Burning right now:
Bittersweet Symphony - The Verve
Lovesong - The Cure
How Soon Is Now - The Smiths
Hot In Herre - Jenny Owen Youngs
You Picked Me - A Fine Frenzy
For The Girl (acoustic) - The Fratellis
December Baby - Ingrid Michaelson
One - Johnny Cash
Fly Away (acoustic) - Lenny Kravitz
Paris 2004 - Peter Bjorn & John
Hold On - Holy Ghost!
Hide & Seek (Tiesto's In Search Of Sunrise Mix) - Imogen Heap
Fuck Was I - Jenny Owen Youngs
Laid - James
The Night Starts Here - Stars
Just Like Heaven - Kate Melua
Not so random, but I'm still musing.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
House Party
There's a house in Lexington that would tell some stories if its walls could talk.
Back in the day I was as thick as thieves with a girl named Scarlett. She and I lived on the same floor of Blanding Tower at the University of Kentucky during our freshman year. I was holed up in room 2007 (I called myself the Second James Bond) and she was at the end of the other hall, past the trio of elevators that smelled like pee and stale beer.
Scarlett and I were part of a crew of girls from the same floor - we grabbed dinner in the dining hall together, we hitched rides to Wal-Mart together. We played in playgrounds in the middle of the night together.
We suffered in the freezing cold during early morning fire alarms together.
Freshman year rocked - it was a liberating experience of firsts that can only come when you're left to live life without the shadow of Mom and Dad looming over head. Scarlett has the distinct honor of being the one who taught me how to smoke cigarettes. It was only a precursor to other experiences - the gang didn't want to waste any good stuff on a girl who didn't know how to inhale.
I was a fresh-faced prep from New England and Scarlett was a hippy chick from Ashland, Kentucky. Two different perspectives on life colliding on the 20th floor on South Campus.
In 1996, Scarlett moved out of the Tower to a house on Limestone. It was near Commonwealth Stadium - a high traffic area and a perfect location for a party. One October Saturday night I trooped over to the house after the game (this was during the Bill Curry era when Kentucky Football really sucked) to help Scarlett get ready for the evening. She needed help screwing in a red light bulb on the front porch - a crimson, glowing beacon welcoming any reveler to the fete inside. She grabbed a particle board bookcase for me to use as a ladder. I gave her a skeptical look for a couple seconds and hoisted a leg up onto the first shelf.
I was on my ass in as much time.
I have a penchant for peeing my pants during the most inopportune of occasions - this was one of them. I peed my faded washed, reverse fit Gap jeans as I lay sprawled on the concrete porch, laughing uncontrollably at the absurdity of the situation.
Grabbing my composure as I stripped my sweater off, I tied it around my waist to cover the wet spot while trudging back to the Tower.
I returned to the house looking like a different woman. Black pants, hot top, cute shoes, every college girl had a few tricks to rely on for a Saturday night and I was no exception. Mine usually consisted of some cleavage, quality time with my hot rollers and a pair of hot heels.
Scarlett instantly greeted me with a beer and ushered me to the kitchen for what was the beginning of a tradition - a Three Wise Men shot. The Violent Femmes and 311 pulsated on the stereo while we gathered around the kitchen table - bracing for the most wicked of concoctions - Jim Beam, Jack Daniels and Jose Quervo, visibly layered in shot glasses. We'd yelp and holler after downing such a potent drink and then pour another round.
You could cut the hedonistic debauchery in the air.
Couples drunk on lust and Nati Light would disappear behind closed bedroom doors. Others would bump and grind to Gin and Juice in the living room. Some people would gather in the kitchen to smoke bowls of Eastern Kentucky weed and chow down on cheese sticks from Papa Johns.
I didn't think life could get any better.
Back in the day I was as thick as thieves with a girl named Scarlett. She and I lived on the same floor of Blanding Tower at the University of Kentucky during our freshman year. I was holed up in room 2007 (I called myself the Second James Bond) and she was at the end of the other hall, past the trio of elevators that smelled like pee and stale beer.
Scarlett and I were part of a crew of girls from the same floor - we grabbed dinner in the dining hall together, we hitched rides to Wal-Mart together. We played in playgrounds in the middle of the night together.
We suffered in the freezing cold during early morning fire alarms together.
Freshman year rocked - it was a liberating experience of firsts that can only come when you're left to live life without the shadow of Mom and Dad looming over head. Scarlett has the distinct honor of being the one who taught me how to smoke cigarettes. It was only a precursor to other experiences - the gang didn't want to waste any good stuff on a girl who didn't know how to inhale.
I was a fresh-faced prep from New England and Scarlett was a hippy chick from Ashland, Kentucky. Two different perspectives on life colliding on the 20th floor on South Campus.
In 1996, Scarlett moved out of the Tower to a house on Limestone. It was near Commonwealth Stadium - a high traffic area and a perfect location for a party. One October Saturday night I trooped over to the house after the game (this was during the Bill Curry era when Kentucky Football really sucked) to help Scarlett get ready for the evening. She needed help screwing in a red light bulb on the front porch - a crimson, glowing beacon welcoming any reveler to the fete inside. She grabbed a particle board bookcase for me to use as a ladder. I gave her a skeptical look for a couple seconds and hoisted a leg up onto the first shelf.
I was on my ass in as much time.
I have a penchant for peeing my pants during the most inopportune of occasions - this was one of them. I peed my faded washed, reverse fit Gap jeans as I lay sprawled on the concrete porch, laughing uncontrollably at the absurdity of the situation.
Grabbing my composure as I stripped my sweater off, I tied it around my waist to cover the wet spot while trudging back to the Tower.
I returned to the house looking like a different woman. Black pants, hot top, cute shoes, every college girl had a few tricks to rely on for a Saturday night and I was no exception. Mine usually consisted of some cleavage, quality time with my hot rollers and a pair of hot heels.
Scarlett instantly greeted me with a beer and ushered me to the kitchen for what was the beginning of a tradition - a Three Wise Men shot. The Violent Femmes and 311 pulsated on the stereo while we gathered around the kitchen table - bracing for the most wicked of concoctions - Jim Beam, Jack Daniels and Jose Quervo, visibly layered in shot glasses. We'd yelp and holler after downing such a potent drink and then pour another round.
You could cut the hedonistic debauchery in the air.
Couples drunk on lust and Nati Light would disappear behind closed bedroom doors. Others would bump and grind to Gin and Juice in the living room. Some people would gather in the kitchen to smoke bowls of Eastern Kentucky weed and chow down on cheese sticks from Papa Johns.
I didn't think life could get any better.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Bacon, Bacon, Bacon, Bacon, It's BACON!
I make birthday cakes for my co-workers.
I always take requests and strive to make the birthday boy/girl happy, even when their cake of choice is a little unusual.
I've made a cake filled with a cherry tunnel. I once made a lemon cake with chocolate icing.
I've made elaborate cheesecakes.
I've experimented with peanut butter cakes with chocolate icing, and chocolate cakes with peanut butter icing.
However, I have never made a chocolate cake with peanut butter icing AND bacon sprinkles - until today.
THIS is a look at the cake requested by my friend, Freeman.
It actually was quite good and most of the people in the newsroom were pleasantly surprised.
Who knew?
