What Was She Thinking? The Troll Interview

This is a little meme that has been going around the blogs and when I read Troll's interview this morning I thought, why not. The thing about interviews is that they very often reveal interesting things about the person doing the asking, and not just the answering.

At any rate, if you're interesting in playing along, you can read the rules below.

In the meantime, The Troll asks Moi Five Pertinent Questions for the Day:

TROLL: Post apocalypse, you can only have one gun and five rounds of ammo. What do you choose?

MOI: My first instinct was to choose the Glock 19 because I can shoot it like it were a stick of butter and the magazine holds 15 rounds with one in the chamber. But then S.B. said ixnay to the automatic eaponway in a post apocalypse world because it can wear out. Therefore, despite the fact that I’m a crap shot with it, I’d choose the S&W 357 magnum revolver with which I can shoot both 38s and 357s. But S.B. said my real pick should the Remington R-25 semi automatic assault rifle, with the camo body, natch.

TROLL: Describe the experience of eating your favorite SAVORY baked good and provide us the recipe.

MOI: About eight or nine years ago when I was writing restaurant reviews for a local alternative weekly, I was sent to a now sadly defunct Moroccan restaurant just across from the university. That’s where I tasted my first ever bastilla, the crowing glory of North African cuisine. Bastilla is traditionally made with pigeon but here in the states chicken is substituted because, well, would YOU want to eat an American pigeon? But the rest is pretty spot on: a mixture of chopped chicken, scrambled eggs, sliced almonds, and fragrant spices all wrapped inside a phyllo-type dough, deep fried and topped with a generous dusting of cinnamon and powdered sugar. Love at first bite –sweet and savory, crispy and custardy. And I can’t give you the recipe because for some reason I’ve never actually made one, but I might now, given the yummy looking recipes I just Googled.



TROLL: Two-Parter: Why don't libertarian-leaning Conservatives have more influence on today's Republican Party? Why don't moderates have any influence on today's Traitor-Democrat-Party-Of-Filth?

MOI: Because it is my belief that most people either want to enslave or be enslaved. Few want to do neither and instead stand alone, take responsibility for their own actions, and refrain from sucking the life from others. Go ahead and ask someone, “Do you believe in individual liberty?” and you will most likely get an answer in the affirmative. Yet five minutes later that same person will get all up in arms over some perceived injustice and demand the government make some kind of law or take some kind of action to remedy the situation, which usually ends up doing more harm than good. Therefore, since most of us want to control or be controlled, it is no surprise that true conservatives and moderates – who operate from a rational, healthy distrust of government – currently have no influence over the Republican and Democratic parties. That’s because the R&D ideology and methodology as it stands today is fascist, fostering fear, hate, and hysteria in order to gain control over every part of our lives from cradle to grave. Unfortunately, we the people are buying the fascist philosophies, on both sides, hook, line, and sinker. Why? Perhaps because we’ve lost our capacity for rugged individualism, righteous indignation, and charitable concern for family, friends, and neighbors. We need to quit being so lazy in our thinking.



TROLL: You have a year to go someplace appropriate with a companion and write the "Great American Novel" with no other responsibilities. Where do you and the Ivanator go and what's the central theme of the novel?

MOI: We head to Springdale, Utah, which sits at the entrance to Zion National Park, to work on a book I envision as a kind of Deliverance, but with chicks. Central theme of the novel is the inability of modern American females to define a roll for ourselves in the face of failed feminist ethics, and the implications for our embattled attempts to seek meaning in everything from mindless sexual encounters to power careers to New Age religions. (When, really, all we need is a good set of heels and a Glock.)



TROLL: What are your 3 favorite dog-breeds and why?

MOI: Irish Wolfhounds – studies in supreme sweetness, majesty, and grace. Aristocratic in their bearing without ever being standoffish, they are the gentlest of the canine giants.

Alaskan Malamute/any of the Alaskan sled dog breeds – brave, tough, fiercely independent. They are the call of the wild, the heart of primeval canis lupis.

The American Pit Bull Terrier – tenacious, joyful, resilient, forgiving, they are unwavering in their love for life, liberty, and the pursuit of a good time. Their unabashed adoration of humans of all sizes, shapes, and ages make them the ultimate working and companion animal.

Want to be interviewed by Moi? Here's the instructions:

1. Leave me a comment saying, "Interview me."

2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. (I get to pick the questions).

3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions and let me know when you have posted it, so I can link it.

4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.

5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Sorry, Monday Isn't Blue - It's Burnt Orange

A couple weeks ago I called my stepfather to wish him bon voyage for a trip he was taking up to Glacier National Park. Before hanging up, I said, “I’ll call you Sunday after next, when you get back.”

