Sunday, May 31, 2009
Saturday, May 30, 2009
true customer tales
band guy, wandering in with his buddy and an armload of flyers:
woah dude, what is this, a lie-barry?
in the kitchen
It's been a while, time for another glimpse into my culinary subconscious.
Fuss Wrangling consumes the bulk of my 'weekend'. It's low intensity- he's usually content if you're in the same room. But any visible diversion of focus (like reading a book, or filling the dishwasher) draws his insecurity like a magnet. Before you can finish a page or load two plates he's scaling your leg and snuffling to herald the inevitable crying jag should you attempt to resist his appeal.
So I'm on the hunt for thing that can be accomplished episodically, a few minutes at a time.
Wednesday, I auditioned breadmaking.
The minimal hands-on prep seemed tailor made for Fuss' demands.
Here's how it played out:
Mix some stuff, toss it in the stand mixer, let it run for a while.
Check on the Fuss.
Toss the dough in a bowl, let it rise.
Check on the fuss.
Punch it down, roll it around, stick it in a pan, let it rise some more.
Check on the Fuss.
Stick it in the oven, set the timer.
Check on the fuss.
Pull it out, dump it on the cooling rack.
Check on the fuss.
The relaxed pacing and small investment of active time make it an ideal Fuss Watching activity. I'm adding it to the regular rotation.
I tried out a new recipe for chicken fajitas last night, culled from the Cook's Illustrated site.
Things turned out okay, but the results didn't seem to justify the amount of labor involved. Also, their trick of wrapping the tortillas in aluminum foil and sticking them in the oven while the veggies roast didn't produce a satisfying result. I'll stick with heating them by hand in a cast iron skillet, even if it takes an extra 5 minutes.
One trick that did work was roasting the onions and peppers under the broiler, much faster and easier than doing it on the stovetop. Brush everything with oil, season with salt and pepper and stick under the broiler for a while. Pull the peppers when they char, flip the onions and cook a bit more. Chop it all up, mix it with reserved marinade from the chicken and voila!
The chicken was good, but nowhere near as delicious as the garlic/mint/cinnamon flavor extravaganza I made a while back. Mexican is fabulous for beef, but I think I'll stick to the Middle East for my chicken needs.
But yeah, fresh bread. Toast a couple of thick slices, fry up a couple of super fresh Kelly eggs and you've got a breakfast that can't be topped at any price.
Fuss Wrangling consumes the bulk of my 'weekend'. It's low intensity- he's usually content if you're in the same room. But any visible diversion of focus (like reading a book, or filling the dishwasher) draws his insecurity like a magnet. Before you can finish a page or load two plates he's scaling your leg and snuffling to herald the inevitable crying jag should you attempt to resist his appeal.
So I'm on the hunt for thing that can be accomplished episodically, a few minutes at a time.
Wednesday, I auditioned breadmaking.
The minimal hands-on prep seemed tailor made for Fuss' demands.
Here's how it played out:
Mix some stuff, toss it in the stand mixer, let it run for a while.
Check on the Fuss.
Toss the dough in a bowl, let it rise.
Check on the fuss.
Punch it down, roll it around, stick it in a pan, let it rise some more.
Check on the Fuss.
Stick it in the oven, set the timer.
Check on the fuss.
Pull it out, dump it on the cooling rack.
Check on the fuss.
The relaxed pacing and small investment of active time make it an ideal Fuss Watching activity. I'm adding it to the regular rotation.
I tried out a new recipe for chicken fajitas last night, culled from the Cook's Illustrated site.
Things turned out okay, but the results didn't seem to justify the amount of labor involved. Also, their trick of wrapping the tortillas in aluminum foil and sticking them in the oven while the veggies roast didn't produce a satisfying result. I'll stick with heating them by hand in a cast iron skillet, even if it takes an extra 5 minutes.
One trick that did work was roasting the onions and peppers under the broiler, much faster and easier than doing it on the stovetop. Brush everything with oil, season with salt and pepper and stick under the broiler for a while. Pull the peppers when they char, flip the onions and cook a bit more. Chop it all up, mix it with reserved marinade from the chicken and voila!
The chicken was good, but nowhere near as delicious as the garlic/mint/cinnamon flavor extravaganza I made a while back. Mexican is fabulous for beef, but I think I'll stick to the Middle East for my chicken needs.
