up and at ‘em

It’s 5-something or other in the morning. Teddy and I are wide awake.

Yup. It must be summer.

Today is a big day in the hall of justice: The transferring of the craft-ay bin to my new shelves.

The shelves are a bit of a running joke – I bought them in, like, January? Maybe even in 2005? Who knows. For months various friends asked if I had plans to assemble the cardboard-encased beast lurking in the corner of my apartment. And for months I kind of shrugged and said “yeah, I’ll get around to it.”

My charming nonchalance (charming, I tell you!!) drove the men in my life nuts, and they organized a campaign of pestering until I relented and let one of them put it together for me. My thanks to Tony, the superdog and I greatly appreciate it!

My books – and oh my God can we talk about my books for a sec? Because the collection is hilarious, it just screams “BEDAZZLED LIBERAL”. My books are all organized now, safe and sound behind glass doors so le dog can’t nibble on them, so now it’s time to turn my attention to my crafting supplies.

I may hot glue gun myself to my ceiling from all this excitement!

a memorial day to remember

A number of us were tethered to the city this weekend – various home repairs needed to be done, there were parents at a Cape house to be avoided, business trips to pack for, and new arrivals who require a bit of nest feathering.

Because we are enterprising young folk we created our own weekend getaway on Katie’s roof.

It didn’t suck.

We made friends with our deck neighbors across the way, and played a wee game of rooftop jumping red rover, sending Sam away in exchange for Charles and Kass.


It turns out that Charles is the manager at one of our favorite pricey North End restaurants. Sam, well… see for yourself:


I think it’s fair to say that the trade was in our favor. Katie’s roof: 1, Charles’s roof: 0.

It was hothothot on that tar roof, so we took turns seeking shade under Katie’s sun hats.








See all the photos from our Memorial Day rooftop cookout.

back off my tiffany bag, yo!

This is my new wallpaper, it’s a photo of Olivia taken on Mother’s Day. It makes me snicker every time I peek at it, I mean, look at that face! She’s not letting ANYONE but Mama near that bag.


It’s the weirdest thing in the world to me, but I miss that kid. I mean, she’s just an infant, but it makes me itch when I think too much about not having seen her for 2 months. Uncle Unnamed Dog and I are heading down to Philly at the end of June for a visit, and I’m counting the days.

On an unrelated note, I have terrible writer’s block.

fiddle dee dee

I stopped in to see my greengrocer the other day, in search of some celery to sate my unnatural appetite for the stuff. It’s not normal, this love of celery. Celery and cucumbers, I could eat them all day long.

While I was there I spied with my little eye a bin filled with fiddleheads*, hurrah! Fiddleheads are only available for, like, 6 weeks in the late spring, so when they arrive it’s imperative to eat them as often as possible, much like the elusive Cadbury Creme Egg during the Lenten season or Eggnog at Christmas.

Now, I’m one of those weird people who loves green vegetables, and it’s not something I’ve come to late in life – I’ve always been good with veggies. I won’t touch an egg, but give me a plate of escarole and I’m a happy, happy supergoddess indeed.

Recently I’ve been cooking up a lot of broccoli rabe, which as you can imagine, is plenty easy to find in this neighborhood. The past couple of times I’ve purchased my rabe I’ve eyed the collard greens, which are always lurking nearby. Years ago, while working at Sports Illustrated, one of the girls and I were chatting about Thanksgiving plans when she mentioned that she was making collard greens for her big feast. I gasped and panted and generally made such a big fuss that the following week she brought me in a foil to-go container filled with homemade greens stewed in fatback. Pig in shit would be the proper descriptor for me on that blessed day.

Last night I prepared my fiddleheads the way Mama Ro makes them, which, combined with several impassioned fiddle dee dees exclaimed aloud to no one but myself, buoyed my spirits considerably after a not-so-hot afternoon.

fiddleheads a la mama ro

what you need:


1-2 C fiddleheads
½ T butter
1-2 T gray poupon

what you do:

Fiddleheads are a bitch to clean, fair warning. The easiest way to wash them is to toss them gently in a bowl of clean water, discard water and repeat two more times. Transfer to a colander and rinse under cold water for a minute or two. Then tell yourself that God made dirt, so dirt can't hurt.

