Awesomesauce Advertising: Let's give this a go, shall we?

And now for something completely different.


Except, not so much.


I've been contemplating the idea of ads and things of that ilk for a goodly bit. Would it change my content, overmuch? Might people resent the sponsorrific nature of certain posts? Will you still respect me in the morning? (Although, let's be honest here. If you're a repeat reader even after my Michael Bolton post and with the knowledge that I can eat a bag of tamales in one sitting- you're not in it for the hard-hitting journalism.)


Then it hit me like a pile of cash: my blog postings are peppered with ads, billboards, titles and random media just because I think things are hilarious. No gain whatsoever. Except for the fact that you can't put a price tag on a smile. (Unless you mean orthodontics. And since I did that twice, that would be- oh, about twelve grand.) So what would be the worst that could happen if I posted occasionally about someone else's minutiae? And what if I kept it on a separate day from my other postings, keeping Mondays as my weekend recaps and my Thursdays for...whatever it is that Thursdays are supposed to be about? (If I go from past tags, I'm seeing a lot of soft rock and binge eating.) And how about if I only posted about humorous nouns, nouns that I believed in, or nouns for which I had a really good story? Yeah? Are we cool?


No? Fine. I'll see you on Thursday.


Yes? Let's begin.


Oh, I'm getting a really good feeling about this one. Ladies? Gentlemen? I give you- the tiki torch.


Or, as I will now refer to them: Kiki's Tikis.


Okay, apparently I "can't say that." I didn't have "anything to do with" the creation of "any tikis."


But good grief, I really love a good tiki torch. I've built entire parties around this singular idea (and by "singular," I mean that Peej has been forced to buy truckloads and line the yard with military precision. And by "military," I mean "doing exactly what I say," a.k.a. "marriage.")


Note: No one has asked me to put anything in quotations. That's just kinda something new. I hope it goes away.


Back to the tiki torch. I am nothing if not prepared, so I did a little research. Okay, I Googled. Oh, God bless you, Internet. And I discovered that what we [Americans] consider Tiki Culture is actually...a made-up thing. That's right. Americans, inspired by the South Pacific and all things Polynesian, began taking aspects we dug and shoving them right into popular media. So eventually, that became more "Tiki" than anything going on at a luau. Kinda like American pizza, I imagine.


(And right now would probably be a bad time to admit that I perpetuated this stereotypical misappropriation by staying at Disney World's Polynesian Resort. Repeatedly. It was great.)
But I needed- craved- more knowledge. So I searched some more. (Because what's more factual than multiple things posted on websites?) Here's how my "research" went:


-I kept coming up with the suggested keyword "gouging torch," which apparently has something to do with building or destroying or something like that...but it made me think of Vlad the Impaler.
-And then I remembered that horrid "special" I saw on the Real Dracula. My mother most likely remembers this. I was scarred.
-So I tried to block out the images by scrolling down for more keywords. I discovered a very troubling series of comments that discussed how polluting any backyard fire is.
-Someone countered with the FACT that people were harming the environment even more by being on the internet AT THIS MOMENT.
-I began to think about my carbon footprint. I got depressed.
-Turning on all the lights in the house, I went back to the kitchen and made myself a vodka tonic.
-I sat in the yard and admired the lawn and the tiki torches, drinking the tonic, still kinda upset.
-Enjoying the atmosphere made me remember what I supposed to be doing.
-I powered through the guilt. And I found a really lovely [and expensive] tiki torch that I am simply coveting right now. Halfway down the page. There yet? Yeah. Okay. It's not so much a "torch" as it is a "tiki hut." I may have found the priciest backyard object ever, short of something sculpted by Bernini. [P.J.: No. Keely: FINE.]


So there you have it.


That's right. My investigative skills are a cross between Nick n' Nora and If You Give A Mouse A Cookie.


The description for the torch I liked insinuated that one's party will never be the same.


After this glimpse into how I "research," I think that could also be said for your brain cells.

It's only a problem if you acknowledge it.

Happy Flag Day!

