Brunch Bird

This Could Go Either Jay-Z or Jordan

2010-10-25T14:56:00.002Z

I Flit, I Float, I Fleetly Flee I Fly

2007-04-26T08:00:00.000Z

Yesterday's wrap-up wasn't just for the past 12 months. It was for good. I started this blog a year ago and it's been a thoroughly lovely experiment. But I'm calling it a day. The upcoming year looks to be a very busy and exciting one for me. Also, about a month ago I said to my Significant Other, "I think I'm running out of funny. I want to go back to just observing things for the sake of observing them." He nodded thoughtfully and said, "You just want to be able to start shopping again without having to 'fess up." He knows me very, very well and it's why I'm madly in love with him. (Like Jay-Z and Jordan, I reserve the right to change my mind on a whim, especially if someone charges me too much for a veggie hotdog or unfairly tows our car and deserves public derision.)

I hope it has been half as entertaining for you to read this blog as it was for me to write it. Feel free to keep emailing me (brunchbird at yahoo dot com) and stop to say hello when you see me out on the town. And of course you're welcome to stay and rifle through the archives. Just turn off the lights when you leave please.

Sincerely,
Brunch Bird

Looking Back at a Year in Brunch Bird, Or, Profiles in Naval Gazing

2007-04-25T12:30:00.000Z

"The Last Brunch" a remix for Marithe & Francois Girbaud

It's been just shy of a year since I've started this blog and I thought I'd take a look back.

Number of people who called me self-indulgent when I said I was starting a blog: 1
Number of people who called me self-indulgent when I said I was starting a blog who now have their own blog: 1
People I was determined could never read my blog: my parents, my boss, my co-workers, and my Significant Other's parents
People who now read my blog: my parents, my boss, my co-workers, and my Significant Other's parents
Number of them who have found it cause for concern: 0
Total page downloads: 70,945
Total unique visitors: 51,215
Number of posts: 290
Most-read post: It's Christmas Eve
Reason why: An unlikely fairy godmother
Dumbest post I ever wrote: Verification Word Mad Libs (This was tough, because there have been some real stinkers, but seriously, that post was absolutely terrible.)
Favorite post to write:The One Where I Beat the D.C. Police Department
Number of gratuitous pictures of my dog on the blog: 3 (Here, here and here.)
Favorite Reason Why the Terrorists Hate Us: Bibleopoly!
Number of comments: 1,502 (Give or take. I was getting spam comments at the beginning and I lost track a couple times while tallying them all up.)
Most prolific commenter: Tie — I-66, Etcetera
First local blog I ever read: Rock Creek Rambler
My strongest blog influences: Sweet, Hammer, Pygs in a Blanket
Number of food purveyors I've likely angered:
I'm guessing three.
Best sport: Significant Other
Favorite discovery about the blogosphere: Heretofore total strangers willing to be genuinely chummy and supportive of the writings of some bird they'd never met.
Favorite overall month: November 2006
Only posts that got to me while writing: One Last Thing and To The Men Who...
Most commented-on post: The latter of those two
Most ill-advised post title ever: (sigh...$%&@)
Only person I ever talked smack about who would cause me to totally cave if he ever confronted me: Bob Woodward
Development that made me most wish I didn't blog anonymously: Making it onto McSweeney's
Two things I will post again, without even bothering to come up with a category: This video and this photograph.

You'll Want to Sit Down for This: Today I'm Talking About Mommy Bloggers

2007-04-25T12:13:00.002Z

I subconsciously vowed to never mention mommy bloggers in this space, their very presence on the Internets a looming spectre reminding me of my own dormant and ignored but certainly relentlessly ticking inner Piaget. Yet, against the odds, two have weasled their way into my affection. One is a veteran blogger who I wouldn't know if she came up and stomped on my stiletto. The other is a dear friend with whom I go way back. In addition to being the proud new owner of two, tiny newborn babies, she has a tiny, newborn blog. I vow this to you gentle reader: were these the self-indulgent whinings of dingbat women who compare changing a diaper to arguing a case before the Supreme Court, I would not put them before you. Rather, they are the bloggers I sort of want to be when I grow up: whipsmart, awe-inspiringly hip and competent caregivers, and offbeat and creative observers of their new world. I give you:

Where's My Cape?, whose April 14 post proved that she does two things well: throws wee little parties with the coolest of themes, and, writes. (She's also a doctor in her spare time, but this isn't a post about doctor mommy lifesaving blogging, is it Superwoman?)

and

Snacks, Please!, whose April 11 post about having to interview with her 2-year-old daughter at a Montessori school made me simultaneously laugh and cringe, which I think is the point of good mommy blogging anyway.

And the first commenter who makes some snotty remark about this being the day that I jumped the shark gets sent to his room without any dessert. I-66, I'm looking in your direction, mister.

The Pants Party Comes to an End

2007-04-24T12:10:00.000Z

Remember when my sister took pity on me for my rigid attempt not to spend any money and bought me the perfect Elie Tahari midnight blue pants that I'd been coveting, as a gift for making it through the first month?

Yes, well she remembered, too, while reading about me merrily skipping through the boutiques and chains of Georgetown this weekend. Last night I answered the ringing phone and said hello, not knowing who was on the other end. The first thing I heard?: "I want the pants back!"

"The world, as a rule, does not live on beaches and in country clubs."

2007-04-24T08:00:00.000Z

The weekend before last, I lounged around The Willard for their special cherry blossom high tea service. This past weekend I lounged on the lawn of St. John's College in Annapolis, munching on my parent's amazing spring tailgate spread at the St. John's-Naval Academy croquet match. In two weeks, I'm off to lounge around London. There are times when you realize how swell life is thanks largely to pure dumb luck.

For those of you unfamiliar with the croquet tradition (say, anyone not from within 10 miles of Annapolis), St. John's College--the school where students spend four years reading and discussing the Great Books and get their grades only if they request them--has only one sports team: the croquet team. And they participate in one match per year: against the Academy. To warm up for the event each team plays one practice match: against a local senior citizen's home. Dubbed "a perennial inside joke," the tilt originated when a former Academy commandant instructing a Johnnie to find a sport he and his bookworm bretheren could actually win. And every year the midshipmen don natty lawn dress while the Johnnies try to scrape together the grottiest team uniform possible. This year, they went with Budweiser T-shirts with their own "Born on" dates. The mids' waterboys are in full Navy dress. The Johnnies tote their own Budweisers around. From the Post:

The Johnnies also field a designated temptress, held in reserve for desperate moments, whose job it is to saunter over to the midshipmen with a winning smile and a tray of drinks. The mids, for their part, perennially vow to remain sober throughout the five-game match; they sometimes keep that pledge well into the second game.

Here are some pictures from the croquet event, courtesy of my father. See if you can pick out who the Naval Academy players and spectators are and who the Johnnies and their fans are. As for the dog, I believe he was an equal opportunity fan.

Statement to the Press Regarding Brunch Bird and the No-Spending Plan

2007-04-23T02:27:00.001Z

"Thank you for coming. I'll keep this brief. I'm happy to announce that Brunch Bird and Shopping, after a four-month trial separation, have reconciled. Many of you have already seen the photographs taken Sunday in Georgetown. While this does signal the end of her at-times contentious relationship with Determined Resolve, I can say that that split was amicable. Ms. Bird and Shopping request that you respect their privacy during this special time. Thank you. No questions."

Tech Triumph

2007-04-20T08:00:00.001Z

"Help one another. Do not let this one person take away from the good things that happen on a daily basis at Virginia Tech. We must take the weakness of one troubled individual, and make sure we find a way for it to make us stronger. We must, and we will, I'm sure of it."
--Frank Beamer, Virginia Tech Football Coach, Class of '69

Some Thoughts for Keyboard Warriors and Coaches

2007-04-19T11:51:00.000Z

Someone more clever than I said we are a fast food nation. And in the last few days it's been proven that we demand our heroes served up quickly, too.

From a keyboard in New York or Northern Virginia our brave and our analytical wag their fingers at the dead and the living who appeared to have lacked the bravery and coolheadedness they would have likely had when a maniac walked into their classroom and wordlessly began shooting. They reference United 93 and troops in Iraq, as if by merely pointing to the actions of those men and women they are somewhow brave by association. (Yet somehow, they've never quite found their way to the recruiting office to fight in a war they are so passionate about.) They feel that in the aftermath of a tragedy, they can bring more to the national discourse by calling the dead 'wilting lilies' than celebrating their lives.

These keyboard warriors and coaches do not brook delays, and within 48 hours of a senseless and sprawling tragedy, demand to be tucked in with bedtime stories of knights on white horses and superheroes. When they hear of only one at the outset they whine like children sent to bed without cake. Perhaps if they had waited for more than a few days, as students shot multiple times decided it was more important to heal than spill their stories to an impatient lunatic fringe, they would have read of the bravery of young men and women who blocked doors and rushed the shooter and shoved classmates into closets in the hopes that at least their peers would find some safety. And yes, they could have read that sometimes in an instant, a 20-year-old must decide whether he wants to choose a desk under which to hide, in the hopes that he might live to be married, to have children, and to fulfill a life of promise, or at the very least, to die in a spot of his choosing. That sometimes, gasp, life is not like a movie.

No, these keyboard warriors and coaches have no time for that. They've got important decisions to valiantly soldier through today in this fast food nation of ours: Quarter Pounder with Cheese or Big Mac for lunch?

In Praise of The Journalists Covering the Virginia Tech Shootings

2007-04-18T13:00:00.000Z

Since Monday, my Significant Other and other friends of ours have been in Blacksburg covering the events for different newspapers. They are journalists.

For starters, people who get paid to stand on camera and hold a microphone because they take a fake tan well and can approximate verbal gravitas are not journalists. Nor are pundits. Let’s get that incorrect notion out of the way right now. Brian Williams is not a journalist. Katie Couric is not a journalist. Dr. Phil is not a journalist. Nancy Grace is not a journalist. Some bonehead who made it to network because she was the prettiest gal on camera at WVLT in Knoxville, Tennessee, isn't a journalist. Former law enforcement officers now peddling their wares as “suspect profilers” are not journalists.

Journalists are the ones who get zero glory and have spent the last three sleepless days walking around trying to figure out how to best transcribe overwhelming pain and anguish. They’re the ones gathering the actual pieces of information that you are seeing in newspapers and online. They are the reason you knew throughout the day Monday that there was an unbearably escalating death toll in a small town 270 miles away. They are the reason you know who is responsible for the killings and that he had a history of violent writings and bizarre behavior. They are the reason you know that the students and staff killed were each in their own way remarkable and brave people. They are the reason you knew of the sorrowful convocation of the Virginia Tech family yesterday afternoon in Blacksburg, and the vigil last night, even though you weren’t there. You know all this because they found out for you.

They do a job you can’t even fathom doing. The least you could do is learn who they are, and lean toward showing them some respect or gratitude, rather than slamming them.

So This is What it Sounds Like When Doves Gag on Their Cheerios

2007-04-18T08:00:00.001Z

I've just discovered that a couple years ago, Michelle Malkin wrote a piece that namechecked me in referring to something I wrote. My name oozed from MichMalk's fingers onto her keyboard. That pretty much seals the deal: I'm going to need a valium chaser on breakfast this morning.

Show Your Hokie Pride on Friday

2007-04-17T21:39:00.000Z

Just got this email, that's apparently making its way across the country:

Orange and Maroon Effect
Virginia Tech family members across the country have united to declare this Friday, April 20th, an " Orange and Maroon Effect" day to honor those killed in the tragic events on campus Monday, and to show support for Virginia Tech students, faculty, administrators, staff, alumni, and friends. " Orange and Maroon Effect" was born several years ago as an invitation to Tech fans to wear orange and maroon to
Virginia Tech athletic events. We invite everyone from all over the country to be a part of the Virginia Tech family this Friday, to wear orange and maroon to support the families of those who were lost, and to support the school and community we all love so much.

Two TV on the Radio Tickets for Sale

2007-04-17T15:05:00.001Z

I screwed up my foot yesterday and am immobile. The show is tomorrow night at the 9:30 Club. Email me at brunchbird at yahoo dot com if you want my two tickets. $25 each, exactly what I paid. UPDATE, 12 p.m.: one left

Hokie Respect

2007-04-17T12:01:00.000Z

"Oh yeah, I'm sure your turkeys are going to field a great team this year. Uh, sorry, I mean 'your Hokies.' But I mean, a Hokie is a turkey right? Same deal?"

That's the type of conversation I typically have weekly during the football pre-season with my longtime friend Brian. He graduated from Virginia Tech in 1998, I from Clemson the same year. When Tech entered the ACC in 2003, that only cemented the rivalry. But deep down I've always harbored the notion that Virginia Polytechnic Institute is one of the nicest universities in the nation. Even in the heat of this past football season, as my Tigers prepared to face off with the Hokies, I couldn't help but give them a nod for their generosity. (Although you'll see I couldn't help make fun of their "Hokies Respect" sportsmanship campaign.) I've harbored that secret notion about Virginia Tech because the university was the backdrop of one of the most pleasant weekends of my life, and conversely, on one of the more unpleasant days, doctors at the now-famous Montgomery Regional Hospital provided some of the best medical care I've ever received.

In October 2003, I traveled to Blacksburg to see the Hokies take on No. 2 Miami. I'd spent the day tailgating with Brian and other friends who are all alumni -- some of the most laid-back people you'll ever meet, on the most perfect autumn day you'll ever see. With the sun setting over Blacksburg's hills, we made our way to the stadium, stopping to take part in a then-fledgling tradition in which the Hokies walked through the cheering fans to get into the stadium. Inside, I found myself cheering and jumping up and down like a loon for the Hokies. And then they won. Color me impressed. The next day I had to swallow a bit of pride and ask if we could stop off at the campus bookstore. I wanted to get a T-shirt. To their credit, Brian and another friend (also Bryan) kept the smirking to a minimum and waited patiently while I bought my shirt. Then we spent the morning slowly meandering across the various fields and porticoes that make up the campus, the guys pointing out the landmarks of their collegiate shennanigans and academic pursuits. Again, I was surprised and impressed. As it's an engineering school, I'd expected unremarkable concrete buildings. To the contrary, the campus, especially in autumn, is beautiful.

This past fall, I traveled again to Blacksburg, this time to see my Tigers take on the Hokies. But because of a peculiar chronic syndrome I've got, I ended up being taken by ambulance immediately after the game to Montgomery Regional Hospital. This illness seems to rear its head when I travel, so I've logged a lot of time in middle-of-nowhere hospitals. But this time, yet again, I was impressed. The staff at Montgomery Regional was efficient, professional, compassionate, and unlike most times when I arrive at a hospital with this illness and am greeted by skepticism or incompetence, they were helpful. The doctors and nurses there had a young woman in front of them who'd been brought in from campus, had spent the day tailgating and yet they didn't question me twice when I said that I'd only had a couple beers that day and that that wasn't the problem. And perhaps most importantly, through the whole thing, Brian and another friend, Joey, didn't complain once about having to pass up their well-deserved post-game partying downtown to hang out in the waiting room of the hospital.

Today, I'll dig into my dresser and get out the Virginia Tech T-shirt I bought that morning in 2003. I'll wear it as my own tiny act of defiance against a monster, and to honor a school that I consider a class act.

Virginia Tech

2007-04-16T12:00:00.000Z

I've poked a lot of playful fun at Virginia Tech over the years. Today my heart goes out to all of you who now call or once called the campus home.

Urgent Action Needed!

2007-04-13T08:00:00.002Z

Periodically I mobilize my little corner of the internets for voting in various contests on behalf of friends who are vying for journalistic titles ranging from hottest to up-and-comingyiest. This time your vote is needed for something far, far more shallow. Another soul near and dear to my heart was a finalist in the Post's Sunday Source Peep contest. Please, if you do nothing else in the next 30 seconds (and then every 30 seconds after that for the duration of the contest), go vote for her entry: Marpeep Antoinette.

And yes, you'll see other worthy candidates when you go to vote. But there's only one way to demonstrate to all of the Post readers the power of the Brunch Bird voting block: by voting for the contestant who had the prescience to look at a Peep and say, "That thing should have a cotton ball wig on its head." Thank you and God speed.

Return to Putting on a Good Show

2007-04-12T08:00:00.003Z

I've been sleeping with my TV on the Radio tickets under my pillow for about three months now. However a friend emailed me a slightly troubling dispatch from their show the night before last in Florida. TV on the Radio, if you read this blog (and really, how could you not?) please don't do this next week:

...There were THREE opening acts. [Name] and I arrived at what we thought would be the perfect time to miss them: 9:30. The third opener hadn't even begun. There was about 30 minutes of fiddling w/mics etc. before they got started. The Blood Brothers were horrendous and played 20 songs -- more than appropriate for an opener, in my opinion. TV on the Radio finally took the stage at 11:45. At one point, the lead singer sprayed the entire crowd with his water bottle, because, he noted, it was hot. Um, yeah. At least they sounded incredible. After 6 songs, they left the stage and their encore included members of the three previous bands. We left at 1, before they finished, exhausted, damp and slightly disappointed...Sigh. I hope your experience is way cooler.

Me too. Because I'm not going to be able to be a smarmy snotball about having had these tickets that have been sold out for months if not.

Diet Coke is Making Me Fat

2007-04-11T08:00:00.001Z

Those who have known me for some time know that I am prone to making pronouncements. Historical examples:

Kindergarten, holding brown paper bag on which I'd written "Running Away," containing blanket and bag of marshmallows: "I'm running away."
Response from parents: "OK, be careful."

Senior year of high school: "I had a dream last night that I killed a cow by pushing it off the back deck and now I'm going to be a vegetarian."
Response from parents: "Yes, dear."

Yesterday: "I'm thinking about getting a nose job. I want a nose that could best be described as 'pert.'"
Response from Significant Other: "No, you're not."

This morning: "Diet Coke is making me fat. I'm not drinking it anymore."
Response from Significant Other: [silence, continues reading newspaper]

As you can see, my loved ones have grown accustomed to weathering these various whims. However, in an attempt to keep my batting average above .500, I believe that pronouncement No. 4 will join pronouncement No. 2 in actually sticking. Typically, throughout Lent, I don't eat sweets. This usually results in a nice, flat stomach. Ergo, I've always inferred that sugar = little potbelly, so no sugar = hello bathing suit season! But this year, that wasn't the case. I still had that little stubborn bump. Then I realized that I've been chugging Diet Cokes like they're going out of style and I made the connection. So for the last few days I cut way back and switched mainly to water. Already flatter.

Eons ago I remember reading a Vogue health article by some dame who wanted to lose weight [Editor's note: all Vogue health articles are either by a 115-pound contributing editor who wants to lose weight or a 28-year-old contributing editor who wants to get Botox] and her doctor prohibited diet sodas on the belief that the carbonation led to swelling. Do any members of the scientific or medical community reading this have any explanation for this? Is it really just because of the sodium? I'd Google it myself but I don't have time. I've got nose job risks to investigate.

No Sausage for Oil! (Or, you know, whatever else you want to yell at Paula Deen.)

2007-04-10T08:00:00.000Z

I don't eat meat, and I'm always looking for an opportunity to be even more smug than usual, so I'm already standing in solidarity with the folks at Justice at Smithfield. Which, according to the email I just received, means heckling Food Network star Paula Deen next week when she comes to the Natural History museum:

Paula Deen is Cookin' for Smithfield in DC
We invite you to join us at 6:00 pm on April 18 at the National Museum of Natural History to greet Paula Deen who is currently on tour promoting her new book "It Ain't All About the Cooking." ..Paula Deen, famous for her southern buttery cooking, has partnered with Smithfield Foods in a marriage of mutual promotion...This partnership ignores the organizing efforts of over 5,500 Smithfield Packing workers in Tar Heel, N.C., where workers' injuries have gone up by 200% since 2003 and where workers are constantly enduring harsh working conditions characterized by fear, threats, abuse, and intimidation. How can Paula Deen who claims to put her "family values ahead of her cooking values" support a company which, according to a PBS Now documentary, "penalizes workers for taking care of their children and leaves amputated parents who can no longer keep their jobs and therefore are fired"? ...Because you support the struggle of Smithfield Tar Heel workers for decent working conditions, let's give Paula Deen a warm welcome during her visit...Lets ask Paula to do the right thing.

Now, I like Paula Deen. I respect any cook who refers to a recipe in which she rolls bananas in melted butter as "a healthy snack." And after years in the South, her show provides a nice trip down memory lane whenever she says something like "swait puhtatuh." But Deen should know that she's shilling for a company that treats its workers in such a shabby fashion. Also, I'm wondering why she is taking her book tour to the Natural History Museum. Seriously, is she going to be slapping together a batch of ham biscuits next to the Hope Diamond, or stewing up a crab boil underneath the elephant? Because when I think "Invertebrate Room" I don't think "tasty."

Time to Get My Easter Candy On

2007-04-05T19:20:00.000Z

I'm off to Wrightsville Beach, N.C., for four days of relaxing Joey-style (before she went crazy and married the dude from Cocktail) at a beachfront manse with the fam. Cannot wait. I've got Easter candy to eat—Cadbury cream eggs, jelly beans, chocolate Easter bunnies, Peeps—you name it. Especially Peeps. God knows those little yellow, sugar-covered buggers are an inspiring creation...

Happy Easter everyone!

Ten Easy Steps for Having a Romantic, Post-Work Cherry Blossom Date

2007-04-04T08:00:00.000Z

1. Forget how much of a pain in the ass the ordeal was last year.
2. Leave work later than planned. Know this 15 minutes will irrevocably damage the entire evening’s schedule.
3. Scratch earlier plans to prepare a chic Mediterranean spread or a sumptuous Parisian picnic. Instead, dash into Popeyes and point to the first pile of chicken and carbohydrates you see on the board.
4. Meet Significant Other at work, who is also now running late. Know that this additional 15-minute delay means any cherry blossoms will be viewed for roughly five minutes in the daylight.
5. Jam onto the Metro with a bunch of cranky natives and slogging tourists. Dither over whether it’s the Federal Triangle exit or the Federal Center exit.
6. Delight in remembering that it is Federal Triangle exit that’s closest, which is the one you got off at. This is great because you now only have approximately three miles to walk to see the *$&# cherry blossoms.
7. Scramble across the Mall as the sun sets, lugging the Popeyes, and wonder what in the heck Tom Cavanagh of "Ed” fame is doing with a bunch of other ironic T-shirt wearing hipsters standing around hugging each other off to the side of the Washington Monument. (For reals!)
8. Wonder how in the heck the Significant Other actually remembered that the dude’s name is Tom Cavanagh when the best you could muster was an elbow jab to his ribs and a muttered “HeyitsthatdudefromEd.”
9. Finally arrive at suitable picnic spot. Spread the blanket, tuck into the beans and biscuits, laugh as the petals landing in the dinner and your hair, and glower at the idiots yanking on the branches for their photos.
10. Lean back on elbows, take in the pale, puffy pinkness of the Tidal Basin as the day’s light fades, and forget how much of a pain in the ass this whole ordeal has been.

Dear Sir or Madam, You Might Want to Add "Customer Banter" to Your Licensing Requirements

2007-04-02T08:00:00.000Z

When the weekend concludes with penning a letter to the D.C. Taxi Commission informing them that they might not want their drivers telling departing passengers, “I will f*** you in the a**," one knows that they have had quite a weekend.

No-Spending Plan Tabled, Or, The March Treasurer's Report

2007-03-30T08:00:00.000Z

By now you all know the story: I'm trying to not to spend any money on myself in 2007. But remember the Jefferson Hotel sale I told you about yesterday? Um, yes, well see the thing is...OK, here's the deal*: since last spring I've been trying to find a wrought iron table for my balcony. I logged significant frequent flyer miles on Smith&Hawken, Tarjay, Craigslist, you name it. The table wasn't out there unless I was willing to pay $300. Which I wasn't. So when I pushed open a tall glass terrace door at the Jefferson and saw one of those perfect $300 tables sitting there, with a price tag of $125, I knew that I was going to have to recalibrate my principles. Make no mistake: I don't dither over whether to recalibrate my principles if the price is right. I do however feel more than a twinge of guilt about this slip now. It's really going to gnaw at me as I spend Saturday morning on the balcony, reading the paper, eating my croissant, at my new table.

Here's the damage for March:

*All phone calls to my parents for my four years of college opened with the phrase "here's the deal." It was immediately followed by a highly cogent explanation for why X-number of dollars were needed.

Even Eloise Got Evicted From The Plaza

2007-03-29T08:04:00.000Z

Yesterday after work I went over to the Jefferson Hotel, which is closing and liquidating. (It was technically invitation only but anyone can go today from 10-7.) Everything's for sale, right down to the hangers and bathrobes. It was fairly quiet when I was there, giving me the chance to poke around in rooms alone. It was a somewhat maudlin and eerie stroll. Sunlight filtered into empty rooms. Stately lodgings had become disheveled, priced-to-go sums of their parts. For two years, when daydreaming, I've looked from my office window, down the street, at one particular balconied room of this hotel. Yesterday, I found my way to that room and stared out the window back at my own office nearby. The room was enormous and had once been grand, just as I'd imagined it. But now the rich wood furniture was covered with a fine coat of dust. I was simultaneously intrigued and a little bummed out to stand inside it.

Waiting for one of the tiny elevator cars that would carry me back down to the ornate and quickly-being-dismantled lobby, I chatted with a nun in full-length habit. Tired from winding her way through the maze of rooms on the eighth floor, she perched on a brocade-seated chair, resting her arm against a pile of several matching ones. "The chairs around the table in our meeting room are so rickety," she told me. "These will be nice." I liked the idea of the chairs moving from a place where rooms once cost $350 a night to providing a nice place for the sisters to sit.

No Wonder People Stick With "Goo Goo Ga Ga"

2007-03-28T08:05:00.000Z

While I do not tend to say the wrong things around adults, I lack the gene that prevents me from sticking my stilettos directly in my mouth when children are involved. Take the case of my former Florida newspaper’s holiday party, when I leaned over to a coworker’s little boy, mustered what I thought passed for interest and enthusiasm and said, “Hi there little guy! Are you ready for Santa?! I bet you’re ready for Santa!” The kid looked at me blankly and his father said tersely, “We’re Jewish,” before hustling him off to the secular cookie buffet.

This quirk is especially problematic now that the birthing season is upon us. There are only 16 units in my co-op, so we’re all fairly chummy. Which means that the decision of about a quarter of the building to breed nine months ago now has me standing in the kitchen every other night whipping up a casserole of some sort. (After significant time in the South I’ve learned there is one appropriate response to birth and death and it's is the same: tuna noodle surprise.)

So when I took a batch of vegetarian goulash to the two lovely women living above us who had twins a few weeks ago, I did the auto-smile, cooed and blurted out: “Ooh, they’re so tiny!” Which was great, because they were born four weeks premature. Then last night I hauled some Florentine mac ‘n cheese to the couple next door and their two-day-old bundle of joy. This visit seemed to be going well. I opened with a “He is beautiful,” (and right after saying it, I knew I meant it) and brought it home with a “So perfect. He doesn’t even have that red blotchiness that babies usually have.” And then the new mother adjusted him on her lap to show that yes, in fact, the side of his little noggin that had been turned away from me was a big pile of blotchy.

Lesson learned: from now on I’m just knocking, chucking the Tupperware at them when they open the door, and fleeing.

