Dirty Little Secret

The new fall season has hit its stride and now that my massive blog readership won't alter the order of the universe by all switching to a different channel at the same time. I can say that I'm thoroughly enjoying Dirty Sexy Money. It's a sort of dreadful name, I mean, could I have this conversation with you if I had to say it out loud?

Dirty Sexy Money has lots of things that have been missing from television for sometime. For one thing - scripts. For another - actors. And for a third - entertainment. The premise is that a good lawyer inherits his father's law client, the uber rich Darling family. He ends up doing many things, the least of which is usually lawyering. In exchange, he gets a pile of money he gets to give out to charitable causes and the chance to figure out if someone killed his father. It looks vacuous. So does cotton candy. I like cotton candy.

I just like everything about this show. I even like that it comes on on Wednesday night - a time when I am good and friggin' ready for a little escapism. Right now I'm watching back seasons of Boston Legal on DVD. I wish there were back seasons of Dirty Sexy Money.

The One Where I Defend Famous People

I did not like Jessica Seinfeld when first we (being the world) met her. I don't really remember what it was about her. I think I remember being struck by the boobs. Also here she was famous and suddenly she wanted to sell handbags. And Dear Lord I can never fathom why the Idle Rich feel the need to work. Unless you're Martha Stewart. I believe she has to because it is her purpose.

Anyway, so Jessica (who was apparently born Nina which I would have stuck with) is now the subject of one ginormous (why did they have to steal the cool and make it a word) kerfuffle because she wrote a book about sneaking healthy foods into your children moments after this woman named Lapine wrote a similar book. The premise of the two books includes the notion of pureeing vegetables and fruits to add them to foods kids want to eat to get them to eat better. I must have been to 23 restaurants in the last decade that offered mashed potatoes* infused with cauliflower puree - one of the recipes that apparently shows up in both books. Further, I would say that at 19 of those restaurants when I read about the cauliflower potatoes I thought "Gee, what a clever way to get you to eat cauliflower." In the other four I was just so relieved that some other asshole chef had not tried to foist GARLIC mashed potatoes on me that I spilled my Coke in my haste to order them.

So Jessica who pitched her book June 2006, is accused of stealing the idea from Lapine. Whose book was pitched in May 2006. They both owe my parents money because in 1976 they invented hidden vegetables by making pea stones in my mashed potato mountain. (Yeah, me and potatoes go way back.) The story gets another twist when Jessica shows up on Oprah to tout her new book. Book sales go through the roof, Jessica sends Oprah many, many pairs of shoes, and the Blogosphere is aflame with the horror of celebrity plagarism.

This is where I tell you again that I don't actually believe in copyright. Even if Jessica did steal Lapine's idea, it's not a "new" idea, and people should buy the book that pleases them. I know I've seen the anorexic chef (Robin Miller - who is not anorexic she swears because her sister was and she is here to educate the world about living!!) use the same puree and pass off technique. And boy is the web up in arms. Get a friggin life people, do you have nothing better to do than write about this -- oh riiiiight.

So I am with Jessica/Nina/Vulva on this one. Just shut up and eat your peas.

And then there is poor Ellen. It totally rocks when Karma kicks someone in the ass who is totally asking for it. InTouch magazine exists solely for that purpose. But I have two points about Ellen Degeneres and the Dog Fiasco.

1) Animal rescues are insane to the point of being detrimental to animals.
2) Portia DeRossi is fucking hot.

There, I've said it, go ahead, be all mad web world. But it's true, she was practically irresistible as the misguided and self-absorbed wife of the Never Nude on Arrested Development. And that hair.

But back to the rescue people. Years ago Jac and I decided to adopt a cat. We went to an animal rescue. I don't think there is a government managed pound near us, we went to the organization in town that did that thing. They put us through like, a battery of tests, we brought our dog, as required, to see if they'd get along. We were there for hours. We had to explain our living situation, our histories with animals, our work life - they wanted to know how many times a week we could come home during the day to BE with the cat. We somehow managed to pass and we went home with two cats. We have pledged our oath never to give the cats to anyone else or allow them outdoors. We did as sworn and had them spayed and neutered. We even had their vet files sent to the rescue as required. When the time came to get a dog, we knew they had even more invasive requirements.