But yeah, fresh bread. Toast a couple of thick slices, fry up a couple of super fresh Kelly eggs and you've got a breakfast that can't be topped at any price.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Thursday, May 28, 2009
fuss in the morning
He's on a 'rise with the birds' kick right now, popping awake between 5-6am like a particularly juicy 4th of July firework.
As the morning shift, my only defense is to summon Morpheus as early in the evening as possible. Which, in spite of the nocturnal predilection of my internal clock, works pretty good.
Well, except when you want to do anything, or watch anything, or someone is over for dinner. Then the evening can drift out of bounds, and you might find yourself awake at the scandalous hour of, say, eleven o'clock.
Fuss's current favorite from among his dizzying array of wake-up calls is pulling the pillow off my head, grabbing my nose, working his fingers around until he gets his thumb inside my nostril like a fishook then dragging me to the gravelly, unwelcome shores of wakefulness gasping like a trout.
Immediately after rising he's happy enough to scramble around the living room, rediscovering his toys and the magazines he destroyed last night, but soon enough nothing will suit but carrying him around the kitchen while I tidy up, put the kettle on, grind the coffee and make his breakfast.
I'm becoming the domestic One Armed Swordsman, capable of amazing feats with my one usable limb.
There's a lull after breakfast where he's content to sit babbling in his high chair, smashing Cheerios or gnawing on a hunk of apple- I finish my coffee and browse one of the cookbooks from the shelf by the dining room table.
When that pales, it's time to queue up Alphabet Soup to distract him from fussing until it's time for his morning nap. I can already recite it by heart, like a Wordsworth poem in days of yore- it's a good thing William Wegman has such a pleasant voice.
Finally it's time for his nap, and I hustle off to projects I haven't figured out how to do with one arm. Eventually the wife wakes up and I make breakfast and we sit and talk about how amazing he is.
Then he wakes up again.
As the morning shift, my only defense is to summon Morpheus as early in the evening as possible. Which, in spite of the nocturnal predilection of my internal clock, works pretty good.
Well, except when you want to do anything, or watch anything, or someone is over for dinner. Then the evening can drift out of bounds, and you might find yourself awake at the scandalous hour of, say, eleven o'clock.
Fuss's current favorite from among his dizzying array of wake-up calls is pulling the pillow off my head, grabbing my nose, working his fingers around until he gets his thumb inside my nostril like a fishook then dragging me to the gravelly, unwelcome shores of wakefulness gasping like a trout.
Immediately after rising he's happy enough to scramble around the living room, rediscovering his toys and the magazines he destroyed last night, but soon enough nothing will suit but carrying him around the kitchen while I tidy up, put the kettle on, grind the coffee and make his breakfast.
I'm becoming the domestic One Armed Swordsman, capable of amazing feats with my one usable limb.
There's a lull after breakfast where he's content to sit babbling in his high chair, smashing Cheerios or gnawing on a hunk of apple- I finish my coffee and browse one of the cookbooks from the shelf by the dining room table.
When that pales, it's time to queue up Alphabet Soup to distract him from fussing until it's time for his morning nap. I can already recite it by heart, like a Wordsworth poem in days of yore- it's a good thing William Wegman has such a pleasant voice.
Finally it's time for his nap, and I hustle off to projects I haven't figured out how to do with one arm. Eventually the wife wakes up and I make breakfast and we sit and talk about how amazing he is.
Then he wakes up again.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
silly wingnut publishers
There's a cottage industry of right-wing publishers who churn out junk nobody actually buys (or rather, which conservative billionaires buy by the case and give away, creating the illusion of sales) that we generally avoid like the plague.
Mainstream wingnuts like Rush and Hannity have a readership, so we'll carry them. Of course, they're also with legit publishers.
But a good rule of thumb is, pass on anything published by Nelson or Regnery, which churn out propaganda with no natural constituency.
Books like this help explain why.
The inherent comedy of marketing a tome of bible cheerleading as "politically incorrect" is rich enough, but my favorite bit is the last bullet point on the dust jacket under the heading You Think you Know the Bible, but did you know:
* The enemies of the Bible are enemies of true reason and tolerance
The killjoy editor must have purged the caps lock & multiple exclamation points doubtless present in the original manuscript.
