insomnia haiku

The things we can learn from a French bulldog puppy

Can't sleep. Shocker. I can't tell whether it's jet lag (resolved: I'm never taking the red-eye again -- and I mean it this time!) or stress or what, but, here we are. Yes I have taken an Ambien. Yes I will end up regretting it.

Currently watching: Ace of Cakes. They are making Santa's sleigh. I wish I worked for Duff. If I ever heard he was a wife beater or something, I'd be devastated. And maybe just a tiny part of me would think it was all her fault.

Anyway ... As you know, I come very late to these viral video things. When they did that dance at Jim and Pam's wedding on The Office I had no idea what that all was about, really (I thought they awesomely made it up). So naturally this video that was shared with me on Friday (via Jamie) is, in fact, six months old. Six months! Six months I missed when I could have been watching this thing over and over and over again!

This video SLAYS me. I have watched it at least seven times by now, and will watch it yet another time after I finish writing this. It's the adorableness of the puppy and his earnest yet increasingly frantic efforts to turn over -- legs ... too ... stumpy! -- and then those several seconds when he stops, winded, looking at the cameraman all, "Why? Why are you not helping me? Whyyyyyyy?"

But lest you think it's just some kind of torture video, evidence from the pound section of Abu Ghraib or an outtake from Saw 6, here's the follow-up:

Success! And just think, if that little puppy can roll over after trying for a minute straight, then we can do anything. Or at least we can maybe get off the couch, which, now inspired, I shall do.

Ladies and gentlemen, the deep-fried turkey

My brother deep-fried a turkey for Thanksgiving. Words cannot do justice to the gloriousness of this endeavor, so here it all is in pictures.

 

 

 

 

And the deep-fried turkey would have been the undisputed star of the show had it not been for the smoked turkey, which was flavorful and delicious in a completely different way.

None of us could decide which turkey we liked better, so we all declared a tie between the two. But one thing is certain: If you have a deep-fried turkey and a smoked turkey at your Thanksgiving table, everybody wins.

Next year ... turducken?

The deviled eggs you know

I was instructed to make an hors d'oeuvres for Thanksgiving, but life got in the way, and as of the day before Thanksgiving I still hadn't thought of what to make. Rumaki? Candied nuts? Figs with cheese? Prosciutto and melon? None of those seemed right.

And then it came to me: deviled eggs. I'd never made them, and I'd always wanted to. And who doesn't love deviled eggs?

My mother, whose culinary repertoire tends to more sophisticated foods, tried to dissuade me, thinking deviled eggs seemed too ... easy, I guess. "It's just egg yolks and mayonnaise!" she scoffed. If she'd been a little younger, she would have said, "Whatever!" (She was thinking it, anyway.) But I could not be budged.

In the end I decided to make deviled eggs three ways: traditional, smoked salmon, and curried with mango chutney garnish.

First, we boiled the eggs, in two batches. (I say "we" because I was too busy doing work to realize that this part may actually take some time, so my mom thoughtfully put the eggs to boil for me.)

Then all the eggs had to be peeled, and the yolks scooped out from the whites. Hoo-boy. This took forever. The shell didn't always come off cleanly or well. Fingers got all pruney. If I never make deviled eggs again, the laboriousness of this part will be the reason why.

Tragically, some eggs were not destined to survive.

Since I was making three different kinds, had one recipe for 12 eggs and had actually boiled 17 (but had lost at least three or four), I mashed up the yolks and split them into three bowls. Then I decided just to guess at the ingredient proportions. Because math is hard.

I mixed in mayo and mustard for the traditional and curry versions, sour cream for the salmon.

Traditional eggs got sweet pickles and celery; curried version got ... well, curry, with mango chutney on top; smoked salmon got, in addition to the salmon, dill and chives. Then we spooned the yolks back into the whites. Sonia, my brother's au pair, helped me out with this part.

Success! And I think even my mom was impressed.

Why did I never realize that "library" rhymes with "disco"?