Special thanks to Mrs. Chocolate for the photo
I always take requests and strive to make the birthday boy/girl happy, even when their cake of choice is a little unusual.
I've made a cake filled with a cherry tunnel. I once made a lemon cake with chocolate icing.
I've made elaborate cheesecakes.
I've experimented with peanut butter cakes with chocolate icing, and chocolate cakes with peanut butter icing.
However, I have never made a chocolate cake with peanut butter icing AND bacon sprinkles - until today.
THIS is a look at the cake requested by my friend, Freeman.
It actually was quite good and most of the people in the newsroom were pleasantly surprised.
Who knew?
Special thanks to Mrs. Chocolate for the photo
Monday, January 28, 2008
Hangin' Tough - Again?
This'll make you spill your morning coffee.
People.com is reporting New Kids On The Block is making a comeback.
The band even has a new website with some intriguing music - could it be a sample of what's to come?
Where the hell did I put that dayglo pink and green NKOTB hat I bought at Riverfront Coliseum?
People.com is reporting New Kids On The Block is making a comeback.
The band even has a new website with some intriguing music - could it be a sample of what's to come?
Where the hell did I put that dayglo pink and green NKOTB hat I bought at Riverfront Coliseum?
Friday, January 25, 2008
Schedule
It's going to be a bit nippy this weekend, but that doesn't mean you have to stay home.
Here's a look at some fun stuff on the social calendar:
Stop in for a drink at Nicholson's. The downtown bar is celebrating its 10 year anniversary, complete with deals on pints and a toast to Scottish poet Robert Burns - with pipe and drums.
Check out the spectacular work created by local artists at Final Friday in Over-the-Rhine.
Celebrate a darling boy's first birthday. Joseph Beth at Rookwood Pavilion is a great place to get the perfect gift for a curious child.
Explore the fun, eclectic bar scene in Northside, especially a stellar dive with its own automatic photo booth (and another bar with a great schedule of live music).
Here's a look at some fun stuff on the social calendar:
Stop in for a drink at Nicholson's. The downtown bar is celebrating its 10 year anniversary, complete with deals on pints and a toast to Scottish poet Robert Burns - with pipe and drums.
Check out the spectacular work created by local artists at Final Friday in Over-the-Rhine.
Celebrate a darling boy's first birthday. Joseph Beth at Rookwood Pavilion is a great place to get the perfect gift for a curious child.
Explore the fun, eclectic bar scene in Northside, especially a stellar dive with its own automatic photo booth (and another bar with a great schedule of live music).
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Hold The Salt
Grown-ups think snow sucks.
They're faced with a laundry list of chores the minute the flakes start falling. Slaying the driveway with a shovel, going to battle on the windshield - it all sucks. They drive to work on wicked slippery roads and then they have to duck from those massive, sloppy snowflakes as they walk in to the office.
Yes, snowfall pretty much sucks when you're big.
But us kids - we LOVE the snow.
We wake up during the week and before we even head downstairs for breakfast we peep through the blinds to see if the yard's covered in a white fluffy blanket fresh from heaven. If it is, we immediately run to the nearest television to see if the powers that be decided to close school for the day. That's the great thing about being a kid - the snow gives us a day off from the cool groups and the peer pressure of wearing the right outfits and those dreaded Salisbury steaks in the school cafeteria.
Snow days are a pass on all the politics and garbage and mean people in favor of sledding, drinking cocoa and making cookies with Mom.
I loved zipping up those snow pants and hitting the big hill in our back yard when I was a girl. Bridge and I would lace up the moon boots and trudge through the snow, dragging our sleds behind us. I always used the red toboggan, Bridge loved the yellow disc. We'd slide down the massive hill, across our backyard and glide into the neighbors' yard - stopping right before the edge of a steep cliff. The snow clung to our woolen mittens and chilly flecks of it would find their way down the neck of our coats but we wouldn't mind - we were having a wild time in a cavernous forest encrusted in a swath of snow.
While we were frolicking the day away in the backyard, snow plows and salt trucks would patrol the neighborhood doing their damndest to make the streets clear for tomorrow's business - school buses and carpools and other traffic.
One time Bridge and I saw one of these salt trucks pull up the long driveway across from our home. The driveway was near the entrance to our subdivision and it led to an old farm house and a church that was converted into a school. The people who lived in the farmhouse kept to themselves, but we were familiar with the school - it was a montessori school our youngest sister, Mickdizzle, attended.
We climbed up the steep and snowy drive and found the yellow salt truck idling - the driver appeared to be on his lunch break. He was knawing on a sandwich and shuffling through the day's newspaper, ignoring the world of winter beyond his windshield.
We were as stealth as little girls could be - especially wearing bright fushia and turquoise snowsuits. We made it to the back of the truck and found the funnel that dispensed the salt inside and we started shoving heaps of snow up the shoot. Our little hands grabbed as much snow as they could and we worked fast - we truly believed if we disabled this truck the district would have to close school another day.
We did the best we could, and we ran away when we heard the truck driver yelling at us to get away from his precious, salty booty.
The next morning the snow came, and it brought with it more salt trucks.
The roads were clear and we had to bundle up for our trip to the bus stop down the street. We faced another day in the cut thoat halls of school - those clique-filled classrooms and the cafeteria where insults were a spectator sport.
But someow we survived.
They're faced with a laundry list of chores the minute the flakes start falling. Slaying the driveway with a shovel, going to battle on the windshield - it all sucks. They drive to work on wicked slippery roads and then they have to duck from those massive, sloppy snowflakes as they walk in to the office.
Yes, snowfall pretty much sucks when you're big.
But us kids - we LOVE the snow.
We wake up during the week and before we even head downstairs for breakfast we peep through the blinds to see if the yard's covered in a white fluffy blanket fresh from heaven. If it is, we immediately run to the nearest television to see if the powers that be decided to close school for the day. That's the great thing about being a kid - the snow gives us a day off from the cool groups and the peer pressure of wearing the right outfits and those dreaded Salisbury steaks in the school cafeteria.
Snow days are a pass on all the politics and garbage and mean people in favor of sledding, drinking cocoa and making cookies with Mom.
I loved zipping up those snow pants and hitting the big hill in our back yard when I was a girl. Bridge and I would lace up the moon boots and trudge through the snow, dragging our sleds behind us. I always used the red toboggan, Bridge loved the yellow disc. We'd slide down the massive hill, across our backyard and glide into the neighbors' yard - stopping right before the edge of a steep cliff. The snow clung to our woolen mittens and chilly flecks of it would find their way down the neck of our coats but we wouldn't mind - we were having a wild time in a cavernous forest encrusted in a swath of snow.
While we were frolicking the day away in the backyard, snow plows and salt trucks would patrol the neighborhood doing their damndest to make the streets clear for tomorrow's business - school buses and carpools and other traffic.
One time Bridge and I saw one of these salt trucks pull up the long driveway across from our home. The driveway was near the entrance to our subdivision and it led to an old farm house and a church that was converted into a school. The people who lived in the farmhouse kept to themselves, but we were familiar with the school - it was a montessori school our youngest sister, Mickdizzle, attended.
We climbed up the steep and snowy drive and found the yellow salt truck idling - the driver appeared to be on his lunch break. He was knawing on a sandwich and shuffling through the day's newspaper, ignoring the world of winter beyond his windshield.
