Trench Warefare Too

Music Flashback

2012-03-09T09:12:00.001-06:00

It's a pretty morning. I'm going out to take pictures. I'll post a few later.

In the meantime...

Saw him twice in concert, thankyouverymuch.

Realit...

2012-03-07T13:14:00.002-06:00

So there's this new game that made its way on my phone via my brother.

Who is now on my list for forcing me to play it, but that's another matter all together.

It is, in a word, deadly.

In all kinds of ways.

It's akin to a little slot machine--a grid of letters appears before you and you have two minutes to find as many words as you possibly can. The reward is all the words you make because you are oh-so-smart.

Think electronic Boggle.

Here's an example of a game board*:

You can make words any way you want, as long as the letters touch each other either vertically, horizontally or diagonally. But you can't use a letter more than once in a word. Look:

Ai
Ail
Ails
Tails
Rails
Quilt
Quilts
Soy
Wet

All legal plays.

Those S's thrown in are fabulous because then you can make a lot of words plural for easy extra points. Or you can tuck them on to the beginning of a word, like "it" becomes "sit".

For the record, squilt is not a word.

I tried.

Twice.

The trouble is the clock is running, so your brain starts playing tricks on you. You see a string of letters and tell yourself you can make a word like, say, "reality" but the "Y" is all the way in the upper right-hand corner, therefore unavailable.

But that can't be right because "reality" is a GREAT word and the "Y" HAS to be there for you to make the play.

So you try to make that word again.

And again.

And again.

Because you're not so quick the first two times around and surely the Y moved on your fourth try.

Greasy wheel and all that.

But of course it doesn't.

All of which costs you precious time. Plus your brain just freezes when confronted with the pressure of the ticking clock and your vocabulary is reduced to that of a two-year old. Therefore making the word "yowler" is out of the question.

With this particular board, I made 38 words to my brother's 41**. Which brings me to another awful part of this mental crack: The game has the nerve to show you, in BOLD lettering, the words your opponent found and you didn't.

Like "quilter".

It's humiliating.

Especially when there's a string of 7 or 8 or 9 words all right there that s/he found and you didn't and are blindingly obvious in hindsight.

And I discovered last night that you can see ALL the potential words on a given board. But it doesn't make me feel nearly as bad not finding those words because who is supposed to see a word like "beshrew" (different game board) when the clock is running and only people like David Foster Wallace know that word anyway?

But you want to know the worst thing about this game?

I suck.

And I'm competitive.

Bad combo.

Look, I'll prove it with pictures. All you have to do is a quick comparison to see that my skills are sorely lacking.

This is against my brother--the defeat hurt as it was only a 10 point loss for me:

And then there's this woman. I haven't beat her yet.

My brother got me involved with her. I want to kill him.

And another:

I can beat her every now and again. If she's a lung short that day.

But those opponents I listed up there are amateurs. Apprentices. Casual Sunday Drivers compared to my friend:

That right there?

That is typical of our scores.

The FIRST time out the gate--our first round on our first game I made 42 words.

She made 85.

Comparatively speaking I am sporting the brain of a dodo bird. Evidenced by the fact that I keep going back for more.

Of course it could be that I have delusions of grandeur and believe that next time we play she will simply tank and I will wipe the floor with her bum.

Or perhaps I'm just a sadist.

Probably a combination of all three. ->

*Yes, I sacrificed three whole seconds to take the picture. I'm that dedicated to my blog.

**He won of course, 1107 to 947.

Adjustable Flame

2012-03-05T08:19:00.000-06:00

I love my friends.

They all know I'm doing a gun photo series and occasionally will send me texts or emails to the tune of:

"You need to go to Academy Sports! They have AK-47 BBQ lighters"!

Sure enough.

Refillable.

Child-resistant.

Adjustable flame.

Yours for $9.99:

Better act fast! They're a collector's item and won't last.

Be. The. Stoat.

2012-03-02T00:00:00.000-06:00

See, here's the deal....

I paint myself into these little corners and then when I'm uninspired, I'm stuck.

Monday
Wednesday
Friday

I said to you and mostly myself when I shook things up here a bit in my trench back in August.

What if I'm still shell-shocked from my three hours of work that Blogger annihilated on Tuesday night?

What if I have nothing to say?

What if, God forbid, I'm BORING?

Then I have to sit here and type anyway and pretend that I have a grand plan when in reality there's just nothing but solid free-flow randomness going on right now.

I'm not even drinking.

I guess I could point you to some random web stuff I saw this week while poking around.

Like scooting chickens.

And stoats. Stoats are badass.* "Be the stoat" is my new mantra. Be. The. Stoat. (Warning, don't watch if you're going to be traumatized by the whole predator/prey thing. Especially when it's so close to Easter and said prey is a cute bunny rabbit. Not, thankfully, a lobby-eared bunny though. That would just be tragic and horrible and nightmare inducing.)

Oh, I know! I could use this particular mental lull to start a campaign to get the Bloggess to pose with a taxidermied stoat and give me permission to post the pic right here on Trench Warfare. I mean, she got Matthewfucking Broderick to pose with a SPOON for her blog, for crying out loud. He's been my boyfriend since War Games and Ladyhawke**, both of which pre-date Ferris Bueller by years, meaning I'm totally a better Gen X-er than her even though she named her cat Ferris Mewler*** so the least she could do is pay it forward, right?

You betcha.

Plus, she just lives down in Texas so we're practically neighbors! AND my brother-n-law has a booth at Roundtop,only the biggest antique show this side of that huge cross on I-40 in Arkansas, every year so he would have the inside scoop of where all the good stuff was there and flea markets are TOTALLY her thing, so we could even have date! Except I wouldn't call it date because then she might think I was being all stalkerish and weird. Which would turn her off to posing with a ~~dead~~ taxidermied stoat and letting me post it here.

Of course, that means I might have to actually get on Twitter.

Like, tweet and everything.

The horror.

Decisions, decisions...

If it means ~~having a date~~ ~~bonding with~~ ~~drinking merlot with~~ getting her to look my way, I'll make the sacrifice. She'll probably play hard-to-get. Ignore me for three years because I'm so low on the blogger food chain. Make me beg...

That's OK, I'm in for the long haul. Know why? Because I. Am. The. Stoat.

I wonder if I can find a song about stoats....?

OMG! SCORE.

Song of the week: Suspicious Stoats by Trampo. Just press the little play button there.

suspicious stoats

*Embedding not allowed
**Can I get an "Amen" for Ladyhawke?
**Which, OK. Best cat name EVER. But, you know...whatever. Besides, I'm declaring my next cat's name to be Philipe Gastone, so we're even. I just can't let Old Angry Cat know I'm already planning for his replacement because then he'll find a loppy-eared bunny, behead it, and hide it my bed all Godfather-like. But only after he eats the ears. BTW, he's still bald. But don't tell him I told you, OK? I might end up with a lobby-eared bunny and a stoat head in my bed.

Homeless #3, David

2012-02-29T15:04:00.000-06:00

David lives on the streets in Oklahoma City. He moved up here from Texas four years ago. ->

Dear Google: I Hate You.

2012-02-28T23:28:00.001-06:00

I have been working on an entry for the past THREE HOURS and Blogger just gave me an error....

in which the entire entry vanished.

Gone.

*POOF*

Thrashed to pieces on the information highway by the 18-wheeler-Google with a drunk driver behind the wheel.

Navigation via my history yields only the page I'm writing now and cached pages don't work because I never published the entry.

I'm going to drink.

Then go crawl in a hole and curse Google with the voodoo doll that I'm about to make with my ripped out hair and possibly both eyeballs.

I'm sorry if I woke you with my screams of horror. ->

NOTICE

2012-02-27T09:36:00.003-06:00

Bombay Fruit

2012-02-24T11:45:00.003-06:00

The Geek just left for a work trip to Mumbai, of which I know very little. I know the METRO population is 20.5 million people and that the city used to be called Bombay. Tomorrow it's going to be 95 degrees there and they have a huge national park in the city limits that holds leopards and tigers and bears. And because the boundaries are so poor, sometimes the leopards get loose and like roam the city. Stalk people. Have them as a snack with afternoon tea.

No joke.

So want to move to Mumbai now.

On a completely different note, has the name Mike Daisey popped up in your recent net surfing? He has a one-man show right now where he quietly, poignantly eviscerates Apple.

Yes, that Apple.

This American Life did an entire episode on him and I was crushed by the end of it. I know an hour is an incredibly long time to tuck away for a radio broadcast, but I promise you won't be sorry you took the time. Or maybe you will, I don't know. Word on the street is that this one man with his one story got Apple all aflutter. Well played, Mr. Daisey.

Song of the week. This is a stop-animation video made with construction paper. People and their creativity never cease to amaze me.

How To Put Away Your Towels Correctly, A Pictorial

2012-02-22T08:15:00.000-06:00

So I was folding towels the other day, and I needed to put two of them away. One of them was a dark slate blue, which you'll see in a moment, and the other one was this one:

Here's the spot where they needed to go. I put the first one up and it became immediately apparent that this simply wasn't going to work.

Had I put the two blue towels in the empty spot available, the end result would have looked like this:

Or some variation thereof.

Which is so wrong on so many levels I can't even begin to tell you. Just looking at this picture right here makes me jumpy and uncomfortable and wishing I required a prescription of Xanax because at this moment I would popping three of them.

You see my problem here, right?

Please tell me you see it.

It's SO OBVIOUS.

We have, clearly, a rust/light blue, dark blue/rust, light blue/rust pattern established, and I simply can't abide by adding dark blue/light blue to the mix.

It's an assault on my senses.

But despite evidence to the contrary, I can be nimble when the situation calls for it.

Observe what was hanging on my towel rack at the time:

Which was a disaster.

Say you: What? Why?
Say me: Really? REALLY? Well, if I have to spell it out for you:

Utterly unacceptable. I think it goes without saying I was in a fugue state when I hung this particular drying aid. Because I generally never hang a towel in such a sloppy, bedraggled manner. The fact that it's all scrunchy on the bar is bad enough and the ends not meeting up is an offense worthy of mental flogging in the form of no chocolate for a day, but the TAG hanging towards the front?

