Eddie Albert died! I don’t know if it is possible for me to ever enjoy a TV show as much as I enjoy Green Acres. Perhaps you enjoy it too. If not, I don’t ever wish to speak with you again. Get bent.
Classic theme song (with pictures!)
French version (pictures again!)
Punk version
Rap version
It’s get-up-and-go Monday, and that means I got out of bed well before noon. I don’t like it any more than you men, but it’s how science and the Lord need me to be. I have already done distasteful things like send invoices and print labels and finish the leftover wine in a glass that was on the coffee table. That last one was not as bad as I thought it would be. I think it was Gewurztraminer.
Later, I turned on the TV, and it started on the surgery channel. Instead of operations, they were showing something called “The Baby Human.” That program featured researchers showing babies clown masks. Guess what? The babies cried, because CLOWNS ARE FUCKING SCARY. Where can I get an Obvious Grant? So far, my preliminary findings include the fact that traffic can be stressful. I confirmed this between 1 and 3 pm. Also, people dislike closing doors on their fingers. At least I do.
And damn, $4 coffees and damn. I get up to all kinds.
Going to hell, going to hell.
Say “I love you” often
You know, I had originally written something about Pizza Night and how totally great it is, but upon subtle reflection, Pizza Night is no People Being Beheaded on TV. When Rednecks Explode on FOX is close.
I am making my contribution to John Kerry’s campaign right now. It’s only fitting I kick an entire unemployment check his way.
-xxoo
Oh, No one needs a re-cap on how lame it was that Bill Murray didn’t win, or how much Annie Lennox resembles a papery Nosferatu. Never mind that orange effigy passing itself off as Charlize. I am primarily disappointed that there was no Nipple Spill.
At my house there was couture, pink champagne, and a small army of hecklers.
P.S. Did you see that Hansel??? He is so Hott right now.
-xo
[Co-clam’s note, since I did not want to push down that loverly shot of the true Oscar: my term for Annie Lennox was ‘gratitude leafblower.’ And Marcia Gay Harden neatly supplanted Catherine Zeta Jones as this year’s Official Flotation Device. Peter Jackson, oh jeez. He needs to be Queer Eyed, stat! That is all – CS]
I am still in my jammies, drinking cold coffee. It’s the little things. Last night I made “asian-style pasta.” You know, because peanut sauce is such a staple of Chinese and Japanese cuisine. Does Martha Stewart really need a charge of racism at this point? It was wicked good though.
Here’s how to make the sauce: combine equal parts peanut butter, honey, lite soy sauce, and rice vinegar, about 3 tbsps each works well. Add a few cloves of minced garlic, and 2 tbsps minced ginger. Whisk! Aggressively! You may alter the proportions to taste. I personally went a little lighter on the vinegar and added a smidge more honey.
This goes well with soba noodles (Martha said to use pappardelle, ew), steamed veggies (to serve 4: 1 eggplant, 2 red peppers, 2 big handfuls of snow pea pods), and your choice of sauteed chicken strips or firm tofu cubes (my addition, Martha was feeling leaner).
Ah, Vomitola. You never know what you’re going to get. As a palate cleanser, I’ve just been told there is a midget insta-marriage show on Fox. Er, a little people reality marriage show.
-xxoo
Now I bring you garish tidings of the Valentine’s Day candy retailing season. Vomitola loves you.
In other news, the Golden Globes were on last night! I think some people won some stuff. I was too busy eating my weight in cheese fries at the Outback, like a good American. Or as Mr. H said, “a good Australian.” Lambchop obviously didn’t catch the awards fever either, she was watching Das Boot and brandishing a trident. In the two seconds that I did see, Sofia Coppola accepted an award wearing flat shoes. Kudos.
I hope Nicole Kidman did not win anything for that wretched Cold Mountain. Mr. H has taken to mortifying me in public by repeating that clip where she says “I marry you, I marry you, I marry you,” replete with bad falsetto southern accent. He doesn’t understand why they keep showing that particular clip.
His take: “Is this movie about a retarded hot chick? Jude Law is thinking ‘This hot chick is retarded! I am going to score!'”
I guess it’s no more annoying than when the DeBeers ads are on around the holidays and he feels the need to hoot “I LOVE THIS WOMAN!” in parking lots.
-xxoo
This is just to say…I would like to be done coughing, I would like it if my clothes were not housed in trash bags on the floor, and I am a big fan of the serial comma. David rightly spits upon the AP.
Pop Culture round up: certain readers found The Story of Nicholas inappropriate fodder for MLK day. No offense was intended to Dr. King’s legacy, and I thought the story spoke for itself. I guess just wait until February; we’ll surely have a treatise on how all Black people look alike for Black History Month.
John Kerry, huh. I love it when the media gets things all wrong.
