Cooking and other observations

If you like house porn

I found this dude via a Google search that couldn't be less related to interior design. Y'all know how much I love randomness, but his projects seem to be easy for an ordinary person to do, and remarkably tasteful, all things considered.

He has some cool ideas that wouldn't break the bank, or require the help of a professional. So here you go.

Jonathan Fong Style.

Now officially on notice

This is courtesy of my pal, Doug. Thanks for the link, dude.

You can make your own, if you want.

Note: I've never been able to get through an entire Colbert Report. I still like the idea of the show more than the show itself, but I love that I can make a list of things that annoy me and should go away immediately, and get a cool-ass graphic to substitute for a useful or insightful blog entry.

In the immortal words of Lucy Van Pelt...

"You stupid darkness!"

The weather guys on TV said, I mean they promised that the rain was over. So what's that I hear on the skylight? Sounds an awful lot like rain to me, and thunder in the distance. Don't get me wrong, I like rain well enough, but every night?

I'm sick of the scrape my wipers make on the windshield. I'm sick of road closures, detours and the associated traffic; I'm just as sick of the little fender benders that happen because nobody around here can drive on wet roads.

I'm sick of having big hair.

The Liars on TV can point at their fancy radar and their maps, but when they promised me--yes, me personally--the rain was over, I so wanted to believe them.

Because I'm a sucker. And it's still raining.

And now a break to talk about my real life

Spur-of-the-moment decisions can be fun. I don't make many of them, but last week when my friend, Mary, announced that she had a bit of an advenure planned in the form of a day trip to New York, I decided to go with her. That evening, I managed to figure out a plot point for one of my writing projects, so I'd be willing to say that this would have been a good idea even if I'd had a terrible time.

I got on the train about noon. The coach I chose also held what appeared to be an 80s cover band, complete with retro spiky hair and unfortunate outfits. They got off in Philadelphia, and one of them made silly faces at me as they gathered their equipment. I was unable to determine this person's gender from its squarish body, and bleached blond hair pulled back in a clip, but I'm pretty sure it was a man.

The train kept to its timetable and I emerged in New York's Penn Station a few minutes early. Although Mary and I know each other fairly well online, and I have seen photos of her, I wasn't positive I had picked her out correctly when I looked around under the big schedule sign. The problem was that she said she'd be wearing red sandals. She was sitting on the floor reading and I couldn't tell whether the sandals were red or not, so I called. When I saw the person I thought might be her reach for a phone in her pocket, I knew I was right.

(My fleeting thought was to approach the person I thought might be my friend and ask if he shoes were red, but if I'd been wrong, I would have been flustered; calling seemed more prudent.)

We decided to get coffee and wander downtown which was fine. The mild temperature and partly-sunny sky made me feel a little like an idiot carrying an umbrella, but I'd seen the dark clouds over Wilmington, so I took a "better safe than sorry" position and carried it, anyway. (I'm foolish enough that I might have left the thing on the train if I'd seen sunny skies the whole from Washington.)

Our plan was to find the flower market, but we failed in that. I have no native sense of direction--seriously, I thought we were walking north when we were walking due south--and it turned out that we walked a few blocks too far south, and we were too far east. (The flower markets are in Chelsea, around Ninth Ave between roughly 27th and 33rd Streets.)

Anyway, we made our way to Union Square to catch the subway to lower Manhattan, and our ultimate destination, which was Pace University. The purpose of the adventure was a scheduled taping of "Inside the Actor's Studio" with House star Hugh Laurie as the guest. We joined the line after getting caught in a thunderstorm--yay umbrella! Only our thighs got wet--and then we waited.

And waited.

And waited.

The line was fairly comfortable. We chatted with a few of the people around us. Occasionally somebody would walk by with food, and the smells tempted us both to go out and forage, but we didn't. I wasn't that hungry, but if a vendor had passed us carrying falafel, I would have been the happiest person ever.

I have to admit that, although I watch House crazy regularly, I wasn't all that interested in Hugh Laurie. I mean, he does a very good job with the character, but I wouldn't say he's a TV crush or anything. All that changed when he took the stage. I was charmed by his long, loping gait. How does a person manage to walk with self-deprecation? I have no idea, but I've seen it happen. He did not seem like an actor in PR mode; he seemed like a guy talking about his life--including his life on stage--and I was quite taken in by that. He has had an interesting life, and for the most part, he seemed comfortable with James Lipton's questions. He at least attempted to answer them coherently, and he succeeded, for the most part.