We were as stealth as little girls could be - especially wearing bright fushia and turquoise snowsuits. We made it to the back of the truck and found the funnel that dispensed the salt inside and we started shoving heaps of snow up the shoot. Our little hands grabbed as much snow as they could and we worked fast - we truly believed if we disabled this truck the district would have to close school another day.
We did the best we could, and we ran away when we heard the truck driver yelling at us to get away from his precious, salty booty.
The next morning the snow came, and it brought with it more salt trucks.
The roads were clear and we had to bundle up for our trip to the bus stop down the street. We faced another day in the cut thoat halls of school - those clique-filled classrooms and the cafeteria where insults were a spectator sport.
But someow we survived.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Beggars Can't Be Choosers... Or Can They?
I don't date a lot.
I think it's in part because I kind of don't care anymore, and partly because I don't encounter as many situations to meet new men as I used to in the past.
I don't care as much as I used to because I'm pretty happy with my solo status - I like doing things on my terms on my schedule. Notice I didn't say really happy - I'm hoping I find someone along the way who likes doing the same things on the same schedule.
The catch is - I'm really not looking for those guys.
I used to go from bar after bar after bar searching for Mr. Right. I'd scope out every wine tasting, book store and produce section for a worthy candidate. Now, I sip on my pinot, flip through the paperbacks and grab my bananas without much thought as to whether there are any attractive, testosterone laden gods in my vicinity.
SO you would think I'd jump at the chance to go on a date - especially if it's with a polite man... Especially a polite man with tickets to Wicked.
What about when that gentleman is, like, 60 years old?
Yeah, he didn't stand much of a chance.
He was clever and apparently wealthy. The man was visiting my office - shadowing his friend and my co-worker, Mrs. Chocolate, for half the day. He was charming in our morning meeting, spinning yarns about his old days working in the very same newsroom in the 60s. I smiled and thought about how I was born a decade later.
Later he pronounced in a stage whisper that the newsroom was full of so many beautiful women and "Why do they all have to be taken?" Mrs. Chocolate went on to say that yours truly was the only single one left but that I was a catch deserving of only the best.
A couple hours later my phone rang.
It was the old man asking me what I was doing after my newscast tomorrow.
Oy vey.
I mustered the most polite response I could think - Um, I'd have to check my schedule. Why?
Even when he dangled out the idea of Wicked tickets, I just couldn't bite. I think some older men are hot - but even my openmindness has an age limit. There's no way I could date a man 30 years older than me. That's just too weird - a strange play on the Electra complex that I don't want to explore.
And so I said no. Thank you, but no. Besides I saw Wicked last week on a spontaneous blind date - and that guy, I liked.
Seriously, is this all I have to look forward to? Come-ons from rich, old men?
Lord help me.
I think it's in part because I kind of don't care anymore, and partly because I don't encounter as many situations to meet new men as I used to in the past.
I don't care as much as I used to because I'm pretty happy with my solo status - I like doing things on my terms on my schedule. Notice I didn't say really happy - I'm hoping I find someone along the way who likes doing the same things on the same schedule.
The catch is - I'm really not looking for those guys.
I used to go from bar after bar after bar searching for Mr. Right. I'd scope out every wine tasting, book store and produce section for a worthy candidate. Now, I sip on my pinot, flip through the paperbacks and grab my bananas without much thought as to whether there are any attractive, testosterone laden gods in my vicinity.
SO you would think I'd jump at the chance to go on a date - especially if it's with a polite man... Especially a polite man with tickets to Wicked.
What about when that gentleman is, like, 60 years old?
Yeah, he didn't stand much of a chance.
He was clever and apparently wealthy. The man was visiting my office - shadowing his friend and my co-worker, Mrs. Chocolate, for half the day. He was charming in our morning meeting, spinning yarns about his old days working in the very same newsroom in the 60s. I smiled and thought about how I was born a decade later.
Later he pronounced in a stage whisper that the newsroom was full of so many beautiful women and "Why do they all have to be taken?" Mrs. Chocolate went on to say that yours truly was the only single one left but that I was a catch deserving of only the best.
A couple hours later my phone rang.
It was the old man asking me what I was doing after my newscast tomorrow.
Oy vey.
I mustered the most polite response I could think - Um, I'd have to check my schedule. Why?
Even when he dangled out the idea of Wicked tickets, I just couldn't bite. I think some older men are hot - but even my openmindness has an age limit. There's no way I could date a man 30 years older than me. That's just too weird - a strange play on the Electra complex that I don't want to explore.
And so I said no. Thank you, but no. Besides I saw Wicked last week on a spontaneous blind date - and that guy, I liked.
Seriously, is this all I have to look forward to? Come-ons from rich, old men?
Lord help me.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Things To Remember
- Sometimes fierce loyalty will cloud your judgment.
- There are always three sides to every story.
- In most cases, time has a way of healing all wounds - but sometimes a trip down memory lane will take your breath away as swiftly as it did in the past.
- You can't always get what you want.
- Trust your gut instinct.
- It's scary putting it all out there - but sometimes you just have to do it.
- If all else fails, have faith it will all work out.
- Mikey was right: It's our time down here. That's all over the second we ride up Troy's bucket.
The Ol' Girl's Holding Up
I'm not really a slave to vanity.
I bite my nails and my commitment to the gym is more of a passing interest than it is an obsession. I eschew any form tanning (natural or the bed version), though I will on occasion give in to a schmear of the sunless variety.
But the hair - that's another story.
You could pretty much set your watch to my habit of consistent salon scheduling. I make an appointment for some version of a highlight (full/partial/brushlight) two months in advance on or around the 15th of each month.
I guess I am a bit compulsive about my need to be covered in bleach and aluminum foil.
This Saturday I sat patiently as some 23-year-old stylist combed through my chia pet hair, sectioning out different clumps and pinning them up in hair clips. She was careful to comb slowly so as to not tug on my flaxen blonde and copper streaked tendrils.
She was young - the stylist. A head full of deep, purpley maroon hair and a fringe of orange highlights just around the hairline on her forehead. Her name was Cori - she had a tiny little nose ring and I could tell she was trying to project a hardened, all knowing image laced with a dash of punk.
And I thought she was cool.
Then she said she was waiting for a man to find her and whisk her away and take care of her for the rest of her life.
I sighed.
I suppose that's what every girl dreams of when they're 23. It's certainly what I dreamed of when I was 23 - sugar plum fantasies of a white picket fence and a handsome husband to balance the check book and make babies with me. At least that's what I think I dreamed about as I eased in and out of the haze that comes with a young, drunken stupor.
And so she went on, sparkling as she talked about how a man was going to take her away and make her life alright - and that's when I told her I knew that dream all too well.
I told her I used to wish for that very same thing when I was her age - and I've since learned how to take care of myself. I told her I had to become independent while I waited for Prince Charming to find me... and I told her I was still waiting for him to find me after all these years.
And that's when she asked me how old I am.
31, I replied.
"Wow. Well you don't look your age," she said without a thought or hesitation.
Really, now? Thanks. But what DOES 31 look like, anyway?
I realize now it doesn't look that different from 23 - at least on the outside.
I bite my nails and my commitment to the gym is more of a passing interest than it is an obsession. I eschew any form tanning (natural or the bed version), though I will on occasion give in to a schmear of the sunless variety.
