Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Sunday, November 27, 2011
- I did not get up at to head to Walmart in order to pepper spray a crowd of people so that I could purchase the new Xbox console.
- I was also not tasered by the police, again at a Walmart.
- I live in a country where there are so many options (including staying home like a rational adult and sleeping) that I NEVER have to set foot in a Walmart. This is the soapbox portion of my thanks where I could go nuclear on why Walmart is the retail equivalent of rats but where I’ll rein it in so you can give thanks. However, they over-run any space they desire by any means possible and only when every last bit of life force has been sucked out of said location do they depart. They underpay their workers, hoard profits, drive suppliers out of business with their cost-cutting demands…the list goes on but you get my point.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Honestly, what is wrong with people? A fool employee I can shrug off- or better yet stomp off and console myself with a hot chocolate from Cacao- but even a very dear friend recently told me that if he ever saw me wearing navy shoes he would have to publicly denounce me. And he was the shoe buyer for Neiman Marcus so he can’t be ignored!
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
One of my favorite foods at Thanksgiving was not something my mother or grandmother slaved over. It was the one ‘food’ I prepared for the table- the ubiquitous can of cranberry sauce. The first year my mother gave in to my mosquito whine of “puh-leeeaaaasssseeee let me open the can” you would have thought I’d won Iron Chef. I mean, cuz really, opening the can is not the hard part of that gig. It’s having the skill, hand-eye coordination, and most importantly, the aesthetic to get that wiggling gelatinous tube neatly onto its dish. Without having to poke it with your grubby finger (you know who you are).
½ t cinnamon ½ t grated lemon zest
Stir in the spices and lemon zest and cook uncovered for 5 minutes. Cool and put in container for storage. Refrigerate. Can be made 2-3 days ahead of time.
Monday, November 21, 2011
In many of the world’s greatest fairy tales and fables there is something that will bring the hapless hero or heroine all their heart desires. For Jack it was magic beans, for Ali Baba it was “Open Sesame”. Arthur needed Excalibur and Snow White slept for a kiss. Is it any surprise then that after 11 months of effort, I’m ready for the elixir that will bring me my heart’s desire: meaningful employment? (Note: that's professional desire. George, you know you're still #1 on my list.)
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Thursday, November 17, 2011
The end to this narrative? Each of these items went right back where I found it. Toss it? Take it to silver dealer as silver prices are at an all time high? Donate it? Nah. Any one of them might have a use of which I am currently unaware but will become vitally important at some unknown future time. Plus, I'll never let go of the sweater...
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Friday, November 11, 2011
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Monday, November 7, 2011
I can't find the pink/chocolate tweed A-line dress anywhere on QVC's website! Please give us the direct link!
Oprah, while you have a bajillion dollars, a multimedia empire, and homes in three states I have the righteous rage of a woman denied and am likely to get all medieval on your ass unless you make this right. Please save yourself the humiliation and grief I could rain dwn on you and put the dress in a FedEx box today (I’m sure you can find my address).
Saturday, November 5, 2011
-Greg Kinnear to Jack Nicholson in As Good As It Gets
Along that theme and feeling that humor is much needed these days, here, for your reading enjoyment, is the first paper I wrote in English 101 for Dr. Sroka. The topic (or prompt as we now call them) was: write about your dream future and the more realistic alternative.
It is a typical March day in New York City. The partially melted three-day-old snow lies in frigid, foreboding puddles carefully scattered across the pavement for maximum inconvenience. I walk slowly pickign my way through the dismal ponds of slush, trying carefully to avoid getting anything on my suede Gucci's. A quick glance at my diamond encrusted Piaget (a thoughtful present from my handsome, extravagant husband, for our third anniversary) tells me that I am ten minutes late for my monthly editors' meeting. I decide that while a walk is good for my figure, a cab is better for my job.
After carelessly tipping the cabbie twenty dollars I hurry into the modern thirty-story building in front of me. It is here that I head one of the greatest fashion magazines in the world, Vogue. Although I started out as a photographer and stylist, I soon progressed to heading the styling department and from there a complete take-over was easy. I run my organization with cool, calculated efficiency and do not tolerate incompetence from any of my staff.
Once our meeting is over (of course, they couldn't start without me) I spend the rest of the morning touring each of the individual departments, all of whom are busily preparing for our upcoming April issue. I suggest lighting changes for the photographers; adjust a simple Halston tunic on a reed-like model who smiles graciously and re-assumes her position against a stark black background; call for more eyeliner on a sloe-eyed blonde with bones like a timeless Italian sculpture; and finally, phone my beloved husband the lawyer to confirm our reservations for tonight at Maxim's where we will enjoy a night of romantic atmosphere, gourmet cuisine, and later on, dancing and socializing with New York's elite, of which we are a major part.
My afternoon is spent in a meeting with the heads of the directors' board, smugly showing them the increase in our profit column as well a substantial rise in readership. With that out of the way, I cancel all other appointments, walk the brisk fourteen blocks to the best parking garage in the city, retrieve my forest green, special edition Mercedes 450SL and confidently maneuver my way through the usual traffic messes, out of the city and into the quiet posh suburbs of New York. After a twenty minute drive I pull into our semi-circular drive and surrender my precious vehicle to our all-around houseman. He's the only help we keep on a permanent basis. I do all the cooking and have a tiny Spanish woman who comes in every week to clean and help out with parties.
I dress with special care for dinner wanting to look my best for my husband, Jade. He is a tall, black haired, green eyed devil who first captured my attention at a Harvard swim meet, where he was team captain and all around champion. We dated steadily for two years before deciding to get married. Life since then had been bliss with everything going perfectly.
The above is my own particular fantasy but I seriously doubt whether it will ever come true. Instead I think it might end up a little less "champagne and roses".
For instance, the closest to being the editor of Vogue I will ever get is probably gossip columnist for my local newspaper. The town is somewhere in the Midwest, one of those nondescript places you passed through as a child on summer vacation and only remember because it had the Mr. Twisto ice cream stand. My husband will be an earnest, hard working sales manager for Sears, who someday hopes to put a Kenmore in every kitchen. I will spend long days picking lint out of our 10% discount Sears carpet and debating whether or not to serve liver for dinner (after all the kids have to get their iron somewhere). Yes, I will probably have the average two child family complete with slobbering, whining but ever-faithful Fido in the background, surreptitiously trying to drag tonight's entree into the garage. My children will insufferably spoiled namely because I, in desperation at having landed this lot in life, will discipline them with bribes and threats of "Wait until your father gets home" (making him about as popular as the bubonic plague).
Most likely, I'll spend my evenings with my husband snoring gently in front of the TV, staring forlornly at the perfect glossy faces smirking out at me from the latest issue of Vogue magazine.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Something tugs at me and I push back, not wanting to leave this lovely warm place. I slow my breath and duck my head, moving deeper into safety, sheets and blankets forming a perfect cocoon around me. With a sigh I sink back into the sea of dreams, that place with no affiliation to the jagged terrain of day world. My mind rests peacefully below the waves of awake, my body floats quietly with contented ease. One limb stretched, another bent, hands limp not clenched. There is languor in mind and body; we’re all on the same page. This is the sweet surrender of sleep and here I want to stay.