It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year!

I have a huge box of Christmas decorations on the top shelf of my coat closet. I pull it down, balancing it on my head to get it off the shelf.

I pull out last year's cards (so I know who to send them to this year), my stockings and other holiday do-dads. Then there are all my smaller boxes full of ornaments. My tree does not have a "theme." I never could understand people who would just do a "red and white" tree or just gold. Please!! It's Christmas!! It's meant to be a mish-mash of fun!

I do have my traditional Hallmark ornaments—some Scarletts, a Marilyn, a Rhett, Pooh and Tigger, Dorothy and the Scarecrow, the Grinch and Max, Santa playing Trivial Pursuit. I even have a dill pickle that my friend Matt gave me. And this one:



Then I have a lot of ornaments with tags. Not store tags. Tiny little handmade tags in my mom's super neat handwriting. "Shell 92," "Shell 85," "Mich 94." Jan made the tags to mark the ornaments that my Grandma gave me. Each year at Thanksgiving, my cousins, Jenny and I all got an ornament from her. Some were store bought. Some are crafty. I don't know if she made them all, or got them at a craft show, but Margaret has been known to whip up some crafts.

We all ended up with so many ornaments, I think when we all moved away from home, our parents had to buy some to fill all the empty spaces. Then my cousins started having kids, and then the ornaments were for them. I'm not going to lie. I was jealous. I missed getting those ornaments, even though I have so many, I can't fit them all on my tree. Actually, I had so many, I didn't even realize until this year that I had two tarnished silver angels. On further investigation, I found a tag. "Jen 94."

Oops.

I'll leave the tags on them all, and make new ones when they fall off or fade, so I'll always know when I got them, and so they stand out. Because they are special, just like the lady who gave them to me.

Here's some of Margaret's greatest hits!

This angel doesn't have a tag, but until I bought the glittery disco star, it was on the top of my tree.



"Shell 85" It's a bee. In a dice that only has four dots on each side. She made it.



"Shelly 84"



"Shell 90" I know she probably made this one. My grandfather collected sand dollars all the time. There is another one without a tag that has a plastic toy soldier glued to it, which you can see in the above picture of the angel.


"Shell 89" Of course. 1989 just screams mirrored disco drum!!!


"Shell 92" This one is the best. She made it, and if you squeeze it, it plays a tinny version of Rudolph and the nose lights up. Love it! The day I press it and nothing happens is the day I lose it at Michael's trying to figure out how to get a new one in there.



MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!!!!

Picking up the pieces

The most precious gift you have to offer someone is your heart.

This is true. It's pretty and red and full of love and hope. And when you actually offer it to someone, you do it with both hands, holding it carefully. Because although it's bright red and full of hope and all that, it's still like glass.

Inevitably, you'll end up giving it to someone clumsy. They might bobble your heart, or drop it. It might crack. They are quick to apologize, though, helping you to pick up any pieces, and fixing the cracks. And you go on, fixed and happy, all is well.

Or.... they will take it and actually shatter it into pieces, like they threw it down on the ground, breaking it into more pieces than you thought it could have, leaving you to try to collect the bits alone and put them back together.

And you do. Because you can't breathe with your heart in all these pieces. You slowly put it back together with the glue of friendship, work, cat kisses (or dog kisses, either way, they make amazing glue!), and the strength you pull from the pieces that are left.

But, like a broken cup, you never find all the pieces. Not without help. Sometimes a friend will stumble across a random chip that you can tuck back in, getting you back together.

Or, you'll discover that the person who took the most precious thing you owned and shattered it like a bar glass has kept a piece of it. They'll stand before you, dangling it between their fingers like a treat, trying to coax you to them, offering your whole heart back.

That's when you have to decide what to do.

Do you reach for that missing piece, or do you realize that sometimes the greatest works of art are missing a piece or two.

Random Thoughts

Person I want to punch: Keenan the weatherman. He’s far too perky about the heat.

Damn, that woman is sitting way to far forward. If the airbag were to go off, her head would explode like an over-ripe cantaloupe.

CNN is reporting that for every 100 single women, there are 88 single men. What they don’t say is that of those 88, 10% are decent, 20% are gay, 15% actually have a girlfriend and 55% are total douche bags, because they know the odds are in their favor.

