Friday, October 31
Tuesday, October 28
happy thoughts of singing vegetables
It is highly unlikely that we will be deported before Christmas. Of course, if things go as planned, we will not be deported at all. And if we learn before Christmas that we won't be deported, it'll be the happiest Christmas ever. It’ll be happier than the time the Grinch brought back all those presents to the Whos of Whoville and got to carve the Roast Beast. Happier than the time Scrooge popped in on the Cratchits with that giant turkey. Happier than that thing that went down in the Muppet Christmas movie, whatever it was, with the singing vegetables and the rats and that chick with the wonky teeth and everything.
It would simply be the Best Christmas Ever.
But I’m just not convinced that the government likes us that much.
The latest news is that this thing will most likely drag on for months, if not longer, depending on...well. The next part of that sentence contains words I’m not really supposed to know. So I'll leave it at that. Let’s just say I won’t be sending a festive Christmas wreath down to the folks at the USCIS office this holiday season.
With that in mind, it’s becoming increasingly important that we don’t dwell on things. It’s becoming increasingly important that we come up with happy thoughts about deportation instead of focusing on all the nasty-wasty little niggley ones that keep popping up at inconvenient times. Like this one that occurred as I was microwaving some soup earlier today: "Psst. Psst. Hey. Hey, Jenny. Hey! If you get deported, your dog will have to stay in quarantine in Guatemala City for, like a month. Or three months. Heh heh. Yeah. Maybe more. Maybe a year."
And this one: "You know how they'll probably treat your dog while she's in quarantine in Guatemala City, right? Heh heh."
Right. Those types of thoughts just won't do anymore. If we keep entertaining those types of thoughts, by mid-November, we'll be so angry and depressed that the dog will begin to believe she'd be better off in quarantine anyway.
We’re trying to focus instead on the positive. The most positive thing that’s come of this so far (and there are…oh so many positive aspects of it. Just. So many.) is the amazing, selfless, just purely kind support so many of our friends and family have offered us since the whole ordeal was kicked off this past summer. An ordeal, I might add, that is apparently only beginning. Yay. Financially, this will be hard, yes, but it’s the emotional toll that would be the real killer if we hadn't suddenly found ourselves suspended by this net of support that has suddenly tightened up around us. That’s really what’s going to get us through it.
It’s making me go all teary-eyed right now, in fact. I love you guys, man. Thank you. If I could bake you all a batch of spoon cookies just for your own selves, I would. But the thought of it is, frankly, almost more than I can bear, considering my fragile emotional state and all. And also the fact that such an undertaking would take about six years to complete, considering how many of you have offered your support and also considering how the making of spoon cookies is so horrendously time-consuming and ultimately produces such low yields. Much like the naturalization process, apparently.
As I make a feeble attempt to wrap this post up with some kind of conclusion that effectively ties the Grinch, deportation, and holiday spoon cookies into some kind of coherent and meaningful package, I...just can’t. The day has simply been too long. The last couple of months have simply been too long. Sorry.
It would simply be the Best Christmas Ever.
But I’m just not convinced that the government likes us that much.
The latest news is that this thing will most likely drag on for months, if not longer, depending on...well. The next part of that sentence contains words I’m not really supposed to know. So I'll leave it at that. Let’s just say I won’t be sending a festive Christmas wreath down to the folks at the USCIS office this holiday season.
With that in mind, it’s becoming increasingly important that we don’t dwell on things. It’s becoming increasingly important that we come up with happy thoughts about deportation instead of focusing on all the nasty-wasty little niggley ones that keep popping up at inconvenient times. Like this one that occurred as I was microwaving some soup earlier today: "Psst. Psst. Hey. Hey, Jenny. Hey! If you get deported, your dog will have to stay in quarantine in Guatemala City for, like a month. Or three months. Heh heh. Yeah. Maybe more. Maybe a year."
And this one: "You know how they'll probably treat your dog while she's in quarantine in Guatemala City, right? Heh heh."