Instantly, what popped into my head when I said Sunday was not the word itself, but the image I have long held of what Sunday looks like, which is a block of pink set among another series of blocks, all differently colored, all representing days of the week, all stretching out in a kind of linear grid-like from, extending from whatever day it happens to be now into, well, infinity.

Likewise, if I think about what month it is, the image I see in my head is of a block of color that has a particular position on something I call a “year wheel,” which begins in the upper left hand corner with January (a dusky pink), and works its way down through the months (all differently colored) to form a kind of long, racetrack-shaped oval and ending with the month December, which is a block of deep blue/black.

Every letter in the alphabet also has its own color. Some of the letters even have personalities. F you have to watch pretty carefully, because it steals. And it’s too far away from the zen-like mitigating personality of M, which is too busy trying to convince N and O to take better care of themselves. Z is plotting to take over the government. L is an incessant complainer.

However, while individual letters each have their own color and personalities, that all disappears when I use them to form words. Say a word, any word, and I have a Crayola Crayon color from the box of 64 to go with it. My friends, family and colleagues? I don’t think of them necessarily in terms of their names, but their colors. Everyone’s got one.

I’ve been like this as I long as I can remember. Up until a few years ago, I didn't think much of it – I always thought everyone was like this. But then I mentioned it to a few people who all looked at me like I was a few screwdrivers short of a full tool belt and I began to worry if there was something wrong with me.

Well, not totally.

I finally found out just exactly what this thing is only a few weeks ago. I was reading a favorite perfume blob and someone left a comment saying that whenever she smelled a certain perfume, she thought of the color purple. Did any of us do this? A few comments down, another person said, “Oh, sounds like you have synesthesia.”

Which I looked up and, lo and behold, suddenly I understood myself! And my particular manifestation is nothing, Party People, compared to what some people experience. Some synesthetics can actually “feel” words. Or “smell” sounds. I don’t do any of that. (Although, sometimes my mouth feels too full of words and I have to swallow a few to make room.) And, according to most of the info I've read, this isn't anything to worry about.

Then I went to a housewarming party this weekend and started talking about synesthesia to a couple friends – pumpkin orange and lemon yellow – and it turns out pumpkin orange knew exactly what I was talking about. Not because she's synesthetic, but because she works with children who have p-r-o-b-l-e-m-s and, apparently, she told me, synesthesia is associated with particularly high functioning autistics and people with Asperger’s.

Great, I’m Jerry from Boston Legal.

How about you? What color is your Monday?

What Stays in Vegas

Which is NOT where I went because I cannot afford to stay here:


Which is the most muy fabuloso hoteloso I've ever seen. And if I can't stay at the Wynn, I just walk on by. Besides, gamble with money? Surely you jest.

So, non.

I only LANDED in Vegas so that I could make the fifty bazillion hour trek through the most lonesome section of the Mojave desert known to man and a few coyotes to get to the good stuff in Utah. (Insert here: crickets chirping and a bunch of covered wagon-type women schlumping along behind their husbands going, "John? You dragged me away from my cushy Bostonian town home with the lawn and gardens and ladies luncheons and adorable outfits to pioneer this?") Look, I'm not making this up. Is this not the ne plus ultra of desolate, or what?


And you're talking to a gal who loves her some desert. But this is just wrong. This is mother nature and God pissed off at the same time.

There is some civilization. It's called Mesquite, Nevada, and it's located about twenty-five minutes northeast out of Vegas on the border with Arizona, and it's, like, God really, really on a bender, because imagine the photo above, only with a golf course, a Wal-Mart, twelve Taco Bell Mansion subdivisions, and a casino offering $39 massages and all you can eat King Crab legs – in the desert, Party People – for only $15.95 per person. Oh, and somewhere a few miles right before all this, someone had taken the trouble to hike out into the middle of the dusty scrub and decorate it with a big ol' "Ron Paul for President" sign.

Anyway. That was day one. I was not driving. I was looking out the window and thanking my lucky stars that I wasn't born a pioneer woman.

Okay, so then we get there and there's lots of hiking, climbing, running, jumping, boot camping. And eating. With high heels. And a couple glasses of Pinot Grigio. Well, okay, a lot of glasses of Pinot Grigio. Cause that's how I roll when I spa.

Then, the trip back. More crickets. More me thanking my lucky stars and wishing reading in the car didn't make me nauseated.

Then there is the fifty bazillion hours we sit in the Las Vegas airport. Any of you ever get stuck in this 9th circle of Dante's hell? Used to be, there was nothing to eat here except Cinnabons and $15.00 Wolfgang Puck wrap sandwiches. Now there is some place named something like The Tequilera or something, that serves up surly waiters nicknamed Gucci, $15.00 Cuervo 1800 margaritas, and the most gawd awful food known to mankind, only made fifty million times worse by the fact that there was no salsa to go along with it because of the tomato salmonella scare.

So not only did I end my trip hung over and with a grumbly tummy, I ended it famished.

It's good to be back home.

Sheena Was A Punk Rocker

This post is in response to Aunty's polite request that I publish a photo of myself during my high school punk rock days. I regret to inform her, however, that I have no photos of said phase because, well, my high school days were PDE (pre-digital era) so it's not like everyone was snapping away madly at every single bit of daily life ephemera like they are today. Back then, photo-making was saved for occasions like holidays, weddings, birthdays, etc. And my dearly departed but oh-so-horrified mother was having none of that.

But to give you an idea, for about six months during the latter part of 1979, I was all:



Which is funny to many who know me because since I was a little girl, I have also been all:


And on occasion, all:

Hey, what can I say? Split personalities are for amateurs. Multiple takes skill.

Anyway.

But I can give Aunty an idea of said punk rock phase because I did a modified revisit of the look about 13 years ago. The blond only lasted about 10.8 minutes because if there's anything more difficult than becoming blond, it's staying blond. The cut, though, lasted 4-evah.


Well, at least long enough to totally make S.B., a Southern-Style Alpha Male who liked his wimmin big-haired, think twice about dating Moi. And then think twice some more. But, look! He's still here. Which just goes to show you, the man is a quick study.

Anyway.

I'm thinking of returning to that cut again because it will come in über handy if we climb Kilimanjaro in February. Six days without a shower is bad enough, but if I also start to grow dreadlocks because of it, you may as well shoot me forever. 'cause you all know how I feel about:

Shoe-ing at the Walls of Heartache

You know how you felt when you were a kid and your best friend in the whole wide world – the one who lived within walking distance, who also had a matching Schwinn Sting Ray bicycle with a sparkle-encrusted banana seat and shared your obsession with the Bay City Rollers and baby pink Luv-It jeans – went and left you high and dry in the middle of summer to go on vacation with their totally grody to the max family? Remember how it felt like all the good air had been vacuumed out of the world, like you were bobbing along, a buoy unmoored, on a vast ocean of flat, featureless days, one hand wrapped listlessly around a can of TaB, the other clutching the latest issue of Tiger Beat ("Leif Garrett's Top 5 Romantic Dates!"), but you were unable to muster enthusiasm for either of them because your best friend in the whole wide world wasn't there to share?

Well, that's how I feel when S.B. first leaves on a job. Restless, pouty, channeling my inner Catherine while two states away, S.B.'s inner Heathcliff is busy making the world safe for automatic coffee makers. And playing golf in the afternoons.

Eventually, I do manage to pull my head up off my desk and get back to work. And after work, I begin to realize with burgeoning glee that, hey, lookie there! I also have absolute, unequivocal, TOTAL control of the remote.

But I'll still have my moments. One of them occurred on Tuesday when, after a work appointment, I felt myself missing S.B. so much that the only cure was shoes. And not just any shoes, but shoes with a theme. Which totally goes against my better fashion judgement.

Usually, I stay away from trends. Well, except for those retro '80s cropped pea green parachute pants from the Gap I bought four seasons ago when I was channeling my inner Carrie Bradshaw. And that Trina Turk caftan top a few months ago because resistance to Boho, it seems, is futile. Besides, if nothing else, I can always channel my inner Joan Didion. Or Anne Sexton (but, I assure you, not my inner Sylvia Plath).

So. Anyway. I went ahead and did it. I bought these.


I figure, I'm running for President. May as well channel my inner Joan of Arc, right? Either that or my inner Patty Smythe: "I am the warrior, and victory is mine. If I survive."

Rockin' Republic

There’s a lyric from a Faith No More song, “Falling to Pieces,” that perfectly describes how I feel about certain of life’s most pertinent issues. The current crop of spring shoe fashions. Running. Crunchy Cheetos versus Puffy. And, of course, politics. It goes like this: “I’m somewhere in between my love and my agony.”

First, there is the absolute, passionate love I have for the good ol’ U.S. of A., which, to steal from Craig Ferguson, is the single greatest idea anyone’s ever had for a country, ever, in the history of the universe. Amen.

Then there’s my agony. Being, of course, the fact that 99.987 percent of the assholes running the gub’ment and the idiots who put them in office have forgotten this important fact.

So as much as I’d like to la, la, la, la, la myself into believing that we’re all big enough boys and girls to live under what I consider to be the El Perfecto, Ne Plus Ultra of poleetical systems (anarcho-capitalism), I realize that, unfortunately, we are not. Big enough. Responsible enough. Non-ADD enough.

Ergo, gub’ment. A necessary evil.