When I ask for a picture of candy bars, don’t send me a picture of cupcakes. It’s not the same, and no it’s not okay.

Like my friend Stanchez, I too am tired of hoes.

My cat uses her litter box every single time she needs to go, and always has. Trust me when I say that’s awesome, but not awesome enough to ever be my Facebook status.

All the single ladies

Hi. I'm Michelle, and I'm single.

There. I said it. It didn't hurt. It's a fact. I live with it every day. Admittedly, some days are better than others. Some days I don't even think about my status, and there are some days where I just can't forget it.

And that's OK.

That's the life of a single gal. We get up, we go to work, we do our thing. We are, for the most part, happy with who we are, where we're going and what we're doing, sometimes because we don't have to take anyone else's wants into account. When I come home and want to watch my DVR'd soaps before cooking dinner, I can, guilt free. If I came back from a trip on Tuesday, and my unpacked suitcase is still sitting on my bedroom floor on Friday, no one is going to make a snarky comment.

Don't get me wrong. I would love to meet someone. It would be great to have someone to come home to, and someone to go out with. But it's hard. Not just for me. I have a lot of single girlfriends in the same boat. But we're OK.

Which leads me to the whole point of this. Earlier this week, my awesome friend Nancy posted a story from MSN called 19 Things You Never Say to a Single Woman. Apparently there was a poll of single women, and they were asked what they are most sick of hearing from "well-meaning" friends/family/whatnot. Every single one of those 19 would have made my list. Especially after recent dealings with douchebags and spending time at home with my mom. (I love her. I know she means well. At least I think she does...)

There were some comments under the choices. But I was in such a mood that I had to add my own. Let me set the scene...Nothing, and I mean nothing, will kill a fabulous day (I mean, life is good, my hair turned out frizz-free, I am wearing my skinny pants walking on sunshine...) than running into someone, or talking to someone on the phone that maybe you haven't seen or talked to in a while. They'll ask you how you are, and then, in the very next sentence (and we single gals know it's coming)...."So, are you seeing anyone?"

"No, not right now." And just when I'm about to ask how they are, or talk about my great job, I notice something... when I revealed I was single, their shoulders dropped a little and their head tilted to the side, the smile fading a bit...and then there is the sigh... "oh..." (and if it's over the phone, we can still tell you're doing it!)

"well..." they will say, before adding one or more of the following:


1. It happens when you're not looking.
What does that even mean??? If you leave the house, you're looking. I mean, I don’t stalk boys in bars or catch them in bear traps, but isn’t the whole reason we put on some pretty and open the front door to attract some attention???

2. There are plenty of fish in the sea.
I hung out with a boy who kissed like a fish. He did that O thing with his mouth, like a goldfish blowing bubbles. Why would I want to date a fish?

3. So, why are you single?
I don’t know. Why are you a rude asshat?

4. You're too picky.
One of my mom's favorites. This implies that at my age, I have decent options to pick from. No. I have men my dad's age (EEWWW!), or there are “broken toys.” Men bitter from divorce or other heartbreaks, really not open to anything. Or they're going through some sort of pre-midlife crisis, so they are looking not for 39-year-old fun, stable, sane me, but Brittni or Ashlee the 27-year-old party girl.

5. You'll find the right person for you.
Gee... Thanks....What the hell does that mean?!?!

6. He's out there.
Where? Here? Ireland? Croatia? Can you give me a better hint than that?

7. It was just bad timing.
Yeah, I’m so much better at 7 o’clock than I am at 4.

8. Just have fun with it!
I thought I was, until you made me feel like a social freak by bombarding me with “helpful” cliches.

9. Have you tried online dating?
All the child-molester-looking, lying freaks the Internet can hold!

10. He just wasn't the right guy for you.
No shit!

11. Well, when my boyfriend and I first got together…
Fuck you.

12. When the time is right, you will meet someone.
Again, 7? 9?

13. Wow, I wish I were single and in your shoes!
Are you being held hostage? Because if not, no you don’t, so don’t fucking lie to me.

14. Your turn next [at weddings].
Since I’m the only single person there under 60 and over 12, that may or may not actually be the case.