New Phone!

I finally broke down and purchased a new cell phone. I got the one that died yesterday some time in 2003, I think. The thing that sucks about it is that the manner of my former phone's death leaves me with no record of my friends' numbers. So if you know me, and if you're anybody other than Jesse, ZZ, or Fedward, I don't know your number any more. Sorry, my brain was stored in a water-logged sim card.

(I know Jesse's number because of a mnemonic, same for ZZ's. I know Fedward's cell number because I made a really stupid joke about it when he changed it to a local number back in 1997. Yes, I can remember my own material from nine years ago. I'll be here all week. Be sure to tip your server, or she'll spit in your last drink.)

The manner of my old phone's death goes something like this: Saturday, Amanda purchases a travel mug. Sunday, Amanda fills said mug with coffee and leaves for work at the inhuman hour of 5:30 a.m. At work, she refills the mug and places it near her register, where she leaves it all day. Now, since Our Heroine has been operating on two hours sleep, she does something really stupid: when she is preparing to leave work for the day, she places the half-filled cup in her purse. The top is secured tightly, but being a modern travel mug, it has a switch that will close it; unfortunately for everything in the main compartment of her purse, the switch was set to open.

The good news is that an old, battered Coach bag will hold liquid. It could double as a wine skin, if need be. I'm not sure that information will ever come in handy, but you know, lesson learned. The other good thing is that my iPod was in the exterior pocket of the bag, and because of the superior construction of old school Coach bags (I've had this one for about 15 years), it stayed perfectly dry and was not damaged.

And I have a new phone that has a lot of features I probably won't use. But it also has a 1.3 mp camera, which makes me happy. Or it will make me happy when I figure out how to use it. I wanted to take a picture of the butt end of the SUV I parked behind, to document the bikes attached to it and the sign that said "Honk if you see parts falling off." The camera function wasn't obvious, although I did find the rotating lens; I just couldn't figure out how to make it take pictures.

That sign on the vehicle was weird. It appeared to be a professional print job, and that made me curious. I mean, bike parts aren't that big. I probably wouldn't notice one flying off a bike strapped to an SUV unless a derailleur happened to hit my windshield. (Note: "derailleur" is the only bike part I can name, and I know that only because my brother is a bike guy. I don't actually remember what the part does, or where on a bike you would find one.)

So I got to wondering: what happens when the driver of the bike-laden SUV with the sign hears honking? Does s/he stop and scour the last quarter-mile for parts? Maybe the trailing driver just wants the bike carrier to get out of the way. Or maybe the honker is simply feeling the mischief and wants to see what would happen post-honk.

I don't think this has anything to do with my new phone, except that I couldn't figure out how to make it take a picture to illustrate my not-all-that-funny-without-it story.

So, if you want me to have your phone number, you can email eyeroll@eyeroll.net and that will take care of it, assuming my mail forwarding works.

On the up side, I bought a belt

All right, I ordered a belt online, and some new jeans, which I hope will fit.

Yes, there's a story behind this. You knew there was a story; there's always a story, right?

So, when I started working at TJ's, I stopped snacking. I also kind of stopped eating meals, and I started getting a lot more exercise. Consequently, I've lost both weight and bulk, at least two sizes worth of bulk. This means that none of my jeans fit. They're baggy all over. They fit around my hips, and they make me look big.

I don't know how I feel about this. Body image is a weird thing, probably for all humans, but I think it goes deeper for women. (I could be wrong; feel free to set me straight. On the other hand, my formerly very skinny brother has filled out, by which I mean "porked out," because his wife is a really good cook and they've been married almost 12 years now. He was always skinny as a kid, and I was more on the chubby side. Nobody ever would have guessed that if one of us was going to have a ticket punched for the Land Where Americans Go to Get Fat, it would be him.)

Last week, I went shopping for jeans. I tried on several pair of stylish, spendy denim pants. They fit very nicely, and they fit like they're supposed to, namely sitting about four inches below my belly button. You know, that's fine for somebody who's 20; it's not fine for me. I'm sure I'm being reactionary in saying that those jeans shouldn't exist in a size 10. There are lots of women my size who are in great shape; but if I were in great shape, I'd be a size 6. And I still wouldn't want to wear jeans that sit lower than my underpinnings.

It's not about the scars. I asked myself that question: Self, do the scars bother you that much?

