryptic he…

Test from the Universe

I’m going to be cryptic here, so please forgive me.

Sometimes the Universe is cruel and throws you a test that shakes up the status quo, and makes you question all that you believed to be true. I got such a test the other day, and I’m having a hard time with with.

I brought something up that perhaps should have been left with the multitudes of other things in my Pandora’s Box, and it caused a very bad moment.

What do I do? Is the the tip of the iceberg and a sign of more things to come, or an isolated incident that will change going forward. I hope it’s the latter, because I really need a change. What’s more, I feel that I deserve a change, and in this department, deserve something good. Or maybe I don’t deserve something good, and this is my karmic retribution. Regardless. What I don’t want, and don’t feel that I deserve, is to believe that something is good, when it’s not, and to be afraid to scratch the surface for fear of what I’ll find.

All I can say is the words “it’s none of your business,” if used in the right way (or wrong way, depending on your perspective) can be five of the most hurtful words in the world. Most things are none of our business, but sometimes we want to know. Sometimes it makes us feel better to know. Sometimes it makes us feel better to think that we’re not being shut out of an aspect of someone’s life. Sometimes it’s nice to know that someone wants to make us feel better, or has the decency to tell us the truth, even if it makes us feel worse.

Have I mentioned how much I hate the holidays, or milestone events. When shit like this happens, it becomes “the birthday that . . . ” or “the Christmas season that . . .” Interestingly enough, mere days after “the birthday that . . . ” the event happened that hopefully won’t necessitate the description: “the Christmas season that . . .”

Interesting how life works, isn’t it? I can’t say that I’m liking it right now.

Does that make sense? Probably not, but thanks for listening.

If ever there was a time to be happy not to live with my parents . . .

Seems as though I forgot my parents’ 42nd wedding anniversary.  My mother called to guilt trip me today about it.  The problem is that it occasionally falls on Thanksgiving day, which makes it difficult to remember the exact date.  At least that’s what I tell myself.  The BIGGER problem here is that it seems that my father also forgot.  It won’t be a happy time at my parents’ house tonight.  Sooooo glad I won’t be there.

Thanksgiving was . . . Great, actually. I’ve coo…

Thanksgiving was . . .

Great, actually. I’ve cooked the entire meal for so long that I have it down to a process. I know my favorite recipes — and more importantly, what my parents prefer.

For example, I’ve learned that my father doesn’t like crazy elaborate desserts — just something mildly sweet. So, for him, I made little pound cakes in one of those bundt pans that has six small bundts per pan (WTF is bundt, anyway?) My mother loves that horrific, jellied cranberry sauces that plops out of the can. I made a very elaborate cranbrery dish one year that involved fresh cranberries and orange zest, and the nectar of a flower found only in the desert of Egypt, and she wouldn’t touch it. Actually, I was the only one who ate it, and I’m not partial to cranberries. So, this year, I spent the $0.79 and made her happy.

The small cakes made with the special pans were a big hit, and I’m happy to report that the entire lemon coconut cake is gone.

I had less people than expected. Only my mother, father and one friend. It was far less stressful than a full house, and I was able to make an 11 lb turkey and still have enough leftovers for a few healthy sandwiches. I have a bunch of ham, which I don’t eat (no red meat since I was 20), but the BF will be more than happy to take care of that for me.

The most gratifying moment of the day was the time spent on the couch after everyone had left and the kitchen was clean.

A good day, with much to be thankful for. Your turn . . . how was your day?

One more day . . . Actually, I begin cooking tod…

One more day . . .

Actually, I begin cooking today. I need work to go by really quickly today so that I can finish my shopping and take a quick pass through Sur La Table and get the cake pans that I need.

Since I’m an over-baker and use Thanksgiving as an excuse to make desserts that I know I have no business eating during the regular course of the year, I had the brilliant idea to smaller cakes and pies. I thought of making little bundt cakes in different flavors, but my, do I love a good layer cake. Something about those multiple layers of frosting that does it for me. But I digress.

If I make smaller cakes, we have a better chance of actually finishing them, and I don’t have as many ominous leftovers sitting around in the days to follow, daring me to eat them. For the record, I have a hard time resisting a good dare.

