I don’t know exactly where the Gazette gets their horoscope column. But here is what mine says today.
Hold court. Your inner circle of friends will be fascinated by anything you care to share with them today.
When you’re done rolling on the floor laughing and you’ve got your asthmatic wheezing laugh under control, read on.
So I burned my fingers taking my (delicious, homemade) soup out of the microwave at lunchtime. I’m 50 freaking years old. When am I going to stop getting really stupid steam burns? I’d really like to know, because I’m terribly afraid that my cognitive abilities may have peaked already, so it’s all down hill from here. Maybe I’ll have to stop using the microwave and stop hardboiling eggs. I can generally heat water for tea without harming myself. Probably because without tea, I would start harming others.
Yesterday I found a ball of cat hair on my floor so enormous, I thought it was a kitten. Both of the felines are incapable of producing offsprings. I was afraid that perhaps Pogo had started shearing off bits of himself, like an amoeba, creating an army of orange furry beasts. But no. Just a dust bunny. The kind that looks like it would nip at your ankles in the dark.
The writers retreat last weekend ruined me. I can’t have hours upon hours of uninterrupted writing time at home. Even if I can clear my schedule, I always hear the siren song of dirty dishes, dirty laundry, unswept floors or stale sheets that need changing. I’ve tried earplugs and headphones–I can still hear the call of wild housework. And there is always, always a book or three or twenty that is begging to be read.
Speaking of books, I just read “The Tao of Martha” by Jen Lancaster. I think it might have changed my life. I think I’m ready to give up on being a disorganized slob and let the sunshine that is Martha Stewart into my life. How much do I love Jen Lancaster? So many. (That’s an obscure Misha Collins reference.) She (Jen) always makes me laugh out loud, regardless of whether or not I’m in the privacy of my own home. Although this time around, when she talked about losing her beloved dog, I was fighting back tears.
Because that’s how I roll. I laugh long and loud and hard, and I don’t care who sees me or hears me. It’s a big laugh, not petite and cute, but it’s honest. Tears, on the other hand? No, thank you, I’d rather do that in private. They’re also very honest, but I’d rather not have to explain that I’m in the middle of a giant estrogen flux and a commercial for snow tires set me off, rather than the imminent destruction of the earth that you suspected based on how hard I was sobbing.
Is Harry Connick, Jr. really making a difference on American Idol? I only watched a couple of seasons, and I don’t know that even Harry can lure me back. Any thoughts?
My sister, who I love and adore, told Thing 2 this week that she didn’t have to wear her retainer all the time, because Aunt Nancy said so. Nancy, don’t make me get out the potato peeler, that’s all I’m saying.
My mother, who is 84, has a live-in boyfriend who was recently hospitalized. I’m still not sure why, unless being a gigantic, thundering pain in the butt is something that can be treated with IV drugs now. (Wouldn’t that be great?) While said boyfriend was in the hospital, one of his adult sons took it upon himself to YELL at my (84-year-old, 105-pounds-with-sensible-shoes-on) mother. Twice. In front of a room full of people. Once because she had the audacity to mention that the doctor suggested the boyfriend should go to a nursing home for 2-3 weeks of rehab before going back to the apartment. Go on, shake your head, you know you want to.
For those of you who get to hear about this family dynamic on a regular basis, the answer is: Yes, this is the same son that called my sister a “fu**ing bitch.” I’m sure that one day I will meet this man, and I will waste no time in demonstrating that Nancy is, in fact, the nice sister, and this cretin has no idea what a bitch really is. I look forward to educating him on the matter.
I’m both happy and sad that my time as a food writer is drawing to a close. I’ve really enjoyed doing restaurant reviews for the Gazette, but I need to reclaim that time for other purposes. For Rob Molumby, I’d like to say, “I went there. I had some food. It was good.” (That’s also for everyone who thinks the job is easy as falling off a log. I’ve fallen off plenty of things. Writing is much, much harder.)
It occurs to me that I might be afraid to finish my book because then I have to edit the damn thing. That’s both exciting and scary. Exciting, because I get to make it better. Scary, because I have to face up to the less-than-fabulous bits that either need to be reworked or mercilessly cut.
A warning to everyone on the planet: You do know that everyone else on the planet can read your Facebook posts, right? If you portray yourself in a certain way in one setting, but display a completely different personality on FB? We know. We see it.
People, please stop diagnosing your friends and relatives with all varieties of mental illnesses. Mental illness is a huge deal, and frankly, most of you aren’t qualified as diagnosticians. Just because someone is having a spectacularly bad (or good, or both) day does not make them bipolar. Or schizophrenic. A kid with questionable grades does not automatically have ADD or ADHD. Be supportive and let a professional make the call.
I just saw the funniest clip of Family Feud. Two handsome men, probably mid-20s, stood on either side of the podium, leaning forward, anxious to be the first to hit the buzzer. The host (could have been Steve Harvey, but I’m not sure) asked a question that was something like “What piece of furniture is your wife most like in the bedroom?” Something just mind-boggling in its level of inanity. The guys looked at each other. One shook his head. The other shook his head. And they stood there and refused to answer the question as the clock ran down. Good for them, I say, refusing to make fun of their wives for the amusement of a faceless television audience.
I fear that if my metabolism gets any slower, I’ll be declared legally dead.
I’m getting the itch to let my hair grow long again one more time. But I’m afraid I’m too old. And just to cranky to be bothered with it.
Does anyone know where I can find a pair of women’s dress shoes for a man who wears mens size 13 shoes? I don’t want to buy a pair, I’d just like to borrow them. And no, they aren’t for Joe. Really? You had to ask?
I think I’m done holding court for now.