But the hair - that's another story.
You could pretty much set your watch to my habit of consistent salon scheduling. I make an appointment for some version of a highlight (full/partial/brushlight) two months in advance on or around the 15th of each month.
I guess I am a bit compulsive about my need to be covered in bleach and aluminum foil.
This Saturday I sat patiently as some 23-year-old stylist combed through my chia pet hair, sectioning out different clumps and pinning them up in hair clips. She was careful to comb slowly so as to not tug on my flaxen blonde and copper streaked tendrils.
She was young - the stylist. A head full of deep, purpley maroon hair and a fringe of orange highlights just around the hairline on her forehead. Her name was Cori - she had a tiny little nose ring and I could tell she was trying to project a hardened, all knowing image laced with a dash of punk.
And I thought she was cool.
Then she said she was waiting for a man to find her and whisk her away and take care of her for the rest of her life.
I sighed.
I suppose that's what every girl dreams of when they're 23. It's certainly what I dreamed of when I was 23 - sugar plum fantasies of a white picket fence and a handsome husband to balance the check book and make babies with me. At least that's what I think I dreamed about as I eased in and out of the haze that comes with a young, drunken stupor.
And so she went on, sparkling as she talked about how a man was going to take her away and make her life alright - and that's when I told her I knew that dream all too well.
I told her I used to wish for that very same thing when I was her age - and I've since learned how to take care of myself. I told her I had to become independent while I waited for Prince Charming to find me... and I told her I was still waiting for him to find me after all these years.
And that's when she asked me how old I am.
31, I replied.
"Wow. Well you don't look your age," she said without a thought or hesitation.
Really, now? Thanks. But what DOES 31 look like, anyway?
I realize now it doesn't look that different from 23 - at least on the outside.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Trolling YouTube So You Don't Have To
I normally don't watch American Idol, but I did happen to catch this dude singing in this week's auditions from Dallas. I don't know what is more weird - his undying love for Simon or the strange getup he wore for the audition.
Mitt Romney and the Reporter - a friendly little banter at the presidential candidate's press conference (is it inside a Staples store??). It was two notches away from reaching catfight status. Rreeer!
For my brother-from-another-mother, Double Platinum, here's a guy who loves ice skating as much as you.
If Hillary doesn't make it to the White House, it looks like she's got the makings for a new career in the friendly skies.
And last but certainly not least - did a British advertising agency really think this raunchy ad would be fit for air?
Mitt Romney and the Reporter - a friendly little banter at the presidential candidate's press conference (is it inside a Staples store??). It was two notches away from reaching catfight status. Rreeer!
For my brother-from-another-mother, Double Platinum, here's a guy who loves ice skating as much as you.
If Hillary doesn't make it to the White House, it looks like she's got the makings for a new career in the friendly skies.
And last but certainly not least - did a British advertising agency really think this raunchy ad would be fit for air?
Doubting Thomas
Top Gun.
Cocktail.
Jerry Maguire.
I used to drool over Tom Cruise.
Then he became a little reclusive, summoned a Hollywood starlet and sparked a whirlwind romance, and then he started jumping on couches.
Here's a look at the latest bit of Tom's cinematic magic - this is a ten minute clip of that Scientology award show presenation that the cult religion doesn't want you to see.
No doubt, he's come a long way from Risky Business.
And in case you don't exactly understand what he's talking about - here's a glossary to help you decipher all those wacky terms.
Cocktail.
Jerry Maguire.
I used to drool over Tom Cruise.
Then he became a little reclusive, summoned a Hollywood starlet and sparked a whirlwind romance, and then he started jumping on couches.
Here's a look at the latest bit of Tom's cinematic magic - this is a ten minute clip of that Scientology award show presenation that the cult religion doesn't want you to see.
No doubt, he's come a long way from Risky Business.
And in case you don't exactly understand what he's talking about - here's a glossary to help you decipher all those wacky terms.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Perfect Storm of Love
Time Magazine has an interesting article on that fantastic sensory explosion you feel when experiencing love at first sight.
The fireworks. The red, flushed cheeks. The racing heart that feels like it's going to pound out of your heaving chest.
Yeah, I know a thing or two about that spectacular frenzy of love.
I've been swept off my feet before - and I can call at least one occasion love at first sight.
It's something I'll never forget, with a man whom I'll never forget.
The article breaks down the science of attraction - how we human beings are basically on a hunting expedition for the perfect mate. The smells, the visual signals, our bodies pick up on clues and other signs that someone is ripe for love - the right kind of love.
And who knew that some first kisses are more magical than others?
Well, okay, I knew - only because I've had a few spectacular lip locking moments, and a few amorous occasions that left a lot to be desired... But it turns out kissing is a biological taste test that helps you find the perfect life partner. The art of kissing exposes two potential partners to a set of chemicals that can indicate whether the kissers are a match.
And kissing could even be a natural aphrodisiac - a chemical mickey that helps a man increase a woman's arousal.
Practically everything the human body does can send a message of a potential partner's worthiness.
A person's tonal qualities in their voice, the amount of chest hair a man displays, a woman's ample breast - they're all signs that help reel in a suitor.
The report definitely sheds light on some interesting conclusions, but I believe the biggest nugget out of this whole thing is this:
It looks like I'm going to probably have to kiss a few more toads.
The fireworks. The red, flushed cheeks. The racing heart that feels like it's going to pound out of your heaving chest.
Yeah, I know a thing or two about that spectacular frenzy of love.
I've been swept off my feet before - and I can call at least one occasion love at first sight.
It's something I'll never forget, with a man whom I'll never forget.
The article breaks down the science of attraction - how we human beings are basically on a hunting expedition for the perfect mate. The smells, the visual signals, our bodies pick up on clues and other signs that someone is ripe for love - the right kind of love.
And who knew that some first kisses are more magical than others?
Well, okay, I knew - only because I've had a few spectacular lip locking moments, and a few amorous occasions that left a lot to be desired... But it turns out kissing is a biological taste test that helps you find the perfect life partner. The art of kissing exposes two potential partners to a set of chemicals that can indicate whether the kissers are a match.
And kissing could even be a natural aphrodisiac - a chemical mickey that helps a man increase a woman's arousal.
Practically everything the human body does can send a message of a potential partner's worthiness.
A person's tonal qualities in their voice, the amount of chest hair a man displays, a woman's ample breast - they're all signs that help reel in a suitor.
The report definitely sheds light on some interesting conclusions, but I believe the biggest nugget out of this whole thing is this:
It looks like I'm going to probably have to kiss a few more toads.
I Like Dem Price Hill Girlz
I almost peed my pants after watching this today.
Cincinnatians everywhere - enjoy.
Special thanks to Tweak for giving me a heads up on this one... I think it was only posted on YouTube two days ago.
Cincinnatians everywhere - enjoy.
Special thanks to Tweak for giving me a heads up on this one... I think it was only posted on YouTube two days ago.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Sunday, January 13, 2008
A Spot Along The River
My family is not afraid of the morbid.
We throw out mentions about pieces of furniture we want when the parents are gone. We casually reveal a nuance we want included in our Funeral Mass service.