1. Bring a pot of salted water to a boil
2. Add fiddleheads and boil for ten minutes; drain and rinse pot
3. Put fiddleheads back in pot, stir in butter and mustard until combined
4. Devour


*slap me twice and call me Bertha, did you all know that the wiki has a cookbook?

losing my mind, one endearment at a time

I talk to myself.

I’ve talked to myself for as long as I can remember, and at this point I’ve stopped worrying too much about what it means for my sanity. I sort of shrug it off when I’m sitting on my couch, or when I’m in the shower – because, I mean who doesn’t talk to him or herself in the showie? - or even when I wake up in the middle of the night and grumble a sleepy eff you to someone or the other whose existence rankles me. But I totally do it in public too, and that’s just embarrassing. The emergence of hands-free cell phone equipment has been a blessing, because now when I catch myself talking out loud to no one in public I just tell myself “those seventeen strangers who busted you mumbling like a crazy lady probably think you’re on the phone.” Because that’s what I think when I see someone talking to himself on the street. And then I snicker to myself that I’ve pulled a fast one on them, I’m not on my phone, I’m JUST THAT CRAZY.

It’s hard to put an end to the practice of conversing with myself, because it comes from somewhere in between my conscious and unconscious mind. There really is a Greek chorus lurking in my head, all toga- and garland-clad, swanning about on soft-leather soled sandals. And my! but they are a lively bunch. Who am I to shush them?

But the talking to myself has spun out of control of late, as I find myself engaging in fantasy conversations with the dogula. For the past couple of days I’ve caught myself cooing at my coffee table “oooh aren’t you the best puppy ever? yes you are, yes you are. There’s no one more handsome than you McSniffiePants.” I can’t come up with a goddamned name for the dog, but hell if I’ll let that stop me from bestowing the nickname ‘McSniffiePants’ on him (or my coffee table).

Lord help this dog. With a mother like me, he stands no chance at a normal life.

arf arf arf

Arf arf, the superdog arrives on June 8, woof woof.

Bark bark bark, Mommy still can’t decide on a name, growl, growl.

vicoduhhhhh

My shoulder, she aches.

I was in such agony last night that I did something I never do: I took a prescription painkiller.

I don’t take strong painkillers because the last time I did I ended up fighting off a barf-a-thon after having four wisdom teeth pulled. That was in high school.

As a result of last night’s big party in the hall of justice I am functionally challenged today, and cannot for the life of me come up with anything to say here. So I’m linking.

Lola has reupped her beauty blog, The Curious Adventures of a Product Whore. At some point in the future (READ: After her Memorial Day weekend trip home) I’ll be back to posting along with her, but in the meantime you can check out our old posts here.

Enjoy!

it rained and poured for forty daysie, daysies, almost drove that supergoddess crazy, crazies, children of the lord

On Wednesday night I called home in a panic, “Daddy! Curry emergency!

I can’t find the recipe for chicken curry, and also I’m out of cumin, cloves and cardamom. Can you email me the recipe and send Mommy over with a baggie of spices?”

Is there any part of you that thinks I’m making up the “Daddy! Curry emergency!” part? I didn’t think so.

And because he is the best Daddy in the world he came through for me, he even put little notes in each of the baggies telling me which spices were which. Thanks Dad!

On Friday morning I left the house for a field trip to curry hill. It was a lovely, sunny morning as I waited for the train at 125th. However, when I disembarked at 34th street and turned my sights downtown I noticed a menacing looking cloud, all grays and yellows, hovering over the financial district. By the time I made it to the Empire State building the downpour had begun. I bought a $3 umbrella and continued on my merry way.

What is it with me and rain? It POURED on me. I mean, I was SOAKED. My left arm was so wet that my sleeve dripped.

Nonetheless, I managed to get everything I needed for Indian Kid night before I crawled back home to the safety of my housepants. Lola helped me cook, and photographed the event for me. Except by the time dinner was ready we were so hungry that we dove in and devoured the entire meal before we could shoot it.

You’ll just have to trust me when I tell you that it looked as good as it tasted.

Chicken Curry
serves 12, can easily be halved

what you need:

2-3 lbs boneless chicken breast
6-8 chicken thighs or drumsticks (optional, but recommended as the bones make the curry juicier and thicker. If you don’t use the thighs or drumsticks use 3-4 lbs. boneless breast)
2 large onions
1”x 2” piece of fresh ginger, peeled
4 cloves of garlic
Bunch fresh coriander (cilantro) leaves
1 stick cinnamon (about 1”), broken into pieces
3-4 cloves
½ t black peppercorns
2 cardamom pods, husk broken to release flavor
1 t cumin seed
1 t ground cumin powder
3 t garam masala
1 can whole tomatoes
¼ C olive oil
1 t turmeric powder
1/3 t ground cayenne pepper
1-2 hot green chilies, optional
½ - ¾ t salt

what you do:

1. Haul the Cuisinart down from the top shelf; dice the onions
2. In a large pot, sauté onions in olive oil over medium heat until lightly browned; reduce heat
3. Add the cumin seeds & powder and sauté until just browned, being careful not to let them burn
4. Add the peppercorns, cloves, cinnamon stick pieces, cardamom, cayenne pepper, salt and one teaspoon garam masala, and cook over medium low heat for about 1 minute
5. Add the chicken thighs or drumsticks. To allow the meat cook without burning the spices, stir frequently, increasing the heat so the meat is cooking gently against the bottom and sides of the pan. If it starts to burn, reduce the heat and add a little bit of water.
6. Add the boneless breast of chicken and stir into the mixture while increasing the heat. The trick is to cook the chicken against the hot surface of the pan while stirring to keep it from burning or the spices from sticking.
7. Chop the ginger into small chunks, peel and chop the garlic into chunks, and cut off the upper part of the cilantro leaves and stalks and rinse. Put these into food processor and process until almost close to pureed. Add a little water if needed.
8. Add the puree mixture and tomatoes to the pot, cover and cook on medium heat for about 2 minutes.
9. Add the turmeric
10. When the chicken is cooked on the outside, reduce heat, cover and cook for 15-20 minutes. If the mixture is too dry, add about 1/3 cup of water - do not add too much water
11. Add the remaining garam masala and green chili peppers if using

and... I also forgot a post header

I had a blonde moment yesterday. I set out all the degredients for cheesy, onion-y, garlicky biscuits and then completely forgot to photograph them. I’m certain you’ll forgive me, superfriends.

I’m heading to NYC tomorrow for a bridal shower/bachelorette combo as well as some sluther time with Miss Lola and her lovely other half, Ted. Years ago, when I was in housewife mode, I threw a dinner party in the suburbs to which Lola and Ted were invited. It was my first real Indian Kid meal, cooked all by my lonesome without Indian Dad chaperoning me. I’ll be the first to admit that my curry had nothing on his, but since I was serving dinner to a crowd of gringos who didn’t know any better (for the love of Krishna, I was in the SUBURBS. Gah!) and my hostessing skills are stellar (so modest, that supergoddess) the night was a success.

I’m leaving out some of the finer details of the night, since my parents read this blog, but suffice it to say my dinner party turned into a ripper. Which is just the way I like it.

Since then, poor Ted has been denied any opportunity to dine at the trough of Jolie, but we’re hoping to remedy that sorry state of affairs this weekend with a scaled down repeat of my Indian Kid supper.

Just in case that doesn’t happen, I thought it only fitting to bring them a hostess gift from my kitchen to theirs. Et voila! Cheesy, onion-y, garlicky biscuits.

what you need:

1 small onion, diced
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 T olive oil
1 ¼ C flour
2 T sugar
1 pkg. yeast
½ t salt
1/3 C milk
¼ C water
½ C butter (1 stick)
1 egg
1 C shredded cheese

what you do:

1. In a small skillet heat olive oil; add onions, cook until just translucent. Add garlic and cook until golden, but not brown. Remove from heat, set aside.


2. In a medium bowl, combine ¾ C flour with sugar, yeast and salt
3. Heat milk, water and butter in microwave for 1½-2 minutes; add to flour mixture and beat for 2 minutes with a hand beater


4. Add egg and remaining ½ C flour, beat 2 more minutes
5. Stir in onion, garlic and cheese, cover with a towel and allow to rise 2 hours

he has risen!

6. Turn dough out onto a floured surface and deflate; roll into a ball and allow it to rest for 15 minutes; preheat oven to 375.


7. Roll dough out to ½ inch thickness, and then cut rounds using a cutter or glass. Or a Theta/FIJI commemorative homecoming cup.


8. Bake for 15 minutes or until golden brown.

who dat dawg?

As promised, here’s another photo of the superdog, as well as a shot of mater and pater superdog.

Have you swooned from the deliciousness yet?

But hells bells, superfriends, I’m having the darndest time deciding what to name the wee beastie.

Here are the names I’ve toyed with thus far:
count dogula
vincent anthony (vinnie for short – named for my uncle vinny)
templeton
rasputin
vlad
arazza
abe frohman

This is impossible! Gah! I’m not even a mother yet and already I’m totally overwhelmed.

this is mom

this is dad

and this is my baby boy at 4 weeks

rain, rain go away

I can’t decide which is worse: The constant aching in my right shoulder brought on by the never ending rain or having to get up several times during the night to use the potty because my slumber is set to a soundtrack of running water.

first loaves, next: fishes

The Great Baking Caper of ’06 continues.

I made bread - rolls actually.

It’s been raining for about 17 days, and everyone is starting to go a little nuts. The entire city is walking around grumpy and feeling not unlike David Blaine. It’s that soggy here.

Katie and I were tentatively planning a rooftop kickoff for Saturday, but the rain, it won’t stop. So instead we’re toying with bringing the outdoors in, “firing” up her electric grill and throwing an ‘orphan’ party.

The orphan party is something I’ve been kicking around for a while; the idea is to invite all your friends over and ask them to bring the cast-off booze & mixers from parties past. In the hall of justice alone we’ve got 5 coronas, 4 sierra nevadas, 1 red stripe, 1 miller light (who brought the miller light, by the way? don’t do that again), 3 bottles of tonic, ½ a bottle of captain morgan’s, ½ handle of mike’s lime margarita and several nips of dewer’s. I could really use the space those babies are taking up, but I mean, you can’t throw out perfectly good alcoholic beverages. That would be a sin, and I believe a violation of one of the Ten Commandments. Thou Shalt Not Waste Intoxicants. Or some such.

All of this is to say that if the rolls turn out well, and we throw the orphan party I plan on serving mini BBQ sandwiches. Because orphaned in my freezer are two Tupperware containers of left-over vinegar brisket.

super easy bread
recipe from how to cook everything, by mark bittman

what you need:

3 ½ C flour
2 t salt
1 t instant yeast
1 ½ C water

what you do:

1. Haul the Cuisinart down from the top shelf
2. In the Cuisinart mix flour, salt and yeast for 5 seconds
3. While the machine is running pour almost all the water in and process for 30 seconds, until the dough has formed into a wet ball (or as Mark puts it “a defined but shaggy ball”). If it’s too dry add more water.


4. Turn dough out into a bowl and cover with a towel or plastic wrap. Allow to rise for 2-3 hours, more if you have time. The longer you allow the dough to rise the more flavor it will have. I let mine go over night (put it in the fridge if you’re going to do this), mostly because I was out drinking martinis last night, not hanging out at home doing my usual hausfrau routine.


5. When dough has risen turn it out on to a floured surface, deflate the dough and then roll into a ball again; allow to rest for 15 minutes. Preheat the oven to 375.


6. Roll out dough to ½“ thickness, then cut into 12 to 16 pieces and roll each piece into a ball

look! my dough rolled out in the shape of a heart!
do we think it's a sign of things to come?

7. Bake for 20-30 minutes, or until golden brown

now you know why I’m not such a big baker

I like baking. I do.

But.

The thing about baking is that it’s science class, not English class. There’s a right way to do things, rather than myriad interpretations. And I’m an interpretive dance kind of girl, which most certainly comes through in my baking.

I was inspired by a new slice n’ bake offering I saw recently in my grocer’s refrigerated section. S’mores cookies. Holy shit.

It’s a funny thing about s’mores. Taken individually I’m not a huge fan of any of the ingredients, but as a whole… my goodness, the s’more is heaven in a dessert, is it not? A few years ago Da Bozz was preparing a snack for me to take on the bus home to Boston (because she is so absurdly cute like that) and included in it a Hershey’s S’mores bar. When I opened my little shopping bag to see what goodies awaited me and spied the candy bar I gasped. Then I did a little dance. “Oh my God these are my faaaaavorite!!! How did you know?”

She said she figured it would be just revolting enough that I would like it. It’s one of my favorite little memories of her. You know you have a friend for life when someone knows without asking what kind of disgusting little treats you enjoy alone under the cloak of darkness.

So, here they are, my recipe for s’mores cookies. They don’t look pretty… but damn they taste good.

what you need:


¾ C butter (softened)
½ C white sugar
½ C brown sugar
1 egg
1 t vanilla
1 ¼ C flour
1 C graham crackers, crushed
½ t salt
½ t baking soda
1 C chocolate chips
1 C mini marshmallows

what you do:

1. Preheat oven to 375
2. Cream butter and sugars together with a hand mixer
3. Beat in egg and vanilla
4. Mix dry ingredients in a bowl, and stir into batter
5. Stir in chocolate chips and marshmallows
6. Drop by spoonfuls on to an ungreased cookie sheet
7. Bake 8-10 minutes

omigod omigod omigod

The superdog. might be here. in less than a month.

CUE MAJOR FREAK OUT!

Here are some photos of ‘my boy’ as a newborn. I’m waiting for more pictures, which I will post as soon as I have them.

ARF!

for he’s a jolly good fellow

for he’s a jolly good fellow
for he’s a jolly good fellow
which nobody can deny

cue Mrs. White on harmony!

which nobody can deny
which nobody can deny

for he’s a jolly good fellow
for he’s a jolly good fellow
for he’s a jolly good fellow

which nobody can deny!

AWOK birthday His M’Nickyness.

as long as the scanner is out...

please notice 1- Teddy and 2- the gucci bag. so typical.

me & my cousins with our granddad

me & Teddy (#1) and our grocery cart.
again, so typical.

me with "uncle" kenny, doing a dance called the hookielau.
literally. the hookielau.

it’s so barnard

Sometimes I have full conversations with the voicemail lady. I’m sure my friends love this about me.

“Hi, it’s Aunt Jolie. Where aaaare you? Ok, so I know I’m calling twice in one day, but I have to tell you this: I’m over at my parents’ place looking through old photos with my mom and I found a picture of us from when we graduated – WAIT UNTIL YOU SEE THIS, WE ARE SO CUTE, BEAN. Seriously, you won’t believe it. We’re both wearing all black. It’s so Barnard. Also, I was wondering if Olivia is old enough to travel on her own yet. I was looking at the most recent pictures of her, and I really think she needs to come for a visit with Auntie Jolie. I miss her. Call me, love you.”

back when I used to wear lipstick.
I think you can see why I put an end to that behavior.

I’m such a meme whore

Brico’s got an alphabet meme going on over at his blog, and since I love words, well how could I resist?

This is how it works: Comment on this entry and I will give you a letter. Write ten words beginning with that letter on your blog, including an explanation of what the word means to you and why, and then pass out letters to those who want to play along.

My letter is C. Here we go…

CODDLE The man of my dreams is one who lives to coddle me. As opposed to one who likes to…

CUDDLE Ugh. Gros, gros, and gros.

CHOPSTICKS Confounded contraption, chopsticks. Great song, though.

CLEAVE Yesterday I looked up synonyms for ‘to stick’ and was reminded of cleave. Hurrah! It’s a spectacular word, one that I’ll make a point of using more often.

COFFEE Oh sweet nectar of the Gods, sweet giver of life…

CHEERLEADER Do you think 30 is too old to start a new career?

CAPER A life lacking capers is a life not worth living.

CRIPES The greatest exclamation of all time.

CHINTZY When crafting, never be chintzy with your supplies. It’s bad form, superfriends, terribly bad form.

CUNT I reserve use this incredibly foul word for only the most special of occasions, which is a nice way of telling you that if I’ve hurled it at you, well, my friend, you’ve done something outstandingly heinous.

showing my adoration and thanks

Oh superfriends, how do I love thee?

Let me count the ways:

All the people who commented on the various book-themed posts, well!! Thank you for affirming my faith in the power of books. I love books so, so much, and I’m glad you all do too. You all are my people, fer sure.

Brico, welcome back.

Rebecca, my fellow supergoddess, good to see you here! Yes, the Indian girls* are mean to me – that’s a story for another post, but the Cliff’s Notes are as such: I’m a half & half, of Indian and European descent. The Indian girls, they don’t like that so much. And they make sure I know it.

anonymous twerp, I think I love you.

Kit, “wrath, indeed” is now one of my favorite sayings.

Jess! Hi! Where have you been all my life?

Sam, Lovey, Lola, His M’Nickyness, Jeff, Tony… My stalwarts. Mille grazie, for everything.

I know that there are many of you out there who don’t comment, but who read regularly. Either way, that’s super with me. But feel free to drop me a note sometime! It can be a little weird here in this blogging vacuum.

And a side note: If I hear the phrase “Jolie’s weird internet friends” one more time… well, pour me a glass of chardonnay, superfriends, because I’ve got a lot to say on the subject.

The best advice I can give to people who don’t like or approve of or are annoyed by my blog is: Don’t read it. But know this – what I do here brings me much happiness. I would do it even if there was no response, but the fact that the nonsense I write here spurs folks to talk back, well, that just tickles me to no end.

The weekend away was perfect, many tales of wine, women and song were spun, much merriment was made. By the end of the weekend we were deconstructing the ingredients on the back of the salt & vinegar chips to determine how one would go about making s&v popcorn. I’d like to thank Phil for inviting an engineer and a scientist to join us for the weekend; apparently an engineer and a scientist are the ingredients I’ve been missing from my life, because when one wants to parse the method for creating vinegar-flavored popcorn, well, they’re the people one wants around.

We didn’t do much talking about work and what we do for a living, it was more of a cerebral weekend, but when the subject arose I had a hard time answering the question. I started my usual song and dance about the myriad things I do to fill my time and keep my bank balance at a reasonable level and then for the first time in a year I stopped myself and said “actually, I’m a writer. I do other stuff to make money, other stuff that allows me the free time to write as much as I want.”

For the first time in way too long I was proud to tell people what I do.

I’m proud of my writing. I’m proud that I’ve cultivated you all, that you come here daily or weekly or monthly to check in and have a giggle. Or to read about how hard things can be for me, and feel a sense of empathy or kinship. For my friends to learn things about me they never would have guessed, like how I got a black eye when I was two in nursery school or that sometimes in my mind I am Scarlett O’Hara. To teach people how to do things I love, like cooking and cleaving one’s hands together with a hot glue gun. You know, the important things in life.

Speaking of cooking there will be a lot of baking going on this week – I had to buy a dozen eggs when I was making the brownies and now must (MUST!) use them up. Since I can’t abide by the taste of eggs that means – drumroll please! – baked goods.

Now, then. I don’t want to eat all this stuff. It’s the process that gets me all jazzed up, not so much the product. I’m pondering a contest of sorts, to the victor goes the spoils of my labor. If anyone has a suggestion of a good contest please let me know!

*gross generalization, je sais, je sais.

brownies, you're doing a heck of a job!

I decided to make brownies. Dulce de leche brownies.

Wipe the drool from your chin, please.

I based my recipe on the basic brownie instructions in Mark Bittman's How To Cook Everything. Oddly, the featured recipe on his site today is that very brownie recipe! Here's his version, and mine to follow:

what you need:


2 ounces unsweetened chocolate, roughly chopped
1 stick unsalted butter
1 C sugar
2 eggs
½ C flour
Pinch salt
¼ C dulce de leche, plus more for artistic license
Vegetable oil or butter for greasing the pan

what you do:

1. Preheat the oven to 350F; grease an 8-inch square baking pan
2. Combine the chocolate and butter in a small saucepan over low heat, stirring occasionally until melted and smooth


3. Transfer the chocolate mixture to a bowl and stir in the sugar


4. Beat in the eggs, then stir in the flour and salt


5. Stir in dulce de leche
6. Pour half the batter into the pan and drizzle with more dulce de leche, then pour the remaining batter over the first layer and drizzle some more dulce de delicious

7. Bake for 20 to 25 minutes

don’t you envy the folks who get to sit in a house with me and my mood all weekend?

I’m skipping town.

Yes, my foul mood and I are packing our overnight bags and heading to the Cape for a weekend with the three people left on earth who aren’t annoying me. Lucky them!

Actually they are lucky, for two reasons 1- my mood seems to be abating 2- this group gets a kick out of my pissed-off rants. There is a line of thinking among my friends in these parts that goes something like this: When Jolie is in a mood order her a glass of chardonnay, wait 10 minutes, watch the funny fly. They even have a favorite story, that I only tell when I’m really riled up. It involves mildew and a breakup. Perhaps one day I’ll set it down in writing, though I fear I’m not a talented enough wordsmith to get it right. It’s more of a spoken-word performance, I think.

Oh wait, they’re also lucky because guess who’s going to be doing the cooking for the weekend? I think I’m going to make some cookies today, so check back for a recipe.

a few things that would make me feel better

Punching Tom Cruise in the teeth.

A full explanation from one Ms. Teri Hatcher as to what exactly is happening with her left nostril. (For those of you who didn’t get to see La Hatch on Oprah yesterday I am desperately (pun!) trying to find you a photo, but suffice it to say: There is some weird shit going on with that lady’s face.)

Repeated dunkings of Kaavya Viswanathan in a vat of lamb saag.*

A set of imaginary dwarfs to roam about the hall of justice.

Waking up to find that the existence of Kevin Federline was but a terrible, terrible dream.


*Earlier today Mama Ro began defending Kaavya in all the usual ways: Her parents -they pushed. They bragged at samosa parties. You’ve seen it a million times. You know the type. To which I replied “YES I KNOW AND I DON’T CARE. STOP DEFENDING HER. I HATE HER. I DERIVE REAL JOY FROM HATING THIS GIRL SO PLEASE DON’T RUIN IT BY MAKING ME FEEL BADLY FOR HER.”

You know why I hate her? Because she is every Indian girl who was ever mean to me in my life.

And I am enjoying watching her eat shit.

today I plan to introduce myself as jolie andretti

Sam’s comment in response to yesterday’s crankiness reminded me of one of my favorite games: The ‘go play in traffic’ game.

‘Go play in traffic’ started a few years back, when I worked myself into a frenzy over this guy who I just cannot stand. And who is always around. You know who I mean, because you have one too. He may be a co-worker, he may be the best friend from college of one of your poker buddies, hell, if you’re really unlucky he might be related to you. Or she. It could be a she. But either way, picture that person.

Now picture that person playing in traffic.

Don’t you feel better already?

Right now I want about 550 different people to play in traffic. Because I am annoyed – all together now, superfriends – with everyone and everything.

But if I had to pick just one person to play in traffic today it would be Kaavya Viswanathan.

I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU. I HATE YOUR STUPID BOOK WITH ITS STUPID COVER AND STUPID TITLE. I HATE THAT YOU GO TO HARVARD – OF COURSE YOU GO TO HARVARD. ASSHOLE. I HATE YOUR NAME. I HATE YOUR STUPID FACE AND YOUR STUPID BADLY BLOW-DRIED HAIR (TRY A STRAIGHTENING IRON, HONEY) AND YOUR STUPID BLUE BARN JACKET.

I do feel better now.

Please, feel free to let loose your own rant in comments.

annoyed with everyone and everything

You ever get like that?

I’m not mad. I’m not sad. I’m just annoyed.

And you know what the most annoying part is? Usually, when I’m this annoyed, I am quite funny. Particularly in writing.

But today? I got nothing.

Which is really annoying.