A Thought

2007-03-27T17:43:00.000Z

First this:

Now this:

If Vogue isn't careful, they're going to make it socially acceptable to eat food again. Maybe even for a whole season.

Thanks to Static Cling for the head's up on the ScarlettJo cover. (Hot for her, not a Vogue reader, in case you're wondering.)

I Think I'm Going to Need a New Passport Photo for the London Trip

2007-03-27T08:22:00.000Z

This is what happens when you have to go to the passport office on a bad day. Specifically, say your 30th day. On the planet.

(And for once I can't even blame a terrible photo on my hair.)

A Cherry Blossom Warning: This Event is a Total Rip

2007-03-26T02:31:00.000Z

Photo by Kerrin-Sue

I can only hope that I get this very important information to you in time: Unless you enjoy flushing $10 bills down the toity, I do not recommend signing up for the Cherry Blossom high tea on the Potomac. (Disclaimer: I speak only from personal experience. Results may vary.) Last year, two friends and I made reservations. We flinched a bit at the $50 per person price tag, which was significantly higher than the swanky tea services offered by The Willard ($37) and The Jefferson ($32). But the schpiel--plugged in nearly every local print and online Cherry Blossom Festival round-up--promised: "See the blossoms from the river on this two-hour cruise featuring seated, full tea service and historical narration. Reservations required." Here's what we got in return:

* A shabby boat that looked and smelled like a floating rec room, with damp industrial carpeting, plastic outdoor tables and chairs (indoors mind you), and fake flowers.
* A handful of Hershey's kisses (whaa?) on the tables and a plate of stale cookies.
* Inedible finger sandwiches on stale white bread and mystery filling. "Soup," poured out of a plastic drink pitcher. It was, I kid you not, pureed tomatoes. Only pureed tomatoes. Like its sandwich bretheren, it too was inedible.
* And the tea? We got a teabag. And a tiny pot of water without a lid on top for three people. When we asked for more tea, one member of the crew of surly men serving the tea came and poured water into the cups with our used teabags in them.
* As for the "historical narration?" The most bizarre assemblage of uninteresting trivia about the various industrial buildings that hunker along the Southeast waterfront, which was all there was to see, because the charter company had started taking bookings for this tea a week before the blossoms were even out.

Our shipmates and the three of us spent the duration of the seemingly interminable trip exchanging "Is this a joke?" glances. Within 48 hours, I'd sent a letter to Capital Yacht Charters stating that this was a bordering-on-fradulant experience based on the price and advertising and that I expected a refund for all three of us. They obliged. Quickly. Clearly, the company in the intervening year realized that they needed to change the way they were doing business. Yes, I see on the ad for this year's that they certainly have changed things. They've raised the price by $10.

"I Think I Smell A Rat, Oh, I Think I Smell A Rat"

2007-03-24T14:10:00.000Z

Something tells me I've been hosed. More to come later...

Mind The Gap

2007-03-23T11:34:00.000Z

A while back, one of the answers on the Times crossword was "Mind the gap." I didn't have a clue what that meant. The Significant Other looked at me blankly and said "You know, like on the Tube, in London." Well, I didn't know. Because despite the fact that I was born in Europe, I haven't stepped foot on my native soil since age two. I am woefully undertraveled outside of this country. When most college students were backpacking through Europe picking up new languages and STDs, I was using my extra sememster to work on Capitol Hill. Then I became a journalist in the South, which pretty much ensured that I'd never be able to afford traveling again.

So now I am determined. And booked. I reserved the ticket last night and the apartment this morning.
I'll be calling this place home for about a week and a half in May. It's an apartment in South Kensington. It appears to be beautiful but I of course have a twinge of paranoia that I'll arrive and see it's located directly beneath a highway overpass, next to a fat rendering plant, across from a prison.

Here's where you come in. If you've been to London, please advise on what sights, restaurants, etc. I shouldn't miss or should avoid like the plague. Seriously--Ye Olde Plague Museum--go or no?

Spend $5 and Be a Hero All Day Long

2007-03-21T11:54:00.000Z

Can you live without your venti latte tomorrow?
How about one of your beers tomorrow night?

If so, please help out these folks who lost everything in a fatal fire in Charlottesville this weekend by going to this link now to donate $5 (or whatever you can.) Sweet knows them and is asking for help on their behalf, which is a good enough character recommendation for me. Trust me, you'll be repaid karmically.

There's Definitely Something Being Frosted Over

2007-03-20T04:44:00.000Z

Ever since CakeLove and Love Cafe opened on U Street, owner and media darling Warren Brown has been defending his sweet treats against criticism that they're subpar because they're served out of refrigerated cases. His unwavering explanation: the health department makes him do it, and yes, deep sigh, he knows that his cakes and cupcakes suffer as a result. If only the customers would educate themselves. Brown even helpfully printed instructional stickers that reference the DC health codes on the back. Given these draconian mandates from the health department butterazis all these years, it's a miracle that he's managed to overcome the odds to get such glowing press from everyone from the Post to People magazine to Oprah.

But then, this week on Brown's own blog, came
this:

"We’re taking the chill off our cupcakes so that every visitor to Love Café gets the best of CakeLove. No one will have to wait for their cupcake to come up to room temperature anymore—now cupcakes will already be at room temperature."

Wow! After years of getting assailed because of a health department rule against which he was powerless, suddenly he can start serving room temperature cupcakes! That must have involved a ton of lobbying, lawyers, and such to get the law changed right? Let's call the health department and ask them about the big shakeup. They must be up to their ears in aftermath of this change!

On second thought, before we add to the health department's surely cah-razy time right now, let's take a closer look at the rest of his blog post:

"Why change things around at Love Cafe? Lots of reasons, but so that I don’t bore you, here’s just one. I love our buttercream and cupcakes, but only when served at room temperature. So why not offer to frost cupcakes at Love Café? I guess a fear of duplicating work is what kept the cupcake production streamlined and localized at the CakeLove."

Looks like Brown's former life as a lawyer is coming in handy. "I guess a fear of duplicating work is what kept the cupcake production streamlined..." I'm going to go out on a limb here and interpret that verbal tapdancing: We've always known that if we whip these cupcakes up in big old batches and refrigerate them, we can store them longer and it makes us a heck of a lot more money than keeping fresher stock in limited quantities, plus we can blame the health department (although no other bakery in town feels the need to do so) when they taste utterly mediocre. We are the masters of economies of scale thinking. But now we think we might be able to work up a system where people pay even more for their frosted-to-order cupcakes, so poof! the old health department rule doesn't affect the same buttercream products anymore.

Mr. Brown? I'm not buyin' it, cupcake.

Turn Your Head and Offer Way Too Much Information

2007-03-19T08:01:00.000Z

Not that you asked (and trust me, that phrase will set the tone for this post), I haven't posted in a little while because I've been busy getting diagnosed with what is officially the silliest sounding disease ever...wait for it...Cyclic Vomiting Syndrome. The long and short of it is that about every six months I start heaving and, as the name implies, can't stop until I sally forth to a hospital for my intervenous cocktail of choice on such occasions--liquid phenergan.

The first time this happened was Christmas 1999. I assumed I was allergic to the pine tree-dotted resort in the Catskills where I was spending the holidays. The last time it happened was at this past fall's Clemson-Virginia Tech football game. (That's my little gameday souvenier from the Montgomery General Hospital in the picture.) While I would have liked to have assumed I was allergic to bad football and Hokies, I knew otherwise. After that incident I decided six years of this foolishness was enough and it was time to figure out what was going on. So I recently turned myself over to the folks at Johns Hopkins. (It's like a spa with doctors. And needles. And scary radiation tests. But seriously, other than that, it's awesome.) So it appears that CVS, the disease named after a drugstore, is my little cross to bear. Which in the grand scheme of health maladies is like having doctors tell you that you're going to break a nail every six months. (That is, in my case. I should note that for some who get this--typically little kids--it can be very serious.)

I share all of this not to make you say "Ewww gross," and do that sneer thing you do with your right nostril. Rather, it is to make you aware of this illness in case you too have evenings of non-stop heaving that you can't attribute to bad shellfish or too much champagne. I'd make yellow rubber "Pukestrong" bracelets, but frankly I think since I and about 10 other people have this thing, I'm not sure I'd break even.

Beauty and the Bus

2007-03-12T08:01:00.000Z

One summer during college I decided to take a Greyhound bus to visit my sister in New York. It was a stinky and arduous process involving a filthy bus station in an unsavory corner of Baltimore, “salt of the earth” fellow passengers (translation: edgy drifters and mothers yelling disciplinary obscenities at their children), and tedious stops along the route. All this, in the days before gel hand sanitizer. So I was skeptical when friends recently recommended the Washington Deluxe bus service that picks you up at 15th and K and travels directly to midtown Manhattan, and vice versa. When they told me it costs $35 round trip I decided that skepticism was for suckers. In the years since that awful bus trip, I’d routinely been shelling out $120 for either a plane, train or gas-and-toll bill.

Still, after they made the recommendation, I actually took the time to read the Post story from a while back about the questionable safety records of some of these curbside operators. Despite using phrases like “seem to operate with virtual impunity,” and "whatever, it's your funeral," I couldn’t really detect anything for which a $35 dollar roundtrip bus fare could not compensate. That left one hurdle: would the passengers hark back to that trip where I had to sleep with one open eye trained on the scar-jawed dude next to me who looked like he’d shiv me for the peanut butter crackers in my bag?

To the contrary, I can happily report to those of you unfamiliar with the D.C.-to-New York City curbside bus system that it might as well be called The Coldplay Express. Most of the passengers were mid-to-late-20s females. Oversized sunglasses, J. Crew car coats, and tousled top-knotted hair abounded. While, it's a boon for those of us looking for a cheap and plush shuttle to the city, the real jackpot is for the gentlemen on the make. A smart guy looking for a girl would be well advised to budget enough cash to simply spend a weekend going up and back on the thing. With the exception of the occasional male hipster, pretty young women with little else to occupy them for four hours fill the seats. It’s like a Jane Austen novel on wheels.

Godspeed travelers.

The Title of Greatest City in the World Will Temporarily Be Transferred

2007-03-08T19:12:00.000Z

I'm migrating (albeit in the wrong direction) for the next four days. Have a lovely week/weekend. If I call, please answer; I've probably inadvertantly made like Sherman McCoy and I'm looking for bail money. Not that I'm planning on running anyone over in the Bronx, mind you, but I like to have all bases covered.

Waiting for Guffman or a New Campaign Manager

2007-03-07T12:32:00.000Z

Dear lord I wish I could take credit for this post but it has to go to my Significant Other. As we sat cringing the other night watching Hillary Clinton do her fake Southern accent,

something occurred to him.
Fast-forward to 1:49 on the counter:

Yes, Hillary Clinton, running for president of the United States, is delivering speeches with roughly the same level of talent that Dr. Allen Pearl displayed in his Blaine Fabin performance. Respectfully Hillary, just like fire, people just don't like fake accents, poked, poked in their noses.

Never Send to Know For Whom the Bell Tolls. It Tolls for Thee, Brah

2007-03-06T17:33:00.000Z

I view young lad Jason of MTV's Laguna Beach fame, arrested last weekend, not as some vacuous moron, but rather, a modern-day Icarus, flying too closely to the searing heat that is Rumors nightclub in downtown Greenville, North Carolina.

I post this only because I used to cover crime in downtown Greenville, North Carolina. And because that mugshot is ridiculous.

What the Hells? An Investigation Into Why Your M'Dawg Hot Dog Just Cost $8

2007-03-05T07:35:00.000Z

UPDATE: The Washington Post realizes that to sit on this hot dog pricing story is to sit on Watergate! I guess this makes me Woodward. Or Bernstein. At the very least it makes me Woodstein.

I've been more excited about the opening of M'Dawg Haute Dogs than a vegetarian should be. But I figured they'd offer a veggie "haute dog," increasing my cheap neighborhood dining options. That it's owned by the same folks who run Amsterdam Falafelshop was a good omen. So on Saturday afternoon we ambled down for our inaugural visit. There it was on the menu: The Virgin Dawg, no meat. Brilliant. And it only costs(NEEDLE SCRATCH ON THE RECORD)...$5.50?! Add in the side of fries for $2.75 and nearly $2 for a medium soda and I was shocked to find myself digging into my wallet for a tenspot. Well, surely this was going to be the Chanel suit of veggie dogs, earning its "haute" moniker and price tag, nestled in a tasty bun next to a generous pile of golden fries. Eh, not so much. It was a thin veggie dog no different in size or savoriness than the frozen Morningstar Farms links I get from Safeway, plunked in a potato bun. The small boat of fries could have fit into my palm. Across the table, my Significant Other was eyeballing his brat and soda skeptically, looking bemused to find himself $8 lighter considering what was in front of him.

None of it made sense: how could the same people who serve up such delicious and appropriately sized portions at Amsterdam be peddling such overpriced fare across the street? Sure the rent for Adams Morgan retail space has to be ridiculous but that doesn't mean you can just charge $6 or $8 for a hot dog and call it a day. A quick Google search indicated I wasn't alone. People were getting downright pissy about M'Dawg prices and veggie dog quality.

So I called the shop yesterday. The co-owners weren't around but a polite guy took the message. A tip of the hat to co-owner Arianne Bennett calling me back within a matter of minutes, considering the message said "blogger" and "prices." Bennett is as chill as you'd expect for someone who, along with husband Scott, brought tasty and convenient falafel to the masses two years ago at Amsterdam. She didn't strike me as the type to sell $8 wieners with the sole intent of bolstering her ivory backscratcher collection. Thus unfolded the plaintive tale of The Little Guy (er, Gal):

* She started by acknowledging that the veggie dog "isn't a good one to judge prices on." Why? Because my grumpy pronouncement that it tasted no different than the Morningstar Farms ones I buy was dead on. It is a Morningstar Farm hot dog. Until her husband can come up with a superlative, handmade veggie dog, they're using the most popular mass-produced brand as determined by polling on the Adams Morgan listserv, Arianne said.