15. It will happen when you least expect it.
The Spanish Inquisition? Because I hear no one expects that.

16. Some guy is going to come along and ruin your career/life plans.
I’m 39. I have no plans further than my massage tomorrow. What’s to ruin?

17. But you're so pretty! Why don't you have a boyfriend?
Again, fuck you. Following that logic, only “pretty” girls have boyfriends. And I don’t... So I guess that makes you a liar and me a troll. Awesome.

18. It just wasn't meant to be.
My mother says this all the time. What the fuck does it mean, “meant to be?” That's a line from a million movies. Movies aren't real!!!

19. Sure, my guy rescues kids from abusive homes, donated my sister a kidney, and picks up fresh flowers for me daily on his way home from work, but will he QUIT IT with the sports on TV already?
Yeah, I hate that my husband watches sports on TV too... Oh wait, I don’t have one. Fuck you!

Some call it bitter, I call it cynical and slightly jaded, yet still smart, charming and funny in an honestly biting kind of way.

Long story short (I know, too late!) the only thing these "helpful" cliches really do is help in making us feel like there is something wrong with us because we are single. And that is not true. We all are fabulous! Hell, we keep throwing our hearts in the ring, don't we? With a smile on our faces and probably wearing an uncomfortable bra.

And that's OK!

Yes, yes you do. With soap!!!

Ah, adventures in Bingo-town. I was at Dillenger’s last Friday with my friend Laurie-Ann, after a lovely dinner at Cortese (YUM!). We had nice seats at the back bar, where they will take your credit card (front bar is cash only, because of the college kids). I was enjoying a Smithwick's, and L-A couldn't really make up her mind.

I went downstairs to the ladies' room, and on my way back, two guys came out of the men's room and were walking ahead of me. They looked like normal enough fellows.

I could not help but overhear their conversation. Since they were not in any hurry to climb the stairs.

"Dude! We don’t have to wash our hands!"
"Fuck that. It’s not like we’re girls. We don’t wipe anything, so really, why do we need to?"
"It’s stupid."

I kept my horror in check, and made sure not to touch the railing where they had.

Of course they are sitting RIGHT NEXT TO ME at the bar. I tried not to make eye contact. One of them walked away, and the other one had some business with the bartender, and then he got up, but was coming back.

I leaned over and said to the bartender, "Be careful taking anything from him, as I overheard him and his buddy talk about how they don’t have to wash their hands after going to bathroom." I figured it was my civic duty.

“So I shouldn’t shake his hand?” the bartender asked.

“No,” I said, smiling sweetly, “because apparently he doesn’t wash the dick off of it.”

The bartender’s eyes went wide. “I think you just made my night,” he said with a smile.

I do what I can folks.

And... um.. YES!!! Yes you do!! Every time! With soap, you nasty bastards!!!!!

Lazy Sunday

It all started with Rob Lowe.

Well, that isn't exactly true. It started with peacocks. A picture of a peacock, actually. A picture of the peacock that tried to attack me in Taos. The picture is on my refrigerator, and I was adjusting it while on the phone with my sister. I was having trouble due to all the magnets and what-not on my refrigerator.

"I think I have too much shit on my refrigerator," I said to Jenny.
"I can't even see it, and I know that's true," she replied.

She was right, of course. I treat my refrigerator like a giant cork board, with tons of magnets and pictures and postcards. It's like a scrapbook you can look at everyday, without the worry of buying acid-free paper, special scissors and fancy doo-dads.

Here it is in all its glory:



Here's the top:



And here's the bottom:



It's a lot. I know. There are some who would love it. I have a friend whose refrigerator is so covered, I don't even know what color it is. And there are some that would just gasp in horror. Chris' ex-roommate was one such person. He considered any magnet on the refrigerator to be "low class." Because when I think of the epicenter of class, I think this boy's hometown of Aynor, S.C.