I am totally kidding, Annie. Happy 30th! (This especially falls under the category of "not cool" since our dear Annie is, in fact, a Brit.) Things have changed a little bit since our combined 23rd birthday parties- the fashion, minimum wage, the "interwebs"- but she doesn't look a day over 25. (Especially not the day after 25. That was a rough one.)

Let's do the weekend out of order, shall we? First up: the season premiere of True Blood. One of my programmes. Good timing, too, as I recently found out that the last episode of The Office was the season finale. Hwa? That was no season-ender. I was feeling momentarily bereft- a gap that could only be filled by a ridiculous nude scene of Eric Northman. (Side note to my mother- remember when you asked if the books and the show were the same level of sex and violence? And I responded all- Mother, it's EXACTLY the same... Well, ha HA. I may have misspoken.) The show has also taken liberties with plot lines from the books and refused to heed my suggestion of killing off Tara- or at least reducing her to the sub-subplot character that she is in print. Oh well. Eric had a nude scene!

Back to Family Friendly.

This past weekend Nora took her first trip to Ravinia. (Those from the Western MA area can compare it to Tanglewood, sans mountain views and all of the New Yorkers.) We saw Steve Martin do some bluegrass on the banjo- actually, that's not true. P.J. and I saw Steve Martin. Nora saw the opening act as we picnicked on the lawn, then she heard kids scream "Baby!" at her while she frolicked on the grass, and finished it up by hearing sirens drive by the one main road as she drifted off to sleep. I think the city sounds follow her. 


Some highlights: 


-Steve Martin was hilarious and ridiculously good on the banjo. He thanked us for coming, especially thanking those who were dragged there by others. He imagined it came off sounding like- Oh, we're going to see Jerry Seinfeld perform an evening of songs he wrote for the bassoon.


-A woman asked if Nora was four months old. We told her no, she's seven and a half months, but she's on a diet. I AM KIDDING, MOM.


-We saw some lovely friends. It's fun to see friends. Sure, we were half an hour outside the city, but it's still that feeling of- Oh my goodness, you're in Paris, too!?

Y uno lowlight:

Nora had to buy a ticket. Yep. Because it was an "all ages" show. Sure, she's just barely beyond that age where she was actually carried internally, but she needed a ticket. I understand two and older. Heck, I get 18 months. But even airlines let you carry a baby on your lap. (And, uh, no one was handing out free snacks, thanksverymuch.) In fact, if I made her sit in her own [lawn!] seat, she'd flop to the ground or pike into supported standing. So- thank you to Ravinia for allowing me the privilege of paying money to heft my own child. (And you best believe we used alllll of the facilities. Twice. She got her money's worth.)

Yesterday morning I went to Cermak for produce. Those folks not living on the West or South sides of Chicago may not know the glory of this Hispanic establishment- everything is seven for a dollar. Or thereabouts. Really. You can have an entire cart full of mangoes, Boston lettuce, all of the hoity fruits and veggies your heart desires- and all of the awesomely intimidating, completely indeterminate ones- and it'll ring up to less than ten bucks. Always.

Listen, I do not want to know how they get their wares so cheaply. It may be some sort of Mexican magery. I'm totally content to leave it at that.

I was one of about three white gals shopping there yesterday- which is about the ratio in my neighborhood, anyhow. How could I tell, beyond the obvious skin and facial features? (And it's not always obvious, by the by. Folks often approach me with rapid-fire Spanish and are beyond disappointed by my second-grader language skills. It's gotten better. It used to be Toddler Spanish. All nouns.) So what gave it away? Yoga gear.

In the city of Chicago, I've found that the majority of white women wear yoga gear on the weekends. To run errands. Embarrassingly enough, I was part of that cliché on Sunday. No longer. Because seriously, what part of poking an avocado requires clothing designed to wick away moisture?

I decided to put myself out there for further humiliation on the walk home. I stopped at the Tamale Stand. Oh, there's so much history here. This elderly guy and his wife are known for stopping by late night bars with coolers full of freshly made tamales. Sounds sketchy, yeah? Of course it is. AND UNBELIEVABLY DELICIOUS. So, when we moved near this Cermak and saw that there was a built-in tamale stand, I mentioned to P.J. that we'd have to stop there sometime for middle-of-the-day tamales. And we haven't. Which is crazy. Because, again, they are SO good.