Right. Those types of thoughts just won't do anymore. If we keep entertaining those types of thoughts, by mid-November, we'll be so angry and depressed that the dog will begin to believe she'd be better off in quarantine anyway.
We’re trying to focus instead on the positive. The most positive thing that’s come of this so far (and there are…oh so many positive aspects of it. Just. So many.) is the amazing, selfless, just purely kind support so many of our friends and family have offered us since the whole ordeal was kicked off this past summer. An ordeal, I might add, that is apparently only beginning. Yay. Financially, this will be hard, yes, but it’s the emotional toll that would be the real killer if we hadn't suddenly found ourselves suspended by this net of support that has suddenly tightened up around us. That’s really what’s going to get us through it.
It’s making me go all teary-eyed right now, in fact. I love you guys, man. Thank you. If I could bake you all a batch of spoon cookies just for your own selves, I would. But the thought of it is, frankly, almost more than I can bear, considering my fragile emotional state and all. And also the fact that such an undertaking would take about six years to complete, considering how many of you have offered your support and also considering how the making of spoon cookies is so horrendously time-consuming and ultimately produces such low yields. Much like the naturalization process, apparently.
As I make a feeble attempt to wrap this post up with some kind of conclusion that effectively ties the Grinch, deportation, and holiday spoon cookies into some kind of coherent and meaningful package, I...just can’t. The day has simply been too long. The last couple of months have simply been too long. Sorry.
a coupla apples aday
The whole calorie-counting thing is going well. My inner nutritionist seems pleased by the spike in nutrients provided by all the apples we're suddenly consuming. Pleased and confused.
I've realized that it's not the calorie-counting itself that brings me such joy - it's the new mindfulness with which I've been approaching food. Giant wedge of sour cream apple pie? Or smallish slice? One tablespoon of peanut butter per celery snack, or one tablespoon per five celery snacks? Snickers bar followed by three packages of Skittles or one deliciously sweet Honeycrisp apple? You see how it works? All I have to do is think about my options instead of scarfing down mindlessly.
My inner nutritionist is having a nonstop party these days. With a disco ball and everything. That's not my stomach growling. That's the growl of the bass.
I've realized that it's not the calorie-counting itself that brings me such joy - it's the new mindfulness with which I've been approaching food. Giant wedge of sour cream apple pie? Or smallish slice? One tablespoon of peanut butter per celery snack, or one tablespoon per five celery snacks? Snickers bar followed by three packages of Skittles or one deliciously sweet Honeycrisp apple? You see how it works? All I have to do is think about my options instead of scarfing down mindlessly.
My inner nutritionist is having a nonstop party these days. With a disco ball and everything. That's not my stomach growling. That's the growl of the bass.
Friday, October 24
the dark side
There comes a time in a girl's life when she puts on a pair of tight jeans and she looks down and she sees...something. Kind of hanging precariously over the side of the jeans. It is her waist. The tight jeans, they have become even tighter.
Naturally, for awhile this strange bulging is the fault of the jeans. The jeans have shrunk. They obviously have some kind of terrible grudge against the girl or some defect that causes spontaneous and irreversible shrinkage during washing - or perhaps they love the girl as much as she loves them and are merely trying to cling harder so that she understands how much she is loved by them.
In any case, the girl (who is me) is struck by the sudden realization that she can no longer take her jeans out in public. She is struck by the realization that...she is gaining weight. And she's not happy about it.
Imagine my shock at finding that I can no longer devour Brie in large quantities after work. I can no longer indulge in ice cream every night or full-fat Brown Cow yogurt (with the lovely layer of cream on top) every day for lunch. And I really ought to cut out that layer of butter I like to spread under the cream cheese on my weekend bagel. Am I gross? Probably. I'm probably gross for loving butter to distraction, yes.
But that isn't the point.
The point is that I've (abruptly) become something of a calorie counter. And it's kind of fun. Today, I have so far consumed only 922 calories, which is apparently only about half of the calories I need for survival. I don't know how I've managed to do this, but I think it's probably a fairly accurate estimate. Since I have become a Calorie-Counter (yesterday morning, in fact, in a sudden fit of...whatever it is that you would call this thing I'm experiencing), I've been measuring my food. And it creeps me out. But it also makes me feel confident that the aforementioned estimate of my calorie consumption is fairly accurate.
