So I was sitting on a flying bus traveling through a sky made of water.
Are you still with me?
We were traveling through this wet, watery sky watching a brilliant patch of green real estate pass below us.
Violet was sitting with me in the dark green, imitation leather two-seater, and Tweak was a few seats ahead of us on the left, sitting next to a newsroom intern dressed in a Winnie the Pooh costume.
Yes. A Winnie the Pooh costume.
For some reason Tweak was getting hostile with Violet and me, and that's when the bus broke into song - belting out the tune "We Are Marching To Pretoria."
Yes. Pretoria.
And that's when I turned around to the back half of the flying bus traveling through a watery sky. I addressed the rest of the crowd (which was dotted with several people from my sister Bridge's high school social circle. I know, weird) and got everyone from my high school to start singing our fight song.
On, Wisconsin! On, Wisconsin!
Plunge right through that line!
Run the ball clear down the field, boys
touchdown sure this time.
(U rah rah)
On, Wisconsin! On, Wisconsin!
Fight on for her fame
Fight! Badgers! - fight, fight, fight!
We'll win this game.
(Aside: I think that song got picked for our high school since ours was a town called Madison).
And that's when I woke up.
I have no idea what any of this means.
Normally I don't remember my dreams but I made a point of jotting down some notes this AM so I'd remember the unusual elements.
Not so random, but I'm still musing.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Schedule
I skipped out on a YP happy hour tonight.
I was supposed to go to this bar to meet some new people who dig volunteering just as much as I do. As much as this Irish girl loves celebrating her heritage at a pub with a pint of Guinness or Harp (or whatever), I just couldn't bring myself to go through the motions of the hellos, oh reallys, and what do you do?s that come with meeting strangers.
I just didn't have it in me tonight.
Instead, I went home, changed my MySpace profile pic and threw on the ol' yoga pants. This was of course after having my own personal Rhythm Nation to Janet's newest song, of which I cannot get enough.
(aside: I know ending sentences with a preposition is a cardinal sin, but really, sometimes it sounds way more conversational - don't you agree?)
Anyway.
I am now trying to talk my brain into putting on a sports bra (actually two, if you must know) and heading to the gym that I haven't been to since November. I know they aren't going to pick me for Member of the Month anytime soon but today is just as good a day as any to revive a workout routine... right?
***
Tomorrow I've got a reception to attend for the Council on Child Abuse. We are celebrating a new Ohio state law that goes into effect Friday. Claire's Law makes ours the first state in the nation to track shaken baby injuries and deaths.
The law is named after a girl who survived an occasion when she was severely shaken by her babysitter. Today Claire is a third grader at the same elementary I attended a million years ago. She's overcoming the lasting effects left behind by Shaken Baby Syndrome.
It's amazing to think some people can become so frusrated with a crying infant.
Even more amazing is the idea that we must educate people on the dangers of severely shaking small children.
I am proud to be a part of this initiative to help keep children safe and happy.
***
After tomorrow's reception it's dinner time and that means catching up with Ground Chuck. A couple months ago he and I discussed having dinner each month at a different spot. I think GC is just as passionate about good food as I am, and it's fun to grab a bite with someone out of my normal social circles. It's funny - GC and I have a bit of history that led to a bit of an icy situation between the two of us a couple years ago. But now things are quite normal (or at least as normal as they can be) and I actually look forward to our monthly excursions.
It's funny how time can heal wounds and restore relationships, isn't it?
Ground Chuck and I are checking out Nada tomorrow night. I am so so anxious to try this place. I almost went there for drinks a couple of weeks ago (the fiasco night) and have heard a lot of hype from several of my friends. I can't wait to try the guacamole and David Falk's other tender morsels. That reminds me of a story I need to blog about... but that's a tale for another time (read: foreshadowing).
***
My schedule was in the clear Friday until somebody mentioned the idea of karaoke.
I have a weakness for singing to a bunch of strangers in front of a microphone, so naturally I committed to the outing.
My brother-from-another-mother Double Platinum and I like to play a funny game we call Kamakaze Karaoke - it's when we sign each other up for songs without revealing what they are. Essentially you don't know whether you're going to be singing Shania, Neil, Lionel or Stevie until you're name is called and the intro starts playing.
Dangerous? Yes.
Delicious? Definitely.
This photo pulled from the archives accurately depicts the kind of hi-jinks Double Platinum and I are known to explore when left to our own devices.
We've never been to Tostado's before. Hopefully it's just as fun as the Speak Easy and not as scary as Bobby Mackey's.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Monday, February 25, 2008
Purge
My genetic code includes a chromosome that's predisposed to pack rat.
I come by it naturally - naturally - my mother and father are both notorious for holding on to way too much junk including but not limited to used Cool Whip containers, pie tins, dated industry journals/binders/books, Southern Living magazines, old suits/coats/sweaters/dresses/shirts/shoes etc. My mother has so many wine glasses and water goblets that she has to store them in the kitchen, dining room, wet bar in the basement and also in a bookcase in my room.
Surely you can understand how I came to be this way.
I have trouble getting rid of stuff, too.
I have drawers full of old birthday cards, used tissue paper and dusty mix tapes.
My closet is stuffed with flannel shirts, holey sweaters and shoes I wore in college.
Oh, and the magazines.
I've saved every Cincinnati, Travel & Leisure, Gourmet, and Cook's Illustrated that I've collected over the past three years. I also had a pile of travel magazines I had pilfered from a variety of airplanes over the years.
It's time to get rid of a few things I've been hanging onto - in my heart, in my head and in my home.
I come by it naturally - naturally - my mother and father are both notorious for holding on to way too much junk including but not limited to used Cool Whip containers, pie tins, dated industry journals/binders/books, Southern Living magazines, old suits/coats/sweaters/dresses/shirts/shoes etc. My mother has so many wine glasses and water goblets that she has to store them in the kitchen, dining room, wet bar in the basement and also in a bookcase in my room.
Surely you can understand how I came to be this way.
I have trouble getting rid of stuff, too.
I have drawers full of old birthday cards, used tissue paper and dusty mix tapes.
My closet is stuffed with flannel shirts, holey sweaters and shoes I wore in college.
Oh, and the magazines.
I've saved every Cincinnati, Travel & Leisure, Gourmet, and Cook's Illustrated that I've collected over the past three years. I also had a pile of travel magazines I had pilfered from a variety of airplanes over the years.
I also found a few Cosmos and Janes in the mix.
Just as I have a very hard time saying goodbye to people - it is quite obvious I have a tough time saying goodbye to my belongings.
But my friend Jos says it's high time to get rid of some of my crap - and I agree. Jos says anything I could want to read about in any of my magazines is online these days, and as reluctant I am to admit it, he's right.
It's time to get rid of a few things I've been hanging onto - in my heart, in my head and in my home.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
All day at the movies - it's a wrap
So... No Country for All Men.
Hmm.
Great film. It had me on the edge of the seat. It was the only film that had me totally sucked in from beginning to end, and yet I think the finish was a huge letdown.
Where Atonement was kind of, uh, eh most of the way through and then sensational at the end, I think No Country was sensational the whole way through and then very LAME at the end.
I get what the Coen brothers are trying to do with the way they wrap things up.
But it Sucks.
Sucks with a capital S.
I think it will get Best Picture on the basis of the entire body of work, but I am not really sold on the idea.
The movie is full of thrills and suspense and will have you jumping out of your seat and wringing your hands - I loved that it made me feel something.
But this year, my vote's for Atonement.
I know the Academy loves "period" pieces, I hope they follow suit.
Hmm.
Great film. It had me on the edge of the seat. It was the only film that had me totally sucked in from beginning to end, and yet I think the finish was a huge letdown.
Where Atonement was kind of, uh, eh most of the way through and then sensational at the end, I think No Country was sensational the whole way through and then very LAME at the end.
I get what the Coen brothers are trying to do with the way they wrap things up.
But it Sucks.
Sucks with a capital S.
I think it will get Best Picture on the basis of the entire body of work, but I am not really sold on the idea.
The movie is full of thrills and suspense and will have you jumping out of your seat and wringing your hands - I loved that it made me feel something.
But this year, my vote's for Atonement.
I know the Academy loves "period" pieces, I hope they follow suit.
All day at the movies part 4
So we made it back to the theater for the last five minutes of Juno - I'd seen it before and regard it as the "Little Miss Sunshine" of the year. Next up - the Coen brothers' "No Country For Old Men." At Claddagh I recommend the mussels appetizer and a pint of Smithwick's (or maybe two).
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Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry
All day at the movies part 3
Atonement: I wasn't sold on this one until the last ten minutes when Vanessa Redgrave appeared. What a great story- my favorite so far. Next up - Juno. But first a dinner break at Claddagh.
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Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry
All day at the movies part 2
I LOVED There Will Be Blood. And if Daniel Day Louis doesn't get the Oscar for Best Actor then the Academy is crazy!
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry
All day at the movies
I'm watching all of the Best Picture nominees at Newport on the Levee.
We started with Michael Clayton at 11 am - it was good and of course Clooney is hot as sin, but I don't think it's BP material.
Next up - There Will Be Blood.
I'll keep you posted.
KtG
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry
Vows
I've heard before that it's bad luck to pass up a piece of wedding cake.
I managed to slip out of the reception just before the tossing of the bouquet.
I don't think I missed a thing...
I managed to slip out of the reception just before the tossing of the bouquet.
I don't think I missed a thing...
Smart Is The New Sexy
Confession: I've always had a thing for dorks.
That's hot.
I love their ability to move a pawn in D & D while simultaneously explaining to you the orbital trajectory of the planet.
There's something about smartypants humor that I just can't live without.
I stumbled across a blog post while visiting Chris Glass' blog (which you should check out if nothing else but for his stunning photography).
It turns out while regular people sing along to the radio, the brainiacs are making clever graphs charting the ins and outs of modern music.
That's hot.
Here's a sample:
To Cast A Shadow
I caught the lunar eclipse Wednesday night.
It was quite by accident, actually. I invited my friend Jamie inside my apartment after we had dinner and her boyfriend called her as celestial session was about to happen.
Prior to the call, I hadn't given the eclipse much thought. My meteorologist talked about it during my newscast but I was kind of indifferent about the the whole thing. But the phone call reminded me about the big deal in the sky.
And it was pretty amazing.
The massive shadow crept across the moon until the glowing face was unrecognizable. The brilliance of that luminescent moon was but a memory thanks to a muddy, blue usurper called Earth.
And that got me wondering - how am I getting in the way of greatness?
What am I doing to hold me back from becoming the best person I can be? Do I let life's daily frustrations weigh me down and grate at my hope and optimism? Do I fail to realize my full potential because of an occasional disregard of responsibility?
Is my quest for love casting a shadow on an opportunity to appreciate my life as it is now?
It was quite by accident, actually. I invited my friend Jamie inside my apartment after we had dinner and her boyfriend called her as celestial session was about to happen.
Prior to the call, I hadn't given the eclipse much thought. My meteorologist talked about it during my newscast but I was kind of indifferent about the the whole thing. But the phone call reminded me about the big deal in the sky.
And it was pretty amazing.
The massive shadow crept across the moon until the glowing face was unrecognizable. The brilliance of that luminescent moon was but a memory thanks to a muddy, blue usurper called Earth.
And that got me wondering - how am I getting in the way of greatness?
What am I doing to hold me back from becoming the best person I can be? Do I let life's daily frustrations weigh me down and grate at my hope and optimism? Do I fail to realize my full potential because of an occasional disregard of responsibility?
Is my quest for love casting a shadow on an opportunity to appreciate my life as it is now?
Monday, February 18, 2008
What Up, B?
"Hello, Senator Obama. Can you hear me?"
"Hey there, Mister Obama. How's it goin'?"