At the very least, then, I can participate by positing what it would look like if Moi were in charge.

Here ya go:

Moi's Running Mate: the Ivanator. He’s got enough pit bull in him to stand firm on the issues, enough Shar-pei to use his facial wrinkles to disguise the fact that he’s snoozing away in session when things get downright yawn-inducing.



Moi's Weapons of Mass Distraction: Ms R, EmmaK, Cake, Luka, Kiki. Not only do these gals have better abs, boobs, and behinds than our enemies, they’re smarter, too. I realize Ms R will have to take time off from her own dictatorship (and will hopefully give me time off from my duties as Minister of Fashion), but it shouldn’t require much effort on anyone’s part. North Korea starts acting all grumpy, I suspect all it will take to shut ‘em up is a little T&A and some kitchen wizardry. In return, all Moi’s Weapons get a lifetime’s supply of Louboutins and revolving credit at Agent Provacateur.

Moi’s Muscle: Da Pirate. She tough. She eats mileage like some people eat bon-bons. And she looks good while doing it, which is über importante in Moi’s administration. Not only will she serve as tough and stylish personal protection por Moi, she’ll whip the rest of this flabby-assed country into shape, too. You know how Mao had all the Chinese under this thumb wake up with mandatory Tai Chi? Well, here’s a hint: buy running shoes. And quit yer cryin’. In exchange, Moi’s gub’ment will pay for a lifetime of triathlon entry fees for her, her family, and sixty five of her closest friends.

Moi's Karl Rove/Official State Photographer/Musical Arranger: I Am Not. He is in charge of always, always, always making sure each and every one of us gals looks gorgemous in all photos and of ensuring that proper background music accompanies us wherever we go. Disco is good. So is Iggy Pop. And he can have all the female interns he needs to assist him with his tasks. In exchange, he gets, well, access to female interns.

Moi's Second Photographer in Charge: Meghan. The only reason you're not first is that you work hard enough as it is, and dang, girlfriend, with two rock stars to raise, I figure you don't need the stress. So just feel free to wander the White House grounds at your leisure and take photos of whatever you want and nap in between. Husband and children in tow, of course. 'cept hubby will have to leave the Crocs at home.

Moi's Ambassadorships: I don’t really want a cabinet, per se. I mean, yawn, that’s, like, waaaaay too much trouble. So I’m just gonna send a bunch of people out into the universe and let ‘em do their thing, as follows:

Da Troll: Ambassador to both Denmark (so he can score good beer for us, hot chicks for himself) and Russia (so he can make for damn sure the commies never rear their poorly dressed heads ever again). Troll is also Minister of All Things Food and Wine-y, which means he most likely gets to confer with the Weapons on occasion.

She: Ambassador to Iceland. Where she will spend her days learning the fine art of Viking toughness, eating smoked fish, drinking bathtub vodka, and creating unique performance art pieces with Björk. Plus, Trout will get to run around free as a big brown dog should because Iceland’s an island and what’s Trout gonna do, swim back to Georgia?

Anonymous Boxer: Ambassador to Switzerland. You know, I’ve never quite trusted Switzerland and if there’s anyone who can keep tabs on this tricky lil’ country, it’s AB. All lovely and luminous and even-tempered on the one hand, possessed of a dangerous-ass left hook on the other. Plus, she's got all them Chihuahuas. Sting like a bee, girlfriend. And bring back chocolate and blingy timepieces.

Aunty: Ambassador to the U.N. That’ll learn those pansy asses. All I’m saying is, they have NO idea just how effective a weapon a Bottega Veneta bag, backed up with a Blahnik stiletto heel and a Southern will, can be against Pakistani stupidity.

Wicked Thistle and Doris Rose: Ambassadors to Belize. I was gonna have them be Moi’s administration’s official scribes, but I know, just know, they’ll put off the assignment to the very last minute and then they’ll panic and nothing at all will get written. Besides, they’re most excellent at conveying a certain kind of Gallic-shrugged, cigarette-butt-flipped nonchalance that this administration needs in times of crisis. In other words: “Oh, Belgium is threatening to leave the E.U. and so no chocolates for Christmas ? Meh . . . let ‘em eat Hershey’s.”

NYD: Ambassador to Japan. Because he already lives there and can therefore provide Moi’s administration with the bestest sushi evah.

Czar: Ambassador to South of France: (Note I write South. The ONLY part of France Moi tolerates.) Because it just seems to me you spend most of your life copy editing what he's copy-edited (I mean, airline schedules, that's hardcore), you deserve to spend the rest of your life on a beach eating fois gras.

