Joyeux Noel, et al.

What is your favorite Christmas memory?

One of mine has to be when I received a dollhouse from Santa at the age of 6. The note taped to the top of the dollhouse was written in calligraphy and signed "Santa," and I was struck at how similar Santa's calligraphy was to my dad's, but I blissfully made no connection and took in the large, unpainted, unfurnished, Victorian dollhouse. Over the years, the dollhouse developed into an expensive hobby, as my mom and I collected furnishings and even wallpapered and wired it. Two of my grandmothers needlepointed miniature rugs, and a painter we knew pained a miniature portrait of me for the miniature living room. Oh, yeah, we were hardcore. Sadly, this work of art has been in storage for over 10 years, and it is my 2009 New Year's Resolution to get it the heck out of storage (in Georgia, no less!) and give it a home, hopefully a museum of some sort. But I digress.


above: not near as cool as the dollhouse i got

I have been lucky enough in my life to have spent Christmas in 5 different countries. When I was first studying in France, my parents joined me a few days before Christmas, and we all took the train from Paris to Munich to meet my brother, who was stationed at an Army base there. We spent the holidays in Germany and Austria, and it was freezing butt cold, but it was beautiful. I remember the Christmas market in Nuremberg, where we drank hot wine and enjoyed all the crafty, handmade decorations for sale and the many tasty treats. Germans know how to make cakes. I remember the Christmas Eve service we attended, where we could see our breath inside the stone church, and where we understood not a word of the entire service except for the singing of "Stille Nacht."

A few years later, I was back in France. At Christmastime, Paris dons her most beautiful festive lights and offers her most delicious holiday sweets. The French also know how to make cakes, incidentally. I was lonely that year without family but had the company of two American girlfriends, with whom I shared small gifts and ate myself into oblivion.



above: The French and their lights. Sheesh.

The following year found me at my mother's new, temporarily adopted country of Costa Rica. In this tropical Christmas, I could rewrite the Twelve Days of Christmas: 6 decorated banana trees, 5 three-toed sloths, 4 howler monkeys in the morning, 3 large snakes in the middle of the road, 2 queztal birds, and lava erupting from a live vol-caa-no! That was some visit, and some country.

Again, the following year, I would receive the gift of yet another international holiday: Christmas in Poland. Mr. P and I had started dating that year, and our Christmas would be my second time in his home country. Poland at Christmas time is a quiet, simple occasion, where food, family, and the church take center place (and possibly in that order), and gifts are simple. They celebrate for three days: Christmas Eve, Day, and the day after. They eat a vegetarian meal on the 24th, consisting of beet soup (barszcz) with uszka (little mushroom filled raviolis that go in the soup), and pierogis, usually stuffed with mushrooms and sauerkraut, or cheese and potato. Vodka, like meat, is not imbibed until the 25th (or midnight of the 24th, if one is impatient), and the first star spotted outside makes the presents appear under the tree. Our Santa is their Saint Nicholas, who makes an earlier appearance on Dec. 6 (possibly to focus on his larger job of delivering oodles of gifts to richer, fatter Westerners on the 25th). There is also a legend in Poland that animals can speak like people at midnight on the 24th. I didn't find this to be true, but perhaps I should have been more handy with the vodka.

Since those jet-setting days of my bohemian youth, I have largely spent Christmas in America, which is not a bad place to be, if I may say so myself. Each Christmas offers new surprises and adopts new traditions, but so far, no new countries at the holiday. This year, as we enjoy a new canine member of our family in our half-remodeled house, we will eat a Polish dinner, possibly skip church, and visit our families in different parts of the world via Skype.

Happy Chrismas to all, and to all a good night! (Yeah, that almost rhymed.)

Dog v. Cat: the timeless battle

Dutchie's To Do list: Friday, Dec. 12

-go walkies with new mom and dad
-eat kibble
-destroy tennis ball
-run around like a big goof (new mom and dad seem to enjoy that)
-avoid cat
-try again to claim bed (new mom will eventually be worn down)
-take several well-earned naps
-work on bone
-avoid cat (must keep reminding myself)
-keep charm and cuteness on at all times

Vinny's To Do list: Friday, Dec. 12

KILL DOG

---

Folks, I am the proud new "mom" of a sprightly, sweet, pit bull terrier named Dutchie. He came to us on Tuesday, after only a week of having found him through our vet and meeting him one time with his foster parents. Rescued as a stray from New Orleans, he acts like he lives a charmed life (I guess he does now!), and already he displays signs of great awareness and intelligence. I know it sounds corny to dote this way over a dog, but I admit, I am a bit in awe. And in love. While the addition has been a shock to my system, I find myself thinking, "this is not like the dogs I'm used to." Growing up with retrievers, I am accustomed to dogs who are sweet to a fault and simply cool with anything you want to do with them. I adore retrievers; actually, I adore all dogs, but this dog... I dunno. I can't help thinking that this dog makes the retrievers I have known look dumb. I know! I feel a little guilty saying that, but it's true. There is something else churning behind Dutchie's eyes. Not malicious, just... something. In the back of my mind, I have hopes that we can turn Dutchie into a therapy dog, but we will see all in good time.

Meanwhile, our cat Vinny is having a bit of a rough time. He's been ok with dog visitors before, though somewhat aggressive (chasing down my mom's labrador, cornering my in-laws' shitzus), but this time he is even more freaked out. To him, a curious, big-jawed canine hanging around his space and never leaving must be scary. Vinny has been an only child for 11 years, after all.

So, that's what's new with me. Good thing I cut my cable, because not only do I not have time to watch tv due to watching the dog all the time, I may actually find him more entertaining than cable. It was all I could do last night as I attempted to catch up on Top Chef to take my eyes off the dog as he pounced like a kitten on a tennis ball. (Yes, a kitten. Yes, I am a crazy dog owner now.)

Who and what are annoying me lately

In the Holiday spirit – of Scrooge – I am making an end-of-year whiny list of which celebrities and hot topics are bugging me. This is the first installment. If I continue on my grump streak, there will be more. And hey, celebrities? Stay off my lawn!

Beyonce. Without a doubt, you are the most overrated star ever. You sing passably, you act passably, but Jennifer Hudson is one person – of many – who can sing and act (ok, maybe not completely act) circles around you. Yeah, I get that you’re cute, all boobs and butt and pretty hair, but please. Sasha Fierce? If you’re so great, why are you changing your name?

The whole Jennifer Anniston/Brad/Angelina thing. If they were all trashier, this drama might be more interesting. On Jerry Springer. Angelina stole your man, like, 3 years ago, Jen. That’s what she does. With Brad, she will simultaneously repopulate and adopt the world, while saving it the process. Then, when she’s bored with that, she’ll go back to vamping around and cutting herself. Brad will continue to look pretty while rescuing victims of disasters and building eco-friendly buildings. What are you doing, Jen? Complaining about how uncool they are? Get over it already and stick to making movies with puppies.

Rosie O’Donnell. Thankfully, your “comeback” was but a blip on the radar, because you are seriously unbearable. Actually, you’re pretty charming, in TINY doses. I think your heart may be in the right place, but your mouth overwhelms it. Please take your “act” to one of your gay cruise ships and stay off camera for a while.