"Heeeey, Barack. How YOU doin'?"
Today, in between writing scripts and watching video on the CNN server, I would occasionally offer up an out-loud greeting to one of the nation's presidential candidates.
Sometimes I'd say it in my "normal" voice. Other times I'd say it in my "telephone" voice (doesn't everyone sound a bit more professional over the phone?) and still other times I would say it in my phone sex voice (a completely different kind of over-the-phone professional).
These little rehearsals were brought on after I discovered I would be the producer on deck during a live satellite interview between one of our anchors and the Democratic presidential candidate.
Typically the producer will speak to the talent (i.e. the interviewee) in their earpiece to make sure they are getting an audio signal from our tv station.
And so all day long I was giddy at the thought that my vocal cords would echo inside my voice box and transmit a sound directly through a phone line and into Senator Barack Obama's ear canal.
Granted, ours was not to be a personal discussion on politics as I see the world, actually it wasn't going to be a conversational exchange at all. It was going to be more of a single question with a one or two-word response yes, thank you. Regardless, I was thrilled about the idea that I was going to personally speak with a presidential candidate.
What up, B?
The interview was scheduled to start eight minutes after my 4 pm newscast finished.
I eyed the clock as I cleared my throat, simultaneously giggling and practicing breathy "Well, hello there" greetings. My brain raced through a littany of ideas - what if I spewed out my phone number after checking his IFB? What if I asked Barack for a job? What if I waxed poetic about his handsome looks?
My professionalism and utter fear of embarrassment overrode any idea of entertaining a wild hair I might have had about the scenario.
The colorbars disappeared and Senator Obama's striking face came up on the monitor.
People kept streaming in to studio control - the news director, a couple engineers, a promotions producer. Another director. People just kept coming in and I knew I'd be totally self conscious about whatever I said to the Senator.
The outside line rang. It was Mr. Obama's people in Washington asking whether we were ready on our end for the start of the interview. I said we had just finished a newscast and our anchors were switching out on the set. We'd be ready once my anchor was mic'd up and had his IFB plugged in to the box.
Waiting.
Looking at the handsome face.
Waiting.
And that's when Washington asked, "Yeah. So, can you please have your anchor speak to Senator Obama before the interview starts so they can get acquainted and make sure they each hear each other."
Bitches.
And there it was - any chance I had of talking to Senator Obama - gone. Sure, I could have done a gratuitous Hey there, just checking to make sure you're getting our air but I knew it wasn't necessary and he would have known it wasn't necessary and then Mr. Obama would have just regarded me as some silly producer in Cincinnati who maybe didn't know what she was doing.
So I didn't say a thing.
One of the assignment desk editors told me afterwards that she has put in a request for any and every satellite interview offered by any of the presidential candidates.
So I didn't get Barack this time. But maybe next time it will be Senator McCain or Senator Clinton - both equally exciting options, too.
But Barack.
He will always be the one who got away.
"Hey there, Mister Obama. How's it goin'?"
"Heeeey, Barack. How YOU doin'?"
Today, in between writing scripts and watching video on the CNN server, I would occasionally offer up an out-loud greeting to one of the nation's presidential candidates.
Sometimes I'd say it in my "normal" voice. Other times I'd say it in my "telephone" voice (doesn't everyone sound a bit more professional over the phone?) and still other times I would say it in my phone sex voice (a completely different kind of over-the-phone professional).
These little rehearsals were brought on after I discovered I would be the producer on deck during a live satellite interview between one of our anchors and the Democratic presidential candidate.
Typically the producer will speak to the talent (i.e. the interviewee) in their earpiece to make sure they are getting an audio signal from our tv station.
And so all day long I was giddy at the thought that my vocal cords would echo inside my voice box and transmit a sound directly through a phone line and into Senator Barack Obama's ear canal.
Granted, ours was not to be a personal discussion on politics as I see the world, actually it wasn't going to be a conversational exchange at all. It was going to be more of a single question with a one or two-word response yes, thank you. Regardless, I was thrilled about the idea that I was going to personally speak with a presidential candidate.
What up, B?
The interview was scheduled to start eight minutes after my 4 pm newscast finished.
I eyed the clock as I cleared my throat, simultaneously giggling and practicing breathy "Well, hello there" greetings. My brain raced through a littany of ideas - what if I spewed out my phone number after checking his IFB? What if I asked Barack for a job? What if I waxed poetic about his handsome looks?
My professionalism and utter fear of embarrassment overrode any idea of entertaining a wild hair I might have had about the scenario.
The colorbars disappeared and Senator Obama's striking face came up on the monitor.
People kept streaming in to studio control - the news director, a couple engineers, a promotions producer. Another director. People just kept coming in and I knew I'd be totally self conscious about whatever I said to the Senator.
The outside line rang. It was Mr. Obama's people in Washington asking whether we were ready on our end for the start of the interview. I said we had just finished a newscast and our anchors were switching out on the set. We'd be ready once my anchor was mic'd up and had his IFB plugged in to the box.
Waiting.
Looking at the handsome face.
Waiting.
And that's when Washington asked, "Yeah. So, can you please have your anchor speak to Senator Obama before the interview starts so they can get acquainted and make sure they each hear each other."
Bitches.
And there it was - any chance I had of talking to Senator Obama - gone. Sure, I could have done a gratuitous Hey there, just checking to make sure you're getting our air but I knew it wasn't necessary and he would have known it wasn't necessary and then Mr. Obama would have just regarded me as some silly producer in Cincinnati who maybe didn't know what she was doing.
So I didn't say a thing.
One of the assignment desk editors told me afterwards that she has put in a request for any and every satellite interview offered by any of the presidential candidates.
So I didn't get Barack this time. But maybe next time it will be Senator McCain or Senator Clinton - both equally exciting options, too.
But Barack.
