Whoops, I'd forgotten to mention this week's tenant. Usually I look for something funny ... but when I was offered the chance to rent space to a blog THAT IS ALL ABOUT CHOCOLATE (with REVIEWS! AND RECIPES!) I figured I'd be even more idiotic than usual not to take it on.
Oh, and he (?) is writing from England ... so the reviews are of Cadbury products and such. Which means my drooling is mixed with hopeless longing, along the lines of
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
leaving me wondering whether that chocolate can really be as good as it sounds. So check out it out--click on the chocolate box over there on the left.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
What's Your Hell Like?
I swiped this from Badger because I don't have an original thought in my head. I have to steal. For which I will be going to hell. And this is what it will be like:
Drinks in my hell:- Scotch
- faux martinis made with sweet liqueurs
- non-Diet Coke
- gin
- cognac
- any combination of hard liquor with anything carbonated--say, Scotch and Diet Moxie
- instant coffee with Cremora and Sweet and Low
- seared tuna
- margarine
- kiddy breakfast cereals
- bologna
- Doritos
- casseroles made with cream of anything soup
- baked beans
- Jell-O salads
- salads with marshmallows
- Circus Peanut candy
- Wonder Bread
- proctologist
- endodontist
- podiatrist
- customer service representative
- sommelier
- the person who stands at one end of a chunk of road construction telling drivers when they can proceed
- clown for children's birthday parties
- The Eagles
- America
- Chicago
- Three Dog Night
- Gordon Lightfoot
- Heavy Metal
- "smooth jazz"
- Schoenberg
- Alban Berg
- William Bolcom
- John Tavener
- Muzak
Authors in my hell: Ayn Rand; Norman Mailer; John Updike; Philip Roth; Christian Metz; Barbara Cartland; Ann Coulter
Husbands in my hell: Rush Limbaugh; Tom Cruise; Michael Douglas; Ted Kennedy; Newt Gingrich; Dr. Phil; Donald Trump
Only activities allowed in my hell:
- undergoing mammography
- cleaning the basement
- listening to Rush Limbaugh
- taking children to McDonald's
- taking children to Chuck E. Cheese
- going to the Secretary of State's office for a new license picture
- having teeth cleaned. Or drilled.
- being weighed
- going to a benefit or wedding with a loud band, bad food, and a bunch of total strangers at your table--and then a few of the guys start smoking cigars
- taking the car in for service and having to wait in a waiting room with a television blaring
- watching shopping channels
- long turbulent flights with screaming children and someone using a barf bag nearby
Copying Joke. Again.
Sometimes I wonder why I bother with blogging. I really don't belong on the internet with you young coolios. In case you haven't noticed, I'm a big dork. I eat the wrong food; I drink the wrong liquor, and I listen to the wrong kind of music. Also, I don't watch enough television. No penetrating insights about Lost or Survivor or anything like that will be happening around here. I'm too busy watching thirty-year-old programs, like Lord Peter Wimsey dramatizations from the 1970s.Anyway. If you've had the chance to marvel at the uber-coolness of the playlist Joke put together for Number One Son's ninth birthday, you'll have a good laugh when you see this playlist. It's the stuff my son asked me to download/rip to iTunes. The son who joins me and That Stud Muffin I Married for marathon Lord Peter Wimsey watching.
This is what he likes to listen to:
Eye of the Tiger, Survivor
Theme from Ghostbusters, Ghostbusters Soundtrack
I Like to Move it, Madagascar Soundtrack
Scooby Doo, Where Are You? Cosa
The Monster Mash, Boris
Treehouse Of Horror V (Medley), The Simpsons
Werewolves of London, Warren Zevon
Dracula From Houston, Butthole Surfers
Ghostbusters II Theme, Run D.M.C.
It's Raining Men, The Weather Girls
Halloween, Misfits
Witchdoctor, Ray Stevens
Feed My Frankenstein, Alice Cooper
Vampire Love, Misfits
Kitten on the Keys, Liberace
Un Bel Di Vedremo, Puccini: Madama Butterfly
Theme from The Munsters
Witchy Woman, The Eagles
Hey Juliet, LMNT
Linus and Lucy, Vince Guaraldi Trio
Fur Elise, Vince Guaraldi Trio
Sign Your Name, Terence Trent D'Arby
Shuffle Off To Buffalo, Ruby Keeler, Clarence Nordstrum,
We're In The Money (The Gold Diggers Song), Ginger Rogers & Chorus
Young And Healthy, Dick Powell, Toby Wing & Chorus
Honeymoon Hotel, Dick Powell, Ruby Keeler & Chorus
Shanghai Lil, James Cagney, Ruby Keeler, & Chorus
So. Joke's son is bopping around to that surf/ska/punk stuff I've never heard of. Probably playing along on the electric guitar. Whereas my son is cracking up to Ginger Rogers singing "We're in the Money" in Pig-Latin. And will, I have no doubt, figure out how to play it on his cello. Of course, that's not the most embarrassing item on this list; that would be "Witchy Woman," by the Eagles--something I only got because it was for my Halloween party playlist. And now ... my son has decided it's a Good Song.