Daniel Radcliffe. I’m confused. Didn’t you already do the naked Broadway stint? Why are you at it again? Has it been one, continuous run? Why do you keep talking about your penis? I like you as Harry Potter, and you were pretty funny on that episode of Extras, but maybe you can consider taking a vacation to a nudie beach and get all that out of your system.

I just read that Jeb Bush is considering a run for Senate. My goodness, you get one out, and another one goes right back in. That family is like the multi-headed hydra serpent. Can we impose a Bush ban already?

The economy. Can you stop being a meanie and give us back our money and jobs? Thanks.

Freaky cyborg singing thing

I have to walk by this photo of Sarah Brightman every morning since it's been plastered in my metro station. I'm afraid I can't get a better close up here, because I don't know how to work the graphics program of my Linux operating system (which, don't get me started), so I'll try to describe how it makes me feel.

Scared. It scares me a little. I'm kind of amazed at how Sarah weirds it up more and more with her image at every new album. With her present look, she has achieved a glass-eyed, robot stare, complete with an unnatural sheen on her skin, and, what is she doing? It seems she has been shocked back to life and is stomping awkwardly away from Dr. Frankenstein's castle to her next concert.

Everyone run!

Recession Update: Home Entertainment

I read somewhere that "cable TV is the first to go" in an economic crisis. Well, they must have talked to our cat because that's exactly what we cut just last week. That's right: I'm one step away from shooting the TV!

My decision to cut the cable was partly motivated by a need to save money and partly by a need to decrease my tv watching. Comcast charges way too much for cable, but I also waste too much time watching mindless shows that I do not plan on watching.

Of course, I immediately regretted my decision as soon as it was gone and came very close to calling Comcast to tell them it was a big mistake and ask for them back like a lost lover. Luckily, I remembered my friend with benefits, good ol' Interweb, which offers an abundance of tv, so I think all will be ok. At least until this storm blows over and I pick up a book again.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to adjust those rabbit ears again. PBS has a finicky signal.

Geek for Freaks

I finally saw Tod Browning's 1932 cult classic film, Freaks. Halloween put me in a mood for the scary, creepy, and other-worldly (yeah, more than usual), so I rented it for the holiday but only just now got around to actually watching it.

I thought I'd devote an actual post to my "review," rather than a side bar mini review just because, damn. Fascinating flick, you guys. First off, I will say that it's not near as scary as I anticipated. It's not at all scary, actually, unless you have a phobia of circus "freaks" (which I realize is no longer p.c., but work with me here). The spoilers I had read built it up to have this terrible, twisty, and unfortunate ending, but the outcome feels like more of a denouement. Yes, the protagonist/villain does suffer a terrible, albeit somewhat deserved, fate, but it's not one that will keep you up at night.

The most disturbing facet of this film I found is neither the plot nor the actual sideshow performers who act in it, but rather that much of the original film did not survive. Allegedly, when Browning released Freaks, it was so controversial that he was forced to cut about 30 minutes, reducing the running time to just over an hour and leaving the cut film to be lost. As a result, the final product is choppy and looks as though it was the victim of sloppy editing. The quality of the film also has not been preserved, as the sound is all over the map, and sometimes the picture just looks faded.

What is so controversial about this film? I suppose in the age of movies like Saw and Hostel, it's hard to believe that a film which features real people with deformities and forces the audience to imagine violence might actually be banned for 6 months in the UK. I suppose it was groundbreaking, however, in its ability to open the door to the world of real "freaks" who happen to be regular people capable of love and compassion as well as vengeance and violence.

Freaks inspired me to research the history of sideshows as well as the deformities and conditions with which these performers were afflicted. Among the real freaks are little people (the little people couple is the heart of the film), armless women, a legless man, a limbless man (the human torso), three people with microcephaly, an intersexual, and a woman with Virchow-Seckel syndrome (look it up!). It's sad to think about all these things, but they were rather endearing in the film.

So, to whet your appetite for this film, or perhaps, to suppress it, enjoy the following clip of a freak in action:

Bring on the Creep

Guillermo del Toro, director of Pan's Labyrinth and the latest Hellboy, is going to bring Pinocchio to film.

Yikes! Can you imagine how creepy that's going to be?

The Game Show Path to Wealth

I'm seriously considering applying to be a contestant on the Price is Right. This is after an average of 9 hours of sleep in the last two days and successfully guessing prices of furniture in Ikea, but hey! It's a start.

I thought I was dreaming, but it's true...

Hooray and Hallelujah.

My hope is restored.

I'm pretty happy that 1. America elected its first black President, 2. He's a pretty wonderful candidate and seems poised for greatness, and 3. the Republicans got their asses handed to them. I'm mean, I'm sorry. I was "raised Republican," if there is such a thing, but that party has gone through such a hideous transformation that is no longer recognizable as the same party once headed by Abraham Lincoln and Dwight Eisenhower. I certainly don't think the Dems have all the answers, but I have a feeling that Obama may transform the party.

I went to bed last night around 2:30 am, after a casual get together at an Obama volunteer and friend of a friend's apartment. As soon as his win was announced, we could hear car horns blowing, people cheering, and even fireworks cracking from the streets of DC below. After the two speeches (and: kudos to McCain for his classy concession speech), we all went outside, and Mr. P and I joined in on the festivities, driving around the streets, honking our horn, high-fiving, and finally, parking and walking to the White House. There, at Lafayette Square, was a huge group of people hugging, cheering, waving flags, playing drums. There were a few chants of "No More Bush!" and "Na na na na, hey, hey, hey, good-bye," but mostly, it was a peaceful celebration. It felt like New Year's. It felt like an historic event unfolding.

Some other good things happened overnight, too: abortion rights were protected in South Dakota, marijuana possession was decriminalized in Massachusetts, and even slots were legalized in Maryland (could be good or bad: we'll see). Unfortunately, it looks like gay adoption rights have been blocked in Arkansas, and gay marriage has been re-banned in California. Well, I guess you can't have it all, so we will keep trying.

In the meantime, I'm pleased that the international community will look more kindly on America now, and I'm elated that this election proves that a society can evolve and grow with the times. Does our democracy work? I think so. There are still flaws, but it worked pretty well last night. Congrats, Barack. Keep on doing what you're doing.

Imagine them standing at the foot of your bed

Cool/scary pictures of the Halloweens of yesteryear.

They were not kidding around with those masks.

Happiness is a blue beret

What's blue, 16 years old, came from France, and has moved 7 times? Why, it's my blue beret, and it's come back to me after going AWOL for roughly a year and a half. As I've mentioned before, I've been reorganizing my life for around two years now, so my clothes and possessions have gone into limbo, some reappearing and some remaining lost. When I came across my old blue beret this morning completely by accident, I felt as if I had just run into an old friend.

I bought this beret when I first went to Paris as a student, and I know it's stereotypical to have a beret in France, but I didn't have a hat, and it gets cold there. I had to get it because it was made of wool and was big enough to fit my pumpkin head. I loved it then, and after all these years, it still looks the best on me of all my hats. Plus, it's still in my possession, which is amazing considering how many things I've "misplaced" over the years.