For a dog you not only have to be interviewed, and give references, and have them meet everyone who lives in your home, but they also will schedule an inspection of your home. Forgive me, but this is where there should be some profiling involved - not racial or economic profiling - but prospective pet owner profiling. Do I have tats all over my neck and show an interest only in tough dogs? Do I have a job and a home so that I can feed and shelter the animal? Do I frequently refer to the other 67 cats I have at home as my babies? No? Then you've done your due diligence. Surrender the animal. We bought our dog from a breeder. It wasn't much less invasive.

As far as deciding what I may and may not do with the animal for the remainder of its life... who died and made you God? You really think Great Aunt Myrtle had the power to do that?

But that's exactly what Mutts & Moms thinks they get to do. But practically anyone on the planet can have a baby and do an inordinate number of things that are legal but not good for it, and nobody can say boo, but you think you can redistribute an animal created through no action of your own and then tell me, for the life of the animal what I can do with that animal even when what I do is in the best interest of the animal? Eff off.

And at what expense? Well, it's a pretty major turn off. Who wants to be judged? Who wants to have to sit for hours in their own home to justify that they are qualified to care for an animal - when they are a grown up? And then have the luxury of paying quite a bit for it. And then be tethered to the rescue for the next 10 years? Please. I just don't agree. And I reiterate, for the sheer weight of its merit in this case. Portia is hot.

(Uh oh, footnote. I was listening to the delicious Martha Stewart Living Radio several hours in a row this week and the topic was "Potatoes: UN Food of the Year 2008" and I became positively distraught at the number of people who say buh-tatoes. These were foodies - mispronouncing the Grandmomma of all foodstuffs, the Big Potato as BUHTATO. BUHleeeze.)

Relentless

What if I told you this is the first hour of daylight I have had in more than 20 days where I did not have something that urgently needed to be done? Would you think I was full of horse pucky? Perhaps.

My mother's recovery has entered month four.

My company's return to glory decided to coincide with the whole sick thing, so I have been working a fairly insane schedule. When everyone at work knows you have a major obligation outside of work it makes it all the more urgent to be seen as never ever ever dropping the ball and being totally "on top of everything" lest the special dispensation to, you know, show up in the office only when it's convenient, should disappear.

In the past couple of weeks, we have been asked (with very straight faces) to produce a Flash presentation overnight. To produce a video in 23 hours launching a Big New Thing. And to design a brochure in four hours. My refrain: People are high, they are just generally high.

Two weeks ago today, I was working one of the 18 and 20 hour days necessary to turn around one of those crazy projects when I discovered a crazy bump on my head. I get lots of little ones, but this one was progressively getting nasty. In a few days it turned into a giant, nasty (we're talking half a Clementine here people) THANG. I know what you're thinking, right? MRSA right? Like how 'bout we give our heroine MRSA and see how it pans out. It's very timely, suddenly everybody is ALL ABOUT the MRSA. It's a friggin' epidemic. Well, what if I told you that patient I've been helping to take care of had actually contracted the dreaded MRSA at the hospital??? Seriously.

When you show up to see the doctor without an appointment, you take who you can get. I got Doctor Wei. I have seen Dr. Wei three times and I have no earthly idea whether we have communicated after one of my little visits until I go to CVS and pick up a prescription and it appears to work for the afflicted part of my body. I cannot understand a word Dr. Wei says but he gives me drugs. Dr. Wei's office is actually better than my last random stab at finding a doctor through my PPO because that office seemed to exclusively serve people who speak Spanish. I say this because the television was set to Telemundo, all of the magazines were in Spanish and when they greeted me they asked for Senora Quesee. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad there are places where people can go to be treated for medical concerns in their native languages, in fact, I'd love to find one myself.