The dessert menu might be (depending on my mood):

(Small) Red velvet cake

(Small) Lemon coconut cake (my mom’s fave — and now she’s added a lemon filling to the request. Not that she’s the one shopping for, or cooking any of this, mind you. But there again, a digression)

(Small) Apple pie

(Small) Pound cake (my dad’s fave. He didn’t request it, but he’s such a good guy that I have to make him happy. Can ya tell I’m a daddy’s girl? )

Am I missing anything? Don’t hesitate to comment if you have any protests. Not that I’ll change the menu, but it’s nice to hear an opinion (and also nice to know that people actually read this blog!)

And now for the gossip item du jour . . .

So, on my quest for pop culture gossip, I stumbled across the news item surrounding Kelly Ripa and Clay Aiken. Apparently, when Clay Aiken was guest hosting for Regis, he had trouble getting a word in edgewise with Kelly, so he found it appropriate to just put his hand over Kelly’s mouth to quiet her. She didn’t take it well, and said something like “That’s a no no! I don’t know where that hand’s been, honey!”

Now, Rosie O’Donnell has decided that Kelly’s behavior was homophobic, and has waged a verbal war. Kelly’s not backing down, which is what I love

Interesting points:

1. Clay is lucky that Kelly didn’t respond with an open-handed slap in the mouth. How disgusting and rude is it to place your hand over someone’s mouth while they’re talking???? WTF? Was he raised by wolves in back-ass-wherever-the-fuck he’s from? Even at my age, I’m sure my mother would give me a good spanking if she EVER caught me doing something like that. And she would be completely justified.

2. Clay Aiken has never openly admitted that he was gay (although if have one glass eye, and you’re half blind in the other, it’s not too difficult to tell. Especially with that ‘do.) I’m not sure if he should be more upset with himself (for being rude), Kelly (for verbally lambasting him on TV), or Rosie (who solidified his sexual preference, and can never seem to find it in her heart to shut the hell up).

3. Rosie is always on her high horse about someone’s perceived homophobia. She gets the Shut Up, Bitch award of the week.

Oh, Michael Richards . . . Did anyone see Micha…

Oh, Michael Richards . . .

Did anyone see Michael Richards’ apology on David Letterman last night? He appeared via satellite during the interview with Jerry Seinfeld — who’s probably upset that his untimely outburst might have cost him DVD sales for his new release.

The interview was borderline ridiculous. Basically he made it seem like his racist tirade was a result of his body being possessed by a KKK member. He said that he, himself, didn’t understand where it came from and actually said, incredulously: “The thing is, I’m not a racist!” As though he had never uttered those words in the past, and as though those thoughts weren’t top of mind when he began his diatribe.

The kicker was that he referred to black people as Afro-Americans. AFRO-Americans? I don’t think I’ve heard that term since the late seventies.

Then he went on to espouse about how this brand of crap — or should I say HIS brand of crap — shouldn’t be tolerated, and that the patrons of the comedy club had every right to go to the press. I wonder who his publicist is? What a fantastic display of reverse psychology!

I think he’s missing the point. In fact, I think a LOT of people are missing the point here. The problem isn’t that he used the N word. Somehow this debate has turned into a ridiculous exercise in why black people can say the word, while others risk getting a beat-down. That’s really not the point. The point is that his display was an attack. It wasn’t a ’slip,’ as he would have us believe. I have more of a problem that the first place he went, when being heckled by two black guys, was to talk about lynching, and liberally using the N word in derogatory manner — similar to the way that the N word was used when invented during the times of slavery — as the biggest possible insult against black people. I have a problem that this little ’slip’ so easily emanated from his mouth, and went on for about three minutes.

I don’t really want to devote any more blogging time to this. I only know that I won’t be purchasing any Seinfeld paraphernalia, or anything else that would benefit the bottom line of Michael Richards.

Thanks for listening!

And now this wonderful display of racism . . . …

And now this wonderful display of racism . . .

By Michael Richards — Kramer of Seinfeld fame: http://www.tmz.com/2006/11/20/kramers-racist-tirade-caught-on-tape/

When I watched this video for the first time, I wanted to think that it was just a sketch. That he couldn’t possibly be that much of racist . . . or, frankly, that much of an idiot. Did he REALLY think that a) he wasn’t being taped, or that b) the video wouldn’t permeate the public like the shot heard round the world?

When I watched it again, I realized that yes, he truly is a racist, and that yes, he really is that much of an idiot.

It’s interesting to see what people reach for when angered. If I’m in an argument with a white or non-black person, I’m always wondering if they’re stifling the urge to use a racial slur, or if it’s truly possible to keep the argument about whatever it’s about, and leave the physical attributes out of it.