Prince, your girl's raspberry beret has got nothing on my blueberry beret.

Now I'm suddenly inspired at how many of my old clothes I can revive (if I can find them), which will be helpful considering money is getting tight. My old beret, which is still in good shape, some shoe polish on my old boots, a few stitches to mend my old favorite but frayed blouses, and I could be good to go!


Above: Not as happy about this as I am.

You give me fever

I know. I have a funny habit of disappearing for a while from my little blog here. I wish I could say it's because I've been busy saving the world; actually, I just occasionally run into a writer's block, and I can't organize my thoughts. That, and I have nothing truly interesting to say. I suppose the only remedy for that is just to start writing again.

My post today is a confession. I confess that I have been struck with - as my new favorite late night talk show host Craig Ferguson would say - serious Election Fever. People, my current Election Fever is running at about 104 degrees. I am obsessed with this election. It's just been so exciting, so heated, so historic, and so freakin' LONG. For some, the sheer length has caused them to burn out, but not for me. It has only exacerbated my fever. I cannot WAIT until election day. It could be either the highlight or the low point of my entire year. I will possibly be in bed for two weeks following election day just to recover from the excitement.

You know, I have always found elections exhilarating. It's an exciting thing to be able to elect people to office. You hear their speeches, you watch their ads, and then, you decide. Well, ok, there's the electoral vote thing. And I do have a beef with this two party system, but still. Nobody's going anywhere until we go to the polls. And you never know how it's going to turn out until all the votes are counted. I'm like that character Kristen Wiig plays on SNL who cannot contain her excitement for surprises. Excuse me while I go jump through this glass door.

On a serious note, we cannot ignore or take for granted what is really at stake in this election. I'm not just talking about the economy going down the proverbial pipes, or the several wars we're waging around the world, or the ruined reputation we need to recover internationally, or even the crumbling bridges and schools in our own country. These problems will challenge the new President, no doubt. What is really at stake is whether we can elect an African American to the highest office. Much of the living American population remembers segregation, riots, and a hateful, dark chapter of our recent history. If we can put a black man in the Oval Office 45 years after MLK's "I Have a Dream" speech and 44 years after the Civil Rights Amendment, we can send a powerful message of progress into the world. We saw it in South Africa, and now we can do it in America.

The truly positive aspect of this possibility is that we don't have to vote for Obama because he is black, but because he happens to be the best candidate. I believe he has the best ideas for health care, economic recovery, and foreign policy, and I think his youth, intelligence, and even temperament are important qualities for this position. Obama is the one who has persisted despite arguments about his experience, despite his lack of insider connections, despite so many obstacles. He has been a steam roller for about two years in his run for President, and he has stuck to the issues and never been ruffled or lost his cool. (Almost like a non-violent protestor.) I don't mean to deify the guy; I know he's not the Second Coming, nor is he MLK. He is not perfect. He is just one man, and he wants this job. However, he has easily won all three debates. He has made a smart choice of running mate. He has run a well-organized campaign. There is no doubt that he can be President, and he will most likely be a good President. But what will happen?

We will not know until we cast our votes. And by casting a vote on November 4, we will be part of making history.

I'm so freakin' excited!

Wanna buy a house?

Today is a good day for me and Mr. P. Our redneck (or, "The Nex" for short), crossbow-loving, pick-up truck-driving, back-yard deer-slaughtering, communal-living, late night horseshoe-playing, front-yard-partying, ceaseless dog-barking neighbors have MOVED OUT. Don't know why, but I do know that four couples were camping out periodically in that small house, because that's who packed up and hauled away stuff. It's weird, because they weren't living there all the time, just part of the time. I guess the economy has affected them, too, and they can't afford Skinhead Meeting House, er... I mean, a Community Party House, anymore. Or, Perhaps all the Obama yard signs have driven them away. I dunno, but their confederate flags and deer carcasses are not our problem anymore.

Shutting it down before it starts

Today on the metro, a nice young woman offered me her seat. Figuring it was good karma from my giving up my seat just an hour earlier to an elderly woman, I took it. Then, she introduced herself. Oookay. Then, she said, "I'm actually from Germantown, but I'm out today spreading the news of the Gospel. Are you a believer?"

I started to panic as I rifled through my mental rolodex of excuses. Suddenly, in a moment of unusual clarity, I said, "I'm kind of private about my faith." She looked at me slightly puzzled but responded, "oh, ok." And she was quiet for the rest of the trip.

Wow! That's all it took? I didn't have to be rude, I didn't have to engage in conversation, and I didn't have to line up a bunch of excuses. Because, if I had said, no, then she would have started to try to convert me, if I had said yes, she would have invited me to events, and if I had told her I practiced a different religion, well, you get the picture. There was no right answer. And yet, I found one!

I'm writing about this because I'm proud of myself. See, if I so much as get into a conversation of that nature, before I can say Holy Christ on a Cracker, I'm drinking the kool-aid. I know because it happened when I was living in France. A nice young woman approached me in the metro, started up a conversation, and a few weeks later, I was attended her "cult." Oh - she called it that. But, she didn't bring it up in the first conversation with me, so she was much sneakier.

Whew, I think I dodged a bullet today.

The Lovers, the dreamers, and me

I just saw a wonderful exhibit of Jim Henson's life and work at the Smithsonian, which happily allowed me to revisit the Muppets as well as meet some new characters and learn some things about Henson I didn't know.

For instance, I didn't know he made a lot of commercials in the 60's.

Meet the La Choy Dragon:



I love that the mother is very seriously concerned, and how the store employee extinguishes the burning sign as if that darn dragon sets things on fire every day in that store. (But who's going to pick up all those knocked over cans?)

With another likable and, may I add, creatively designed character, he sells "fabric finish."



How adorable is a medieval knight with irons for feet? So cute that we can overlook the fact that the woman doesn't hear something explode in her living room before she's even out of it.

Ah. I miss Jim Henson. He was some kind of genius. I could devote an entire blog to his work, but I thought I would just share these two lesser known little gems today.

I CAN HAZ WEELZ?

I just got this very swanky cat carrier on wheels free by collecting points from a cat litter. Fresh Step offers free merchandise when you buy their litter (which is good kitty litter, too) and log in your points code on the back of every box. I've been doing it for, like, three years or something now, maybe longer, because I know a while ago I cashed in my points on a kitty bed, which my cat has worn out by now and still loves.

So I was feeling pretty great cashing in another 700 or so points to get a rolling net cat carrier, which I thought would be nice in lieu of the other massive crate that we have to - God forbid- pick up. That crate, and especially the kitty inside it, are heavy.

(I would like to add that Mr. P thinks it pretty funny that I've been so diligent about these darned points, especially when I can't even collect coupons for a grocery store.)

Anyhoo, it came, and I was like, Vinny! Let's give it a spin!



Darned feline is too darned big for darned bag.

The upside? I might be able to use it to shop at the Farmer's Market.

