A Little Bit of Boca

In honor of the last debate being in Boca Raton, I thought I would share one of my Boca stories. Every word is true.

One night, I went to an event at One Thousand Ocean in Boca. It's a fancy condo building right on the ocean. Yeah, it was  fancy. We were there to celebrate the Kleiers. They are a family of high-end real estate agents in NYC, but have been working to sell units in this Boca building. They also have a place there, and we wrote a feature about them for the magazine I worked for at the time. They were part of a reality show on HGTV called Selling New York, so they showed an episode having to deal with the Boca property.

So we were in the penthouse, amazing views, Botox, boobs, orange tans, the whole scene. There was a woman there, probably about my mom's age, probably older… who can tell with all the "work." She was wearing what I can only describe as a figure skating costume, in that it was see through except for sequins and sparkles in the "right" areas, so she could wear it and not be arrested for indecent exposure. Fake boobs. Fake tan. Real love for the bubbly. Lola took her picture. Here she is:

Any-who, after they showed the episode (and fed us yummy movie snacks!), I went to the ladies room. Now, this is the penthouse, but it's not really done yet, so they had some unisex bathrooms throughout. I went in, and locked the door (or so I thought). The lock was just a tiny button the size of a finishing nail next to the handle. I pushed it in as hard as I could. And so I got to the business at hand. I was just about finished when the door opens and there she is. Now, usually, in polite society, if you open a bathroom door, and someone is already using it, you say you're sorry and you shut the door. Well, Sparkles whipped that door right open and walked right in. She apologized and shut the door, but with her on my side instead of back out in the hall. Mind you, I was still...busy.

I quickly pulled myself together and finished up and then… I had to wash my hands, thinking she would let me go out. But NO, she just squatted over the toilet (no panties!!!). I was like, OH! OK! this is really happening… She was talking to me, but I just focused on washing my hands. Then I was trapped, because I couldn't whip the door open with her … The door did crack open (it was Lola), but of course since she was raised properly, she apologized and shut the door without barging right in. She didn't see me, as I was still washing my hands. 

Then… she finished, so I was like FREEDOM!! She holds out her hand (THAT SHE HAD JUST HAD TP IN), "Nice to meet you…"  I shook it as fast as I could and bolted. Lola was there, and of course was, "um WHY were you in there with her"… I shoved her in the next available bathroom to tell her the whole story (and to wash my hands again, because, ew!!!).

I mean really!!?!??! I have peed in front of a lot of people. I have shared the handicapped stall at the Northbound Junction with at least 3 or 4 other sorority sisters. But COME ON!!! You don't just walk in on a total stranger and do your business.

Lola said, "So I guess you two are sisters now."

I just had to rant.

I look at my hometown paper everyday. I like to see what is not going on in Bingo-town, plus, I look at the Obits (I know, morbid!). Then I look at the viewpoints, and I am reminded of why I will never go back to that place to live. It's the same people that comment on EVERYTHING, and the same people that turn EVERYTHING into a political discussion. Oh, and their all red and I am assuming have whatever channel that plays Rush Limbaugh as first, second and third on their pre-set dials.

One of the letters today was a short letter on how the contraceptive mandate does not violate any one's freedom of religion, as it is insurance companies that are footing that bill. You can read it here.
Naturally, since it's a topic about contraceptives, all the comments thus far were from men, because who knows more about being on the pill than men, am I right ladies?? The first comment was by a man named Steve Palmer. According to what I can see from his Facebook profile (which is how he posted his comment, I did not stalk him!), Steve graduated from Ithaca High School in 1982. And that's it. So, he's not a doctor, I am assuming. Just a man who cares about the ladies, right? Um.. no.

Steve writes: Putting religious freedom aside here's a thought Lindsay.How about people who are sexually active either go to the store and pick up some condoms or go to the doctor and get a prescription for birth control pills and BUY THEM.There is no reason why a business or individual should have to pay for any body's other than their own contraceptives.

An argument we hear a lot. Sluts should pay for their own sin, right? Since I am a lady on the pill, I thought I would educate this man as to what the argument is really about. Get his facts straight from the whore's, SORRY, horse's keyboard, as it were. Well, as I am not a paid subscriber to pressconnects.com (seriously?!?!), I was not allowed to post my response to Steve on that page. So I decided to do it here, as I just needed to get it out.

Steve, since you apparently just believe what Rush tells you, and you think us gals are just trolling the streets looking for free slut pills, let me blow your mind and say, GASP! Not true. The reasons I am on pill is between me and my doctor. Yes, I go to the doctor to get a prescription for the pill. A doctor that is covered under the insurance I have through my job. My insurance is not free. There is money missing from each and every paycheck that goes toward covering it. So, I DO pay for my pills. We're just asking that they be covered without a co-pay, through the insurance that we already pay for, like your Viagra or other boner pills that are not medically necessary lifestyle choice prescriptions. Oh, and guess why I have to pay large premiums for my insurance? Because some of my coworkers are fat and unhealthy and smoke. I am neither, and yet I still have to fork over for their lifestyle choice.
When I didn't have a job or insurance, right out of college, I went to Planned Parenthood for my pills and my heath care. Guess what?? Also NOT FREE. 

I left out the part where I cursed him with 72 straight hours of the cramps I get when I am not on the pill, without the ability to take anything for the pain. But believe me, it's implied. So if Steve doesn't show up at the salt lick for a few days, now you know why.

Rainy Days and Mondays

People keep asking me "are you still cooking and writing on your blog??" Well, yes, I am still cooking, but sadly, I haven't documented anything in a long time. So... here it is, another cooking adventure along with, of course, a play list.

It's Monday, and yep, it's raining. So you know my hair is a disaster. But unlike Karen Carpenter, I'm not down (or dead), I'm hungry (too soon?)! Time to make a cozy, yummy pot of stove top cassoulet.
I got the recipe from a magazine, after falling in love with a delicious bowl of cassoulet that I had in Carcassonne, France, when I was visiting my friend/sorority sister/also learned math from Jan, Kim (Koral!). This one is easier, I am assuming, and is made without lamb. Or veal. Or anything else I don't eat. For the record, that list consists of lamb (You might as well eat a baby harp seal), veal (I will eat the hell out of an old cow, though) and venison.

I digress. This recipe has chicken and smoked sausage. I joked with my friend Paige that it was kind of like a French jambalaya, since they both have onion, green pepper, chicken and sausage, and you cook them in the same order. Just substitute beans for rice and ... NO. It's not, Michelle.

OK.

Any-who, here are my ingredients.

I shopped from memory, and I forgot I needed a can of diced tomatoes. Luckily, I bought tomatoes for salad, so fresh instead of canned!! Since I use the turkey sausage, I got the bacon for added fat when browning the sausage, and for another layer of flavor. And, it's bacon, so what am I explaining it to you for?

On a side note, Kroger is selling wine for $2.97. Like their very own version of Two-Buck Chuck. I got the Chardonnay. It's better than you would expect it to be for $2.97. Buzzing on a budget!!

There is a lot of chopping to be done, (You have to do your prep work before you even turn on the stove!), so I don my fancy apron (Yep, I'm that official. Or messy. Either way, it's adorable. Anthropologie, on sale.)

I enjoy the whole process of chopping ingredients. No SmartChopper cheater thing for me. Although, sometimes when chopping onions, I feel like they look like they were chopped by that idiot woman in the chopper commercial, just hacking away at them randomly with a steak knife. I have nice knives and I try to get everything uniform in size. Perhaps it's rebellion from the times my grandfather yelled at us while we chopped up veggies for the chowder. "Is that a dice? Is this potato piece the same size as this potato piece?" ARGH!!! Make it stop!!

Or I could just need knife lessons. That's it. I need to chop onions like Meryl Streep in "Julie and Julia" until I'm perfect at it. Or, I could just cut them how I like. No one is here to tell me I'm wrong.

Although knife lessons would be a nice gift, if someone wanted to get me a present. (I'd also love a bunch of cutting boards. Different ones for veggies, for meats, etc...)

Here it is, the results of my hard, overly critical of myself, chopping skills.

There are a few cloves of garlic in with the green pepper and onion. The recipe calls for one clove, but really, why add one little clove when you can add three nice sized cloves? I'm in charge here, after all. (The fancy plate has two strips of bacon, cut into "sticks," or lardons.)

NOW it's time to take out my fancy Le Creuset Dutch oven, and in goes the sausage and bacon to brown. Take it out, and put in the chicken to brown. Take that out and put in the onion, pepper and garlic to sautee. Then you add the sausage and chicken back in, and toss in the tomatoes too, along with a bay leaf (I used two, they are so small!) and a teaspoon of thyme.

Now, it says to bring it to a boil, and simmer covered for 10 minutes, stirring occasionally. Bring WHAT to a boil, you might think. OK, that is what I thought. I splashed in some chicken broth, slapped on the cover and lowered the heat.

It really does generate some liquid in there. But, then you add in two cans of Great Northern beans, undrained, and 1/4 cup of chicken broth.

Wait, let's get a better angle...

Look at that gorgeous Dutch oven. Chef Daniel Boulud has the same color as I do. I'm just saying.

OK, 10 more minutes of a covered simmer, and.....

Dinner is served. In a word, Yum.



And here it is, the "I love a rainy night just like Eddie Rabbit" play list:
Dreaming OMD ("It seems that I've been looking for something that won't be found")
Don't Change INXS (Again, I miss that sexy freak!!)
Hanging on the Telephone Blondie ("Oh why can't we talk again...")
Pink Cashmere Prince
Hot Thing Prince ("lookin' 4 big fun...")
Toy Soldiers Martika
Watching the Northern Lights Barenaked Ladies
Frankie & Sue Darden Smith ("Susie went to China, oh... broke Frankie's heart..")
It Would Take a Strong, Strong Man Rick Astley (I love a good Rick roll)
Sweet Child O' Mine Guns N Roses
Telescope Graham Colton ("You're in my telescope, don't want to get too close...")
Not Coming Home Maroon 5
Shiver Maroon 5
Wake Up Call Maroon 5 (Three in a row. Really?!?!?)
In My Room Yaz
Tiny Little Song Barenaked Ladies ("Hey I'm a cow, I'm curious. Hey watch me now, I'm furious.")
What You Feel Buffy the Vampire Slayer (Yep. I have the songs from the musical "Once More With Feeling" episode on my iPod. Deal with it.)
Wish You Were Kate Voegele ("I'm still in love with who I wish you were.")
Gold Lion Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Tears are Falling KISS
A Winter's Tale Queen (They recorded this album "Made in Heaven," in France, when Freddie was sick. It's amazing.)
Dizzy Miss Lizzy The Beatles (Tell me they weren't influenced by American rock and roll)
Cuts Like a Knife Bryan Adams
Dark Road Annie Lennox (I love her.)
Don't Ask Me Why Billy Joel
Take it Outside Barenaked Ladies
As George Michael and Mary J. Blige ("Do you know that true love asks for nothing..")
Night Moves Marilyn Martin
Bull in a China Shop Barenaked Ladies

Why I don't bake

A short essay.

Because I can write my recipes like this.

The end.

Kale, sausage and potato soup

Swirl of olive oil

1 white onion, diced

2 good-sized potatoes, cut into ½ inch pieces

3 good handfuls of kale (It came from a bag, so I just reached in and pulled it out. It’s just about half the bag.)

4 cups of chicken broth (maybe ¼ cup more. Enough to just cover the other ingredients, but not drown them)

3 links of hot Italian turkey sausage, cut into ½ inch pieces (take the casing off, and then cut it.)

A few shakes of red pepper flakes

½ cup fat-free half and half

In a Dutch oven, brown the sausage in the olive oil with the red pepper flakes. Remove sausage and put in a bowl.

Sautee the onions, scraping up any browned sausage bits. When the onions are translucent (about 5 minutes), return the sausage and any juices (that’s why you put it in a bowl!) to the pot. Add kale and stir until wilted. Add potatoes and broth, and bring to a simmer. Simmer for about 20 minutes, or until the potatoes are done.

Stir in half and half.

Serve.

And, like any soup, it's even better warmed up the next day!

 

Apology NOT accepted

So under pressure and losing sponsors, Rush Limbaugh "apologized" for calling Sandra Fluke a slut, saying "I chose the wrong words in my analogy of the situation. I did not mean a personal attack on Ms. Fluke."

He did this quietly, via a post on his website. Not on his radio show, which he has focused three full days on attacking Ms. Fluke, calling her a slut, a prostitute and suggesting she post videos of her having sex on line as a trade for her contraception.

Well, Mr. Limbaugh, as a woman, I will say loud and proud—your half-assed non-apology is NOT accepted.

Maybe you should focus on the fact that your whole take on the situation was false. And misleading. And out-right lies.

You said on your show that Sandra Fluke told Nancy Pelosi during a hearing that "the women at her school are having so much sex they are going broke buying birth control pills."

That is a lie.

You then brought her parents into the discussion, questioning the pride they must feel for Sandra.

"Your daughter goes up to a congressional hearing... and testifies she's having so much sex, she can't afford her own birth control pills and believes Obama should provide them. Or the Pope."

I know research and fact checking are two practices that are completely foreign to you and your team, but if you had taken five minutes, you would find this. It's Sandra Fluke's testimony.



If that is too much for you to watch, you could also get a copy of the actual transcript of her testimony.

Then you would know that Sandra Fluke didn't talk about her sex life at all, or anyone else's for that matter. She spoke of friends who take oral contraceptives to counter the effects of polycystic ovarian syndrome. Sounds sexy, doesn't it Rush?

Actually, I don't think you know what it is, and you don't care to learn. Truth and facts, again being foreign concepts to you and your team. It's much easier for you to go on the radio and hurl insults and call women vile names for wanting their medication covered under their insurance plans. Not the government. Not taxpayers. The insurance companies. Like the ones we all pay into with our paychecks, and what Sandra Fluke and her fellow students pay for with their tuition.

I'm surprised that, having been married four times without having any kids, no one has taught you how the birth control pill works. Unlike Viagra (which is covered under insurance plans), or your precious Oxycontin, you just take the pill once a day. And that's it. Just the one. Then you could have sex 10 times, or not at all. You still just take the one pill. And, again, unlike Viagra and your precious Oxycontin, it doesn't really make you feel different. I take it every day, and afterward I don't feel any sexier or more aroused than I would without it. I get more of a reaction from my daily allergy pill.

You see, the birth control pill actually is medication, not a sex pill. Women take the pill for a variety of medical reasons. By reducing its purpose to just calling it a sex pill is demeaning to all the women who take it, let alone the women who are taking it specifically for medical reasons. Frankly, it's none of your business or anyone else's WHY someone is taking birth control. It's a legal medication that allows women to have control over their bodies and their reproductive choices.

You said in your "apology" "I think it is absolutely absurd that during these very serious political times, we are discussing personal sexual recreational activities before members of Congress. I personally do not agree that American citizens should pay for these social activities."

That would be absurd. If it happened. But Sandra Fluke was not talking about her personal sexual recreational activities before members of Congress. You made that up. For three days. And again, women are standing up and speaking out to ensure that their basic health care needs are covered by their health insurance plans. Not by taxpayers. By insurance plans. The plans we pay into with our paychecks.

But it seems that you reap what you sow, as advertisers are abandoning your ship despite your half-assed apology.

Karma's a bitch, Rush, and I'll bet she's on the pill.

A Real Page Turner

I need new bookshelves.

There's really no more room here...



All filled up here...



(Before you say it, yes. I also have a lot of picture frames and do-dads. This isn't about that.)

It's getting a bit tight here, too (and it's hard to get a good shot with the sofa in the way. There are more books on top of the books on the bottom shelf.)



Actually, I guess I just need MORE bookshelves. Because I'm definitely not going to stop buying books. This isn't even all of them. My mom has my Boom by Tom Brokaw. Traci has a few. Sue has one. Paige has Take the Cannoli by Sarah Vowell. I loaned Helen a bag full when she was on bed rest that I don't think I ever got back, since I am short on chick lit that I know I had...

And before you think I'm a hoarder, I have donated more than a few bags of books to the library. Actually, that might be where most of the chick lit went.

I always have a stack on hand, too.



To be fair, The Pillars of the Earth is Jan's, so we're even. For now. How the Republicans Stole Christmas is Trisha's.

I just love books. I always have. Look at this girl. What's in her hands?



Books. Probably Little Golden Books, like The Poky Little Puppy. My grandfather thought I could read when I was 2 or 3, because while he read to me, I knew exactly when to turn the pages. Jan assured him that while I was probably brilliant, I couldn't read yet, I had just memorized it. (I might have added that "brilliant" part. Maybe.)

My mom is a teacher, so she knew the importance of reading, and started me out early, so I could memorize those stories until I could read them on my own.



And Dickie helped out, too.



(Please take a moment to soak in the awesomeness of Dickie's kick-ass mutton chops.)

And when they weren't reading to me, I was listening to those books with the records, and you could follow along with the story, and you knew when to turn the page because Tinkerbell would wave her magic wand like this (insert a little ding sound).

When I could read on my own, there was no stopping me. Dr. Seuss, Madeline, E.B. White, Tom Sawyer, I whipped through the Little House books and sucked in everything by the great Judy Blume. The Outsiders! We got library cards! Sweet Valley High! I probably read Princess Daisy waaaay before I should have.

I didn't even mind reading the books they had us read at school. Well, except for The Hobbit. Jesus H. that was boring. Actually, some of the time, I'd already read the assigned book, but I didn't mind reading it again. I had great teachers too, who encouraged it (Mr. Stanton and Mrs. Donnelly, I thank you). Two of my all-time favorites are Wuthering Heights and A Tale of Two Cities. I could read them over and over again.