But, like I said, it's a huge scrapbook. There are magnets from all the states I've been to. The Atlanta skyline magnet I bought at the airport the first time I went back home after moving to Florida. The postcard Chris sent me from Paris, and the one Mat (just one "t") sent me from London. The picture of me and Jenny and the one of me and my girls! The magnet to remind me to feel my girls. The banner I stole from O'Shea's on St. Patrick's Day, and the Steelers flag I stole from some bar in Coca Beach (your keys can work as well as a knife in cutting those things free in a hurry...) All my Beatles magnets. And my hotties! Sting! Ryan Reynolds... you just want to rub that belly like he's Buddha. And both the George's. Bob Barker! And the peacock that tried to attack me, with it's tail all spread out.

And then, in this week's Entertainment Weekly was this picture. I knew I had to somehow add it to the mix.



You see, it did all start with Rob Lowe. Way back when, I got a subscription to 16 magazine. Not to be confused with Seventeen, 16 was full of pull-out posters of all the hotties. And all the hotties were in The Outsiders. My closet doors were covered in posters of Rob, Tommy Howell, Emilio Estevez, Matt Dillon and Ralph Macchio. Oh, and Tom Cruise. (This was way before he was so creepy.)

So, to get Rob up, some things have to go. I took every thing off:



Blah! How boring!!! And EWWWW! How dirty!!! OK, so first a good scrub (each magnet got a wipe with my counter wipes, too). Here they all are in a stack.



Oh crap!!! There are more on the side!!



OK, now here they all are. It's not so many. Is it?



I know. Not all of them will go back up...I started placing things with a bit more restraint. Although somethings most definitely stay. I cut back on the states, now only using the three that mean the most, New York, Georgia and Florida. I said good-bye to the St. Patrick's Day banner, and the second picture of Ryan. The Sting and I will go in a frame. And there is no more fun with Dick and Jane (I think I want to white out the "e's" on those and send them to Dick and Jan...). And so, here is the result. Still fun, but not as cluttered.







Maybe next Sunday, I'll tackle the inside.

And, because I like to whistle while I work, here is the "Rob Lowe's still got it" playlist!

Taxman The Beatles
Just a Friend Bizz Markie (this was one of our sorority songs...except we sang "You! You got what I need. Too bad you're just a TKE. Too bad you're just a TKE.")
Sweet Dreams Patsy Cline
Take Me to Heart Quarterflash ("I'm the chill that never left your spine.")
Love is a Battlefield Pat Benatar ("We are young....")
Push Sarah McLaughlin
Unfinished Barenaked Ladies
Ain't No Other Man Christina Aguillera
Let Love be Your Energy Robbie Williams
Summertime Barenaked Ladies
Surrendering Alanis Morissette
Money Can't Buy It Annie Lennox
Every Woman in the World Air Supply (not embarrassed at all!!!)
Home Sweet Home Motley Crue (Although Vince Neil should be with all that botox!)
Joy in Repetition Prince ("Four-letter words are seldom heard with such dignity and bite.")
All my Loving Paul McCartney (Live, from the tour I saw in the ATL with Kara!)
Ruby Tuesday NOT the Rolling Stones (I wish I knew who did this cover. It was on a mix sent by a friend, and he didn't list the songs.)
Way Out Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Girlfriend Matthew Sweet (Also someone I saw in concert in the ATL with Kara!)
Leather & Lace Stevie Nicks and Don Henley
Jerome Barenaked Ladies (Kevin wrote this song. He told me about it when we chatted.)
Cry Little Sister Sisters of Mercy (From The Lost Boys. RIP Corey. OH, he had a Rob Lowe poster too!!!)
The Sun Always Shines on TV A-ha

Musings on Margaret

When people talk about their grandmothers, they tell stories of little old ladies who don't do much or are even in homes, saying, "well, she is 80."

I've never thought of my grandmother, Margaret, as old, even when she was 80 (she's 88 now). I actually think she's pretty fabulous. And, if Betty White's appearance on Saturday Night Live shows us anything, it's that 88 might just be the next.... well, at least 75.

Margaret has been on her own for 20 years. My Grandfather, Jack, died from pancreatic cancer when I was a senior in high school. I say "on her own," but that's not really true. She's been surrounded by groups of friends ever since. She's gone on cruises, and is always out, playing cards, going to lunch or the movies. It's rare to actually find her at home if you call. Margaret has shit to do.