* M'kay, but that doesn't really explain the prices. Turns out, the sausages sold at M'Dawg come from different producers around the country who hand-separate the meat from the bone, as a butcher would. Arianne said their pre-launch research indicated this is crucial because a mechanically separated dog means you're likely getting bone and all other nasty bits in your dog. And several of M'Dawg's sausages come from organic, wild pig farms where Wilbur enjoys more creature comforts than his industrial pig farm counterparts before meeting his demise. Think more Whole Foods, less 7-Eleven or streetcorner cart.

* But here's the main thing compounding the price problem: because M'Dawg is such a small operation, their meat orders don't hit the 1,500-pound mark that most vendors require to ship a full pallet at a discounted rate. So M'Dawgs has to pay their suppliers retail and they have to have the stuff FedExed to them. "We're not getting any kind of deal," Arianne said. And as for their half-smoke costing about 45 cents more than the same ones at Ben's Chili Bowl? "I'm not paying U Street rent," she said, "I'm paying 18th Street rent." Finally, with their bevy of gourmet toppings (available for another buck--and which I later noticed the girl at the register had just automatically charged me without asking), they think they offer something more for late-night diners than the standard undercooked slice of pizza. "It's kind of a higher-end outfit," she said of her shop.

There might be some good news in the future. "It is possible prices will go down," Arianne said. When the Bennetts opened Amsterdam Falafelshop they started "at the bare bones" prices and then had to raise them. "That made people really unhappy," she said. How unhappy? "They were getting mad at the people working the register. We thought this time that if we started at a high enough price, we might be able to get better deals eventually and lower the prices."

So there it is. Apparently, it's hard out there for an independent hot dog pimp. I suppose it's no different than the way I pick which hardware store to patronize. Rather than stepping foot in Home Depot, I will always pay at least a third more at 17th Street Hardware, because it's a local, independent and friendly shop. Same should go for hot dogs too, I guess.

Hallmark of...Oh, forget it, here's a Happy Hour recap

2007-03-02T17:40:00.000Z

Fun was had:
* The hosts handled their combined debut like rock stars.
* I have to believe that the conversations I had with Arjewtino and Scott the Shot marked the first time that any guys ever stood in The Front Page talking to a girl about how wonderful the women in their lives (who couldn't make it) were.
* Talked to a crop of nice new bloggers, as well as the vets. Coveted Attention Span of a Fly's dress. Finally met Martin who made my jaw drop when he said he's been doing this for five years. Five years people. I can't think of any hobby I've had for five years, besides silently judging people.

Mistakes were made:
* I spent more than 15 minutes at The Front Page.
* My feckless attempt to organize the masses left the Rambler crooning a plaintive "All By Myself" at The Bar.
* Went home and had a reaction to some bad, errr, shellfish.

An Antique Silver Loophole in The February Treasurer's Report

2007-03-01T16:41:00.001Z

While lounging in a French Quarter shop a few weeks ago waiting for the owner to wrap four silver mint julep cups I'd plucked from his shelves for my sister's birthday present, it occurred to me that altruism could be just the thing to get me through this no spending on myself plan. Technically, I can't shop for me. But there's nothing in the rules against buying unto others. Quite to the contrary, how could I not honor this significant birthday with a significant gift? Sure they were pricey, I thought while he wrapped them in delicate French tissue paper, but not only am I getting her a smashing gift, I'm helping the New Orleans economy rebound.

Time to tally the February receipts for shopping on myself.
You might be clucking with disapproval upon seeing that an amount pops up this month. That's supposed to be zero, you say. You'd be right. But as I explained last week , my gloves got a hole in them and I can't very well go around looking like a hobo. So $11.89 was spent on a (ridiculous) pair of new gloves. That leaves $2.09, which was spent purchasing two songs from iTunes. So I slipped a bit. If only I could find a way to justify it as a charitable contribution. As with January, dining expenses continue to be about half as much as the previous year when I'm not going out and shopping all the time. The irony being that the less I dine out, the more I lose weight, and the more I need new clothes. What a pickle. March is going to be tricky...

Four Things I Became Aware of Last Night

2007-03-01T08:00:00.000Z

1. Beer improves my ability to ice skate.

2. The Boston Red Sox have a player named "Coco Crisp."

3. Beer improves my ability to make fun of men named Coco Crisp.

4. All referees involved in the Texas-Texas A&M game last night were blind, corrupt, and incompetent. I mean I'm just guessing based on the vehement assertions coming out of the living room after I got home.

UPDATE: This has been brought to my attention:

Harvest of Shame Indeed

2007-02-28T08:00:00.000Z

Last night I watched two excellent, compelling, and utterly depressing programs on television. The first was part three of the PBS Frontline "News War" documentary about the current state of journalism. To sum up about five hours of thoughtful investigation and analysis, the current state of journalism is, if I may be blunt, f****ed. This final installment focused on the panic that many news organizations, now beholden to stockholders, are in over declining readership and how that's leading them to make asinine decisions like using Rocketboom and YouTube viewership stats to plan their news coverage. This, while feeding viewers a steady diet of "To Catch a Predator" and Anna Nicole Smith body trial coverage in the hopes that giving America what it wants to call news, not what is actually news, will be their salvation.

Chilling lowlight of the program: Charles Bobrinskoy, chairman of a financial company that is one of the largest stockholders in the Tribune Company--a man who fancies himself an expert in matters of journalism because some of his stocks say "newspaper" on them--issuing the pronouncement that the L.A. Times (a paper that's won 13 Pulitzer Prizes in recent years, and that the Tribune Company now owns) doesn't need to concern itself with covering such national and international issues as the Iraq war. Three papers alone should cover something like Iraq, according to Bobrinskoy: The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, and USA Today. The L.A. Times (and, by extrapolation, all other metro papers, save those three biggies) would better serve readers by closing up shop on national and international issues. Yes, if the past few years have taught us anything it's that we would have all been better off if reporters nationwide had just handed the keys to Judy Miller for pre-war coverage and focused on potholes and Little League. Or that we definitely wouldn't have a problem if we all relied exclusively on the newspaper that devotes space on the front page to illuminating such newsworthy topics as "Where the dog sleeps"* and "Joint pain by gender" for our coverage of the Bush administration. Coming from anyone else, this sentiment would have been merely laughable. Coming from one of the guys who now has a say in journalism because of his money, it was terrifying.

It would have been the most disheartening thing I watched all night if we hadn't switched over afterward to Bob Woodruff's special on soldiers who suffer traumatic brain injuries, "To Iraq and Back." It was unspeakably sad, and, as with The Washington Post's superlative investigation last week on the inexcusable conditions at Walter Reed Army Medical Center, absolutely maddening to see the near-criminal negligence of our government when it comes to providing for wounded soldiers.

*42% in the bed, according to these Edward R. Murrows of the new millenium!

Let's Tally the Number of Celebrities I've Rubbed Elbows With in the Past Week

2007-02-27T16:27:00.000Z

Zero. Now let's tally the number of celebrities my sister-in-law and brother have mingled with: a gajillion. Because while I was slogging through the primordial ooze of a wintry D.C. week, they were out in L.A. for the Oscars. Not "coincidentally, when the Oscars were occurring." Actually for the Oscars.

With the requisite vaguery and evasiveness I will say only that it was my sister-in-law's* executive role that found them there. My brother apparently decided that houses in Atlanta could design themselves for the week and while she pressed the flesh, he lounged poolside and cased the celebrity swag tents for possible porous entry points. Their hotel? The old school glam and recently re-opened to massive buzz Roosevelt. The gift basket in their room the first night? It had an iPod in it. The celebs they were lounging around with (separated only by a distance of a few chairs here or a table there)? Clive Owen, Diddy, and some guy from 24 who doesn't count because that's TV and this is the Oscars for God's sake. And at the big event, they snapped a pic or two of the folks gracing the red carpet.

I've posted two versions of one of their pictures. Above, the cropped one. Below, the uncropped one, proving that celebrities are just like you and me. We all get to have unsightly strip malls obscured from our gaze by fake hedges.

*Yes, this is the same sister-in-law who last year scored off of Jon Stewart at the Emmys.

Uh-oh. I Suppose I Shouldn't Mention That I Won the Nobel Peace Prize, the Pulitzer, and the Pritzker This Weekend

2007-02-26T08:00:00.000Z

At first I presumed that a little Puck had created BestDCBlog purely as a vehicle to get bloggers and commenters sniping about one another. Upon further review I see that I am, happily, correct. (I say "happily" because it's a niche market just not being served elsewhere on the internet and I think they're onto something fresh.) Anyway after three long weeks, the cognoscenti have finally given me my due by nominating me for "Worst DC Blog." While my nominators go for the obligatory feces reference (yawn) and the linguistic legstretching of "she sucks," it's the following gem that emerges as the clear leader from the Bunched Underdrawers Brigade:

I'm so sick of hearing about Brunch Bird, Brunch Bird, Bunch Bird. You'd think she just gave birth to Jesus. She's the worst because she's overexposed. Blech.

Irony has no better footservant than the one who complains about your blog being overexposed by nominating it (saying the name three times) on what is apparently becoming quite the popular blog. And I can allay my benefactor's fears that the misperception exists that I've done something akin to giving birth to Jesus. Rest assured: anyone who knows me knows I don't want to have children.

My Significant Other and I Go Mano-a-Mano on Oscar Picks

2007-02-25T20:00:00.000Z

The stakes are high. He wins, and I'm treating him to Cactus Cantina. I win, and it's Two Amy's on him. Points will be tallied. Mocking will ensue. In fact, as we speak he's talking junk. It's so cute how he doesn't even know how much he's toast. I can already taste the roasted olive appetizer now. For those following along, purple is good because it means I picked correctly. Green is bad because it means the S.O. picked correctly. (For illustrative purposes I've posted a picture of Daniel Craig and his ladyfriend because they're the couple that most resembles us. Provided you're high. And intoxicated. And the Mayor of Fantasyland. Because other than the fact that we too have two arms and legs each, we couldn't look less like them.)

UPDATE: Two Amy's it is!

It's Hallmark of Intelligence, Humor and SoForth Award Day

2007-02-23T08:00:00.000Z

The Altruistic Smarty Pants

There are two types of college students: those who are a bit restless and graduate in three-and-a-half years because the thought of going a full four seems like it will lead to excruciating ennui (cough cough), and those who graduate and decide to come back for more because they want to learn how to master a task: writing or arithmetic maybe. Or, say, saving the world. Well a certain Brunch Bird commenter and ardent proponent of this site from its earliest days has decided to try her dainty hand at the latter. And today she found out that she's been accepted to the London School of Economics and Political Science. Which is great, because I can now get even more reflected-glory mileage out of her. Before at cocktail parties I was only able to finger my pearls and say, "Darling, a friend of mine worked in the refugee camps in Darfur and says we really must do something about it." Now I can say, "Darling, a friend of mine who worked in the refugee camps in Darfur and who is now over in London studying the matter further says we really must do something about it." See how my capacity for smug intellectual banter increases exponentially? Oh, and don't even think about calling dibs on crashing on her couch once she gets there. It was the second thing out of my mouth after a hearty huzzah.*

*Now that London's in the picture, I'm also going to unleash the floodgates of pretentious British linguistic references.

Score One, St. Matthew's Cathedral

2007-02-22T08:17:00.000Z

Having swatted at St. Matthew's for fumbling a bit on Sept. 11, it's only fair that I credit the Rev. Msgr. Ronald Jameson for giving one heck of a sermon at the 5:30 Ash Wednesday mass last night. Right out of the gate he equated the ashes of the day with the ashes of Iraq, then spent about 10 minutes making an impassioned plea for the couple thousand people packing the pews to use the Lenten season to start actually doing something about injustice here and globally. I would have run up and hugged the chap, but I didn't want to smudge him.

This morning I called the monsignor and without even hesitating at my explanation and request, he said he'd email me a segment from the sermon. (Just hearing him say "Oh, I see, Brunch Bird," when I was explaining the blog title to him was enough to make for a sweetly bizarre kickoff to my morning.) Less than five minutes later I had it in my inbox. We already know who our favorite lawyer in town is. I'm thinking we might have a winner for favorite religious leader. Anyway, here's how he brought it home, which I present as food for thought, regardless of your religious affiliation:

"May our prayer, our fasting, and our almsgiving this Lent lead us to a new awareness of who we are and of what we are called to be. May they also awaken us to the sorry state of our world: the rampant injustices, the great gulf between haves and have-nots, which are the breeding ground for so much of the terrible violence in the world. Lent is about our own change of heart, it’s true, but it is human hearts changed one at a time that ultimately change the world."

There Can Be No Denying

2007-02-21T19:16:00.000Z

that this is my niece. I've already taught her well.

Tuesday Sinner, Wednesday Saint

2007-02-21T08:25:00.000Z

It’s Ash Wednesday, which in my case marks the first of 40 days and nights of unmitigated crankiness because I give up sweets for Lent. Like any self-respecting Catholic, I crammed as much of my vice in yesterday as possible, snacking on some M&Ms after lunch and eating a half a piece of chocolate cake from Tryst for dinner. Fat Tuesday indeed. I find it takes the sting out of the Lenten kickoff if I get myself to the point where the mere mention of a petit four makes me want to hurl. Mission accomplished. Fair warning though: by Day 15 you’ll likely find me licking the glass at Patisserie Poupon. But what always amazes me is that at the end of Lent I feel thinner, have more energy, and have faster running times, yet my delight over those developments lasts only long enough to locate my Easter basket and start popping Cadbury eggs and Peeps into my cheeks like a chipmunk storing up for a nuclear winter. The health benefits are just never enough in my mind to outweigh the majesty of strawberry shortcake.