He will always be the one who got away.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
The Variables That Make Up A Very Big Headache
Hyde Park Tavern - Magic Hat #9 (x2)
plus
Twist - The Deliciously Dirrrty Martini (x2)
plus
Beluga - sushi and unknown number of unknown drinks
divide by
inappropriate flirting involving a male friend
subtract
favorite pair of jeans that got dirty when ass fell in mud
multiply by
no recollection of unknown conversations after around 12:30 am
plus
Twist - The Deliciously Dirrrty Martini (x2)
plus
Beluga - sushi and unknown number of unknown drinks
divide by
inappropriate flirting involving a male friend
subtract
favorite pair of jeans that got dirty when ass fell in mud
multiply by
no recollection of unknown conversations after around 12:30 am
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Floodgate
It all started with a thought about Maeve.
My darling niece is just over four months old. She discovered her hands not too long ago and is now infatuated with her right palm. She stares at it, she sucks on it, my sister calls it Maeve's new best friend. Maeve is growing strong and healthy and gearing up for open heart surgery at the end of March.
I think about her all the time.
A couple nights ago I daydreamed about a Big Girl Maeve. She was about three or four years old and had long ringlets of fiery red hair cascading down her back. Maeve was playing dress-up in an elaborate princess/fairy gown and in my fantasy she was running towards the knees of her Papa.
My dad is going to be a great grandpa. He is gentle and kind and his eyes sparkle when he talks to children. He is silly and and plays games and makes funny voices that instantly induce smiles in any kid. He was my hero when I was little - and he's my hero now that I'm big.
He is destined to be a good grandpa because his father - my grandfather - was a great grandpa.
So there I was, smiling about my Maevey Bean hugging my dad, when I abruptly burst into tears.
Now, I will admit from the offset that I am a bit more emotional than usual this week, but the water works were also brought on by a shocking concern that flashed through the very essence of my fiber.
Do my parents know how much I love them?
I thought about Big Girl Maeve giggling in her papa's arms, and the synapses in my brain raced back to when I was a curious, silly dramatic little girl in my papa's arms. And then the chemicals in my brain flashed through to the 22 wonderful years I had with my papa - those wonderful years that were chock full of bedtime songs, rides on the tractor and driving lessons at the fairground.
22 wonderful years.
Does that mean Maeve has 22 wonderful years to look forward to with her papa?
Do I have only have 22 wonderful years left with my dad?
And that's why I started sobbing.
I've been on this earth for 31 years, and I don't think I'm even close to expressing to my parents how much I love them.
I don't know if 22 years is enough time.
My darling niece is just over four months old. She discovered her hands not too long ago and is now infatuated with her right palm. She stares at it, she sucks on it, my sister calls it Maeve's new best friend. Maeve is growing strong and healthy and gearing up for open heart surgery at the end of March.
I think about her all the time.
A couple nights ago I daydreamed about a Big Girl Maeve. She was about three or four years old and had long ringlets of fiery red hair cascading down her back. Maeve was playing dress-up in an elaborate princess/fairy gown and in my fantasy she was running towards the knees of her Papa.
My dad is going to be a great grandpa. He is gentle and kind and his eyes sparkle when he talks to children. He is silly and and plays games and makes funny voices that instantly induce smiles in any kid. He was my hero when I was little - and he's my hero now that I'm big.
He is destined to be a good grandpa because his father - my grandfather - was a great grandpa.
So there I was, smiling about my Maevey Bean hugging my dad, when I abruptly burst into tears.
Now, I will admit from the offset that I am a bit more emotional than usual this week, but the water works were also brought on by a shocking concern that flashed through the very essence of my fiber.
Do my parents know how much I love them?
I thought about Big Girl Maeve giggling in her papa's arms, and the synapses in my brain raced back to when I was a curious, silly dramatic little girl in my papa's arms. And then the chemicals in my brain flashed through to the 22 wonderful years I had with my papa - those wonderful years that were chock full of bedtime songs, rides on the tractor and driving lessons at the fairground.
22 wonderful years.
Does that mean Maeve has 22 wonderful years to look forward to with her papa?
Do I have only have 22 wonderful years left with my dad?
And that's why I started sobbing.
I've been on this earth for 31 years, and I don't think I'm even close to expressing to my parents how much I love them.
I don't know if 22 years is enough time.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Burn, Baby, Burn
So.
I don't hide my culinary preferences 'round these parts - I love good, creative food. I don't necessarily require beluga caviar or black truffles to experience edible extacy, in fact I think a phenomenal burger from a greasy spoon can be just as good as a steamed Maine lobster.
But as much as I love to treat my tastebuds to delicious, unique dining experiences - sometimes home cooking at my home is a little less elaborate and a lot more microwave.
Enter the Hot Pocket.
I'm not even going to pretend - they are so trashy, at least on the Jacques Pepin Scale of Classy Food. They don't require silverware, they don't require a stove or oven. Hell, Hot Pockets don't even require seasoning. All you need is that little cardboard wrapper thingy and some quality time with a few microwave rays and BAM! you can enjoy Chicken Fajita Hot Pocket, Ham and Cheddar Hot Pocket or a variety of other options processed for your pleasure.
The thing about Hot Pockets is - they can be a little bitchy from time to time.
Those little pastry confections can run hot or cold literally no matter how long you put them in the micro. Sometimes the bell goes ding! and you pull out a Hot Pocket that's icy to the touch. Other times it feels like it's ready to get all Mt. Vesuvius on you - an eruption of cheesy goodness all over your face.
That's exactly what happened to me yesterday.
The little bitch was so hot when I bit into it. I sunk in my teeth and some of my tastebuds were instantly singed. I spit out the imitation mozzerella and chicken chunks and a big swath of cheese slapped across my lips and landed on my cheek.
Yowza.
It burned worse than the time in 7th grade when I bumped the side of my face with a curling iron (admit it: didn't you have big bangs on your forehead, too??)
I howled and then smeared the burning, greasy goodness off me.
I spent the rest of the day trying to fight off the effects of a first-degree burn. It didn't work. Now I have this pink, swollen patch of skin to the left of my mouth. It's not pretty but I consulted several medical journals (vanity alert) and discovered it should heal in a week or so and likely won't leave behind a scar.
