Sunday, January 28, 2007

Bears and Colts and "D'oh!s" and "Don'ts!"

Will Lovie's Lambs Beat Indy?
Guess what? I don't care who wins. Really. I'm just a spectator at a spectacular spectacle - a Super Bowl party. Food as far as the eye can see. Large, loud guys with numbers on their backs - why am I reminded of a stockyard? Why can I not see the television set?

Just let me see the commercials. Who shines, who whines. There are a few other viewers who feel this way, and we band together like nervous gazelles around a pond. When a commercial comes on, my herd skitters from the buffet to the screen, being careful not to be trampled by the wild beasts hulking the other way. Thirsty, they're stampeding toward the watering hole, stabbing at the buffet we've just left. Fortunately, they're carnivores, so they ignore the vegetable plate at which we've been grazing.

When the game returns, we retreat to the shadowy corners of the room, where the wild things aren't, to resume discussions of whether the Geico Gecko is really the spurned love child of the Budweiser lizard.

If six months ago you told me that I would be sitting in a friend's home watching a game televised from Miami between teams from Chicago and Indianapolis, I wouldn't have believed you. To be honest, I don't know you that well anyway, so I probably wouldn't believe anything you said.

Who cares about the game - this is more a social event, tradition, raison-de-eat, etc. than it is a about le football. Don't fret and spill your beer, though - that's as far as I'm going to analyze this partay extraordinaire - the wildebeest are stampeding toward the bathroom, so I gotta run.

Saturday, January 13, 2007


Very cold here in SoCal. I got up at 4am to see what 30 degrees looked like. It looks dark. And cold. Much like what, say, 47 degrees looks like, only 30 is more of an event. At least here it is.

The weather, when we actually have it, makes front page news. "Possible freezing temperatures! Right after this commercial break!!" "Ways to keep warm! Use blankets!! Details at 11!!!"

When I was born in Poughkeepsie, NY, it was 30 below zero. Three feet of snow on the ground. Even the blanket of snow was shivering. Eskimos have about 30 different words for snow. So do New Yorkers, but most of them can't be printed here.

I was supposed to be born at Christmas. In honor of that untimely timing, my mother was going to name me "Holly", so you can see why I held off making my entrance into this world. By late January, however, my mother had had enough. 10 months pregnant, she decided to induce labor by shovelling snow in the driveway. This would have worked better if she had shovelled the hospital driveway, and if the city had not been a solid chunk of ice.

Despite most roads being impassable, we somehow made it to the hospital, past the elevator and almost to the delivery room. My dad was a bit peeved that he wasn't able to pace the waiting room a few times like dads in the movies. I've been trying to warm up ever since.

It was cold growing up in New York. I remember pipes bursting in our baseboard heating system because they had frozen, and the smell of burnt fur as our dog leaned against the wood stove, trying to keep warm. I learned the hard way not to ever rub your nose (or mine) in the bitter cold. Nose hairs freeze solid, becoming tiny frozen needles that, when rubbed, stab the lining of your nose. The bad part is that you don't always feel the damage until you defrost. The good part is that you don't start bleeding profusely until you defrost.

Hence my move to SoCal, where the weather is now betraying me. I was hoping to develop some hot flashes to counteract the cold snap, but no such luck. Although I have been able to generate a lot of hot air about the good cold days, and that has helped to keep me warm.

The cold-weather stylists here keep me laughing. When the thermostat dips below 50, fashionistas clunk about in bulky Ugg boots and ultra-fluffy jackets over skinny leggings, looking like primeval bigfoot flamingos. You would think that women who buy $250 boots should be able to afford underwear, but apparently not. I guess they don't have to worry about any bizarre sledding accidents, because down below is one place you really don't want to build up a snowdrift.

Thursday, January 4, 2007

Eat Your Heart Out

My wireless keyboard sits perched atop my oddly distended belly, my chubby fingers barely able to type. I recline backward to give my writhing torso room to suffer, shudder, and belch. Moans emanate from various locations. Tracking the gurgles, I discover my intestinal track runs counter-clockwise. Call Ismael, 'cause you've found the White Whale. Why did I do it? Why, why, whine?

Stupid candy. Never again. Well at least not until it's on sale. Or maybe when the Easter candy comes out, which should be, at the rate we push holiday selling, in just a few minutes.

  • I love you - here's a huge wad of sugar. If you're nice to me, I have Tums.
  • I love you - I'm proving it by fattening you up so no one else will want you.
  • I love you - please take this so I don't eat it and get sick.

Reading and eating are a painful combination. That's why I took up writing. It's much harder to stuff yourself when you're typing. If you're just reading, in the space of 10 minutes you can unknowingly consume 83 "Be Mine," "For You," "U R Cute," and "So Fine" pieces of pezzie poison.

My dear, darling, departed, passive-aggressive Nana used to bake for us grandkids. Every damn day. Sounds wonderful, doesn't it? No. No. No. It was like the movie "Groundhog Day," only with bundt cakes. We'd come home from school, the witching hour for kiddie apetites, and she'd appear with a big lump of dry cake. She'd parade right past my mother, who would be preparing dinner, sometimes with sharp kitchen utensils. "Have some cake," Nana would say, which is Gaelic for "If you love me and want me to live, you'll eat this. Now." Her spirit lives on in these heart-shaped little pieces of turmoil.

For some unknown reason, the air here in my office has grown increasingly toxic. I have to leave now, or risk the gases reaching the pilot light on the stove. Save yourselves!