The more things change, the more they stay the same

While tidying up yesterday, I picked up my baby book and started to thumb through it. Tucked in the back were the front pages of two newspapers dated Sept. 1973, about a year and a half after I was born. My mother had kept them because the main headlines were about a hurricane named after me. (well, not really named after me, just sharing my first name.)



I thought, cool, historic newspapers! I wonder what was going on in the world in 1973?

Well, folks, what was going on in 1973 is pretty close to what is going on in 2008. Here is what I gleaned from the yellowing newsprint:

1. Senator Edward Kennedy was in the process of proposing a national health care plan.

2. There was an investigation into the premature death of an actor (Bruce Lee).

3. A dangerous hurricane was bearing down on the gulf coast.

There were, however, some subtle differences:



Super Fly, at the drive-in! A triple feature with a western and 70s soft core.

And, more blaxpoitation; or, otherwise, a 70s classic (sorry for the photo quality):



Yes, that says "6 foot 2" of Dynamite!" It also says, above "Loews Palace:" Air Conditioned.

Fancy!

The difference between The Onion and CNN.com:

The Onion is kidding. Otherwise, the headlines are pretty much the same.

So, I'm eyeballing the headlines on cnn.com just now, ticking off Obama this, McCain that, Putin blames the US, some sharks ate some guys in Florida, Jesus' image seen on wings of a moth, Gustav is closing in on Jam- Wait, huh?

Are they really serious with the Jesus seen in ___ and the Virgin Mary spotted in ___ stuff? Why are these "stories" still (or, ever) making top headlines? Have we become a nation of such religious freaks that we can't even look at a stain on a window/cheeto/flying insect without invoking Christian imagery? Stop giving Bill Maher more material, people.

Does it make me silly/shallow/a bad feminist if:

a) I'm flattered when someone tells me I'm pretty (man or woman) (and not a pick-up line)

and

b) I'm a little moved when a man carries something heavy for me?

Just wondering.

Are we surprised?

Yep: just what I thought.

I needed a good scare

These animated short webisodes (?) promoting Stephen King's upcoming book are entertaining and scaring me.

Following these videos with my latest read, A Good and Happy Child, is making it hard for me to sleep at night. And I love it!

Heaven is a bowl of ice cream

How am I just finding out about Moorenko's Ice Cream?? They've had a cafe in McLean since 2000, and one in Silver Spring since 2003, but somehow, they have slipped under my quest for cream radar until now. I didn't even discover the cafes; I found their tiny little pints shyly staring back at me in the freezers of Whole Foods. Three lone little cartons with the flavors wild blueberry, rice pudding and creme fraiche. Wait, creme fraiche?? How did no one think of this marriage-in-heaven flavor before?

Holy Smoking Lord, this is good ice cream. Somehow these geniuses have combined the natural creaminess of gelato with the texture of American ice cream, and they didn't have to inject their cows with hormones to make it. All natural, and super delicious. They even manage to invent, and re-invent, creative flavors.

I think I'm in love.

Even Bigfoot is fed up

So, allegedly, a cadaver of Bigfoot has been found, the finders are defending it, and they have sent the body to scientists to test it. Whoa! (I won't link to the story because it's everywhere, and it's changing daily) Just last month I was reading the cover story from the DC City Paper about William Draginis, a specialist in surveillance equipment, who has been tracking Bigfoot for, I forget, like 15 years or something. Now, he, like everyone, is skeptical. (His is a fascinating story, by the way; I'll link to it when I locate it again).

I'm skeptical, too. Unfortunately, there are several scents of rat in this claim: these people run a Bigfoot tracking company, and, one of these guys has been responsible for a hoax before. It's hard to believe that they (of all people) just stumbled upon this massive dead body in the woods, even though a body is precisely what's needed to prove the existence of the elusive Bigfoot.

Noted primatologist Jane Goodall herself has stated that she doesn't disbelieve the notion of Bigfoot; she thinks it's highly possible that "he" exists, but a body - or bones - is needed. I believe, however, it would almost signify the end of an era if it were proven true; once a mystery is made a reality, it isn't so much fun anymore. I'm not sure we need worry just yet, though; these guys are very likely clowns, and when their "body" turns out to be an elaborate hoax and publicity stunt, Bigfoot enthusiasts - as well as myself - are going to be mightily pissed.

Madame, please.

Now that I've kvetched about China, allow me to pick a bone about the US. Did you catch Nancy Pelosi on Larry King yesterday? Of course you didn't; you're smart and don't watch Larry King. The man annoys to no end, after all. Well, I got tired of the Olympics (see previous post) and had to change the channel, and God, there really is nothing on in the Summer, is there. There was Pelosi, doing the crazy face and saying nothing substantial about the invasion of Georgia. I thought, Pelosi sure is talking a lot to the media these days. Then I realized why. She's shilling her book.

I'm glad we have a Madame Speaker of the House for the first time, and I'd be glad to see more and more women in positions of power, but is it appropriate for her to be pushing her book while still in office? Isn't the point of being a role model of female power to pass policies, criticize the president, and actually make a difference? Doesn't she have bigger fish to fry at the moment?

I am so over our government.

With apologizes to Chinese-Americans, and other Chinese friends

I really don't like China. Look, I'm sorry. I know they have an important history and a rich culture, and I know they've contributed so much to other cultures in this world, and I'm sure there are many Chinese individuals who are wonderful. In fact, I know that. I don't hate Chinese people, but I have a strong dislike for the nation at large. Their record on human rights - not to mention cruelty to animals - is appalling. Chairman Mao, who is regarded as a hero, was a cruel dictator who killed a lot of people. And, apparently, the Olympics Opening Ceremony was completely digitally altered. Ok, so that last statement was more tongue-in-cheek, but still. Get over yourself, China. And please quit eating dogs.

The truth is out there, darn it!

I'm kind of excited about this recent event, about a strange misty figure caught on a school surveillance camera in the middle of the night. As a lover of the paranormal, I don't go hunting for ghosts - and don't really care to see one for real - but I like that there are happenings out there that we, in all our intellectual logic, cannot explain. This find is better than anything the Ghost Hunters on SciFi have found.

Mole breath

The cat who owns this adorable face, above, killed a mole yesterday, ate it, and threw up the skin, in our bedroom, in the middle of the night.

You're welcome.

Cranky + Grumpy = Crumpy

I was on the phone with my dad yesterday, lecturing him on promoting his art. He's retired now, and he's finally finding time to devote himself to painting. During this time, he has found - in my opinion - a vision and style, and I think he's ready to take the paintings to posh galleries and slap some high prices on them. However, he is much like me, that is, challenged in the self-esteem department. My step mother, who has been an avid supporter and mate to my father for over 10 years now, God bless her, was listening in on speaker phone, and she commented, "y'all can help each other. After all, you're so much alike!" My dad chuckled and added, "yeah, we're both cranky!"

Um. How did he know that? I mean, I don't think I grew up being cranky all the time. I don't think I'm cranky around my dad now; I do try to watch my attitude with family. When I told Mr. P about the comment, he, too, chuckled. "Sweetie," he said. "Everyone knows you're cranky."

Urgh! That just makes me grumpy.