Oops, almost forgot the most important post of all. I need someone in charge of all things girly-girl (day spas, beauty salons, luncheon spots, shopping sprees) so that when we're done with all this guverning, we can relax and pig out on champagne and sushi and candy. While getting our nails done. I think Ms Thursday Next, no stranger to self-pampering, would most likely be Our Gal Friday for that.

So that should do it. If I left anyone out, let me know what you want to do and I’m sure I can wiggle you in somewhere. The rest of you all, you can just relax and enjoy the fruits of our labors.

Oh, and one last thing. You may have asked yourself: “What about your beloved S.B.? What’s he gonna do?”

You kidding me?

Man’s been waiting fifty gazillion years for me to finally snag the presidency so he can retire and spend the rest of his days hitting golf balls on the White House lawn in preparation for his eventual status as PGA star. Troll, I’m going to rely on your to send your cousin on over to assist in the task. In fact, I’m going to rely on the only three dudes in Moi’s administration to make sure S.B. is entertained at all times. Otherwise, he’ll start in with the home improvement projects and I'll get grumpy. If you have to use beer and female interns to get the job done, well, la, la, la, la, la, just make sure I don’t hear about it.

Plotting

Although I truly, truly believe that there isn't a government in existence anywhere in this entire universe that can actually do anyone any ding dang good in any way and for any reason whatsoever, and that I can count on three fingers, one-two-three, the only justifiable functions of government in our lives at all, I am nonetheless, in between actual bouts of work, day dreaming about what, exactly, I'd do if I were in fact elected president of these here United States.

Outlaw run on sentences for one.

I know. Sorry.

But other than that, what would I do? Who would be my running mate(s)? Who would sit in my cabinet and advise me on when to go to war and when to say home and lunch it out? Who would furtively fill me in at the last minute on the rebel goings-on in Yetanotherbananarepublicstan or the state of trade affairs with some rising Pacific Rim nation because I'm way too ding dang tired from having partied hearty with Denmark's entire diplomatic corps the night before?

I am giving it serious thought.

Out of the Mouths of Babes Part I

In some of my posts and comments on this blob, I may have given off the impression a time or two that I don't really like chillruns very much. This is not entirely true. Yes, I made the conscious decision at a very early age not to have any, but that really had more to do with G.I. Joe than anything else.

It went down like this: When we were children, my brother continuously, relentlessly, insisted that my Malibu Barbie quit jet-setting all over the world in fabulous outfits my great aunt sewed for her and mailed all the way from NYC and instead settle down and marry his GI Joe.

"The hell you say," was Moi's reply. (Or something similar to that sentiment in ten-year-old-speak). "Why would Barbie want to do that?"

"Well," my brother said, eyeing my doll in that pervy way that starts to manifest itself with boys at, oh, the age of birth, "That means they could have sex."

I considered that for a moment. G.I. Joe was kind of cute. And he had him some awesome abs. Then again, there was the matter of that weird thatch of felt on top of his head. So, uh, no.

"Barbie already has boyfriends," I explained. "One in every city. That way, she doesn't get bored with any of them."

My brother tried again. "He'd buy her things."

I shook my head. So what? Barbie was an international flight attendant for PanAm. She had continual access not only to quite a sufficient paycheck, but also to the riches of Duty Free. What else?

"Wellllllll, she could settle down and have a bunch of babies and keep Joe's house and make his dinner."

My stomach did a little flip flop. "You mean she wouldn't have to work?"

My brother nodded enthusiastically.

"Forget it." And I then I sent Barbie to Paris.

To be continued . . .

Make Cake, Not War

Busy, busy. Like a bee. Only larger.

So all I've gone and done blob-wise today, is nick the Troll's apple cake recipe and post it over at my other blob, The Undaunted Baker.

Come on over, would ya? Because we need frostings, Party People, frostings!

Snowed Under

Y'all have seen this child before. And no, it's not Moi's. Hush, now. You know better.

But I trot him out on occasion when I'm having one of those Life's Handing Out Lemons and I'm Not Even Capable of Making a Glass of Lemonade, Much Less an Entire Lemon Tart with Blueberry Coulis and Creme Fraiche days.

So because I have to scoot along and get some work done and fret over a few other things, I'm going to invite you all to post comments on just about anything you want. Anything at all. Tell me your favorite flavor of bubble gum. What you did this weekend. What's pissing you off and making you jump for joy. Rant away on any ol' thing.

Knowing you guys, it will all make Moi smile. And I need to stretch those muscles today something awful.

I Wanna Do Right, But Not Right Now

Hack, hack. Cough, cough. Sniff, sniff.

And while I'm busy composing the long-ass post that will explain exactly why I am making these crap weasel sickly sounds for the first time in fifty bazillion years, why don't cha just jog on over to Moi's baking blob and make yourself a mess of chocolate mousse?

Well, what're ya waiting for? I'm contagious. GO NOW.