So I ordered a bag. Yes. A bag of tamales. (Individually wrapped, of course, I'm not an animal.) I even ordered in Spanish. Poorly. And got the slightly condescending second grade Spanish 'look.'

And then they asked if I wanted mild or hot.

And I have an allergy to super hot foods.

So I ordered mild.

And Tamale Guy and Tamale Wife exchanged a look and snickered an old-person, 'inside joke' kinda snort. Which leads me to pose the question- WHY DID YOU EVEN ASK? I am a [sensitive] person. I am deserving of respect. It is my right to have food that will not close up my lungs.

So I seethed. I felt sorry for myself during the block and a half walk home. And then I ate a bag of tamales.

And became totally cool with my new moniker of Whitey WussMouth.

Pride=0, Belly= 1. Okay, it was more like- Pride= -2, Belly= 6.

I am such a puppy and I deserve everything that's coming to me.

Like more tamales.

'Binge' is such a harsh word.

I wasn't kidding about the Hidden Mallard puzzle.

Way back on Monday I was explaining the significance of the puzzle on Birthday Day (very different than Birthday Week, etc, etc) as crucial to the briefly rainy portion of the afternoon. Some people laughed- Oh hah, aren't they being quaint- doing a puzzle with a mallard! Others might have thought I was playing up the dork factor for effect and never actually engaged in any sort of cryptic mallardy activities.

The Mallard is real. And, as I have recently discovered- the mallard has babies.

We set up this diversion on our front room coffee table and played with it for the requisite ten minutes. And then the sun came back out. So long, panoramic duck.

But that night...long after the birthday dinner of Pinot Grigio and cupcakes eaten on paper towels (to be fair, it was the fourth "dinner" of the evening), I found myself standing over the table (probably getting crumbs everywhere, too) eyeing the purpley waves hitting the shore where the gently lit cabin rested. I started searching for my duck, recently discovered and set aside. But...there were more feather pieces lying about. What kind of madness is this, Master Pieces Puzzlemakers (Having Fun One Piece At A Time)?

So I went to bed. But I think we all know to where my mind drifted.

Not to the dishes crowding the kitchen counters, nor my daughter- unbathed since Friday afternoon- not even to the stacks of books and magazines (ahem, periodicals) that I say I'm trying to work through.

It's the Mallard.

All through the work day on Monday I felt my mind slipping back towards that bright pile of strewn puzzle pieces- waves and down and impossibly electric flora. Between securing diapers on wiggly smallish humans, jotting notes on the back of my hand, and extricating stickers from hair...I allowed myself to daydream about a puzzle.


That night, P.J. joined me. Oh sure, he pretended to be working on his laptop, poking around with files and "finances," but I saw him seeing me looking at the puzzle. And he took a section of foliage. And I kept up with the serene mallard of lore.

And that's when I saw it- the "mallard" had three ducklings trailing behind "him." (I also finished enough of "his" body to realize that the coloring was all wrong.) The MALLARD was a HEN- or, as we commonly call them- A DUCK.

There is no actual mallard in the puzzle we've been referring to as the Mallard Puzzle. (But ask me if I'm gonna stop calling it that. No really, ask.)

And I'm ashamed to admit how late we stayed up that night, just long enough to "finish this end section here." The next morning I was shocked and more than a little rageful to discover that one of the cats (maybe both) had decided to sleep on the coffee table amidst the pieces. (It is comforting and all.) But in their quest for legroom they knocked entire [recently finished] end piece sections onto the floor and under the couch. That night the name of the game was 'Catch Up.' We were a mean, green [purple], maintaining machine. And we moved the puzzle to the dining room. That's right, friends, the next time I invite you over for "dinner," you'd better make some alternate arrangements for actual places to put your food.

Thank goodness for the outdoor patio set. (That's riiiight, al fresco!) We are seriously in danger of becoming that couple. The one who shows you their Mallard Puzzle. The one taking up entire room- or worse yet, framed on the wall. Of your guest room!