I'm telling you, I'm a dork. And apparently, we're breeding them over here.
Move along--nothing to see here.
Sigh.
What the masses opiate themselves with around here
When inspiration palls, what does the weary blogger do? Steal someone else's ideas, that's what.
So I guess the new thing is lists--playlists, inventories of one's bar, etc.
Herewith, my summer bar inventory:
Tequila (all 100 agave, of course):
Herradura
Corzo
1800 Reposado
Don Julio An~ejo
Cielo
Gin:
Beefeater
Whiskey:
big ass bottle of Jim Beam
big ass bottle of Crown Royal
Jack Daniels
Woodford Reserve
Maker's Mark
Johnny Walker Black
Jameson
Rum:
Bacardi silver
Mount Gay
Vodka:
lemon flavored Stoli
Grey Goose
Misc.
Pernod
Casanis Pastis
Romana Black Liquore di Sambuca
Averna Amero Siciliano
Morlacco Sangue liqueur
Carpano Punt e Mes
Martini and Rossi dry and sweet vermouths
Poires d'Anjou
Grand Marnier
Creme de Cassis
The opened bottle of red wine on the dining room table:
Norman Vineyards 2003 Paso Robles Zinfandel "The Monster"
In the icebox:
Pimm's No. 1
Lillet
Joseph Drouhin Chablis 2004
Robert Michele Muscadet 2001 Les Trois Fils
Samuel Adams Boston Lager
Moet & Chandon White Star n.v. champagne
Diet Coke
food
And now, a word of explanation. If anyone around here offers you a drink, check for dust on the bottle. Some of those bottles could be really, really old. Like a decade old. Now, I know the whole idea with booze is that it doesn't go bad. But still. You have been warned.
Why all the retro, vintage, antique (insert your favorite eBay euphemism for "dusty old") booze? Easy. Nobody will drink it, yet throwing out liquor is like getting rid of books. It simply can't be done, people!
But nobody here drinks vodka. I swear that bottle of lemon flavored vodka is older than my oldest child. The Grey Goose is for when my father-in-law visits. The rum inventory seems thin; I think we drank up the interesting rum, and then moved on. Rum was a summer 2004 phenomenon. Nobody around really drinks gin, except in a martini, and we aren't doing martinis lately. Nobody drinks whiskey around here in the summer, but That Stud Muffin I Married made a Sam's run lately and couldn't resist filling out the collection so as to be ready for fall.
So that explains about half of the inventory. Now for the rest.
The wine is my husband's business; if it's made of grapes, I'll drink it. The aperitifs are also his thing, circa summer, 2005. Except for the Lillet and the vermouth. (And again--I'd watch it if I were you. You can trust the vermouth, but I don't remember how long that Lillet has been in the icebox.) The anise-flavored things are also his; I find the idea of Good and Plenty on the rocks completely horrible. So is the tequila, which I only drink as a margarita. His summer 2006 drink is tequila on the rocks with a wedge of lime--hence all the tequila. He has to at least try anything that looks vaguely interesting.
My summer drink since whenever is either white wine or a vermouth cassis; sometimes a beer. Or Diet Coke, which truth be told, I'd just as soon be drinking a lot of the time.
P.S. It occurs to me that this entire post could be replaced with a photograph captioned "It's my husband's fault."
So I guess the new thing is lists--playlists, inventories of one's bar, etc.
Herewith, my summer bar inventory:
Tequila (all 100 agave, of course):
Herradura
Corzo
1800 Reposado
Don Julio An~ejo
Cielo
Gin:
Beefeater
Whiskey:
big ass bottle of Jim Beam
big ass bottle of Crown Royal
Jack Daniels
Woodford Reserve
Maker's Mark
Johnny Walker Black
Jameson
Rum:
Bacardi silver
Mount Gay
Vodka:
lemon flavored Stoli
Grey Goose
Misc.
Pernod
Casanis Pastis
Romana Black Liquore di Sambuca
Averna Amero Siciliano
Morlacco Sangue liqueur
Carpano Punt e Mes
Martini and Rossi dry and sweet vermouths
Poires d'Anjou
Grand Marnier
Creme de Cassis
The opened bottle of red wine on the dining room table:
Norman Vineyards 2003 Paso Robles Zinfandel "The Monster"
In the icebox:
Pimm's No. 1
Lillet
Joseph Drouhin Chablis 2004
Robert Michele Muscadet 2001 Les Trois Fils
Samuel Adams Boston Lager
Moet & Chandon White Star n.v. champagne
Diet Coke
food
And now, a word of explanation. If anyone around here offers you a drink, check for dust on the bottle. Some of those bottles could be really, really old. Like a decade old. Now, I know the whole idea with booze is that it doesn't go bad. But still. You have been warned.