The eyes have it

On the way into work this morning, a woman on the train said to me, "You have the most beautiful eyes!" I thanked her, and she replied, "Don't thank me! Thank the people who gave them to you!" Then she wondered how many people I had "given them to," which I perceived as a little gross, giving your eyes to someone, but I am eye-phobic. I also wondered if she meant how many people I had used my eyes to flirt with it, because in the South, after all, we do learn how to "give your eyes to someone." But she meant children, and when I told her I had not yet chosen to pass along my genes, she encouraged me to do so, many times over, because if she had eyes like mine, she would "give them to everyone!" Why, that's just about the best reason I've ever heard to breed.

Congratulations on your sex change?

The other night I went to the theater, and when I sat down, someone behind me tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around and saw this guy, who said, "Quesadelia? You probably don't remember me, but I was in that show with you a few years ago..." and when I looked into his eyes, I recognized him. Her. I was in a show with this young woman, who was now sitting there in front of me, in plain sight, as an adult man. Facial hair, bulky build, man legs. "Wow!" I said. "You look different!" Actually, she - HE- looked good, and natural, and happy as a guy. Then I said, "you must be getting lots of work in theater now!" And he said, "yeah, actually, I am!"

Batman: The Opera

With Brokeback Mountain and The Fly being made into operas, The Onion, as well as I, wonders what's next:

E-mail peeves

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote a post about my pet peeves but didn't publish it when I thought it came off as too whiny. As a replacement, I thought I would pick a specific topic to whine about: email etiquette and the crimes against.

1. The non-answer. Look, I understand that people have lives, and I don't expect a response from my every email (the conversation has to stop eventually, after all), but I do dislike it when I specifically ask someone something in an email, and I never receive an answer. It leads to my own feelings of inadequacy, as I wonder if I came off as rude in the original message, or if they just hate me now for some reason.

2. The line-by-line response. You know what I'm talking about: You say a few, unrelated things in the email, and the person answers each item between your text. For example:

It was great seeing you on Saturday.
Great to see you, too!

I was wondering if you might be available to babysit my cat...
In regards to your cat, he is a massive troublemaker...

You get the picture. I do appreciate their consideration in responding to every little thing I say - it's like a real conversation, OMG!- but despite being the polar opposite of my peeve #1, it just... makes me nervous.

3. The ALL CAPS EMAILS. My grandmother is the greatest, and presently, only, perpetrator of this oddity that I know. It's as if, in my full inbox of emails, the ALL CAPS writers feel that, if they SHOUT their emails, I will want to read them first. It's like the screamer letter that the Harry Potter kids receive at Hogwarts. God, my grandmother would so dig that.

4. The non-personal emailer. Do you have a friend (acquaintance) who only emails you when s/he emails his/her entire address book with a fascinating and thrilling account of his/her life? I do! Yay! And I can't wait till the next installment, to which I will respond, asking personal questions, but will receive no response (see peeve #1).

5. The terrible speller. This is a minor one, but again, I have this friend (yes, again!) who apparently types faster than her mind can think and thus misspells so badly that sometimes I can't make out what she's trying to say. What makes it inexcusable is, she's an editor. I know!!

I think this is probably enough for now. Do I really need to go into the angel-kissing spam messages and email stationery and emoticons? I think not.

Peanut Butter and Apple Pie

All alone in the office today, I realized earlier that I forgot to pack the apple which I meant to share with my peanut butter as a snack. I said to myself, "Well, I certainly won't stoop to eating peanut butter straight out of the jar!" So I ate my packed lunch (a snack-sized frozen wonton soup), and, 2 hours later, I am eating peanut butter straight out of the jar.

I am so easily and often contradicting myself.

Anyway. I am back. Kind of. I had an intense but rewarding two weeks of practicing and organizing concerts, and now they are behind me. I am exhausted but holding up despite the heat here in DC and my now longer commute to work (I also moved our office on Tuesday. As if I didn't have enough to do already). I am pleased to report that my concert was most awesome: good singing, good music making, and a respectable crowd. At least, I don't know if the individuals were respectable per se, but there were enough of them out there to make the concert look legitimate. And I couldn't ask for more than that.

At present I am being very naughty and procrastinating as well as eating peanut butter straight out of the jar, but that's because this is a country where I can do such things and still get paid as well as call myself a Diva Soprano so Happy 4th of July everyone, and God Bless the USA.

And peanut butter.

Closed for Inventory

I'm just dropping in to say that I am out of commission until end of June due to two concerts coming up. Crunch-time. However, I would like to leave three mini movie reviews before checking out, as I have seen three movies lately. Yes, my life is just that exciting.

Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. Sheesh, that is a long title. And they could have just remade Kingdom of the Spiders for a better result. If you have not yet seen this, I'll save you the bother and let you know that it is no Raiders. None of the Indy sequels have come close to the first one, which is still a good movie. A classic, if you will. Really: the characters were interesting, the action was exciting, there was humor, romance, and good, old fashioned special effects. Crystal Skull sells out with tons of CGI, a lame plot, and the disappointing return of Marion, who has apparently had a lobotomy since last we saw her.

Atonement (rented on DVD, obv.) I'm not sure why everyone was raving about this film, but I shouldn't have listened to them. It starts well, picks up with excitement, and then kind of peters out. I found the story slightly unbelievable, at least, the "twist" the sets the story in motion, and there is such an effort to Anglicize emotions that the tragedy of the whole scenario is not cathartic but rather dry and uninspiring. Atonement left me empty.

Sex and the City. I am a little embarrassed that I enjoyed this movie so much. It's far too long, and Carrie is up to her usual overly dramatic antics and Big yada yada blah blah, but I actually liked Big better here than in the tv series, and there are some funny lines and touching moments with the new children. What else can I say? My neighbor convinced me to go with her, and I had fun. It's what a summer movie should be: frilly but not patronizingly so.

I just got home from a spa vacation in Southern Utah, and folks, I am not ready to resume my regularly scheduled life. Visiting an exotic and new part of the country, exploring it in adventurous ways, and receiving spa treatments, all while spending quality time with my mom and sis turned out to be my idea of a nearly perfect vacation. I got to try meditation, qi gong, chi ball, and yoga for back injuries (joining my mom and sis on that one; I don't have a back injury, but I do have scoliosis, so it was helpful). I also got a spa body treatment, a reflexology massage, and an old fashioned, straight-up Swedish massage. Ahhhh. Additional highlights included: rock climbing (yikes.) and spending copious amounts of time in the spa steam room. Who knew Utah was so dry? Oh, yeah; I think I did know that.


The only thing that would have made this THE perfect vacation, other than having the hubby present, would be more gourmet meals. Alas, due to its spa status, Red Mountain's Spa's food was heavily on the healthy side, meaning lots of vegetarian meals (good), and much consideration for cutting the fat (not always good). I know I can afford to trim some fat, but I don't enjoy sacrificing flavor. I mean, the food was palatable, besides the occasional dry tofu fritter, and even, at times, quite good. But let's just say they don't subscribe to Julia Child's slogan: "If you're afraid of butter, you can use heavy cream."


