Irony is not the best sauce

Last night I faced a dilemma. When I got home from work, there was no food in the house. So, I ran through the potential solutions:

1. Get takeout. No, we had takeout the two previous nights. Not even I can stomach takeout three nights in a row.
2. Have Dan pick something up on the way home. Well, I would’ve done, but he sounded really beat on the phone after work. Also, he would have had to come home first to pick up money, which made no sense.
3. Go to the store myself, which is all of one mile away. Two reasons I couldn’t do this. One: since I had just come home and fed the dogs, they would have gone apeshit if I turned around and left again, with possible major chewing damage to ensue. Two: I am a lazy, lazy person.

So, having burned through all of the other conceivable options, I did what any red-blooded, hungry, American wife with an overdeveloped appreciation for ironic food would do: I made a hot dish. Mmmm, hot dish.

I am, of course, using the Midwestern name because it is funnier than the East coast moniker of “casserole made from leftovers”. I am very proud of my first ever hot dish, which consisted of the following:

• Frozen homemade turkey soup. See, I defrosted the soup, took out all of the big chunks of turkey and vegetables for the base of the hot dish, and retained the broth.
• Frozen “Frenched” green beans. Because a successful hot dish needs a vegetal component. Bonus: the French cut makes it fancy.
• Canned Cream of mushroom soup. Duh. Can’t make a hot dish without some good old condensed soup. I thinned it with some of the broth and added a few shakes of spices chosen randomly from the cabinet: garlic powder, cumin, and poultry seasoning. Luckily, I didn’t pull out cinnamon or something.
• Stovetop Stuffing. See, I used the broth from the soup to make the topping! Pretty crafty, eh?
• Bacon. Did I say I was American? And plus, why the hell not?

It was okay. A bit gross, really, but it was hot. Also, because I am all about Commitment to the Bit, if nothing else, I was honor bound to eat it. You know, I think I should’ve added some cheese to the topping. I’ll just chalk that omission up to hot dish naivete.

Potpourri

You know what I am getting damn sick of? I am getting sick of our damn friends leaving town. Dammit.

All right, mild obscenities aside, it is pretty annoying. Guys, I am way too lazy to make new friends. I had to go to another good friend going-away party this weekend. Great party, but jeez, what a bummer. Seriously everyone, stop leaving town. I command it.

I made chocolate truffles for this party and observed a surprising phenomenon. The truffles coated in chocolate disappeared first (no surprise). People didn’t eat truffles rolled in cocoa powder, which is the traditional truffle coating, or the ones coated in nuts. But they did eat the ones rolled in toasted coconut. Huh.

Also, Dan finally wised up that he always has to drive for parties, so I was the designated driver. Luckily, there were other DD’s there and many pregnant women, so I had lots of sober folks to talk to. Not that it’s unsatisfying in any way to talk to drunk people when you are sober. I love explaining subtle jokes several times. It’s fun. Doesn’t ruin the humor at all.

Anyway, when the party moved downtown, I got pulled over for making a left through a red light. I swear*, the light turned red over my head. It was yellow when I started turning. Apparently I had the utter confidence of one who is stone-cold sober, because I didn’t get a ticket, despite also having an inaccurate address on my license. Woo! Sobriety rocks!

* A lot. I swear a lot. Like a pirate. I try to clean it up though, for you, my faithful reader.

Do what you gotta do

This year, my darling husband and I, bolstered by our recent success in making our house look less like a Home for Indigent Fratboys and more like a place where adults live, decided to forego big Christmas presents for each other and instead spend our resources updating our kitchen.

Not a big update, mind you. Maybe put some new vinyl tile on the floor, maybe get rid of the preexisting, bad-DIY, puke-yellow Formica countertops and backsplashes and replace them with ceramic tile. Plus let’s not forget the new old stove.

We’re understandably excited by the prospect. Except for one thing: we won’t have a working kitchen for Christmas itself. Which means that, once again, I am thwarted in my attempt to cook a British Christmas meal: roast goose, brussel sprouts, chestnut dressing, chipolata, roast potatoes. And what’s for pud? Christmas Pudding of course!

But of course, there’s no way I’ll get to do that this year. (dammit!) So, instead, this weekend I’ll be making about ten gazillion chocolate truffles* to bring to all of the parties and houses we’ll be visiting. I’m hoping to get an assist from my Mom and Aunt Nancy in this misguided attempt to fit a season’s worth of holiday cooking mojo into one afternoon.

I figure Mom can cover the important tasks of Breaking Into Song at Random Intervals, as well as Getting the Dogs Overly Excited, and me and Aunt Nancy can actually roll the ganache in the coatings and decorate them. I think that covers everything.

*I can't make cookies, because that task is ably covered by Juan. By "ably" I of course mean "the best freaking cookies ever to emerge from a home oven", so there's no point in making any of my own. So I'll make some candy, which I prefer to pronounce "caaannny".

Oh. Well. Ha ha. Wait - what?

I like some pretty weird crap. I find that’s pretty normal for my demographic. And I enjoy having bizarre interests. I bet a lot of people do – it makes you feel fun, interesting, and unique to have a pastime that not a lot of people share. Why else do people spend so much time on these blogs and MySpace pages? We want to show the world how one-of-a-kind we are. Even though we totally aren’t.

That’s why, when you find out that someone else shares your totally unique interest in something, like, say, Harry Nilsson, it can be both validating and a little disappointing. This disappointment is magnified when it turns out that the other person, say, maybe doesn’t have a reputation for being really cool. Like maybe, oh, the guy who played Booger in Revenge of the Nerds*. Finding out that he is the country’s foremost expert on Harry Nilsson could be a little off-putting. I’m just sayin’.


*Don’t get me wrong. I am fully convinced that Curtis Armstrong is a great guy (how can he not be – he likes Nilsson), not to mention a talented actor who deserves credit for doing more than picking his nose.

I have no shame

Nothing would please me more than to be able to truthfully say “I don’t really watch those reality TV shows.”

I mean, I could say it, but it wouldn’t exactly be true.

With the exception of Project Runway, there are no reality TV shows that I will faithfully tune in to watch week after week. Ooh, except for that BBC America one where Gordon Ramsay goes into failing restaurants. The one where he changes his shirt a lot on camera. I love that one. But that’s not on very often, so it doesn’t count.

However, I am a sucker for the “Reality TV Marathon” phenomenon.

This is a diabolical programming strategy, as far as I’m concerned. Although I would never purposely plan to watch even one episode of House of Tiny Terrors, I will gladly watch four hours of it if the episodes are shown in order. Assuming nothing else is on. And Dan is not home.

It’s very strange. I mean, if you asked me, “Kate, will you please watch four hours of boring families trapped in an ugly postmodern house, where their every move is captured on film, including the kids’ drippy-snot temper tantrums, and a calm British lady who claims to be a clinical psychologist tells the parents what to do,” I would consider punching you in the face.

Yet that is almost precisely what I did yesterday. Although it was more like two hours. And I flipped around a lot. But still.

Sometimes change is good. This is not one of those times.

I decorated our Christmas tree this past Sunday. Normally, tree-trimming is a ritual involving several highly specific actions that must be completed in order. There are certain foods and drinks that must be present (holiday wine has a big role here), and the decorations must be put on in a certain order (star, lights, garland, then the oldest ornaments, newer ornaments, and finally expendable glass ball ornaments).

Also highly important is the music. I always insist on listening to a certain album: A Very Merry Christmas, Volume 1. You know, one of those holiday albums that retail stores put out in the 60’s. Except it was kind of an early stab at multiculturalism. It features such classics as:

1. Jingle Bells, as performed by Jimmy Dean. Yes, the sausage man. The song also features his very young son, who can barely remember the words. The big payoff comes at the end, when Jimmy ends the tune with a hearty “Ya did it”.


2. Santa Natale, sung by Patti Page. Unlike Feliz Navidad, this effort to bring the Spanish language into the American holiday canon did not catch on. Maybe because it’s a super-slow torch-burner ballad which features backup singers that sound like female muppets. Just a theory.


3. The Star Carol, sung by Simon and Garfunkel. Truly, a beautiful beautiful Christmas song, sung with as much heartfelt passion as you would expect from a couple of Jewish guys from New York. And speaking of Jewish Christmas songs…


4. Sweetest Dreams be Thine, by Theodore Bikel* and the Pennywhistlers. Otherwise known as the Loo Loo Song, after the lyrics in the chorus, which go like this:
   Loo loo loo loo loo loo loo, Loo loo loo loo loo loo loo,
   Loo loo loo loo loo loooooooo loo, loo loo loo loo. (repeat)
   Also known as the “Amhad Rashad” song, because of the incomprehensible lyrics. Well, incomprehensible if you don’t understand Yiddish, anyway. Obviously, this is not technically a song about Christmas, but because I was two when I started listening to the album, it never occurred to me that it wasn’t. Also, because they sing about a baby; I guess I always assumed it was about the lil’ baby Jesus. I know, very small-minded of me.