Over Thanksgiving we had a discussion about where we would want our ashes spread if our bodies were cremated. Now, I'm not down with the whole cremation thing, only because I don't want to be left in an urn on somebody's mantle. And the Catholic church still isn't giving a green light to the spreading of ashes - so right now I'm sticking with the traditional burial - complete with a mahogony or cherry casket (nothing that looks like it was made along side a Buick.)
For the sake of playing the game, though, I mulled over the possibilities before committing to anything. It turns out my sister, Bridge, knows me better than I thought.
"London!" she cried out as we sat around her living room with our wine glasses full of Chardonnay.
I thought about it silently and then nodded, yes indeed, London is one place I'd like to haunt for all eternity.
It's kind of romantic when you think about it.
A fresh spirit roaming amidst the mist along the Thames. A soul soaking in all of the history that came before it, a soul delighting in all the progress that came after. I already know the spot - that riverwalk right behind the Tower of London. It's such a great spot to see families enjoying photo ops of Tower Bridge, and I know my soul would love watching those young world travelers getting their first taste of wanderlust.
I got to thinking about my family and our macabre discussion after listening to Rick Steves latest podcast. The edition talks all about Britain's crown jewel, including off-beat places to visit to see the town the way native Londoners do, and also the littany of free things available to tourists looking for a break from the brutal exchange rate.
My visions of London made me hungry for the sound of Big Ben - thankfully the BBC has put those chimes online for all the world to admire.
Oh, how I'm yearning for some hot, roasted chestnuts.
We throw out mentions about pieces of furniture we want when the parents are gone. We casually reveal a nuance we want included in our Funeral Mass service.
Over Thanksgiving we had a discussion about where we would want our ashes spread if our bodies were cremated. Now, I'm not down with the whole cremation thing, only because I don't want to be left in an urn on somebody's mantle. And the Catholic church still isn't giving a green light to the spreading of ashes - so right now I'm sticking with the traditional burial - complete with a mahogony or cherry casket (nothing that looks like it was made along side a Buick.)
For the sake of playing the game, though, I mulled over the possibilities before committing to anything. It turns out my sister, Bridge, knows me better than I thought.
"London!" she cried out as we sat around her living room with our wine glasses full of Chardonnay.
I thought about it silently and then nodded, yes indeed, London is one place I'd like to haunt for all eternity.
It's kind of romantic when you think about it.
A fresh spirit roaming amidst the mist along the Thames. A soul soaking in all of the history that came before it, a soul delighting in all the progress that came after. I already know the spot - that riverwalk right behind the Tower of London. It's such a great spot to see families enjoying photo ops of Tower Bridge, and I know my soul would love watching those young world travelers getting their first taste of wanderlust.
I got to thinking about my family and our macabre discussion after listening to Rick Steves latest podcast. The edition talks all about Britain's crown jewel, including off-beat places to visit to see the town the way native Londoners do, and also the littany of free things available to tourists looking for a break from the brutal exchange rate.
My visions of London made me hungry for the sound of Big Ben - thankfully the BBC has put those chimes online for all the world to admire.
Oh, how I'm yearning for some hot, roasted chestnuts.
Shredded
I just woke up and was instantly reminded of my old age.
My muscles are so so sore - it's been a long time since I did the wedge and worried about whether I was in the fall line.
My muscles are so so sore - it's been a long time since I did the wedge and worried about whether I was in the fall line.
I think I discovered some muscles I'd never used while maneuvering down those slopes on wax covered skis.
And here's a tip - if you go tubing, keep your bum up or you might hit your tailbone on some of the hills.
I only wish I had brought an extra g-string to toss on the underwear tree along the chair lift.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Souvenirs of The Heart
Things I can't let go of:
A mix CD
A Keeneland magnet
Two kind text messages
A Garbage tape
A Halloween party photo
Ticket stubs to several Reds games
Long Black Veil
A picture from the night we kissed on New Year's Eve
A poem about gold and silver
A nickname
The one trivia game when I kicked his ass
Our band Euchre Party
That hug
The scar on his forearm
Hotel California on the beach
A snapshot taken steps away from the dugout
A playlist with all their songs
An Aspen baseball cap
A red vase from when he gave me flowers
A myspace page
The night we swam in three downtown fountains
A stub from the Diana exhibit
When he unbuttoned his shirt to let our skin touch
Chinoe Pub
Sweet Caroline
A Hawaiian print shirt
A mix CD
A Keeneland magnet
Two kind text messages
A Garbage tape
A Halloween party photo
Ticket stubs to several Reds games
Long Black Veil
A picture from the night we kissed on New Year's Eve
A poem about gold and silver
A nickname
The one trivia game when I kicked his ass
Our band Euchre Party
That hug
The scar on his forearm
Hotel California on the beach
A snapshot taken steps away from the dugout
A playlist with all their songs
An Aspen baseball cap
A red vase from when he gave me flowers
A myspace page
The night we swam in three downtown fountains
A stub from the Diana exhibit
When he unbuttoned his shirt to let our skin touch
Chinoe Pub
Sweet Caroline
A Hawaiian print shirt
Thursday, January 10, 2008
A Wave
It started with grape soda.
His tooth glinted at me and I was caught between a rock and a hard spot as I stared at the tiniest cluster of diamonds you could fit on an incisor. Well, I guess it wasn't so much a rock and a hard spot as it was the sporadic traffic of Reading Road and my Saab.
He wanted a drink. He said he was so thirsty and he asked me for a drink as we stood there in the rain. His hoodie was wet and his cheeks were covered in a haze of black curly hair. He looked like he hadn't showered in days.
It was funny. Most of the time I am polite and occasionally overly sweet - I guess it's just my nature. I go out of my way to make moments convenient and comfortable and congenial for people. But on this occasion I felt a bit less malleable, a little bit more gritty. Make no mistake about it, I was still polite, but something inside me said this was not an occasion to appear a pushover.
He offered to pump my gas. I let him put the pump in the tank and we sat there and chitchatted about the weather - the rain. He was so grateful. I was amazed that something so simple could make someone so happy.
He stopped at the 10 dollar mark - after spending maybe 30 seconds of stop-and-go pumping two dollars earlier. I'd already swiped my card and paid for the gas but told him I'd go inside and get whatever he wanted if he'd just wait a minute.
I felt simultaneous twinges of skepticism and guilt as I pressed the automatic lock button on my key fob while walking from the car.
The gas station was packed with people buying little cigars and Hawaiian Punch and lottery tickets and toilet paper. I made it to my place in line and waited - watching the man in the over sized plaid button down shirt as he read off dozens of combinations of numbers scrawled in pencil on a long strip of paper.
I waited until it was my turn and was embarrassed I didn't have the cash to pay for such a small charge. The clerk made me sign the slip and I stepped back out into the rain.
He was hustling another girl who looked like she was on her way to a nearby building on UC's campus.
I held out the two bottles of Welch's grape soda and his mouth spread apart and he gave me the only gift he had - the biggest smile I'd seen all day. That encrusted tooth sparkled as he showed his thanks.
I hopped in my European car and sat in the seat with bum warmers and wondered whether anything I'd experienced this entire week would make me feel the same way.
His tooth glinted at me and I was caught between a rock and a hard spot as I stared at the tiniest cluster of diamonds you could fit on an incisor. Well, I guess it wasn't so much a rock and a hard spot as it was the sporadic traffic of Reading Road and my Saab.