/edit
WOW, missed this incredible blurb on the back cover.
Oh wow, academics, novelists and screenwriters.
That's relentless assault we can believe in, my friends!
/edit deux
just found this one in another box.
I don't think I'm brave enough to explore beyond the title...
Mainstream wingnuts like Rush and Hannity have a readership, so we'll carry them. Of course, they're also with legit publishers.
But a good rule of thumb is, pass on anything published by Nelson or Regnery, which churn out propaganda with no natural constituency.
Books like this help explain why.
The inherent comedy of marketing a tome of bible cheerleading as "politically incorrect" is rich enough, but my favorite bit is the last bullet point on the dust jacket under the heading You Think you Know the Bible, but did you know:
* The enemies of the Bible are enemies of true reason and tolerance
The killjoy editor must have purged the caps lock & multiple exclamation points doubtless present in the original manuscript.
/edit
WOW, missed this incredible blurb on the back cover.
The Bible was once regarded as the "Good Book"
...but today it is under relentless attack from left-wing academics, novelists and screenwriters to justify their own political agendas.
Oh wow, academics, novelists and screenwriters.
That's relentless assault we can believe in, my friends!
/edit deux
just found this one in another box.
I don't think I'm brave enough to explore beyond the title...
Monday, May 25, 2009
the holiday so far
title of the day:
Save Your Breasts!
A business-ey looking dude in a suit wearing one of those Borg earpieces bought a couple of Louis L'Amour books with two plastic baggies of loose change, most of it nickles and pennies.
Lady browsing the sale cart, excitedly:
Crazy lady wandering by on the street:
No coffee today, the shop next door has never met a holiday it wouldn't observe.
Wish me luck...
/edit
Whoohoo!
An unexpected visit from the boss freed me for a Peet's run.
Alterna-gal shakily handing over my drink:
Save Your Breasts!
A business-ey looking dude in a suit wearing one of those Borg earpieces bought a couple of Louis L'Amour books with two plastic baggies of loose change, most of it nickles and pennies.
Lady browsing the sale cart, excitedly:
Oooh....BODICE RIPPERS!
Crazy lady wandering by on the street:
THE MING DYNASTY! THE MING DYNASTY! THE MING DYNASTY!
No coffee today, the shop next door has never met a holiday it wouldn't observe.
Wish me luck...
/edit
Whoohoo!
An unexpected visit from the boss freed me for a Peet's run.
Alterna-gal shakily handing over my drink:
I'm so caffinated at work it's like I have Parkinsons! HAH HAH HAH!
Saturday, May 23, 2009
what the world needs now
according to Google image search:
Hmm. I'll get back to them on that.
/edit
also, they really missed a trick by not mounting the romantic couple on a unicorn.
Hmm. I'll get back to them on that.
/edit
also, they really missed a trick by not mounting the romantic couple on a unicorn.
morning fuss
I forgot to erect the hallway barrier this morning, which prevents the little man from storming the bedroom and waking the wife up from her morning nap. Fiddling in the kitchen, I heard telltale crawling sounds and investigated.
He was proceeding down the hall at a leisurely pace, heard something, looked over his shoulder, spotted me and peeled out like the Roadrunner, little limbs spinning like propellers.
He cracks me up.
He was proceeding down the hall at a leisurely pace, heard something, looked over his shoulder, spotted me and peeled out like the Roadrunner, little limbs spinning like propellers.
He cracks me up.
Friday, May 22, 2009
manbag redux
the Burl sent me some Etsy links and in my investigations I found this number, ideal for all the dice geeks out there.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
required by Fuss
Our breakfast ritual grows ever more complex.
The fuss demands consistency in presentation and will brook no excuses.
First it was blowing on his cereal, which I did because it was hot.
But one time I let it sit on the table while I made coffee, which cooled it nicely.
When I tried feeding him a spoonful, he glared like I was proffering a wad of hair and turned his head in disgust.
So I very theatrically blew on the cold spoonful and his mouth sprang immediately open.
Today brought a new wrinkle.
We sprinkle probiotics on top of the cereal to help his digestion. This morning I forgot, and fuss refused to eat even after repeated blowing. I pondered for a moment, spied the bottle on the table and sprinkled a healthy dose on top.