Don't get me wrong. I love food. I'm not really about calorie-counting, if that makes sense. I can't stand the thought of dieting. If it says low fat on the package, I assume it will taste like...like what? Have I ever, as an adult, willingly eaten anything that called itself low fat? No. Because it will taste like...that.
So I will do anything in my power to continue eating the delicious, fatty foods I love. I'm going all out for Thanksgiving, for example. I will most likely consume 922 calories (or more!) just during the snacking-while-cooking phase of the holiday. But it's starting to become painfully clear that I simply can't eat as much as I used to and still expect to be able to wear the new pair of tight jeans that I will soon buy in my most recent size.
Goodbye, half-a-wedge of Brie after work. Goodbye, my beautiful, beautiful cheesy olive balls. Goodbye, things that are not cheese but that are also extremely delicious and fattening. Goodbye.
Naturally, for awhile this strange bulging is the fault of the jeans. The jeans have shrunk. They obviously have some kind of terrible grudge against the girl or some defect that causes spontaneous and irreversible shrinkage during washing - or perhaps they love the girl as much as she loves them and are merely trying to cling harder so that she understands how much she is loved by them.
In any case, the girl (who is me) is struck by the sudden realization that she can no longer take her jeans out in public. She is struck by the realization that...she is gaining weight. And she's not happy about it.
Imagine my shock at finding that I can no longer devour Brie in large quantities after work. I can no longer indulge in ice cream every night or full-fat Brown Cow yogurt (with the lovely layer of cream on top) every day for lunch. And I really ought to cut out that layer of butter I like to spread under the cream cheese on my weekend bagel. Am I gross? Probably. I'm probably gross for loving butter to distraction, yes.
But that isn't the point.
The point is that I've (abruptly) become something of a calorie counter. And it's kind of fun. Today, I have so far consumed only 922 calories, which is apparently only about half of the calories I need for survival. I don't know how I've managed to do this, but I think it's probably a fairly accurate estimate. Since I have become a Calorie-Counter (yesterday morning, in fact, in a sudden fit of...whatever it is that you would call this thing I'm experiencing), I've been measuring my food. And it creeps me out. But it also makes me feel confident that the aforementioned estimate of my calorie consumption is fairly accurate.
Don't get me wrong. I love food. I'm not really about calorie-counting, if that makes sense. I can't stand the thought of dieting. If it says low fat on the package, I assume it will taste like...like what? Have I ever, as an adult, willingly eaten anything that called itself low fat? No. Because it will taste like...that.
So I will do anything in my power to continue eating the delicious, fatty foods I love. I'm going all out for Thanksgiving, for example. I will most likely consume 922 calories (or more!) just during the snacking-while-cooking phase of the holiday. But it's starting to become painfully clear that I simply can't eat as much as I used to and still expect to be able to wear the new pair of tight jeans that I will soon buy in my most recent size.
Goodbye, half-a-wedge of Brie after work. Goodbye, my beautiful, beautiful cheesy olive balls. Goodbye, things that are not cheese but that are also extremely delicious and fattening. Goodbye.
Monday, October 20
the greatest drinking game ever played
It's recently come to my attention (thanks to my hard-drinking cousin Melinda) that I don't engage in drinking games anywhere near often enough. Opportunities for drinking games zoom past my head on a regular basis, apparently. The most obvious to me now were the presidential debates. Zooomm. Shoulda been doing shots. Too late now, I suppose. Although I would guess the next four years, regardless of who wins, will be rife with possibility when it comes to drinking games.
Well, I’m not missing any more election year drinking opportunities, dammit. I’ve got two-and-a-half months. It’s time to stagger aboard the drinking game train and CHUG! CHUG! CHUG! And then pass out. Or whatever. It’s a dangerous game, this. You may wind up in states you’ve never heard of. You may wind up peeing in receptacles never meant to be peed in.
With all that in mind, I’ve now created The Greatest Drinking Game Ever Played.
The GDGEP lasts from the point at which you enter the game until 11:59 p.m. on December 31, 2008, and the most important rule is: once you’re in, you’re in. That means two-and-a-half-months of commitment. At all times you must be prepared to stop everything and drink. The GDGEP trumps all so-called “responsible behavior” so just get that out of your head right now.
Rule #1. Every time your pet appears to be irritated with you. One drink. An Aggravation.
Rule #2. Every time your child appears to be irritated with you. Two jello shots. Your child's choice of flavor.
Rule #3. Someone you know announces a pregnancy. One sip. A nice rose.
Rule #4. Every time you hit the Snooze Button. One swig. Irish coffee.
Rule #5. Whenever someone says, “You betcha, friend!” One shot. Tequila. Then another one.
Rule #6. The Dow goes up. Two drinks. Champagne.
Rule #7. The Dow goes down. Three drinks. Whiskey.
Rule #8. You live in a swing state. One shot if it looks good for your candidate. Two shots if it looks bad. As often as necessary. Alcohol of choice.
Rule #9. You live in a blue state. One drink. Cranberry-and-vodka.
Rule #10. You live in a red state. One shot. Blue Curacao.
Rule #11. Each time you hear the word “economy.” Four beers. Pabst Blue Ribbon.
Rule #12. Every time you receive a paycheck. One sip. Beverage of choice.
Rule #13. Every time someone “friends” you on Facebook. Two shots. Schnapps.
Rule #14. Whenever turkey is part of your meal. One glass. White Zin.
Rule #15. For each trick-or-treater who comes to your door. One Pumpkin Pie Shot.
Rule #16. You see an attack ad on Obama. One shot if you’re voting for McCain. Two shots if you’re voting for Obama. Goldschlager.
Rule #17. You see an attack ad on McCain. One shot if you’re voting for Obama. Two shots if you’re voting for McCain. Goldschlager.
Rule #18. Every time Raphael earns an “A” on a paper. Five beers. Raphael’s choice of beer.
Rule #19. Everyone must chug a beer on November 4th.
Rule #20. Anyone still sober by Thanksgiving must consume apple pie shots every hour upon the hour until sobriety is no longer an issue.
And remember: Drink Responsibly - if you must drink at work, lock the bathroom door.
Well, I’m not missing any more election year drinking opportunities, dammit. I’ve got two-and-a-half months. It’s time to stagger aboard the drinking game train and CHUG! CHUG! CHUG! And then pass out. Or whatever. It’s a dangerous game, this. You may wind up in states you’ve never heard of. You may wind up peeing in receptacles never meant to be peed in.
With all that in mind, I’ve now created The Greatest Drinking Game Ever Played.
The GDGEP lasts from the point at which you enter the game until 11:59 p.m. on December 31, 2008, and the most important rule is: once you’re in, you’re in. That means two-and-a-half-months of commitment. At all times you must be prepared to stop everything and drink. The GDGEP trumps all so-called “responsible behavior” so just get that out of your head right now.
Rule #1. Every time your pet appears to be irritated with you. One drink. An Aggravation.
Rule #2. Every time your child appears to be irritated with you. Two jello shots. Your child's choice of flavor.
Rule #3. Someone you know announces a pregnancy. One sip. A nice rose.
Rule #4. Every time you hit the Snooze Button. One swig. Irish coffee.
Rule #5. Whenever someone says, “You betcha, friend!” One shot. Tequila. Then another one.
Rule #6. The Dow goes up. Two drinks. Champagne.
Rule #7. The Dow goes down. Three drinks. Whiskey.
Rule #8. You live in a swing state. One shot if it looks good for your candidate. Two shots if it looks bad. As often as necessary. Alcohol of choice.
Rule #9. You live in a blue state. One drink. Cranberry-and-vodka.
Rule #10. You live in a red state. One shot. Blue Curacao.
Rule #11. Each time you hear the word “economy.” Four beers. Pabst Blue Ribbon.
Rule #12. Every time you receive a paycheck. One sip. Beverage of choice.