He wanted a drink. He said he was so thirsty and he asked me for a drink as we stood there in the rain. His hoodie was wet and his cheeks were covered in a haze of black curly hair. He looked like he hadn't showered in days.
It was funny. Most of the time I am polite and occasionally overly sweet - I guess it's just my nature. I go out of my way to make moments convenient and comfortable and congenial for people. But on this occasion I felt a bit less malleable, a little bit more gritty. Make no mistake about it, I was still polite, but something inside me said this was not an occasion to appear a pushover.
He offered to pump my gas. I let him put the pump in the tank and we sat there and chitchatted about the weather - the rain. He was so grateful. I was amazed that something so simple could make someone so happy.
He stopped at the 10 dollar mark - after spending maybe 30 seconds of stop-and-go pumping two dollars earlier. I'd already swiped my card and paid for the gas but told him I'd go inside and get whatever he wanted if he'd just wait a minute.
I felt simultaneous twinges of skepticism and guilt as I pressed the automatic lock button on my key fob while walking from the car.
The gas station was packed with people buying little cigars and Hawaiian Punch and lottery tickets and toilet paper. I made it to my place in line and waited - watching the man in the over sized plaid button down shirt as he read off dozens of combinations of numbers scrawled in pencil on a long strip of paper.
I waited until it was my turn and was embarrassed I didn't have the cash to pay for such a small charge. The clerk made me sign the slip and I stepped back out into the rain.
He was hustling another girl who looked like she was on her way to a nearby building on UC's campus.
I held out the two bottles of Welch's grape soda and his mouth spread apart and he gave me the only gift he had - the biggest smile I'd seen all day. That encrusted tooth sparkled as he showed his thanks.
I hopped in my European car and sat in the seat with bum warmers and wondered whether anything I'd experienced this entire week would make me feel the same way.
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
You're Invited
You are cordially invited to a glamorous red carpet affair to celebrate the Golden Globes.
The evening will begin with a stroll along a red carpet and includes such lavish details as caviar served with solid gold spoons and miso-marinated Chilean sea bass draped in a truffle and buerre blanc reduction. Guests will be served a chocolate bombe cake covered with 24 carat gold dusting. A champagne toast with Louis Roederer Cristal champagne will wrap the luxurious evening.
Entertainment includes music performed by 98 degrees, the hottest band from the city of Cincinnati. The list of attendees includes many celebrities from the Tri-State including George Clooney, Nick Lachey, Sarah Jessica Parker and Steven Spielberg.
Attire is black tie - valet parking is provided. Limousines may park in the lot across the street from the venue.
We will be handing out gift bags stuffed with gift certificates to the Tri-State's hottest eateries, luxurious products to pamper your skin, designer sunglasses and 100% cashmere pashminas.
A courier will deliver to you a formal, embossed invitation card with more information on a location and time.
**WHAM**
You are cordially invited to a fun-filled party to celebrate the Golden Globes.
The evening begins with your favorite beer or wine or whatever you have stocked in your refrigerator. The party will serve up a variety of tasty cheese curls and microwave popcorn and Tostino name brand pizza rolls (provided you set your oven to the right temperature). Hosts recommend you get a 40 ouncer of Miller High Life, the champagne of beers, so you can toast the award winners at the end of the evening.
You will have an opportunity to mingle with other party guests via a three-way call arranged by the virtual host. Entertainment includes several up-and-coming artists featured on MySpace, 30 second snippets of the hottest songs provided by iTunes and a very special playlist created for the occasion, "Kate's Glamourpuss Dance Club Hits."
Attire is whatever you feel most comfortable in, though if you use Skype it is suggested you have all your bits and pieces covered by - at the very least - a pair of comfortable boxers and a wifebeater.
The evening will begin with a stroll along a red carpet and includes such lavish details as caviar served with solid gold spoons and miso-marinated Chilean sea bass draped in a truffle and buerre blanc reduction. Guests will be served a chocolate bombe cake covered with 24 carat gold dusting. A champagne toast with Louis Roederer Cristal champagne will wrap the luxurious evening.
Entertainment includes music performed by 98 degrees, the hottest band from the city of Cincinnati. The list of attendees includes many celebrities from the Tri-State including George Clooney, Nick Lachey, Sarah Jessica Parker and Steven Spielberg.
Attire is black tie - valet parking is provided. Limousines may park in the lot across the street from the venue.
We will be handing out gift bags stuffed with gift certificates to the Tri-State's hottest eateries, luxurious products to pamper your skin, designer sunglasses and 100% cashmere pashminas.
A courier will deliver to you a formal, embossed invitation card with more information on a location and time.
**WHAM**
You are cordially invited to a fun-filled party to celebrate the Golden Globes.
The evening begins with your favorite beer or wine or whatever you have stocked in your refrigerator. The party will serve up a variety of tasty cheese curls and microwave popcorn and Tostino name brand pizza rolls (provided you set your oven to the right temperature). Hosts recommend you get a 40 ouncer of Miller High Life, the champagne of beers, so you can toast the award winners at the end of the evening.
You will have an opportunity to mingle with other party guests via a three-way call arranged by the virtual host. Entertainment includes several up-and-coming artists featured on MySpace, 30 second snippets of the hottest songs provided by iTunes and a very special playlist created for the occasion, "Kate's Glamourpuss Dance Club Hits."
Attire is whatever you feel most comfortable in, though if you use Skype it is suggested you have all your bits and pieces covered by - at the very least - a pair of comfortable boxers and a wifebeater.
Prizes include a lovely trinket found beneath the organizer's couch cushions, a Billy Bass Singing Fish, and a used pair of teal, knock-off Uggs, size 7.
Please check the related e-vite site for other related information including start times and a schedule of drinking game activities you can play at home.
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
WTF
Have you heard of a neti pot?
Apparently they're all the rage after a woman who will remain nameless showcased them on her little afternoon talk show (but why would you watch that show when you could watch Local 12's First at 4:00?? Hmmm.)
Anyway...
They're supposed to clear out your nasal passages - perfect for the colds running rampant this time of year.
But after watching this video, I don't think I'm gonna try:
Apparently they're all the rage after a woman who will remain nameless showcased them on her little afternoon talk show (but why would you watch that show when you could watch Local 12's First at 4:00?? Hmmm.)
Anyway...
They're supposed to clear out your nasal passages - perfect for the colds running rampant this time of year.
But after watching this video, I don't think I'm gonna try:
Sunday, January 06, 2008
One Year Later - A Successful Resolution
I've heard the road is paved with good intentions.
But never underwear.
That's exactly what littered the concrete lanes of I-471 southbound this afternoon - little grubby bits of wet, dirty laundry smack dab on top of the dotted line between the left and middle lanes.
I thought about the dirty laundry and wondered who it belonged to, where it was warn. All those pieces of striped cotton and stonewashed denim and damp, dirty, white t-shirts, just abandoned in the roadway, left for someone else to claim.
Sometimes I kind of feel like a forgotten t-shirt that nobody cared enough about to turn around and pick up.
Unless you've been a long time reader of the blog, you probably haven't noticed a shift in my conversation. The fact is, I used to write a lot a lot about the aches and pains of being a single chick. I used to blog about my foibles and follies in dating, sometimes with especially revealing posts of my deepest concerns and pains and heartaches.