Anyway, I didn’t get to do the ritual this year. Mainly because I don’t have a record player, and I was too lazy to drive down to my folks and borrow theirs. I had to make do with calling mom (who is always game to break into song, no matter the occasion) and sing the Loo loo song on the phone. Also, I drank some eggnog and watched a marathon of America’s Next Top Model.

* You may also know him as Sergei, Worf’s adopted father on Star Trek TNG. Seriously, no joke.

Sort of free stuff

One of the benefits of living close to my family is the Mooch Factor. Case in point: my parents are in the process of remodeling their kitchen. As a result, I get to replace my electric stove with the much newer stove my parents would have otherwise thrown out.

Although we benefit from this largesse, the free appliances do come at a price. That price: convincing my mom the eternal optimist that we do, in fact, want her old stove. For some reason, whenever my mom gives me something used, she does her best to convince me that I don’t want it, even if it is leaps and bounds better than what I currently have. I don’t think she realizes that she does this. Well, she will now. (Hi, Mom!)

Anyway, this involves phone conversations like the following*:

Me: Thanks again for giving us your old stove. That’s really great.

Mom: You don’t want our stove.

Me: What? Why not? Yes we do.

Mom: No, it’s old. It’s older than your stove I think.

Me: Mom, come on. Our stove is so old the clock has flip analog numbers. It’s at least thirty-five years old.

Mom: No, it’s not.

Me: Okay, let me remind you that I actually live in this house, and I am staring at the stove at this very moment, and I can say in no uncertain terms that this stove is at least as old as me.

Mom: Well, ours is old too. Look, look, I have the manual right here. See, it says it was made in 1996.

Me: (pause)

Mom: Okay, it’s newer, but I’m not going to have a chance to clean it before you come get it.

Me: It’s called Easy-off, mom. I’ll do it in our driveway before we bring it into the house.

Mom: But how are you going to get it into your kitchen? You’ll have to move your fridge.

Me: You’re right, mom, moving my fridge is too high a price to pay to get a much newer, more efficient stove.

Mom (getting desperate now): But it’s yellow.

You get the idea.

Anyway, last night, after yet another conversation where my mother tried to convince me I didn’t want a free stove, I got the last laugh. Because minutes after hanging up, I went to broil a piece of bread, and an explosion of sparks and Frankenstein/Jacob’s Ladder-type noises came from the heating coil when I opened the door. This development has considerably speeded up the process. I figure I’ll be cooking on our new used stove by Friday. Woo-hoo! Digital timer, here I come! In your face, flip-clock!

*I would like to stress that although this is not a verbatim transcript, these are all arguments actually made in the case of Mom vs. 1973 EZ Self-Cleaning Hotpoint.

It's the most wonderful time of the year. It is. Don't argue with me.

You know what? I love Christmas. I love it a lot.

For those of you too lazy to read the above linked post, here’s a partial list of things I love about this time of year, in a nice, condensed, bulleted list:

• Christmas decorations. I love decorating Christmas trees. I have often considered getting a fire- and flood-proof safe for my older decorations, because they are among my most highly prized possessions. Seriously, it just wouldn’t be Christmas without the small felt bear that the Mumpers gave us when I was four year old. I love that thing. Or the wooden snowman with the broken leg, who is supposed to jump when you pull a cord, but instead he just does a modified jumping-jack. Ooh, or the crocheted ones Aunt Nancy made. Bet you didn’t know I still had a few of those, did you Aunt Nancy?


• Egg nog. Mmmm… it’s like a melted milkshake, only made with nutmeg. Growing up, I thought it was the perfect holiday beverage. Then, in my early twenties, I learned that you could add booze. Will the goodness never end?


• Hot spiced wine. My second-favorite holiday drink. Although I do make it from scratch on occasion, I always buy a bottle or two of the Brotherhood brand. For those of you not from the Hudson Valley of New York, you may not have sampled this wine, which is made in the Catskills. In addition to being sweet and sticky to the point of resembling cough syrup, it is also cheap. And let’s not forget the convenience of a screw-top bottle! I love it.


• Proper Old-fashioned Christmas music. You would think that, what with listening to holiday tunes all day, every day for two consecutive summers would sour me on ol’ Perry Como and Rosemary Clooney. Nope! In fact, I’m listening to it right now. I even have a special holiday playlist on my computer at work, which I listen to on headphones.


• Wrapping presents. I think I like wrapping them more than unwrapping them. I’m not really very good at it, at least compared to my parents. Mom always buys the high-quality paper and color-coordinates each person’s presents. Dad also buys his own, even higher-quality paper (seriously, I think it’s made out of unicorn-hide parchment or something). Then he disappears for a few hours to wrap the gifts with the utmost precision, often employing a t-square, slide rule, sextant, and a barometer to make sure that he has the proper tape for the current weather conditions. You wouldn’t want your package to come apart because of high humidity, would you? I didn’t think so.

Anyway, the point is, look for many, many more holiday-themed posts in the upcoming weeks, as I explore in greater detail my obsession with December.

Please, try to contain your excitement. And stop humming “Here Comes Santa Claus.” You’re an adult, for Christ sake.

I got your horse right here

Well, the results from last week’s Thanksgiving extravaganza are in. The winner, by a nose, was: Juan surreptitiously washes all the dishes when we're not looking.

Very exciting stuff. Other highlights:

• We burned the crap outta some leeks.
• Dan and I got to eat some actual, authentic NASA space food. I believe it was rice pudding. We declined to reconstitute it, so it was more like that weird Italian nougat candy called Torrone.
• Pomegranate martinis were consumed.

All in all, it was a fun, RELAXING weekend. That’s right, I said RELAXING. Although I missed Dr. Who, dammit.

Details, details

So the five of you who read regularly will notice that I upgraded the blog a little. New features, from most to least important, are:

1. The monkey is actually contemplating a taco now, rather than a mirror. For someone who spends a massive amount of time working in Photoshop, you think it would've occurred to me to fix this before now.
2. I've engaged in a bit of shameless self-promotion in the list of links.
3. I upgraded the template. Please understand, I hold no illusions that having the latest in web features is important to a blog that mainly talks about dogs and my obsession with British TV. Mainly I did this because I am sick of the folks at blogger constantly exhorting me to upgrade. So here you are - a new template, thanks to peer pressure. Yay peer pressure.

Anyway, keep checking in the upcoming days for fun, exciting accounts of Thanksgiving weekend at the Monkey Eats a Taco household, featuring special guests Marty Cohen and her husband, Juan. For those of you who fancy a flutter, here are the odds on the upcoming festivities:

• Roger the dog knocks over grandma: 4/5
• I freak out about the cooking but everything turns out okay: 6/3
• Dan makes it the whole weekend without breaking a dish: 12/1
• Maddy the other dog hornks in the middle of the night, waking everyone up: 9/2
• We run out of gin: 8/5
• Juan surreptitiously washes all the dishes when we're not looking: 7/2

Good God, the excitement is killing me.

Traditio-o-on! Tradition!

Like every other American, I follow some sacrosanct Thanksgiving customs every year. These are highly personal and based on family tradition. I’d like to take a moment to share the madness with you, faithful reader.

Being Thanksgiving and all, most of our customs revolve around food. We have a pretty normal lineup for the actual meal – turkey, stuffing, gravy, peas, etc. And dessert is pretty tame too –apple pie and pumpkin pie.

No, the craziness begins before the actual meal. I’m talking white-trash hors-d’oeuvres. In the Mance family, coming from a, er, rustic background as we do, these little nibbles are a throwback to the days where our forefathers lived through the depression by eating crap and pretending it was good. This tradition was carried into today by our family’s strong desire to remember out past. Also, we will eat almost anything, we Mances.

Absolutely essential in my house are the following:

1. A small olive tray, half full of regular green olives with pimentos, half full of those disgusting little pickles they call gherkins. Each year, my dad and I dutifully bite into a gherkin, to see if maybe this is the year we will finally see what mom likes about them. We always fail to see their charm and throw the other half away. Mom then proceeds to eat two of them, and the rest stay in the tray where they dry out over the course of the afternoon. The tradition is to keep the remainder in a jar in the fridge, untouched, until next Thanksgiving, when it is thrown out and replaced by a new jar. And the cycle begins anew.
2. A small bowl of mixed nuts (extra salty, please!)
3. A plate of stuffed dried dates. These are stuffed with cream cheese or peanut butter, and then sprinkled with confectioners sugar. They are about as attractive and tasty as they sound.
4. A plate of stuffed celery. These are stuffed with an appetizing combination of liverwurst, cream cheese (or mayo), and a tiny bit of mustard. I can hear you gagging already. I love them, and look forward to the liverwurst all year long. Who needs paté?
5. Finally, before we actually sit down to the turkey, everyone gets a small glass full of V-8. As dictated by tradition, we liberally dose the V-8 with pepper and salt, despite the fact that the juice is in fact, 96% salt to begin with.