And then, go get your laugh on by stopping by Wicked Thistle's blob for this.

Meme Moi

I’ve been tagged by Ms R to discuss Moi’s “Media Week,” which, I take it to mean, all those things that serve to keep the brain buzzing along in merry contemplation of anything and everything but work (and/or potential work, which I hate going in search of. “Yoo, hoo! Hire Moi, please. I'll bake you cookies!” is about as good as I get at self-promotion. May be time to go into retail shoe sales, Party People.)

Anyway:

What I am Reading:
The size of my To Be Read Pile is beginning to worry me. I calculated the other day that if I quit work right now and begin with the first book on top, I’ll hit the bottom of the pile in exactly 1.567 gazillion years. Provided nothing new is published in the meantime.

At any rate, here’s what I’m attempting:

Non-fiction:
Guns, Germs, and Steel – Jared Diamond
Be Pretty, Get Married, and Always Drink Tab – Gigi Anders
Indian Givers: How the Indians of the Americas Transformed the World – Jack Weatherford
And still plugging away at The Evolution of Canine Social Behavior – Roger Abrantes, Ph.D.

Fiction:
Acts of Faith – Philip Caputo
No Country For Old Men – Cormac McCarthy

Magazines:
I am of course addicted to crap magazines, but I don’t buy them. Instead, I catch up at ortho appointments, while having my car lubed, and of course, when Doris Rose brings over her abundant stash.

The only magazines I subscribe to are National Geographic Adventure and the Atlantic.

Newspapers:
What newspapers? You mean the Albuquerque Journal? Ho, ho, hee, hee. . .


What I'm Watching:

Film:
In the theater most recently: No Country For Old Men (fabulous) and I Am Legend (not so fabulous but Will Smith is, so there you have it).

While on the stationery bike the other day, caught the first hour of Michelangelo Antonioni's (RIP) L’eclisse, with Monica Vitti and Alain Delon. Thankfully, I have the entire thing Tivoed and am just waiting for S.B. to hand over control of the remote to finish the rest of it. I don’t know why, but I adore Antonioni, even Zabriski Point despite its clumsy leftist leanings. His movies are so very, very.

(So was Monica Vitti. Bardot, Schmardot, far as I'm concerned.)

Monica Then:

Monica Now (at 76):

Faaaaaaabulous.

Television:
Dramadies: House. I must also admit to being totally addicted to the new season of Nip/Tuck. Way, way, way, way over the top, but very clever satire. Comedies: 30 Rock and The Office are freakin’ brilliant. Realities: Project Runway and Amazing Race.


What I'm Listening To:
Right now on the iPod I’m revisiting Steve Earle, Lene Lovich, and early Bowie. Plus, still, Courtney Love’s tragically terrible, America’s Sweetheart. On the turntable, Tom Jones Live at Caesars Palace, a sealed Parrot Records (London) pressing that S.B. gave Moi for Christmas.

Oops, nearly forgot. I need to tag others. So, uh, let's see. I tag everyone who reads this blob. I want to hear from you . . . that's an order. Sorta.

Happy Heart

Look at the fabulous CD cover the fabulously talented She made Moi for Christmas! I'm posting it up here because it just tickles Moi pink, it's so brilliant.

It will also serve as the place marker for my last post for a few days. But if all goes well, if Southwest Airlines arrives in New Orleans in a relatively timely manner, if Baby Jesus blesses us with an up and running Daiquiri Shack, and if we can likewise grab 'n' go us a couple oyster po' boys, in exactly 50 hours, ten minutes, and some odd seconds, I should be feeling groovy enough to send you my next post from the wilds of the South Louisiana suburbs. Louisiana, Party People. It does a Moi's heart (and stomach) good.

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, and Blessed Solstice to you all!

* * *

P.S.: The Pirate just tagged Moi. And I feel a strange compulsion to obey. Perhaps it's because she gets up at 5:00 every morning to swim and I don't (in fact, I'm coming up with some pretty darn good excuses why I don't even want to go running on this gloriously sunshiny, snow-dappled day.)

So, to procrastinate further:

Five Interesting Things Involving the Number Five. About Moi:

1. Five is the number of the age I wish I could revert back to for one day each week. Because at five, you're not required to have a job – heck, you're not even required to be in school – and you're certainly not required to juggle any kind of grown up stuff like politics and hassles with plumbers. And Christmas is so lovely when you're five. It's just you and the presents. Nothing more, nothing less. Unless your parents forget to buy batteries for your new Malibu Barbie Sports Car. That kinda sucks, at five.