My silent New Year's resolution of 2007 was that I wasn't going to reveal those insecurities for all the world to see. I kind of eluded to the ban in this post about a year ago, and here's a look at the last time I really blogged about those uneasy disappointments of being single.
But never underwear.
That's exactly what littered the concrete lanes of I-471 southbound this afternoon - little grubby bits of wet, dirty laundry smack dab on top of the dotted line between the left and middle lanes.
I thought about the dirty laundry and wondered who it belonged to, where it was warn. All those pieces of striped cotton and stonewashed denim and damp, dirty, white t-shirts, just abandoned in the roadway, left for someone else to claim.
Sometimes I kind of feel like a forgotten t-shirt that nobody cared enough about to turn around and pick up.
Unless you've been a long time reader of the blog, you probably haven't noticed a shift in my conversation. The fact is, I used to write a lot a lot about the aches and pains of being a single chick. I used to blog about my foibles and follies in dating, sometimes with especially revealing posts of my deepest concerns and pains and heartaches.
My silent New Year's resolution of 2007 was that I wasn't going to reveal those insecurities for all the world to see. I kind of eluded to the ban in this post about a year ago, and here's a look at the last time I really blogged about those uneasy disappointments of being single.
One year after the ban, I definitely have cultivated some healthy feelings about my sans-plus one status. This New Year's Eve, I remember thinking about how much I'm enjoying playing this game of Life according to my own rules - not having to compromise. Not having to stay in and take care of the kids while the rest of the world goes out to dinner, goes out the comedy club, goes out to the movies.
I caught three different flicks today, and each made me reflect on my singleness.
The first - the unofficial official movie of the single girls' movement - the epic film that uncovers the pathetic secrets of a woman living alone.
I love Bridget Jones' Diary. Bridg dreams of love - a little of the physical kind, but mostly she dreams of having a meaningful, caring relationship with a man whom she can trust.
That Hugh Grant character puts a kink in all that.
As much as I am in lust with HG (he fluctuates between number two and number three in my Top Five), the Colin Firth character is the real winner in the flick. Mark Darcy melts every woman's heart when he reveals just how much he cares about Bridget.
Mark Darcy: "I don't think you're an idiot at all. I mean, there are elements of the ridiculous about you. Your mother's pretty interesting. And you really are an appallingly bad public speaker. And, um, you tend to let whatever's in your head come out of your mouth without much consideration of the consequences... But the thing is, um, what I'm trying to say, very inarticulately, is that, um, in fact, perhaps despite appearances, I like you, very much. Just as you are."
Just as you are. How fucking wonderful is that?
I headed to Newport to see Charlie Wilson's War this afternoon and let me skip over the film's political and international implications and focus on this man's pathetic solitude. Charlie Wilson was a single Texas congressman who lived the heyday of his years without a steady companion. Sure, he was surrounded by a bevy of beautiful boobs and bums, but Wilson was conspicuously missing an emotional confidante, a partner with whom he could share his triumphs and tragedies.
I stuck around and saw Juno great flick and had my faith restored in the purity and beauty of true love.
Juno MacGuff: I think I'm, like, in love with you.
Paulie Bleeker: You mean as friends?
Juno MacGuff: No, I mean, like, for real. 'Cause you're, like, the coolest person I've ever met, and you don't even have to try, you know...
Paulie Bleeker: I try really hard, actually.
What a wonderful kind of love - a passion shared between two best friends.
I want to fall in love with someone just as they are, warts and all. And I'm certain I want someone to fall in love with all of me, too. I want someone to love it when I sing too loud around the house, or when I toss out sexual innuendo. I want to find a man who loves it when I dance around to OAR's Crazy Game of Poker.
I want to find a man who loves the essence of me - the good, the bad and the ugly. And I want to love a man for all that he is and isn't, too.
He's out there - the man who'll make me feel like a million dollar suit as opposed to a wet, dirty t-shirt left on the highway.
I guess that's one reason why I'm a hopeful romantic. You'll notice I didn't say hopeless. I've got a lot of hope that I'll find my one true love.
Until then, I intend on doing a lot of fun, kick ass stuff on my own.
Friday, January 04, 2008
Went Missing
So, I love the Grammar Girl Podcast - it's a great way to learn new things about the mechanics of writing and speaking.
Today GG ran down a few of the Words of the Year - those in just a minute, but first:
GG says her Pet Peeve of 2008 was inspired by complaints about the phrase went missing, which one particular caller says is frequently and improperly used by local media.
Grammar Girl says went missing is actually not wrong - it's a popular British idiom similar to go native.
A few other popular idioms include:
go begging
go over: to gain acceptance - I hope this play goes over well.
GG says the phrase went missing may have made its way to modern day news-speak after the dissapearance of British girl Madeleine McCann, when so many British media types were reporting on the little girl's unknown whereabouts.
They said went missing->American journalists heard went missing->writers/producers started using went missing.
Personally, I've never been a fan of the phrase. Why say, "The little girl went missing," when you can say, "The little girl disappeared"??
These are the hairs I split at work every day.
Which brings me to the Words of the Year.
Merriam-Webster went with w00t, a common phrase used by folks who frequent the gaming world. The word is actually spelled with two zeroes in the middle, and MW says it loosely translates to yay! Some gamers will tell you it means ha!
Anyone with any insight on this?
The Webster New World Dictionary picked grass station as its word of the year. That pun on words refers to a mythical fueling station of the future - a fill 'er-up-joint offering only ethanol and other green friendly fuels. Hey, it could happen, right?
Locavore is a title I'd like to assume. That word, chosen by the New Oxford American Dictionary, is what you'd call someone who only eats food grown or harvested within a hundred miles of the place they call home.
One of their runner-up choices was the verb tase - which is what happens when you stun someone with a taser.
I find this interesting because our newsroom has worked hard to eradicate the word tase from our vernacular - because it wasn't really a word, up until now.
I wonder whether the verb's new addition to the dictionary will change things...
GG is selling t-shirts with the witty slogan, "Don't verbify me, bro!"
Yeah.
The clock is still ticking on that dude's 15 minutes of fame.
Today GG ran down a few of the Words of the Year - those in just a minute, but first:
GG says her Pet Peeve of 2008 was inspired by complaints about the phrase went missing, which one particular caller says is frequently and improperly used by local media.
If a peeping tom were watching, he would have noticed my ears perk up when I heard that.
Grammar Girl says went missing is actually not wrong - it's a popular British idiom similar to go native.
A few other popular idioms include:
go begging
go over: to gain acceptance - I hope this play goes over well.
GG says the phrase went missing may have made its way to modern day news-speak after the dissapearance of British girl Madeleine McCann, when so many British media types were reporting on the little girl's unknown whereabouts.
They said went missing->American journalists heard went missing->writers/producers started using went missing.
Personally, I've never been a fan of the phrase. Why say, "The little girl went missing," when you can say, "The little girl disappeared"??
These are the hairs I split at work every day.
Which brings me to the Words of the Year.
Merriam-Webster went with w00t, a common phrase used by folks who frequent the gaming world. The word is actually spelled with two zeroes in the middle, and MW says it loosely translates to yay! Some gamers will tell you it means ha!
Anyone with any insight on this?
The Webster New World Dictionary picked grass station as its word of the year. That pun on words refers to a mythical fueling station of the future - a fill 'er-up-joint offering only ethanol and other green friendly fuels. Hey, it could happen, right?
Locavore is a title I'd like to assume. That word, chosen by the New Oxford American Dictionary, is what you'd call someone who only eats food grown or harvested within a hundred miles of the place they call home.
One of their runner-up choices was the verb tase - which is what happens when you stun someone with a taser.
I find this interesting because our newsroom has worked hard to eradicate the word tase from our vernacular - because it wasn't really a word, up until now.
I wonder whether the verb's new addition to the dictionary will change things...
GG is selling t-shirts with the witty slogan, "Don't verbify me, bro!"
Yeah.
The clock is still ticking on that dude's 15 minutes of fame.
Thursday, January 03, 2008
It's A Start
I was practically giddy as I strolled in to work this morning in my new stilettos and bright red overcoat.
I swear I caught a whiff of politics in the parking lot, sent with the western winds, along with the pungent odor of hog manure and rotting corn husks.
Iowa.
The Caucuses.
The first step in what I like to call The Beginning Of The End.
Tonight several thousand Americans had a chance to exercise their rights (more specifically the First and Tenth amendments) to demonstrate who they believe will best lead the nation beginning January 20th, 2009.
Political affiliations aside, I am excited about tonight's results.
The people of Iowa have taken the first step in establishing who will eventually run to serve as the next President of the United States of America. And I, for one, am anxious to embrace this new leader.
We cannot fix broken roads, our schools do not have the books they need - and I can't help but think it's because of the amazing drain that is rapidly funnelling cash to the Middle East.
It is well past time to say goodbye to this pet project, this Bush's Folly.
I don't know who will become President in November. In fact, I can't even say whom I'm backing yet.
One thing I do know - I'm looking forward to the sweet scent of change.
I swear I caught a whiff of politics in the parking lot, sent with the western winds, along with the pungent odor of hog manure and rotting corn husks.
Iowa.
The Caucuses.
The first step in what I like to call The Beginning Of The End.
Tonight several thousand Americans had a chance to exercise their rights (more specifically the First and Tenth amendments) to demonstrate who they believe will best lead the nation beginning January 20th, 2009.
Political affiliations aside, I am excited about tonight's results.
The people of Iowa have taken the first step in establishing who will eventually run to serve as the next President of the United States of America. And I, for one, am anxious to embrace this new leader.
We cannot fix broken roads, our schools do not have the books they need - and I can't help but think it's because of the amazing drain that is rapidly funnelling cash to the Middle East.
It is well past time to say goodbye to this pet project, this Bush's Folly.
I don't know who will become President in November. In fact, I can't even say whom I'm backing yet.
One thing I do know - I'm looking forward to the sweet scent of change.
Can't The Writers Just Come To Some Deal
...and save us from this reality hell.
I can't believe I just got sucked into the Celebrity Apprentice
Trace Adkins
Lennox Lewis
A Baldwin Brother
Marilu Henner
Big Pussy and some Playboy Playmate (two entirely different things)
Omrosa! Can't believe the woman has the balls to insist on being the first PM.
I think this is going to become a guilty pleasure.
Dammit.
I can't believe I just got sucked into the Celebrity Apprentice
Trace Adkins
Lennox Lewis
A Baldwin Brother
Marilu Henner
Big Pussy and some Playboy Playmate (two entirely different things)
Omrosa! Can't believe the woman has the balls to insist on being the first PM.
I think this is going to become a guilty pleasure.
Dammit.
Vulture Culture
I snagged this foodie related nugget from my favorite Enquirer related blog. I am really eying that winter casserole class in February. - KtG
Cooking Classes at The Market
Presented by Madison’s at Findlay Market
and Author/Chef David Warda
Class 1. Roasting
1. Roasted Vegetable Lasagna
2. Roasted Root Vegetables with a Balsamic Syrup
3. Roasted Winter Fruit Compote
4. Chili Roasted Nuts
Date: Sunday January 13, 2008
Time: 1:00-3:00PM
Cost: $25.00 Prepaid Cash, Check, Credit Card
Reservations made at Madison’s Store, or Phone 513-542-2009, 513-723-2009
Deadline for Reservations is Friday noon before class (1/11/08)
Classes are Limited to 25 persons.
Classes will be held in market space next door to Madison's
Each menu item will be demonstrated, prepared and served and recipe provided.
Each attendee will be provided complimentary items from Corporation for Findlay Market.
Madison’s will provide door prizes.
Future classes will be held 3rd Sunday of each month.
Tastings and Ask the Chef will be held 2nd Saturday of each month
Next Class: February 17 Winter Casseroles
Cooking Classes at The Market
Presented by Madison’s at Findlay Market
and Author/Chef David Warda
Class 1. Roasting
1. Roasted Vegetable Lasagna
2. Roasted Root Vegetables with a Balsamic Syrup
3. Roasted Winter Fruit Compote
4. Chili Roasted Nuts
Date: Sunday January 13, 2008
Time: 1:00-3:00PM
Cost: $25.00 Prepaid Cash, Check, Credit Card
Reservations made at Madison’s Store, or Phone 513-542-2009, 513-723-2009
Deadline for Reservations is Friday noon before class (1/11/08)
Classes are Limited to 25 persons.
Classes will be held in market space next door to Madison's
Each menu item will be demonstrated, prepared and served and recipe provided.
Each attendee will be provided complimentary items from Corporation for Findlay Market.
Madison’s will provide door prizes.
Future classes will be held 3rd Sunday of each month.
Tastings and Ask the Chef will be held 2nd Saturday of each month
Next Class: February 17 Winter Casseroles
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
Pack Your Bags
I've mentioned it before - I struggle with a horrible case of wonderlust.
Here's a look at the short list of places I'm considering for my vacation next fall.
Anyone wanna come along?
The bright lights of Tokyo
The European influences in Buenos Aires
The beaches and culture of Rio de Janiero
Here's a look at the short list of places I'm considering for my vacation next fall.
Anyone wanna come along?
The bright lights of TokyoThe European influences in Buenos AiresThe beaches and culture of Rio de JanieroTuesday, January 01, 2008
Queen City Pride
I stumbled across the locally run lookatmeshirts.com this evening and I am dying to get one of the great designs poking fun at Cincinnati.
They even have a shirt that teases my own neighborhood.
There are plenty of other fun shirts for Bengal, Red and Bearcat fans - as well as designs that have broader appeal... and also some cute baby onesies.
They even have a shirt that teases my own neighborhood.
There are plenty of other fun shirts for Bengal, Red and Bearcat fans - as well as designs that have broader appeal... and also some cute baby onesies.
A Cup Of Kindness Yet
The first blog of 2008-
I am thrilled I ushered in the new year with:
Happy new year, indeed.
Kisses,
K
I am thrilled I ushered in the new year with:
- Fun friends who could reminisce about yesterday and look forward to tomorrow.
- A (rare) win by the Kentucky Wildcats. Go Big Blue!
- A brief albeit wonderful convo with my far-flung sister
- Some delicious sushi
- Champagne at the bar and champagne waiting for me at home
- A cop driving directly in front of me
Happy new year, indeed.
Kisses,
K
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