That's akin to this:

This was in a public place! Can you believe the Health Department allows this?

*SHUDDER*

And we all know the only reasonable, nay responsible action when encountering this particular appalling arrangement:

But I fixed it. For the public good.

Anyway...

I should have known better. It's clear I abused the rust towel* unmercifully and needed to pay some restitution. Pronto.

So I took it down and replaced it with a friend

tossed it in the dryer so it had the feel of just being washed**, folded it and...

Don't talk to me about the towel ends being all askew. I'm not that OCD.

Huzzah!

The rust/light blue, dark blue/rust, light blue/rust, rust/dark blue was preserved and all was right with the world.

I am the total embodiment of domestic awesomesauce.

A conquering hero.

A domiciliary monarch.

I AM A MORMON MOMMY!

(OK, that last statement is probably taking it a bit too far.)

However, I was able to walk in there all day long and feel as if the universe was a neat and orderly place, worthy of me and my overwhelming organizational triumphs.

And then The Boy decided to take a bath that night. ->

*I don't have the heart to show you what the The Boy and The Geek do to towels. Truly. The violence is simply gut-wrenching and potentially vomit-inducing. You would be horrified and have an aching desire to start, like right now, a local chapter of Terrycloth Ought Really Receive Everyone's Favor, Yo (T.O.R.R.E.F.Y.)

**Yes. I took a short cut and didn't actually wash it. I had only used it once. Sue me.

Oiled Guns

2012-02-20T11:39:00.002-06:00

Full disclosure?

I was totally shopping for a gun pic in a museum the other day so I didn't have to go out and get another picture later.

And I found one!

I was with a friend. We were looking at this glorious, colorful painting.

The conversation went something like this:

Me (pointing): If you turned that on its side, it looks like a gun.

Him: That's a sword. With flowers coming out the top....Now THAT guy is holding a gun:

Me, to him: Yeah, I guess he is.
Me, to myself: Whatever. He's holding an umbrella.

And then I got a closer look. The woman above umbrella dude is holding not one, but two pistols! Look:

Well, admittedly, I sorta ruined the effect here. In my attempt to draw attention to the guns, I actually drew the beginnings of a (frightfully poor) rendition of the The Scream:

Or a woman's (really saggy) guns. Which I learned when I was at the museum was a euphemism for knockers.

Who knew?

The man with me, that's who. Leave it to a man, including a gay man, to have memorized the complete dictionary of synonyms for that part of the female anatomy. I do believe this ability comes encoded in the Y gene.

On a side note, now that I know "guns" are another name for hooters, I feel compelled to post a picture of a pair one week. You know, so as to get me out of my comfort zone and therefore not compromise my artistic integrity.*

Which means I have to find a female model. And probably some booze, since that's all I have to offer as incentive for posing for me. I can't use stock images as that would be be cheating. Rest assured it won't be a self breastrait because 1) my family reads this blog and I don't want to traumatize them and 2)you read this blog and I don't want to traumatize you. Because those guns up there? Perky compared to mine.

Moving on.

She's wielding handguns, amiright?

ANYWAY...I digress.

Just to prove my friend completely and utterly wrong, I got The Boy in here for fortification:

Me, pointing to the big, red gun that is obviously a gun with fire and blood shooting out the end of it: What does this look like to you if it's turned on its side?

Him(tilting head): A sword.

Me: Go away.

Him: What's it supposed to look like?

Me: A gun.

Him: It's a sword! It doesn't look anything like a gun. It doesn't have a fore grip. Or a magazine. The silouette isn't even remotely the same.

Me: GO AWAY!

Betrayed by the progeny.

He's sleeping on the trampoline tonight. With no access to the popcorn.

Then I went for a clearer path of solidarity.

The Geek.

I make pot pies and chocolate-chip cookies for this man. I do his laundry. I bore his (traitor) children, for crying out loud. SURELY he would see reason on this one.

Me, to The Geek: What does this look like to you if you turn it on it's side?

The Geek (tilting his head): A bridge.

Me: Go away.

The Geek: No, look! There's the sun....

Blah. Blah. Blah.

He's wrong.

Obviously.

What do you see? Here's the unaltered portion of the ~~big red and pink gun~~ picture once more:

And here it is turned counterclockwise 90 degrees:

I was going to post the entire painting, but Google has failed me. The name of the piece is "The Gods Who Found Water" by Carlos Almaraz (1941-89), oil on canvas. You can see the amazing texture going on in it, which thrilled me when I was experiencing it from just a few inches away. It's a completely different painting up close than when you back away from it.

OK, to be fair, this isn't from the same painting. But it's from one by the same artist

A painting that clearly depicts guns. ->

*Yeah. I wrote that again.

Net Bounty

2012-02-17T09:39:00.000-06:00

The ~~wonder~~ ~~curse~~ ~~wonder!~~ ~~curse~~ WONDER of the net is all the fabulous stuff that's floating around. Between StumbleUpon, my friends, blogs I follow and my memory, I came across some great stuff this week.

Here's a woman whose home is a sanctuary for cats. And dogs. But mostly cats. Like, over 500 of them:

Here's a fantastic site called Humans of New York. Behind the lens is just a guy in his twenties who lost his job, after which he decided to move to Manhattan with his camera and start taking pictures of strangers. It's amazing. I shall live vicariously through this young man because I don't think I've ever taken that big of a risk in my life. Best of all? His friend flashed Bill Clinton and he got a picture of it.

The whole project reminds me of another site I found years back called Hel Looks, which is a photo essay/documentary of people in Helsinki (a destination that's on my bucket list, by the way). It's gorgeous, as are the people there.

I would love to do something like this for Norman and Oklahoma City except a) it's obviously been done and b) the overriding "fashion" here is jeans and t-shirts. Which would got old pretty quick.

Along the same lines of destination websites, check out this one. It's dedicated to people going to famous destinations in the world...and then mooning the camera. Not sure if I can get behind this one.

Check out this video. It's only 10 minutes and features yet another courageous young person. The future is bright with people like this in the world:

Song of the week. I don't know the name of it, it's not posted in the comment section of the Youtube video, and Shazam can't identify it. But it's cool:

Trumped by the Past

2012-02-15T11:01:00.001-06:00

I had all these plans for posting some kind of sappy, post-Valentine entry today. I went to Little Missy's Valentine Day party at school, you see, and I was struck, as I generally am when I go into elementary schools, by the overall happiness that seems to engulf them.

I was going talk about how colorful elementary schools are.

I was going to reminisce* a bit about my own Valentine parties as a child.

I was going to discuss the innocence and joys of childhood.

I was going to post all the pictures I took at Libby's party, highlighting all the CANDY they received from each other. Because what's Valentine's Day without mounds of carbs, namely chocolate?

To top it all off, I was even going to offer a quick how-to, with pictures of course, for the craft I did with her class at said party. Because clearly the entry wouldn't have been maudlin enough without them.

But it all got thrown out the window when a friend posted a link to some retro Valentine cards on Facebook.

Gold, these are. I can't believe I've never encountered them before now.**

Let's start off with a couple that are tailor made for all the ~~emotionally manipulative~~ highly motivated potential (or current) mates in your life. Shame, really, that you can't find cards anymore that just lay it on line like this anymore. "Darling! I love you SO MUCH that I will kill myself in awful ways if you don't love me back":

Or I'll just kill you in awful ways if you don't love me back:

And then eat you:

Or perhaps you opt for a more subtle approach?

Not really into bodily harm? Ok, well hold, up there's more. Perhaps fetishes are more your thing.

I love the double entendre going on here

Maybe you just want to go for the straight forward approach. You know, plain Jane. No kinky stuff, no overt threats to yourself or your Valentine, just a simple little message conveying your feelings. Which is completely understandable. Many of us are the same way. Here's the one for you:

This one is for the vegetarian in your life:

No Valentine at all, you say? Forever alone, you say? No worries, I've got you covered:

I must find a box of these. MUST. ->

*OMG! I managed to spell that word correctly on the first try. Wow. That's worthy of a Facebook status update.
**original Flickr stream

USP

2012-02-13T00:07:00.002-06:00

From afar, I thought this sign said "Asian Bullet."

Fun with apps:

Fun with Photoshop Elements:

Didn't know you would feel like you were one of the Merry Pranksters when you clicked over here today, did you?

Happy Monday!

RIP Whitney

2012-02-12T11:59:00.000-06:00

I was never a huge fan, but if you were raised as part of the original MTV generation as I was, she was hard to miss. Her's is a tragic story of the rise and fall of a star. Here she was in her prime: a voice electric enough to raise the hair on your arms, sassy, sultry, stunning, embracing female talent of yore and on the horizon and pregnant.

Friday Fluff

2012-02-10T10:20:00.000-06:00

1. I made these cookies two nights ago and have yet to bake them; that happens today. Can't wait to see how they come out.

2. I'm slowly but surely making my way through Infinite Jest. I'm well past the 200-page mark, which is, apparently, the magic point. I'm digging the story--in fact I'm hooked--and continue to encounter words I never knew existed, e.g.

aphotic
cyccges
ergotic
erumpent
formication (yes, with an "m")
homuncular
sobriquet

I will have you know that out of that modest list, Blogger's built-in spell check flagged all but "sobriquet" as either a non-word or misspelled. Who, I ask you, has the nerve to walk around with this kind of vocabulary (the author being dead and all notwithstanding. Too bad really, because he would have been my new boyfriend.)?

I'm also keeping track of quotes I like. Thus far, this is one of my favorites:

"What looks like the cage's exit is actually the bars of the cage." p. 222*

3. Do you remember these?

4. This is an excellent site.

Song of the week:

*10th anniversary paperback edition

An (Anti) Ode to Dr. Suess

2012-02-08T06:00:00.000-06:00

Apparently I've been living under a rock for the last forty years.