(And yes I realize that this post conflicts with Jesus's policy of not letting the right hand know what the left hand is doing when it comes to acts of religious sacrifice, but Jesus didn’t have to come up with 300+ blog posts a year.)

I'm Ron Burgundy?

2007-02-20T18:10:00.000Z

If I'm going to be going on camera I'm going to need a new name and a signoff, no? As for the name, the Significant Other suggested while driving me to work today that I should go with "Cinnamon Surewood," which made me realize that in my contract negotiations I'm going to have to demand a towncar and a driver.

Name ideas to get you brainstorming:
Tweedy Fluffington
Arianna Dewberry

Possible signoffs:
"Thanks for stopping by, nation."
"You stay classy, nation."
"Go **** yourself, nation."
"And that's the way it is, nation."
"How about you do another take. I'll be in the bar."

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go practice my non-regional diction.

Video Killed the Magazine Star

2007-02-20T08:30:00.000Z

I landed myself on MSNBC a couple years back thanks to an article I wrote that involved teenagers, interracial dating, and bondage. (Write an article like that and try not to have the cable news networks call you.) It was a bizarre experience, especially for someone who's more than a little camera shy (video or any other kind) and whose tombstone will likely read "She Didn't Photograph Well."

Last week, I learned that I may soon have a new role as on-camera newsgirl because of a pilot project, at least until someone realizes the grievous error of their ways. Yeah, you heard me RocketBoom chick. I'm coming for you. If I were the betting type I'd put my marker squarely on "Hilarity Ensues."

Nice gloves, self.

2007-02-19T09:00:00.000Z

My former set of gloves got a hole in them, so I ducked into a store to buy a new pair on Friday. I wanted white to go with my coat and hat. They only had one pair of white left and I was in a big hurry and said, "Eh, the balls are a little much but I can live with them."

Walking home I glanced down and came to the realization that these gloves were in fact completely ludicrous and if I saw some other chick wearing them I would totally snicker, snap a covert cell phone pic, and blog about them. The post would probably include a snarky Sonja Henie reference, something about Tribbles, and then I'd bring it home by asking if she'd gotten into a fistfight with Frosty.

I find it hard to believe that there's anyone else walking around the city with these things, so if you see them come say hi. You've almost certainly spotted the Bird.

That's How I Roll

2007-02-18T23:56:00.000Z

Blogroll renovation can be fraught with peril. An addition can incite sniffs of boredom or derision. A deletion can raise eyebrows. (Someone wrote me once joking that I, like some banana republic dictator, had "disappeared" someone from the roll. But the only reason I've ever taken the eraser to the list is when someone says they're going to stop blogging. I don't like loose ends, so off they go.) In any case, I've finally added some new links.

Outta Mind Outta Site--She's a sly boots. And yells at cabdrivers when they're engaging in unlawful shenannigans.

Deglazed--Who wants writing about the creation of a stuffed calamari dish and a cogent argument for why Rachel Ray is a total buffoon? I do! I do!

A Portable Snack--Within about 15 seconds of launching his blog in December, he was turning in quality product. I'm pea green with envy.

Throwing Hammers--This is going to sound like I'm saying "You know what's a great TV show? Seinfeld!" Really it's just that I'm finally filing the paperwork on this one and getting it on the roll.

Dealing in Subterfuges--When you're named after one of the more interesting female supporting characters in modern literature and your blog references ninja llamas, you're batting 1.000 with me.

VKs Empire of Dirt--I've been asked before why he's not on my blogroll and my response is always the same: "Because people in their 60s, namely my parents and my Significant Other's parents and his family, read this blog, and I'd love to not give any of them the impression that I endorse anime suppuku. And because I've got enough to chat with them about over holiday dinners without having to explain what a t********* is." However, VK's Feb. 15 post was (in addition to being decidely ironic considering the reason I've been keeping him off the roll), on the whole, pretty funny. So his eyebrow raising, sometimes NC-17-rated blog goes onto the roll with the disclaimer that I am not in any way responsible for his content.

Worry Less About the Paper Clip Shilling and More About the Funny

2007-02-16T01:50:00.000Z

During the payola scandals of the 60s radio stations got in trouble for accepting money from record companies to play their music.

Explain to me how this is different from Staples clearly paying for a season-long commercial* on The Office?

*First we had Kevin extolling the virtues of his Staples paper shredder, followed instantly by a Staples commercial during the break for the exact same product. Then Dwight went to work at Staples and they filmed a scene in a store with him in the uniform. And tonight they've just made about three references to the benefits to consumers of the large office supply companies, which of course culminated in a direct reference to Staples.

Random Cell Phone Pics From My New Orleans Trip

2007-02-15T19:29:00.000Z

If the title didn't tip my hand, allow me to say that there isn't much of a point to this post. Call it scenic beauty and desolation for scenic beauty and desolation's sake. I won't wax philosophical about the status of New Orleans and the surrounding towns to which I traveled because I was there for a little under a week and am clearly not qualified to opine at length about the state of that particular union. I can only say that both optimism and saddness are pervasive there, and New Orleans remains, for my money, one of the greatest cities in the world.

Valentine's Day As It Should Be: Condensed Into 20 Minutes

2007-02-15T01:00:00.000Z

After the folks at Delta airlines decided at 10 p.m. that they might want to rustle up a couple pilots for the 8:30 p.m. flight I was sitting on on the Atlanta jetway, I was finally on my way home. So I touched down shortly before midnight, grabbed my luggage and, exhausted, hopped into the Significant Other's truck. There were a dozen pink roses inside. At home, I handed over the signed copy of "The Great Santini" I'd picked up for him in South Carolina recently, and he passed off a box of delicious chocolates. Bingo bango, done and done. Though we've set the bar pretty high with Valentine's Day, I think we can knock Easter down to five minutes.

New Orleans Update

2007-02-13T14:07:00.000Z

So I mocked Mother Nature for being able to outrun an ice storm and then New Orleans got hit by a tornado this morning. I think I'll refrain from sticking my tongue out at her for the duration of my time here.

I'm in Chalmette, La., today, a town about 15 miles east of New Orleans. I am happy to report that, total Katrina devastation aside, the people's spirits here are as strong as ever, as is the amount of lard they jam into their foodstuffs. I just consumed a biscuit that I can only assume will do for my arteries what Sherman did for Atlanta.

Do You Know What It Means to Miss an Ice Storm for New Orleans?

2007-02-13T08:16:00.000Z

I do. Snuck out a day early to beat the alleged storm.

Oh, and the prospect of spending Valentine's Day in a big ole' romantic hotel in the French Quarter? Fantastic.

The prospect of doing it alone, with nary a flower in sight because I'm down here for a story? Not so fantastic. Fingers crossed that I'll get back in time for a romantic Valentine's dinner* with the Significant Other.

*Originally, this entailed Ray's the Classics. I even took care of the reservations because I think it's unfair and arbitrary that the guy always has to be on the hook for the holiday. But now the best case scenario given the weather predictions for when I'm supposed to fly back home is that I'm getting back in time to toss him his present, inhale a veggie burger and get to sleep by midnight.

Cafe Society

2007-02-12T09:00:00.000Z

Two days, two lovely, languid afternoons that segued into the most pleasant of evenings. Drinks and conversation at Busboys & Poets Saturday with three tall, dark and handsome writers (the female one having just recently become dark in a pitch-perfect change of hair color.) Tea for two at The Willard Sunday for a longtime friend about to usher two little ones into the world. (Does that make it tea for four?) Hope yours went well and also involved gossip and/or scones with Devonshire cream.

One Clear Winner in the FishbowlDC Rising Star Journalists Contest

2007-02-09T13:29:00.000Z

UPDATE: Things are looking grim. Our man David is now in fourth place. I'm just going to put this out there: Florida in 2000. Ohio in 2004. I'm not sayin', I'm just sayin'. Polls close at 5 p.m. today so start voting for him like it's your job.

You could vote for David Francis of The Washington Examiner in FishbowlDC's Rising Star Journalist competition because he's a terribly funny guy, a devil with the ladies (OK, one in particular), and a smashing house/dog sitter (I suspect he loves my and the S.O.'s dog more than we do, and he left his extra beer in the fridge when he went back home). But if you want to base your vote on actual journalistic merits (just for giggles, say) I will tell you this: David Francis is a rare breed of young journalist who operates on the premise that keeping your head down and busting your ass to do good reporting is the best possible course. In other words, he's the complete antithesis of the whiner with the sense of entitlement who comes out of J-school believing The Boston Globe should be waiting at the exit with his g.a. position. So please go now and Vote David Francis. Polls close at 5 p.m. Monday. You can say you knew him when. (Which is good because he'll be completely unmanagable if he wins.)

It's Hallmark of Fatuousness Award Day

2007-02-09T04:13:00.000Z

The Sorority Sniper

If you want to let the general populous know that you’ve got very little in your arsenal when it comes to commenting on a woman’s character, personality, talent, and intellect, then slam her for being in a sorority. Because nothing says, “I’ve got zilch as a societal observer or writer,” like “I hate sorority chicks.” You know who was in a sorority? Harper Lee, Joan Didion, Dian Fossey, Rosa Parks, Ruth Bader Ginsberg, Sandra Day O’Connor, Mae Jemison, Coretta Scott King, and Georgia O’Keeffe. I’m going to let you in on a little secret: bashing a group based on the conception you've mentally whipped up for yourself of a certain type of female only makes one person in the room look like her slip is showing.

Trust me this week’s Hallmark of Fatuousness honoree, you’re not alone. I’m always puzzled by the number of people who feel it is socially appropriate to arrange their facial features into a look as if I’ve just waved a vial of skunk funk under their nose and exclaim in a disgusted tone that’s light on the politeness and heavy on the ignorance: “You were in a sororrrity?! Oh god, I never would have guessed that about you. Whyyyyy?!” In my conversations with former members of collegiate athletic teams, newspaper staffs, indie bands, film schoolers, College Democrats, College Republicans, minority student unions, glee clubs, chess clubs, and Magic the Gathering clubs, I’ve never once found anyone who says they receive this same reception with such stunning regularity.* And (deep sigh), please don’t tell me that you didn’t join a sorority because you didn’t need to buy your friends, because I’ll put your bar tab from college up against my sorority dues receipt any time.

*Fellowship of Christian Athletes alum may be the exception to this, but the ignorami usually at least keep their mouths shut to these folks’ faces.

Editor’s note: Lest you think the Hallmark Committee is a tad on the cranky or defensive side, don’t worry. It will also bestow the Hallmark of Intelligence, Humor, and SoForth awards, too. But let’s be honest, you don’t come here to read about the planes that land safely at the airport.

Do Yourself a Favor

2007-02-08T17:36:00.000Z

A lot of you read McSweeney's anyway, but blogger Static Cling called this to my attention, and now I'd like to do the same for you. Along with Aasif Mandvi's "the flying shards of a better tomorrow" Daily Show segment on the Israel-Lebanese conflict last summer, it offers warm reassurance that satire is alive and well.

A Very Special Guest in the Comments Section!

2007-02-08T13:04:00.000Z

You know I love all the people who comment on my blog. But just like your mother fibs a little when she says she loves you and all of your siblings equally, well, I'd be lying if I didn't say I have one overwhelming, undisputed favorite. Remember The Leg Lamp? (And if you don't, it was like two days ago, what the hell?) Anyway, late yesterday, everyone's favorite member of the bar commented on that post. And his comment even jogged my memory that the card hadn't said "a special prize" was inside. No, it said something even funnier. Ladies and gentlemen, my favorite blog comment ever:

The Leg Lamp Guy said...
As the proud owner of the lamp, I was thrilled to get a call from Brunch Bird. I was surprised to learn that the building guard knew exactly what she was inquiring about before she said "leg lamp". Now, as I bask in the glow of the lamp, I thank BB for spreading the word about my Major Award.

The Most Obnoxious Writing That Nobody in This City is Reading

2007-02-07T03:49:00.000Z

So someone hands you a nice juicy, platform for your writing. About 1,500 words in a big glossy magazine that, although largely regional to one state in circulation, is still a quality product respected and routinely honored for its sharp writing, design and content. You get a coveted spot opposite the back cover, for personal essays, to boot. And you choose to lead your piece with this:

"As a Texas mom, I always assumed that college would be a no-brainer. If you wanted your child to get a world-class education, you sent him to the University of Texas. If you wanted him to have unnatural congress with barnyard animals, it was off to Texas A&M."

Now, it's no secret that I'm partial to the state of Texas, to Texas A&M University, and quite specifically to one particular product of both. But that's your knock-'em-dead opener essayist Sarah Bird? A "they have sex with sheep at A&M" joke? Well, maybe you had better luck closing this piece about touring colleges in advance of your son's entry into the collegiate world. Let's take a look:

"My favorite parent question, though, came from the Korean dad on the Princeton tour. After the admissions counselor--herself a recent grad with, perhaps, a bit too much Ivy in her high-fiber ego--told us that P'ton admits roughly one out of every 9 million applicants, Korean Dad made up his mind. Stolid as a sumo wrestler entering the ring, he treated the admissions counselor like a particularly cagey used-car salesman who'd somewhow managed to close the deal and gravely announced, "Okay, my son go this school. Where I pay?"

What, no "Me so solly" joke to round out the characterization of "Korean Dad" and end this 1,500-word exercise in non-sensical, unfunny, snobbish, stereotypical hooey? At least the layout editors had your piece pegged. They titled it Tour de Farce". Suffice it to say Sarah Bird, my feathers are a little ruffled that we share the same last name.