Catching up on old episodes of Community (thereby clearing out my DVR for Thanksgiving, in the process making some not-so-tough choices -- buh-bye, FlashForward, I've officially given up on you), which has been a pleasant way of passing a couple hours while waiting for my backache to go away.

Community was a show I was really excited for at the start of the season, but it's been Modern Family that's had true staying power for me. THAT show, I love. This one, I find amusing when I get around to watching it, but I don't feel any particular compulsion to watch it every week. I don't know why.

That said, I just caught this bit after the end credits of one episode, and it's pretty darn funny. Again, I don't know why. (OK, I do know why. Because deadpan rapping in rudimentary Spanish = comedy.)

When life hands you a bad week, make bad-week lemonade

I've had a fantastically shitty week, one of the worst I can remember having (and by shitty I don't mean that I've suffered great tragedy or loss, so I apologize if I sound like I'm being overdramatic ... but really it's been pretty lousy) -- but rather than dwell on the negative, I'm going to try to remember the highest points of the week. Here goes nothing:

1. If I'm counting Sunday, the Mad Men finale was so good. SO. GOOD. I had been a little anxious when the episode approached, not just because the season was ending but also because ... well, what if it wasn't as good as I wanted it to be? But I shouldn't have feared. By the end of the night I had watched some scenes three times, including every scene in which Joan appears. When Roger said, "Let me make a phone call," I squealed. Out loud. Alone in my living room. And I was only embarrassed for about half a second.

2. The Glee interviews I did came in, yay! They didn't turn out as well as I'd hoped -- they cut out the part where the cast members all went, "What? Beyonce?!" and clutched at their chairs -- but still, kind of a thrill, knowing I was the one they were looking at off-camera. The first video's below, and both together are here.

3. I finally had the famed BLT at Char No. 4. And it was excellent.

4. The bouncer at a bar made me smile when he looked at my license and joked that I was 22.

5. This video of Tori Spelling in a Lifetime movie, stripping to Chopin, made me laugh:

6. At midnight tonight, at the end (or near the end) of my fantastically shitty week, I found myself unexpectedly in the tiny basement of Union Hall, watching a band called Boat and throwing confetti at the band members as they rocked out with looks of bliss on their faces. And in that one moment ... I felt lucky.

So, you see, me? That's six good things. There are worse weeks to have.

Full of Glee

Things have been kind of hairy at work, but every once in a while you get to do something fun.

Today, I got to interview the kids from Glee -- a show that I love. They were adorable. The geek kids, whom I interviewed in one group, are obviously friends and have a great time together; the "popular" kids, whom I interviewed in a second group, were a little more polished and seasoned, but my favorite moment was before the cameras rolled when the guys were burping and Cory (who plays Finn) looked straight at me and said, "Long night. Loooong night." A-HA. Well, I guess they aren't actually teenagers.

And I almost got the geek kids to do the "Single Ladies" dance, once they found out that Beyonce had done that very dance in this very studio -- but alas, no one had the song ready to play. Stupid, stupid! Fire someone! A crew member started playing it on his iPhone, and they were practically ready to bust a move when they heard it, but then they realized it was only someone's phone, and ... no dice. Oh well.

Hardest part for me was keeping silent in between questions, since I wasn't on camera and I'll be edited out of the video -- and anything I said during the answers would come off as this weird disembodied voice out of nowhere. It's just not natural for me not to talk back. Instead, I was reduced to making faces at them and nodding vigorously, or mouthing words at them. So strange. Is this what they teach you at journalism school?

Oh. And I have the biggest crush on the guy who plays Puck. He is even hotter in person, if you can believe that. He doesn't have a mohawk anymore -- he's got sort of a buzz cut-shaved head thing going on -- and man, I couldn't even look at him. I wonder if they teach you about THAT in journalism school.

Will post the video when it's done next week. In the meantime, in honor of the day ... "Single Ladies."

This is all my brain is capable of right now

Have you ever had one of those days where you got home from work at 10 pm and realized you hadn't peed in 13 hours?