Yes, we’ve occasionally added other foods – cheese & crackers are usually included, sometimes a little crudite and dip, but the real workhorses of pre-meal snacking are always the same.

It helps that we usually eat early too – no one can hold out until 6 p.m. by eating liverwurst on celery or sticky gummy dates. Also, eating these kind of gross appetizers gives us something to be thankful for: the ability to not eat them the other 364 days of the year.

Enter the dragon

Now that Halloween is over, I can begin my second-favorite* fall activity: planning for Thanksgiving dinner. I usually begin this on November 1. So you can look forward to several more turkey-themed posts in the weeks to come. Yay for you, huh?

Anyway, I love to cook. Love it, love it, L-O-V-E it. I’m a totally obnoxious foodie, I admit it.

Dan, on the other hand, has a love-hate relationship with my cooking. He loves to eat it, obviously, but he hates being around when I cook. I think he watched too many commercials for Nestle Morsels growing up, because he seems to have this idea that “cooking” is a fun, relaxed activity that the whole family can join in. You know, mom and the kids gathered around, kids dumping the flour into the bowl (oops! spilled some!), kids licking the bowl behind mom’s back, and mom triumphantly pulling out a pan of perfectly-baked, symmetrical cookies, all while a soft-rock jingle exhorts you not to eat all the morsels or your cookies will be bald.

Whereas in my life, I spent $40 on fancy groceries and I’m doing three recipes at once and the dogs are under my feet and I just ran out of paper towels and the timer on the stove and the microwave goes off at the same time and I have exactly ten seconds to deglaze the pan before the garlic starts to burn. (I realize, by the way, that more organized cooks don’t contend with these issues. I’m just telling you how I roll.)

Anyway, not being familiar with this scenario, Dan used to ask if I needed any help while I was cooking, sometimes by giving me a supportive, “I-love-that-you-cook-but-you-don’t-have-to” hug or otherwise hovering over me. Or, he would saunter into the (very tiny) kitchen and start rooting around in the freezer for ice cubes for his vodka tonic, and would get involved with repairing the ice dispenser in the process. Sometimes he would casually start doing some of the dishes in the sink. (Why not? Saves doing them later!) I think we all agree that these are fine, upstanding activities for any husband. Except when I’m cooking, of course.

That would be when I would calmly and quietly point out to Dan that, no, I don’t need help, and that he had better get the f*ck out of my way this instant. Apparently, as I would say this, my eyes would begin to glow red, and the rest of the room would drop away to a landscape of agony, with spurting flames and rocky landscapes under a crimson sky. I’m led to believe my voice would be overlain with the moaning of a thousand anguished souls, and ragged, webbed wings would sprout from my back.

Now, when he senses that I am beginning to cook, he hunkers down behind the largest available furniture and quickly yells “I’m here if you need me!” before darting off to watch the Simpsons. But who can blame him, really.

So, expect thrilling posts detailing the many recipes I pore over, the recipes I ultimately choose, the recipes I have to then abandon because everyone only wants the same old thing, and my famous white-trash hors-d’ouvres over the next few weeks.

*My first-favorite activity is planning for Christmas dinner, which begins the day after Thanksgiving. Natch.

When in doubt, end with British-style sarcasm.

Although I look forward to Halloween every year, I am gradually coming to the realization that my current lifestyle is not conducive to fully enjoying the holiday.

By “lifestyle”, I of course mean “dogs”.

Nothing will ruin a fun night of jack-o-lanterns, trick-or-treaters, and copious snack-sized chocolate bars like a couple of insane dogs. They go apeshit when anyone comes near the house, which frankly, has come in handy. But it makes the prospect of answering the door fifty thousand times in one night a little tiring.

Also, some children are scared by the dogs. Really scared. Like, absolutely terrified. It ruins their fun. (Which is ironic, if you think about it… Halloween… scary things… black fly in your chardonnay…)

So Dan and I try to keep them away from the front door, which means that one of us has to babysit them in another room, because the prospect of being in the same house, but not having instantaneous access to us at all times, is really more than they can take.

Also right out: jack-o-lanterns in the windows, because they are technically food. And with me being a country hick, I am convinced that the instant pumpkins are placed on the porch, they will be hurled into the street by ruffians where they will start a Chicago-scale conflagration, so I don’t like to put them out there.

And, of course, every single candy wrapper MUST be accounted for, unless we want to find them in the lawn next spring after the snow thaws. If you don’t know what I mean, then you don’t have a dog.

So, to recap: tons of barking followed by isolation, crying kids, candy under lock and key, and anxiety over vandalism and arson.

Shame it’s only once a year, really.

No accounting for taste

I know I’ve been harping on Halloween costumes of late, but there’s more to the holiday than that.

There’s also a bevy of terrible movies that SciFi schleps out at Halloween. You know, like “Rose Red”, a miniseries based on a Steven King novel. Like all Steven King adaptations, it inexplicably sucks. The lack of acting ability is matched only by the terrible dialogue and excessive length. Also, it heavily features those not-so-scary animatronic “ghosts” that look really fake.

Usually, this roster is filled out by a bunch of movies that I actually want to watch, namely vampire moves. I will watch pretty much any piece of crap, at least for a little while, if there’s a vampire in it. I might not watch the whole thing, mind you, but I’ll give it a shot.

For instance, I just rented the craptastic Ultraviolet, because the description said that it was about vampires.

Except it wasn’t. What the hell? It wasn’t about vampires at all! Yeah, the people had the fangs, but that’s it. Seriously, what a freaking ripoff!

Anyway, for some reason, there were almost no vampire movies on TV this year. So I’d like to take this opportunity to request, nay, demand, that SciFi removes Rose Red from the lineup and replace all eight hours with vampire movies. You know, quality movies, like BloodRayne and Dracula 3000. Also, I’m still waiting to see Jesus Christ, Vampire Hunter, all you TV programmers. Let’s get with it, folks.

Hall of... well, not shame, at least

Okay, I’m doing something that I usually deride other people for. I’m posting a sort of flattering picture of myself on my blog. Seriously, I hate it when people do this.

But I have two very good reasons for doing so:

First: It illustrates the amazing costuming talent of my mother. Yes, my mom has been behind almost every costume I’ve ever worn. On this particular night, I was on my way to a high school dance with five other girls. My mother provided costumes for all of them. As I recall, there was a lady of the evening, a gypsy, little red riding hood, a hippie, and a cleaning lady. And mom made pretty much every article of clothing, including the hats. Seriously, it was like Project Runway for Halloween. Nina questioned her taste level, but mom got immunity for the next challenge.

Second: Although my mom is great at whipping up costumes with limited sewing ability, for this particular costume, she had a little help. The “base” of the dress I am wearing in this picture (the sparkly part) was provided by her sister. It’s possible that she sewed it herself – she’s a talented seamstress. I believe it was actually a wedding dress. Originally, she donated it to me so I could be Cinderella in a school play. My mom simply dressed it up with some old curtains and sheets, and then we dyed it pink. For this picture, we altered it a little more and dyed it red. Mom actually made the boa and a choker as well.

Anyway, the night I wore it was quite interesting. I believe it was the night that two boys asked me to dance at the same time. You might remember this night as well – the night of the freak eclipse? With the unexpected meteor shower? There were reports of porcine levitation. Also, when I got home, there was a message on my machine from a “Mr. B. Elzebub”, who sounded pretty pissed. I guess there was a frost at his house and he lost some begonias. Like that was my fault. Well, whatever. I had a good time. So thanks mom and Aunt Nancy.

Hall of Shame

As I alluded to previously, I’m pretty fond of Halloween. Seriously though, what’s not to love – the dressing up or the eating candy?

However, I should never be allowed to come up with my own costume ideas, because I suck at it. Examples, you say? Comin’ atcha:

1. The picture on the right is me in 8th grade. Obviously, I thought it would be “cool” to dress as Robin Hood. Let me stress the fact that I went to school dressed this way. Why, why, WHY? Three reasons: I really liked the PBS Robin Hood shows, we had a bow already*, and what was the third reason? Oh, right, BECAUSE I AM A NERD. Yes, I am also wearing a sword. I also believe I attached a leather pouch to the belt. Hopefully I took the 20-sided dice out first.
2. A few years ago, I dressed as Frodo. I figured, why not, I have short pants. Plus, the movies had just come out. Well guess what, it sucked. Big surprise there. Especially since I didn’t really know a lot of people at the party we went to. Dressing as a hobbit is not good for your self-esteem, especially if you are a chick at a party where every other chick in the whole place is dressed as some variation of a “sexy (fill-in-the-blank)”. There was even a sexy chicken, for crissake.
3. The next year, it took some very serious persuading for Dan to convince me not to dress as a Villager from the Prisoner. If he hadn’t come up with the costume idea that we actually went with (undead samurai and geisha assasin), I would’ve blithely relived the entire hobbit experience again, only I would’ve had to explain what I was to every single person at the party. Because no one but me and Patrick McGoohan would know who I was. And Patrick McGoohan wasn't there.
4. This year, my brilliant idea was to dress as Meg Griffin. Seriously. I had it all planned out, until Dan pointed out that dressing as a character that is supposed to be really ugly probably wasn’t a good idea for my fragile ego.