Back only two days, Maryland paid me welcome by taking out a chunk of our old, sturdy maple tree, a fixture of the backyard. Yesterday, a viscious wind whipped through and, in no time at all, cracked and even uprooted some of the old and lovely neighborhood trees. This is the first time in my life I've ever had to make a home insurance claim.



My neighbors and I are already planning a New-Fence-Raising-Party. Yippee!

Pizzas and POW MIAS: Late Spring is Here!

I just saw my first POW-MIA biker dude, which means only one thing: Memorial Day weekend has officially begun. If you're from DC, you definitely know what I'm talking about; the POW-MIA biker dudes are the guys who strap American and black flags to the backs of their Harleys (and they must be Harleys; these guys are not Kawasaki types) and descend upon Washington the last full weekend in May. They congregate at the Mall and, specifically, the Vietnam Wall, to commemorate their buddies who fell in that war.

I wonder if, in 20-odd years, there will be the same kind of remembrance for soldiers who fell in Iraq. Must every generation have a war, leaders of America? Mmmm?

In other news, a new wood-burning pizza restaurant has opened in downtown Rockville. Now, to say that Mr. P and I like pizza, esp. that of the wood-burning oven, would be a gross and unfair understatement. People, we LIVE for pizza. Not proud of that, but there you go. The crunchy and delicate crust, the gooey and salty buffalo mozzarella, and the rich tomato sauce all combined together is one of this life's greatest pleasures. The best in DC is Two Amy's, with Pizza Paradiso in 2nd. And now we have the same thing in Rockville! BUT... and this is a big but...(sorry for that)...at the Rockville establishment, you must pay extra for the olive oil. In my opinion, and I know I am not alone here, pizza of this kind is only complete when either slathered in, or dipped in, olive oil. To not provide this liberally is just un-American. Technically, that would be un-Italian, but you get the picture.

Home, Sweet Home

Last night I slept in my bedroom again, in an actual bed for the first time in approximately 1 1/2 years. That's right: one and a half years. All this time we have been remodeling (read: destroying, puttering about, thinking about, destroying some more, constructing, lagging, constructing more, and generally tinkering with) our home, and all this time we have been living like refugees in the sloped-roof rooms of the upstairs, sleeping on our mattress, which has remained on the floor. Not even in college did I ever sleep on the floor. But now, with the sockets rewired, insulation installed, new walls and ceiling in place, skim-coated, and painted, we are proud to rest our tired bodies in a new master suite, the most beautiful room Mr. P and I have ever resided in together. This room alone is about 1/4 of the total house, which we will completely renovate at some point in our lifetime. In a few days (God willing) the living room will be in the same shape as the bedroom, and in no more than a few months (God willing), the master bathroom will also be complete.

If you are considering renovating your own home, here is some advice: get a reality show to do it for you. Seriously. Even if you have to rent kids and pretend to be an ideal family or whatever criteria they're looking for, home remodeling is not for the squeamish, the neurotically neat, the faint of heart, or the fatalist. A self remodel is only for one kind of personality: someone who is patient, conscientious, detail-oriented, intelligent, electrically and aesthetically inclined, and insane.

The "insane" part is really important.

Friday Musings: Good News Friday

I was cast in a show! A DC Fringe show, no less (just what I wanted!). And furthermore, it's a musical - an opera, technically, although a contemporary one. I'm an ensemble/multiple role player, so I think it will be low-pressure and hopefully fun and interesting. So, I have two musical performances on the docket for this summer, plus a fair amount of church singing, which means I'm going to be a busy, busy girl.

Burning the Man: Step Away from Iron

I have come to the conclusion that working for someone else is like babysitting someone else's kids. You may like the parents, you may like the kids, but in the end, do you really care if the kids go buck wild and start hanging from the chandelier naked? As long as the parents don't see it; or if they do see it, it's because they're home, and the kids are no longer your responsibility. Not that you don't try to avoid this kind of behavior, of course; you try very hard- in your paid hours - to instill in them discipline and good manners. You try to run a tight ship as long as you're in charge, because otherwise, they will eat you alive.

I worked for two years as a nanny, and it may have been both the best and worst thing I ever did. On the one hand, it about killed my desire to ever bear offspring. On the other hand, I learned many of the joyous, disgusting, crazy and scary aspects of childcare. (Thus: killing my desire to bear offspring.) The greatest advantage to the work was also the greatest drawback: these were not my children. People used to say, when seeing my tongue dragging the floor after only five hours with one of those boys, "it's different when they're your own." Of course it's different! You can't give them back! Also: you love them, more than you can love any living person.

But this post isn't about kids. It's about working for the man. Or the woman, or whatever the case may be. Do you really and truly care about the fate of an organization that is not lawfully your own? Is it not hard to walk away from it when you have had no control of its direction to begin with? Do I sound like Carrie from Sex and the City clicking away on my laptop with these inane questions?

Fine. All I'm saying is, four months at a job is too soon to be filleting a fish at my desk a la Office Space. Or is it?? I'm tired of being a glorified servant. It may be time to go to work for myself.

Joyeaux anniversaire a moi

When I lived in France, I loved having my birthday, because it was a national holiday: "Victory Day," or the day France was liberated from Nazi occupation at the end of WWII. Today, May 8, is my birthday, and this year I turn the same age as Marilyn Monroe and Princess Diana were at the time of their death. Happy thought! Good thing I'm not a blonde, royal, uber-famous bombshell.

Mozart was also almost my age at the time of his death.

I share birthdays with Melissa Gilbert, Enrique Iglesias, and Ray Whitney (same year), a Canadian ice hockey player, whom I don't know, but he is very cute.

My horoscope for this coming year suggests that powerful, transformative energy is at my disposal this year, but the results will depend on how I handle it. Channeled positively, I could "move mountains," but if mishandled, I could be argumentative, stressed, and hell-bent on having my way. Well, that would explain a lot.

Yikes, now I see that Anna Nicole Smith was also this age at her death. Sounds like for this year, more than anything, I better watch my back.

Edited to add:
I just heard this chant, from a woman in my office who shares my b-day:

Hooray, hooray for the 8th of May!
Hooray, it's outdoor intercourse day!

I'm going to pick up so much more traffic for that language.

"Happy National Good Neighbor Day!"

Our Ted Nugent-like neighbors, friendly beings that they are, greeted Mr. P this morning with the following nicety: "Happy NFL Draw-Out Day!" A non-NFL follower, Mr. P did not quite know how to respond. Which got me thinking: were they messing with us? And if so, how could I counter their greeting with one equally perplexing and obscure? Regretting that I didn't wish them a Happy Earth Day this week (which I'm guessing they did not observe), I did a little research.

Below are a few odd holidays- but real ones! - which I challenge you to say to your neighbor one morning.

Happy Anniversary of Women's Right to Vote Day!

Happy Birthday of the Hot Dog!

Happy Greek Orthodox Easter!

Happy National Puppetry Day!

Happy World Vegetarian Day! (my neighbors would hate that one)

Happy National Literacy Day!

Happy Black Friday!