Just wondering.

One of my writers sent me this video. Random! He sent it to explain what "betch" means, because I'd never heard it before, signifying that I am even more unfathomably old than I thought. (And he has two kids!) Apparently it's not the same thing as "fetch" (as in, "that is so," see: Mean Girls ... wait, was that actually a thing, or just a movie quote?) or "beeyotch" (I take it the kids don't say this anymore?). I have so much to learn.

Killing two birds (podcasts and vacation pics) with one post

Finally uploaded my pictures from vacation, and this time I decided to use Picasa instead of Flickr, mostly because Flickr was taking too long. I haven't decided which I like better yet, though one advantage Flickr has is that it's able to recognize what kind of camera I have, whereas Picasa cannot.

Anyway, they are here as well as below (though go to the link itself if you want to see the pictures all nice and big and purty, and with captions).

And here's this week's Film Fixation podcast, which was a lot of fun, since we had our very first guest -- all the way from MSN Movies in Cal-i-for-ni-yay! He was cool. I dig this episode (we talk about Where the Wild Things Are, of course, plus the new Coen brothers movie A Serious Man, and the amount of weight that Gerard Butler seems to have gained -- or is it all in his face?).

Oh but wait, THERE'S MORE! We started a new TV podcast last week, called Drama Queens (original title: TV Snobs), in which my friend Kelly and I talk about all the shows we love, like Mad Men and Top Chef and How I Met Your Mother. This week, we also engage in Trashy TV Corner, because God help me, I am still watching The Hills. Check it out here. With these two plus guesting on another one, I taped three podcasts this week. That shit is exhausting, yo.

I think that's enough self-promotion for one day. And now I'm off to scrutinize the ESPN Game Tracker and see how Cal's doing against UCLA. Either that, or laundry.

Imagining a world without meetings (aaaaah)

I've decided I'm starting a new company. I don't know what this company will do, sell or produce, but its motto will be: No More Meetings.

Of course, it's impossible not to have any meetings. So I'm instituting a few simple ground rules:

- If you do set up a meeting, it has to be value-added. This means whoever calls the meeting has to provide food, alcohol, or some other form of entertainment.

- Employees will be encouraged to keep meetings to 30 minutes. In fact, they'll be offered incentives to do so. (Note: I don't actually know what those incentives would be yet. I'm working on it.)

- No two-hour meetings. None. Verboten!

- No last-minute mandatory in-person meetings.

- No more than one meeting a day.

- There will be at least two days per week on which there are no meetings whatsoever. Maybe three.

So who wants to join my company? Do you think it would help with recruitment if I named my company NoMoreMeetings.com?

Paradise lost

Have you ever felt, looking in the mirror, that you're seeing your face as you could have looked a thousand years ago? That happened just now. Bleary-eyed after two flights, no makeup, face lined after a week in the sun, hair straggly after I took it out of its wet ponytail, exhaustion oozing out of every pore -- I looked straight ahead and saw, in me, some dull-eye peasant girl who knew nothing of the life I now have. One who looked tired and plain and slow. Me, in another life. One difference: the electronic toothbrush in my hand. I'll hazard a guess they didn't have those a thousand years ago.

Home now from paradise, which makes me sad, but it had to end sometime. I spent achingly beautiful days on the beach, in that clear waveless perfect water, floating with my face to the sun. On the beach I consumed burgers (2), hot dogs (1)  steak (1, ribeye), slice of sausage pizza (1), pina coladas (2), bloody Marys (2) and rum punch (1). Oh, and many many beers. I learned the names and life stories of many of the locals, and the others I knew well enough to wave to; I finally (after some 10-odd attempts) managed to drive my way around the island in a little electric golf cart-like car without getting lost or tipping over. I read three books (Catch-22, Lorrie Moore's A Gate at the Stairs, Frank Bruni's Born Round), all excellent. I went to bed before midnight every night, except the day in which I read all of Moore's novel, when I barely blinked at midnight and read straight on until I was done.

