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.