Anyway, enough with the sob stories of nerdy costumes past. Next up will be some of the better Halloweens, the ones where I maintained my dignity! Stay tuned!

*Um, we had a bow because someone left it in the house we had just moved into. So I painted it gold for some reason. Because of the gold, a lot of people thought I was Peter Pan instead of Robin Hood. Not much of an improvement. Please don't ask about the sword.

Number 10

All right, I know I promised a bunch of Halloween posts, but you’re probably wondering when I was going to get around to talking about the new Doctor, the one who replaced Chris Eccleston. In fact, you’re probably amazed I didn’t already have a post about it. Well, wait no longer. Let me just brush off my nerd hat here and cram it on my head.

I’m happy to report that the new Doctor, David Tennant*, is excellent. He’s no Tom Baker, but he is certainly giving Peter Davison a run for his money for second place. (You know, Peter Davison? The blonde one? Young guy? Cricket suit? With a piece of celery in the lapel? Hello? This thing on?)

You may well ask what I am basing this considered opinion on. No less than a well-reasoned, unemotional, completely objective analysis of the qualities that are important for an actor undertaking the role of Doctor. Specifically, David Tennant brings the following to the esteemed role:

1. He is Scottish.
2. He has sideburns. Awesome sideburns.

Given these stellar credentials, there really was no question of what my opinion would be. It was pretty much a forgone conclusion, but there you go.

Also, I like his glasses.

* Did you know that he is dating the chick that played Madame du Pompadour? They met on set, I guess. How cute is that?

Up for Grabs

Well, I have bad news to report. Our friend Kevin is leaving the area soon. We are quite saddened by this, the fact that he would give up occasionally hanging out with us in order to move across the country, all for such fleeting pleasures as job satisfaction and the love of a good woman!

You can be sure, we are taking this personally. By “we”, I of course mean “me”.

So, on to the bad news. (That was a joke, by the way. I already told you the bad news.) His going-away party is on the same night as the Halloween party Dan and I were planning to attend. So no costumes for us this year.

However, since Dan came up with such a great idea, I feel it would be remiss of me not to share it with the world. I was going to wear a bear mask and/or ears, carry a camcorder, and have a nametag that says “#141”. Dan was going to be a zombie in a ripped up flannel shirt.

Oh yes, we were going to be Undead Grizzly Man and the bear.

In bad taste, you say? Yes, but I like it too.

Since we will no longer be needing this fantastic couples’ costume, feel free to hook up with a friend, significant other, or spouse and use it yourself.

Anyway, look for more fun Halloween-themed posts all this week here at Monkey Eats a Taco. Um, it will be a spooky good time? Or maybe scare-tastic. Or maybe just a bunch of blog posts. You never know.

You're gonna buy a what now?

Yeah, um, I think we need to buy one of those weird fingernail brushes. You know, the ones that your grandpa or uncle always had in the medicine cabinet, with pumice on the handle, and made you wonder what he could possibly be doing that would require a brush just for his fingernails.

Well, it turns out that he was probably working on an engine of some kind, one that was covered in a thick layer of grime.

I know this because I have begun working on our printing press more often, and have come to realize that there is about a hundred years of built-up grease and grime on some parts of the thing. And when I say "a hundred years" I am being literal. Literally.

Anyway, some of this grime has to be cleaned off if we are ever going to convice people to buy our cards, like the lovely number pictured above. I don't think hunks of congealed 3-in-1 oil mixed with paper fiber and insect parts is really a selling point, so I've been trying to clean off some of the gunk so it won't get on the product.

Still, it's kind of* fun to mess around with the press and get dirty fingernails. But I definitely will need one of those brushes. Goop doesn't cut it for this particular application. Goop is the hand cleaner that comes in tubs that you keep in the shop, and you scoop out a big glop of it (leaving the exact impression of your fingers) and smear it around and then wipe your hands on a rag to get most of the grime off before you wash your hands with soap and water in the house, with a fingernail brush.

And don't you dare wipe your hands on my good towels. Those are for guests.

*By kind of, I mean incredibly, incalculably, astonishingly, and mightily satisfying. I really, really like having a shop, with tools, and that musty/greasy-but-good smell, and a big ol' hunk of iron to oil and clean and adjust. I know, you love me because I'm so feminine.

Celebrate good times! C'mon!

Four years ago, Dan and I got married. It was a good time.

Actually, it was more than a good time. It was a great time. I don't like to brag*, but our wedding was fucking awesome. Seriously. Don't believe me? Read on, my friend:

1. At every wedding we have been to since, someone has mentioned that they had a great time at our wedding. Even the mother of my old arch-nemesis still reminds us what a good time she had.**
2. The wedding was so touching that the photographer, who had shot hundreds of weddings, actually cried. Boo-yah! Making people cry!
3. Several people liked our location so much that they attempted (and were in some cases successful) to get their own children to have their reception at the same place. The last time you got married, do you remember your parents begging you to let them pay for you to get married at a beautiful bed and breakfast in a town hundreds of miles from where you actually live? I think not.
4. A few weeks after the wedding, we got a card from someone that had such a good time, that they wanted to thank us for being invited.***
5. Martha Stewart disguised herself as a guest so she could get ideas.
6. The hand of God came down during the ceremony to bless us personally, and then stuck around and jammed with the guitar player for our recessional (which was an Allman Brothers tune, if I remember correctly).

Okay, so the last two are made up. But it was fun.

* This is a lie. I love to brag.

** Please don't ask me how the parents of my arch-enemy got invited to my wedding.

*** You know, I'm not convinced about the italics. Kind of cheesy, wot?

Time to come clean.

I have a confession to make. In previous blogs, I have identified myself as a geek. This is not true.

In all actuality, I am a nerd. I guess I got swept up in the recent popularity of geekery, and thought I could pass myself off as a geek. But I can’t. I just can’t do it anymore. The lying, the deception, the pretending to care about linux... it's just too much for me.

Not to say that I don’t occasionally engage in some geek behavior. For example, I recently downloaded one of the “inner tracks” from Katamari Damacy as my ringtone. (See also: blogging about math)

However, my nerdy behavior cancels this out. Example: blogging about the Dark Crystal sequel. And then, last month, I did the nerdiest thing ever. Something so nerdy that I can no longer in good conscience even pretend to be a geek.

I joined the Science Fiction Book Club.

That’s right. I joined a club where they send you actual books, with paper and covers and everything, and in those books are stories about dragons and mages and robot clones and crap.

What’s this? You don’t know the difference between geeks and nerds?* Jesus, what are you, normal or something?


*Because geeks now control the internets, most of the opinions you see today stating that geeks are higher up the social strata than nerds must be taken with a grain of salt. Of course, geeks will say that.

If I had the time, I would join some of the three billion chat arguments on the topic. But I have to get back to my book – Fafhrd is stuck in the howling tower with ghost wolves or some shit.

Problem Solved

I have been struggling recently with a dilemma. Two of my good friends asked me to get ordained so that I could perform their marriage ceremony next year.

Obviously, I was more than thrilled that they asked me, but then I started to get a little anxious. I mean, marrying a couple is a big responsibility. I want to strike just the right tone, something appropriate not only to their level of coolness, but also my respect for them.

Anyway, thanks to my cousin and his beautiful Egyptian-American bride, this problem is solved. I went to his wedding this weekend, and I think the whole ceremony will be a perfect fit for my friends. I’m talking Coptic Christian.

You may not be familiar with this ancient sect of Christianity, which is based in Egypt. Well, let me expound on the virtues of their wedding tradition:

• Sheer Length. What better way to signal the strength of your love than a two-hour ceremony? When we got a copy of the program (more of a missalette), we were surprised to see that it was thirty five (that’s 30 + 5, folks) pages long. However, some parts were in three languages: the original Coptic, a phonetic Coptic version using our Alphabet, and the English translation. So we thought maybe the ceremony would be shorter than it seemed. Boy were we wrong! Most of the ceremony is chanted, so phrases like “Amen” can take upwards of one minute to sing. None of this 43-minute high mass crap. You want to get to that open bar at the reception? You gotta earn it!
• Kickin’ Percussion. As I said, most of the ceremony is sung or chanted. However, there is a cymbal player too, who sometimes chimes in with an exotic 7/8 beat to the prayers. This is totally awesome, and should be incorporated into all Christian ceremonies from here on out.
• Fun Costumes. At various points in the ceremony, the bride and groom don scarlet sashes, white capes, and golden crowns. I was disappointed to see that these were removed when the ceremony was over, though. I hope they got to keep them.
• Huge Cast of Characters. In the Coptic ceremony I went to, there appeared to be approximately four priests, three deacons, six or seven guys whose job it was to sing for the congregation, and sweet old man who showed up halfway through the ceremony and did not appear to have a job, but kind of mingled around on the altar and came down to greet the parents while the ceremony was going on. This enormous number of people brings me to the next benefit:
• Chaos Theory. The ceremony was very chaotic. People were coming and going, moving microphones around, sometimes one or two guys would start singing at the wrong time, almost no one knew when to stand or sit, the couple chatted with each other, the priests chatted with the couple, all while incense was thrown about and the chanting almost never stopped. So you don’t have to worry about maintaining a look of profound interest in what the priest is saying! Nobody’s really paying attention anyway. A very relaxing way to get married.
• Retro Ideals. Although I think everyone has huge respect for the breadth of tradition inherent in this ceremony, some of the ideals were pretty, uh, Flinstonian. However, by the thirtieth time that the priest exhorted the bride to obey her husband, the giggling was pretty audible. I think we both know who’s gonna wear the sash/cape/crown in that family!*
• Lack of Crappy Musicians. Since the whole ceremony is sung, there’s no need to stress about having your second cousin sing the theme from Superman or that song from Titanic!
• Xena Warcry. We were warned that the bride’s family often capped off wedding celebrations with the traditional ululation, which is not easy to perform correctly. It sounds a bit like Xena, only more Middle-eastern. I cannot stress enough how much cooler this is than throwing rice.