Now for the fun stuff.
I had no idea the Hot Pocket was so revered on the internet.
It turns out people LOVE the Hot Pocket.
Special thanks to Lenna Lou for the heads up on Jim Gaffigan's routine on Hot Pockets.
Some of you might get low while enjoying this special edition of Hot Pocket Drop It.
Lots of creative people have ripped off some Asian guy featured in some old Hot Pocket commercials.
I had a fourth video posted here but my better judgment got the best of me. It was a YouTube video of a very obese man who could put Hot Pockets under his breasts. It simultaneously made me feel sad and yet never want to eat a Hot Pocket again.
I don't hide my culinary preferences 'round these parts - I love good, creative food. I don't necessarily require beluga caviar or black truffles to experience edible extacy, in fact I think a phenomenal burger from a greasy spoon can be just as good as a steamed Maine lobster.
But as much as I love to treat my tastebuds to delicious, unique dining experiences - sometimes home cooking at my home is a little less elaborate and a lot more microwave.
Enter the Hot Pocket.
I'm not even going to pretend - they are so trashy, at least on the Jacques Pepin Scale of Classy Food. They don't require silverware, they don't require a stove or oven. Hell, Hot Pockets don't even require seasoning. All you need is that little cardboard wrapper thingy and some quality time with a few microwave rays and BAM! you can enjoy Chicken Fajita Hot Pocket, Ham and Cheddar Hot Pocket or a variety of other options processed for your pleasure.
The thing about Hot Pockets is - they can be a little bitchy from time to time.
Those little pastry confections can run hot or cold literally no matter how long you put them in the micro. Sometimes the bell goes ding! and you pull out a Hot Pocket that's icy to the touch. Other times it feels like it's ready to get all Mt. Vesuvius on you - an eruption of cheesy goodness all over your face.
That's exactly what happened to me yesterday.
The little bitch was so hot when I bit into it. I sunk in my teeth and some of my tastebuds were instantly singed. I spit out the imitation mozzerella and chicken chunks and a big swath of cheese slapped across my lips and landed on my cheek.
Yowza.
It burned worse than the time in 7th grade when I bumped the side of my face with a curling iron (admit it: didn't you have big bangs on your forehead, too??)
I howled and then smeared the burning, greasy goodness off me.
I spent the rest of the day trying to fight off the effects of a first-degree burn. It didn't work. Now I have this pink, swollen patch of skin to the left of my mouth. It's not pretty but I consulted several medical journals (vanity alert) and discovered it should heal in a week or so and likely won't leave behind a scar.
Now for the fun stuff.
I had no idea the Hot Pocket was so revered on the internet.
It turns out people LOVE the Hot Pocket.
Special thanks to Lenna Lou for the heads up on Jim Gaffigan's routine on Hot Pockets.
Some of you might get low while enjoying this special edition of Hot Pocket Drop It.
Lots of creative people have ripped off some Asian guy featured in some old Hot Pocket commercials.
I had a fourth video posted here but my better judgment got the best of me. It was a YouTube video of a very obese man who could put Hot Pockets under his breasts. It simultaneously made me feel sad and yet never want to eat a Hot Pocket again.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
After And Before
Legend-in-the-making Amy Winehouse will perform live at the Grammys tonight despite some hiccups involving the U.S. Embassy.
The via satellite performance comes after authorities initially denied Winehouse's request for a visa to come to the United States. Her reps say the U.S. Embassy in London agreed to grant a visa after talks with Winehouse's people. Unfortunately the visa was not granted in time for Winehouse to make arrangements for the trip across the pond, so the show will go on thanks to a very big satellite in the sky.
Don't tell Winehouse, but I think the hesitation on the visa was in part because of a U.S. law that forbids our nation from having more than one out-of-control pop star at any time.
We'll let the Rehab dodger come over once our current pop implosion gets her act together (aside: does anybody else think it is very Dickensian that one of the people in charge of Britney's finances goes by the last name of Wallet?).
The via satellite performance comes after authorities initially denied Winehouse's request for a visa to come to the United States. Her reps say the U.S. Embassy in London agreed to grant a visa after talks with Winehouse's people. Unfortunately the visa was not granted in time for Winehouse to make arrangements for the trip across the pond, so the show will go on thanks to a very big satellite in the sky.
Don't tell Winehouse, but I think the hesitation on the visa was in part because of a U.S. law that forbids our nation from having more than one out-of-control pop star at any time.
We'll let the Rehab dodger come over once our current pop implosion gets her act together (aside: does anybody else think it is very Dickensian that one of the people in charge of Britney's finances goes by the last name of Wallet?).
Amy looked so beautiful before she dove nose first into drug addiction.
You can check out the Twiggy version of Winehouse tonight on Local 12 (or your own local CBS affiliate) at 8 pm.
Subconcience
Weep no more, my lady.
Oh weep no more today.
We will sing one song for the old Kentucky home.
For the Old Kentucky Home far away.
I don't typically remember my dreams.
I don't know if it's because there's a long twisted road to my subconscience and I lose a lot of information on the way back to lucidity - or if my dreams are just too random.
But this morning I woke up around 9:30 and my brain was mentally singing Stephen Foster's legendary tune.
That's the only thing I could remember from my REM sleep.
My Old Kentucky Home.
How bizarre is that?
I don't think I was dreaming about a UK game. I also don't think I was harkening back to another time when men wore seersucker and women coped with corsets while sitting on verandahs with sweaty mint juleps in hand. I really have no idea why I was thinking about the traditional tune sung to close out my alma mater's sporting events.
The other day my friend Crime Lady told me I was in one of her own dreams. I was apparently a cabaret type singer, singing smoky tunes in a white, sequined top. In her dream sequence, CL appoached me after my set and said I made some nasty face at a back-up singer who was walking by. The dream version of CL asked the dream version of me what the sour face was all about, and the dream version of me replied that I didn't like the back-up.