2. Five is the number of husbands Moi is afraid she's going to have to limit herself to, with S.B. being primary, of course. Because the list is simply getting too ungainly. As much as I'd like to include up and comers like Daniel Craig and Pablo Nutini, I'm afeared it's going to have to work thusly, for the sanity of all involved:

1. S.B.
2. Johnny Depp
3. Ewan McGregor
4. Jack White
5. Bruce Willis

3. Five is the number of shoes - excluding athletic footwear – I would like to limit myself to in the New Year, in an effort to take a more Zen approach to material goods: One pair of heeled brown boots. One pair of heeled black boots. One pair of low heeled, English riding-style boots. One pair of black patent leather peep toe pumps. One pair of brown leather flat sandals. One pair of espadrille-style sling back . . . Oh, hell, who am I kidding. Never mind.

4. On the other hand, five is the exact number of winter running pants folded neatly in Moi's closet. Not because I hate to do laundry (there's your Zen right there, Party People), but because do you KNOW how many winter running pants styles there are out there and if I just keep trying, ONE of them will make Moi's ass look just right.

5. Five is the number of movies I currently am chomping at the bit to go see in the theaters:

1. Sweeney Todd
2. The Golden Compass
3. Charlie Wilson's War (although it looks to Moi like Julia Roberts has been horribly miscast)
4. I Am Legend (Will Smith was hard in the running for husband #5, believe Moi)
5. Into the Wild (even though I simply cannot tolerate Sean Penn, but the soundtrack sounds marvelous and "Hard Sun" has been running on the iPod for ages)

(But not: Atonement. Christ on a Cracker am I the only person who hated that book?)

Oh, and I tag Meghan, because most likely all she has to do is take five fabulous photos.

When Life Hands Moi Lemons

Coming soon to Da Baking Blob:


The Pie that Stole Moi's Avowedly Independent Heart, Chained it to the Back of a Dodge Ram Super Cab, and Never Let it Go.

In other words, you wanna woo someone? This is the pie to do it with.

Stay tuned . . .

You! Cake or Death?

A couple things you need to do today:
1. Run your Web site through The Lolinator (www.lolinator.com). The Pirate sent this to Moi last night as I was furiously working on an ass client and I laughed so hard I nearly tinkled. This is what she did to Bite the Apple. Check out the Kung Fu kitty with da pittie.

2. Go next door to Moi's baking site. 'Cause I'm not going to rest until I con, uh, entice enough readers to justify hanging up a bunch a' Google ads for Kitchen Aide mixers and Williams and Sonoma tart pans whose proceeds will allow Moi to retire from writing with enough time to spend half the day training for mini-tris and other half on the sofa with bon-bons and the entire collection of South Park on DVD. (The quality of that last sentence right there is proof enough, Party People, why this is an urgent goal.)

But, most importantly, an actual recipe is up and running. If you don't bake, maybe you can con, uh, entice, someone into making it for you.

3. Have a simply splendid day

Moi

Dancing With Myself

Another shameless plug for Moi's new baking site.

Come on over, Party People – it's no fun doing this all by myself. Even if it means I get to drink all the tequila.

Lazy Ass Excuse for a Blog Post #2

While I firmly believe there is no crying in baseball, it seems that doesn't apply when it comes to NaNo. I don't know what's wrong with me this year. My brain is a hollowed out husk of its former self and my creativity has flipped me the bird. Last time I saw it, it was lounging on the sofa with a six pack of Fresca and a party-sized bag of Cheetos, zoning out in front of Fashion Television's coverage of the Spring 2008 Milan collections (yay! Luisa Beccaria – boo! Gucci Gucci Goo).

So, I will spend all weekend struggling to wrest my creativity out from the sticky-fingered clutches of crap television and trans-fat-soaked snacks. After all, my novel does feature sex and candy and cowboys. That ougtta be worth something.

In the meantime, Party People, let's take a moment to hunt down my creativity and take a gander at what, exactly, it would clothe itself in, given a $5 bazillion lottery win and just the right occasion:

If my creativity worked for a mega wattage corporate-type corporation and they were throwing a mega fabulous Christmas party and my dumb ass creativity had actually managed NOT to fall asleep at its desk one too many times from the stunning boredom of it all and hence didn't get itself barred from an invitation, my creativity would wear this:


And if my creativity's bestest friend in the whole wide world suddenly up and had a wedding, and I mean a REALLY REAL wedding, complete with cocktails and canapes and hot 20 year old waiters, instead of some drunken five minute ceremony at 2 a.m. in Vegas with Elvis in attendance, it would wear this:


And if my creativity were suddenly called upon to attend oh, I dunno, a posh Southern-Style event like the Kentucky Derby or maybe some second cousin of S.B.'s niece's coming out party, it would wear this:



And if I suddenly had to send my fat-ass creativity off to the grocery store for even more Fresca and Cheetos? I'd ask that it for Gawd's sake shed those stinkin' sweat pants and instead drape itself in this:



Finally, if my creativity absolutely refuses to get its fat ass off that sofa and into my office and behind my keyboard, I'm going to make sure, come hell or high water, it's going to spend the rest of its existence wearing this:


Pee yew, Party People. Gucci is just downright poochie this year.