I know it will make me sound like an even bigger geek, but a book can just take you away to another place and time. I am perfectly content curling up with a book and just losing myself in Tudor England, the hills of 1950s Ireland or even inside the tunnels in Carrie Fisher's head.

I had a boy say to me once, "I'll bet you read a lot because you're a journalist." I said, "No, I read a lot because I can." I don't think we went out again...

I don't understand people who don't read, or don't enjoy reading.

I love books. Not just escaping into a story, either. I love the feel of turning the pages, I love the smell of them. Even if I'm just going in for shampoo, I always go to the book section at Target. The Costco book table is conveniently located on the way to the water (and the wine). I can wander the stacks at a Barnes & Noble for hours, just looking for something new to discover, or an old classic to reacquaint myself with.

And I mean books. Actual, tangible, flip-the-pages, crack-the-spine, fold-the-corner-to-mark-your-space books.

I've had conversations with people about Nooks and Kindles. To me, it's just not the same. Yes, you're reading a book, but you're not reading a BOOK. When you come to my house, you see the books on my shelves, and it tells you something about me; I'm an open book, if you will. If you walk into somebody's house and all you see is a Kindle on the coffee table, what does that say about them? They could have 1,000 books on there. They could have none.

And, admittedly, I have thought about getting a Kindle. But a Kindle Fire. So I can check the web and play Words with Friends. With Alec Baldwin. On a plane. To France.

Sorry.

I don't want Kindles to replace books, though. Because I will cling to my stacks and piles like a hoarder. I'll lead the resistance if it comes to a Fahrenheit 451 thing, and real books are outlawed.

In the words of the brilliant John Waters (whose Role Models I am dying to read): "We need to make books cool again. If you go home with somebody and they don’t have books, don’t fuck them."

Amen.

So, my birthday is coming up. I do need bookshelves. But Barnes & Noble gift cards work, too.

Or maybe a new coffee table.

In Memoriam...

The year-in-review magazines are coming out, TV specials are airing, reviewing the best, the worst and the strangest things from 2011. Along with these looks back, they also dedicate a few pages or moments to say a final good-bye to people of note who have left us. Like during the Oscars, where the crowd watches images of the stars that now only shine in the sky, politely applauding as if offering up a last toast.

I'd like to take this space to offer up a little toast myself.


Audrey the Civic
Sept. 2000-June 22, 2011
I know, not a person, but still. I got her when she only had 11 miles on her, and she was shiny and green with a CD player and auto-locks. For almost 190,000 miles, she traveled the long and winding roads.


Daphne Marie
Feb. 21, 1999-July 26, 2011



My furry boo, who slept on my head. Her personality won me over as soon as I laid eyes on her, and she never disappointed. Daphne was very vocal, and had a comforting purr. She preferred plastic milk lids and hair elastics to store-bought toys, liked to curl up on the big red couch, and enjoyed Christmas because Christmas trees are magically delicious.





Margaret Mae Hitchcock Wathier
March 7, 1922-April 30, 2011



Our beautiful Margaret. Beloved mother, grandmother, great-grandmother and friend. She loved playing games, doing crafts and going to lunch with her friends. She liked Bridge and Scrabble and was cut-throat at Monopoly. She knitted lap blankets for patients at the VA hospital, made Christmas pins and ornaments, and had a surprising talent for drawing. She also enjoyed a nice vodka martini. On the rocks.





And the screen goes black to the sound of thunderous applause...

Don't Believe the Hyp(ochondriac)

Hello. My name is Michelle, and I am a hypochondriac. Well, a little bit of one. I am not one to run to the doctor with each sniffle, but I do tend to scare myself into a cancer diagnosis.

I noticed I might have a problem a couple years ago. I was having a painful issue, so I went online and entered in my symptoms. Then I emailed my friend (and fellow hypochondriac) Chris with the results.

Me: I either have colon cancer or IBS. Or maybe some kind of parasite.
Him: Get off of WebMD IMMEDIATELY.

It turned out not be any of those things. Kashi. Seven whole grains on a mission to keep you in the bathroom.

So, I should have known better than to enter in the symptoms of my latest ailment. A sharp stabbing pain, focused on one part of my head. And not "in" my head, but "on" my head. Like right on my scalp. It hurt to touch, and the real pain came in a wave every few minutes or so, lasting about five seconds.

Strange. Random.

And possibly a cluster headache. Or sinusitis. Or idiopathic anemia. Or aseptic meningitis. Or shingles. Or, like I found on one message board, peri-menopause. Yeah. That's just what I need.

Or maybe it had something to do with my back tooth, which is on the same side as the pain. And I'd been warned by the dentist that since I'd had a root canal back there, I wouldn't be able to feel an infection because the nerves were dead. "And now my right ear is stuffed up," I thought. Oh... I need to go to the dentist NOW!

Need a cleaning, you'll have to wait for months. Mention sharp stabbing pain, they'll fit you right in.

I describe the pain and toss up my hypothesis as to what could be causing it. Bafflement, but yes, it could possibly be tooth related. They take some X-rays, which always brings tears to my eyes. I have a pretty sensitive gag reflex, and cramming slides and plastic holders all the way back there, and hold it for a couple seconds please, ugh... it's the worst.

In comes the dentist. "Have you ever had chicken pox?"
No.
"Oh, because shingles is nerve related, but to get shingles, usually you have to have chicken pox first."

AH!! So at least one thing on my list of possibilities. But there is no rash on my head, so it's doubtful.

It's also not tooth related, so he suggests another doctor, and is even so nice to write down what he thinks it might be. Something called "trigeminal neuralgia." Great! That will make it easy to Google it when I get back to the office.

Which of course I did.

The second line of the Wikipedia entry says "suicide disease." Huh... I think I'd rather have another root canal. I shared this with Jan, and got a lecture about how I scare myself, being a hypochondriac, by looking stuff up online. It only causes stress. "You're being ridiculous. It's probably just your sinuses."