Anyway, congrats to my cousin and his new wife. It was an honor to be invited to such an ancient tradition, and aside from the hotel shuttle getting lost on the way to the reception, I had a wonderful time.

And as for my engaged friends, I have already started learning to read Coptic. Unfortunately, as a woman, I cannot perform the ceremony itself, but I did start watching old episodes of Xena. Please get yourself fitted for a cape and a crown and send me the measurements.

*According to the ceremony, both of them.

Now, now, don't be mean.

My boss and I had a meeting last night with a Village committee. On Monday, we got an email reminding us, as well as the rest of the committee, that the meeting would take place, and I quote here directly, “September 12 at 7 PM at the Village Offices. We will meet in the second floor courtroom as usual.”

So, at ten to seven, my boss and I show up. We go into the Village Offices and up to the courtroom via the public entrance, which is unlocked.

At this juncture, I’ll point out that there is another entrance near the police department, but we don’t like to go in that way because the door is always locked and we always have to bother the police dispatcher to let us in.

And the waiting begins. Seven, seven-fifteen roll by and still no one has showed up. At seven-thirty, we decide to leave. But just in case, we call one of the committee members to see what’s up.

He says, “Where were you guys? We waited till 25 after!”

My boss, in a remarkable display of restraint, informs him that we are still SITTING OUTSIDE THE COURTROOM. Which, let’s all remember, is the location of the meeting.

It turns out that only three committee members showed up, and they waited for us in the chairman’s office, which, let me remind everyone, is not in, or anywhere near, the courtroom. It is, in fact, behind the police department. Turns out he didn’t have a key to the courtroom, so he decided to hold the meeting in his office.

So, rather than, oh, I don’t know, LEAVE US A FUCKING NOTE, or, say, CALL OUR CELL PHONE, or, here’s an idea, CHECK TO SEE THAT WE ARE NOT WAITING UPSTAIRS, they tell the police dispatcher, who could give a rat’s ass. Oh, and his shift ends at seven anyway, so the point is moot. And, we didn’t even go past the dispatcher because the door is locked, so the point is doubly moot. More like moot squared, actually.

Seriously, it boggles my mind that three grown men could be so thoughtless. I actually cannot wrap my mind around the fact that they just blithely thought we’d figure out the meeting location had changed. Maybe they thought we were telepathic, us big-city design consultants. Christ.

Damn youts!

A ne'er-do-well attempted to burgle my car last night. Of course this happened when My Lord and Protector (Dan) was away. However, the theft was thwarted by our time-tested security system, which includes:

1. Super jumpy/hyper dogs which go nuts at the slightest disturbance, real or imagined
2. A motion-sensitive light installed by the former owner (who was a cop)
3. A thick layer of junk in the car, which effectively masks any objects of value

Of course, now, I'll have to implement an even more stringent security device, namely:

1. Lock the car doors, dumbnuts

I called the cops, who verified that I was, in fact, the victim of attempted petit larceny. They immediately sent over a team of experts to take fingerprints , document the contents of the car, test the sensitivity of the motion detector, and interview all the residents in a two-block radius.

Of course I am kidding! They officer I spoke to, while incredibly nice, said it was only necessary to file a report if it would make me feel better, and that mine was the third recent complaint in the area.

And he told me to start locking my doors. But he did not call me dumbnuts. The dumbnuts was implied.

More weird free food

Some of you may remember, from the Goo-bread incident, that my boss is a kind, generous woman given to foisting weird food products on unsuspecting employees.

She did it again yesterday, out of the blue offering me a fresh Lake Trout that her family caught on Labor Day. (Does this fit the definition of random? I would like to think it does.) Her cousins had caught 24 fish over two days (the legal limit, for any of you game wardens reading), and no one else in the family wanted to bring them home. So she froze some and kept some fresh, figuring what's the point of owning your own company if you can't force your employees to take a fish off your hands?

Anyway, after refusing the goo-bread, I felt I had no choice but to accept a fish. I was a little worried that the fish would be spoiled, since it was caught on Monday morning and I had no idea of how well it had been refrigerated since then.

It turned out to be fine. More than fine, actually. It was a pretty big fish, maybe fourteen inches, and it was just enough for Dan and I together. I cooked it "en papillote", as the foodies say, because I am WAY too lazy to fillet a fish. As you can see, I didn't even bother to take off the fins or the tail.

Well, whatever. It was quite yummy anyway, for a free fish.

Quadruple Ouch

Yesterday I had to meet with a sales rep for a company that primarily sells playground equipment. He rattled off the names of a half dozen local playgrounds where you could see examples of the equipment. I told him that my office manager's kids go to one of the schools he mentioned.

So of course, he asked her about it. It went down like this:

Sales Guy: Hey, Kate says your kids go to Blabitty Bla Elementary! We just redid the playground there last year!

Office Manager: Oh, the one my kids keep getting hurt on?

Me: Snort.

It gets better. See, our office manager is about the nicest woman you'd ever want to meet, so she didn't say it sarcastically or meanly at all. It just kind of tumbled out of her mouth, and you could tell she instantly felt bad.

So then there was an akward exchange of them talking over each other, her trying to say that she blames the overworked teachers, who can't keep an eye on so many kids at once, while he was saying some parts are meant for older kids and maybe her daughter was too young to play on them, but would really enjoy them when she got older.

The coup de grace? Her kids are the most delicate, injury-prone children on the planet. I'm not the least bit surprised they got hurt on the playground. They get hurt or sick standing perfectly still. Seriously. In the last year, her kids have had:

Head Lice (that was a fun one)
Tonsilitis
Strep throat (about 4 times, no joke)
Anxiety
High blood pressure (at 8 years old! 8!)
Sprained ankle
Several bouts of cold/flu
Stomach virus separate from the flu
Allergies
Sinus infection
Concussion

Of course, the sales guy had no way to know that.

I give up.

So, I decided to buy a pair of Crocs recently. I know they have a reputation for being ugly, but they also have a reputation for being very comfortable.

For some reason, I decided to "be adventurous", and get a pair in light blue. They look like this in the catalog:
















However, on my feet, they look like this:



















Yup.

Why I'm not on MTV

Last night Dan and I discussed what would happen if I were a contestant on Yo Momma.*

Contestant #1: Yo mama's armpits so hairy it looks like she's got Buckwheat in a headlock. Yo mama so fat she got to iron her pants on the driveway. Yo mama so ugly that if ugly were bricks she'd have her own projects.

Me: You know, I never really liked your mom.

Contestant: Yo mama... wait, what?

Me: Yeah, I hate the way she says "Hey Y'all!" all the time. And the onions in her meatloaf are always too raw and crunchy.

Contestant: Um..., see, uh, the thing is...

Me: Oh, and she uses WAY too much Febreze in the house. And it's not even the good kind. It's the crappy kind that smells like apples or something.

*For those of you outside the target demographic for this MTV show (probably all of you) or who have not yet stumbled upon this gleaming monument to popular culture, this is a show hosted by Wilmer Valderrama. I must admit, when he's not dressed as Fez, he's quite a charming and attractive young man. But that's not the point. The point is that contestants trade Yo Mama jokes and the judges decide who is better.

And the punishment is just.

So, every once in a while, I forget to obsessively check Toohpaste for Dinner, Married to the Sea, and Natalie Dee.

Of course, then I get the fun of looking at a whole bunch right in a row. But, still, a punishment from the Gods is in order, so you see this:


which is from Toothpaste for Dinner.

So the punishment for skipping these websites for a few weeks is:

To simultaneously inhale/spew coffee all over yourself at work on a day where you have a big meeting and no time to go home first and you are out of Shout Wipes and have to use a nasty old handi-wipe left over from a barbeque last summer that was at the bottom of your desk drawer and you have a big splotch on your boob* for like an hour and it won't dry right.

