Distracted
The milliner came home last night, talking about
puggles. Now, I'm all for the pug part of the equation; beagles? not so much.
After a small search, I come across
this page. I swear, I've clicked every link, bookmarking all the ones I want. Now, I know that dogs and owners are supposed to eventually look alike, but why am I oddly attracted to mastiffs?
Hey, this show doesn't suck
A couple months back, I noticed a certain trend with the new crop of television shows: namely, that most of the cast of the old
Buffy series had found employment: Nicholas Brendon (Xander) was cast on
Kitchen Confidential (it tanked), David Boney-Ass got his own show ( I can't believe anyone thought it a good idea to give him more screen time, but that's just me.), which aired, what?, twice, Charisma Carpenter is on
Veronica Mars, yada yada.
But! What I was really looking forward to was
How I Met Your Mother if only because
Alyson Hannigan co-stars. Hey, I've made no bones regarding my
feelings about redheads. I knew that Neil Patrick Harris (I mean, Doogie Howser?) was in the show as well, which initially gave it the "ick" factor, but you know what? He's actually really good in it.
I don't know how long this show is going to last, but if you have a chance, check it out.
Annoying lyric playing in my head
"Quand je viens, entre tes reins."
Only six words, playing over and over and over. Gawd, I despise Serge Gainsbourg.
And yes, I know the song (Je t'aime moi non plus) is about anal sex.
Oooo, pwezences!
It's that time of year again, time for
Secret Santa. Hey, it's better than getting a bar of Toblerone for the co-worker you can't stand.
Well, you sort of had it coming, didn't you?
I've been reading up on the Sony BMG rootkit debacle, and like most have gone over my wishlist and removed any of their albums that I intended to buy. So good-bye Cyndi Lauper.
However, a certain part of me doesn't feel too bad for folks who did get this malware on their system. I mean, that's what you get for buying Celine Dion, right?
Damned lepidoptera
I remember reading an article by David Quammen, which appeared in
Outside (years before it became the yuppified rag that it now is), that suggested that butterflies were a worthless species on a par with supermodels: nice to look at, but not really contributing anything to the natural order. Except, that is, for one species that was known to drink the tears of its sleeping victims. Like supermodels, I guess.
The story came back to me yesterday when, getting dressed for work, I went to pull on a sweater that the milliner had bought for me last year. Pulling it over my head, I caught a flash of light through the fabric. Take a closer look at the sweater and, WTF!, there's this huge hole in the back. What a pisser!
Some larva ate well this summer, that's all I know. Guess I'm going to a lumberyard this weekend to pick up some cedar, but that's really shutting the barn door now, isn't it?
One giant goose egg
Woke up yesterday after sleeping (actually, passing out) on the couch, wearing nothing but underwear and socks. White socks. (I have no idea.) My eyes were dried from having not removed my contacts, and my mouth tasted like, well, let's not go there, okay? Crawled off to bed for a couple hours, and woke up realising that I should probably do pennance to make it up to the milliner
So, got to work and made crèpes for breakfast. S cooked up some apple and cinnamon to act as a filler, and we sat down to breakfast. What she neglected to tell me was that she added apple cider to the mix. Mmmm, more alcohol, just what I need.
She went to the office yesterday afternoon, leaving me to wallow in my nausea and self-pity. Which I did.
We had discussed what to make for dinner, and I suggested making ravioli, and the milliner suggested pumpkin ravioli. Went on the web, found a recipe. Later in the afternoon, I succeeded in dragging myself out of the apartment, and went up to Milano's. Gawd, I love that place. Just the smells, all that lovely looking food, etc. Needed eggs for making the pasta, and also for the
cookies that I had promised to make later. So, just hanging around Milano's, thinking that, "Wow, Italians are such a great ethnic group!" (Oh, relax, I'm kidding!), enjoying being back at the store, where I hadn't been since
95, and pick up whatever ingredients I needed. It took everything not to simply buy a 5-kilo block of parmesan.
Get back home, cut up and roast a pumpkin. Mix the dough, and press out some sheets to make the ravioli. Mash up the pumpkin, add some ricotta and nutmeg, and
start preparing the ravioli. Cut out the squares, plop the in the boil, topped with sauce, pepper, parmesan, and
voilà.
It was getting late when we finished eating, but I still wanted to make the cookies. Start preparing the flour, and go to make the sponge. Take out the eggs that I had bought from Milano's, and notice some strange looking hens on the front cover. Take a second look at the writing, and see the following: "Oeufs frais de
cane." No idea what that is. But the birds, having taken a longer look, make me thing of, well, geese. Or ducks. Well, at least it's organic, so what the hell. Take out an egg, and realise that, gosh, these are bigger than usual eggs. Try to crack it, and it
resists. Oh shit, I'm having flashbacks to some detours from the
Amazing Race (Seasons 1 & 5: I'm such a nerd) when they had to cook and eat an entire ostrich egg. Let me tell you, there's a lot of egg in a duck egg. And it doesn't blend in too well with dough. And the cookies didn't come out as well. I now have 5 organic duck eggs in the fridge. And they scare me.
What the hell, I'm gonna try one on a crèpe tomorrow.
We're gonna have rethink this whole relationship thingy
At the gym last night, the milliner and I are sitting back, taking a break. At one point, she tells me, "So, my flight leaves Tuesday, and I get back on Saturday night, late." Um, "where are you going again? San Francisco, right?" (I am
so attentive to her life.)
We begin discussing when she'll be gone, when I should go to the airport to pick her up, etc. etc. "So I guess," I remind her, "that you'll be spending the weekend doing the groceries and cooking my meals for the week, right? What with you being gone all that time? You know, you being the submissive lady of the house?
Ouch!!"
Instead of whacking me a second time, she offers up, "But honey. I would never think of making all your meals. I wouldn't want to insult your culinary skills."
Curses, foiled again.