American Idol is starting again. Paula Abdul’s eyes seem to be migrating to opposite sides of her face. The effect made me yell out “Oh my God, she’s wearing a Halle Berry mask!”
The Apprentice is a good show if you’ve ever worked with marketing goons who are into “teambuilding.” I believe it is on Wednesday nights. I totally fire people the same way as Donald Trump. “This has been a really hard decision…no it hasn’t, you’re fired!”
-xxoo
The new year is off to a grand ol’ start. I am working on a laxative addiction! (note to the uninitiated, don’t believe a word of this-ed) Which reminds me of my favorite Disease-movie-of-the-week, “Kate’s Secret”. It was a riveting drama about bulimia starring Meredith Baxter Burney. She wolfs down a pound of cookies and a quart of milk in aisle six, and then yodels them behind the dumpster. She also consumes several pizzas and whoppers in a drive-by at several drive-thrus. Monday night CBS watching told me everything I need to know. About Everything.
Let it be straight that Lambchop=HEATHER. I could go by my given name, I suppose, but I have become so fond of the L’s that are stitched to my underwear, and the darling sequined bag that Licketysplit gave me for my birthday.
So, just to review, I, Lambchop, am the one who paints and huffs scotch guard and lives in Allston (formerly Berlin) and plans to revive the ascot. And some other stuff. Licketysplit is the married one in the Lowell Loft who is obsessed with shoes and lost causes and intends to make her living hawking tampons shaped like mice. Or something. We BOTH like shiny things.
-xo
We have a family of spiders living in some ambiguous part of the car. Sometimes they crawl out from behind a visor or across the dashboard. Then we freak out and wave our hands in the air, while yelling “Ahhhh! Ahhh Ahhh!” This does make driving more difficult. Finally, the non-driver scrounges up a piece of paper or an atlas page from a less popular state (like Alabama or Arkansas) and squooshes the brute. This is no small undertaking because these are big fleshy gangly white spiders. They bear a passing resemblance to Dr. Phil.
Today I was wondering how cold it has to get before they die of exposure. I said “I’m going to ask a spiderologist.” Mr. H said “I’M BRIAN FELLOWS.”
So I turned to my old friend the internet. It seems that the organs of spiders just swim around in hemolymph, which is their sorry excuse for blood. They survive during the winter by burrowing for warmth and lowering their metabolic rate. That’s what I’m doing right now. Except my strategy involves a bottle of wine and a plate of pasta and a duvet rather than leaf mold.
We had one more parasitic encounter before we even made it into the house. The downstairs neighbors waylaid us and asked us to look at their computah because they took it to Best Buy after they got it from their brotha, and they put the bits and the bytes in it, but they can’t get on the internet because Comcast says they don’t have enough bits, but they left them a CD, and then they had to call Microsoft, and that cost thuhty dollahs, can you believe it, but they still aren’t on the internet, not the high speed one, and they need a Windows 98 disc because they can’t download the explorer, and their friend Sheryl had a look, and she is so good with computahs, but she couldn’t figure it out eitha, and could we just take a look?
Of course someone at work already basically asked me that same question today, so I was able to answer in no uncertain terms “Find where it says ‘Attachment’ in the menu bar of your email program, then choose ‘Save.'”
Here’s some pictures of spider bites. There are more vile pictures in the lower left nav if you are so inclined.
-xxoo
Recent times have proved most interesting for Lambchop and I. She has been diligently serving a term as an office girl at an Attorney’s firm. In addition to carefullee polishing the handle of the big front door, she regales me with tales of the executive lunchroom and hilarious doings with spreadsheets. She has even stopped screeching “WHAT do you want?” when she answers the phone, instead favoring the dulcet tones of a 1950’s sweater girl. But don’t ask her for legal advice at parties, unless you are a doctor, prepared to examine portions of her anatomy in exchange. Quid pro quo.
Me, I had a birthday. This seems to have altered my previously comfortable role in the MTV favored demographic. All of a sudden I am receiving horrendous tacky catalogs in the mail, things like Orvis, Smith & Hawken, Marshall Fields, etc. If I should ever receive Lillian Vernon, or perhaps Coldwater Creek or J. Jill, I believe that means I am officially a crone. Oh Jesus, I’m only 25. I’m too young to own a photo lazy susan, to wear caftans, those felt clogs!
A photo of some belated birthday festivities, which happened to coincide with Gay Night, hence Kyan’s glowing visage. The cupcakes were purple with pastel stars sprinkled daintily atop. I am not sure why Lambchop is blowing them out, since it’s ostensibly MY birthday; I must have been too busy mincing around demonstrating the hubris of a neophyte chef.
But I did learn one cruel lesson: when Martha says unsalted butter, she really means it. The cupcakes were all hat, no cattle, so to speak.
-xxoo