I took ferries, small boats, bigger boats. Off of our little island, I snorkeled, bought expensive jewelry (I would have regretted it had I walked away), visited the same restaurant twice to satisfy a mango colada craving and got the bartender to teach us how to make it. I ate fresh saltwater lobster and a pineapple upside-down cake so good, I can't get the taste out of my head. (The mushroom and asparagus risotto was pretty dreamy, too.)

I unplugged. I did not watch TV. I did not surf the Internet. I had my iPhone so I could get emails and texts and do some light research, but that was it. (I couldn't even update my fantasy baseball team.) I lackadaisically checked work emails on my Blackberry once a day, then promptly forgot about them. When I told Wendy at the grill that the iPhone had been a lifesaver for its access to the outside world, she gave a short laugh. "The outside world is overrated."

And now, home, to a couch piled high with laundry, to a DVR that's nearly full of all the programs I missed, to a new work week that threatens to bring with it a heavy dose of drama. Vacation, it seems, is over. I will wake up in the morning and wonder if it was all a dream, as if the world we inhabited this past week was imaginary, magical, needing protection -- rather like Narnia, or the island on Lost.

But this week, at least, I will try to keep the island with me. I will try not to stress. And what will keep me going is the feel of the water on my body, the sight of those white, wide, sandy beaches, and the sound of the locals saying goodbye to us with the words, "Hope to see you again real soon."

Beach Day

Last day of vacation! This makes me sad. L and P went to St. Thomas to do some shopping and run some other errands, so I dropped them off at the ferry and hit Honeymoon Beach instead. I hope they don't think I'm being antisocial. It's just that, when I have this gorgeous beach at my disposal, and nothing to do but lie there and jump in the incredible water and listen to the locals chit-chat and read, then I would rather just do that.

Speaking of reading, I had, as mentioned, ambitiously brought five books, which was starting to seem foolish when it was taking me more than half the trip to read the first, Catch-22. I wasn't loving it at first, and it's not the quickest and easiest read in the world -- very much a boy book, I think, all about men in the military and the madness if war -- but I ended up liking it very much. It sticks with you. Finished it yesterday (Friday) morning and then raced through the new Lorrie Moore novel (A Gate at the Stairs) like a house afire, stopping only to make dinner and eat. I even powered through the Ambien I took at 1 am to keep reading (I guess if I just concentrate and focus on something else, the drug has no effect). I felt like I was a kid again, reading under the covers at night, unwilling to put the book down for anything in the world.

Today: sloppy Joe and Red Stripe on the beach, perfect day. The woman at the grill, Ashley, remembered my name without my having to give it to her, which I consider a minor point of pride. I'm kind of proud in general of my minor attempts to ingratiate myself here with the locals; it's not as if I'm considered one of them, but at least they know who I am, giving me friendly waves as I drive past or nodding to me as I walk up to Heidi's Grill. And I'm fascinated by people's stories of how they ended up here; one guy told me he'd moved to the Virgin Islands from Houston after getting a divorce. Now he does landscaping. They're all as friendly as can be, and I'd like to think it's because we're not being typical ugly tourists, but polite and sociable and respectful of what they have down here.

Tonight, dinner at Craig and Sally's in Frenchtown on St. Thomas.

At long last, the pizza boat

We had heard tales of this legendary pizza boat. Every local we asked got this faraway look and said, "Yeah, I don't know what happened to it! I think it got sold." We mourned and thought of the pizza boat we never knew.

And then yesterday... There it was, docked by Joe's Beach Bar. Miraculously, as though we had summoned it just by wishing. We walked toward it in a daze. Apparently, according to a man standing nearby, it had been sold -- he had sold it to them -- and this was the boat's re-maiden voyage.

The woman who took orders was snappish and rude, dampening our excitement somewhat. But the guy making the pies was cheerful ("yes, if you want sausages it'll be ten minutes, but a short ten minutes!") and when we took shelter at the nearby covered stage as it started to rain, he climbed out of the boat and carried our slices over to us, grinning.

And it was good.