Attack of the 50-Foot Eyesore

2007-02-06T19:16:00.000Z

I believe it is a truth universally acknowledged that the greatest thing to come out of Canada in 1941 was Paul Anka. Fifty-four years later, Mr. Anka cemented his place in our hearts with his appearance on a Treehouse of Horror episode of The Simpsons. In the segment, lightning strikes giant advertising icons like Springfield’s famed Lard Lad, bringing them to life. They lumber around Springfield wrecking shop. Trying to halt the destruction, Lisa Simpson works with an ad exceutive who reminds her that advertising only has as much power as people give it with their attention. So they hire Paul Anka to sing a ditty to the people of Springfield called “Just Don’t Look":

[Paul Anka]
To stop those monsters 1-2-3
Here's a fresh new way that's trouble free
It's got Paul Anka's guarantee...
[Lisa]
Guarantee void in Tennessee!

[Anka and Lisa]
Just don't look!
Just don't look!
Just don't look!
Just don't look!

I think it's apropos during a week when thousands of people are flooding the company that makes Snickers, expending energy on emails, letters, and phone calls, to complain about their Super Bowl ad.

As Night Falls on the Most Uptight City in the World, The Mystery of the Leg Lamp Unfolds

2007-02-05T17:30:00.000Z

Making my way home as darkness descended Friday, heading down 15th toward K, I turned my collar up and grimmaced against the cold. Then, for no particular reason, I glanced up and saw it: The Leg Lamp. A warm glow emanated from the gam perched in an office window on the second floor of 1101 15th Street--a building that in all other ways is indistinguishable from those that comprise the downtown streetscape. It was the kind of light fixture that would make a grown man weep and make a blogger like me giggle and snap a camera phone pic. I went on my way, but for the rest of the weekend that oddly out-of-place-inside-the-Beltway lamp would crop up in my mind. Whose office is that? How did someone bold enough to make such a decorating decision/homage to A Christmas Story slip into our hardened city below the radar?

So today when I went out to grab my lunch, I went into 1101 15th Street, crossed the marble lobby and approached the guard desk.

Me: Hi. I'm wondering if there's just one company on the second floor of this building, or are there multiple offices?
Guard: Why?
Me: Well, I'm just curious because as I walking by the other night I noticed that in the window there's this—
Guard: The leg lamp.
Me: Yeah, the leg lamp.
Guard: I couldn't say whose office that is exactly.

It appeared from the directory that it likely resided in a law firm occupying much of the second floor. So while munching on my PB&J, I called them.

Me: Hi. I was curious if you all are the ones with the leg lamp in the window.
Secretary: Yes we are.
Me: Um...(I was taken aback, because I hadn't expected this candor) so what's the deal with it?
Secretary (chuckling): Let me let you talk to [Name Redacted].
A lawyer at the firm comes on the line and confirms that yes, it is indeed his lamp.

Leg Lamp Guy: It was a gift from my children. It arrived Monday.
Me: In a box marked fragile? (I of course pronounced it "frah-gee-lay")
Leg Lamp Guy: Well, actually it had two cards with it. One said that I was getting a very important prize. The other said that my prize was inside. When I opened it I just knew it had to go in the window.
Me: That. Is. Awesome.

So ends the mystery of The Leg Lamp. Some cool kids bought it for a cool dude, who is clearly working at a pretty damn cool law firm. Just one of a million stories in this city that hates to get naked with the lights on...

I Love the Smell of Secret in the Morning...Smells Like Intangible Qualities

2007-02-05T12:15:00.000Z

While wandering the aisles of the drugstore recently looking for the toiletries that help my moisturize my situation and preserve my sexy, something caught my eye on the deodorant shelves. Apparently, Proctor & Gamble have finally realized that to limit me to "Powder Fresh" or "Morning Breeze," is to limit my potential for growth as a human being, artist, and career woman. Now they let me smell like "Optimism" and "Ambition." Those are the actual names for new Secret deodorant scents. I can now harness the same spirit that compelled early explorers to set out across the West and the same fire-in-the-belly drive that drove Sandra Day O'Connor to become the first female Supreme Court justice. Specifically, I can harness them and smooth them under my arms for all-day long, all-day strong freshness. I'd imagine that the guy who sold this at the pitch meeting really brought it home at the end of his presentation thusly: "In conclusion folks, it's 2007. Women don't want to smell like a mountain spring. They want to smell like they're about to make partner. Let's make it happen."

The Hallmark of Fatuousness Award

2007-02-02T07:48:00.000Z

The Black History Month Detractor

Are you honestly a grown man trying to engage me in a debate about Black History Month by saying "Well, why don't we have a White History Month?" Having to watch a 30-second PSA about Rosa Parks or Miles Davis bothers you that much? Look. I appreciate that you've stayed loyal to the Lil' Stinker's Handbook of White Paranoid Delusions (with new forward by Lou Dobbs!) that you've been toting around since you became politically conscious at age 15. But I've got to tell you, this argument is about as fresh as zinging me with "You are the weakest link. Goodbye." The answer is that we don't have a White History Month because we have mandatory elementary, middle, and high school curricula that focus on the history of whites, including some whites' nasty habit of a few hundred years and counting now of erradicating, enslaving, oppressing, or disenfranchising minorities. So no, there's not really a White History Month in this country. It's been more like White History 15th Century to the Present.

Although history will record sir that your argument incited the first Hallmark of Fatuousness award. Better stay on your toes though, or a black person might steal the next one.

Pants of the Traveling Sisterhood, Or, The January Treasurer's Report

2007-02-01T17:09:00.000Z

A few weeks ago I was whining about my inability to purchase a pair of midnight blue Elie Tahari cords because of my draconian self-imposed spending ban in the '07. Yet there I am, at left, wearing said pants. "Did you crack and start shopping already?" you might be gasping at this very minute. No, Doubting Delilah, I did not. On Sunday I met my parents for brunch and in their car sat one of my favorite sights: the buttercup yellow and pink bag from the boutique that sold the pants. After reading that aforementioned whimpering blog post, my sister had called the shop and purchased the pants for me as a treat for making it through my first month of frugality. It's a good lesson, folks. Not only that I have the greatest sister in the world, but also about teamwork: I sniffle, the team spoils me.

And now for the January treasurer's report. As part of this year-long effort I will be unflinchingly presenting each month's results. If you'll remember, I'm not limiting dining out, but I am tracking it out of curiousity. Already, I've spent way less than last year. I should also mention in this report that fellow blogger Barzelay was an invaluable member of the team this month, sending me a copy of The Decemberists album after I whined that I couldn't buy it under the new plan. I will happily print an honor roll in the monthly treasurer's report of those of you who somehow help your fellow man and woman (not just me) save money this year. Creativity, but not illegality, will be noted.

Well, Since a Full Sevenish of You Whined...

2007-02-01T01:01:00.000Z

In the past week or so I've hung out with astronauts and in a totally separate event, fired 10 rounds from an M16 at a military base. To say I picked a bad couple of weeks to stop blogging would be a tremendous understatement. Don't tidy me off your blogroll just yet, please.*

*And I realize that this is a case of "do as I say, not as I do," because I am the speediest blog tidier ever. The minute someone says they're shutting down, they're off. I just don't like loose ends.

Bivalve? No, bye bye.

2007-01-23T14:08:00.000Z

I woke this morning and felt a little sting on one side of my mouth. As I'd suspected, last night at Daddy-O's birthday dinner in Annapolis (a lovely gathering of the Significant Other, his parents visiting from Texas, and my parents) I'd gotten a little slice on my lip from the edge of an oyster shell. "Huh," I thought to myself. "I guess I could blog about that today."

And that friends, is when I realized it's time to take an intermission.

Oh, The Onion and The Politico Are Coming to the D.C. Media Scene? Yawn...Because So is JESUS!

2007-01-22T15:42:00.000Z

I'm thinking there are a number of possibilities to explain this:

* Gavin and Dufour have lost perspective on the work they're doing over there.
* Some papers put your George Wills or your Richard Cohens on their editorial page to attract conservative readers. The Examiner says "Nertz to that," and throws the Prince of Peace on the front page. (Incidentally, this still makes them less annoying than the Washington Times.)
* New circulation strategy: You weren't planning on picking up our paper, huh? Well enjoy burning in hell.
* In an attempt to top WaPo scribe Laura Sessions Stepp's wingman story, The Examiner lands exclusive with The Original Wingman, Buddy Christ
* New motto: Jesus Saves...50 cents by reading The Examiner!

A Moment of Politics If I May

2007-01-19T16:01:00.000Z

I find it incredibly snicker-inducing* that, following Condoleezza Rice's criticism of his government before Congress, Iraqi Prime Minister Nouri al-Maliki retorted with the following: "Such statements give moral boosts to the terrorists."
So you're saying criticism of your government helps the enemy, eh?

Ms. Rice, that medicine must taste terribly familiar.

*Because if you can't snicker at international armageddon, what can you snicker at?

Photo courtesy of Princess Sparkle Pony, my go-to repository for goofy Condi photos.

Things That Are Awesome--The Travel Edition

2007-01-19T01:16:00.000Z

In no particular order:
1. When a two-hour layover at the Charlotte-Douglas airport becomes a 5-hour-and-counting layover.
2. Being a vegetarian and having a choice of two dining establishments for an overdue lunch: Chili's and something called The Tacqueria.
3. The smell of the food coming out of Chili's and The Tacqueria.
4. The decision to check my small suitcase at National, just so I would only have to deal with my laptop while in transit. It wouldn't have been too much trouble, but I figured, "Why bother toting it around in two airports and two planes all afternoon?" So it seems like this flight will likely be canceled and I'm going to be spending the night at a hotel without my suitcase. Yeah, that decision was awesome.
5. The girl across from me on the cell phone describing in detail why she thinks Terry Schiavo was "murdered" because she was clearly coming around when they disconnected her from her feeding tube.
6. The girl across from me on the cell phone ending that conversation to describe how it was totally unfair that she didn't get a job at Sally's Beauty Supply because she wasn't peppy enough.
7. Just in general, the girl across from me on her cell phone. She's awesome.
8. Businessmen who know that yelling at the gate agent is the fastest way to get the plane to come.
9. Realizing that I'm going to have to eat dinner here, too, and that my two choices are Chili's and The Tacqueria.

PS-The first commenter who says, "But the Charlotte airport has those neat rocking chairs!"? Yeah, they're awesome.

URGENT: No Self-Spending Plan Faces First Significant Test!

2007-01-18T15:57:00.000Z

In my much-publicized effort to not spend money on myself this year I'd canceled the catalogues and unsubscribed from all of the retail email advertising that crams my inbox. Even while in stores with others I've been the picture of restraint thus far. But an email snuck through today. My Achilles' HighHeel: Sitting Pretty in Annapolis. Starting tomorrow they're marking everything in the store down to under $100 for a final winter clearance. Before I even realized what I was doing I was on the phone with the boutique's owner this morning. "Do you still have those midnight blue Elie Tahari corduroy pants?" I asked, twirling the phone cord absent-mindedly, trying to sort out quickly in my head if I wanted the answer to be yes or no. I'd tried the pants on in a mid-December visit to the store and they were amazing (perfect for the next four months), but I had already been teetering close to a total bill best described somewhere between "ouch" and "booooinnnggg." The owner came back to the phone. "Just in a size 8," she said. WHY DO YOU TEMPT ME OH LORD?! Oh, and tomorrow these very-much-in-my-size pants, originally $200, are getting marked down to $50. "Well, I'll be in Houston tomorrow morning," I said, less to her and more to myself as a way of reminding myself I couldn't get them anyway. "You can just call in with a credit card at 10 a.m.," she offered helpfully.

Is this what quitting smoking feels like?

They're Going to Make Me Turn in My Film Snob Card Over This One

2007-01-18T15:10:00.000Z

But I don't care. I'm speaking to truth to power:

"One of the great end-of-childhood elegies." Salon.com

"It's pitch perfect, impeccably conceived...a masterpiece." Miami Herald

"Eh, not so much." Brunch Bird

Panting critics have been thumbing through their dictionaries to look up the spelling of supercalifragilisticexpialidoceous for this movie. Yet I was left with only one thought as I shuffled out of the Landmark last weekend: For a movie being hailed as the ne plus ultra of cinematic creativity, its gratuitous gore represents a complete failure of innovative filmmaking. It's like a gross, cranky Chocolat. Given critics' infatuation with the flimsy fairytale and the veritable stampede of film festivals to bestow top honors on it, I can only assume that we're going to see one heck of a Cannes and Oscar sweep next year by Saw IV. I don't mind violence in movies. I do mind pointless violence being flame broiled, wrapped up and put on the tray marked "groundbreaking" just because it's interspersed with scenes of a talking faun. Here's a tip: if you're reheating The Cell's themes and imagery, you're in trouble.

Hello M'Lady, Those Certainly Aren't the Hands of a Baby Seal Clubber

2007-01-17T15:44:00.000Z

After exiting at my Metro stop last night some guy immediately sidled up to me and decided, unsolicited, to escort me part of the way up the block. His clipboard said Greenpeace; his look said slimeball. Now, I've grown accustomed to dodging the "Gotaminutefortheenvironment?" hippies. They're harmless. You just point over their shoulders and yell "Hey, is that Trey?!" and they scatter. But this guy was even better. And by that I mean worse. Much, much worse. As I was alighting from the escalator, I pulled on my fuzzy green wool gloves. He actually said the following after prefacing it with a creepy "heh, heh": "Allll riiiight, green gloves. You know what Greenpeace is all about dontcha? Heh heh." Ugh. I mean really? Is that all it takes to be simpatico with your organization, dude? Because following that logic, Kermit the Frog should be out on an inflatable dinghy blowing up Arctic oil wells. The guy would have been so disillusioned if he knew I was wearing my genuine, infant polar bear-fur unmentionables.