I have been thinking about my gram a lot lately, remembering things and smiling at her fabulosity.

Crescent rolls. When we were little, our parents went to Europe, so Jenny and I stayed with our grandparents. Every morning, there would be the pop of the can, and then the smell of Pillsbury Crescent Rolls. That smell always reminds me of her.

So does sandalwood. Grandma had this owl incense burner, and I would always ask her to light a cone of incense. I don't know why I was so obsessed with it, but she would always light one for me. A couple years ago, she gave me the owl incense burner. I have it in my living room (And, of course, sandalwood cones).

Margaret likes hair to be neat. She is forever saying she wishes people's hair was neat. (I think I get that from her, because I'm forever looking at people's hair and rolling my eyes.) I can only imagine what she thinks of the unruly mop on the top of my head. She probably rolls her eyes behind my back. That's okay, Gram. I roll mine right at my reflection.

She loves to play games. Scrabble, pinnacle, rummy, Monopoly. And she's cut throat at it. She plays to win, my Grandma, and she doesn't care if you are her loving granddaughter. If you don't have the money to pay the rent on her Boardwalk, she will laugh and say, "Give up??" She's in our football pool, and not this past season (which I won, thank you very much), but I believe the season before, she won. She didn't just win. She kicked our asses from the beginning of the season on. And just try to keep her away from a slot machine.

She also loves her vodka martinis. On the rocks. With olives. Stirred with a small, white, plastic spoon. She brings her own olives when she visits, because when she buys a jar, she drains out the brine and fills the jar with water, to cut down on the salt.

When I call her, or when she sees me, she stops herself before saying my name. There is always that little pause where she wants to call me "Shelly," like they did when I was little, but knows I go by Michelle, now. Sometimes, she stops herself mid-name, so she ends up calling me "Shmichelle." Again, that's okay, Gram. You can call me anything you want.

And, she can be brutally honest. We were in Vegas (again, just try to keep her away from the slots) for my cousin's wedding. In August. She made a comment on the heat and it being August. I said, "Don't worry, Grandma. If I get married, I promise not to do it in Vegas in August." Her reply, "Well you'd better get a move on, I'm not getting any younger." Ouch. I blew that part off and said, "What are you talking about? You have 20 more years before Willard Scott will even think of saying your name on the Today show."

Unfortunately, though, that might not happen. You see, we found out that Margaret is sick. Although she has not smoked in more than 30-some years, she has lung cancer. We're all remaining positive, though, and sending out good thoughts and prayers her way, because she's a strong lady and we all love her so much.

I've been afraid to call her. Afraid that as soon as I heard her voice, I would start crying, and I didn't want her to be upset. But today, I took a deep breath and pressed SEND on her number, so I could wish her a happy Mother's Day. And when she answered, and I heard her voice over the din of her TV, I just smiled and said, "Hi Grandma." And there was the familiar pause before she said my name. She'd just got home from Mass and brunch with her friends, and was waiting for Sharon and Joe to come over for dinner. She sounded just like Margaret, strong and sure, and busy with plans.

I told you, my Grandma has shit to do.

UPDATE: Today is March 7, 2011, and Margaret is 89. HAPPY BIRTHDAY GRANDMA!!!! Her treatments are going well, doing their job and keeping her cancer at bay. She's a little tired, and now a bit short of breath, which she is getting checked out today. I called her this morning to wish her a happy birthday. She sounded a bit scratchy, but said she was doing OK. If it means we get to celebrate 90 next year, I'll take OK every day.

The Sting and I

As a member of the press, I've had the opportunity to interview a lot of people, quite a few of them celebrities. I try to maintain my dignity. I am a professional, after all. When I recently interviewed Olivia Newton-John, I did not geek out and tell her I have Xanadu on DVD. They're just people. No need to gush.

I got an invitation to the cocktail hour of the ForEverglades gala benefiting the Everglades Foundation at The Breakers Hotel last Friday, where Sting was going to perform.

So there was a chance that I would be in the same room with Sting. Now, I've seen him three times in concert, so technically, I've already been in the same room with him. But he didn't know that!

I raced home after work to pretty myself up on the off chance that I might actually make eye contact with Sting. Of course it was pouring...my hair does not do well in the rain. Or the sun. Or the humidity. But I said, "pull yourself together! You're going to see Sting!!!" A handful of very painfully placed bobby pins later, I was ready! Beauty is pain, so I added my high-high heels, too. Balls to the wall, baby. This was Sting!



I arrived and got my press pass. Security was tight! The PR ladies told me to enjoy myself, but come back to the front at 7:20 for the celebrity photo ops. OK... I'll be back. I grabbed a glass of Champagne and entered the fray. I made it all the way through the crowded room full of movers and shakers, when a white haired man walked up to me. "Hello, I'm Charlie Crist." I said, "Nice to meet you," and introduced myself. I didn't hit me until I turned away that I hadn't called him "Governor." Ah well. He's very tan. And not very tall. My mind was elsewhere.

I walked back up to the front at 7:20, and no Sting. But look, there were John McEnroe and Jack Nicklaus having a chat.



Jack Nicklaus, also shorter than I expected. No sign of Mrs. McEnroe. Perhaps she was somewhere shooting at the walls of heartache, bang, bang. Either way, not Sting. And I think Mark Foley was stalking me, because every time I turned around, there he was.

Then, someone started talking at the other end of the room, and the crowd pressed forward. Oh, the Governor making a speech, because he has to leave... Still no Sting. I wandered back into the main room, and the bells started to go off, and the doors to the ballroom opened. My cue to leave.

I got back to the front and saw the PR director of the Breakers. "You just missed him," she said.
"Who?"
"Sting. He was just here. He just walked down the hall."
"Are you kidding me??" I slammed down my Champagne glass and whipped my purse open, took out my camera, and down the hall I went, as fast as my high-high heels could carry me and my dignity. I didn't sprint, but I was a girl on a mission.

And there he was. Meeting John McEnroe's kids. Then they started to walk off, and I said, "Sting, can I get a picture?"

"Of course," he said. "But you have to be in it with your pretty red dress."

(GUSH!!!) "OK."

I looked around for someone to hand my camera to. No takers. And then he said, "I'll take it." And POP!

"I hope it comes out," he said, jumping in the elevator.

Oh... I think it's OK.



Of course I didn't know it did then. I had to get to a table to get out my valet ticket. My hands were shaking so much, I snapped a picture of my purse. Way to not geek out, Michelle.

My neighbors are ALIVE!! I need a drink!

My neighbors across the hall put their Christmas stuff up on their porch. A decorated tree and a bunch of other crap. So much so, the man of the house (I am assuming) had to come out in the hall to smoke. Because, he said, there was too much Christmas stuff on the porch. Fine. Whatever. Happy Holidays.

Christmas came and went. And so did my neighbors. I never saw them. He was never out smoking in the hall, even though the Christmas stuff was still up on the porch. The shades where drawn, and there were no lights on at all. As it got later into January, I began to get concerned. Did they leave? Were they on vacation? Wouldn't you take your tree down if you went on vacation? Were they shut-ins? Were they really that lazy?

Or.....were they dead?? Still in the apartment, yet slipped from the mortal coil.

It has stressed me for days. I felt like Mrs. Kravitz! Last night, I was painting my toenails (Pat on the Black, thank you) when I heard voices in the hall. I almost tripped myself trying to get to the peephole to see if it was them. Nope. This morning, I almost put a Chinese restaurant menu in their door, just to see if it was gone when I got home from work. But someone started coming down the stairs.

I finally broke down and called the leasing office and asked if they still lived there, or where they on vacation, as I had not seen them in a month, and all that Christmas crap is still up. The manager said, funny you should say that, we are just drafting letters to tell people to get their Christmas stuff down. (Seriously people, it's January! Christmas was a month ago! How lazy are you???)

When I came home from work, I almost cried. All the blinds were open. The windows were open. Lights were on. And a very grumpy looking man was removing the Christmas stuff from the porch. It was as if in the letter to tell them to take their stuff the fuck down, they also said, by the way open up a window and turn on a light, everyone thinks you're dead!!!

I was so stressed and relieved, I had to cook. So I whipped up some Sausage, Mozzarella and Broccoli Rabe with Shells. Of course, Publix being Publix, they had no broccoli rabe, so I used regular broccoli. And an onion. Chopped.