Again, call a doctor for a checkup, you'll wait for months. Call them and mention stabbing pain, you're in like Flynn. I am the youngest person in the waiting room by a generation. Maybe two. I am led back to what I can only describe as a combination exam room/supply closet. Seriously, there were boxes of toilet paper, paper towels and aluminum foil serving dishes on top of the cabinets; a folded up wheelchair, oxygen tank on wheels and three scales behind the exam table.

The PA comes in to see me. (I guess stabbing head pain isn't important enough for the actual doctor to bother with) No rash, so no shingles. And no, it's not what the dentist suggested, as that would cause the pain to be on my face, and something about the wind blowing on it would make you want to kill yourself because of the pain.

Diagnosis: plain old ordinary irritated nerve, which is apparently not difficult to do.

"Do you wear your hair back a lot?"

Yes. So my bad hair days have, quite possibly, irritated my last good nerve. Fabulous. Since Excedrin seemed to be helping, she said it would go away on its own. So, I left with a sense of relief and a prescription for Flonase. My ear was still stuffy after all. Allergies.

"No one suggested alien abduction?" Jenny asked. "Because really, random weird stabbing pain in your head? That can really be the only logical explanation."

I got to go to the dentist again today, for a cleaning. And I was able to thank him for scaring the crap out of me last week with his suggested diagnosis, which, of course, I had looked up online.

He admitted he was guilty of doing the same thing more than once, scaring himself with what he found online. Well then, he should know better than to randomly shoot out a strange diagnosis to people.

"Would you like me just to mark 'Hypochondriac' in big red letters in your chart?" he asked.
Why not, I said. I am sure it's what all my other doctors have done.

I Still Like Joel Better

The picture is a little blurry, but I have this pin on my desk (thanks to Jason!).



The other day, a co-worker came in and saw it.

"What is this thing? Some kind of vacuum cleaner?"
"Um, it's Tom Servo."
"What's a Tom Servo?"
"Are you kidding?"
"No."
To the person she was on the phone with: "Do you know what a Tom Servo is? No, me either."
"Get out," I said, pointing to the door.

For the uninformed, THIS is Tom Servo.

I Gotta Be Me

I am loud. I'm obnoxious and sarcastic. My sense of humor is a bit dry and a bit out there.
I swear probably more than I should.
I am opinionated, and always willing to share.
I will stand up and fight for the causes and people I believe in, and knock down haters, discriminators and just plain idiots.
I am book smart, slightly street smart and know more about classic movies and 80s pop culture than a normal person should.
I can be very selfish, but I also have one of the most generous hearts you will ever know.
I know I'm not for everyone, and I'm cool with that. Because if I'm not for you, it's really more your problem than mine.

Getting My Girl On

I am, for the most part, a girly-girl. I wear dresses and makeup, and like to have my toe nails painted. But, there are two words that bring out the girly-girl in me like nothing else.

SPA DAY!

Yes, I was off to the spa at the Ritz Carlton for a day of pretty pampering. Translation: facial, body scrub, and hair and makeup. My girly cup runneth over.

Here is my "before." Pretty bare bones (and the lighting in my office is horrible).



After checking in at the spa and making a wish on a candle, I got robed up and had a mini cupcake in the lounge. Champagne? Yes please! I could get used to this.

I love getting facials, but I have to be super careful because of my rosacea, which (knock wood) is under control. I can't do anything involving any kind of microdermabrasion or strong peels. The facialist took my concerns to heart and gave me a pumpkin treatment and some steam. She said it would tingle. Yeah, it burned. Not too bad, but you knew it was on there. Then came the cooling mask. So refreshing! And with the mask comes the scalp massage, and lotion on my hands. Ahhhhh....

After the mask came off, she used light therapy. The red light helps with, obviously, redness. Somewhere here, I must have dozed off, because I snorted myself awake and she was using a blue light. I always doze off during facials. I can't help it. You're laying there in the dark on a cozy heated bed, soothing music is playing, and you have to keep your eyes closed most of the time. It's a recipe for a nap.

I feel so refreshed, and my face is positively glowing. Already feeling prettier.

After a break in a floating chair with (YAY!) more Champagne, and a tasty lunch in the garden, it's time for my Champagne Body Shimmer scrub.

More soothing music and another cozy bed. I'm relaxed already. I get to pick the lights in my treatment room. I went with pink. I told my scrub lady that with all the pink and Champagne sugar, I felt like Jayne Mansfield. Without the boobs.

"Just another Audrey," she said.

Scrub, wrapped like a taco, shower, lotion, wrapped like a taco again. Another scalp massage.... mmmmmm..... doze....

On to makeup. Now, I like to think I'm good at my makeup. I did go to Barbazon, after all. But I'm pretty basic. I usually use one shade of eyeshadow, maybe two if I'm trying to be fancy. The makeup artist at the Ritz... Wow. Lots of shades. Lots of brushes. Eyeliner applied with a brush. Result: the elusive (at least to me) smokey eye.

Hair time. My hair is a disaster. It's fine, dry, treated, curly, frizzy, wavy. It's like Taylor Dayne, circa "Tell it to my Heart." BUT, in the right hands, it blows out quite nicely. Maybe when I grow an arm out of my back and an extra set of eyes, I'll try doing it myself.

So, like I've said, I think I pull myself together pretty well. But apparently it takes a village to put the "Shell" in bombshell.

Sleepy Time

I love to sleep. Some days, if I had someone who would make coffee and bring it to me, I'd stay in bed all day.

It's going to leave a mark

I went to the dermatologist on Monday. Partly because I needed some refills, and partly because our insurance is changing on October 1, and specialist visits will now be $$$$.

While there, I indicated a mark on my temple. I've had it for a while, and I couldn't be sure, but I think it had gotten bigger. Or darker. Either way, different.

"It's probably nothing," she said, "but let's send it in and make sure." And with that, her nurse whipped a hypodermic needle out of a drawer. I am not good with needles, so I immediately closed my eyes. "Oh, don't go to the bad place," she said.

Too late.

I kept my eyes shut until she was completely done with whatever it was she did, and I was sporting a small round band aid on my left temple. Luckily, my hair usually flops that way, so it's covered. Unless I have a bad hair day, and have to pull it back in a ponytail. Which is pretty much everyday.

Regardless, I got a list of wound care instructions about keeping a band aid on it for 5-10 days, use peroxide and POLYSPORIN (all in caps, that's how important it is.) I had polysporin from the last time she scrapped something off me, but it expired in February. Not that I think it would hurt to still used it, but it might not be as effective. My dad would beg to differ. I guarantee you that right now, in his toiletry man-bag, Dickie has a tube of first aid cream that expired in the mid-90s.

"I need to stop at the store for peroxide (also expired), polysporin and little band-aids," I said to Jan.

"Why don't you have band-aids?" she asked.

"I do have band-aids, I just don't have little round ones."

"Why not?"

"Um... I just don't." (Sometimes, I just don't know.)

So, yes. 5-10 days. Sigh. Well, it's been three and I figured, three days, five days, what is the difference? I look like an idiot with a band-aid stuck halfway into my hair. I took it off and was ready to face the world.



And then the air hit it. YEEE-OUCH! And I think it's bleeding. It's definitely going to leave a mark. You win doc, I'll be re-bandaged. For two more days. Maybe three. Just to be on the safe side.

Don't Stop Believing I Hate Journey

I love concerts. LOVE them. I love to hear the live music and, of course, to see my favorite bands in person. I cried when I was in the same room (okay, stadium) with Paul McCartney, Sting and the reunited Duran Duran. Since moving to South Florida, I have not been to many concerts. Because no good bands come here. It's rare. Like Haley's Comet. Yes, they go to Miami and Fort Liquordale (seriously, there are liquor stores everywhere), but those cities are an hour to an hour a half away. It's like being in Binghamton all over again, and all the good bands went through Syracuse, leaving Bingo-town to Ratt and Cinderella. Granted Cinderella's drummer is from there, and my mom was his math teacher. I just wanted to see Prince. And Duran Duran...

I digress.

My friend Leslie is amazing, and she asked me to join her at the Night Ranger, Foreigner and Journey concert this past weekend. I went for the Night Ranger. They were my first concert in the 9th grade, so they are a bit of a sentimental favorite.

Now, usually, when you go to a show, the ticket says 7, but it doesn't start until 8, 7:30 at the earliest. Night Ranger came out at 6:50. It was still light out. People were nowhere near their seats. Well, we were. We're geeks.

Anyway, they rocked it. They were having fun, and sounded great. I wished our seats were closer so I could be on my feet right in front of them. I actually debated getting a T-shirt. I had the most awesome gray baseball shirt with black sleeves that I got from that first show. 7 Wishes tour… soooo fabulous. My inner 14 year old was wearing it. If I still had it, my outer 40 year old might have tried to pull it off. They can still rock in America, but I wished their set was longer. I am slightly suspicious they might have been wearing the same jeans from back then. Jack Blades, still with the hair, helped by the fan on the stage, blowing it back. It was a nice effect.

The roadies slapped the Foreigner stage up lickity split. Music started...Mr. Roboto? Nope. It was Foreigner. Huh, their lead singer looked like a Ramone, with his floppy hair, dark sunglasses and skinny emo lady jeans. But, since there was not one single original member of Foreigner up there on stage, we technically saw some kind of sanctioned cover band. They sounded great. I was surprised I knew all the songs. The guy behind us and his lady friend were apparently huge fans, dancing up and down the aisle playing air guitar on a T-shirt. If there is a Foreigner version of the hippie shuffle, he was doing it. I predicted that Jukebox Hero might make both of his heads explode, and I am pretty sure I was right. Big finish... Mr. Roboto again? Nope. False alarm.

Journey. Sigh… I usually refer to them as "Fucking Journey," said with more than a little disdain. For awhile, there was an '80s station in Atlanta, and it seemed like every time they cut to commercial, they'd say, "when we come back, a hit from Journey."

Really?? I lived in the '80s. Journey was not as huge as people think they were. Were they? And "Don't Stop Believing,"sigh. So overplayed, so…. Fucking Journey.

BUT, I love concerts, so I was there. On my feet. And it's not like I don't know all the words to all the songs, because oddly enough, I do. Woo hooo…

And soooooo bored.

Yeah, their tiny little lead singer sounds just like Steve Perry, but did we need a prolonged guitar solo on every single song? I don't think so. And no one wants to hear your new song, Journey. Everyone here squeezed into too tight brand new Journey shirts just want to hear your shit back catalog.

We left a little early, and heard the dreaded "Don't Stop…" just beginning as we were walking to the car.

It's official. I do not like Journey.

And Skinny Emo Lady Jeans is the name of my new band.

Cheers!

Making your way in the world today takes every thing you got
Taking a break from all your worries sure would help a lot
Wouldn't you like to get away?
Sometimes you wanna go......

Here.



Beautiful, isn't it? If you can imagine the scent of flowers and nothing but the sounds of little birds singing... how could you not be totally relaxed. That is exactly what we had in mind when my friend Paige and I planned our trip to Sonoma. Wine, peace, beautiful views and great food. We were not disappointed.

We met up in San Francisco, and set out for our wine adventure with a first stop in the Enterprise office, where they were out of the sedans (which I had reserved), so I was offered a Jeep Patriot. It's not a big SUV, but bigger than the Civic I drive. Either way, I took a deep breath and we were off! We found the best radio station, too. I don't remember the call letters, but it's "The Bay's Old School" station. Prince, Madonna, all the dance songs we loved at the 18 and over nights at Eclipse. So we "Let the Music Play..."

(On a side note, as someone in the market for a new car, the Patriot is pretty easy to handle, but it has a lot of blind spots and not a lot of power.)

And then there came a gasp from the passenger seat. WHAT!?!??

This.



And this.



And so we had to do this.



Because we're on vacation! In California!

Back on the road to Sonoma, we finally came across our goal. Wineries. We passed a couple that came up on us quick, but then we saw one and said, we have to start somewhere, and pulled in.