But in my defense, I would like to point out before I get started here, that the man was dead by the time I was...

(let me consult Wikipedia real quick)

....23.

Oh.

I thought he died before I was born.

ANYWAY.

Turns out Dr. Seuss--the one behind Thing One and Thing Two--was all pseudo subversive, using some of his books as allegories for his thoughts on the political and cultural climate of his time. Look, the picture circulating the net right now totally proves it:*

I had no idea! In fact, when I think of Dr. Seuss, only a few of his books come to mind:

Green Eggs and Ham (one of The Boy's two favorites)
The Foot Book (Left foot, left foot, left foot, right. Feet in the morning, feet at night!)
Dr. Seuss's ABCs (Probably my favorite. I can recite it almost verbatim from memory--go ahead, throw a letter at me. FACT: We used this book as inspiration for naming the last three cats in my house: Waldo Woo <AKA Old Angry Cat>, Young Yolanda Yorgenson, and Lola. She got hit by a car two weeks after I had her spayed. I'm still bitter.)
The Cat in the Hat
The Cat in the Hat Comes Back
Mr. Brown Can Moo, Can You? (Mr. Brown is a wonder! Mr. Brown makes thunder!)
One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish (one of Libby's two favorites)
If I Ran the Zoo
There's a Wocket in My Pocket
How the Grinch Stole Christmas

There are a lot more, of course.

Honestly, I never looked past the basic plot for any kind of message that wasn't blatantly obvious. The Grinch is a curmudgeon. It's because he lives by himself in that cold cave way up there. But singing makes him happy. Green Eggs = no one likes a nag. On the other hand, the squeaky wheel gets the oil. And by the way, don't knock it till you try it. ABC's = Dr. Seuss was really good at making things up (e.g. Tuttle Tuttle Tree). The Cat = don't let large, talking animals donning red-and-white-striped hats into your house. Ever.

In my defense for being so obtuse, to this day I've never read Horton and honestly had never heard of The Lorax, Butter, or Sneetches until I started writing this blog entry.** I wasn't a political science major either, obviously, so I was never forced to write comparative essays about his works in college.

Moving on.

Educators the country over revere him and schools from coast to coast have week-long curricula that focus on his books. Of course there are educational video games and websites centered on his works. Naturally he has his own site.

But the culture at large continues to love him as well. In the last decade Hollywood released four movies based on his books (Grinch, Horton, Cat and Lorax coming soon) and the original animated Grinch Christmas special rotates in on the television schedule every December, as it has for the past 40 years. There's even a Broadway play based on Horton's troubles. The critics didn't think much of the original production, but a re-vamped script is now a staple for community theaters nation-wide. I'm seeing it at the University in April. It's called Seussical The Musical. Cute, huh? (*cough* I have the soundtrack. Libby MADE me buy it.) Just google his name and the accessories available for purchase will overwhelm you. How many Cat in the Hats knock on your door every Halloween?

But here's my take on Dr. Seuss, for all his educating our children and making us feel warm and fuzzy with his anecdotes: the man had sadistic tendencies.

Exhibit A: If I Ran The Circus

Have you ever read that one?

Out loud?

Daily for nearly a decade?

If ever I were to burn a book, If I Ran The Circus would be it.

I fucking hate that book.

HATE.

In theme, it's nothing more than an updated version of To Think That I Saw it on Mulberry Street: a child's imagination on overdrive.
Except it's much longer than the original, and those extra pages will suck the life out of you.

A taste:

Then I'll let Sneelock off for a few minute's rest

While high over your heads you will see the best best

Of the world's finest, fanciest breezy trapeezing!

My Zoom-a-Zoop Troupe from West Upper Ben-Deezing

Who never quite know, while they zoop and they zoom,

Whether which will catch what one, or who will catch whom

Or if who will catch which by the what and just where,

Or just when and just how in which part of the air.

Bastard.

Olympic-level verbal acrobatics, that's what that nonsense is.

Don't believe me? Read the excerpt out loud and see how your mouth reacts.

Go ahead, I'll wait.

.........

SEE?

The "prose" goes on for OVER THIRTY PAGES.

A man with a normal psyche doesn't release this sort of torture on the general public.
Especially when the target audience for said book is parents. Of preschoolers. Who have enough on their plate without having to do voice exercises and mental calesthenics prior to reading a nap-time story.

And I'm not kidding here, you have to arm yourself with a quart of water before starting it because the ~~anapestic and amphibrachic tetrameter~~ stupid rhyming rhythms he utilizes in that tale makes one parched to the point of dehydration within 3 page turns. Not to mention the fact that the book is just asinine. Whoever heard of a Soobrian Snipe?
Finally, once you've finished reading the story, three-and-a-half hours later, all you want to do is either curl up in a fetal position and hibernate for the next week or drown your sorrows in a bottle of ~~merlot~~ vodka. Neither of which is conducive to properly raising the aforementioned preschooler.

Which means you then have to contend with the Department of Child Welfare.

To make matters worse, I know my kids plotted against me from the time Libby could appreciate being read to aloud, because they both LOVED that book,*** therefore was in high rotation for years. I literally cringed when they would bring it to me. Just thinking about reading it now induces mild PTSD.

Naturally I tried to pull the wool over the progenies' eyes and "accidentally" skip pages during readings. I was perfectly happy to jump from The Drumm-Tummied Snumm on stage two all the way over to the Spotted Atrocious. The problem was the kids had the bloody thing memorized; they knew all too well when I missed the opening parade-of-parades featuring the Harp-Twanging Snarp playing their Three-Snarper Harp. And Mom? You forgot about the Juggling Jot who can juggle twenty-two questions marks. Which is a lot.

Note to new parents: If you take nothing else from this entry, don't make this mistake! Your best bet is to just ensure your kids never know about the existence of this book. If it's too late for that, however, no thanks to some well-meaning uncle or grandparent, set the bar low in the beginning and only read 1/4 of the book to your sprout at any given time. They'll think it's a new book each read and their ignorance is your bliss. You'll thank me for this tip eventually, I promise.

Talk to me. You know you want to. You know that deep down you have particular book by this very author that you absolutely loathe. He was long-winded, that man. (One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish is another that goes on for days.) It's OK! I don't judge. Quite the opposite. I encourage being in touch with your inner Dr.-Seuss-hater.

I just want to hear which one it is. ->

*The actual books, top row L to R: The Butter Battle Book, Sneetches, The Cat in the Hat, The Lorax. Bottom row L to R: Yertle the Turtle, How the Grinch Stole Christmas, Green Eggs and Ham, Horton Hears a Who.

**I blame my folks.

***In fact, both STILL cite this book as one of their favorites.

Oh. Deer.

2012-02-06T06:00:00.000-06:00

I was at a ~~junk store~~ antique mall yesterday taking photos. I was completely in "the zone," when I turned around and nearly bumped into this:

You really need to click on it to appreciate the experience I had.

Rather startled me. ->

Post Secret Today

2012-02-05T12:55:00.002-06:00

Complete Randomness

2012-02-03T09:12:00.001-06:00

Some random thoughts:

1. My dog stinks.

2. My calico cat is driving me crazy. She wants in and out no less than 213 times a day, and she's quite vocal on the matter. Every. Time.

3. Old Angry Cat remains bald and flakey:

4. It is February 3, 2012 and as I type central Oklahoma is under a tornado watch.

Tornado.

I would like to point out to all you folks that don't inhabit this state that we generally don't have to start worrying about tornadoes until April or May. You know, in the spring. Usually this time of year we have to worry about ice.

Because it's supposed to be winter.

Well I call foul.

With the exception of one frigid snap in December--I think it lasted two days--this entire "cold season" has been a complete and utter failure. Call me silly, but I rather enjoy having 4 distinct seasons. If Mother Nature is going to feel the need to assault us with 100+ temperatures for over thirty consecutive days this past summer, the least she could do is back it up with some wintery mix of sleet and snow that paralyzes the metro area for 24 hours.

I want a snowman in my front yard. Is that too much to ask?

5. I've been staring at this computer screen for five minutes thinking of something else to say. I got nothing.

6. No wait! I changed my mind. THIS guy takes a picture of a dead mallard posed next to a gun and then has the nerve to charge....wait for it...$40,000 for the print.

For sale on...wait for it...Etsy.

I can't make this shit up.

Song of the week:

My Maiden Voyage

2012-02-01T06:30:00.000-06:00

I don't know if you saw Monday's pic or not, but there's a back story.

There was a gun show this past weekend at the Fairgrounds. And even though I've gone to one before, I thought it was the only place in the metro I could go in order to see a number of guns in one place; I felt like it was time to post a project picture with an actual weapon.

But before I got there, I changed my mind and headed to the shooting range instead. The Geek and I had driven by there a few days prior, which triggered the idea. I thought I could get some pics of the signs outside and call it good. Plus I wanted to try out a new photograph app I downloaded last week:

App: Frametastic

So all of those signs were posted on the outside of building and I thought they made a tidy little vignette which was Tanya-blog-perfect.

I had no intentions of going inside because, frankly, the thought terrified me. Besides people being able to smell I was an anti-gun communist as soon as I walked in the place, therefore causing all of them to collectively pull their concealed Texas Defenders on me:

I really didn't think I would be able to go onto the actual shooting range unless I would be, you know, shooting stuff.* But I could see some signs in there that intrigued me and I felt like I would be compromising my artistic integrity** if I didn't at least check out the interior.

I hit the mother load.

It was a shooting range, yes. It was also a retail outlet, 100,000 square feet at least, of nothing but guns and gun accoutrements.

The Target of firearms, if you will.

Complete with employees wearing matching, embroidered shirts.

And a snack snack bar.

They called your name over the intercom when your food order was ready.

Not that I ordered anything. I was too busy being stunned by the sheer volume of guns. You got an idea from Monday's photo, but here's the look I was going for before Mr. OU unintentionally photo-bombed my carefully composed picture:

Each case in the pic contains 18 really long guns, meaning in this shot alone there are 216 weapons. That's not counting all the glass cases you can't see, the guns lined up against the back wall or all the hand guns that were in separate cases. (The video I posted at the end spans all the rifle cases at the very end and gives you an idea of how many are there.)