Let’s be clear . . . I’m not deluded enough to believe that, just because I think a person has a great sense of humor, or is good at whatever he/she does, or even appears to be a relatively nice person, that they also have a big love fest with people of all races — mine in particular. However, it never ceases to surprise me when it comes out.

Another of the many problems with racist outbursts by entertainers is that, when you appreciate someone’s work, it’s disappointing to find out that, while you’ve been giving kudos, that person would probably discount your opinion because of your race. It makes you feel like you’ve made an error in judgment, and that your admiration has been wasted.

Cleaning Snafu Alrighty, so I’m no more prepar…

Cleaning Snafu

Alrighty, so I’m no more prepared than I was on Friday. There has been no menu sketched out, no kitchen inventory taken. The only thing that I have managed to do was to invite one more person (meaning a perfect table of six), have my house cleaned (the only effort exerted by me was in writing the check).

The cleaning didn’t go off without a hitch. Usually, I’m at home while they’re cleaning to thwart any potential disasters, but this time I was desperate, and they had no appointments available in the evening or on Saturday.

The way my cleaning service works is that a man brings the cleaning women over in a van. He speaks english, while the actual cleaners do not. (All Polish, all the time, baby.) You give him any special instructions, and he translates them to the cleaning women. Afterwards, he leaves for a few hours, and returns to collect them, and lock up,etc.

The events on Friday morning made me wonder if anyone speaks the same language.

I gave VERY specific instructions about two very important circumstances. The first being that the animal situation in my house is less than ideal. Bailey (the cat that I took in over a year ago) is still not getting along with Phoebe (my 10 year old powder puff). He attacks her at every turn — although he would say (if he could talk) that he’s just being playful. Phoebe is scared to death of him, and infuriated that her hisses don’t keep him away. For these reasons, I separate the two cats.

Bailey has his own room — a room that every cat would dream of that contains every toy in the free world, and a constant supply of kitty drugs (catnip) should he choose to indulge. Every night, I sequester Phoebe and let him roam the house until he does something to piss me off. “Something to piss me off” includes a variety of activities, including 1) removing the floor registers and trying to cram his 16 lb. ass into the vent; 2) playing aggressively and randomly biting me. He’s usually a good boy, but . . . I digress.

I gave The Cleanup Man two instructions: How to handle the cat situation, how to lock my door, and where to leave my key (okay, so that’s three instructions. Whatever.) The cat thing was easy. Clean the room where Bailey resides, but make sure NOT to let him out, and definitely close the door behind you when cleaning. I was most concerned about the lockup. The last thing I wanted was for him to indiscreetly lock my door, and put my unguarded key in a place where the neighborhood crazies (let’s just call them Skillet and Rollo) could find it, and gain full access to my lavender Pine Sol scented house. So, I told him to lock my door, insert my key in a small metal key safe, lock the safe, and put the safe in my mailbox.

The day was angst ridden, and I hoped that I wouldn’t arrive home to find an unlocked door and missing electronics. Instead, I opened the (locked) door to find Bailey running away from me. Bailey? Rut Ro! He should be in his room, right. NOPE! He was freely roaming. Each floor register had been removed and was sitting next to the vent. I looked for Phoebe, who was scared shitless (literally, she had taken a dump in the corner of my very clean floor — probably because Bailey had her cornered). She smelled terrible, because she had been seeking refuge in the litterbox.

I went upstairs, and found that those dumbasses had closed every door EXCEPT for the room that Bailey was supposed to be in.

I had to give the already-traumatized Feebs a bath, which was a horrible task, and then i realized that she was limping a bit. Lord only knows what Bailey had done to her. The only saving grace was that there was no blood shed — only random tufts of hair where the fights had presumably occured.

After I somewhat got over the cat fiasco, I realized that the cleaning morons had also managed to disturb my cable wires,

Needless to say that I’m pissed, and trying to figure out if I should call and complain, or whether it’s a wasted effort.

Perhaps I should spend more time focusing on Thanksgiving dinner?

I’m a slacker . . . once again! Although, at lea…

I’m a slacker . . . once again!

Although, at least three times a day, I think of fun things to blog about, somehow, when I get settled and comfy at home, it doesn’t translate into me actually sitting down and writing. What’s THAT about? I wish I knew.