OH, and the drink mentioned in the title... A nice Malbec. Not a great one, but it's OK. I like a red wine I can chew, and a white that bites back.



Oooo spicy Italian sausage. I had to take the casings off. Yeah, it's gross. Here is the "before."



I had to multitask, sauteing the onions while boiling the shells (but not cooking them all the way). Don't you love my new red pan!?!? Sooo pretty!! Merry Christmas to me!



I tossed the broccoli into the pasta for 15 seconds and then drained it quick and set it aside, then tossed the sausage in with the onions, along with some garlic and dried thyme. The recipe calls for three thyme sprigs that you end up taking out. Fuck that (sorry, Dickie), but I'm not spending a ton of money for fresh thyme just to use three sprigs. I say three good pinches of dried thyme and the flavor remains. That's how I roll.



Then comes a can of whole peeled tomatoes. Now, like when I make my Manhattan clam chowder, I used my kitchen sheers to cut the tomatoes into pieces, so you don't end up with a giant chunk of tomato. One tablespoon of flour gets stirred in to the sausage and onions for a few seconds, then pour in the tomatoes and cook until the sauce is thickened.



Then, and this was tricky, and involved a ladle so as not to make a bigger mess than I usually make, you pour the sausage mix into the pan with the shells and broccoli, mix it up and then pour all that into a 3-quart casserole pan. And then comes the best part of any meal—CHEESE!!!! Both grated Parmesan AND mozzarella.



Isn't it beautiful!?!?! It looks even better here:



Yep. Cheese is a beautiful thing, and goes with every meal. Except Chinese food. Which, like my sister, I just think is weird. I mean, cheese doesn't go with Chinese. Or Thai. Or Japanese. Thank God, it goes with everything else!!!


The GEAUX SAINTS! BEAT THOSE DOLTS Playlist
Norwegian Wood The Beatles (I want to cry, the remastered discs sound SO GOOD)
Come Back Down Toad the Wet Sprocket ("I've quit this a million times, can't quite stay away.")
Magic Olivia Newton-John (It took everything in me not to geek out and tell her I own Xanadu on DVD, and the soundtrack is on my iPod.)
Imaginary Friends Ron Sexsmith ("Do you comprehend now to imaginary friends you don't exist.")
Told You So Barenaked Ladies ("I had myself fooled into needing you. Did I fool you to?")
How to Be a Millionaire ABC ("I've seen the future, I can't afford it!")
A Man Alanis Morissette
There Must Be an Angel Eurythmics ("No one on Earth could feel like this. I'm thrown and overblown with bliss.")
Julia Chocolate Genius (eh)
Beat the Time Edie Brickell & New Bohemians
Movin' Out Billy Joel ("Savin' all his money for a Cadillac-ac-ac-ac-ac")
Sugar Tonic "Come on baby get your shoes on. You're lookin' like you need a rescue.")
Purple Rain Prince & the Revolution (the BEST Prince song EVER!!!)
Suspended in Time Olivia Newton-John (again, from Xanadu. Love it!!)
Because The Beatles
Stay a Little Longer Willie Nelson ("Pull off your coat and throw it in the corner, don't see why you don't stay a little longer.")
Rainy Days and Mondays The Carpenters ("Funny but it seems I always wind up here with you.")
You May Be Right Billy Joel
Alcohol Barenaked Ladies ("For while I cannot love myself, I'll use something else.")
She's Too Much Duran Duran (I wish someone wrote this for me. Love this song!)
Girl The Beatles
Zoom In Duran Duran (I LOVE YOU JOHN!!!)
11:59 Blondie
The Power of Goodbye Madonna ("You were my lesson I had to learn.")
Fumbling Toward Ecstasy Sarah McLaclan
Possession Sarah McLaclan ("And I will be the one to hold you down, kiss you so hard, I'll take your breath away.")
Shattered O.A.R. ("How many times can I break till I shatter?")
Set Adrift on Memory Bliss PM Dawn ("The camera pans, a cocktail glass...")
Don't Let it go to your Head Fefe Dobson ("So what if I want to kiss from your toes up to your lips....")