I'm hoping that once we finish the soothing, slightly Impressionistic (which makes it nearly impossible to differentiate between pieces) ducky puzzle- the extra lengthy, panoramic delight for the senses that it is...that my craving will be quelled. I'm hoping so. But I'm not too optimistic. I am, after all, the person in this house that ate an entire cantaloupe (saving for one skinny slice that P.J. stole) the other morning. And my friends would be quick to tell you about the time I had to be pulled in out of the rain and the dark, away from the picnic table and my beloved crawfish, where I had been sitting. Alone. For multiple hours. And I can just feel Nat about to jump in with a tale of 'Cakey,' the birthday cake that I wouldn't allow anyone to pitch- oh, months after my birthday.

I sometimes find that I am-  let's just use the word "focused." And miraculously under 300lbs.

And I apologize for the way this duck puzzle has butted in and taken over today's post. This was not my intention. (But you see? You see how it gets you?)

Poor Nora. Poor, poor, un-mothered Nora. Here's what I intended to write about today: the gal is crawling. Like, hands and knees, motoring across the room, getting that THING from you and putting it directly into her toothy mouth. Which is making way for a third tooth. Helpful, as she's plowing her way through all sorts of fruits and veggies and edible awesomeness (new favorite- a spoon of hummus. My people!) We went to the Farmer's Market yesterday with Lily and picked out some turnips and summer squash to add to her collection of yums. I was going to post about that, really I was. And how, even though I started out really carefully, blending the life outta anything with skin or texture, now I mash things slightly, letting her grab and feed as she so pleases. 'Cause she likes to feed herself. Things like broccoli and smashed blueberries (although I think we need to ease up, as her last diaper looked like she sat on a Smurf) and bites of chicken while I'm preparing Lil's quesadilla. (My Mother: Be careful/ Me: I am, Mom!)

Yep, I was going to praise my Bitsy N.J. for being quite the biggie these days- but no. I went on for a page and a half about a puzzle.

A puzzle that...even now...seems to have me in its seductive grip.

We are home today, after all. But I have writing to do. And we should leave the house. It's beautiful out. Maybe we'll walk to the Lebanese bakery.

And I can eat my way through their entire case of spinach, cheese and onion pies. That's totally better than wasting a day on a Mallard- er, Duck puzzle.

But first I need to go find the cupcakes.

Thirty...and hurdy gurdy

Thankyouverymuch, Mr. Blogger. You have officially sent my mojo off-kilter and skewed my groove. I like to blog at 10am. Today, apparently, you like to confuse me at 10am. And then refuse to let me post. Well, har de har to YOU, good sir, for I have a pal in Cali who can somehow get around this No Blogger For Chicagoland thingie. (Thanks, Wilder.)

Back to the blog.

I think we might be onto something with this whole birthday [thing that I’ve been cultivating for the past three decades].

And Facebook? Facebook is crazy. Where else in the known universe (besides MySpace, Friendster, Tribe, etc, etc, etc) can one have hundreds of birthday greetings flicked at them throughout the day? Regardless of the fact that Facebook guilts you into acknowledging such events every time you log in (and, uh, they mash two days together on the sidebar, making everyone think it’s one’s birthday a full 24 hours beforehand- which is not a problem) it still makes you feel kinda cool to have greetings from all different time zones, cities, portions of your life, that guy on the couch…

…And even if some of the wishes are a lower case, unpunctuated ‘happy birthday’ smashed onto someone’s wall willy-nilly, I don’t care. I accept. And I thank you. And I counted.

I might be growing up. Yesterday was the first year whereupon I did not go out to public locales simply to have the opportunity to exclaim, “Yes, it IS my birthday. You want to give me a free drink/ice cream cone/ComEd sweatband? Okay.” But I did wear a purple tank top from my mother in-law that proclaimed me to be “30…and flirty.” In rhinestones. It matched my purple and white skirt, a poor attempt to recreate the Birthday Outfit of my youth. (Not a birthday suit, thankyouverymuch. I have officially hit the age where No One Wants To See That.) I have plans for the “30…and flirty” tank. It involves numbered stickers for the years to come. Oh my goodness, I love running jokes.