Fuss greeted the ensuing spoonful with open gums.
The rule seems to be "do nothing unless you're prepared to repeat it ad infinitum".
The fuss demands consistency in presentation and will brook no excuses.
First it was blowing on his cereal, which I did because it was hot.
But one time I let it sit on the table while I made coffee, which cooled it nicely.
When I tried feeding him a spoonful, he glared like I was proffering a wad of hair and turned his head in disgust.
So I very theatrically blew on the cold spoonful and his mouth sprang immediately open.
Today brought a new wrinkle.
We sprinkle probiotics on top of the cereal to help his digestion. This morning I forgot, and fuss refused to eat even after repeated blowing. I pondered for a moment, spied the bottle on the table and sprinkled a healthy dose on top.
Fuss greeted the ensuing spoonful with open gums.
The rule seems to be "do nothing unless you're prepared to repeat it ad infinitum".
Monday, May 18, 2009
what's a good man bag?
Or, if you prefer, 'murse'.
My old, dilapidated shoulder bag has vanished, with, I suspect, a helping hand from the wife.
As I doubt I'll find another suitable satchel where Old Faithful hailed from (the Gap sale rack for $3.95), it's time to shop around.
I was eyeballing one of these numbers, but after this last birthday I'm leery of anything you can pick up at Urban Outfitters. I'd prefer to avoid the demographic delusion of the 50 year old gal who thinks the alchemy of belly tee and nose ring will lure the sweet bird of youth back to its cage.
But neither am I in the market for one of those ostentatious leather numbers all the balding dudes at the cafe tote their Macbooks around in.
Who's got a bag they like?
Preferably under a c-note.
Link me!
My old, dilapidated shoulder bag has vanished, with, I suspect, a helping hand from the wife.
As I doubt I'll find another suitable satchel where Old Faithful hailed from (the Gap sale rack for $3.95), it's time to shop around.
I was eyeballing one of these numbers, but after this last birthday I'm leery of anything you can pick up at Urban Outfitters. I'd prefer to avoid the demographic delusion of the 50 year old gal who thinks the alchemy of belly tee and nose ring will lure the sweet bird of youth back to its cage.
But neither am I in the market for one of those ostentatious leather numbers all the balding dudes at the cafe tote their Macbooks around in.
Who's got a bag they like?
Preferably under a c-note.
Link me!
Sunday, May 17, 2009
true customer tales
odd older fellow brings a book on Neil Diamond to the counter and holds it up, covering the title with one hand.
him
Excuse me sir, but who would you think this looks like?
me
It's Neil Diamond.
him
Yes, but don't you think it looks like Tom Hanks in a way?"
me
"Uh....sure?"
him
Excuse me sir, but who would you think this looks like?
me
It's Neil Diamond.
him
Yes, but don't you think it looks like Tom Hanks in a way?"
me
"Uh....sure?"
rain people
One of the down sides of the computer revolution is the tendency for customers used to databased inventory to be incurious and dependent. We still get what I call "book people", who are excited to find a 'real' used bookstore and vanish into the stacks for hours at a time.
But their spiritual opposites are legion, blank faced folk who bee line from the front door to the counter, ask about some specific author or book and then stare at you expectantly.
This situation can work if I know what they're talking about,which I often do.
But if I don't it can go off the rails, something like this:
"I'm not familiar with that, do you know what it's about?"
"It's a book?"
Blank stare.
"Do you know the topic? Is it a novel? Nonfiction?"
"It's nonfiction?"
Blank stare.
"Most of the store is non-fiction, can you narrow it down a little for me?"
"He's a journalist?"
Blank stare.
"Ok, journalism is in the loft at the head of the stairs."
Relieved to get some traction.
"Oh, it's not journalism. It's nonfiction."
blank stare.
This is the point where I generally check out of the conversation and avail myself of Amazon's database (which creates its own problems, because if you look on a computer and see the book, they expect that it's on hand. Which didn't work even when I was at Waldenbooks- if the machine said 50 copies, it MIGHT be in stock, but we didn't make any promises.)
I understand that people are used to being spoon-fed, what I don't get is the inability of many to adapt to a different environment.
The conclusion Oh, hey, this isn't Borders, they can't just look the guy up and have the machine tell them where he is, they need my input doesn't seem that hard to draw.
Corporate America is turning everybody into Rain Man.
But their spiritual opposites are legion, blank faced folk who bee line from the front door to the counter, ask about some specific author or book and then stare at you expectantly.
This situation can work if I know what they're talking about,which I often do.
But if I don't it can go off the rails, something like this:
"I'm not familiar with that
"It's a book?"
Blank stare.
"Do you know the topic? Is it a novel? Nonfiction?"
"It's nonfiction?"
Blank stare.
"Most of the store is non-fiction, can you narrow it down a little for me?"
"He's a journalist?"
Blank stare.
"Ok, journalism is in the loft at the head of the stairs."
Relieved to get some traction.
"Oh, it's not journalism. It's nonfiction."
blank stare.
This is the point where I generally check out of the conversation and avail myself of Amazon's database (which creates its own problems, because if you look on a computer and see the book, they expect that it's on hand. Which didn't work even when I was at Waldenbooks- if the machine said 50 copies, it MIGHT be in stock, but we didn't make any promises.)
I understand that people are used to being spoon-fed, what I don't get is the inability of many to adapt to a different environment.
The conclusion Oh, hey, this isn't Borders, they can't just look the guy up and have the machine tell them where he is, they need my input doesn't seem that hard to draw.
Corporate America is turning everybody into Rain Man.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
a good recipe
Made this last night and it was tasty, even though I took some uncomfortable short cuts on the culinary highway.
There was only one bunch of chard in our organic bag o' fun this week so I made up the difference with various other greens. I didn't have a big red onion, so I subbed in two small yellow ones. And the recipe cried out for nuts so I added a half cup of chopped toasted walnuts. And just to show how out of control and zany I am I used whole wheat pasta.
These kinds of minor substitutions and compromises are par for the course in most kitchens, but for me they've always been major hurdles. My minor OCD compulsions buzz around the stove like fruit flies, and the lack of a specialized tool or specific type of pan or type of ingredient in the construction of a recipe causes me physical discomfort.
In this case I persevered, and the result was met with open arms (and mouths).
Being how I am, I'm looking forward to making a second batch with the proper makings.
Will report on the differences when I get around to it.
There was only one bunch of chard in our organic bag o' fun this week so I made up the difference with various other greens. I didn't have a big red onion, so I subbed in two small yellow ones. And the recipe cried out for nuts so I added a half cup of chopped toasted walnuts. And just to show how out of control and zany I am I used whole wheat pasta.
These kinds of minor substitutions and compromises are par for the course in most kitchens, but for me they've always been major hurdles. My minor OCD compulsions buzz around the stove like fruit flies, and the lack of a specialized tool or specific type of pan or type of ingredient in the construction of a recipe causes me physical discomfort.
In this case I persevered, and the result was met with open arms (and mouths).
Being how I am, I'm looking forward to making a second batch with the proper makings.
Will report on the differences when I get around to it.
early in the morning
A special event inspired early rising by the entire household today- the annual Daisy Hill Puppy Fa...er, the Daisy Hill Trailer Park yard sale!
I rose at 6:30 to pack the books, Fuss followed at 7 (having slept relatively well in the wake of his second tooth breaking through) and woke the wife with a friendly kick to the head, and we all rousted Megan by doing the Pogo on her bedroom ceiling.
The up side was [i]old timey[/i] prices on everything. It hearkened back to the halcyon days before Ebay gave every thrift store in California delusions of boutique grandeur.
Albums a quarter each, or five for a dollar. There was a five drawer file cabinet for six bucks and a big metal shelving unit for three, I'd have nabbed both for the garage if we had a way to get them home.
I picked up an orange enameled soup tureen with matching ladle for a buck fifty, filled a grocery bag with books for two bucks, nabbed a spinning wooden spice rack with about 20 empty glass vials for 50 cents and grabbed a handful of assorted utensils (citrus zester, cool old wooden spoons, metal crepe spatula) for a quarter each.
Meggsie grabbed an armload of albums, mostly classical. The wife bought a cool bowl inlaid with middle eastern motifs for Meggsie, and picked up a grocery bag full of puzzles that were two for a quarter- a steal even by the debased standards of Daisy Hill.
The Fuss accepted the worship of the gathered oldsters with equanimity- they clustered and trailed behind him like a kings retinue. The royal demeanor was reinforced by his furry royal blue pony coat with the gold lining.
After loading the trunk with our finds we went out to breakfast, not noticing until too late that it was time for Fuss' first nap.
Meggs caught a couple literally peeking around the corner at Fuss and whispering to each other, and invited them in for an audience. They were suitably appreciative.
He maintained until just after the food arrived and then nothing would suit but a stroll through the adjoining nursery clinging to my shoulder, ogling the fountains and shrubs.
All in all a fine outing.
I rose at 6:30 to pack the books, Fuss followed at 7 (having slept relatively well in the wake of his second tooth breaking through) and woke the wife with a friendly kick to the head, and we all rousted Megan by doing the Pogo on her bedroom ceiling.
The up side was [i]old timey[/i] prices on everything. It hearkened back to the halcyon days before Ebay gave every thrift store in California delusions of boutique grandeur.
Albums a quarter each, or five for a dollar. There was a five drawer file cabinet for six bucks and a big metal shelving unit for three, I'd have nabbed both for the garage if we had a way to get them home.
I picked up an orange enameled soup tureen with matching ladle for a buck fifty, filled a grocery bag with books for two bucks, nabbed a spinning wooden spice rack with about 20 empty glass vials for 50 cents and grabbed a handful of assorted utensils (citrus zester, cool old wooden spoons, metal crepe spatula) for a quarter each.
Meggsie grabbed an armload of albums, mostly classical. The wife bought a cool bowl inlaid with middle eastern motifs for Meggsie, and picked up a grocery bag full of puzzles that were two for a quarter- a steal even by the debased standards of Daisy Hill.
The Fuss accepted the worship of the gathered oldsters with equanimity- they clustered and trailed behind him like a kings retinue. The royal demeanor was reinforced by his furry royal blue pony coat with the gold lining.
After loading the trunk with our finds we went out to breakfast, not noticing until too late that it was time for Fuss' first nap.
Meggs caught a couple literally peeking around the corner at Fuss and whispering to each other, and invited them in for an audience. They were suitably appreciative.
He maintained until just after the food arrived and then nothing would suit but a stroll through the adjoining nursery clinging to my shoulder, ogling the fountains and shrubs.
All in all a fine outing.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
toll of the day
Two pairs of new sandals, one book on loan from my therapist, a dinner encompassing three heads of minced garlic, and at long last the Rody was inflated.
Meggsie was supposed to bring drinks upstairs for dinner, but when we called she was in Santa Cruz catting about with some friend who had free tickets to 'a show'.
Ah, to be young and childless!
Meggsie was supposed to bring drinks upstairs for dinner, but when we called she was in Santa Cruz catting about with some friend who had free tickets to 'a show'.
Ah, to be young and childless!
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
true customer tales
irate girl on street:
If I punch one a them before this freakin' little trip is over, I am not held responsible!
If I punch one a them before this freakin' little trip is over, I am not held responsible!
Saturday, May 9, 2009
true customer tales
disappointed little girl waving a vetoed book purchase at her mom:
Mommy, when I grow up and I'm a mommy I'm going to buy this book for MY little girl!
birthday traditions
I've never been a huge fan of birthdays.
Once you've sojourned beyond the furthest reaches of that carefree, vaguely defined demographic too young to care subsequent birthdays pull into the station bearing freight, their rumbling approach inspiring more trepidation than joy.
Many years ago, when I was still safely enclosed by the borders of too young to care my pal Zim drew up the best birthday card of all time.
It had a touch of Busby Berkley, with a recognizable me in tophat and tails waltzing up a long, numbered spiral staircase leading to a platform where the Grim Reaper reclined seductively on a circular bed.
The past few years I've muffled the ominous hissing and clanking of the yearly stop by recruiting Meggsie to wait on the platform with me. Her birthday's the day before mine, and while folding them together doesn't [i]actually[/i] make me younger, it does short circuit morbid introspection. Rather than my complaints about creeping mortality inspiring long faces and knowing nods, everyone laughs uproariously when Meggsie cries "old".
Andrew Weil notes the only cultures whose people verifiability live longer than the average promote respect for elders and a social mix of ages.
