From a survey of 574 GOP primary voters nationwide:
H/T, First Draft.
7.20.2011
Posted Without Comment*
*Because I think you probably know how I feel about this.
From a survey of 574 GOP primary voters nationwide:
H/T, First Draft.
From a survey of 574 GOP primary voters nationwide:
H/T, First Draft.
7.19.2011
Strange Moments in Weight Loss History
As of today, I have now lost enough weight* that my office chair no longer slides under my desk without the arm rests banging into the desk. Definitely a weird and new experience to have to adjust the arm rests on your chair.
*That's 17 pounds, for those of you playing at home.
*That's 17 pounds, for those of you playing at home.
7.14.2011
The Equivalent of Eating What?
Wow. This is the fine quality programming that Fox has come up with to replace Glen Beck? And, as has been asked on the internets, why is it equivalent to eating a live raccoon? WTF is that about? Because our first lady is African American and therefore must eat live critters? So first your argument is that she would eat a live raccoon and then your argument is that she's elitist because she got her hamburger from some fancy-shmancy place with hand-blended shakes rather than McDonald's? And then you take offense to the fact that oh my God, the First Lady's platform is trying to reduce childhood obesity and she had the gall to eat a cheeseburger?
6.16.2011
End of an Era
Well, it's official. As of June 28th (which is also my birthday), my husband will no longer be a restaurant manager and I will no longer be a restaurant widow. I find this news both exciting and terrifying.
Exciting because for the first time in our almost 17 years together, my husband will have a somewhat normal 9 to 5 job and weekends off. Which means that we might can do things together like normal couples. Like go out of town for a 3-day weekend. Or have dinner together at night. Or, I don't know, him stay home on a Thursday night while I go out or something.
Terrifying because for the first time in our almost 17 years together, my husband will have a somewhat normal 9 to 5 job and weekends off. Which means that we'll be spending lots of time together. And that he'll spend more time complaining about my choice in television shows (goodbye, Game of Thrones; hello, Antiques Roadshow). Also terrifying because of the quite substantial paycut he's agreed to until the commissions start coming in.
Terrifying in general. And exciting. Who's up for drinks on
Thursdays?*
*You may have to buy.
Exciting because for the first time in our almost 17 years together, my husband will have a somewhat normal 9 to 5 job and weekends off. Which means that we might can do things together like normal couples. Like go out of town for a 3-day weekend. Or have dinner together at night. Or, I don't know, him stay home on a Thursday night while I go out or something.
Terrifying because for the first time in our almost 17 years together, my husband will have a somewhat normal 9 to 5 job and weekends off. Which means that we'll be spending lots of time together. And that he'll spend more time complaining about my choice in television shows (goodbye, Game of Thrones; hello, Antiques Roadshow). Also terrifying because of the quite substantial paycut he's agreed to until the commissions start coming in.
Terrifying in general. And exciting. Who's up for drinks on
Thursdays?*
*You may have to buy.
6.10.2011
Trailer Hell
I can't decide whether this article posted on The Lens today regarding the re-emergence of Katrina FEMA trailers in the areas affected by the recent tornadoes makes me more angry or sad. I hate it that people are having to resort to living in those death-traps again, and it brings back unpleasant memories of 2006.
My sister-in-law and her two sons lived in a FEMA trailer for about 18 months after Katrina, while they waited for the insurance settlement on their totaled home to finally come through. Her boys had never had any health problems before, but once they moved into the trailer, they were each taken to the hospital at least 5 or 6 times with bloody noses, coughs, and bronchitis. You can't tell me those problems weren't caused by formaldehyde. Fortunately, the've been fine since they moved out of the trailer.
And now, a whole new set of people is getting ready to experience the joys of living in a tin can. God forbid we give them some decent, safe temporary housing.
6.09.2011
The D-Word
So, I've officially been on a diet for 30 days now. Coca-cola (aka, nectar of the gods), in all of its pure, sugary deliciousness, has not crossed my lips since April, except in its highly inferior diet form. (And no, Coca-cola Zero does not taste like real coke, no matter what any of you say.)