They don't, not really. I can live with the fact that my body will never look like it did six years ago, before all the surgery. I'm not afraid to have people see my scars, I just don't think anybody I'm not going to bed with should see the ones below my waistline. Is that basic modesty, or the knowledge that you can't tuck a shirt into a waistband that low because neither the shirt nor the pants will lay correctly.

I wasn't totally horrified seeing myself in the fitting room mirror with my scarred, soft belly in a pair of jeans that would reveal to the whole world if I took them home. That surprised me a little bit. I don't think about the scars any more, unless I see them; I don't see them unless I look for them.

Anyway, I went to landsend.com and bought a pair of jeans. I like the waist, which I think will sit about two inches below my belly button, which is about where I want. I don't love the cut on the leg, because I still like flares, but I was willing to compromise. I'm pretty sure that I still bought them in a size that's too big for me. Adjustment takes time, and I know I can exchange them if I need to.

And the belt is super cool.

Ask your doctor about surgery, but wait until normal business hours

As I now have a commute to work, I spend more time in the car than I used to, and I have to listen to a station that runs traffic reports. Yeah, just like everybody else in town.

This explains why I've been exposed to radio advertising more than I used to be. CSPAN radio is truly commercial free, unlike the various NPR stations, which pose as being commercial free.

So, the creepy part: ads for fertility clinics. It's not that I find them offensive, I just think it's weird. The idea that a member of a couple that wants a baby would hear an ad on the radio and think "Hey, that's a great idea! We'll go to Brand X Fertility because of the ad!"

Shouldn't they get a referral from an actual doctor? I figure most women who haven't become pregnant despite trying have consulted with a medical professional of some sort. It's just creepy.

Other medical ads I've heard recently include dentists that use something called "relaxation sedation," whatever that is; something called "sculpting liposuction," perormed by a plastic surgeon who's also "an accomplished artist;" and of course, Lasik eye surgery, just in case you want to have your eyes lasered.

Anyway, I guess part of the exploding cost of health care has to be chalked up to the marketing budget.

Weird birthday gifts

OK, my birthday is tomorrow, so I'm bound to be sensitive to birthday-related news. Keep that in mind as you shed a few crocodile tears for Katie Holmes. I mean, that's really pathetic.

I've received some really lame gifts, mostly along the lines of jewelry that didn't suit my style, or something that my mom thought was a good idea. (For the record, an alarm clock is rarely a good gift.) But I'm pretty sure I've never received a gift that smacks of "enough about you, let's talk about me!"

I thought they broke up, anyway.

Sick Sad World

Two scary things, not exactly related, but tied by a thread. OK, a hair, or a lack thereof.

First example, a radio ad: Two women with radio ad voices chat enthusiastically about what they want for Christmas. Woman Number One looks at Woman Number Two's list and sees only one item: Alase gift certificates. Here's the kicker. Woman Number One thinks this is a great idea. As a matter of fact, Alase has a web site where you can set up a gift registry to let the men in your life know what body parts you want the hair permanently removed from, with lasers. You know, in case they don't ask.

I'm not opposed to hair removal, don't get me wrong; I am opposed to crassness.

Second example, an infomercial: The AbLounger, which I think I've mocked before, claims to, um, I don't know. Something called "The Advanced Jacknife," and I don't exactly know what that is. Anyway, as per usual, there's a generic big-haired girl hostess in a track suit, and there's the has-been celebrity pitchman. In this case, it was Peter Brady Pushing Fifty. I watched in horror for about three minutes as Aging Peter Brady strapped himself to the AbLounger to demonstrate its greatness. In doing so, he reached his arms over his head, thus displaying rather hairy armpits.

Now, that's perfectly normal. I wouldn't ordinarily be offended by armpit hair, except that I really don't want to look at it so early in the morning when what I really wanted was the Weather Channel. But wait, there's more! Peter Brady's armpit hair looked like it had been shaped into a square, and then moussed.

You can't tell me that's not messed up.

Once again: you be the judge

So, I went on a Costco run today to get two pounds of coffee, a quart of strawberry preserve, and other necessities of life, and I spotted this in the wine section. It was sitting right next to the cases of Dom Perignon, oddly enough.

Is it just me, or does this particular pinot grigio look like hair spray? Even the name, VOGA, doesn't give any clues. I guess that sounds like a wine, or a hair care product, or an Italian motorcycle, or a New Age quasi-religion. Upon closer examination, I decided that it wasn't going to help my hair, and since I'm not crazy about white wines, I left it at Costco, but it still freaked me out.