And guess what?

They didn't smell me!

I even blatantly took out my phone and started taking pictures willy nilly and no one tried to stop me. In fact, some of those dudes even asked if I needed any help.

Say me, in a perfect world: Um, Yeah. I need help with a vegetarian menu. What brand of soy do you recommend?

I would compare the visit to a kid being in a candy shop, but I'm not sure that particular simile is appropriate. It was more akin to a religious fundamentalist experiencing a store like Christie's Toybox for the first time: equal parts revulsion and fascination.

I'm so going back. ->

*Which I still plan to do. But I have to go with someone who owns and, more importantly, shoots guns unless I want to make a complete ass out of myself at the front counter. Plus feel like I have to get more proficient with the camera.

**Yeah. I really did just type out that phrase "compromising my artistic integrity."

OU

2012-01-30T06:00:00.000-06:00

Gun Range, Oklahoma City, OK

Vegas Street Scenes

2012-01-27T07:22:00.000-06:00

Walking on the street

Singing on the street

Crossing the street.

Working on the street. For tips.

This is Paul. He lives on the streets.

Just off the street.

Song of the week:

Introspection. I'm Really Sorry.

2012-01-25T01:49:00.002-06:00

I'm sick; it hit me when I was out of town. The muck is hanging out in my chest and I've got a wet cough and frankly I am not feeling all that witty tonight.

As you know, I was in Las Vegas over the weekend. I went out and shot pictures every morning I was there and on Sunday I swear, all I was doing was taking pictures of the buildings. Here, I'll show you:

I received a pretty nice zoom lens for Christmas, so I was standing across the street from the scene at the time. I happened to look up and saw a guy posing for me.

Me (yelling from across the street): Want me to take your picture?

Him: I thought you just did!

Me: No! I was taking a picture of the building.

(Warning: non sequitur approaching...)

Him: What do you do for a living?

I should have lied. I should have said I'm a graphic designer and was working on color palettes for a project. Or a zoo keeper. Or a gun shop owner in town for the big trade show that ended two days before.* Instead the truth just burst out like water from a busted pipe, which meant I was stuck for the next several minutes trying to justify myself:

Me: I'm a social worker.

Him: I thought it was something like that.

Me: What? Why?

Him: My sister is a social worker. My sister-in-law is a social worker. Y'all like checking up on people.

Translation: social workers are nosy. Therefore, I'm a social worker because I was taking (not very interesting) pictures of a parking garages.

Actually, the uber lens probably freaked him out a bit. Plus he likely thought I was lying to him and had indeed taken pictures of him and not the buildings; his line of questioning turned into whether or not I was a private investigator on the weekends.

I'm not.

For the record.

But the man does have a point. I've maintained for a very long time that social workers as a group are nosy. Oh I suppose the marketers could spin it as "interested in others' stories" but let's be honest: We're nothing more than "trained professionals" who prod into the personal lives of strangers and happen to get paid** in the process.

Kinda like journalists. Only more reputable because ours is labeled a "helping profession."

Whatever that means.

I'm sure it's real helpful to a man who wants to die and is pissed his attempt didn't work for me to pepper him with questions and then ship him off to a psych ward.

Or for a baby to be yanked from the only parents she knows and thrown into the state system for God knows how long.

I know. I know! What else are we supposed to do? Someone has to protect the people.

Sometimes, though, the job just feels mean. It feels like I'm nosy and mean and it's all wrapped up under the guise of "for your own good."

It's not a bad thing, I think, for social workers to remember that with our jobs comes much power--and that power isn't necessarily in the forefront of our minds at all times. We have the capacity to disrupt peoples' lives and it's important for us to always be aware of this fact. More crucially, we have to not take advantage of the inevitable power structure that is tipped in our favor any time we initiate contact with the people we serve. It can be a challenge at times, because man! Are some of those people challenging.

You know what I'm saying.

All it took was perfect, slightly paranoid stranger in another city who misunderstood my hobby for this aspect of my profession to hit home on this particular evening. ->

*I didn't find out about it until the last day of the show, otherwise I SO would have gone. I could have walked from my hotel. Talk about missed opportunity! I was so mad...

**Not very much, granted.

Homeless in Vegas

2012-01-23T08:29:00.002-06:00

Taken in Las Vegas, NV, Fremont East District

This is Alan J. Wing. He lives on the streets in Vegas. He said it was dangerous way of life, being homeless. At that point I meant to ask him two questions: 1) had he ever been held up at gunpoint and 2) did he carry? Or consider it?

But he was talkative, the moment got away and I didn't think of the questions again until long after I had left him.

When I went back to talk to him the following day he was nowhere to be found. At least in my limited radius. I do have his email, though, and I sent him this picture with an inquiry. Perhaps he'll get back to me.

In the meantime I hope he's safe. ->

See You Monday

2012-01-20T13:40:00.000-06:00

Infinite Stupidity For Agreeing To Do This

2012-01-18T08:09:00.001-06:00

It's a long twisted tale as to how I got here, but I got goaded by my brother into reading Infinite Jest.

I had heard of the book. I had heard of the author. I knew the author committed suicide a few years ago.

That's about it.

When my brother told me the book had 1,000+ pages, I didn't really think much about it. After all, I've read The Stand. I've read Gone with the Wind countless* times. A thousand pages is merely a few books strewn together, right?

Right.

There are books.

There are epic books.

And then there are books that come accompanied with essays on how to read it, blogs and wikis.

Blogs.

Wikis.

I think it's enough to know that one of the how-to guides suggest you "brush up on your Hamlet" before reading it.

That's right.

Fucking HAMLET. Only a what? Six-hour play? Yeah, let me go ahead and "brush up" on that.

I've no doubt liberal arts colleges the country over devote entire semester classes to this one damn ~~brick~~ book, and I have the nerve to pick it for fun.

Here's a list of words I've had to look up:

Agnate
Aleatory
Amaneusis
Aphoristic
Fulvous
Leptosomatic
plosivity**
Quincunx
Teratogenic
Uremic
Pedalferrous

And then there are the acronyms:

ATHSCME
ETA
ECT
ENT
CT
ONANCAA
ONANMA
NAAUP
RICO
TP
PIT
VIP
DSS
RISC
YDAU***

And I'm only on page 95.

Did I mention the footnotes? Footnote #24 is, I'm not kidding here, 8 pages long. I have been reading the footnotes, as advised, because some of them are kinda funny****. But I did not read #24. And I have no guilt about that.

By the way, I'm convinced the man simply made up words.

For example, have you ever seen the word "locomotival" used in actual writing? Have you ever HEARD anyone utter that word?

No.

Know why?

Because DFW***** simply made it up. Go ahead. Google it. Look it up in the dictionary. It's not there. He just decided willy-nilly to throw a noun together with a suffix and call it an adjective and then use it to describe the noise made by a herd of feral hamsters.

I think I'm going to do that.

Not make noises that resemble a herd of feral hamsters, that is, but make up words.

Kinda like mad libs, only I'm going to use them in a serious context.

To wit:

The author was kazoocy when he wrote this novel and I was kamekasiferous for agreeing to read it.

For the record, this is the same brother I spoke of here.

I'm thinking of disowning him. ->

*And I do mean "countless." At last check, I own four copies of the book: my original tattered paperbook copy which I wrote and highlighted in for years and is now bound in rubber bands, an anniversary copy The Geek bought for me that is falling apart because The Boy read it and he's awful on books, plus they don't make books like they used to any more, a vintage copy printed in 1937, and a new one I bought this summer. An old boyfriend has the copy that once belonged to my mother and I remain bitter it never got back to me. I also have a notebook devoted to all my favorite quotes and words I had to look up last time I read it.

**No, that's not a typo. PLosivity. The "L" belongs there. BTW, this one can't be found on Dictionary.com either. More evidence he made up words.

***Year of the Depend Adult Undergarment

****Footnote #2 about Orin, a character in the book: "Orin's never once darkened the door of any sort of therapy-professional, by the way, so his takes on his dreams are always generally pretty surface-level." p.983, 10th anniversary paperback ed.

*****David Foster Wallace, the author. As opposed to Dallas/Ft. Worth, the metropolitan area. Or the airport code for said metropolitan area.

Ages 4+

2012-01-16T09:57:00.001-06:00

Taken Norman, OK

Also, via reader suggestion, apparently this past Christmas kicked off with a banner day for gun sales. Peace and love and all that.

On a side note, Martin Luther King, Jr. was shot to death on April 4, 1968 in Memphis, Tennessee. ->

Satin Flight

2012-01-13T14:18:00.001-06:00

I've been shopping for flatware ALL WEEK.

It's exhausting!

(epic sigh)

There are so many choices out there when you google "18/10 stainless steel flatware" (yes, google is a verb. Don't try and tell me it's not, it is) that it's completely overwhelming. Even when you try to limit yourself to one brand, say Onieda, the choices are ridiculous. And the names companies choose for product lines give you absolute no indication as to what the product actually looks like.

You know what I'm saying.

Amsterdam
Arktos
Bordeaux
Circuit
Couplet
Joann
Louisiana
Marquette
Sand Dune
Satin Flight
Simba
Vertex

When I see "Amsterdam" on a website, for instance, I immediately think of pot being legally sold on the street. Therefore the utensils should have marijuana leaves on them.
I don't think that's a huge leap at all.

But they don't.

"Joann" is just one letter away from "Joan" which leads me to Joan Crawford, which leads me to Mommy Dearest, which leads me to coat hangers.

Suffice it to say the "Joann" line doesn't include a fork with a molded coat-hanger opposite the tines.

I just want a nice, heavy knife for spreading my butter. Is that too much to ask?

When I encounter such "problems" in my life, I always think about a book that I keep telling myself I'm going to read and have yet to make the time to do so.

You've heard of the paradox of choice, right?

Here, take 20 minutes:

If you didn't take the time to watch, I'll sum up concept with his one brilliant observation: "The key to happiness is lowering your expectations."

Not that this helps me with my Gourmet Settings Avalon flatware vs. Oneida Act I flatware vs. Crate & Barrel Tuscany flatware vs. a much better style of flatware I've yet to discover, but it's a nice concept to keep in mind.

Oh, wait! I think what he's saying is I just need to go to a thrift store to get my flatware. Or perhaps a garage sale. Target, maybe. But at that point I'm clearly raising my expectations because if I go to Target to shop for flatware, I'll actually expect all the pieces to match.

On a completely different note, I bought a shirt two weeks ago, have only worn it once, and now I can't find it.

Song of the week(which, by the way, I had a really hard time choosing. And I'm still not sure I went with the right one):

Betsy's Trinket

2012-01-11T09:21:00.000-06:00

I saw The Boy going to his car with a pair of scissors last week and wondered what on earth that was all about.

He was in and out in a matter of moments and so I had to ask:

Me: What were you doing in there?

The Boy: Oh! I was taking something off my car ornament.

Me: Your car ornament?

The Boy: Yeah. You haven't seen it yet?

Of course he's going to get a car ornament for the vehicle. I drove the car for years and never gave it a name. The Boy gets use of it and within a week she was christened "Betsy" and now she's wearing jewelry.

As I was walking around to the front of the vehicle to take a gander, I wondered what on earth could have passed muster enough to bedeck Betsy.

Batman?

Superman?

Green Latern?

Darth Vader?

No.

Not for my kid. He's more likely to choose a Sheldon Cooper bobble head. Or some obscure Skyrim character. A Marine action figure. Obama.

Or I could see him going for the complete cheese factor and buying fuzzy dice. Or the Hawaiian hula wiggle girl.

A blow up doll?

Surely not.

Oh God help me! It IS. He bought a BLOW UP DOLL for his car. OMG, I'm horrified....

Then I got to the front of the car:

And I take a closer look:

That's right, folks.

Twilight Sparkle.

I just look at him...

The Boy: WHAT?

And I reach for my phone...

The Boy: Oh God, you're taking pictures? This is going on the blog, isn't it?

Me: Ya think? ->

Bargain Priced

2012-01-09T06:30:00.000-06:00

Norman Oklahoma, Pro HDR iPhone app

Trolling the web, I also ran across this picture. I hope to get something that poignant by the end of my project, but I have little hope of doing so. ->

Ticking Clocks

2012-01-06T08:50:00.000-06:00

Sometimes it really is the simple things in life.

My friend's grandmother died recently. Before her death, however, my friend was charged with going to Texas and cleaning out the house. There was a ton of stuff that made its way back up to Oklahoma, including two cuckoo clocks. My friend and her brother, for reasons that I simply cannot fathom, didn't want the clocks.

!!

So, via trickle-down economics, one came to live in my home and the bigger one now lives in my parent's house (my dad loves clocks.) They were both in perfect working order.

I am here to publicly announce that I LOVE the cuckoo clock. Love it. And so does the rest of my family. I love the charming, whimsical sound of constant ticking and my little birdie telling me the time. I love that it needs no batteries and love the fact that Libby pulls the chains up every morning to keep it running. I love that it is now on its second life and will hopefully have a third one years from now. And while it's not a style I would have chosen for myself if I had bought it, I love that it feels as if it's been residing in my home for years.

It lives in the hallway right outside my kitchen.

Take 29 seconds:

Song of the week:

Free to a Good Home: One Old, Angry Cat

2012-01-04T07:53:00.001-06:00

Old Angry Cat is losing a little bit of hair.

Well, that's not quite accurate.

I think it's more accurate to say my cat looks like a chemo survivor:

Odd, because he doesn't have cancer.

And I know this because we had him tested.

There's a story.

Here's an abridged version of the play-by-play with the vet.

VISIT NUMBER ONE:

Me: He's going bald!

Vet: He has ear mites. You need to treat him with two different kinds of ear mite medication. The first is eighteen drops a day for ten days over the course of an exact twelve-hour window starting and ending at 9:23. The second is to be given to him on the half and new moon. At night. Between the hours of ten and ten-oh-nine. And we really need to run some blood work, but that will cost you the same amount of money that you spend on groceries every week. Plus you have to pay for an office visit. And buy the ear mite medication, of course. Both of them.

Me: But he's going bald...

The Vet: Give him a bath. Use a soft plastic brush to exfoliate. He has dry skin.

{That's right, folks. A bath. With water.

He took that well.

You heard him, right?}

VISIT NUMBER TWO:

Me: He's still going bald.

Vet: I'm pretty sure he has mange, but I can't find it in the skin scrapings. Anyway, here's a prescription for a mange medicine because I'm sure this is the problem. This will cost you sixty dollars and we don't have it here, so you have to go home and order it yourself. Then you have to give it to him on alternating Wednesdays that contain the number eight.

Me: And this will help with the hair growth?

Vet: Oh, give him another bath. Here's some super, special medicated shampoo that is specifically formulated for cats and dogs and horses and will cost twenty-five bucks. But you're only going to use it one time because he's losing fur so you don't want to keep giving him a bath with the magic shampoo. By the way, I still want to do blood work, which hasn't been reduced in price.

(On a side note, I'm thinking I can use the magic shampoo on myself since I have so much left over. With all its divine properties, surely it will prevent my hair from going any more grey than it already is, right?)

VISIT NUMBER THREE:

Me: He's still bald. And what's worse, he's mutating. Look, he grew a tooth at the end of his tail:

The vet, accusingly: did you give him special sixty-dollar medication?

Me: {defensive} Yes!!

The vet {clearly not believing me}: How many times? Every alternating Wednesdays with an eight in them like we discussed, right?

Me: YES! I've given him two treatments now and he still looks like Gollum.

The vet: We really need to do the bloodwork (cha-ching)

Me: (sigh) Fine! Go ahead.

LATER

The vet: Well, he has infected paws, so we reccomend an antibiotic (cha-ching). And he has a yeast infection so we reccomend this special anti-fungal bath (cha-ching.) You need to mix exactly 1,323 drops of it with half a gallon of holy water and, this is important, DO NOT rinse it off. And I want to see him back in a week because he has an elevated white blood count (cha-ching.)

For those of you not keeping count, we are now up to three baths.

With water.

Three.

To add insult to injury on this last go-round, Old Angry Cat had to marinate in the stuff--get this--until he dried off completely.

He thinks I'm Lucifer.

And I swear, neighbors were thisclose to calling 911 after the latest "bathing" episode, as it sounded like I was murdering not only both my children but a herd of baby lambs in my house. And since I had to leave him in the bathroom until he was almost dry, the yowling went on for what I know was a full tidal cycle.

Say you: Why did you have to leave him locked in the bathroom?

Say me: the solution was the color of yellow food coloring. Seriously. Ponder, for a moment, little yellow paw prints ALL over the house. Not to mention yellow water splashes ALL over the house from the inevitable attempts to shake himself dry. I had one highly aggrevated feline on my hands who had nothing but REVENGE blinking on and off in his head, and he was primed to inflict maxium damage.

Bonus! The vet was not being wholly forthcoming when she said the anti-fungal rinse didn't "smell very good."

It's a sulfur based medication.

My house smelled like flatulence for a solid day following that treatment.

Grand Total:

$500 dollars spent on treatments to make the cat not bald

1 cat who remains bald
3 visits to the vet
2 ear mite medications
1 mange mite medication
14 days of administering said medication
3 baths

Say you: You're stuck on this one, aren't you?
Say me: YOU give your cat three baths and then see where you are with it.

1 more antibiotic treatment*

1 more mange treatment

3 more fart baths

When I posted this on Facebook, one friend replied something to the effect of "isn't it amazing what we'll do for those pets when they sneak into our hearts?"

To which I replied that it wasn't that Old Angry Cat snuck into my heart so much as he threatened to haunt me for the remainder of my days unless I found out why he looks like Zombie Kitty before he passed over.

Wait a second.... ->

*Subject to change

THIEVES

2012-01-02T06:00:00.000-06:00

Arcadia, Oklahoma.

Flashback

2011-12-30T09:56:00.000-06:00

On this, the second-to-last day of 2011, I'm traveling back in time.

So my friend posted this to Facebook and I think it's the coolest thing. But I was only able to guess a few of the movies. The ones in red are ones that readers identified. Apparently this thing has been making the web rounds for a while and I was way behind the curve. Thanks everyone for your help in filling in the blanks.

A: Airplane
B: Back to the Future
C: Coming to America
D: Dirty Dancing
E: ET
F: Flight of the Navigator
G: Ghostbusters*
H: Honey I Shrunk the Kids
I: Indiana Jones
J: Jumping Jack Flash
K: Karate Kid
L: Labyrinth
M: Mannequin
N: Nightmare on Elm Street
O: Octopussy
P: Princess Bride (?)
Q: Q
R: Rambo
S: Short Circuit (I get partial credit, as I remembered Ally Sheedy was in it.)
T: Teen Wolf
U: Untouchables
V: Vice Versa
W: Weird Science
X: Xanadu
Y: Youngblood
Z: Zelig

Fact: I still have my original Xanadu soundtrack. On vinyl. No judging, I was 12.

On a different note, the site responsible for this poster has some great t-shirts. I'm going shopping.

And in the spirit of the 80's:

*I'm simply appalled I didn't get that one. It's so obvious.

OPEN OTHER SIDE

2011-12-28T23:13:00.001-06:00

You know how sometimes I give you recipes for something really evilicious in my posts instead of writing actual posts?

This isn't one of those posts.

This IS, however, a post that is a)about cooking and b) will prove to you that my blog can compete any day of the week with all those frilly foodie blogs.