I've learned to live within my Weight Watchers points and, to some extent, I've learned to live with being constantly hungry. I've never really been about the food anyway--don't get me wrong, I love good food. I love potatoes. And red meat. And good seafood. A medium-rare filet mignon? Nom, nom, nom. But I've never really cared about desserts or snacking. Give me lunch, dinner, and a few drinks and I'm good. I'm having to relearn how to live, as Oprah-ish as that sounds. When I have a stressful day at work now, I don't immediately go for beer or wine (although I really, really want to). I've learned to let alcohol go during the week, for the most part. I won't lie--I know exactly how many points there are in one can of Miller Lite or one glass of red wine. And there have been a couple of nights (including tonight) where I've foregone dinner so I can have some beer instead.
I've learned to live within my Weight Watchers points and, to some extent, I've learned to live with being constantly hungry. I've never really been about the food anyway--don't get me wrong, I love good food. I love potatoes. And red meat. And good seafood. A medium-rare filet mignon? Nom, nom, nom. But I've never really cared about desserts or snacking. Give me lunch, dinner, and a few drinks and I'm good. I'm having to relearn how to live, as Oprah-ish as that sounds. When I have a stressful day at work now, I don't immediately go for beer or wine (although I really, really want to). I've learned to let alcohol go during the week, for the most part. I won't lie--I know exactly how many points there are in one can of Miller Lite or one glass of red wine. And there have been a couple of nights (including tonight) where I've foregone dinner so I can have some beer instead.
6.08.2011
Left Behind
I called my friend Dorothy tonight, who just had her second child about two months ago. We hadn't spoken since Mardi Gras when she was last in New Orleans, hugely pregnant and ready to get the whole damn thing over with.
We've played phone tag for the past couple of months and I haven't tried too hard to follow up, to be quite honest. I've told myself that I've stayed away and haven't tried to track her down because I can only imagine how busy she is, mothering both a newborn and a two-year-old. And that's the truth. But there has been a deeper truth to it, an uglier truth, to be quite honest, in that I've been somewhat reticent to call her for fear of finding that my old friend has changed and moved on into a world I will most likely never inhabit. And she has moved on into the world of two children, but I'm greatly relieved to find that our rapport seems unchanged.
It's stupid, I know, but a part of me looks at it as a loss. A friend has moved on to something I probably won't experience, and my mind and heart prepare for the distance that comes from it. Like when I was still single and childless and all of my friends were getting married and having babies. They had moved on into the world of motherhood while I was left behind. They knew things I didn't, had feelings I had never felt. And then we all joined this club together, the one where you know what two-year-olds are really like (and the one where, once you have a three-year-old, you long to have the two-year-old back).
We've played phone tag for the past couple of months and I haven't tried too hard to follow up, to be quite honest. I've told myself that I've stayed away and haven't tried to track her down because I can only imagine how busy she is, mothering both a newborn and a two-year-old. And that's the truth. But there has been a deeper truth to it, an uglier truth, to be quite honest, in that I've been somewhat reticent to call her for fear of finding that my old friend has changed and moved on into a world I will most likely never inhabit. And she has moved on into the world of two children, but I'm greatly relieved to find that our rapport seems unchanged.
It's stupid, I know, but a part of me looks at it as a loss. A friend has moved on to something I probably won't experience, and my mind and heart prepare for the distance that comes from it. Like when I was still single and childless and all of my friends were getting married and having babies. They had moved on into the world of motherhood while I was left behind. They knew things I didn't, had feelings I had never felt. And then we all joined this club together, the one where you know what two-year-olds are really like (and the one where, once you have a three-year-old, you long to have the two-year-old back).
4.14.2011
Keeping Up With the Joneses
This article from the Financial Times has apparently been around for a few months, but I just came across it recently. Do I even need to detail how ridiculous I find it to be, an impassioned plea that we should see how difficult a fictional family of four named the Joneses have it because they only make $250K a year?
Okay, fine—I’ll even agree that judging by today’s standards, the Joneses are not technically rich. But I think they can probably afford to pay their fair share of taxes without whining about how hard their life is. I think, judging by some of their expenses, they can even afford to pay an increase in taxes, which is the whole point of this stupid article--a false argument against increased taxes for the Joneses, because they are just barely getting by.