Welcome to Viansa Winery & Marketplace. The name probably doesn't sound familiar, but that doesn't mean it's because their wines are bad. Exactly the opposite. They are fantastic. But this winery only sells their award-winning wines, which are produced with Italian varietals grown in California, on-site and on their website. It was hard to pick a favorite, but I did leave with a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and a membership to their wine club, because I find life is better when wine is just delivered to your door.

After a few more wineries, we found our hotel, the Sonoma Creek Inn, which says it's "close to the downtown area of Sonoma with it's historic plaza." Yeah, it's not really. Well, I guess three or four miles is "close," but not really within walking distance, which is what we had thought. Anyway, off to the plaza for a little exploring and dinner.

The downtown Sonoma area, with the plaza, is a cute little town, with mom and pop stores, cafes and tasting rooms, very arty and funky. One word drew us in... Cheese. The Sonoma Cheese Factory was like a cross between wine shop/gift shop/gourmet grocery/candy shop and cafe. There were samples of cheese all around. You would not think lavender cheese would be good. You'd be wrong. It's amazing!

Thanks to a recommendation from a photographer friend, we had reservations at The Girl + The Fig, a small restaurant serving farm-to-table dishes with a French flair. Who would have thought that something so simple as heirloom radishes would make such a delicious appetizer. Served with a side of anchovy butter and a sprinkle of grey sea salt, it was crisp, clean and plain yummy. For dinner, there was wild flounder meuniere with a Yukon potato puree and cello spinach—the lemon-caper brown butter soaked into the potatoes in such a sinfully wonderful way—and a shellfish and pork belly stew with scallops, clams, mussels, white beans, arugula and a saffron fume. Did I mention it had pork belly? Velvety yet crispy, wonderfully salty squares of pork belly?!? Yeah. It was goooooooooooood.

Saturday dawned rainy, but we were excited because we had booked a cooking class at Ramekins Culinary School & Inn. We were set to learn how to make Mexican appetizers with Chef Agustin Gaytan, who has been with Ramekins since it opened in 1998. We were broken up into groups, each group challenged with making one of the menu items completely from scratch, including roasting and grilling a lot of chiles, peppers, tomatillos... yeah, no jarred salsas here. Everything was fresh. I was on "Team Tamale," helping to make Tamalitos de Rajaas y Queso, which were mini tamales filled with roasted Chilaca chiles, Oaxaacan-style cheese and pickled jalapeno tomatillo salsa. A very nice team member, Bob, taught me how to peel away the skins from grilled chilies, as well as a very informative knife lesson that I am still practicing.

Here is the finished product in the front, along with the Jalapenos Rellenos de Atun, jalapeno chiles filled with grilled tuna, olives, capers, garlic and raisins. They were...interesting



Paige was on the team that created Sopesitos de Chorizo—griddled masa cakes topped with chorizo, queso fresco and purple tomatillo salsa. They were tasty!



In addition to, naturally, margaritas, there also were Tostaditas de Tinga—crispy corn tortillas with shredded pork, roasted tomato, chipotle chiles, grilled onion, crumbled cheese and avocado—on the menu. Also tasty!



Ramekins is definitely a place I want to go back to, but in the meantime, I am on the lookout for hands-on cooking classes here in West Palm. Any advice?

Back on the road to Santa Rosa. But first, there are wineries all along the road. Who are we not to stop and check things out? Kenwood Vineyards was rustic and beautiful. Flowers and olive trees all around, with a tasting room in a converted barn.

Then there was this. Wow.



This is Chateau St Jean. The wines were as good as the environment. They had a section of their beautiful garden devoted to grape varietals, which I thought was interesting.



And more flowers. Seriously, what is this??



Have I mentioned how fabulous the views are in Wine Country? Seriously, everything is like a postcard, with the mountains and vineyards and flowers. Here is a view from St. Francis Winery & Vineyards. See what I mean?



We spent Saturday night at The Vintners Inn in Santa Rosa, which was wonderfully quaint and comfortable, with the kind of robes you actually think about putting in your suitcase and a bottle of wine. Although, there was a wedding there, and the bridal party was staying in our building, so that was probably a mistake.

We had dinner at the on-site restaurant, John Ashe & Co., which overlooked the vineyards, where we enjoyed Pacific Halibut a la Plancha with spring cassoulet, which was delightfully fresh, and Pan-seared Diver Scallops with Masami Pork Belly, served with potato rosti, aigre-douce and the most wonderful yellow cauliflower puree. Seriously, I need to learn how to make yellow cauliflower puree. The picture doesn't do it justice, but YUMMMMMMM.




Up and at 'em, it's off to Healdsburg, which was a town of delights. We possibly became the next reality TV stars at the Murphy-Goode tasting room. They have a new Rose called Gaga (no relation), that was delightful, and I am not a fan of "pink" wine.

Throughout the day, we were also able to hit some tasting rooms that are familiar to everyone. Kendall-Jackson, La Crema and Toad Hollow Vineyards, all of which were delightful. Also, I'll add right now, we found that at every winery we visited throughout the weekend, we were offered tastes of wines beyond the tasting menus or number of wines you were allotted on a tasting flight. For the most part, every single tasting host was more than happy to let us taste pretty much whatever we wanted, and we received warm welcomes, without being faced with a "wine snob."

Highlights of our day in Healdsburg didn't just involve wine. We had lunch at Healdsburg Bar & Grill. I don't know if it's because I was slightly hungover, slightly buzzed or a combination of both, but their signature HBC Burger was one of the best burgers I have ever had. EVER! And with a side of truffle oil and Parmigiano-Reggiano fries, how could you go wrong?!?! Answer: You can't.

For a mid-afternoon pick-up, we also hit the Flying Goat for coffee, which was probably what Starbucks was before it became Starbucks. Good coffee in a big mug for $2. Perfect.