Friday Musings

1. I'm not too proud of the fact that it's almost May, and I've only read two books this year: The Echo Maker and The Piano Tuner. Both left me cold. Both had interesting starts, intriguing characters, but anti-climatic, or unsatisfying, endings. I learned about Echo Maker after reading The Stolen Child, which was one of my favorite reads of last year. It's possible I'm too distracted right now to enjoy a book that isn't slapping me in the face. But still, what the heck? Lacking a good book to read is like lacking a friend! Boo hoo. I aim to find a good book to dip into in the next week or two.

2. Growing up with my unusual first name meant that there wasn't usually someone in my vicinity who shared it. I also couldn't find monogrammed items like mugs or notepads at truckstops, but I have learned to live with that. There is really only one downside to possessing this name, and that is the twisted nature of "love ballads" devoted to Delia. For some reason, I am just learning that the famous Johnny Cash song about a "devilish" woman called Delia mentions her coming from Memphis. I grew up in Memphis! That would be a neat fact, if it weren't for Delia's nasty demise - and the singer's delight in inflicting her death!

Bob Dylan also revived an old folk song, "Delia" for his early 90's album, World Gone Wrong. Guess what? Delia is a gambler, and her lover shoots her.

Delilah gets love songs. Delia? Winds up shot and buried.

3. I was reunited last week with an old friend: a delicious glass of beer. I'm kind of a beer girl, in that I often will pick beer over wine. Maybe it's the carbs to which I am addicted, or maybe it's the refreshment factor. Whatever the case, I've decided that the best beer is from Germany, and her name is Spaten. Tasting the creamy brew immediately took me back to time I spent in Europe, namely, visiting my brother during his time in Germany, and drinking the beer that he had delivered by the case to his home. Seriously, this beer has it all: refreshment, body, flavor, balance, and, for me, memories. What drink has all that??!

Looking a gift horse...huh?

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you: Patches the Horse.



I don't post this video because I want to share it with the world (ok, maybe a little bit), but because I want to talk about something. Thinking it was cute, amusing, and just a tiny bit disturbing, I showed the video to Mr. P, who chuckled over it, mused over how a horse can eat cheeseburgers, and then, about 5 minutes later, asked me, eh hem, exactly how much ___ I smoked in college. !! Why ever do you ask, I inquired. Oh, no reason. Does this have something to do with how easily amused I am by animal videos? Or, anything at all for that matter? I dunno, he answered.

Um, folks, I'm just a tad bit offended by this line of questioning. Does one have to be a p--head, or former p--head to find horses riding in cars funny? Just how serious a world do we live in? I realize that the internet gives everyone and his horse an opportunity to make themselves famous, but I claim that this is not a bad thing. Because, for someone like myself who thinks chia pets are the most hilarious things in the world, there are ample opportunities to distract myself from the sting of "real life" and live vicariously through animals who are unknowingly personified by their humans.

Look, my own cat is the greatest force of comic relief in our household, and you don't need to inhale catnip to appreciate that.

Friday Musings

I have been watching Top Chef a little bit (not wholly committing to it, but dropping in from time to time), and my observations are the following:

1. a chef with an eyebrow piercing (Lisa) is disturbing. It seems somehow unhygienic. I know, I sound really conservative and square now; after all, what is the difference, really, between having one's ears pierced and having an eyebrow piercing? Well, one is a hole in one's FACE, how about that?
2. Said eyebrow piercing (I keep typing "eyebrown") is not as disturbing as a chef with an affinity to fedoras (Spike). In principle, I am anti-fedora. This hat should be banned everywhere except, perhaps, in the brothels of Buenos Aires where they most likely originated with the first dancers of Tango.
What? Those brothels don't exist anymore? Fine.

And furthermore:
3. My election fervor has officially worn off. I knew it would; it was just a question of when. I am tired of divided elections, and I have decided that the three candidates (yes, all three) will essentially be the same, except that one will most likely invade Iran, and the other two will be brow-beaten into invading Iran. Cynic, much? Yep. I'm cynical.

Perhaps I will start a new "Friday Musings" every week, as a therapeutic means of getting things off my chest. Thank you for listening, and stay tuned!

above: I can forgive a dachsund wearing a fedora, maybe, but not the person who put there, 'k?

Nervous Nellie

Hello: long time no post!

I have been recuperating from my latest adventure and rite of passage: my first solo vocal recital.

I'm not a recital virgin anymore. Hooray!

If you weren't there, here's how it went down:

Like in many rites of passages, I ran the gamut of emotions: from joy to despair and back again. I was well prepared for this concert, having planned to perform it back in October but postponing it due to a cough. I knew the rep. well, since I had lived with it for well over 6 months. All of the pieces, however, would be debuts for me, since I had performed none of them before (!) (other than one Faure, and one Schubert, which I performed the last time as a teenager). As you can see, I faced a daunting task.

Warming up in the hall before the concert, I noticed my high notes were not quite spinning, and my vocal chords were not as flexible as usual. Which is odd, because I am typically the queen of flexible singing. To a fault. I fretted that my voice felt locked and dry, but I attributed it up to nerves and tried to ride it out.

During the first piece, I could tell that something was wrong, but the voice was still coming out, and I was not yet in danger of completely bombing the concert. The dry, pinched feeling increased as a continued to sing, piece after piece, even after taking breaks between sets to speak about the program and sip some water. I remained perplexed. Fearing that everyone in the audience was picking up on my trouble and therefore hating this concert and hating me, I started the Faure set. At this point, danger descended upon me. Apres un reve, the one piece I had performed recently, and possibly my favorite on the entire program, was brutal. I could not sustain the breath through those long passages, and by the time I got to the low note at the end, my chest support collapsed and I barely squeaked out the final low note of the piece. I was mortified and wanted to run away. I thought, I'm going to have to leave the stage and possibly cut the rest of the program short. Then, a voice inside me said, just take a sip of water and a deep breath. It's going to be ok. So I did, and before I could start freaking out again, I was talking about the next piece, and I was on my way to finishing up the concert.

The final set of the recital, De Falla's 7 Spanish Songs, was the highlight, for both myself and the audience (I think), as somehow I finally managed to relax and be myself. Whatever I was struggling with, I was out of the woods, and I became centered, physically, emotionally, and vocally. In the end, the audience loved it, and I even had to come out for a second bow.

Whew!

Next project: learn how to freakin' relax already during a performance. This may take some practice.

What Would Harry Potter do?

Gnomes exist! Video proof, cleverly titled "Creepy midget terrorizes town" can be found here.

Upcoming: videos of Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster, and an alien abduction. And a comment from David Lynch.

Boy, that back massage is going to feel good.

Oh, hello! I didn't see you there. I was just thinking about the back massage that I will soon be receiving, by way of my winning a bet that Hilary Clinton will come back, like the unstoppable weeble-wobble she is, and take back the campaign.

After Obama's last tidal wave of primary election victory, Mr. P started throwing around words like "toast," "finished," and "history," in regard to our favorite female candidate. I, on the other hand, started to think: not so fast.

I could sense it. It was a negative round of fire on her opponent, but it was all she had. He remained unfurled - a quality that I have found appealing - as she chip, chip, chipped away at his cool exterior. At some point I felt the tides shift; I don't remember the particular moment, but I thought: she's actually going to pull this off.

That's when I made a bet with Mr. P.

