It Belongs to Moi. Give it Back.

Mute Monday: Todo Sobre, Moi

Oh, and:

It's the 21st Century. So Where's My Ding Dang Clone?

SB says to me today, "When you gonna post something else? I'm tired of looking at that snow scene." 

Me, too. But, I'm also tired.

I had meant to post my muffin experience on Da Baking Blob long before now, but I'll have to get to that next week, after Mute Monday's All About Moi topic. And some sleep this weekend. And maybe some belly button contemplation and catch up on "The Tudors."

In the meantime, y'all occupy yourselves with this: 

Daniel Craig: – Hot or Not.

Discuss . . .

The Writing on the Wall

Two years ago we had a February/March snow season like few I've seen around here. One storm after the other blew in, dropping twelve, fourteen, eighteen inches of snow at a time. Of course, working at home means I can usually get on the driveway pretty quickly, shoveling it clear in between bouts of work to ensure that I'll be able to escape to the wilds of civilization for Starbucks and sushi sometime before the Second Coming. (What about SB, you ask? Well, Party People, SB is rarely home during these monumental events, spring being the best time for him to go to work moving power across 'merica's midsection. And I have the upper body muscles to prove it.)

Anyway.

Not only does snow pile up on our driveway, it also piles up on our satellite dish. Those of you who work at home know how muy importante it is to have working television at all times. So, on with the snowsuit, the snow boots, and the long broom to make the dangerous trek out back to knock the snow off the dish. Halfway there, I heard it: a rumble like distant thunder and then a swooshy sound like sand being pushed by a wave breaking on shore. The sound was coming from above me and I looked up just in time to witness a huge chunk of eighteen inch high snow come rushing down off the roof to land on top of my head. The force knocked me to my knees, the snow covered me completely. But within seconds I put those shoveling muscles to use and was able to burst forth into the sunshine. And complete my mission to free my satellite dish from being likewise smothered so I could spend the afternoon watching Fashion Television.

Since people die in roof avalanches, come summer, we did the responsible thing and called ABC Roofing to install all new gutters and snow breaks. No more roof avalanches.

But I'll never forget that feeling – however momentary – of being buried alive. It sucked. But that's how I feel this week. Part of what I do for a living, other than coming up with my own words, is making the words of others sound much better(er). And that's what I'm doing this week. Fixing other people's words. Lots and lots of them. Which can actually be harder than coming up with ones of my own. Hence, the buried feeling.

So I got nothing much else, except to tell you that I'll be posting about Muffins on Da Baking Blob soon. Oh and this:

Beyonce and Jay-Z got married this weekend. Did you hear they had 100 bazillion Thai peasants pick with their 1,000 bazillion nimble Thai fingers over 100 trillion perfectly bloomed orchids to decorate Jay-Z's Tribeca loft as part of their Twu Wuv ceremony? Sweet jeebus, that's excessive. Even by Moi's whack ass excessive standards. Then again, what else would you expect from a woman who never met a prom dress gone horribly wrong that she didn't turn into a personal fashion statement?


About Jay-Z I have nothing to say. Except that it looks like he buys a lot of shiny, silky stuff. Does he rap?

Mute Monday: Power

No one changes the world who isn't obsessed.
– Billie Jean King

Meme Memoir

The fabulous Meghan tagged me for The Six-Words Meme, which was originally started by Smith Magazine. The history is thus:

Legend has it that Hemingway was once challenged to write a story in only six words. His response? “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” Last year, SMITH Magazine re-ignited the recountre by asking our readers for their own six-word memoirs. They sent in short life stories in droves, from the bittersweet (“Cursed with cancer, blessed with friends”) and poignant (“I still make coffee for two”) to the inspirational (“Business school? Bah! Pop music? Hurrah”) and hilarious (“I like big butts, can’t lie”).

Moi's six-word memoir:

Yay, the artisan's impulse! Stuff good.

I’m going to tag:
Wicked, Doris Rose, Anonymous Boxer, Troll, Aunty, Thursday Next, and Pirate (and SHE!).

Here are the rules:
1) Write your own six word memoir.
2) Post it on your blog and include a visual illustration if you’d like.
3) Link to the person that tagged you in your post, and to the original post if possible so we can track it as it travels across the blogosphere.
4) Tag at least five more blogs with links.
5) Don’t forget to leave a comment on the tagged blogs with an invitation to play.
6) Have fun.

And I just had to add:

Good gah, are these shoes not muy fabuloso or whatso? Le sigh.

Rehabbed and Ready for 15 Minutes of Shame

In an effort to curb what I am beginning to regard within myself as a dangerous tendency towards rampant materialism, I have decided to use this, the first day of April, to define for myself a new identity. One that has less to do with gobbling up shiny objects and more to do with letting go of those objects via eBay and communing instead only with those things that have real meaning and purpose.

Which, of course, means a redefined approach to my wardrobe as well. After all, one needs a certain kind of outfit to go with one's new found minimalist philosophy of down-to-earthedness. So, no more lusting after the new Burberry Prorsum Ankle Wrap Sandals and Oscar de la Renta party dresses. Instead, something less blingy and more, uh, crunchy is in order here:





to go with: