Northward, Ho!

Make that "Northward, Ho's!"

Me Show, et al, is taking a little trip to San Juan Island to visit these old friends.

And when we return, I promise to tell you all about the visit from these old friends from New York:

Mr. Weaver

Mrs. Weaver

Until then, dear readers, I'll miss you!

Wherein I Turn So Sentimental That I Grow a Second Vagina

Regardless of my reputation for being acerbic at best and a huge freaking bitch at worst, I've always loved this poster (available tons of places - you do the research):

I particularly like that the sentiment is not expressed as a directive, but rather as a mere statement of fact.  Thus, my oppositional side isn't incited by some strange do-gooder poster telling it what to do, and the angels of my better nature can peek through the hazy pall cast by the demons of my bitchery.  It is nice to be nice, and life is so much more pleasurable when we can access the parts of ourselves that are able to agree and act in accordance with this truth.

Lately I've been thinking a lot about Plato's often repeated quote "Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle," particularly in my fragility following Kylie's death.  When store clerks are nasty to me, I want to tell them what has happened to our family just so that they know that they're being rude to a person with a heart and not some abstract defined as "customer."  Likewise, I've found myself striving for empathy and compassion in a more meaningful way, because I can't know or tell who in my casual daily encounters is in pain or is struggling with something greater than I can imagine.

I've noticed that crucibles endured and rubicons crossed can bring out either the best or the worst in people.  Weddings, births, deaths, moves, victories, and failures all bring with them opportunities to rise to the occasion or to plummet to far below the occasion's demands.  This observation has borne itself out predictably during the past month, and I've been amazed at the generosity and understanding of some people and shocked by the thoughtlessness of others. 

And so, unlike the gentle reminder provided by the poster above, I'm just going to go ahead and beg you, internets and world in general, to let trying circumstances bring out the best in you.  Being kind, warm, and understanding is not a weakness, and being selfish, cynical, and cold is not a strength.  There is always a moment of choice preceeding an action, and in that moment is always an opportunity to act for good.  So, please consider this uncomfortably earnest plea in those moments as you encounter them.  You'll be happier, and I'll give you a gold star if you do.

For inspiration, watch this (via Mightygirl via someone else).  See?  It's nice to be nice!

2/5

This video represents 2 out of my 5 celebrity "freebies" performing the awesome song that elevated Forgetting Sarah Marshall from a funny movie to a funny movie with an awesome song.  Seriously, when the movie ended with the Dracula puppet musical, I hoped and wished on every star that that musical would become reality and tour the nation.  But, I guess Dad Solo's beloved Glimmer Twins (Is "Glimmer" British slang for The Clap?) had it right, and I can't always get what I want.  But this, this is also what I want:



You can't even begin to imagine how excited I was to find this video.  If Youtube had "repeat" function, I'd be all over it.

(Edited to add:  How the heck are these people not my friends?  Warning - contains swears, farts, and references to the structural integrity of various and sundry anuses)

Gollum

"We lovesss blueberry birthmarksssssssss..."

 

"No!  We hatesssssss blueberry birthmarkssssss!"

"We lovessssssssss eating our oatmealssss!"

"No!  We hatesssssss eating our oatmealsssssssssss!"

Happy Father's Day!

It's SLB's first official Father's Day, even though we celebrated last year since Livy was viable by then.  Messed up?  Maybe, but I'll confront all dire possibilities in the name of gift-giving.  This year SLB received a bottle of Dry Fly gin, a bottle of Dry Fly vodka (Hey, Washingtonians!  Now we can buy local liquor!), and a copy of The Savoy Cocktail Book with the original illustrations.

He seemed pleased.

He brought himself a Father's Day bouquet!  He knows how to treat himself right.

Up later today: the Mariners game with good friends (More on them later.) and Olivia, and a night out while Livy is expertly cared for by a dear former student (Possibly more on her later.  She'd make a great Special Guest Star, but she has so much potential that I don't want to ruin with an association with this sad rag).

So, happy Father's Day, SLB!  You are a great daddy, and Olivia is so lucky to have you to guide, wrestle, teach, snuggle, and love her.

Ka-Ching!

Money can't buy you love, but it sure as hell can buy you distraction.  When I'm sad, I shop.  When I'm sad and preparing to be in Uncle Damon and Auntie Katie's wedding in September, I shop for knee-length black dresses.

Thoughts?  Recommendations?  Join me on this journey through little black dresses, won't you?

First up, sassy one-shouldered Grecian thingie:

Pros: The banded waist nurtures the illusion that I have any variation in my measurements whatsoever, and asymmetry makes me happy.

Cons:  Can this thing really stand up to the ol' Circus Tits?  I think I know who'll win this battle, and it's not the dress.

Next, by the same designer (actually, all of these are Maggy London), a festive sarong dress:

Pros:  Again, this little number will give me the waist and hips that God didn't, and the straps are wide enough to possibly accommodate a real bra.

Cons:  I can't really think of any.  That's a good sign.

Finally, we have what I am loving referring to as the Joan Holloway little black dress:

Pros:  IT'S A JOAN HOLLOWAY DRESS.  What more do I really need to say?  Plus, it looks as if it can accommodate a real bra, and the asymmetry both makes me happy and detracts from my sad waistlessness.

Cons:  I can't quite tell how it fits.  It's a bit loose on the model, and it'd certainly be a lot tighter on me if only so that I could emphasize the bootyliciousness of the dress and my ample hiney.  The back of the dress runs the real risk of exposing the dreaded back rolls if I wear a real bra with it, which would be obvious to everyone since I'm last in line on the bride's side and will be likely be standing with my back to the guests for the whole ceremony.  I don't mind being the chubby bridesmaid, but DAMN I don't need strangers having intimate knowledge of the quantity and quality of my back fat.  So, it's worth trying on, but I'll be a brave girl if it's less flattering on my body than it is in my mind.

There you go!  Weigh in, fashionistas!

Blah. Feh. Ugh.

It's still a sad time at Me Show Central.  Kylie's memorial service is this Friday, and no one is looking forward to finally saying goodbye to our sweet little lady.  So, forgive me for not making with the jokey jokes on this blog lately.  It seems maudlin to keep posting about grief and sadness, but it requires an extraordinary effort to come up with anything to write about unrelated to grief and sadness just now.  I'll be back to more regular posting soon.  Until then, let this tide you over:

Me, looking like the deranged winner of a pageant in which babies are given out instead of bouquets.

Happy little elf-niece.

Before & After

Before:  Sad, boring, limp, forgettable.  I felt like my whole lovely visage was obscured by the blandness of what framed it.

Ho hum ho.

Plus when I tried putting it back in a ponytail I wound up looking a little like this:

"A desire to be observed, considered, esteemed, praised, beloved, and admired by his fellows is one of the earliest as well as the keenest dispositions discovered in the heart of man." - John Adams, predicting the advent of my blog like Nostrafreakingdamus

While I love the John Adams miniseries with an ardor usually reserved for my immediate family, that look on my head is not acceptable.

After:  kicky, bold, sassy, and butch as all hell.  It's a little too short and a little too precise for my perfect liking, but it's nothing that 2 weeks of growing out can't fix.  And, look!  You can see my face!  I was under that limp, dead hair all along!

Adorableness by God; Hair by Tart Studios

Hooray!  Hooray!

ENOUGH ALREADY!

O.K., people.  I tried to grow out my hair and be a femmy mommy type, but it's just not working.  So, no more hair, no more headbands, no more ticklishness on the back of my neck as it grows.  Look for something like this on my head in the near future.

Cute, right?  Cuter on me, of course, but cute.  My appointment is at 4:00, and I look forward to seeing my face instead of my floppy, sad hair.  Wish me, or rather SLB, luck.

So Cute You're Gonna Lactate

Dogs are cute.  Babies are cute.  But this?  This is something special.

You've got a little something on your shirt there.

Eat This: Wild Boar Plin in Sage Brown Butter Sauce with Roasted Asparagus and Broccoli

Slick with butter doesn't even begin to cover it.

This meal was wonderfully, unctuously, silkily delicious.  Aside from the asparagus, the meal was completely seasonally inapppropriate, but with a June as rainy and cold as this, I couldn't possibly be held responsible for craving winter food during springtime.  This would make a meal for a romantic date in November, or, in true Me Show style, it also works well eaten from laps on the living room floor in front of The Daily Show on a Tuesday night.

Wild Boar Plin in Sage Brown Butter Sauce

O.K., so I didn't make the plin, but the rest is all me.  I bought the pasta from the Pasteria Lucchese stall at the Ballard Farmer's Market and boiled it according to package instructions, which doesn't exactly count as cooking, but, eh, who's keeping track?

Beyond that you need:

5 T unsalted butter

About 10 large leaves of sage

1/4 cup chicken stock

Salt and pepper

And for something as fancy-sounding as Sage Brown Butter Sauce, this sauce is a snap.  Simply melt 5 tablespoons of butter over medium heat and cook until the butter has browned, about 5-6 minutes.  Then toss in 10 large sage leaves, roughly chopped, and about 1/4 cup of chicken stock.  Reduce for about 5 minutes until you get a luxuriously lustrous pool of satiny pleasure.  Season with salt and pepper before tossing your plin it or bathing in it.  Both are perfectly acceptable choices, and I will only judge you positively should you choose either one.

Roasted Asparagus and Broccoli

This is so simple that I'm a little embarrassed that I'm writing a recipe for it.  I'm also embarrassed that 1) I steamed my veggies for 31 years before discovering roasting them and that, 2) it was my notoriously cooking-resistant mother who introduced me to the idea.  Clearly I have issues with this dish, but here it is coming at you anyway.

You'll need:

Asparagus and broccoli (duh)

Olive oil

Salt and Pepper

Lemon (optional)

Asparagus

Break off the woody stems of the asparagus.  Toss in enough olive oil to coat, and then sprinkle with salt and pepper.  Bonus points for you if you squeeze on a little lemon juice and/or dust with a few scrapes of lemon zest.  Toss in a baking dish and roast for 10-12 minutes in a moderate oven (350 - 375).  Eat and weep at all the asparagus you've ruined over the decades in your little, dinky veggie steamer.

Broccoli

Chop your broccoli into pieces slightly smaller than bite-sized to even the cooking time with that of the asparagus, or into bite sized pieces if you're willing to roast for 25 minutes or so.  If you throw away the stem and only roast the florets, don't ever tell me you wasteful spendthrift.  Toss with olive oil, salt, and pepper to coat.  Put into a baking dish.  Roast for 12-15 minutes in a moderate oven (350 - 375).  The broccoli is especially good tossed with the Sage Brown Butter Sauce.

So there you go!  And don't you dare ask me when I'm losing the baby weight.  The baby weight is gone.  It's been immediately replaced with butter weight, and the butter weight gets offended when you assume that it's had anything to do with a baby.

Outdoorsy

On the rare days that it's been sunny this spring, we've enjoyed taking Livy outside to hang out with us while we putter in the garden.  It seems that she's enjoyed it, too.

What a photogenic little lady!

Absolutely, she's ready for her close-up!  (And now the secret is out about SLB's profession.  He's a prostitute.)

Effortless beauty.

My goodness!  Does this wave of cuteness know any bounds?

Yes.  Indeed, it does.

Should I Be Concerned?

Yes.  Yes, I should.

One Can't Always Be Sad

Especially when one has a malleable baby and a partner with whom to share a love of ventriloquism and puppetry.  It's not ethical parenting, but it passes the time.