*For men, the punishment is to have a big splotch near, but not on, your crotch.

This One's for the Ladies

Okay, so I'm going to discuss a serious, chick-only topic now. Guys, take warning. You may wanna skip this one.

Today, one of my co-workers came in late to the office after leaving a message that she wasn't feeling well this morning. When she got in, one of us (not me) asked if she was feeling okay. So far, so good.

Except then she started loudly talking about her IUD. And how there was some problem with it, which is why she was late. I guess she was at the doctor's office.

Okay, okay, okay. As far as I'm concerned that is a no-no. As a rule, in the workplace, I do not want to hear or talk about any foreign/inorganic objects that come or go from that region of the body. However, I am apparently in the minority on this, because a five-minute conversation ensued between my co-worker and everyone else in the office:

Really? I had the same thing when... well, according to my one friend,... yeah, so the nurse had to yank... and so I told my husband,... and the cramps were... once, in band camp...

ARRGH! ENOUGH!

Now, I realize that my little company is only 20% male. And the male contingent (okay, the one guy) was absent from the office. But really, folks, is that any reason to prattle on about your hoo-ha? NO! Good God, NO!

Maybe it's just me. Maybe for me the gene that allows women to talk about this stuff at work was replaced by the gene that allows me to kick ass at Mortal Kombat. (Well, I kick ass at least until my thumb starts to hurt. Usually about 10-15 rounds of best-of-three. Oh, and I'm a shitty winner, too. Just ask Dan.)

Alls I know is, it was all I could do to not cover my ears with my hands and sing la-la-la.

So, please, ladies of the world, keep the hoo-ha talk to happy hour at Chi-Chi's, and not at the office. The more dudely among us thank you.

More Adventures in Homeownership

So, if you have been following the saga of our adventures with renovating the house, you will know that this is the point in the dramatic arc where Our Hero is Struck Down by his O'erweening Hubris.

Yes, we redid the backyard. Yes, we successfully got rid of practically all of the ugly wallpaper. But then... then we overstepped our bounds.

It all started when Dan got the clever idea of turning our back room into a laundry/utility area. For most of the past year, this room has done nothing but provide a home for an increasingly smelly old futon. It is where the dogs stay when we are at work. So making it into a laundry room would not only give it a useful purpose, but would also allow guests to use the downstairs bathroom without looking at the contents of our dryer.

We started scheming. Handy friends came over and assured us that extending the utilities would be a snap. Dan pulled up a corner of the ratty carpet and discovered hardwood underneath. We figured out the best way to arrange the utilities for the washer and dryer, and maybe even put in a utility sink to boot.

Then, like Icarus, we flew too high. One day we decided to just Go Ahead and Do It, and we took everything out of the room.

With baited breath, we pulled up the carpet. Also with held breath, because it was stinky.

And then we discovered that the previous owners had neglected to put down a carpet pad underneath the carpet. Also, they decided to GLUE THE CARPET DIRECTLY TO THE HARDWOOD. Oh yes, there was flooring adhesive spread over every inch of the floor, except the little bit that Dan happened to pull up previously.

Holy shit. Can you even believe it? We never thought the wood would be in pristine condition, but we figured we be able to paint it, at least.

Nope. It's hopeless. We can't sand it down, because it will melt. (see, melt? Icarus? Get it? Get i- Okay, whatever.) We can't scrape it off because it will take thirty thousand man hours.

Also, my Dad pointed out that extending the utilities will probably require a plumber, not just an electrician, because of reasons too boring to list.

This would be the part in the home-improvement reality show where the color on the screen would slowly fade to black and white, and there would be a shot of me looking at the room and shaking my head in slow motion, perhaps accompanied by floating translucent dollar bills, and a Law-and-Order style "gung gung", because we do not have the means, time, or desire to do all of this right now. Unless money starts raining from the heavens like the feathers from Icarus's -- okay, okay, even I have lost patience with the mythology thing. I'll stop now.

The good news is, unlike a home-improvement reality show, we can wait to do the room over when we feel like it. Which also means that we can put a little more thought into the room than our normal "whatever happens to be on sale at Lowe's" method.

Also, since the room is completely empty, it is fun to whistle in there.

Wha'happened?

I know. A long time between blogs. Too long. Not-even-bothering-to-check-if-there’s- something-new long. I know.

So what has been up? Lots! Mostly work.

Did you know that I have a job? It’s true! Yesterday I spent 14 hours working at that job. The day before? Also 14 hours. But what about Monday? Oh, only about 13 hours. And what about the “weekend”? 5 hours on Sunday and 6 hours on Saturday. A real break. Very refreshing. Today, maybe I have only 10 hours before I can go home. But at least I get a nice fat overtime paycheck, right?

HA!

So what I’m saying is that I’m freaking tired. Here are the highlights since my last post, as near as I can reckon through the blinding fatigue:

• We got a new car. An ’03 Corolla. Very exciting. Last night I fell asleep in it at the Price Chopper parking lot. It is nice.
• Congratulations are in order for Marty Cohen, I believe. Now the only question is whether to address her as “Dr. Cohen” or “Marty Cohen Comma PhD”. Yay!
• Dan is getting older this week. Woo Dan! In honor of his becoming a man, we are going to NYC to see a Yankees game and visit BadPie and her guy there, what’s-his-face. Dan has never been to the ol’ big apple. He partially blames this on being from Buffalo, when in fact his sister, who is also from Buffalo and I believe still resides there, pops down to New York like ninety times a year. It is truly a paradox.
• It is track season here in Saratoga Springs. For those of you not familiar with this, it is kind of like a plague of locusts, only instead of insects the town is overrun with Very Rich People for six weeks. Yesterday Dan saw a Lamborghini Diablo. Parked. On the Street. Parked on the street! That is so wrong. Also, the prices at all restaurants go up like 25%. But it is fun to go to the track, because they let poor people in, too, and you can sit at a picnic table with a cooler and make $2 bets on Papa’s Delicate Condition and If Mandy Patinkin Were a Horse. Or pretend that you are in a movie about horses, because every movie about horses from the last twenty years was shot there.

Anyway, there’s the highlights. Tonight I am going to watch Project Runway, which hopefully I recorded. And then sleep sleep sleep. Tomorrow, I swear, I’m only putting in eight hours. Screw the Man! Eight hours I say!

Nothin' better than an incurable laughing fit at your desk.

Seth Stevenson is my new hero.

Frankendog

We recently decided to give Roger, our golden retreiver/collie mix, a summer haircut.

Now, before all the dognazis jump on my case about how fur is nature's airconditioner and other wackadoo bullshit you saw on web, this was on the recommendation of our vet. He tends to get little rashes during the summer, partially because the excessive fur holds moisture close to his skin.

So Dan and little bro John took him for a cut. The groomer said he would give the dog a "lab clip".

Um, except he left his tail long, and clipped a little too close to the body for my taste. I can't find the digital camera, so here's a photoshop approximation of how he looks now:

His undercoat is pretty white, so the difference between his head and his body is startling.

I know, I couldn't stop laughing at him either. It's kind of pathetic really.

Well, at least his rashes cleared right up. And he smells better. What can I say.

Yay!

This is it folks! Crooked Spoke Press is up and running!

For those of you who don’t know, Dan and I embarked on a hare-brained scheme about a year ago. We decided to create a small business to make money “on the side”, as you 20th-century Americans put it.

After much talking, and a little more talking, we decided that it would be fun to get an antique printing press and make cards and invitations. I would do the graphic designing part, and Dan would do the customer service and computer parts. We would both run the press, of course, at least until Dan almost loses a finger. Then I would run it.

Why a printing press? Well, when we were getting married, I totally was obsessed with the look and feel of letterpress invitations. I would swoon over the Martha Stewart Catalogs, with their beautiful handmade, old-fashioned invitations, the letters biting into the thick paper – I’m getting carried away here.

Anyway, we couldn’t afford them, because they were a JILLION dollars. Seriously, like $2.50 to $6 PER invitation, not counting response cards, etc. That’s CRAZY, folks. The paper costs like 50 cents, tops. With the response cards, it added up to like ten dollars a person for the cheapest invitations. I briefly thought about getting a tiny press and doing them myself, but I snapped out of it.

So, we bought cheap regular invitations and they were great. But the fever of getting to play with bits of paper and ink stayed with me. Dan was not so crazy about the paper aspect, but was obviously interested in the gazillion percent markup. And, it was something we could do together, so it would be either “Tons O’ Fun”, or “The Road to Bickerville”. We are banking on the former.

So, we bought a printing press. Soon we will be selling greeting cards online and at craft shows. The picture above is the very first thing we have printed that looks any good. Yes, it was made with hand-set type, by yours truly. (Bernhard Heavy Gothic 24 pt. font, to be exact)

But wait, you say. You bought a printing press? Where the hell did you get a printing press?

Stay tuned for the next installment to find out!

Six-month Anniversary Fake Interview!

Fake Interviewer: So, this will be month #6 for Monkey Eats a Taco. How does that feel?