So, big giant tumor on my head, bottle of antibiotics in hand, and most of my work things at a safe stopping point, I headed off for the family reunion. It was actually far more fun than I expected - and I was the one who planned it. We met up in Georgia - I have since discovered that Georgia is especially hard hit by this drought thing and there is apparently a rapper named T.I. from there who is really into the NRA. Anyway, we met for four days of family togetherness and it was long enough that we didn't feel too rushed and short enough that we didn't totally annoy each other. It helps to have hippies along when you have a family reunion, you might want to see if you can get any to come to yours. On the last night of the reunion, the Big Giant Head Tumor resolved itself. Then it was just the Big Ooze. (I know, gross, right? Try it some time.)

Now you've followed me all the way up to this week. This week should have been quiet and very chill. Actually, it should have been one of those secret "I'm working but I sort of have the week off" weeks where I finally pay my bills online. But Monday I had to file my taxes - (unable to think of appropriate expletive to describe trying to do your taxes at truly the Last Possible Minute when you know you're probably going to get audited because Dear Lord how could any couple claim to have lived on $9,000 while owning two [though it was really 3] houses). Further, I'd thought I would do the taxes down at the river weeks ago so I'd brought all my stuff down here, but then had emergency work and had to scurry back up the city - leaving some tax stuff here, having some with me in the city. So I plug away at the taxes while Jac tempts me by saying that was really the night he'd planned to take me out to dinner for my birthday... And I do the taxes and I e-file...

And then I go back to the river. And work stuff erupts, and I forget my computer in the city and have to have it FedExed to me in the country where they don't cotton to deadlines so it arrives six hours late, and when I finally get through the 266 emails I'd gotten in the last 28 hours - my taxes have been rejected by the IRS. Apparently there's a whoozit on a whatzit form and the answer is for me to print and mail the suckers.

Generally, I love writing proposals - it's just like writing essays in college except after 10 years of doing this I sometimes do not have to talk out my ass. You get to imagine how you're going to do the project and you basically have to hit them with the most creative stuff you can think of. The proposals I do not enjoy are the ones I have to do that we do not have a chance in hell of winning. That's the one I had to do this week. It made for a very long week.

That brings me to fruit flies and assholes. Not necessarily in that order. Today, I was in Food Lion (the one that will fail miserably and close shortly after its current renovation because it did far too little too late to prepare for the arrival of a SuperWalmart this week) and this jackhole in front of me purchases his groceries and starts to abandon his cart at the register, in the little checkout lane directly in front of me. What in the world??? I said, "Uh, your cart." Jhole "Oh, do you need it?" Me: "No, but I need you to move it." Jhole: "Oh, I'll move it for you." (Doing me a big favor.) Moves cart two feet from checkout lane into cross traffic. Leaves. There are no words.

My mother thinks that a rampant infestation of fruit flies is a seasonal thing that cannot be avoided. She thinks that we, as Americans, pay penance for freedom every year with four weeks of rotating bowls of apple cider vinegar laced with a magic proportion of dishwashing liquid. She said this (in not so many words) to me very matter of factly as though, as a grown up, I should now be let in on the Price of Freedom.

I have never had fruit flies in my house. I have especially never had them in my "new" three year old house, that still had that "new house" smell before the cartons of home medical supplies gave it a seemingly permanent Lysol musk. There are fruit flies in the bread, hovering over the counters, exploring down the halls into this very bedroom where I am swatting them away - "I am not a Goddamned fruit (not that there's anything wrong with that) you friggin' fruit fly!" I thought they always did scientific tests on fruit flies because they have such short lifespans. I now think that's odd because there was one trapped in our Tiffany bathroom for weeks. Further, Conventional Wisdom, you can suck it because you actually do catch more flies with vinegar than with honey. It is appalling. I can see one or two of the dumb ones going "Mmm, apple cider vinegar. I'm gonna take a hit." But like 50, in like 4 hours, into the same little bowl. Dude, there are like 47 of your dead relatives in there, do you really think this is worth it? How about hittin' that package of English muffins over there, there are like a thousand of you in there, just makin' more.

But it is all going to be okay because the Country Cottage or some whatnot in White Stone has opened a Fudge Factory (hello trademark infringement) and they make a mean pumpkin pie fudge. And I am cautiously optimistic about the Maple Nut.