Just barely getting by, mind you, even though they live “reasonably well—but not extravagantly—in a three- or four-bedroom home valued around $750,000.” The author would also like you to know that the Joneses don’t take lavish vacations, that they don’t belong to a country club, and they don’t own a second home. They don’t even get to grocery shop at high-end markets, the poor dears, but I guess are stuck shopping at Costco or something. As the author points out, “even if they’re in the top 5 percent of earners,” they are NOT wealthy.
Okay, fine—I’ll even agree that judging by today’s standards, the Joneses are not technically rich. But I think they can probably afford to pay their fair share of taxes without whining about how hard their life is. I think, judging by some of their expenses, they can even afford to pay an increase in taxes, which is the whole point of this stupid article--a false argument against increased taxes for the Joneses, because they are just barely getting by.
Just barely getting by, mind you, even though they live “reasonably well—but not extravagantly—in a three- or four-bedroom home valued around $750,000.” The author would also like you to know that the Joneses don’t take lavish vacations, that they don’t belong to a country club, and they don’t own a second home. They don’t even get to grocery shop at high-end markets, the poor dears, but I guess are stuck shopping at Costco or something. As the author points out, “even if they’re in the top 5 percent of earners,” they are NOT wealthy.
4.11.2011
4.10.2011
One of the Many Reasons Why I Don't Eat at Applebee's
Does it make me a bad person that I found this story mildly amusing, considering that the kid was okay and everything?
Applebee's sorry after tot served booze in sippy cup
The only thing I'm really confused about is how anyone could mistake pre-made margaritas for apple juice, even if the container was mislabelled as such. I mean, last time I checked, apple juice and margaritas look (and smell) nothing alike
Applebee's sorry after tot served booze in sippy cup
The only thing I'm really confused about is how anyone could mistake pre-made margaritas for apple juice, even if the container was mislabelled as such. I mean, last time I checked, apple juice and margaritas look (and smell) nothing alike
4.07.2011
04.07.02
Dear K:
Happy ninth anniversary. It's not one of the big, monumental number anniversaries, and it falls on a Thursday, so there will be no celebration, as you're working while I'm home with Emmeline. But still, it's our anniversary, and I love you.
I don't know about you, but it's sometimes very hard for me to believe that we've been together for over 16 years now. Oftentimes, it doesn't seem like we're old enough to have been together that long. (I try not to think about the fact that I'm almost 42, and usually can, except for when I count the number of years we've been together.) I think we both know that we've had our challenges in the past and will continue to have them in the future. But at the same time, at the end of the day, I know we've both shown our commitment to this relationship and to each other, and I take a lot of comfort in that.
Happy ninth anniversary. It's not one of the big, monumental number anniversaries, and it falls on a Thursday, so there will be no celebration, as you're working while I'm home with Emmeline. But still, it's our anniversary, and I love you.
I don't know about you, but it's sometimes very hard for me to believe that we've been together for over 16 years now. Oftentimes, it doesn't seem like we're old enough to have been together that long. (I try not to think about the fact that I'm almost 42, and usually can, except for when I count the number of years we've been together.) I think we both know that we've had our challenges in the past and will continue to have them in the future. But at the same time, at the end of the day, I know we've both shown our commitment to this relationship and to each other, and I take a lot of comfort in that.
4.03.2011
A Letter to My Daughter, 04.11
Dear Emmeline:
Okay, six-year-old, this is it. You're officially not a baby anymore at all. Except for when you still are. Except for the words that you still mix up on a consistent basis, which never cease to crack me up. "Sanimitizer" for sanitizer. "Coffee" for copy. (As in, "Mommy, don't coffee my paper!") "Andylance" for ambulance. (I like to think that you named that one after me.)
You're all grown up. Except for when you try your hardest not to suck your thumb but can't quite succeed. The dentist told you that if you stopped sucking your thumb right now, you probably won't need braces. So you're trying. Really hard. But it's still difficult for you. I keep telling you stories about how I sucked my thumb until I was seven and then had to wear braces for almost five years. I tell you in great detail about braces, trying to scare the hell out of you--but in a good way. (I don't tell you this part, because I don't want to scare the hell out of you, but I'll never forget the thing they called "the whacker," which the orthodontist used to put metal bands all the way around my teeth. It felt about as good as it sounds. You're fortunate in that now they just glue the braces to the front of your teeth. Orthodontia has, apparently, come a long way in the last 30 years.)
You're almost grown up. I taught you how to tie your shoes recently (which, I have to add, was a challenge, since I'm left-handed and you're not), and you've been practicing diligently ever since.
Okay, six-year-old, this is it. You're officially not a baby anymore at all. Except for when you still are. Except for the words that you still mix up on a consistent basis, which never cease to crack me up. "Sanimitizer" for sanitizer. "Coffee" for copy. (As in, "Mommy, don't coffee my paper!") "Andylance" for ambulance. (I like to think that you named that one after me.)
You're all grown up. Except for when you try your hardest not to suck your thumb but can't quite succeed. The dentist told you that if you stopped sucking your thumb right now, you probably won't need braces. So you're trying. Really hard. But it's still difficult for you. I keep telling you stories about how I sucked my thumb until I was seven and then had to wear braces for almost five years. I tell you in great detail about braces, trying to scare the hell out of you--but in a good way. (I don't tell you this part, because I don't want to scare the hell out of you, but I'll never forget the thing they called "the whacker," which the orthodontist used to put metal bands all the way around my teeth. It felt about as good as it sounds. You're fortunate in that now they just glue the braces to the front of your teeth. Orthodontia has, apparently, come a long way in the last 30 years.)
You're almost grown up. I taught you how to tie your shoes recently (which, I have to add, was a challenge, since I'm left-handed and you're not), and you've been practicing diligently ever since.
Rolling in the Deep
Every once in awhile, a song comes along that I just fall in love with immediately and have to listen to over and over again. Last time it happened was about four years ago, when "Hate Me" by Blue October came out. It was right around the time that we were making preparations to move back into our house, after we rebuilt after Katrina. I listened to that song over and over again while I packed, blasting it from the headphones of my i-pod until I knew every word of it by heart.
My latest obsession is "Rolling in the Deep" by Adele. Good God, what a voice that girl has on her. I don't know all of the words yet, but I'm working on it. And yes, all of the songs that I latch onto like this have to do with broken hearts, self loathing, pain, etc. Go figure.
There's a fire starting in my heart,
reaching a fever pitch and it's bringing me out the dark.
Finally, I can see you crystal clear.
Go ahead and sell me out and I'll lay your shit bare.
See how I'll leave with every piece of you.
Don't underestimate the things that I will do.
There's a fire starting in my heart,
reaching a fever pitch and it's bringing me out the dark.
The scars of your love remind me of us.
They keep me thinking that we almost had it all.
The scars of your love, they leave me breathless.
I can't help feeling we could have had it all, rolling in the deep.
You had my heart inside of your hands, and you played it to the beat.
Baby, I have no story to be told.
But I've heard one on you and I'm gonna make your head burn.
Think of me in the depths of your despair.
Make a home down there, as mine sure won't be shared.
The scars of your love remind me of us.
They keep me thinking that we almost had it all.
The scars of your love, they leave me breathless.
I can't help feeling we could have had it all, rolling in the deep.
You had my heart inside of your hands and you played it to the beat.
Could have had it all, rolling in the deep.
You had my heart inside of your hands, but you played it with a beating.
Throw your soul through every open door.
Count your blessings to find what you look for.
Turn my sorrow into treasured gold.
You'll pay me back in kind and reap just what you've sown.
We could have had it all, rolling in the deep.
You had my heart inside of your hands and you played it to the beat.
My latest obsession is "Rolling in the Deep" by Adele. Good God, what a voice that girl has on her. I don't know all of the words yet, but I'm working on it. And yes, all of the songs that I latch onto like this have to do with broken hearts, self loathing, pain, etc. Go figure.
There's a fire starting in my heart,
reaching a fever pitch and it's bringing me out the dark.
Finally, I can see you crystal clear.
Go ahead and sell me out and I'll lay your shit bare.
See how I'll leave with every piece of you.
Don't underestimate the things that I will do.
There's a fire starting in my heart,
reaching a fever pitch and it's bringing me out the dark.
The scars of your love remind me of us.
They keep me thinking that we almost had it all.
The scars of your love, they leave me breathless.
I can't help feeling we could have had it all, rolling in the deep.
You had my heart inside of your hands, and you played it to the beat.
Baby, I have no story to be told.
But I've heard one on you and I'm gonna make your head burn.
Think of me in the depths of your despair.
Make a home down there, as mine sure won't be shared.
The scars of your love remind me of us.
They keep me thinking that we almost had it all.
The scars of your love, they leave me breathless.
I can't help feeling we could have had it all, rolling in the deep.
You had my heart inside of your hands and you played it to the beat.
Could have had it all, rolling in the deep.
You had my heart inside of your hands, but you played it with a beating.
Throw your soul through every open door.
Count your blessings to find what you look for.
Turn my sorrow into treasured gold.
You'll pay me back in kind and reap just what you've sown.
We could have had it all, rolling in the deep.
You had my heart inside of your hands and you played it to the beat.
3.24.2011
Indian Red
For the first time since moving to New Orleans, I went to "chase Indians" with a group of friends last Saturday night for St. Joseph's Day.There wasn't much chasing involved, as it turned out. We didn't have to do much other than stand around near the corner of Dryades and Third Streets, with tons of other people, and wait for the Indians to come to us.
And come to us, they did. Tribe after tribe, each Big Chief's costume as elaborate and beautiful as the one before it. It's amazing to me that we have people in this city so willing to dedicate as much time, effort, and money as it takes to make one of these gorgeous, awe-inspiring costumes. It was definitely one of those "only in New Orleans" kind of nights. Pretty, pretty.
3.21.2011
Spellcheck
Dear Members of the Press:
Since we've decided to bomb Libya and all, do you think maybe we could all agree on how to spell Khadafi? I swear, in one news program this morning, I saw it spelled at least three different ways. Is it Khadafi or Gaddafi? Or Qaddafi? Moammar or Momar? It's like the whole Osama/Usama thing all over again.
Maybe we could, I don't know, ask him how he'd like his name spelled? Or check his driver's license or something?
I don't recall anyone having this problem with Hitler.
Sincerely, A
Since we've decided to bomb Libya and all, do you think maybe we could all agree on how to spell Khadafi? I swear, in one news program this morning, I saw it spelled at least three different ways. Is it Khadafi or Gaddafi? Or Qaddafi? Moammar or Momar? It's like the whole Osama/Usama thing all over again.
Maybe we could, I don't know, ask him how he'd like his name spelled? Or check his driver's license or something?
I don't recall anyone having this problem with Hitler.
Sincerely, A
3.13.2011
All on a Mardi Gras Day
It's over. Again. Thank God. Every year, I'm so excited about Mardi Gras arriving that I can't stand it. And every year, by Ash Wednesday, I'm incredibly relieved that it's all over. And exhausted. And tired of purple, green, and gold. This year was no exception, and I think I lost even more brain cells this year than usual. I blame it on being middle-aged. (In dog years, I'm 287.) But it might have had something to do with the fact that I went to every single parade, with the exception of Bacchus & Endymion, which just seemed like too much of a good thing (i.e., an insane amount of people fighting over beads and the neutral ground). And I missed one day parade on the first Saturday. But other than that, I was at Every. Single. Parade. And now it's over, and I'm glad. And I will start being ready for more parades in about 9 months....
Highlights of this year's season, I think, included running into some acquaintances in the Quarter who invited us to watch Krewe du Vieux from the balcony of a friend of a friend. No one mentioned that said friend's friend owned 18 cats, all of whom were housed inside of her 300 square-foot apartment and apparently used the entire apartment as one giant litter box. I've just about gotten the smell out of my nose. But watching K du V from a balcony (with lots of fresh air) was definitely a new experience. Not quite the same as watching it from the street, but fun anyway. And then afterwards, cat lady pulled out several bead bags overflowing with old beads, so we had fun chucking those to people on the street. At least, it was fun as long as you didn't put the beads too close to your face while throwing (see cat pee, above). I threw to middle-aged men and women and had great fun ignoring the usual 20-somethings who love to lift up their shirts in between bouts of throwing up in the street.