Kate: Good, my arm felt good, it felt good. I just did what I could for the team. I’d have been just as happy if it had been someone else doing it. It just felt good to get out and do something positive for the team. I just do the best I can with what God gave me, you know?

FI: At the beginning, you said you hoped this blog would help people discover “…what an amazing, hilarious, insightful genius [you are]” Has that happened?

K: Oh… ha… yes, well, the thing about that is…. no.

FI: I told you so.

K: Oh shut up.

FI: Any goals for the future?

K: Yes, absolutely. I’m definitely going to try to use more British slang and idiomatic phrases.

FI: Please give us an example.

K: Er… Crikey! That’ll be a larf! Bob’s your uncle!

FI: That’s pretty pathetic, you know.

K: Well, give it time.

FI: Okay, last question. Can you tell us about a mildly wacky and/or “random” occurrence that happens to you often, and should be a metaphor for your life, but strangely has no deeper meaning at all?

K: Sure, I’d love to. On my way to work, I frequently have to stop my car to let horses and jockeys cross the street.

FI: Thanks, and I’ll see you in another six months.

K: That’d be lovely.

The Preemie Twins are dead! Long Live the Preemie Twins!

When we moved into our house, every room except the upstairs bathroom was decorated with different, ugly wallpaper. That’s 11, count them, ELEVEN kinds of ugly wallpaper.

So we have slowly been chipping away (in some cases, literally) at the wallpaper. First was the kitchen and living room, then our bedroom and the upstairs hallway, and the dining room and entry/foyer over the winter.

This weekend, I’m pleased to say, we got rid of another significant ugly wall-treatment holdover from the previous owners: the Preemie Twins Room.

This was the bedroom of, you guessed it, the twin sons of the previous owners. Apparently, judging by the way the previous owner said “preemie twins” roughly 15,278 times during the closing, these twins were born prematurely. So the room was decorated as a boy’s nursery. It was white on top, ugly blue on bottom*, with a teddy bear border and those godawful vinyl wallpaper stickers of moons and bears in pajamas and shit. Makes sense, right?

It would, except when they moved out of the house, the “Preemie Twins” were THREE YEARS OLD. No longer preemie! Not by any standard!**

Obviously, the first thing I did when we moved in was to rip down the stickers and the border. The border, of course being a cheap-ass piece of crap, left a brown paper backing. But at least the bears were gone.

We lived with the border backing for about two months, before I finally decided it was time to paint. Guess what? I couldn’t get the whole backing off, thanks to the care the previous owners took in NOT properly preparing the wall for wallpaper. So instead of a plain brown strip going around the room, there was an area six inches wide, just at eye level, where it appeared that some one sneezed. Over and over.

Since this is the spare bedroom, and we have not had any overnight guests, we just kind of closed the door and tried not to go in this room over the winter.

But, since we have some guests coming soon, and since I couldn’t stand it any longer, this weekend I painted the room a soothing pale green color, in wonderful matte paint.

Ah. No more preemie twins. Let me tell you, it feels pretty good.

* In high gloss paint, mind you. HIGH GLOSS.
** As an aside, the previous owners apparently also at one time stored a diaper pail in the room, probably behind the door, because the very first thing my dog Roger did on entering the room was to try to pee on the door. He did not do this anywhere else in the house, and generally speaking, he only does that when he smells, you know, wee-wee. I guess he could still smell the preemie twins’ diapers even after three years, which is the GROSSEST THING EVER. Luckily, I caught him in time and avoided a wee-wee incident. And then I steam cleaned the room like five times. And wiped down the walls and door with Lysol. And then performed a Native American purification rite. Because you never know.

I also have a +5 Bag of Holding.

More nerdily exciting news!

Like many geeks, I was puzzled that Chris Eccleston, the ninth Doctor Who, only stuck around for one season. That’s a pretty short run.

So I looked it up on the internets. When I found out why he’s no longer on the show, my head exploded into a thousand tiny bits.


Chris Eccleston stopped being Doctor Who so that he could take the lead in a remake of The Prisoner.
He is going to be Number 6.


Wow. Let me repeat: Wowwee wow wow wow.

For a level 17 geek such as myself, this is very, very exciting. Even if the remake is going to be more like the show 24 than the old show (I guess that means no man-eating weather balloons or penny-farthing bikes).

And for all of you who’ve read this and have no idea what I’m talking about, congratulations! You’re not a geek! You probably also went on a date before you were a freshman in college! Good for You! Now, please move. You and your normal social life are blocking the TV.

Footnote: I can feel that some of you are questioning… Kate, did you… did you photoshop the Village symbol on to the Tardis? Just for this post?

Yes. Yes I did.

Dear God!

Yesterday, when I got into work, my boss very excitedly told a co-worker and I that she brought something in for us – Friendship Bread. I thought, “Oh. Bread. Okay.”

But instead of handing us each a piece of a baked product, she gave us each a large, Ziploc bag, which was about one-third full of a creamy goo.*

Mine was dripping slightly.

She started excitedly giving us instructions about how you couldn’t put it in the fridge, and how we need to squeeze it once a day for eight days before we could bake it, and all I could think was “I’m holding a dripping bag of goo.”

She even had a photocopied handout with the instructions on it.

I don’t know about you, but in goo-related situations, my brain tends to shut down and go into panic mode. So instead of doing the polite thing (taking the bag home and throwing it away) all I could think about was having an un-refrigerated mass of yeast sitting on my desk all day.

No thanks.

So I did my best to fight the revulsion in my throat and gave the bag back to her, with some lame excuse about not baking in the summer.

She actually did have some of the finished product to share. It was a quick bread, which tasted like zucchini bread. Frankly, that’s not much of a payoff for fondling a warm goo-bag for a week. Why not just bake zucchini bread? What could possibly make someone try to foist this crap off on unsuspecting co-workers?

I feel kind of bad that I panicked and used bad manners, but what could I do? I think even Miss Manners has an exception for goo-related etiquette.


*For those of you with a strong stomach, the color and texture was like runny pus. See? See? You’d panic too!

At the barbeque, at the barbeque, at my house

This weekend we hosted a barbeque for a few friends to inaugurate our new and improved backyard. It was fun. We felt like real, live, grown-ups. Here are some highlights of the evening:

• I went inside for two seconds, and the sausages on the grill lit on fire in less than a minute. Well, that’s one way to get them to brown quickly. Luckily, I had poached them prior to putting them on the grill, so no one got trichinosis. I’m pleased to report that, despite the blaze, there were only four sausage casualties.
• Maddy got very excited at seeing so many people, which she indicated by sitting in the middle of everyone and barking once every nine seconds, until someone pet her.
• Roger also got very excited, which he indicated by peeing more and looking longingly at the food everyone was balancing on their laps.
• The Hezel-McCormick orzo salad was a big hit.
• I had a rousing game of “What celebrity does my friend Konrad look like?” with Konrad’s most excellent wife Nikki and Dan’s friend Leigh. It was a tie between a younger, Australian version of Val Kilmer, and an older, Australian version of Prince William.
• Bocce was played.

All in all, a great evening. Although any event that involves a cooler full of beer, Cornell chicken, and homemade sangria is bound to be a success in my book.

The Crystal Calls

Holy crap. Holy crap.

I just found out that they’re making a sequel to the Dark Crystal.

Holy crap.

If you’re as much of a geek as me*, then you are probably just as excited. At this point, I am in such shock that such a thing could happen that my brain has not fully processed the information.

Obviously, this is one of my all-time favorite movies. I saw it in the theater and I still remember getting vertigo at that first shot of Aughra’s observatory.

Anyway, now I have about a year and a half to hope that they don’t mess the sequel up. Cross your fingers for me.

*I’m just being polite here. It is not possible for you to be as much of a geek as me.

Payoff

SO finally, we are more or less done working on our yard for the summer. In case, you haven't seen our place, the yard was a dump when we moved in. Note the airplane pieces and the trailer full of junk.

I feel it is important to note that what you can't see is an enormous barn, also full of junk. So full that the previous owners built a lean-to for their snowmobiles.

Here's another picture, showing the excessive amount of pavement. When we moved in, our yard was about 85% paved.

So we set about fencing the yard, removing the lean-to, and getting rid of some of the pavement.

This is the yard after Dan and our friend John hacked it up with a jackhammer.

Then, we seeded the old driveway and grass came up.

As you can see, the dogs now have 74.6% more peeing and pooping space. Before, it was a bit like a prison yard, and we'd catch the dogs smoking, lifting weights, and giving each other tattoos. Now, they are super happy, which they have indicated by increasing their weewee output but 17%.

Like you even care.

It has been brought to my attention that I am not fulfilling the standard requirements for a personal blog. Specifically:

1. I do not post enough photos of funny things I saw on the web.
2. I use too many footnotes.*
3. I do not have enough posts with lists of things and poignant explanations of why that thing is important to me.

Sigh. Okay, I guess I’ll do a number three.