It was funny, as CL was relaying this fantasy senario - she didn't know what to make of it, and nor did I.
I called my friend, Bling, the other day after I had a vivid, memorable dream involving her. The only thing I remember now was that Bling had just had a baby in the dream. I left her this nugget in a voice mail and she called me back Friday to say she had just started dating someone new.
What do dreams tell us? Are they mental trips to a parallel universe? Do they give us a subconscious opportunity to work out all of our problems? Are dreams a kind of foresight into the future?
I just wish I could remember a few more of my dreams (and nightmares).
Oh weep no more today.
We will sing one song for the old Kentucky home.
For the Old Kentucky Home far away.
I don't typically remember my dreams.
I don't know if it's because there's a long twisted road to my subconscience and I lose a lot of information on the way back to lucidity - or if my dreams are just too random.
But this morning I woke up around 9:30 and my brain was mentally singing Stephen Foster's legendary tune.
That's the only thing I could remember from my REM sleep.
My Old Kentucky Home.
How bizarre is that?
I don't think I was dreaming about a UK game. I also don't think I was harkening back to another time when men wore seersucker and women coped with corsets while sitting on verandahs with sweaty mint juleps in hand. I really have no idea why I was thinking about the traditional tune sung to close out my alma mater's sporting events.
The other day my friend Crime Lady told me I was in one of her own dreams. I was apparently a cabaret type singer, singing smoky tunes in a white, sequined top. In her dream sequence, CL appoached me after my set and said I made some nasty face at a back-up singer who was walking by. The dream version of CL asked the dream version of me what the sour face was all about, and the dream version of me replied that I didn't like the back-up.
It was funny, as CL was relaying this fantasy senario - she didn't know what to make of it, and nor did I.
I called my friend, Bling, the other day after I had a vivid, memorable dream involving her. The only thing I remember now was that Bling had just had a baby in the dream. I left her this nugget in a voice mail and she called me back Friday to say she had just started dating someone new.
What do dreams tell us? Are they mental trips to a parallel universe? Do they give us a subconscious opportunity to work out all of our problems? Are dreams a kind of foresight into the future?
I just wish I could remember a few more of my dreams (and nightmares).
Saturday, February 09, 2008
Equal Opportunity
Who knew John McCain was such a crooner?
The Clinton Camp's response to the Obama Girl
Barack Obama is a bad mother fucker. I like this one because the tune is catchy and the dude in the video is dorky/cute - my favorite combination.
The Clinton Camp's response to the Obama Girl
Barack Obama is a bad mother fucker. I like this one because the tune is catchy and the dude in the video is dorky/cute - my favorite combination.
I've Seen A Lot In TV News But Never This
I've produced thousands of newscasts.
I've seen pet segments marred by errant felines. I've seen anchors pass out live on television.
I've never seen this...
This anchor has some real nerve.
I've seen pet segments marred by errant felines. I've seen anchors pass out live on television.
I've never seen this...
This anchor has some real nerve.
Friday, February 08, 2008
Dining Deal
I totally swiped this from the Enquirer's foodie blog... but it's such a good deal I just couldn't help myself.
And it totally promotes the anti-chain movement - I think I told you how much I hate chain restaurants.
Restaurant Week
Monday march 3-March 9th.
25 locally owned restaurants offering a three-course prix-fixe dinner for $25.08.
They include:
Andy's Mediterranean, Behle Street, Bella Luna, Brown Dog Cafe, Chalk, Daveed's, deSha's, Greenup Cafe, Holy Grail, Hugo, Jag's, Pigall's, Jimmy D's, Kona, Mesh, Mike & Jimmy's, Molly Malone's (Covington location), Nicholson's, O'Bryon's, Polo Grille, Pompilio's, Primavista, The Pubs, Red, Universal Grille and Washington Platform.
And it totally promotes the anti-chain movement - I think I told you how much I hate chain restaurants.
Restaurant Week
Monday march 3-March 9th.
25 locally owned restaurants offering a three-course prix-fixe dinner for $25.08.
They include:
Andy's Mediterranean, Behle Street, Bella Luna, Brown Dog Cafe, Chalk, Daveed's, deSha's, Greenup Cafe, Holy Grail, Hugo, Jag's, Pigall's, Jimmy D's, Kona, Mesh, Mike & Jimmy's, Molly Malone's (Covington location), Nicholson's, O'Bryon's, Polo Grille, Pompilio's, Primavista, The Pubs, Red, Universal Grille and Washington Platform.
Friday Night Lights
So... I've never seen this show, but the Media Mavens of the newsroom say it's fabulous.
I am not much of a TV watcher (I don't have cable and my viewing is hit-or-miss) but I've already heard of FNL - my sister, Bridge, says its one of her favorites.
Anyway.
The brain trust at NBC is considering taking FNL off the air - kind of incredulous considering it's the third most TiVoed show.
But maybe you can do something about it.
Sign this petition to keep FNL on the air.
Crime Lady and Big Blue Blood thank you in advance.
PS- Coach Taylor is hot...
Thursday, February 07, 2008
This N' That
For a long time I said I was too afraid to buy any property.
It's scary stuff when you're used to paying your monthly rent and having someone take care of the maintenance for you - like the freaky, leaky, mushroom-inducing radiator of my current apartment. Well, last weekend a friend unexpectedly stayed over and I decided it was high time I get a place I can feel proud of. I start a three-week home ownership class tonight and am shooting to own a condo by September.
OTR, baby. OTR.
***
From extreme planning to spontenaiety - I bought a random plane ticket yesterday. I'm traveling from Columbus to Hartford for a grand total of drumroll, please $36 - round trip. I've been dying for a trip to plan and this is just enough to help me get out those ya-yas... I've never taken a trip completely by myself - but I am visiting familiar territory (Madison, CT; Block Island, RI; Boston) so I'm not worried - I think a solo trip to New England could be a blast.
***
I'm excited about a new service opportunity. Over a week ago I had a great meeting with two reps from the Council on Child Abuse. The organization is adding some new members to its Board of Trustees - it sounds like such a grown up kind of thing to do but I am excited about how I can help the organization and the people who benefit from its initiative.
***
One day in to Lent and I am pushing myself to stick with my sacrifice. I am spending 30 minutes every day cleaning my apartment - hopefully this will make a dent in my little hovel.
***
How rude is it to intentionally ignore someone?
I had dinner out with a friend and her boyfriend Tuesday night (Allyn's Cafe has the best margaritas in town) and immediately noticed Irish. Luckily we grabbed a table on the other side of the dining room, but unluckily I was seated directly facing this man from my past. I was hoping he wouldn't notice me (especially since this was the second time I'd seen him sans date). The threesome at our table drank and ate and were engrossed in animated discussion, and so when he slowly swaggered by with his sweet young thing I elected to ignore him.
It made the moment just a *tiny* bit less painful.
***
Run - do not walk - to Bodies: The Exhibition at Cincinnati Museum Center. I was lucky enough to enjoy a free media preview of the exhibit last week, and I am STILL raving about it. Don't think of it as looking at carcasses preserved in plastic, revere it as scientific testiment to the wonder of the human body.
Yeah, it's $23 bucks a ticket, but it's totally worth it. And if you're making a day of it, I suggest you grab a bite BEFORE checking the exhibit out.
***
This video made me cry this morning - it could be pride and inspiration... or I could be overly emotional this week.
It's scary stuff when you're used to paying your monthly rent and having someone take care of the maintenance for you - like the freaky, leaky, mushroom-inducing radiator of my current apartment. Well, last weekend a friend unexpectedly stayed over and I decided it was high time I get a place I can feel proud of. I start a three-week home ownership class tonight and am shooting to own a condo by September.
OTR, baby. OTR.
***
From extreme planning to spontenaiety - I bought a random plane ticket yesterday. I'm traveling from Columbus to Hartford for a grand total of drumroll, please $36 - round trip. I've been dying for a trip to plan and this is just enough to help me get out those ya-yas... I've never taken a trip completely by myself - but I am visiting familiar territory (Madison, CT; Block Island, RI; Boston) so I'm not worried - I think a solo trip to New England could be a blast.
***
I'm excited about a new service opportunity. Over a week ago I had a great meeting with two reps from the Council on Child Abuse. The organization is adding some new members to its Board of Trustees - it sounds like such a grown up kind of thing to do but I am excited about how I can help the organization and the people who benefit from its initiative.
***
One day in to Lent and I am pushing myself to stick with my sacrifice. I am spending 30 minutes every day cleaning my apartment - hopefully this will make a dent in my little hovel.
***
How rude is it to intentionally ignore someone?
I had dinner out with a friend and her boyfriend Tuesday night (Allyn's Cafe has the best margaritas in town) and immediately noticed Irish. Luckily we grabbed a table on the other side of the dining room, but unluckily I was seated directly facing this man from my past. I was hoping he wouldn't notice me (especially since this was the second time I'd seen him sans date). The threesome at our table drank and ate and were engrossed in animated discussion, and so when he slowly swaggered by with his sweet young thing I elected to ignore him.
It made the moment just a *tiny* bit less painful.
***
Run - do not walk - to Bodies: The Exhibition at Cincinnati Museum Center. I was lucky enough to enjoy a free media preview of the exhibit last week, and I am STILL raving about it. Don't think of it as looking at carcasses preserved in plastic, revere it as scientific testiment to the wonder of the human body.
Yeah, it's $23 bucks a ticket, but it's totally worth it. And if you're making a day of it, I suggest you grab a bite BEFORE checking the exhibit out.
***
This video made me cry this morning - it could be pride and inspiration... or I could be overly emotional this week.
Monday, February 04, 2008
In My Own Little Corner - It's All About Water
This is a look at the dynamite faucet handles I installed on my own.
A special thanks goes out to the guy at Lowe's who said these wouldn't work. Thanks, dude. I now realize those "experts" don't always know what they're talking about. Even after I brought the old, broken handle in to compare - somehow he disagreed with my impression that the design was exactly the same as this new version.
Sometimes it pays to go along with your instinct.
Sometimes it pays to go along with your instinct.
Here's a look at the sweet little pine I'm about to toss out.
It's so dried out that I think it could be beyond saving. I had it positioned right near my living room radiator, so maybe it got kind of cooked. I'm moving it to another, less warm spot in the apartment to give it a second chance. We'll see.
And now the most shocking pictures of all.
That radiator I mentioned? Well, apparently it's leaking pretty badly. I took a step near my stereo and felt a wet spongy mess beneath my bare feet. It's so moist that it helped sprout mushrooms behind my stereo speaker. I'm not kidding. Here's a closer look:
I am not going to explore whether these shrooms are magic.
But I would like to figure out one way to get that leaky radiator to water my dried out pine tree.
I'm F*cking Matt Damon
At least a girl can dream, right?
I don't know what I like better - the rap portion or the shot of the two of them climbing across the pool table.
Special thanks to Mrs. Pepper for the heads up on this clip.
I don't know what I like better - the rap portion or the shot of the two of them climbing across the pool table.
Special thanks to Mrs. Pepper for the heads up on this clip.
Friday, February 01, 2008
Banana Republic
I wanted to punch the crap out of her.
That says a lot considering I don't condone violence and am not easily annoyed.
But there I was, holed up in my dressing room, half undressed and wiggling into a silk, blue-and-white polka dot top when I heard this woman bleat in a shrill and astonished voice, "Wow. I've never been to a store that had anything that was too small for me to try on."
Surely you can understand my bitterness.
God blessed me with some aerodynamics that are not synonymous with small. The combination of my 5'8" appropriate frame and my cup runneth over chest do not lend themselves well to tiny. Curvy, zaftig, bombshell - I can do all of that. I am just never waif, slender or slight. So I could not control my distain for this woman when I heard her exclaimation implying just how damn skinny she was.