Maybe I’m not growing up so much. I did, however, get past the abdominal vice grip that was the rollover into 30. Barely. It was more intense than Y2K and the ending of the Mayan calendar combined. (We’ll see, anyhow.) Nothing much has happened, thus far. But you know how people always ask if you feel different on your birthday? And you always answer no, kinda wishing you had something cooler to report? Well, this year, I feel different. I can’t put my finger on it yet. I might be taller.

And I gotta say- my husband Philip is pretty darned clutch in this transition into a new decade. He’s seriously like the cruise director of my birthday ship, or Mickey Mouse waving me into the Magic Kingdom, perhaps even that Walmart greeter who hands out smiley face stickers…

Friday night was heralded in with Middle Eastern goodness from Sanabel, our gem of a bakery/warehouse/addiction down the street. Our entire dinner (including a box of fresh macaroons) cost less than ten bucks. And there was a lot. Then we watched The Soup. Then we did laundry, which is not quite so awesome but quite important. (I believe The Flight Of The Conchords acknowledged the importance of recycling and such chores quite well in their smash hit “Business Time.”)

Saturday was neato, as I got to spend it with a handful of close friends- all bearing baked goods. There are honestly seven different types of desserts- most of them cupcakes- in my kitchen. And not just any desserts. These are all top notch edibles of the baked persuasion. Rhubarb apple crisp pie. Sweet Mandy B’s red velvet cake. Sugar cookies lighter than air. Trays and trays of miniature cuppycakes, all with their own neat trick (whipped cream INSIDE, for example.) Remember back when I was so worried about the baby weight? Well, apparently that was just a big ol’ panic button for the Big Day. Now that I’m safely on the other side of 30- Party on, Garth.

And the day itself? I had made a proclamation (to Peej and Nora, a very good pair of listeners) that I wanted my actual birthday to be lazy and kinda like summer camp. They obliged. The two of them conspired to let me sleep in (past 7am!) and then they fixed things so that I didn’t change one single diaper until 8pm last night. (I have no idea what kind of sorcery was going on there.) Nora gave me a miniature sterling typewriter charm for my bracelet- and it moves! (My mother had a similar one when she was younger- I’ve always, always wanted one of my own.) And so as not to embarrass P.J., I’ll just say that he outdid himself. With bling. Blingity blang bling. And let’s just say that he won. Forever. And left me speechless. (For at least an hour!)

Apparently I have no problem losing, now that I’m thirty.

Crosswords were penned in the hammock. The Sunday “paper,” (Parade, the Trib mag and the funners) were enjoyed on the couch- or the jumperoo, depending on one’s level of mobility. There were brief periods of crazy thunder that inspired us to do one of those thousand piece puzzles- which we did not own- so Peej ran to Walgreens and got the saddest, strangest looks. (One guy asked if he was bored.) The puzzle, by the by, is majestic. It involves- to say the absolute least- a panorama and a hidden mallard. Then there were naps. And lunch from my favorite place in Roscoe Village. And more starches and sugars (I felt hungover and beaten up this morning- eating this much is a serious thing! I don’t think I properly warmed up!)

We took a walk through Ravenswood Manor- where we consistently pretend that we live- and got caught in a bit of a rainstorm. (We were a wreck. Nora thought it was great.) When we got back, we found our lovely pal Nat waiting to give me a gift- I was pretty excited about both things. I don’t see him enough. But the gift certificate was pretty rad, too.

And then- Underworld, the extended, unrated, unbelievable version. Twelve extra minutes of never before seen footage! Turns out, twelve minutes in a movie like this equals out to a whole ‘nother plot. It was really great. Also great- the fifth helping of baked goods and wine out of our wedding goblets (we forgot all about them during our anniversary travels- hey, a holiday is a holiday.)

And tonight P.J. is taking me to see She & Him at Millenium Park, followed by a surprise dinner. I am superbly excited about these, but dearly hope that the “surprise dinner” doesn’t mean “Surprise, there’s no dinner.”

With the way I’ve been carbo-loading, my blood sugar would simply plummet.

I have to worry about these things now.