Who knew that youngfriends(tm) promote extended lifespan?
We forayed out to our traditional sushi dinner, which seems to me uniquely suited to celebration. Delicious, exotic, formally appealing, impossible to make yourself and expensive enough to discourage regular indulgence- it is the perfect birthday meal.
With the Fuss parked with Auntie Burl & Fiend and with Uncle Timmy in tow (in spite of his abiding indifference to sushi) we made a fine evening of it, the repaired to the chateau for movies and cake.
Devra provided the latter, a positively Seuss-ian three layer deal that looked like a Who's top hat. Songs were sung, candles were extinguished, it was a fine how do you do.
Alas, I retired before the witching hour- as I noted to the disappointed revelers, the Fuss waits for no man.
And sure enough, he rousted me at 7am. While I regret missing the festivities, he is a daily reminder of the virtues of an early curfew.
Sorry for the lack of Fusspix lately, but the battery on my camera ran out and I can't find the cable dealie for it. I'll update the flickr as soon as I uncover the rascally cable.
Once you've sojourned beyond the furthest reaches of that carefree, vaguely defined demographic too young to care subsequent birthdays pull into the station bearing freight, their rumbling approach inspiring more trepidation than joy.
Many years ago, when I was still safely enclosed by the borders of too young to care my pal Zim drew up the best birthday card of all time.
It had a touch of Busby Berkley, with a recognizable me in tophat and tails waltzing up a long, numbered spiral staircase leading to a platform where the Grim Reaper reclined seductively on a circular bed.
The past few years I've muffled the ominous hissing and clanking of the yearly stop by recruiting Meggsie to wait on the platform with me. Her birthday's the day before mine, and while folding them together doesn't [i]actually[/i] make me younger, it does short circuit morbid introspection. Rather than my complaints about creeping mortality inspiring long faces and knowing nods, everyone laughs uproariously when Meggsie cries "old".
Andrew Weil notes the only cultures whose people verifiability live longer than the average promote respect for elders and a social mix of ages.
Who knew that youngfriends(tm) promote extended lifespan?
We forayed out to our traditional sushi dinner, which seems to me uniquely suited to celebration. Delicious, exotic, formally appealing, impossible to make yourself and expensive enough to discourage regular indulgence- it is the perfect birthday meal.
With the Fuss parked with Auntie Burl & Fiend and with Uncle Timmy in tow (in spite of his abiding indifference to sushi) we made a fine evening of it, the repaired to the chateau for movies and cake.
Devra provided the latter, a positively Seuss-ian three layer deal that looked like a Who's top hat. Songs were sung, candles were extinguished, it was a fine how do you do.
Alas, I retired before the witching hour- as I noted to the disappointed revelers, the Fuss waits for no man.
And sure enough, he rousted me at 7am. While I regret missing the festivities, he is a daily reminder of the virtues of an early curfew.
Sorry for the lack of Fusspix lately, but the battery on my camera ran out and I can't find the cable dealie for it. I'll update the flickr as soon as I uncover the rascally cable.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Monday, May 4, 2009
Sunday, May 3, 2009
true customer tales
gal, to boyfriend:
and a bit later, eying a book:
You know that thing, where you're attracted to your mom.....but you're afraid of your dad? Or something?
and a bit later, eying a book:
'How Pop Culture is Making Us Smarter'? Yah RITE, what a crock!
true customer tales, SALE CART edition!
tattooed hipster type holding aloft a quarter book, incredulously:
"Paws Before Dying"? How does that even get PUBLISHED?
Saturday, May 2, 2009
True Customer Tales
little boy about 4 years old:
Dad can I get a skateboard?
dad:
...
boy:
Dad can I get a skateboard?
dad:
....
boy:
Dad can I get a skateboard?
dad:
come over here.
boy:
Dad can I get a skateboard?
dad:
NO.
boy:
Why?
dad:
because I said so!
boy:
Dad....can I get something else?
dad:
...
Dad can I get a skateboard?
dad:
...
boy:
Dad can I get a skateboard?
dad:
....
boy:
Dad can I get a skateboard?
dad:
come over here.
boy:
Dad can I get a skateboard?
dad:
NO.
boy:
Why?
dad:
because I said so!
boy:
Dad....can I get something else?
dad:
...
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