So, without further ado, here is a list of songs and/or albums, along with a note explaining which startlingly visceral memory each one evokes. Let’s get this over with, folks.

Rubber Soul, any song: reminds me of driving through the Adirondacks with Dan (my then not quite boyfriend) to Troy, NY to watch our friend Jonathan get married.

Simple Pleasures (Bobby McFerrin): Reminds me of driving between Tupper Lake and Lake Placid with the inimitable Sara Chan (Shultz) Parent, because it was one of only two tapes in her dad’s van.

Mr. Bojangles: Reminds me of the outside of the Middletown Hospital, where I was visiting my grandmother with pneumonia.

Mack the Knife (the Bobby Darin version): transports me to 4^th grade, the kitchen in our house, playing cards with my mom and dad and spinning 45’s (yes, you heard me, 45’s)

Georgia on my mind (Ray Charles): see above.

Teaser and the Firecat (Cat Stevens), any song: High school summer afternoon, laying in bed reading, with nothing to do except nap and listen to the birds outside. Could do with one of those right now.

The Juliet Letters (Elvis Costello), any track: Dan’s breathtakingly filthy first apartment.

Surfer Girl, Little Deuce Coupe, In My Room (Beach Boys, duh): Standing in my bedroom in 3^rd grade, playing “air keyboards” on my bed along to the songs, by myself. Yes, let’s not point out how pathetic that is. I know, folks. I know.

A Go Go (John Scofield) and The In Sound from Way Out (Beastie Boys): Strawberry Fields Music and Coffeehouse, Potsdam, NY, where I spent one year as a cashier. This one also is accompanied by the smell of hazelnut coffee and a faint jittery feeling.

Alright! Done! Get on with your day now!

* Hey, if it’s good enough for David Foster Wallace and Dave Eggers, two authors I never plan to read, then it’s good enough for me.

Teacher let the monkies out

Oh yes, the end of the school year. Finally.

Although I am not in school, and I don't have kids, I have looked forward to this day since last September. My morning commute goes right past an elementary school, you see.

Finally, finally, a reprieve from dumbass parent drivers and crossing guards.

The parents I can sort of deal with. Sure, they double-park. Sure, they would rather tie up traffic for minutes at a time to parallel park right in front of the school, rather than pull up to the curb 100 feet up the road. And yes, of course they open the driver's side door directly into oncoming traffic without looking first. Way to set an example for your kids, lady! Or guy!

These are mere mosquitoes buzzing about my consciousness. It's this one crossing guard that kills me.

For one thing, he looks like the mayor from Groundhog Day, only wearing a baseball cap instead of a top hat.

Also, he seems to have no concept of how crossing guards are supposed to do their job. Most guards stand in the center of the crosswalk and hold up a sign or a hand to stop traffic.

Not this guy. When he sees some kids coming, he waits for the light, and then just barges into the traffic lane and crosses the street with them. He doesn't hold up his hand or acknolwedge the cars in any way, except for to occasionally have a conversation with someone through a window.

I'm used to him, by now, but the first few times I saw him in action, I had no idea what to do. Do I keep driving? I have a green light! What the hell!

Now, I ignore him completely, but other folks who don't drive this way every day always get confused, especially if they're trying to turn on to the street where he's crossing. It holds up traffic for a few signal changes.

I have seriously considered calling the school and complaining, because frankly, what he does is completely unsafe. But that would instantly elevate me into grouchy old lady status, and I'm trying to put that off for another few years.

Even I know not to tell the wife

So on Memorial Day, my husband went to the store.

He was gone a couple of hours. When he got back, he apologized for taking so long, and explained that he had to drive to the nearby amusement park, and there was a parade going on which held up traffic. We had a brief discussion of how it was nice to live in a place with a parade, and where the route went, and so forth.

Then something occurred to me. Why did he drive to the amusement park? This was our conversation, editied for humor:

Him: Oh, just giving someone a ride.

Me: Who needed a ride?

Him: Oh, this girl. She works there.

Me: Really? Huh. Doing what now?

Him: She's a lifeguard.

Me: I didn't know you knew any lifeguards.

Him: I don't. We both were at the library, and she didn't realize it would be closed because of Memorial Day because she's from Columbia, so I offered to give her a ride back to her job at the park.

Me: So, you're telling me that it took you so long at the store because you needed to "give a ride" [yes, I used finger-quotes] to a young, female, Columbian lifeguard that you just met? And now you're telling your wife about it?

Him (slowly it occurs to him that he might be in deep shit): Uh, yyyeah.

Me: You are an idiot.

I don't know what is more pathetic - that he assumed (correctly, I have to admit) that I wouldn't get jealous, or that my biggest concern was making fun of him mercilessly for pulling such a bone-headed move as to tell his wife that he gave a ride to some chick.

Insert Proust Reference Here

Today I had my own little temps perdu* moment. I was sifting through a pile of fill in my backyard, removing large chunks of asphalt, which I then put in a dumpster. I know, I have the most glamorous weekends.

Anyway, since no one else was around, I found the most convenient way to do this was to sit down. At first, I was sitting on the ground, but as I got further into the pile, I ended up sitting on a big pile of dirt.

Somehow, I found it way too satisfying. I found myself humming and pawing through the dirt and saying things like "Lookit you, spider! You're a big one! You've got big eyes! Okay, you go over here," and so on.

Oh yes. My own little flashback was not brought on by a cookie and tea, but by sitting on a dirt pile.

Although I will undoubtedly betray my redneck roots by telling you this, I spent an inordinate amount of time playing on dirt piles as a kid. Not in the dirt, mind you, but on large piles of it.

I lived out in the mountains until I was in second grade. During that time, there was always a very large pile of dirt somewhere. It would be too tedious to explain why there were piles of dirt everywhere - just take my word for it.

I know. What can possibly be so fun about a pile of dirt? At the time, they were practically the center of my outdoor recreation universe. Now, trying to describe the vast array of activities that I did on the dirt, it sounds like the most boring idea in the world, even for an only child with an overactive imagination.

One exciting thing I did, though, is when my cousins** were around, and if it was very dry, we would slide down the sandier slopes on our butts, kind of like sledding, only with no snow and no sled. (This should be in the White Trash Olympics). That worked until I accidentally rolled over mid-slide and my shirt slid up and scraped the hell out of my entire front. Ow. I was maybe four when that happened.

The point is, even though it is the most boring and pathetic sounding thing in the world, I had a great time on dirt piles as a kid, even by myself.

Luckily, it is too late for anyone to call child protective services.

* Aren't I a pretentious bastard? I didn't even read the book!

** These particular cousins' names are: Lester, Adam, Seth, and Sam. Yes, I am related to a guy named Lester. Two, if you count his dad. He is my Uncle. Uncle Lester. Yup. Sometimes, I would feed the pigs and goats at his farm, or get chased by an angry goose. Yup. See, I wasn't kidding about the redneck thing. You thought I was exaggerating, didn't you? You wish.

And the winner is...

I'd like to nominate the pants I'm wearing today to the "Worst Pants - Business Casual" category of the Pants-ies Award.

Seriously, they totally suck. I bought them at a large, national retailer (who shall remain nameless, but the syllables of the store name are "get" and "tar"). I always buy clothes there, even though they immediately get wrinkley, or shrink, or stretch, or in the case of these amazing pants, all three.

Somehow, they have managed to stretch from perfectly-fitting, fashionable, wide leg trousers into ultra-baggy old lady slacks in the course of one day, to the point where it now appears that I am wearing "tapered" style pants. Maybe I should peg the cuffs and call it a day.

Also, they are made of a linen blend which not only wrinkles instantly, but cannot be dried in a dryer, giving them the worst qualities of both fabrics they are composed of.

The final insult: they itch.

Anyway, I am counting the minutes until I can go home and change into one of my many contenders for the "Worst Pants - Pajamas" category.

I'd like to thank the members of the Academy for their support. Thank you very much.

Arrgh.

The building I work in is owned by a progressive-minded rich liberal. This is her first foray into commercial real estate, and she wanted to create a certain “vibe” in the building by renting half the offices to non-profits and the rest to us workin’ joes. Whatever, fine.

She also has very little idea about what it’s like to work for a living, so she has done a lot of things, like fill the hallways with paintings by local artists, that normal people who actually need money would never do. Frankly, I never gave it much thought. Until now.

We just got a memo from one of the other tenants. On behalf of the owner, she commissioned a $750 painting to commemorate the opening of the building. The tenant wants to give it to the owner as a “gift” on behalf of the tenants (otherwise, it would be the property of the “company” that runs the building, which, let's remember, the landlord owns). In the memo, she says that if every employee in the building would pitch in a mere $20, she could cover the cost of the painting, which, let’s all be clear, has already been bought and paid for by the landlord.

Okay, so let’s recap.

What the hell was she smoking to think that I would be willing to part with $20 to give to my landlord? WTF?!? We already pay rent! (well, I don’t, but still.)

And why, Why, WHY, are we giving the landlord a painting she already bought?!?

Stupid rich hippies. I hate them. I hate them all.