blue girl

All I Have To Say Is..."Bring It On!"

Res is back from his blogging hiatus, just in time for the holidays (not only Christmastime -- that's directed at you O'Reilly) and he's given up political rants.  He needs to detox.  He's in love and he wants to enjoy the season by sharing his semi-famous bakery exploits that he says will put Martha Stewart's to shame.  (He also says that if you don't like it, you can kiss his yuletide a**.)

I not only like it -- I love it.  And I'm challenging Res to a Holiday 2005 Cookie Bake Off.  So, Res.  I see your homemade Christmas Tree Shaped Sugar Cookie and raise you a Gingerbread.
Res.  Take a look at this dude.  You still think you're all that and a bag of powered sugar?

Just see if you can top it.

Eavesdropping

"Does the 6 go in to Penn?"

The woman said to the man in the elevator just now.

You don't hear things like that in Cleveland, I thought to myself.

I love New York.

Driving My Family Crazy

While driving from Cleveland to New York City yesterday.  Me, my husband and our 13 year old son.

****

"Um, can I say something?  Just one thing and then I won't say anything else?" 

My husband replies, "Don't start...."

"Be careful of the trucks on this trip!  Like watch that one right there!  He's swerving!  Ahhhh!  God!  I hate trucks!"

"Mom!  Don't be a backseat driver in the front passenger seat!  Leave Dad alone!  Why don't you drive!"

"Cuz I don't want to."

I go back to reading my NYTs and try to get my mind off our impending firey deaths.  Works well for awhile, then I happen to glance up and notice snow collected off to the side of the road.  And at the edges of the snow -- I see -- dare I say -- ice!!  Ice on the road!!!"

"Honey?  Can I say one more thing?  And then I promise I won't say anything else?"

"Mom!!"

"See that ice?  Are the tires on this car in good shape?"

My husband then goes into some long explanation of the difference between performance tires and snow tires and how the width of the base of the car, or something, matters...

As he's explaining all of this I become aware of my posture.  I'm sitting exactly the way I sit in a dentist's chair. 

"Ok.  Whatever.  I'm not saying anything else for the rest of the trip.  Just be careful!"

I continue to read the NYTs.

"Oh my God.  You have to read this column by Tom Friedman.  Listen.  He quotes David Rothkopf:  "If President Bush doesn't rise to this challenge, our children and grandchildren will look at the burden he has placed on their shoulders and see this moment as the hinge between the American Century and the Chinese Century.  George W. Bush may well be seen as the president who, by refusing to address these urgent questions when they needed....

....oh my God.  Pass this truck...oh my God, that truck is carrying *liquid nitrogen.*  What is that?  Can it explode?  Do drivers who carry that sort of stuff make more than drivers who carry other things? 

I ponder the Teamsters Union for a moment and then continue reading:

....anyway, when they needed to be addressed, invited American's decline.' Then Friedman continues:  "Truly, I hope Mr. Bush rises to the challenge.  We do not have three years to waste.  To do that, though, Mr. Bush would need to become a very different third-term president, with a much more centrist agenda and style....

My husband chimes in, "yeah, right -- he doesn't care."

I continue, "If he does, he still has time to be a bridge to the future.  If he doesn't, the resources he will have squandered and the size of the problems he will have ignored will put him in the running for one of our worst presidents ever."

I say those last three words like Joanne Worley.  In a fake, very vibrato singing style:

Worrrst!  Pre-siiii-deeeeeeent!!  Eeeeevverrrrrrr!

"God!  Didn't people know that before last year's election?  Duh!"

"Mom!  You are obsessed with politics!"

"So what!"

"It's warping me!"

"Oh stop it.  You know more than most kids your age know about the world...stop complaining."

"I don't want to know it!"

"Oh stop it.  Look at that car!  With that "W 04" sticker on the back!  Aren't they embarassed?  We should make bumper stickers!  Worst. President. Ever.!"

"Mom!  You're obsessed!"

"Honey?  I'm just going to say one more thing.  Ok?  See that sign there?  'Slow Down.  Save A Life?'  Slow down!  You're going 80!  You don't have to go so fast!"

"But we're making good time, we have to make good time!" he jokes.

"Please slow down."

He does.  Which enables me to loosen the death grip I've got on the dashboard.

But then he pipes up...

"Look!  Look at that!  Two blue hairs just passed me in a Buick with plastic seat covers!  Look at that!  I've got a car here that can go 150 miles an hour!  And I'm in the right lane eating their dust!"

"Those blue hairs don't know what's good for them!!  They are being irresponsible!"

"For God's sake!  They're driving a Buick!"

"Just be careful..."

"Mom.  They've got a Bush bumper sticker on the back of their car."

"Yech.  Dumb on top of it all.  Watch that truck!  Why is he swerving like that?"

"Mom!"

Gobble-Gobble Means Go For It!

This guy definitely wants us to go to New York City for Thanksgiving weekend and enjoy a delicious seafood dinner at Shelly's on Thursday.

Yes, the Weather Channel is treating the next few day's weather as if Armageddon is close at hand and even Keith Olbermann had a weather person on tonight trying to dash my hopes and dreams! 

But have no fear!  (Really.  Look at that turkey above.  He's telling me to have no fear.  So, I don't. Look at him!)

I've heard we just have to stay south of I-80 if we can.  Try to avoid areas that will get buried by lake-effect snow and we'll be ok.

Am I going to argue with this turkey?  Would you?  Definitely not. 

At least for now, my city awaits.

After all,  I have insane tipping to do, exorbitant prices to pay and lots of cool clothes already packed to wear.

(Is this not a stunning photo?  I say *gobble-gobble* and in turkey language, that means:  damn straight!)

Are We Going To Eat At Shelly's? Or at Shelly's?

We're leaving as early as we can tomorrow for New York City!  Yes, we're driving.  We did the trip that way two years ago and it worked out great.

But, it wasn't snowing two years ago as we drove through those Pennsylvania mountains. 

And I was so much younger then!  I used to throw caution to the wind!  I didn't used to envision us hitting a patch of ice and cascading off the the side of a mountain in a dramatic fireball.

I guess that's what 730 days of cable news will do to a person.

If we do end up going (right now it's a little iffy -- seeing that there's some sort of perfect storm brewing) we might eat Thanksgiving dinner at the same restaurant we did on the last trip.  We completely broke with tradition and did the seafood thing.  And it was delish.

Last time we ate here.  We chose this restaurant because we were missing out on Thanksgiving dinner at my sister's house back home.  And her name is . . . Shelly!  (Everything we do must have a concept -- we are just weird that way.)

So, if we do end up going, we may eat at Shelly's again this year.

Or, if it doesn't stop snowing, (it's pouring down as I type, and along with it our chances of actually going) we may be eating Thanksgiving dinner at, well, Shelly's.

Which is not too shabby.  She makes one heck of a roll.

Unless You Consider This Blog a Work of Mass Destruction In and Of Itself

Every day we start with a fresh world -- or, better yet, each day we start with this world, the one we know, and by nine, ten a.m., we've destroyed it.

                    - Dave Eggers
                     A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius

I don't know about you, but at this very instant, this very mili-second, I am creating something, not destroying something, which I suppose is such a bleeding-heart liberal thing to be doing.

Just Blowing Smoke

Read this story last week (hat tip to Jedmunds and Stephanie) about HarperCollins, the publisher of Goodnight Moon, digitally removing the cigarette from the photo of illustrator, Clement Hurd.
They said they wanted to avoid the appearance of encouraging toddlers to smoke cigarettes.

Which got me to thinking.

I know children of all ages visit this blog.

Have I corrupted your smoke free lives by subliminally brainwashing you to light up through my selection of Bond Girl shots for my main photo graphic at the top of this site?

Would you breathe easier if I digitally de-hanced the graphic?

I don't know.  It looks now as if either, 1)  I've got a migraine and I'm pointing in a weird way to my temple where it started, or 2) I'm trying to do some sort of crazy hypnotic trance thing on you.  (Which I do try to do, by the way in more ways than one -- have any of you caught on to that?)

Have any of you toddlers started smoking because of my graphic?  If the majority of the answers I receive are "no's" than I'm leaving it as is.

(And if any of you answer *yes*, boy am I going to have fun brainwashing you to do the darndest things over the next few months....!)

Because really, my photoshop skills stink worse than any cigarette smoke every could.

Don't you agree?

Blue Girl Is...

...but I ain't got no customers!

People must be doin' some real livin' today.

Never mind me.  I'll just go back now to reading my new book, "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius" by Dave Eggers.

(So far it's pretty good and it also reminds me of (the now famous) Jedmunds of Pandagon for some reason.)

While I'm Still Young, Please!

There's only one thing I hate more than getting stuck behind people who drive 19 miles an hour in a 25 mile an hour zone.  The one thing I hate more than that is when I get stuck behind people who take right hand turns really, really, really, reaaaaallllly slowly.

Somehow I think they do this on purpose, so that they can watch me age in real time in their rear view mirror.

Plus, I Don't Like Helmut Hair

Do you think it's just awful that my husband is out right now on a 10 mile bike ride on a beautiful yet chilly Fall day while I'm sitting here still in my pajamas, blogging and eating peanut m&m's left over from Halloween?

I don't think so.  After all, it's Sunday and Sundays are what you make of them.