Our biggest discovery in Healdsburg, though, was wine related. The sign read "Cult Wines." What is a cult wine, we said. In a word, it's fabulous. It lead us to Kerry, who was the tasting host for Stephen & Walker Trust Winery Limited. Another winery that only sells through its tasting room and the web, it is the labor of love of Nancy Walker, who has been making wine for 22 years, and her husband Tony Stephen, who brings 20 years of experience. Their award-winning wines are so full of life. I am not a fan of port, but their Portentous was fantastic. I joined the wine club because, again, life is better when they deliver wine right to your door, and it's cheaper than flying back out there to load up on this wine.

Our trip ended too soon. There was so much we saw, but so much we didn't have time to see. I'm already planning a return trip.

Any takers?

Smashed and mashed

Rumor has it, when I was little, I did not like mashed potatoes. No matter what kind of "Here comes the airplane/train" game was played, I would not eat them. There is even talk of my parents making them with chocolate milk. And while that apparently didn't work either, it could have been the thing that set off my love of dipping french fries into a Frosty. Hmm....

I don't want to disparage Jan's cooking ability. She hates cooking to this day, don't get me wrong, but she is not bad at it. I don't know what made me turn up my button nose at mashed potatoes. Perhaps it was a texture thing. I do have texture issues: cottage cheese, grits, tapioca pudding, sometimes even scrambled eggs if they are runny will cause my throat to close up. Don't even get me started on that Aquafresh toothpaste that foams up in your mouth. UGH!!!

But then, I don't know how, I don't know where, maybe it was Thanksgiving, maybe it was a Wednesday, but one day, I started to like mashed potatoes. Not just like them. Love them. They are officially one of my favorite things. If they are done right, that is. You think they are easy to make, but they also are easy to screw up.

I will order something on a menu specifically if it comes with mashed potatoes. In Atlanta, I had my favorites. The Highland Tap (my favorite restaurant in the ATL!), they were quite good. At Digger's, the sports bar where I used to work, they were awesome. They made them from scratch in a mixer as big as a small horse. Dick & Harry's, I don't even know if that place is still open (it was on Holcomb Bridge), but ohhh.... I ordered a fish that was so delicate, it seemed to melt right in with the velvety mashed potatoes it was served on. Heaven on a plate! I found Houston's mashed potatoes too fussy, with lots of (I think) parsley and, if there is such a thing, too much butter. It just kind of sat there, almost like a puddle of oil. Mashed potatoes need to be kept simple. Some garlic or cheese is welcome, but please leave out the horseradish or wasabi.

And don't even come at me with instant mashed potatoes. Really?!!?!? Boxed instant mashed potatoes are to me what broccoli on pizza is to my Uncle Joe (Trust me on that one).

So, to make the perfect mashed potatoes at home takes a little elbow grease, but it's worth it. I used to like them all whipped up with the hand mixer, creamy and lump free. Probably a texture issue again. But my friend Chris taught me a different way. I start with just basic Idaho potatoes, peel them, rinse them, chop them into chunks. Good sized chunks, not quartered, but not a dice. Something you'd want in a good potato salad. Put them in a large saucepan or stockpot, cover them with water, salt the water and get it boiling. I also like to toss a heaping spoonful of minced garlic in to boil with the potatoes. Another flavor layer. If I am doing red potatoes, I don't peel them. The skins add flavor, color and (GASP!) texture.

While the potatoes are boiling, here is a fun fact. If you find a potato chip that is a bit green, it means the potato sat in the sun too long before it got to the Frito-Lay. Yep, it's a sunburn!

OK, now pour some milk into a coffee mug along with a good sized dollop (a tablespoon or two. Or three) of butter, and put it in the microwave for about a minute or so to warm it up. Check the potatoes to make sure they are soft. (This is why I am not really good at making potato salad. I overcook the potatoes for that. I'm wicked good at mashed potato salad.) Drain them and put them back in the hot pan. Now take a masher and smoosh them a bit to break them up. Pour in some of the heated milk and butter. Mash a little more, and then take out a whisk. Stir them up with the whisk, while adding the milk a little at a time, until they are the consistency you want, even if you don't use all the milk. Salt and pepper to taste! Aren't they gorgeous, lumps and all!?!?!?



Especially when served with a yummy London broil and spinach with fresh ground nutmeg. (I took out my hammer and tapped open a fresh nutmeg and grated it on that spinach. Oh yeah, I am that fancy.)


Here is my "Love you Lumps" playlist. Enjoy!

I'm So Tired The Beatles ("I wonder should I get up and fix myself a drink." What do you think?)
You Oughta Know Alanis Morissette
Ice Sarah McLachlan ("The ice is thin, come on dive in...")
If Dirt Were Dollars Don Henley
This is the Last Time Keane
Shoo-Bee-Doo Madonna (Gotta love old school squeaky voiced Madonna!)
You Owe me an IOU Hot Hot Heat ("He was in the habit of taking things for granted.")
Other Voices The Cure
This Grudge Alanis Morissette ("Who's it hurting now? Who's the one that's stuck?")
Private Dancer Tina Turner ("Deutschmarks or dollars? American Express will do nicely, thank you.")
Not So Strong James (Have I mentioned I saw James in a club with about 150 other people. Yeah, I am that cool.)
Man Yeah Yeah Yeahs
You Don't Bring me Flowers Barbara Streisand and 2011 Rock & Roll Hall of Fame inductee Neil Diamond
Down to Earth Barenaked Ladies ("Some people are all show. I don't mind that if the show is worth watching.")
I'm Shakin' Rooney (Not to be confused with the family that owns the 6-time Super Bowl Champion Pittsburgh Steelers or the stinky hippie fest that used to be in Deposit, NY every summer.)
Waltz Away Dreaming George Michael and Toby Bourke (Probably not related to Ray.)
I'm Gonna Miss You Milli Vanilli (oh, you know it's true. I love my Milli Vannli!)
Those Were the Days My Friend Sandie Shaw ("Once upon a time there was a tavern..." Don't the best stories start like that??)
Not All Me Alanis Morissette ("It's not all me. It's not all my fault. I may remind you, but I won't take it all on.")
Hung Up Madonna
Lullabye Concrete Blonde ("When your breathing is the wind, and your crying is the rain, well I know you will remember because the music is forever.")

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!!!!!!