Who needs perfect casseroles and pristine cookies and cupcakes adorned with ribbons and chicken enchiladas sprinkled with Martha dust when you can have this:

Obviously there's a story here involving heavy cream and a carton that doesn't have a very large note on the front of the box that says Open the box RIGHT HERE. DO NOT open the box on the other side. You will regret it. I swear!!!
in big, bold, italicized, underlined neon pink letters.

I thought I was living life on the edge. I thought it would OK to open the heavy cream for my caramel on the "wrong" side. All those cartons tell you to OPEN OTHER SIDE (in all caps,) but they don't give you the aforementioned warning on the box before you start to open the carton and by the time you get to the warning you're already half-way there and no one wants to use a carton that's been pulled apart on both sides because that just puts wrinkles in the space/time continuum which in the short term is probably not a big deal but long-term will likely cause one out of four sea otters to be born with horns and have the personalities of chihuahuas and the milk product pours just the same out of either side so seriously, what difference does it make?

Apparently a lot.

Which wasn't apparent at first.

But as I began to pour, I quickly noticed that the cream was not going into the bowl as I had anticipated, but instead was pooling at an alarming rate in my utensil drawer 18 inches below the bowl.

The logistics there are too complicated to explain, but trust me, it happened.

Then I really looked at the carton after I broke the cardinal rule of not opening on the other side, even though Land O Lakes told me, in all caps, to do so:

Turns out cream-pouring accuracy is greatly reduced in this particular circumstance.

It also turns out that living with The Geek does have its advantages because despite my best intentions the man has rubbed off on me:

Say you: I'm unclear how you're competing with foodie blogs when there's no recipe and all you did was...

Say me: REALLY? I give you duct tape and you question my judgment? Get off my blog. ->

Dungeon Master

2011-12-26T06:30:00.000-06:00

Christmas Day, 2011, Noble, Oklahoma

The Boy's interpretation of....

Nailed it? ->

Cheers

2011-12-23T09:37:00.000-06:00

Here's hoping everyone has a blessed holiday weekend. Thanks for reading, Tanya

Song(s) of the week:

Getting Old Sucks, Episode 3

2011-12-21T09:37:00.000-06:00

You know how you go to the store and it's really crowded and you have a lot of stuff on your mind and you're shopping for ~~15 minutes~~ hours so it's natural that you might have forgotten where you parked before you went in and then you go outside to the parking lot and you can't find your car?

This happened to me recently.

OK, it happened to me yesterday.

Before I go any further, let me explain something. When I'm forced to be a Mart of Darkness patron, I always try to park in the little side lot on the south side of the store. The lot only fits about 100 cars or so (as opposed to 6,548 cars the parking lot in front of the store fits) and because of its size, it's much easier to find my car. Sometimes, though, Wal-Fart will close off half of that parking lot to temporary house train cars full of ~~cheap crap made in China~~ really important stuff that I'm sure we all need. Even when those cargo crates are there I will drive through the little lot on the off chance a parking spot is available.

Yesterday was one of those days.

This is an important detail to tuck away.

So I was running last-minute errands, something I'm sure I'll be doing all week, and my mind was elsewhere. It was an astonishly quick trip for me as I had something quite specific in mind that I was shopping for. I stormed out the door with my goods in hand and walked straight to the section of the parking lot I use when the little section has nothing available.

Which was pretty impressive, really. I wasn't completely on auto-pilot and remembered BEFORE I walked to the little lot that there were no spots available in said little lot and I had to use the mammoth lot. On these occasions I always park in the same vicinity so I can, you know, find my car.

It was cold.

It was windy.

It was wet.

It was monochromatic:

I was in a hurry because I had two other places to patron before Libby arrived home from school and time was running short.

Naturally I couldn't find my car.

I walked ALL the way down one aisle of cars and ALL the way up another--which if you've been to a Super Mega Ultra Darth Mart you know is easily 2 miles.

Huh. I missed it on my first pass. I'll try again. And this time I'll use my car clicker. Love that thing, which has a range that goes on forever, so when I click it my car will call out to me and say "Here I am!" with a little beep.

There I go, being all clever.

Except there was no beep.

Walking and clicking and walking and clicking and walking and clicking and NO beep.

Let me tell you something:

When it's cold and wet and windy and monochromatic and you're in a hurry and you KNOW you parked here somewhere on THIS aisle, (or maybe the one next door, but still, you parked right here somewhere) and you're walking and clicking and walking and clicking and there's no beep, there is no room in ones thought processes for logic or rationality.

Someone stole my car.

Clearly.

An abridged running commentary in my head:

HOW could this happen? It's broad daylight out and this parking lot has security and why on earth would someone want to make off with my little Subaru anyway? (click--no beep) I guess it's pretty new but still...This close to Christmas to boot! Nice. (click CLICK--no beep) Way to go asshole. (CLICK CLICK--no beep) I hope you feel good stealing a woman's car. A woman with CHILDREN. OH MY GOD. How can I possibly work out later if I'm in the middle of dealing with the police about a stolen vehicle? That's going to take forever. (CLICK CLICK CLICK--no beep) Mitch is going to have to leave work early so he can be home when Libby gets there. OH. My. GAWD. Insurance is going to be a living nightmare. I don't want to have to drive a rental again. (CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK--no beep.) I can't believe someone STOLE MY CAR.

I was out of my head and near tears but had to yet to make any kind of phone call but was thisclose when out of nowhere it struck me.

The realization that yes, I actually did park in the little lot by the side of the store. I just didn't park in an actual parking space--I sorta made one up.

The good news is no one stole my car. ->

Sad Reese's

2011-12-19T08:00:00.000-06:00

Say you: *scratching head* I'm sorry, but what does candy have to do with guns?

Say me: Here, let me show you:

For some reason, I've had a hard time finding the little candy canes filled with Reese's this year. I generally get one for The Boy as he loves them. I don't like getting an entire bag, because no one else really likes them except me, and I certainly don't need them.

Then....score! Yay for Target!

Or so I thought.

Upon closer inspection, Every. Single. One. of those Reeses Peanut Butter Cup candy canes had been defiled in some way.

There were over 20 of them there, none fit for buying.* Since ALL of them were bruised and battered I smelled a rat.

And this past weekend, when I was knee-deep in Christmas madness and feeling quite curmudgingly, I was ready to go borrow a firearm, hunt down and shoot said rat. ->

*No. They were not fit for buying. I have standards, okay?

MORE Sex Abuse For Christmas

2011-12-16T00:43:00.000-06:00

I was trying to decide what I was going to write about and then I remembered one of my grad school professors got arrested this week.

For child rape.

Ready for the classes he taught that I took?

Mental Health Diagnostics

AND

Human Sexuality.

Yes. The irony train left the station with me sitting in first class.

I hate, Hate, HATE that it has to a) be a damned Social Work professor and b) it has to be one that I not only know but actually took classes from.

People I went to school with didn't think much of him. He got into a heap of trouble in his early years because he kept changing the syllabus in all his classes. I always felt like he was just too busy trying to please the students to be all that effective.

It just makes my degree feel cheap and somehow defiled. Like I have to go back to school for a while and somehow repent for what this jackass has been doing for years.

And no. I have no qualms referring to one of my old professors as a "jackass" when it's plastered all over the news that he told police he likes to "stroke" young girls.

We're talking ages 9 to 13 here.

Excellent.

And I certainly don't have any issues with posting about it here. He's not my professor now, this has nothing to do with my job, and the fact that he thinks he has a porn problem is now public knowledge.

I don't watch the local news but you can bet I'll be keeping an eye on this story as it unfolds, which you can view here. I tried to embed it, but the code is bad and I'm not geeky enough to figure out how to fix it.

Additionally, this damn season is kicking my ass. I always put a lot of unnecessary pressure on myself every December--for instance I make, MAKE my Christmas cards--but for some reason this year feels overwhelming. My unorganized nature and tendency to procrastinate have finally gotten the best of me. Plus it feels as if we're hemorrhaging money with all the extra expenses families don't incur any other month of the year: Craft supplies the school party, dirty Santa gifts for social gatherings, food for The Big Dinner, food for when family is in town, charity giving, and the presents! Oh, the presents for all those people in our life who lack for nothing.

So, all in all, not a great week. I'm sorry for the cynicism. Hopefully this will pass soon.

Song of the week:

Dug Up From the Old Trench

2011-12-13T23:40:00.000-06:00

I originally wrote this in September 2008. I'm re-posting an updated version now, because it just seems fitting considering the season.

WRAP IT UP

I am wrapping paper's Bitch.

I'm the one who will only use wire-edged, fabric ribbon on gifts. I'm the onewho will only use "high quality" paper that's nice and thick and muchmore appropriate for wrapping a 6 pound beef roast as opposed to a box from Amazon.I'm the one scouring the aisles after Christmas for the excellent deals andhoarding my finds until the following year. I'm the one who will only use colorcoordinated tissue paper when I have to wrap something inside the Amazon box.

And while I'm at it, let's discuss tape, shall we? Because tape matters. That nasty, frosty tape simply will not do on ~~my works of ar~~t ~~presentations~~ presents under the tree or at birthday celebrations. Nope. What's the point of using lovely paper if you're going to ruin the overall effect by advertising that THIS IS WHERE I TAPED THE SEAMS TOGETHER? I like the Scotch brand, satin finish, gift wrap tape, thankyouverymuch.

Bags are a personal affront unless they have been customized to the point of ridiculousness. For instance, the last time I wrapped presents in a bag, I personally decorated them. With cutouts of shoes. On hand-made marbled paper. From a stencil I made. Garnished with two kinds of ribbon. And stamped tissue paper.

Huh.

I just re-read that last paragraph.

I should probably be committed.

Moving on...

For the sake of research and accuracy, I just counted what's in my stash. I have 26 rolls of wrapping paper. This doesn't include the marble paper I bought over the summer or the awesome vintage stuff I scored at an estate sale last year.

Frankly, I don't find 26 rolls of paper unreasonable at all.

Honestly, I thought it was more.

I know. I KNOW. On so many levels, wrapping paper is just wrong. And believe me, I've tried(well, not really) to break my little habit.