I stared at myself in the mirror, examining all my insecurities while I was imagining a perfectly coifed, WASPy blonde with nary a pimple or wrinkle on her lilly white skin. I examined the curves and rolls of my midsection while seething at the thought of her bony ass and a stomach so tight you could do tequila shots out of her belly button.
"Oh, do you think you have this in extra small? I mean, this small just isn't doing it for me."
For the love of all that is fried and fattening.
I wanted to fling open the dressing room door and body slam my way into hers, shocking her with the Rookwood Commons Banana Republic's very first performance of the Truffle Shuffle.
I can already picture the rent-a-cop huffing and puffing his way through the parking lot.
Instead, I sucked it up and tried on the rest of my sale rack booty. I settled on three delicate tops that will have to sit in the closet until springtime and a crimson boatneck sweater just dying to hit the town on a cold Saturday night.
I slinked my way to the register and waited my turn. My eyes glossed over the sparkly gems in the glass case and the luxurious handbags on display.
And then I heard her.
"Yeah, um, it would be GREAT if you could call Kenwood to see if they have that extra small." She tossed out the conversation to one of the sales associates behind the counter. Looking back on it, I honestly didn't hear rude in her tone, but at the time I certainly imagined so. I did a 180* pivot on my heels to see this speck of a person. I was expecting Kate Moss, Gwyneth Paltrow, Keira Knightley.
Instead, I saw this munchkin of a woman. She was not a little person, at least as little people go. She was lucky to have cleared five foot even and she was not the WASP I thought she'd be. Her skin was olivy and her hair was a messy black halo, a fringe around her face.
I felt so silly.
That says a lot considering I don't condone violence and am not easily annoyed.
But there I was, holed up in my dressing room, half undressed and wiggling into a silk, blue-and-white polka dot top when I heard this woman bleat in a shrill and astonished voice, "Wow. I've never been to a store that had anything that was too small for me to try on."
Surely you can understand my bitterness.
God blessed me with some aerodynamics that are not synonymous with small. The combination of my 5'8" appropriate frame and my cup runneth over chest do not lend themselves well to tiny. Curvy, zaftig, bombshell - I can do all of that. I am just never waif, slender or slight. So I could not control my distain for this woman when I heard her exclaimation implying just how damn skinny she was.
I stared at myself in the mirror, examining all my insecurities while I was imagining a perfectly coifed, WASPy blonde with nary a pimple or wrinkle on her lilly white skin. I examined the curves and rolls of my midsection while seething at the thought of her bony ass and a stomach so tight you could do tequila shots out of her belly button.
"Oh, do you think you have this in extra small? I mean, this small just isn't doing it for me."
For the love of all that is fried and fattening.
I wanted to fling open the dressing room door and body slam my way into hers, shocking her with the Rookwood Commons Banana Republic's very first performance of the Truffle Shuffle.
I can already picture the rent-a-cop huffing and puffing his way through the parking lot.
Instead, I sucked it up and tried on the rest of my sale rack booty. I settled on three delicate tops that will have to sit in the closet until springtime and a crimson boatneck sweater just dying to hit the town on a cold Saturday night.
I slinked my way to the register and waited my turn. My eyes glossed over the sparkly gems in the glass case and the luxurious handbags on display.
And then I heard her.
"Yeah, um, it would be GREAT if you could call Kenwood to see if they have that extra small." She tossed out the conversation to one of the sales associates behind the counter. Looking back on it, I honestly didn't hear rude in her tone, but at the time I certainly imagined so. I did a 180* pivot on my heels to see this speck of a person. I was expecting Kate Moss, Gwyneth Paltrow, Keira Knightley.
Instead, I saw this munchkin of a woman. She was not a little person, at least as little people go. She was lucky to have cleared five foot even and she was not the WASP I thought she'd be. Her skin was olivy and her hair was a messy black halo, a fringe around her face.
I felt so silly.
I Don't Make This Stuff Up
POLICE IN EUROPE ARE CRACKING DOWN ON A BIZARRE CRIME.
INVESTIGATORS SAY CRIMINAL GANGS IN SWEDEN ARE TEAMING UP WITH DWARVES TO STEAL FROM BUS TRAVELERS.
AUTHORITIES SAY CROOKS ARE SNEAKING DWARVES INTO THE LUGGAGE BY HIDING THEM INSIDE SUITCASES.
ACCORDING TO LONDON'S "TELEGRAPH" NEWSPAPER: THE DWARVES GET OUT OF THE LUGGAGE ONCE THE BUS IS MOVING AND RIFLE THROUGH TRAVELERS' BELONGINGS.
POLICE SAY THE CRIME RINGS HAVE TAKEN THOUSANDS IN CASH, JEWELRY AND OTHER VALUABLES.
THE DWARVES GET BACK IN THEIR SUITCASES WITH THE GOODS AND ARE PICKED UP BY THEIR PARTNERS IN CRIME ONCE THE BUS MAKES IT TO ITS DESTINATION.
INVESTIGATORS SAY CRIMINAL GANGS IN SWEDEN ARE TEAMING UP WITH DWARVES TO STEAL FROM BUS TRAVELERS.
AUTHORITIES SAY CROOKS ARE SNEAKING DWARVES INTO THE LUGGAGE BY HIDING THEM INSIDE SUITCASES.
ACCORDING TO LONDON'S "TELEGRAPH" NEWSPAPER: THE DWARVES GET OUT OF THE LUGGAGE ONCE THE BUS IS MOVING AND RIFLE THROUGH TRAVELERS' BELONGINGS.
POLICE SAY THE CRIME RINGS HAVE TAKEN THOUSANDS IN CASH, JEWELRY AND OTHER VALUABLES.
THE DWARVES GET BACK IN THEIR SUITCASES WITH THE GOODS AND ARE PICKED UP BY THEIR PARTNERS IN CRIME ONCE THE BUS MAKES IT TO ITS DESTINATION.
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