As usual, by Mardi Gras morning, when I was getting up at 6:30 a.m. to get out to St. Charles Avenue, I was pretty much done and questioning my sanity. But after a couple of milk punches, everything seemed much better. And then the Buzzards came by, and I got to say hello to my husband. And then Rex rolled by, and I caught one of the stuffed masked captain throws they gave out this year, and Emmeline was thrilled. And then Kenny got back from marching with the Buzzards and we watched the noisy, excessive, but-the-kids-absolutely-love-them truck parades. And then, on the way to our friends' house for dinner, we ran into some Mardi Gras Indians. And it was, as usual, a perfect Mardi Gras day.
3.12.2011
Bieber Fever
My favorite costumed group from Mardi Gras needs no explanation. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Bieber patrol.
3.04.2011
03.04.11
It's official. Emmeline is no longer--in any way, shape, or form--a baby. She is a "big girl" of six years old. And has already begun informing me of all of the things she can do now that she's six, repeatedly.And because I endured 41 weeks of being pregnant during Mardi Gras 2005, she got to reap the rewards this year by having a birthday during Mardi Gras weekend. (The big year will be 2014, when she turns nine on Mardi Gras day.)I'm definitely not complaining, as this made party planning this year a cinch. No horrors of the hidden costs involved in hosting a birthday party at City Park. (Last year, I forgot about the part where we'd have to buy ride bands for the parents, too, as their children weren't old enough to ride anything by themselves. Shudder.) Nope. This year, our party preparation list was considerably shorter. Birthday cake? Check. Beverages, both adult and non-adult? Check. Camera? Check. Parade? Check, check, check.
Not surprisingly, not many of her friends came. I'm guessing it had something to do with the fact that a) the forecast started calling for rain on that day about a week beforehand; b) due to that forecast, Iris and Tucks ended up shuffling around and moving up their parade times; c) it did rain; and d) you couldn't really call it a rain--more of a torrential downpour.
The good news was that the rain held off until about 30 minutes before Iris rolled by us, and it didn't get really, really bad until about 15 minutes before the end of the parade. And then it rained so hard that all of us stood around in it, laughing at how wet we were, and trying to salvage what was left of the cake. And Emmeline had the time of her life.
All in all, it was a birthday to remember. Happy Birthday, pretty girl.
3.01.2011
Mardi Gras Through the Years
Okay, I need my daughter to stop growing now. She'll be six on Friday and is very excited that the City is throwing parades in her honor.
2.01.2011
Of Mice and Men
Since becoming a homeowner, I've become much more intimately acquainted with various household tasks than I ever would've wanted to. For example, five years ago, I would have willingly wagered with you that I would go to my grave without ever having snaked out a drain line. Now, I'm such a pro that I can give other people pointers on how to do it.
Drain snaking? Check. Ice maker fixing? Check. Washing machine hose cleaning, vermin relocation and extermination, dishwasher de-hard water scaling, check, check, check.
But every once in awhile, I make Kenny do something. And always with mixed results. Which is why, I think, we now have the current mouse we have for our computer. I have yet to figure out why anyone might need to be able to control the mouse for their computer while standing six feet away. But if you ever do, then just send my husband to Office Depot.
On the plus side, once I get a computer screen that's 60 inches wide, I'll be able to surf the net in the dining room and cook dinner in the kitchen at the same time.
Drain snaking? Check. Ice maker fixing? Check. Washing machine hose cleaning, vermin relocation and extermination, dishwasher de-hard water scaling, check, check, check.
But every once in awhile, I make Kenny do something. And always with mixed results. Which is why, I think, we now have the current mouse we have for our computer. I have yet to figure out why anyone might need to be able to control the mouse for their computer while standing six feet away. But if you ever do, then just send my husband to Office Depot.
On the plus side, once I get a computer screen that's 60 inches wide, I'll be able to surf the net in the dining room and cook dinner in the kitchen at the same time.
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