Rule #13. Every time someone “friends” you on Facebook. Two shots. Schnapps.
Rule #14. Whenever turkey is part of your meal. One glass. White Zin.
Rule #15. For each trick-or-treater who comes to your door. One Pumpkin Pie Shot.
Rule #16. You see an attack ad on Obama. One shot if you’re voting for McCain. Two shots if you’re voting for Obama. Goldschlager.
Rule #17. You see an attack ad on McCain. One shot if you’re voting for Obama. Two shots if you’re voting for McCain. Goldschlager.
Rule #18. Every time Raphael earns an “A” on a paper. Five beers. Raphael’s choice of beer.
Rule #19. Everyone must chug a beer on November 4th.
Rule #20. Anyone still sober by Thanksgiving must consume apple pie shots every hour upon the hour until sobriety is no longer an issue.
And remember: Drink Responsibly - if you must drink at work, lock the bathroom door.
Wednesday, October 15
"precious children who have autism"
Yeah. Like all Democrats, I hate them too.
By the way, Senator McCain. My name's not Joe. I am not in a position to buy my own plumbing business. And quit fluttering your eyelashes at me. I thought that's what you got Sarah for.
"Go vote now. It'll make you feel big and strong."
By the way, Senator McCain. My name's not Joe. I am not in a position to buy my own plumbing business. And quit fluttering your eyelashes at me. I thought that's what you got Sarah for.
"Go vote now. It'll make you feel big and strong."
Sunday, October 12
neighborhood goat
Our neighbors got a goat. I know it's a goat because I hear goat sounds over there now. Also because our neighbor told us this afternoon: "So, yeah, we got a goat. I don't know how the City feels about goats."
We were glad to know that it was, in fact, a goat, because all day yesterday we thought we were going slowly crazy, all three of us hearing at different times a gentle maa-maaahing from across the wall that suggested some sort of barnyard animal but having at that point no additional evidence, such as a goat-sighting or missing underwear off the clothesline, to assure us of our non-craziness.
But now we know for sure that we're perfectly, perfectly sane. It's our neighbors that are crazy.
It's nice to have a goat around the neighborhood, I think. The maa-maaahing to the west complements the exotic squawking of the parrot to the east. But the minute someone moves in a circus bear or any kind of large sea mammal, we're strapping the couch to our elephant and getting the heck outta here.
We were glad to know that it was, in fact, a goat, because all day yesterday we thought we were going slowly crazy, all three of us hearing at different times a gentle maa-maaahing from across the wall that suggested some sort of barnyard animal but having at that point no additional evidence, such as a goat-sighting or missing underwear off the clothesline, to assure us of our non-craziness.
But now we know for sure that we're perfectly, perfectly sane. It's our neighbors that are crazy.
It's nice to have a goat around the neighborhood, I think. The maa-maaahing to the west complements the exotic squawking of the parrot to the east. But the minute someone moves in a circus bear or any kind of large sea mammal, we're strapping the couch to our elephant and getting the heck outta here.
Friday, October 10
genoise! dacquoise! fondant! oh my!
For my birthday (yesterday!), my mother gave me "The Cake Bible", and I've spent the last two days perusing it to find the perfect cake to make for my Birthday Small Gathering tomorrow. The process has not been easy, mainly because these are very complicated recipes this woman has decided we, the Average Baker, should be able to make. Genoise! Dacquoise! Fondant! Ganache! And nougatine! What! Is she talking about!
Well, while I don't know what the heck nougatine is, I'm all over the ganache, and the last couple of days have certainly piqued my interest in genoise. Dacquoise is probably a made-up word, but I'm willing to keep reading. And as for fondant...? Ah, yes. Fondaaaannt.
Anyway, I've decided to largely ignore all of these scary words and make the Golden Grand Marnier Cake (pg. 44). I know what all of those things are. Or at least I thought I did - until I read the recipe. The Golden Grand Marnier Cake is actually a sour cream butter cake with orange zest, ground almonds, and bits of bittersweet chocolate all soaked in a Grand Marnier Syrup, and the whole thing finished with a Chocolate Cream Glaze.