Here are all the arguments against Made-in-China-Hobby Lobby/Target-issued wrapping paper. Feel free to jump in with more. I'm sure they're as many arguments against wrapping paper as there are socks without mates in my sock pile.

The Social Worker Perspective: It's just vulgar. The dollars youspend on wrapping paper could feed a child in Darfur for six years. And theluxury paper is even worse! The dollars you spend on that could feed a village inDarfur for six years.

The Environmentalist Perspective: It's a complete waste of resources. Doyou know how much engery is needed to produce said wrapping paper? The trees? The oil? Not to mention the landfill space. If you insist on wrapping gifts,reduce, reuse, recycle! Get some of these and they'll last for years!

The Live Life Simply Perspective: It's an extravagance.Do you honestly NEED wrapping paper? Does your life have room for the clutterof wrapping paper and all its accoutrements?

The Cheapskate Perspective: It's expensive. Those Sunday morningcomics are colorful, and you've already paid for them via your subscription.Better yet, pilfer through the neighbor's recycle bin on curbside day and thenthey're free!

The Artist Perspective: Buy it? Why on earth would you buy wrappingpaper when you can wrap up gifts in copies of your own drawings or paintings? Why use paper at all when there are so many otherunique ways to present a gift?

The Mommy Blogger Perspective: OMG! Stamping brown craft paper and using it as wrapping paper is SO CUTE! And while you're wrapping your gift, you can take 15 photos of it from different angles at f/2.0 for a supercloseupshot! and then post them ALL to your Wordpress blog for your 246 followers to "ooooh" and "ahhhh" over! Hello? Multi-tasking!!

The Shabby-Chic Perspective: Have you not been to a flea market lately? You can find vintage boxes for practically nothing and present your gift in those. Quite unique and so much more fun than wrapping paper.

The Feminist Perspective: Wrapping paper is just another way for The Man to keep us down.

The Man Perspective: Wait, you're supposed to wrap the gift?

I am completely cognizant of all of these arguments.

And yet.

And yet when I see pink and polka dots and fun patterns....

And it's all ON SALE...

So goes all my capacity for rational thought processes. ->

$575

2011-12-12T06:16:00.003-06:00

Shot guns
Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.

Reader suggestion pick of the week:

You can go here to find out who is wearing these shoes.

All Links All The Time

2011-12-07T10:17:00.001-06:00

So I heard this story with Martha Stewart earlier in the week on NPR.

All you need is this line from the interview

"...up in Maine at my summer house...built by Edsel Ford, by the way..."

to know that the woman remains completely insufferable.

I found Tumblr. Because seriously, I need another digital time killer. Where has it been all my life? I cannot believe the gems lurking around on that site.

To wit:

Mind-blowing things students write and have the nerve to turn in to their professors. And by "mind-blowing" I mean "unbelievably inane."

Animals Talking in All Caps. Hilarious.

And then there are the hungover owls. Priceless.

Art

All Hipstamatic cats all the time. (One of mine made it over there. Go to December 8th and look for the super-close up, as I can't get it in a separate window. You can also see her on Flickr.)

I could go on, but you get the idea.

Naturally I started one of my own, because I don't want to be left out. It's only pictures, and nothing I post here. I'm trying to get more proficient with my DSLR and my best attempts I'm hanging over there (along with Flickr, of course.) It's a wee bit light right now, but I'm trying to post an average of one a day.

Speaking of pictures, The Geek informed me of this wicked camera app called Paper Camera. It takes pictures only in weird modes, giving your results an arty, surreal quality.

Still Life

How cool is that?

Oh, one other cool blog, but this one is on Blogger. Men who go to strip clubs baring their souls. You can't stop reading, I'm warning you.

Song of the week:

For Whom the Bell Tolls

2011-12-06T20:36:00.001-06:00

I've decided that at this time of year I just need to carry around quarters.

Because everywhere I go, the Salvation Army Bell Ringers are there.

Ringing that blasted bell.

Making me feel like an ass if I don't put something in their bucket.

"Merry Christmas!" they call to me, as I'm walking away from the store.

Which, after going through the Tanya Filter gets translated to:

"Go ahead and LEAVE with your frivolous purchases, you haughty, cold-hearted prig! There are starving children right here in the good 'ole USofA, but you just carry on with your day. That's right! Walk away! Don't worry about the single mothers caring for three emaciated toddlers!"

To assuage my guilt, I have been known to explained to them that I'm not dropping anything in their bucket now because I donated to another bucket at the last store I visited 30 minutes ago.

To which they respond: "Thanks so much!"

To which I then translate into: "SURE you did, you lying, miserly, twit."

They torture me.

Naturally I wanted a picture of one for my blog.

So I went to Hobby Lobby with camera in hand and chatted one up on my way in the store. She was nice enough to let me get her photo and I had planned on posting it without her name, per her request.

On the way out, however, I noticed shift change had happened while I was in consuming and there was a new bell ringer.

I had, simply put, hit the mother load.

Because not only did the replacement bell ringer don her gay apparel...

Wait, the full body angle is much better...

Do you see them?

No?

Let me help you out:

I'm sorry for the spot color. I won't do it again unless it's absolutely necessary.

Anyway, where was I?

Oh yeah.

Not only did she sport her Buddy the Elf ensemble, she....get ready for it...sang as she was ringing that bell.

Silent Night
We Three Kings
Deck the Halls

etc.

A lovely voice, in fact.

Go on. Walk away from THAT without parting ways with at least a buck.

I dare you.

It gets better: come to find out she was the Salvation Army Bell Ringer Coordinator for all of Norman, Oklahoma one year.

But wait! There's more!

Her name is Holly.

Listen folks, I can't make this shit up.

Holly, bless her, was extraordinarily nice and answered all the questions I peppered at her, rapid-fire like Oprah on a caffeine binge. She was also exceptionally tolerant of my sitting in front of her for what felt like an hour, but was in reality probably only 10 minutes, snapping pictures and doing it badly.

Here are some things I learned:

1. The bell-ringing campaign is the Salvation Army's biggest fund raiser of the year.*

2. The bell ringers in Norman are volunteers, although there are some around the country who get paid.

3. There are hundreds of bell ringers in my town each year, and they sign up for their spots months in advance.

(You read that correctly: months.)

4. Naturally the coveted spots are the ones where the ringing happens inside.

5. Wal-Mart makes the ringers suffer the elements**

6. The volunteers come from civic organizations, local businesses and churches.

7. Holly said coordinating the volunteers was a "hard job." To which the Tanya Filter translated into "it was a huge pain-in-the-arse and even if you threatened to shave off my eyebrows and pull out my nosehairs with a horse-powered clamp I would never do it again."

8. I donated $4 to Salvation Army that day, $2 in the bucket for each bell ringer I approached.

Because it's so appropriate, I'm posting my absolute favorite Christmas carol of all time (video 1:28)->

*Ok, this tidbit I learned from a woman who used to work at Salvation Army.

**Holly didn't tell me this either. I just know because the ones over there are exceptionally forceful with their "Merry Christmas" as I'm walking away having donated to another bucket 30 minutes ago.

Ooting Times

2011-12-05T06:00:00.000-06:00

Wal-Mart, Norman Oklahoma

Here's what I believe to be a complete list of the weapon-related magazines I saw at Darth-Mart today:

American Handgunner
AR Rifleman
Black Guns
Book of the AR-15
Combat Arms
Combat Handguns
Combat Tactics
Custom Combat Handguns
Guns (Buyer's guide)
Gun Digest
Gun Guide 2012
Gun Magazine
Guns & Weapons
Guns of the West
Handloader
Rifle Shooter
Shooting Times
Special Weapons
Surplus Firearms
Tactical Weapons

If you're not counting, that's 20. Which is one more than the number of bibles they have on hand, so you know, guns trump God.

It is also 18 more than the number of dictionaries they carry, so guns definitely trump words. Although to be fair, the two they have now is two more then they had a mere 11 months ago. I'd like to think I had a hand in that, cuz my blog is that influential. Look! I even snapped a picture to prove it:

Thanks to everyone who has sent me suggestions about things I can talk about here.

Behold, my reader suggestion pick of the week: For the cop who has everything, pepper spray guns. ->

First World Problems

2011-12-02T08:00:00.000-06:00

OK, firstly, I've got a plant blooming in my bathroom.

It's December and my addled plant, which I drag in every winter so it doesn't die, is sprouting flowers. What's more, the flowers smell and the odor is quite potent. Not potent in a bad way, mind, just strong--like honeysuckle.

Here's the thing: the fact that it smells like honeysuckle in my bathroom means it smells like April in there. And I don't want it to smell like April, I want it to smell like the holidays. Give me cinnamon and cloves! Give me oranges! Give me evergreen! Do not offer up some floral nonsense. It's disconcerting when I'm bathing. How's a girl supposed to relax?

In continuation with my whole The-plants-Are-Feeling-Amorous-Therefore-Are-Out-To-Get-Me theme....

Say You: The plant is out to get you because it's blooming?

Say me: Clearly.

Anyway....this guy?

Ignore the shadows that scream "amateur photographer!"

He also lives in my bathroom. I discovered last night that the bastard and his posse are staging a full-on invasion:

Say you: All I see in the reflection is a blue towel that is folded different from all the others...

Say me: OK, disregard my towels* and look closer:

Seriously. Ignore the shadows.

Do you see that? He's literally growing across my bathroom wall. If I hadn't caught this, in another month's time he would have connected with the little trollop that lives across the room (also seen in the mirror), they would have gotten naughty and soon enough there would be the birth of a swamp monster via my shower head:

This is totally the swap monster I prevented from being born. Not a museum relic.

Thank God I now have that plant's number and I can let it know who's boss. Many thanks to Fiskars scissors, who made my bad-ass dominance a possibility.

Lastly, I'm so done with glitter (after I finish this current series of ornaments) it's not even funny.

It's OVER.

We're getting divorced.

I mean it.

Really.