Princess Tulip on the Washington Merry-Go-Round

2007-01-16T15:26:00.000Z

I spent part of my day off Monday peering into the tiny works of assemblage that comprise the Joseph Cornell show currently running at the Smithsonian Museum of American Art. Lest you think that the robin's egg- and silver thimble-adorned tableaus in Anthropologie were their brainchild, a trip through this exhibit reminds you that Cornell did it eight decades earlier, did it better, and did it for a more complex purpose than selling $200 crocheted capelets.

Included in the exhibit are several pages from Harper's Bazaar, Town & Country, and the like, which contracted with Cornell in the late 1930s and 1940s to illustrate features. One jumped out at me, from the May 1941 Town & Country. Not because of the strength of his artwork, but because of the written content. A bit of fictional fluff titled "Princess Tulip on the Washington Merry-Go-Round" the piece opens with Princess Tulip opining about the District: "Until this year I always gave Washington the slip in my travels because of the ancient taboo that it is a city no one ever visits voluntarily; you are either sent, or sent for, or you have won a national essay contest."

Glad to see later in the day that Princess Tulip is still getting work. (Via DCist.)

This Came On and I was Suddenly Goosebumps McGee

2007-01-16T08:22:00.000Z

Try to tear your eyes away from the screen while it's playing.

David Lynch Special Performance for the Derek Zoolander School for Kids Who Can't Read Good

2007-01-15T14:34:00.000Z

This is a ticket to see reclusive director David Lynch speak about his films and his fantastic new book Catching the Big Fish.
This is a ticket to see him give this speech at the Round House Theater this past Saturday night at 6 p.m.

Unfortunately, we were running about 10 minutes late so I was somewhat breathless from the dash from the Silver Spring Metro when we entered the lobby. It was empty. Everyone inside already apparently. Drat. Going to have to beg a little to let the two women at the box office let us in late.

Out of Breath Me: "Can we still get in?"
Box Office Lady: "To what?"
Out of Breath, Confused Me: "Uh, to the David Lynch talk."
Box Office Lady: "It's in Bethesda."

This is a ticket to see reclusive director David Lynch speak about his films and his fantastic new book Catching the Big Fish.
This is a ticket to see him give this speech at the Round House Theater this past Saturday night at 6 p.m.
At the Bethesda Round House Theater.
Not the Silver Spring Round House Theater.

"What was done to me was monstrous." "And they created a monster."

2007-01-12T16:07:00.000Z

Is that a line from one of the worst movies of 2006, or a telling analysis of what happened to me when sitting through the crudfest that is the list of movies below? Indeed, I'm rarely crankier than when walking out of a movie feeling like I've just gone 10 rounds with idiocy, boredom, or unnecessary excess. In most of these movies the dialogue reeked, the acting was overwrought, or the plot was just zzzzzz... Earlier this week, we debated the Oscar-worthy performances that likely won't get nominated. Today, the films that should get nothing more than a stern wag of the finger from the Academy: the worst films of 2006. Now, clearly, if stuck on a desert island I'd rather watch any of them than say, Aquamarine or You, Me & Dupree, but these were movies that I had high hopes for and left feeling that the $48.93 pricetag on my ticket stung even more than usual. So perhaps the list should officially be called,

The Most Disappointing Films of 2006:

V for Vendetta
Dreamgirls
Art School Confidential
Hard Candy
Who Killed the Electric Car?
Match Point

Yesterday I referenced one of these likely getting an Oscar nod. I'd be willing to bet that Jennifer Hudson will get nominated for her role in Dreamgirls. It's a bum nomination though. She's a tremendous singer and that shows in the movie. But great singers deserve Grammys, not Oscars. This is not to say that I don't think any performers in musicals are ever worthy of Oscars, but you can't convince me that Hudson's overall performance was one of the best five of the year. Incidentally, very few lead actresses in musicals have ever won Oscars, even when their films have captured the top prize, so it's a pretty exclusive sorority to begin with: Liza Minnelli in Cabaret, Barbra Streisand in Funny Girl, and Julie Andrews in Mary Poppins. (Winners Reese Witherspoon and Sissy Spacek did heavy lifting when it came to singing in Walk the Line and Coal Miner's Daughter, respectively, but their movies weren't musicals.)

Congratulations to all the not-going-to-win winners announced throughout the week! Actual Oscar nominations come out on Jan. 23. Prove me wrong, Academy. Prove me wrong.

New Friday Feature Unveiled Later Today

2007-01-12T15:08:00.000Z

I think I've hit the wall on explaining every Friday why the terrorists hate us. If you don't know by now allow me to boil 2000+ years of international strife thusly: when your company sells iPod costumes for $39.95, the terrorists hate us. Feel free to keep sending in your reader submissions for this feature though, because I reserve the right to resurrect it at a moment's notice.

Now, I'm not in any hurry to have to do a lot of work around the blog on Fridays, so I'm replacing it with a new feature. It will be short, sweet and chock full o' potential trademark violations--hopefully just the right pupu platter to kick your weekend off right. I'll give you a hint: "I am fast. To give you a reference point I am somewhere between a snake and a mongoose...and a panther."

"Tristram Shandy was actually No. 8 in the top 100 books of all time." "Uh, that was a chronological list."

2007-01-11T15:25:00.000Z

For the last two days I've hit the ladies and gents who delivered Oscar-worthy performances in 2006 but who will be watching the awards like the rest of us: at home, in our sweatpants, up to our necks in righteous indignation at the travesty against filmmaking playing out on the stage. (I'm just assuming that everyone gets as much in a froth about these things as I. I mean, Crash? Come'on! Denzel Washington in Training Day?! Really?!) Today we've got:

The Best Movies of 2006 That Won't Get Nominated:
Thank You for Smoking
Dave Chappelle's Block Party
Friends With Money
The Proposition
Tristram Shandy: A Cock and Bull Story
A Prairie Home Companion

I'm not actually picking a winner out of this category today because the film that I think truly is the best movie of 2006--Children of Men--should actually get nominated. And tomorrow: the Most Disappointing Films of 2006. And I can goshdarnguarantee you that at least one of them will get an Oscar nod...sigh...

"If we'd wanted us some wussies we would have named 'em Dr. Quinn and Medicine Woman!"

2007-01-10T12:44:00.000Z

Yesterday we covered the men (although thanks to Blogger nobody could get to arguing about it until about 6 p.m.) On today's list we have:

Best Female Performances That Won't Get Nominated for an Oscar:

Rinko Kikuchi, Babel
Toni Collette, Little Miss Sunshine*
Jennifer Anniston, Friends With Money
Leslie Bibb, Talladega Nights
Lily Tomlin and Meryl Streep, A Prairie Home Companion (One or both of them might actually get a nomination but to demonstrate an understanding of what these two women did with their parts in this movie, and how well they did it, the Academy needs to put them on the same nomination. They won't do it, though because they're the same people who said Crash was the best movie of 2006.)

*Winner, as picked by me.

"That's the beauty of argument. If you argue correctly, you're never wrong."

2007-01-09T14:54:00.000Z

*UPDATE: As of 6:30 p.m., comments appear to be working again. Blogger.com no longer wants to hear not a word of what you have to say.*

It's the time of year when everyone and their Aunt Hildy regails you with their Oscar nomination predictions, in advance of the actual announcement later this month. Oh, you think Forest Whitaker might get a nod for The Last King of Scotland or Helen Mirren for The Queen? We'll you're a genius Aunt Hildy. News flash, spoiler alert: They will. And they deserve them. But what about the performers who turned out to be revelations in their roles, large and small, and they closest they'll come to an Oscar is if they trip over their kid's Oscar the Grouch toy on the way to noodle the nanny. All week long I'll be throwing my alternative nominations against the wall to see what sticks. And by that I mean, to see what generates the most emails and comments that begin with, "Dear Brunch Bird, You dear, are an idiot." First up, the chaps.

Best Male Performances That Won't Get Nominated:

Danny Houston, Children of Men
Barry Pepper, The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada
Steve Coogan, Tristram Shandy: A Cock and Bull Story
Sacha Baren Cohen, Borat
Guy Pearce, The Proposition
Aaron Eckhart, Thank You for Smoking*
*Winner, according to me.

Watch for the Ladies Who Won't Get Nominated tomorrow, Best Movies That Won't Get Nominated on Thursday, and Most Disappointing Movies of 2006 on Friday.

I Spent the Weekend Breaking Up

2007-01-09T03:15:00.000Z

I managed not to cry once, although I came close several times. It was a long and complex process but it was for the best. As of today, in furtherance of my 2007 Spending Experiment, I no longer have a relationship with the following catalogues:
J. Crew
Anthropologie
Wisteria
West Elm
Williams-Sonoma Home
F.A.O. Schwartz
Smith & Hawken
Sundance
Crate & Barrel
Pottery Barn
Restoration Hardware

The last one was the hardest. Torture. That's why I saved it for last. We've had so many good times together, Restoration Hardware and I. I'm sitting on one of them right now. But I knew I had to make a clean break. So that's all of them. As with most messy break-ups, they spent all day Saturday and Sunday emailing asking me to come back. Then, resigned but pissy, they said that it might take at least 90 days to fully break contact. Frankly, given the years we've been together I think it's going to take them longer than that to get over me.

I Certainly Hope They Make a Patch, Gum, or Inhaler for This

2007-01-05T15:32:00.000Z

A friend told me recently that her sister decided last New Year's to not buy herself anything other than necessities for the duration of 2006. I snorted. Inconceivable. No clothes? No CDs? No DVDs? No doodads for the house? No baubles for the wrist? No fresh flowers? "I wouldn't last two days on that kind of a venture," I thought before clicking "confirm order now," on a pair of new ski pants. But as the days have passed since she mentioned it, I haven't been able to shake the idea. Could I do without for a year, just to see if I could do it?

Last night I decided to parse all of my checking account statements from 2006. An informal audit of my spending as it were. I didn't pay attention to any purchases for bills, groceries, drugstore trips, travel, or spending that I knew was on gifts for others. I was just tallying the Banana Republic stops, the Garden District visits, the Cafe Deluxe noshes and the like. The results were horrifying:

More than $12,000 in one year on non-essentials. And that's just based on identifiable purchases; it doesn't even include cash that I might have used after making an ATM withdrawal. Now, I'm less concerned with the second column. Really I just tabulated that to see what it would come to. Dining out is both necessary (a girl's got to eat) and social. Heck, nearly one-twelfth of that particular bill came from one night at The Caucus Room when I took my Significant Other out to celebrate him landing his job after moving to D.C.

It's that first column--we'll call it the Needless Budget-Clusterflubbing Fluff Column--that has me questioning my sanity. At first, reading back through the bank statements was like a pleasant skip down Memory Lane. The pink, ribbed sweater that made my skin glow here. The new toile comforter for the guest room there. But then I hit months like April, where a $550 trip to the mercilessly enticing Sitting Pretty boutique in Annapolis helped push the spending tally into four digits and I started to feel guilty. By the time I gasped and sputtered into the December bank statement, a year's worth of buyer's remorse had taken up residence in the pit of my stomach.

So that's it. I'm holding my nose and taking the plunge. I'm seeing how long I can last without buying anything for myself that isn't essential.

*Now if someone would be a lamb and send me a burned copy of The Crane Wife, that would be swell because I'd planned on buying it and I'd hate to welch already.

How Could They Deny the 2006 Person of the Year's Right to Know?

2007-01-04T15:59:00.000Z

Much has been written in recent days about whether the video of Saddam Hussein's hanging should have been made, released, and viewed by the general public. Some call it disgusting and voyeuristic. They stand in contrast to a more thoughtful and deliberate group--the millions of people who downloaded the hanging in its entirety, not just the initial TV footage of him being fitted with the noose and mocked by his executioners. In news articles, television man-on-the-street interviews, online forums and blogs these thinkers are rightly advancing the viewpoint that is always so much at the heart of the American peoples' daily lives: a thirst for comprehensive understanding of international events.

On YouTube's first page of "Saddam Hussein hanging " offerings alone there have been roughly 1.7 million downloads. (Staggering evidence of engagement that will surely call to mind the similarly staggering voter turnout in the last election when a full 39 percent of eligible voters thronged to the polls to make their voices heard.) To paraphrase these advocates who argue their need to view the hanging video, as well as the ones of Daniel Pearl and Nicholas Berg being beheaded: Without viewing these videos, one cannot truly comprehend the horrors of terrorism, war, and the conditions and politics that give rise to these monsters. In short, without the video evidence of major events, how do we really Know?

Exactly. This week, authorities gave Crocodile Hunter Steve Irwin's wife the footage of Irwin being fatally stabbed by a stingray, allowing her to destroy it and thus prevent its public release. Clearly, this cripples my development as an enlightened and engaged citizen of the natural world. Without the footage, how will I come to fully understand the circumstances of Irwin's death? Newspapers can tell me that as Irwin swam over the ray its tail whipped into his chest, a poisonous barb ripping into his heart, but do I really grasp what that means if I don't watch it happen on my computer at lunchtime while I'm shoving in biggie fries? In a New York Times article yesterday, Irwin's friend John Stainton says "It's just a horrible piece of film tape." That should be "was," Mr. Stainton. Was. It's gone. And now I and millions of Internet users hoping to reach a more complete understanding of what it means to be stabbed in the heart with a stingray barb will never Know.

Overheard in Georgetown

2007-01-04T15:07:00.000Z

As I was walking up Wisconsin trying to shop this weekend it was quite crowded, so I had to squeeze right past two girls my age and overheard the following exchange.
First: "One of my students came by to see me the other day."
Second: "At a strip club?"

I told you Georgetown was getting tacky.

New Year's Resolutions Are Pointless

2007-01-02T16:37:00.000Z

Unless you have suitable inspiration. And really the only suitable inspiration in this country is celebrities. So the following will inform my resolutions for 2007:

"I be up in the gym, just workin' on my fitness."
Yes Fergie, I could stand to lose 10 pounds and tone up. With the holidays over, my four main food groups--candy, candy corn, candy canes, and syrup--will be shelved indefinitely.

"When the last time you heard it like this
Smoke somethin', drink somethin', get ripped." Good point, Clipse. More live shows this year. No excuse for sitting home. I was lazy on this point last year.

"I would be happy without money. If you're in love you can be happy with nothing. If I wasn't in love then maybe I'd be sad." Paris is right. I should be socking more money away in savings.

Sound advice from our nation's sagest.

Jessica Cutler Likes Me, She Really Likes Me...Oh Wait, No, Apparently She Hates Me

2006-12-29T16:37:00.000Z

I was wondering how anemic my readership has been during the holidays since I haven't been blogging that frequently, so I went to the site that tracks my stats. On a good day I get about 190 readers, tops. Imagine my surprise to see that on Dec. 24 I had 2,800 hits and the numbers have stayed in the thousands since then. Why all the attention? Because on Christmas Eve, Jessica Cutler took a break from making her parents proud by talking about doing blow and getting sued for her sexual indiscretions to make fun of my unassuming Christmas Eve post. I'm not quite sure why anyone would get so bent out of shape over me saying I have happy childhood memories and I'm content now, but Cutler's ranking it below an abortion (classy, classy, classy) was just the thing to drive people to the site.
So thank you Jessica. Best Christmas present ever. Shame I didn't see it earlier, because it totally would have made the Best Posts of '06 list.

The Best Blog Posts of 2006 as Picked By Me

2006-12-28T23:39:00.000Z

10. I consider the DCeiver to be at his best when he's taking someone else's Top Whatever List!, or Best Bets for Eating Mediocre Food! list and ripping them a new one for compiling proof only that the list compilers and/or voters are morons. (I rest easy knowing he's currently too busy compiling evidence of Jason Cherkis and Eric Wemple being an embarrassment to journalism to worry about reading this particular list.) Which is why his post on the Washington Post's "Best Bets", and this one on The Hill's "50 Hottest on the Hill" made me spray Diet Coke out of my nose at high velocity.

9. You know those posts that make you say, "Hey, yeah! I thought that, too! And this blogger has just totally captured what I thought about the matter and put into words on his blog!"? Well that's what Good at Drinking, Bad at Life did with this simple, WTF?! post about Eastern Motors.

8. In his memorable "No, I Don't Want a Penis Cookie" post, Rock Creek Rambler made me weep for my gender.

7. The Sour 'N Sweet South Park customizer post that launched an afternoon of citywide wasted productivity.

6. I consider blog post titles a tiny little artform. BeeLog had my favorite of the year.

5. One night in April, after toiling in a warehouse for a good cause, I drove home a fellow volunteer who I'd just met that evening. God knows how we got on the topic but we geeked out about reading D.C. blogs. I didn't have one at the time and wasn't even thinking of starting one. "She was really cool," I thought after dropping her at her house and zipping off into the night. Imagine my surprise when in late June I clicked on a KathrynOn post and saw the same girl, pictured in a post titled, "Anatomy of a Budding Friendship" created entirely to honor her. And as a result of a comment I left on that post we ended up emailing and she convinced me to hit the upcoming Blogger Happy Hour. And now I have a blog. And I consider her a new friend. So the overall effect of this No. 5 post ended up being that of a bunny hugging a puppy under a rainbow next to a milk chocolate river.

4. Forget Santa and his Naughty List. Playaz know who's roasting. This post made being so, so wrong, feel so, so right.

3. Pygmalion in a Blanket's trilogy of "K-k-k-k-keyboard" posts, in which a friend gets punked with a Chia seed-smeared keyboard, were damn funny and had oddly beautiful Chia-focused photography.

2. Sent From My Dell Desktop's move to the greater NYC metropolitan area was a big loss for the D.C. blogging rabble. Sensible, well-written posts like "Always Order Dessert" show why.

1. And finally, Throwing Hammers had what was easily the best post of 2006 with "Drifting Over the Blogosphere."

Oh Santa, You Shouldn't Have

2006-12-28T20:35:00.000Z

Coco Chanel adored jeweler Robert Goossens for his ability to turn hunks of gold and glittering jewels into works of art that were the perfect juxtaposition for her prim designs. Then Goossens' pieces became the adornment of choice for the Balenciaga, YSL, Dior, Thierry Mugler and Sonia Rykiel runways. And thanks to the exceptional eye of my Significant Other who saw these vintage Goossens gold-set, glittering green stones and knew that I would be in love with them, they are now my adornment of choice. They took my breath away on Christmas morning.

My mother and father scored a homerun with this phenomenal pink pearl necklace from David & Dragana Wagman. I added another of their necklaces to my collection a few months ago, but coveted this one, too.

Good things do indeed come in small packages.

It's Christmas Eve...

2006-12-24T22:45:00.000Z

When I was little I used to kneel on my bed and rest my cheek against the chilled glass of my bedroom window on Christmas eve, and look out on the quiet street. I loved the glow that the little white Christmas candle in the window cast on my room. My family busied themselves in other parts of the house with last-minute wrapping or wrestling a new Strawberry Shortcake bike into submission. When I woke the next morning I'd run down the hall and see that Santa had come. It was perfection.

As I got older I came to know about the melancholy that tinged this night for some. The poor needed so much that often wasn't coming, people alienated from loved ones were in pain, and war made life hell for too many. But I was raised to understand that you did the most you could to help those in need, year round, and on nights like Christmas eve you remembered them and gave thanks for what you had in your own life.

Tonight, the chilled window pane I'll lean against is in my own house, my dream house as it were, perched above a tree-lined street in this city that I adore. I live here with a man I am desperately in love with and a dog I can't seem to stop hugging. I have family who love me and tomorrow when I wake I will watch my niece delight in the fact that overnight, Santa came. I know tonight that I have more to be thankful for than ever before.

*I almost forgot to credit the photo here. It's Colin Winterbottom. He. Is. Awesome.

Lights, please...

2006-12-20T02:00:00.000Z

"'And there were in the same country shepherds, abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them! And they were sore afraid ... And the angel said unto them, "Fear not! For, behold, I bring you tidings of great joy, which shall be to all my people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ, the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you: Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger." And suddenly, there was with the angel a multitude of the Heavenly Host praising God, and saying, "Glory to God in the Highest, and on Earth peace, and good will toward men.'
That's what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown."

It gets me every time.

I'm out of here folks. With the exception of an excrutiatingly personal post that's going up in the next day or so, I'll be taking a break until after the New Year. You've all made this an incredible year for me. I still shake my head in amazement at how many chill friends I made so suddenly because of the decision to hit "Publish Post" on May 17. If you're traveling, be safe. If you're sticking around, be smart. If you're flush with money, be generous. Most of all, find yourself some peace if that's what you need most this holiday.

Merry Christmas,
Brunch Bird

Something Tells Me an "I Hump and Dump" T-Shirt Would Sell Like Hotcakes

2006-12-19T16:09:00.000Z

I was just thinking about "Dogs Barking Jingle Bells." That really doesn't have much to do with this post, but someone mentioned that song to me the other day and I've had it stuck in my head so now you can deal with it.

But I do want to talk about pets for a minute. Specifically, interesting alternative newspapers that address them without going all Dog Fancy geeky or eyeroll-inducing pandering. You don't know of any such publication? Yeah, well I didn't either until Dig & Scratch debuted last month. The paper and website are for pet owners who don't get prudish at the thought of articles like, "My Humps, My Humps" about dogpark sexymaking. There's a blog called "Hair of the Dog." And in what's already becoming a popular feature, you can upload photos of your own pooch or kittie. Bring your A game because it appears that every hipster with a hound and a Nikon is getting in on the action and some of the pictures are pretty darn good. If you're in New York City, you can pick one up yourself. If you're anywhere else you can read the website or get a year's subscription mailed for $18 bones. Get it? Bones. snicker, snicker. Oh, that joke was annoying? You know what else is annoying? Having "Dogs Barking Jingle Bells" stuck in your head for two days.

*I don't go all Daily Candy very often, so of course this publication is the creation of one of my boys.

Oh My, That's Hilarious...Wait, What Are We Laughing At?

2006-12-18T16:14:00.000Z

Ever join a conversation mid-action and think you've picked up enough of it to either make a comment or laugh, then you realize from funny looks that you've missed too much and they now think:
a. You're an idiot.
b. You're weird.
c. You think the crash of the Hindenburg was funny.
Well at a party Saturday night I managed to pull this maneuver, but what added to the hi-larity was that my Significant Other was in the midst of his own little conversational snafu. A word about the party, before we go any further. It was lovely, as you might expect.

In a nutshell, I went to get my coat as we were heading out. At the same time, the hostess was good-naturedly ribbing S.O. a bit, asking him if we tease each other about "blog crushes," as she and her man do. He said "No," right away but realized that he was sort of confused because he's new to the lingo and in his head he was doing the slow-motion sideways dive and deep "Noooooooooo!" to try and stop himself from doing what he actually did: the sort-of-confused-so-I-end-up-coming-off-like-an-uptight-conversation-ending-fuddy-duddy maneuver. Then, I walked up not realizing what had just happened and rolled my eyes and said "Let's go," all mock-seriously and pointing to the door, not knowing until he explained on the elevator that this would have had the effect of making it look like I've spent nights sleeping on the couch, Andy Capp-style, with him fuming over the matter of blog crushes, which are just an online joke. So our bow and exit from the party displayed our trademark George-and-Gracie comic timing and Fred-and-Ginger elegance.

At the very least, it was just like the Hindenburg.

"Wait outside Bill. And try not to give anybody rabies."

2006-12-18T15:45:00.000Z

While in a vegetative state on the couch this weekend I was flipping through the channels and about had a heart attack when I saw this:
That's "A Wish for Wings that Work," and I haven't seen it on TV since its 1991 debut. That year, it captured the heart of a brace-wearing Catholic school girl who believed that if she was lucky she might one day become Mrs. BrunchBird Breathed. As it turns out, about 10 years after that I had an interaction with Berkeley Breathed in furtherance of giving the coolest Christmas gift I've ever bestowed in my life.

My Bloom County addiction came straight from my much older and decidedly cooler brother. So while many girls my age were reading Tiger Beat, I was curled up with "Loose Tails" and "Tunes for Our Times." I associate those books now with the happy view of the 1980s that only a child of them could have, and idolizing my brother. Anyhoo, a few years back, Breathed released a new book. I ordered a copy of it from a very cool bookstore that also reps his artwork. I enclosed a note with my order, explaining that it would be for my brother and the gist of the first part of this paragraph and I'd love it if he could autograph it. So Breathed signs the book that comes back. And I'm not talking "Best regards, Berkeley Breathed." I'm talking a full-on, heartfelt note back to my brother that riffed on these themes. Awesome. As was watching the Christmas special for the first time in 15 years.

It's Why the Terrorists Hate Us Friday!

2006-12-15T15:39:00.000Z

Item: Forest Faces
Cost: $12.95
Catalogue: Plow & Hearth

A few days ago I was saying that I think I might have to retire the WtTHUF feature. As I come across these things a little part of me dies, and frankly, I'm starting to wonder if there's enough of me to last through the Christmas catalogue season. Heck, I get three issues of The Sharper Image a week; that alone could put me in the grave before I so much as sip the first nog of '06. But then came the catalogue bearing Forest Faces and I said, 'You know what? This is needed. Now more than ever.'

What better way to show your appreciation for the natural beauty of a tree than nailing a polyresin face into it? "If trees could talk, they'd have faces like these!" reads the pitch. First of all, their ability to talk really has nothing to do with the appearance of their faces, so nice try anonymous copywriting drone somewhere in Encitas, California. Secondly, if trees could talk I'd pretty much bet they'd be saying "If you come near me with that shlock I'll hurl acorns at you like my not getting made into a box of fax paper in the near future depends on it." What really strikes me is that you know--you know--someone came up with this product idea after watching The Lord of the Rings. So while Tolkien was trying to make a point about peace and nature, some mouthbreather is thinking, "Booyah! Holiday sellout baby!" Oh, and I'm not even being facetious. Grumpy here (one of four styles they offer) is out of stock. Guess your cranky crabapples and pouty pines are going to have to convey their emotions the old-fashioned way: falling on your three-car garage during global warming-jacked storms.

I Felt Like a Wee Little Contractor, Minus the Tool Belt and Coin Slot (With Photos!)

2006-12-14T15:42:00.000Z

I had to make a gingerbread house for work. (Because what professional workplace doesn't think having suckers make gingerbread houses is a good idea.) Figuring that it was going to be a nightmare of Boschian proportions, I intended to live-blog it. However, it was actually sort of easy and delightful, and took only an hour. That's because I made the cheat-y Martha Stewart versions. (That's right, Martha advocated a shortcut. Gasp and clutch your pearls at will.) Namely, you dispense with the, uh, gingerbread, and use graham crackers for sheetrock. Here's how my sweet little subdivision came in on time and almost under budget.

1. The materials. Annoyance? You've got to shell out for multiple bags of candy to get the roughly two pieces per bag you need for your decorations. By the way, you use a steak knife to cut the corners off of the graham crackers that form the front and back of the house.

2. Melted the white chocolate chips in the microwave. This is your joint compound. Martha advocated using a type of icing that requires dried egg white powder. I live near the Spanish Safeway. I'm lucky they have apples. Melted chocolate chips would have to do. Squeezed from a little disposable bag, they worked just fine as it turns out.

3. Decorate. My Significant Other came home from work at this point and at first sort of chuckled at me, then got a little closer and attempted to steal my building materials (for which he received a swift slap on the hand) and then suggested I add a snowman. "Capital idea," I said. "Make it." So he took off his dress shirt and sat down and made a snowman. All the while giving me a sheepish, "I'm not gay or anything but this is kind of fun," look. And his snowman was awesome.

We had a blast. They ended up being the little houses on Irony Lane.