Why all the retro, vintage, antique (insert your favorite eBay euphemism for "dusty old") booze? Easy. Nobody will drink it, yet throwing out liquor is like getting rid of books. It simply can't be done, people!
But nobody here drinks vodka. I swear that bottle of lemon flavored vodka is older than my oldest child. The Grey Goose is for when my father-in-law visits. The rum inventory seems thin; I think we drank up the interesting rum, and then moved on. Rum was a summer 2004 phenomenon. Nobody around really drinks gin, except in a martini, and we aren't doing martinis lately. Nobody drinks whiskey around here in the summer, but That Stud Muffin I Married made a Sam's run lately and couldn't resist filling out the collection so as to be ready for fall.
So that explains about half of the inventory. Now for the rest.
The wine is my husband's business; if it's made of grapes, I'll drink it. The aperitifs are also his thing, circa summer, 2005. Except for the Lillet and the vermouth. (And again--I'd watch it if I were you. You can trust the vermouth, but I don't remember how long that Lillet has been in the icebox.) The anise-flavored things are also his; I find the idea of Good and Plenty on the rocks completely horrible. So is the tequila, which I only drink as a margarita. His summer 2006 drink is tequila on the rocks with a wedge of lime--hence all the tequila. He has to at least try anything that looks vaguely interesting.
My summer drink since whenever is either white wine or a vermouth cassis; sometimes a beer. Or Diet Coke, which truth be told, I'd just as soon be drinking a lot of the time.
P.S. It occurs to me that this entire post could be replaced with a photograph captioned "It's my husband's fault."
Friday, July 7, 2006
If this is TGIF's, where's my foofy drink?
Three things:
1. We got back from New Hampshire last night. I won't say our house is at sixes and sevens this morning--it's more like eights and nines. As in, I sent my daughter off to her Friday morning camp trip-to-the-beach with no bathing suit. I can't find it.*
2. Have you checked out Fidget's blog yet? Please do!
3. I don't have much to say today; I shot my wad over at Mamarazzi. And if you think I'm a crude customer over here? Over there, I'm writing about Paris Hilton. Check it out!
*She is wearing sunscreen, though. Because I only wanted to win Bad Mommy of the Month. Not Bad Mommy of the Decade.
1. We got back from New Hampshire last night. I won't say our house is at sixes and sevens this morning--it's more like eights and nines. As in, I sent my daughter off to her Friday morning camp trip-to-the-beach with no bathing suit. I can't find it.*
2. Have you checked out Fidget's blog yet? Please do!
3. I don't have much to say today; I shot my wad over at Mamarazzi. And if you think I'm a crude customer over here? Over there, I'm writing about Paris Hilton. Check it out!
*She is wearing sunscreen, though. Because I only wanted to win Bad Mommy of the Month. Not Bad Mommy of the Decade.
Tuesday, July 4, 2006
In which I emerge ... briefly.
OK, things are getting almost dire around here. Today I haven't gone outside at all, except for about a 20 minute walk around the yard, to feed the mosquitoes, and as a little side venture, imagine what attractive--or even competent--landscaping would do for our yard.
Other than that, I sat around reading gardening books. Reading about gardening is wonderful, and so much less exerting than actually doing it. Today I was reading Peter Beale's Roses and Katharine White's Onward and Upward in the Garden. Both are absolutely heavenly, and complementary, too; Katharine's opening essay on how gardeners sit around during the cold months going through seed and plant catalogs, designing impossibly beautiful gardens in their minds will prompt me to put her book down (because it has no luscious illustrations) to reopen Beale's Roses and drool over the pictures and descriptions. When I've had enough of the beautiful pictures, I head back to White's book.
Both of these writers impress me, and not just for the way they write. They both make me feel like the Little Match Girl, except that instead of peeking into rich people's windows, I'm peeking through the garden gate. Of the two, White impresses me more. I know I wouldn't be able to grow 80 percent of the roses Beales discusses. He's writing for an English reader, and the English, though excellent in many ways, do not have the character, the moral uprightness (or perhaps it's the masochism) to garden in the harsh conditions of the New World. They went around the world conquering it and feeling smugly superior to the soft, lazy tropical types they conquered--but they wouldn't find them here. "Yankee ingenuity" was a phrase originally invented to describe those poor souls who came over to this part of the world to try to grow food in a landscape characterized by stony soil, harsh weather, and murderous mosquitoes. And that's why I am in awe of White. White gardened in Maine, after all, and I bow to her abilities; I lack the knowledge, experience, money, professional staff, and--mostly--the ability to get out of my chair and do it.