Just look at what it did to my Otter box:

All I did was drop my phone on a Christmas ornament that was in the drying process. Now I'm forced to walk around with ~~unwanted~~ unsolicited bling.

Let me tell you something: Elmer's glue? It works. ->

Song of the week:

*For the record, I did not fold that towel. I blame The Geek.

I Hate (love?) Glitter. Episode 2.

2011-11-29T23:45:00.001-06:00

Glitter.

If that word doesn't strike fear into your heart you're either not a crafter or you're an alien.

It is the kudzu of craft supplies and yet every. fucking. Christmas I get sucked in by its charms and forget that opening those little jars of glitz is akin to opening Pandora's box.

Because on the surface, glitter is all sparkly and shiny and twinkley and Whee! So. Much. Fun.

But underneath there's a malevolence lurking

...that begins with an innocuous little project...

...and ends with Thumbelina having a full on rave in your home, as evidenced by the glitter not only in your workroom.

But in your hallway.

And your kitchen.

The bathroom.

The kids' rooms.

And on the living room carpet.

That you just steamed cleaned three days ago.

I haven't even gotten to the part where it somehow ends up on your face.

And in your hair.

On your kitchen table.

Say you: You bitched about glitter last year, you know.

Say me: I did?

I DID.

SEE??

It's so wrong it deserves an annual entry extolling its wickedness!

Say you: Sigh. So, you're going to tell us anyway. What did you make?

Say me: Christmas ornaments.

Every year for the past few years I've tossed the traditional hang-the-same-ornament-on-the tree and gone for a theme.

Vanity Fair one year.

Paper dolls the next.

This year, Libby suggested Ancient Egypt.

And before I go any further, I'm not offering a step-by-step tutorial on how to find clip-art online and then adorn with shimmery craft-virus-in-a-bottle. I think you can do that all by yourself.

As I was saying...Ancient Egypt.

What, you don't think cartouches belong on a Christmas tree? Well, think again. This one says "Honey." Libby made it in honor of her great-grandmother, age 90, whom she met last week for the first time. I'm the one who dubbed her "Honey" many moons ago because I couldn't say "Grandma." It forever stuck:

And her glitter shots:

Here's one of mine (top sheet water color, bottom sheet marbled paper):

I would show you the whole tree in context, but frankly we're still ~~spreading gaudy sand all over the house~~ making ornaments. The tree is only half dressed at this point.

As for my other ornaments and previous memories wrapped up in glitter et al, this year I displayed them in groupings on my bookshelf in the living room.

Warning! I-do-holiday-vignettes-better-than-you-don't-you-feel-like-a-loser? shots forthcoming.

These were the first set of ornaments I bought for myself. They make me happy:

Some of the kids' earlier masterpieces:

And earlier snowmen they made at school:

Ummm...Second grade wasn't TJ's best year. He's much better now.

Moving on.

You know how you get all obsessed with a particular project that goes on forever and then you lose interest and all of a sudden you have literally one thousand finished items you made from your temporary bought of craft insanity and what the HELL do you do with them because your mother is really tired of them, and your friends could not care less about owning them? Here's my solution:

Mitch's grandmother actually made the two perched on the white dealy-bopper. I made the rest.

Did you see this little guy?:

I'm sorry. I made him too. Polymer clay. It was a one-time deal.

Here's the whole book shelf:

Yes. I sorta have a German nutcracker and smoker obsession.

No, I'm not posting anymore close-up shots. You can breathe a sigh of relief.

Yes, I left the top shelves alone. To prove that I'm not completely daft on Christmas. (read: Libby didn't take those frames down because she couldn't reach them and who am I to argue? Thank God you can't see the dust up there.)

Now, off to crack open my brand-new glitter! Which I purchased yesterday to adorn my as yet finished ornaments. It was a completely necessary purchase because we had run out of gold. And I didn't own white glitter at all.

And just to reiterate, I'm totally not daft on the holiday. At all. ->

Tis the Season

2011-11-28T08:00:00.000-06:00

Atwoods in Norman, OK.

I don't know about you, but I live for sparkly guns hanging from my Christmas tree.

Target. Norman, OK.

And then you can wrap these and tuck them under...

Peace and love, Tanya. ->

Grey Friday

2011-11-25T06:02:00.001-06:00

1. Congratulations to Deirdre, an old college friend and frequent trench visitor, who got married yesterday! Best of luck to you and your husband as you embark upon a new phase in your lives. Thanks so much for reading.

2. I had so much food yesterday, I don't need to eat anything except egg whites and celery for the next month. Which works out perfectly, as Christmas dinner is exactly 30 days away. Mind, I'm not saying I WILL eat only egg whites and celery, simply that this is all I need to eat...

3. I'm not shopping in brick-and-mortar stores today. I'm not sure I'll spend any money at all. Except perhaps to get a pedicure. And that doesn't count.

4. For those of you who've lived in The Great State of Oklahoma for any length of time, you know as well as I do that the holiday season doesn't really begin until when......?

That's right.

Until you hear and/or see the BC Clark commercial.

For all you (two) non-local readers of my blog, BC Clark is a jewelry store in Oklahoma City. They're Oklahoma's oldest jeweler. Since 1892. Most sales are after Christmas, but their's is just before.

Etc.

Anyway, the jingle is older than I am by several years; it hit the airwaves for the first time in 1956.

They've never changed it. Which I find comforting and endearing. I'm sure most Oklahomans feel the same way. It's quaint and cheerful and whimsical and it always makes me smile when I hear it for the first time each holiday season.

Here's my problem: I don't watch live TV anymore. When I'm in the car, I'm either listening to NPR or ~~my boyfriend~~ podcasts. Neither of which air OKC commercials.

Meaning this time of year, unless I take action I don't get the hear the jingle!

And I'm not kidding. It's not Christmas time until I hear it.

Because I'm so neurotic, I feel as if I'm cheating if I go to Youtube or click the inevitable Facebook links and view the commercial that way. So for the past few years I've had to pursue it.

Like a stalker.

I'm forced to listen to local radio stations in my car and forced to watch TV until I hear the sleigh bells in the wild. It can be burdensome and sometimes it days before I hear it organically. Which just pisses me off and defeats the whole purpose of the exercise.

Say you: Seriously? You can't just go to Youtube....

Say me: NO! I cannot. I'm telling you, it's not the same.

So. You can go ahead and be a cheater if you want. Me? I'm listening to The Spy until The Clarks serenade me.

Song(s) of the week:

Added bonus, another favorite from my childhood:

Oh, OK, one more. Since I'm being all non-corporate, stick-it-to-the-man, I'm-SO-not-shopping-today-because-I-refuse-to-be-sucked-in-by-marketers:

I'm Sorry, I'm All Domestic Today.

2011-11-23T23:35:00.000-06:00

It's not even Thanksgiving yet, and already I've had so much junk cooking going on in my kitchen I'm ready to mainline broccoli.

My exciting Friday night this past weekend consisted of baking an entire acre's worth of refined sugar cane, with some chocolate thrown in for good measure. I had so many cookies lying around and not nearly enough space in which to cool them (read: was thoroughly unprepared because I only own one cookie cooling rack) that I had to get quite creative with where I was cooling them while rotating batches in and out the oven:

Say you: Hold the phone! What kind of cookie is THAT?

Say me: That, my salivating friend, is simply put, the best cookie on the planet.

Period.

I started with a Martha recipe and then I heavily tweaked it. Because believe it or not, Martha ain't always all that. My brother, when watching me make them one year, decided that...wait for it...a Hershey's caramel kiss nestled in the center was the way to go.

His name is Stuart, but we've called him Stu forever.

So we dubbed the cookies "Stooders" in his honor, even though I think the kiss is a little over-the-top and only do half the batch that way.

And before you ask, yes, I'll give you the recipe. It's been a work in progress for a few years now and the peanut butter chips are a recent and welcome addition. I threw them in on a whim one day. I'll never go back to not having them there.

Stooders (or STU-ders)

Preheat oven to 325 F
metric conversion

1 cup flour
3/4 cocoa powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon course salt
1 1/4 cup sugar
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1 tablespoon instant coffee
2 eggs
1/2 cup butter (1 stick)
1 12 oz bag semi or bittersweet chocolate chips
6 oz peanut butter chips
3/4 cup of walnuts when not making them for Stu, who tragically doesn't like nuts in his cookies.
Optional: Hershey's caramel kisses

Yield: about 2 dozen
Calories per cookie: None.

In a double boiler, melt 6 ounces, or 1/2 the bag of chocolate chips(approximately 1 cup)and butter over low heat. When melted, stir in vanilla and instant coffee.

While the chocolate and butter are melting, mix together all the dry ingredients. Pour in the melted chocolate mixture and mix well. Add your eggs and mix until thoroughly combined.

Add the remaining chocolate chips, the peanut butter chips and the walnuts to the batter and stir until all the add-ons are well incorporated.

Bake for 12 to 15 minutes or until cracks show on the top of the cookie. I always line my pans with parchment paper before baking.

If you're adding the kiss, do so immediately after you pull the cookies from the oven. Let cool completely before storing in a dry, airtight container.

Some quick tips on this particular step:

1) Unwrap the kisses before you put them on top of the cookie. I suppose you could skip this step, but when you bite on foil it hurts those back fillings. Plus I can't imagine it's all that easy on the digestive system.

2) My brother had the nerve to suggest Hershey's peanut butter cups instead of the caramel kiss tonight when he tasted the peanut butter-chip version for the first time. Go this route at your own risk.

3) I think it's best to just put one piece of candy on any given cookie. Any more than that and you'll be required to have your dentist on speed-dial. Not to mention your endocrinologist.

Happy Thanksgiving to all my American readers. Happy hump day to everyone! ->

Lady Chic

2011-11-21T06:05:00.001-06:00

"Chic Lady" 38 Special with matching case made by Charter Arms. Can be yours for $419.95.

This is where I went for the photo:

I also saw Breaking Dawn on Friday.

Clearly, I'm a lover of high culture. ->