Ha! Woman trumps man! Again.

I'm inspired by her resurgence; it reminds me that it's always worth fighting for something. Not that I'm super-pro-Hil (I'm really not, not yet), but she's improved my life already.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get myself to the Body Shop for some massage oil.

Some people should not sing

After bragging to everyone how uninterested I was in them this year, I watched the Academy Awards last night. I rushed home after a perfectly lovely classical music concert, plopped myself down in front of the tv, and basked in the blinding glow of Hollywood self-congratulation.

Just like a morning when I vow to forego coffee and find myself at Starbucks by 10:30 am in line with other caffeine zombies, I try to give up the Oscars, and it draws me back like a bad addiction. I suppose the Oscars is not all together unhealthy, but it is over three hours of my life I'll never get back. I won't bother to add up that total from over the years.

At least, it is fodder for blogger.

Here's what I hated:

Amy Adams singing.
The musical numbers at the Academy Awards rarely work. They are condensed, awkward, and often accompanied by weird dancing. Amy Adams, however, should not have been allowed to perform a song from Enchanted. I don't care if she was the star of the movie; obviously they edited her singing to make it work in the movie. A live performance should be left to a professional. Like Kristen Chenowith. She sang that other song, and it was fine. Annoying, but fine. At least she can sing. Poor Amy: it was obvious that she has a limited voice, almost no range, and, judging from her overdone gestures and awkward stance, little live singing experience. They couldn't even help her out with a costume, additional characters, and some kind of scene? For Pete's sake; it was cringe worthy.

Katherine Heigl: "Forgive me, I'm terribly nervous..." or whatever it was she said. And it wasn't a set up for a joke. Lady, you're reading from a teleprompter, not accepting an Oscar. Get over it.

Nicole Kidman's necklace. She looked like she got drunk, giddy, and dumped her jewelry box over her head. Maybe she was reenacting her Moulin Rouge role?

Here's what I liked:

How genuinely shocked Tilda Swinton was when her name was called. Tilda, with the funny name and the Joan of Arc hair and the make-up-free face.

When "Falling Slowly" won best song. It's a simple, repetitive song, but it's charming, catchy, and soulful. And they, too, were shocked. And I thought it was decent of Jon Stewart to bring Marketa Irglova back on stage to finish her acceptance speech, which was also charming.

How well Javier Bardem cleans up. He's like a Spanish Hugh Jackman, no? Ay, que rico!

Here's where I'm not sure:

Jon Stewart did an adequate job, I thought, but I wasn't sure what to make of his pregnant lady jokes. Not sure the pregnant ladies knew how to react, either. "Jack's here, there could be more pregnant women before the night is out." Ew.

Is it in the contract that the host must give at least three shout-outs to Jack Nicholson at the Oscars?

Spinach Daquiri

Mr. P has introduced me to a new drink: a spinach and banana smoothie that I have dubbed the "Spinach Daquiri." I can't wait to host a party where I call out to our guests: "Who wants another spinach daquiri? Virgin or alcoholic?" And they will all clamor for more.

Because the Spinach Daquiri is delicious.

All you do is mix up about 1 - 2 cups of spinach (about 1/2 the blender) with one banana, and about 1/2 cup of water (just to give it a little bit of liquid, but not too much). Then you drink it. It's that easy! And it tastes like... well, you be the judge. You may be surprised.

Tasty, easy, vegetarian. What's not to love?

To give credit where credit is due, Mr. P found out about the drink from this site. The name, however, is my own.

Weirdest moment of 2008

While going about our home renovation last night, we discovered a wine bottle in our ceiling.

That’s right: there is a wine bottle residing in the ceiling between our living room and second floor.

We couldn’t take it out, since, unlike the bedroom, we didn’t gut the ceiling of this room but only cut holes big enough to install recessed lighting.

So the bottle will remain, in the ceiling, a vestige of the past, a mystery to us and future residents.

If only walls, er, ceilings, could talk.

Carnage

There has been some bloodshed in the vicinity of my backyard these last 24 hours.

My cat, a fat, cuddly orange tabby living on approximately the 8th of his 9th life, killed a bird yesterday. I was not at home, but Mr. P reported the bloody scene to me. Despite the cold that has settled in on us recently, Vinny begged to go out, and not 20 seconds later (no exaggeration), his paws were red with blood, feathers were sticking to his mouth, and he was already gnawing on his kill, a dove, who was not even completely dead. This was his first dove, I'm not sure why he did it, other than to prove he's still "got it" or something.

And because that wasn't quite gruesome enough, our neighbors bled a deer carcass in their backyard last night.

Our new next-door neighbors, renters in a house with a long line of strange tenants, are cross-bow hunters. We discovered their hunting interests on Christmas Day, as I watched them shoot bows at a target, sensing that this was no ordinary archery practice. I joked to Mr. P just the other day, "you'll see; one day they'll drag home a deer carcass." Well, the doomed deer made its appearance yesterday, and our lovely neighbors strung it up in the backyard by its feet and butchered it at 11 pm last night.

This is suburban DC, people! I don't even think that's legal.

My friends, after all my anticipation about a fresh new year, 2008 has hit me like a ton of bricks.

I got my wish to find better work: I started a new job – literally the first of the year – and it is my first administrative job in the arts world. Never mind that I haven’t been performing for over 6 months, besides a playreading or two; I’m now getting paid to help run a performing arts series. That has to be a good thing, but it has been an adjustment.

The learning curve at the job has been a steep, rugged climb. Typical of a performing arts series, they have money going in and out (mostly out) at a fast pace. They went from 2 staff members to 5 (3 part-time) in less than a year. They are struggling with administrative procedures. Most of the staff is not actually in the office most of the time. They still hand-write all their checks. I could go on, but I don’t want to sound like I’m complaining. I’m elated, actually, and I think I can help whip them into shape. And what I'm finding most exciting is how the web of the arts scene in DC is now revealing itself to me. In just two weeks at this office, I have learned so much about what is connected to whom, which artists work for this series, who among them I know and have worked with (many), and where much of the money comes from. It is fascinating, and I hope it’s just the tip of the iceberg.

I have felt so out of the loop in this town since I declared myself a “performer.” I go to auditions, but I know no one. I hear a little bit about this theater and that director, but I don’t know our seven degrees of separation. Then, there are many auditions happening that I don’t even know about. I hope in earnest that having my foot in the door now will open up my own opportunities.

In addition to the job, my home remodel is in its worst stages, and I cannot begin to describe the pandemonium in the house. Even though the house is starting to look like something, I still can’t just come home and relax on a sofa or read a book in an uncluttered or non-dusty corner. Again: not complaining, just praying for strength to get through it.

In summary: the urge to purge continues. New home, new career: it is all happening, but the growing pains hurt. But I am healthy!

Men without pants

So many funny stories have come up lately, and I have had nary a chance to share them. Today, however, gives me the opportunity to share the silliest, and shortest, of them. In DC this afternoon, about 200 people will ride the metro without pants. I haven't yet heard the reason for the stunt, but I hope it's in protest of the recent ridiculous rate hike.

So proud to be living in the nation's capital.