But I do enjoy conjuring up my gardens in the sky.
But enough about me. Let's deal with real world issues, like people who pay large sums of Blog Explosion credits to rent a space here. This week's victim is Fidget, the author of Finding Yourself Despite Yourself. She's just written a hilarious entry on why her children eat popsicles in the bathtub. And finger paint with shaving cream. Go check it out--the pictures are priceless.
And now I'll leave you with some luscious illustrations of views, houses, gardens, and even flowers that are not mine, except in my imagination:
Monday, July 3, 2006
Call me "La Sonambula"
Which, if you didn't know it (and if I spelled it correctly) is Italian for "sleepwalker." (That's "sleep," not "street," she hastened to add.)
Anyway, that's what I am these days. A sleepwalker. Not because I'm sleep-deprived. It's because I'm a sleep glutton. I'm pigging out on slumber. I don't think I've gotten this much sleep since I first spawned, lo these many years ago. When I stay up late at night, I'm not feeling guilty; I'm selfishly watching as many old weird movies as I want--plus all the DVD extras--rejoicing in the fact that I can sleep as late as I want next morning.
We are a bit more than halfway through our New Hampshire visit, so I think it's fair to post a review. This is the greatest vacation of my entire life. My entire life, people. Precisely because we haven't done anything much. Which--because I'm a sloth--is the way I like it.
There are only two things I want from a vacation: the first is the chance to sleep late. The second is to not clean the kitchen. Everything else--shopping, sight-seeing, walking around looking at quaintness, drinking exotic drinks, eating exotic foods--is gravy.
This vacation has been perfect because we don't even have a kitchen to clean. Dinner is salads or sandwiches on paper plates and boom! done.
Suffice to say, we haven't done much. We manage to get out for some kind of outing every day, but it's modest. So, first day, we went to the nearest clam shack and had lobster rolls. Second day, we headed in to Portsmouth, went to Harpoon Willie's down by the water, had more lobster rolls and some locally-brewed beer, and to Annabelle's for yummy super-premium ice cream. Third day we drove up to the Yorks, had dinner at Foster's Clam Bake, and ice cream at The Scoop--I tried out the Grape-Nut Custard flavor (don't worry if this seems inexplicable--it's a Maine thing.)
Today we drove to Boston to have lunch with my in-laws. On the way to the Taiwan Cafe, we walked past the Swan Boats and duck statues in the Public Garden, and the Frog Pond in the Common. I know, I know--how strenuous. I must have burned a good 40 calories strolling around.
Otherwise, I'm sitting around reading P. G. Wodehouse, or one of the monstrous stacks of magazines I bought. Or playing Uno with my family. Or watching the Red Sox. Or watching DVDs.
As they say around heah, it's a wonduhful life.
Anyway, that's what I am these days. A sleepwalker. Not because I'm sleep-deprived. It's because I'm a sleep glutton. I'm pigging out on slumber. I don't think I've gotten this much sleep since I first spawned, lo these many years ago. When I stay up late at night, I'm not feeling guilty; I'm selfishly watching as many old weird movies as I want--plus all the DVD extras--rejoicing in the fact that I can sleep as late as I want next morning.
We are a bit more than halfway through our New Hampshire visit, so I think it's fair to post a review. This is the greatest vacation of my entire life. My entire life, people. Precisely because we haven't done anything much. Which--because I'm a sloth--is the way I like it.
There are only two things I want from a vacation: the first is the chance to sleep late. The second is to not clean the kitchen. Everything else--shopping, sight-seeing, walking around looking at quaintness, drinking exotic drinks, eating exotic foods--is gravy.
This vacation has been perfect because we don't even have a kitchen to clean. Dinner is salads or sandwiches on paper plates and boom! done.
Suffice to say, we haven't done much. We manage to get out for some kind of outing every day, but it's modest. So, first day, we went to the nearest clam shack and had lobster rolls. Second day, we headed in to Portsmouth, went to Harpoon Willie's down by the water, had more lobster rolls and some locally-brewed beer, and to Annabelle's for yummy super-premium ice cream. Third day we drove up to the Yorks, had dinner at Foster's Clam Bake, and ice cream at The Scoop--I tried out the Grape-Nut Custard flavor (don't worry if this seems inexplicable--it's a Maine thing.)
Today we drove to Boston to have lunch with my in-laws. On the way to the Taiwan Cafe, we walked past the Swan Boats and duck statues in the Public Garden, and the Frog Pond in the Common. I know, I know--how strenuous. I must have burned a good 40 calories strolling around.
Otherwise, I'm sitting around reading P. G. Wodehouse, or one of the monstrous stacks of magazines I bought. Or playing Uno with my family. Or watching the Red Sox. Or watching DVDs.
As they say around heah, it's a wonduhful life.
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