So, in preparation for the Thanksgiving feast that I annually toil over, I began my search for strays relatively late in the process. Going wild to prepare a 10 course meal for the three of us seems excessive to me, so I like to invite people to join us. Last year, I had a full table of six. And, by the way, I never invite more than can sit at the table, so generally I’m looking to hand out three invitiations. Any more than three extras is unwieldy. This year, two friends — a married couple — the husband of which my family has known since I was a teenager — are going to come by, so it looks like I’m having a party of five, which is actually perfect.

One of my friends was toying with the idea of inviting herself, along with her husband, 2-year-old, and 1-year-old. Thank GOD she worked herself out of that option. I’m not really known for my child-friendly gatherings, and would be in a constant state of unrest among screaming toddlers. As it is, because of my mother, I sip (okay . . . gulp!) liberal amounts of wine all throughout the day. If two kids were involved, I would probably be an IV drug user by the end of the night.

I’m waiting to see what disaster will occur this year. Last year was pretty mild, although I had trouble with the turkey thermometer. A week before Thanksgiving ‘05, I forced my friend Tiffany to come with me to Williams Sonoma, where the must-have item was an electronic talking thermometer. Yep, I’m a gadgety chick. That freaking thing did nothing but confuse me all day. One hour after I put my 17+ pound bird in the oven, the thermometer told me, with authority, that I only had 1.5 hours of cook time. Exactly five minutes later, the temperature soothsayer convincingly asserted that it would be 6 hours until dinner time. WTF? I would have been better off sticking my hand in the cavity of the bird and trying to assess the temperature myself. I ended up going the analog route, and sticking a traditional mercury-based thermometer into the turkey breast, thereby avoiding poisoning my guests and myself by serving raw poultry.

Last year, I also made the fatal error of having a dessert party after Thanksgiving dinner. It sounded like a good idea the week before, but I knew that I’d made a serious mistake when I reached exhaustion by 8:30. I had a few guests that flat-out REFUSED to leave until some crazy hour of the night, which meant that I was putting food away and cleaning until well after 1:00 am.

Hmmm . . . did I say that last year was mild?

The year before, I managed to clog my garbage disposal with potato peelings. I’m sure I must have blogged about it, but since I’m too lazy to go and find the link, I will give you the condensed version — it was a FUCKING nightmare. What could be worse than finding yourself, in the throes of cooking 8 different dishes, that one of the most important appliances in the kitchen is inoperable? And you’re to blame! As I recall, I went to the ghetto Jewel near my house and bought a solution — something that claimed to be a drain laxative. It didn’t work. I ended up using my tried and true remedy — baking soda and white vinegar. Nothing’s better than a good explosion to clear out those nasty potato peels.

I’ll report back next week with updates on this year’s meal. Keep your fingers crossed that it goes off without a hitch.

If you get a chance, check out the new column today . It’s all about finding love while salsa dancing. Fun stuff!!!

Only in New York . . . I hope everyone had a fab…

Only in New York . . .

I hope everyone had a fabulous Halloween. I snuck into NY for about a day and a half the other day (apologies if you’re one of my NY buddies that I didn’t see — it was a whirlwind trip), and enjoyed the wonderful, warm weather during the short time that I was there.

On my trip back, as I sat in the American Airlines terminal at LaGuardia, I said in the row of seats nearest the window. As I peered out of the window waiting to board, I noticed a little movement on the floor. I looked down and saw a family of mice literally frolicking about not 10 feet away from me.

What’s interesting is that these mice were unafraid. Granted, they were babies, but I take it as a sign of true infestation if mice are running among people, damn near sitting up, begging for scraps.

But here’s the thing . . . I love animals, and much to my parents’ dismay, I’ve never discriminated. I like dogs, cats, snakes and rodents. I can find something cute in any critter. Having said that, I was conflicted when I saw these mice. I didn’t know whether to scream or feed them.

I almost felt guilty as a nibbled on the slice of pizza that I bought to pick at just to kill time. Others around me began to look at the mice, and most people in our vicinity also found them to be cute.

When they called for general boarding, I haphazardly dropped a tiny piece of pizza crust near where the mice were cavorting. I couldn’t help myself!!

It never ceases to amaze me how run down the NY airports are. God forbid they invest any money in either LaGuardia or JFK to make them pleasant places to wait, with actual good food and bookstores in the gate areas. I guess that’s asking too much.