I may not be quite ready to a tackle a genoise (what with the whole clarified beurre noisette thing and the entire! cartons! of eggs! required for the recipes), but I've got a couple of Reislings and the appropriate 9-inch fluted tube pan, so I think I'm ready at least for tomorrow.
Wednesday, October 8
anthropomorphizing the dog
The dog has many voices.
It's not that she's particularly talented. It's not a euphemism for "The dog wears many hats". And she's not a performance artist or anything.
But she does talk. All the time.
She has, of course, her own voice. Only two minutes ago, she came with a grubby tennis ball clenched in her teeth and said enthusiastically to me: "Rooroorowrowarh." To which I replied: "Well, thank you. I think you look pretty today as well."
She also has the high-pitched voice of a Sweet Little Girl. It comes out when she loses her ball under the couch and looks up at Raphael with those big brown eyes, wagging her tail and whining very softly: "Dad? Dad? I lost my ball. Can you get it? Can you? Please please? I love you."
There's her Whiny Teenager voice, typically paired with a skeptical sideways stare and a marked absence of tail-wagging (which we've come to realize is the doggie equivalent of hands-on-jutted-out-hips): "What. Ever. That food is so six o'clock this morning and I am so not eating it. Give it to Dad or something. You're so not awesome."
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She's got a loveable, Big Dumb Guy voice too. Ball. In Mouth. Ears plastered back against skull. Tail wagging. Tongue dangling out around ball. Eyes looking up under puffs of eyebrow fur. Paws poised for a mad dash: "Come on, guys, try to get my ball. I know you want my ball. Come on, guys. Come on. Look at it. It's my ball. Come on. I know you want my ball."
Oh, and of course there's her Rebel voice. No ball in sight (balls are mainstream). Ears forward. No tail-wagging (which might indicate acceptance of and possible agreement with the situation). Eyes staring straight on (in defiance). Legs braced firmly against the floor. Mouth closed. Comb tucked into sleeve. Cigarette dangling from teeth: "You callin' me a dog? Yeah? Well, I ain't no f***in' dog, mister. I'll tell you who's the f***in' dog around here, mister. You people make me sick."
Ah, yes, and finally, there's her Pirate voice. Eyepatch. Peg leg. Bandana. Teeth bared around giant curved sword. Tail raised and the Jolly Roger flying from the tip: "Yar! I be hungry! An' not for that filth ye call Dog Food. Avast, ye scurvy dogs! Cease and desist wi' the pourin' o' that kibble or it'll be down the plank wi' ye! Yer no better than cats, yer not. Now feed me People Food!"
It's not that she's particularly talented. It's not a euphemism for "The dog wears many hats". And she's not a performance artist or anything.
But she does talk. All the time.
She has, of course, her own voice. Only two minutes ago, she came with a grubby tennis ball clenched in her teeth and said enthusiastically to me: "Rooroorowrowarh." To which I replied: "Well, thank you. I think you look pretty today as well."
She also has the high-pitched voice of a Sweet Little Girl. It comes out when she loses her ball under the couch and looks up at Raphael with those big brown eyes, wagging her tail and whining very softly: "Dad? Dad? I lost my ball. Can you get it? Can you? Please please? I love you." 
There's her Whiny Teenager voice, typically paired with a skeptical sideways stare and a marked absence of tail-wagging (which we've come to realize is the doggie equivalent of hands-on-jutted-out-hips): "What. Ever. That food is so six o'clock this morning and I am so not eating it. Give it to Dad or something. You're so not awesome." .jpg)
She's got a loveable, Big Dumb Guy voice too. Ball. In Mouth. Ears plastered back against skull. Tail wagging. Tongue dangling out around ball. Eyes looking up under puffs of eyebrow fur. Paws poised for a mad dash: "Come on, guys, try to get my ball. I know you want my ball. Come on, guys. Come on. Look at it. It's my ball. Come on. I know you want my ball." 