Life's a Bitch . . .

. . . now so am I.

I'm sorry. I cannot contain myself any longer. In 1.5 weeks, S.B. and I will be attending our first Halloween party in a coon's age. And, we're actually dressing up. Not dressing up as in nice shoes and shirt dressing up, but dressing up as in for true, purchased-over-the-Internet, Halloween costume dressing up. Because that's what the invitation says we should do. And I, for once, am just going to go with it.

So can you guess who I'm going as?

I did think about:


(The only comic book hero to ever garner a Ms. Magazine cover, complete with essay by Gloria Steinem. So, you know. She's steeped in feminist cred.)

I also considered:


'Cause she's dark and conflicted and also has the requisite on-again, off-again love affair with a super duper hero dude (yes, I am a comic book nerd – deal with it).

But then I realized that both costumes are likely to be a wee bit too chilly for a late October evening.

So I decided on Cat Woman. The Michelle Pfeiffer version, though, not the Halle Berry one. Because:

A. I do not have the ta-tas to fill out Halle's costume.

and

B. Halle's Cat Woman sucks ass. Pfeiffer's is, was, and always will be, the über coolest of them all.

I Heart My (Almost) New Kitchen

(But not necessarily my woefully behind-the-times digital camera. The photo is a wee too orange and the cabinets are more sage than neon.).

Anyway.

They came, they tented, they sanded, they stained, they sealed. They sorta cleaned up in that way that men have (dudes, you do what you do best; I'll do what I do best). All in one day (well, to be fair, they had our doors and drawers for five days).

I am happy. And will be even more so once Granite Transformations inserts the new counters on the 19th. No dirty demolition and tear out; just a nice, clean (supposedly) insert over existing counter tops. And if they hurt Moi's brandy new cabinets, I will be a force to be reckoned with.

Or I'll just sic S.B. on 'em.

Pray For Moi

Despite my on occasion wishing I could live in Moi's Alternative Backwards Universe and flit between five bazillion different husbands (you listening, Jack White?), there is something positive to be said for a long-term relationship with one person. Besides the obvious, create a family with blah blah blah, grow old with blah blah blah stuff, there is the mind-blowing fact that being with the same person for an eternity, uh, twelve years, allows you to grok to some interesting things about yourself. Forget psychotherapy, just get a mate. That'll learn ya.

I've certainly learned some interesting things about myself over the years. Like what happens when you mix Drama Queen Moi with So Laid Back He Makes Gary Cooper Look Like Woody Allen S.B.

You get conversations like this:

Moi: "I love you truly, madly, passionately. I can't live without you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, except for the fact that I don't want to do your laundry and simply must have my own bathroom. Dahlink, do you feel the same about Moi?"

S.B., dragging his eyes away from the LSU/Arkansas game: "Uh, yeah. I mean, okay, sure."

That conversation has pretty much set the tone for the rest of our relationship. I spin little dramas and S.B. defuses them. Take, for instance, my continual fear of being caught in a spinning-out-of-control airplane. To S.B., experiencing something like that would, "Certainly tell you a lot about how you handle stress, don't you think?"

Uh . . . no. For S.B., who was born cowboy-ed up, surviving something like that would be nothing more than a character-building exercise. For Moi, it would mean my main mode of transport from that point on would be roller skates. If I ever again left the house at all.

Thankfully, the majority of the time, this difference in our personalities is more a source of entertainment than friction. Except . . . when it comes . . . to . . . the thing . . . I dread . . . more than flying:

Home Improvement.

I don't have to relay to you the statistics outlining the spike in divorce rates among couples who undergo major renovation projects or build their own homes. Suffice to say, if it weren't for the fact that S.B. organizes these projects, then merrily trips out of town for work, leaving Moi to handle everything, our relationship would most likely have been shit canned long ago.

Because we simply cannot be in the same house together when these projects are going on. Because I turn into a surreal version of my lurking drama queen self. I worry and niggle and stay up at night spinning scenarios of horrific destruction and rampant lawyering. S.B., he sleeps like a baby. And the more relaxed he is, the more wrapped around the axle I become.

Like take right now, for instance. S.B. is in Oklahoma making the world safe for toaster ovens. I am at home, tap, tap, tapping my foot over contractors who are now 60 minutes late to start our cabinet refinishing project.

Ain't nothing more worry-producing to Moi than late contractors. And the sorrowful sight of my bare-ass nekkid kitchen: