...where I have root and the fare is liberally seasoned with pith and vinegar.
| The Digital Hausfrau ...where I have root and the fare is liberally seasoned with pith and vinegar. |
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Right now, on CSPAN, a bunch of people dressed like Dickensian extras are singing as part of a "Pageant for Peace," prior to the lighting of the -- just typing this makes me feel like my head is about to explode -- the National Christmas Tree.
I don't get it. I swear to you, I just don't fucking get it. It's not a holiday tree, it's a goddamn Christmas tree. It's for celebrating of the birth of God's only begotten son, Jesus Christ, sent here to save the world, lo these 2005 years ago on this day. There's no such thing as a Chanukah Bush, George.
It's bad enough that they're spending my tax dollars in Iraq, and on pork throughout the land, but can someone please tell me how they can get away with spending my tax dollars on the electricity to run the National Christmas Tree?
I want a refund.
I'm off to Florida for a week in the sun, where my mom can deal with the kids and I can go to the movies, take yoga every day, lie on a chaise longue, and shag my husband during daylight hours, not necessarily in that order.
See you all when I get back.
After hearing a piece on my daily npr podcast, I picked up a disk this weekend by Susan Tedeschi.
It's really great. Part Bonnie Raitt, part, I don't know...Eric Clapton. Find some and give a listen. There are a lot of tracks to hear (not download! boo!) at her site.
Howard, are you out there? Get it for Bari for Chanukah. She'll love it.
I read two really good books this week, both by author Jim Fergus. One Thousand White Women was good. Really good. Interesting premise, interesting characters, all that. (ahahaha! note the list of "also recommended" books ont hat page. My book club has read or is scheduled to read all but two. I guess everyone reads the same things.) But Jim Fergus's other book, The Wild Girl was better. More complex characters, more of a journey for the protagonist. I got through it in a day and a half, and liked it a lot.
Movie-wise, lots of library checkouts recently. Being Julia last night...boring. I fell asleep on the family room floor. Great Annette Bening; boring movie wehere people just talk, talk, talk in beautiful costumes. God, I hate movies like that.
On the other hand, here's free piece of advice from me: Although it was a terrific movie, don't watch Kinsey with your 90-year old grandma. It was mortifying.
You're welcome.
We were in New York last weekend. Emily and I went with my mother and my sister. We stayed in a nice hotel, ate in nice restaurants, shopped at nice stores, bought lots of shoes and cosmetics (my favorites!), and saw the Lion King.
Let me tell you about the Lion King. It was, as the reviews would indicate, incredible. It was one of the most creative and inspired pieces of theater I've ever seen, and it was perfect for a child's introduction to Broadway. The puppets were magnificent, the staging was innovative, and the costumes were brilliant.
But you know what? Ultimately, it was like a prom dress on a pig. No matter what you do, underneath all the smoke and mirrors, it's still Hakuna Fucking Matata.
How many clocks did everyone else have to change? I feel like I've been doing it for two days and I'm still not done...
Between the electronic hassle and the fucked up circadian rhythms, this whole daylight savings thing can pretty much blow me.
My dear friend Alan, who I love as much as I love anyone on this planet, has this terrible habit of dying his lovely blond hair (That's Emily in there! It's an old picture.) all sorts of wildy inapprpriate colors. I told you about the time he dyed it red, like that Toyah person, and I think it's been a variety of unnatural shades, but, in the hope of enlisting you all to help me help him stop the madness, I have no choice but to show you all my least favorite of all time.
Let's take up a collection and send the poor boy a bottle of Ultra Blue.
Get this:
In New Jersey, the Catholic Powers That Be are getting ready to invalidate the first communion of a little girl who had to use a rice wafer because she is deathly allergic to wheat.
Apparently, it's still 1492 and it remains critical to use religious dogma as a force for division and oppression.
Honestly, I'm putting this post up less for my far-flung readers than for any locals who enter the words Azul and West Hartford and review in a google search. With a little luck, they'll end up here, and I can do them a favor by saying:
DON'T GO.
Azul is the hot new Latin-fusion restaurant in town. It's been open for about a year, and has received a lot of buzz and hype. I've been twice now. Last night was our second visit. The menu is unadventurous, the food is unimpressive, and the service is abysmal. Both times, the evening would have been acceptable, if unexciting, if not for the utterly dreadful management both of the dining room and of the kitchen.
The first time we went, we waited almost 90 minutes to be seated, despite a reservation.
Last night, they steered our party of six to a table along the banquette that was actually a pair of two-tops pushed together, with three chairs along one side and a smushed arrangement on the bench along the other. While there might be someone in this world who is willing to pay those kinds of prices to eat dinner along a crack in a table, obviously, that person is not me. We ended up outside, at three two-tops pushed together, which made talking to the people at the other end of the table nearly impossible. In my opinion, as poor Karen is hearing for the umpteenth time, a table for six or more should be round or oval. A fine restaurant is not a cafeteria.
Then, just like the first time I went to Azul, we sat with our menus and we waited. And we waited. Twenty minutes later, after, mind you, we'd already been seated and moved once, when all we had seen was someone who said "I'm not your waiter, but I'll take your drink order," and there was still no bread on the table, I marched my little self inside to the manager. I introduced myself, and I said "I am not having a good time at your restaurant, and I would very much appreciate it if you would please be personally responsible for changing that." I then explained the problem. He said he'd take care of it, and I told him, remembering my past experience, that I was grateful for his help, as I did not care to spend the next two hours of my life looking over my shoulder for a waiter or something to eat.
A waitress came by and took dinner orders. Bus people brought bread and a complimentary plate of fried paintain and taro chips with dips. Karen and I ordered a salad and an appetizer to share, and everyone else ordered salads before dinner. They came out fairly promptly, but some time later, when those plates were being clear, it became obvious that the appetizer was not going to come to the table. Apologizing for the order having been lost, she told us that she would take it off the bill, and that the first round of drinks were on the house.
This is much like our first visit, during which, after waiting more than 30 minutes, three out of four appetizers came to the table, and the fourth showed up, like an orphan, sometime later. That time, in addition to free drinks, we also received an amuse bouche, a ceviche sampler, and desserts. Frankly, I'd prefer to pay for and enjoy my meal.
Dinner arrived, hot and pleasant, but really no big deal. Everyone seemed to enjoy their entrees adequately, but no one swooned.
Then, as the finished dinner plates sat and sat and sat on the table, I went to the bathroom. And found one toilet filled with unpleasantness and out of commission. Incredibly, while I used the other, some woman (a patron, not an employee!) came by and took the lid off the tank, jiggled something inside and got it working. Me? I figure I'm there for dinner and, well, fixing toilets is not my responsibility, thank you very much.
On the way back to the table, I found the manager again. I told him about the missing appetizer, the dirty plates on the table, and the broken toilet, but I think that, by this point, he'd written me off as an impossible-to-please crank, and he more or less ignored me.
Total bill for this debacle, with two bottles of wine and three coffees, but no cocktails or dessert: $310 with tip.
A lot of money for a not-so-isolated evening of suck, don't you think?
You know how, in The Rainmaker, it ends up that the insurance company has a policy to deny all claims the first time they are submitted?
I am totally, completely, and unshakably convinced that every phone company that has ever had my business has a policy of willful and deliberate misbilling in order to increase corporate profits. I am entirely sure that they charge for unnecessary and unrequested features for months on end, secure in the knowledge that most people, those not raised by my father, don't review their bills line by line, and never notice an extra $2.99 charge. And if one does, well, what the hell, 99 others didn't.
This month it was a "Roadside Assistance Plan" on my cell phone bill.
You were informed of this option when you signed up for the program, ma'am. Did you know that it gives you 10 miles of towing if you need it?
No, I wasn't informed, or I would have told you that I already pay AAA a hefty sum for 150 miles of towing if I need it, and don't need your crap option. Now give me back my two dollars and niney-nine goddamn cents.
Bastards, all of them.
Best thing the manager said to the table, which was deep in conversation and hadn't noticed a delay:
Best thing the waitress said to me:
See, now that's the kind of service that makes me happy...I am the kind of consumer who cares far far less about restaurant fuckups than I care about what they are going to do to demonstrate their sincere remorse after the fact.
A survey question, and this means you, lurkers:
This came up last night, and I have a theory about how the answers break down. I'll bet there are only two people who cross expected response lines, and I know who they are already.
So go ahead...prove me wrong.
For the record, I land on the side of Decidedly Unfunny.
Shockingly, I am seeking, not offering, advice.
An unsolicited giftie arrived today for Emily, from relatives, with, as far as I can see, no corresponding treat for Jonah. Of course, it might be in the unopened box, but I'm not counting on it. This has happened before, from the same source.
Now, on one hand, I figure he doesn't know the difference. On the other hand, I do. On the third hand, she might realize the disparity, too. But she might not.
It's not really something that I can say something about, but it does kind of get under my skin, for a whole bunch of reasons, some rational and some probably best left for my next round of therapy.
Do I figure that, as he gets older and better able to process things, this will change, and I'll deal with it then if it doesn't? Do I go looking for trouble? Do I just get over it and shut up?
Am I making a mountain out of a molehill? (Or a "mole hole," as Emily would say?)
Whatever shall I do?
Apparently, it's Celebrity Skank Week here at the Digital Hausfrau. Who's going to be in the news next? Li'l Kim? Anna Nicole?
Meanwhile, confidential to Courtney Love: You are so not Drew Barrymore
Ew.
In honor of the incoming blizzard that really wasn't much of much, Andrew went to our local Blockbuster on Tuesday afternoon and rented a couple of movies for the kids, Thirteen and Capturing the Friedmans for us.
First, Thirteen; It was good, but it wasn't what the reviews had left me thinking it would be. First, the girls playing the leads, didn't look thirteen on any planet. They didn't even look like tarted-up in trouble thirteen. Fifteen, maybe, but seventh grade? No way. The performances were good. Holly Hunter was terrific, and Evan Rachel Wood, who played the lead, was also very good. But, ultimately, I have to say: See it if it's on, but don't make a special trip.
Capturing the Friedmans, on the other hand, was profound and weird and disturbing. It's my very favorite kind of documentary, combining old footage and recent interviews, leaving things open at the end.
It's the story of a Great Neck family dealing with an accusation of child sex abuse against the father and youngest son. By the end of the film, all Andrew and I were really sure of was that everyone involved was profoundly shattered by the experience. But we really didn't know if those accused were guilty, as the prosecution and police believed without reservation, or innocent, as in the McMartin preschool case.
The film, like the story it's about, is complicated, gripping, and devastating. This one is worth staying home to watch.
Here's something you may or may not know about me: I like old musicals. Not the Busby Berkeley kind...the Gene Kelly/Judy Garland/Fred Astaire/Vincente Minelli kind. I love On the Town, Brigadoon, and Singing in the Rain. And I especially love Easter Parade. Especially.
But here's the funny thing...as much as I love Judy Garland's performance in Easter Parade, it's Ann Miller's musical numbers that know my socks off. The booty-shaking "Shaking the Blues Away" and the seemingly heartfelt but utterly cunning and manipulative "It Only Happens When I Dance with You." Those are the show-stealers.
And the costumes! In scene after scene, she's wearing the stuff of fantasy (in contrast with Judy Garland, who always seems to be wearing a tweed suit or a clown costume). The dress in the picture above ("It Only Happen When i Dance with You") is not to be believed. In case you can't tell, those are some kind of red maribou feathers at the bottom. And the "Shaking the Blues Away" costume is yellow opera length gloves with a bustier and hotpants, covered by a floor-length skirt that is completely open in the front. Yowza!
Easter's coming. Go rent Easter Parade for yourself, or come on over here and watch my copy with me. It'll be on.
Anyway, Ann Miller died yesterday at the age of 81. Not a bad run for a hoofer, I guess.
Andrew says I'm going to Hell. But it's not my fault, really! All I did was watch a trailer and then pronounce:
"There is no way that I'm sitting through two hours of Cuba Gooding playing a retard."
I am reasonably certain that it was the use of the word "retard" as a noun, in combination with the general cold-heartedness of the whole thing that got me damned, but, come on...do you want to sit through two hours of Cuba Gooding playing a retard?
The thing about me is that I'll watch any documentary if it's well done. When I watch Mr. Rogers, I definitely like the field trips to the factories the best...crayons, sweaters, erasers, whatever.
Earlier this week, I saw an interesting film on the history of the Miss America pageant on PBS. That one was worth watching both for the hilarious footage of the 1970's dance numbers and for the interviews with the women of color who watched the pageant before it was integrated and later went on to win the crown.
Last night, Andrew and I watched an HBO show called Curse of the Bambino. It's about how the Red Sox haven't managed to win a World Series since trading Babe Ruth to the Yankees in 1920, and it's terrific. The interviews with the fans were to best part, by far. And I still feel sorry for poor Bill Buckner. I felt sorry for him then, and I feel sorry for him now. So there.
They're both worth watching if you're flipping around.
I was just chatting with Julie, and I want to share this tip with all of you, as I think it will help you be funnier people:
I am so hopelessly behind the curve, music-wise. Mostly, I am forced to listen to the Disney Princesses and, when I do get a chance to choose my own music, it's a bunch of dead or near-dead White guys who haven't recorded anything new or noteworthy in decades.
But on Saturday, I bought Come Away with Me, the new album by Norah Jones, who won about eleventeen Grammy Awards for it last night.
I don't even remember what the last new album I actually bought before this (cd's of 20 year old records, like Elvis in Hawaii don't count) was. Usually, I just download the singles.
This is worth a listen. It's sort of the auditory equivalent of a nice velvety glass of Cabernet. Check it out.
Is anyone else as bored as I am with talk of the Atkins Diet? Does anyone else feel their eyes rolling back into their hear the minute someone says "carbohydrate"? Can someone please tell me in what Bizarro Universe bacon is good for you and canteloupe is bad?
Eat less pasta? Sure, ok. Buy special carbo-free beer?!? Stupid.
I feel like "carbohydrate" has replaced "antidepressant" in the world's most boring cocktail party conversations.