Oh, and of course there's her Rebel voice. No ball in sight (balls are mainstream). Ears forward. No tail-wagging (which might indicate acceptance of and possible agreement with the situation). Eyes staring straight on (in defiance). Legs braced firmly against the floor. Mouth closed. Comb tucked into sleeve. Cigarette dangling from teeth: "You callin' me a dog? Yeah? Well, I ain't no f***in' dog, mister. I'll tell you who's the f***in' dog around here, mister. You people make me sick." 
Ah, yes, and finally, there's her Pirate voice. Eyepatch. Peg leg. Bandana. Teeth bared around giant curved sword. Tail raised and the Jolly Roger flying from the tip: "Yar! I be hungry! An' not for that filth ye call Dog Food. Avast, ye scurvy dogs! Cease and desist wi' the pourin' o' that kibble or it'll be down the plank wi' ye! Yer no better than cats, yer not. Now feed me People Food!"
Sunday, October 5
makeover
The next Makeover Post will feature pictures from inside the house. Promise! Stay tuned!
August 2006
October 2008
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October 2008
August 2006
October 2008
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October 2008
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October 2008
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October 2008
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October 2008
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October 2008
Thursday, October 2
thinking big thoughts
I think America is afraid to have a female president. I really do. And I'll tell you what the main problem is: no one can figure out what to call her husband once she takes office.
So, because I'm pro-female president (depending on the female, of course), I've spent several minutes compiling some ideas so that we as Americans don't have to be afraid anymore.
Here are my ideas:
1. First Guy (says just like you)
2. First Dude (conveys friendly and cool; would buy you drinks)
3. First Gentleman (classy)
4. First Husband of a President (factual)
5. First Man to be (insert squeaky noises) the President on a Regular Basis (honest)
and
6. Just a Regular Guy Whose Wife Happens to be President (lucky)
Conveniently, most of these will also work well for when Americans finally put a gay guy in the White House, which should be at just about any minute now.
There. Don't you feel more at ease?
So, because I'm pro-female president (depending on the female, of course), I've spent several minutes compiling some ideas so that we as Americans don't have to be afraid anymore.
Here are my ideas:
1. First Guy (says just like you)
2. First Dude (conveys friendly and cool; would buy you drinks)
3. First Gentleman (classy)
4. First Husband of a President (factual)
5. First Man to be (insert squeaky noises) the President on a Regular Basis (honest)
and
6. Just a Regular Guy Whose Wife Happens to be President (lucky)
Conveniently, most of these will also work well for when Americans finally put a gay guy in the White House, which should be at just about any minute now.
There. Don't you feel more at ease?
Wednesday, October 1
XOXO
Jenny: Ohmigod! I just found this old "Happy Birthday" postcard from Jen and Tyler! Look at it! LOOK AT IT!!
Raphael: Cripes. Okay, okay. "Dear Good Jenny Mmmhh,lalablalalammmhm..." Okay. And I see that it's signed "zso zso".
Jenny: What? No, it's not signed "zso zso".
Raphael: It is so. Look.
Jenny: It's signed "ex oh ex oh". You know, "hugs and kisses"?
Raphael: Hugs and who now?
Jenny: Kisses. It's not "zso zso", like that actress or whoever she was. Gabor, or whatever the hell. It's "hugs and kisses."
Raphael: Since when do exes and ohs mean hugs and kisses?
Jenny: Oh, honey, it's just an English thing.
Raphael: Right. I won't fret about it then.
Raphael: Cripes. Okay, okay. "Dear Good Jenny Mmmhh,lalablalalammmhm..." Okay. And I see that it's signed "zso zso".
Jenny: What? No, it's not signed "zso zso".
Raphael: It is so. Look.
Jenny: It's signed "ex oh ex oh". You know, "hugs and kisses"?
Raphael: Hugs and who now?
Jenny: Kisses. It's not "zso zso", like that actress or whoever she was. Gabor, or whatever the hell. It's "hugs and kisses."
Raphael: Since when do exes and ohs mean hugs and kisses?
Jenny: Oh, honey, it's just an English thing.
Raphael: Right. I won't fret about it then.
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