They've got the beet!

That stud muffin I married (TSMIM) decided that we needed to go out on a date on Friday night. He was out of town for a while in January, and as a result, we hadn't gone out on a date since New Year's Day.

So last night we went to Avenues at The Peninsula Hotel. Wow. Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner. I give it five stars for all the usual reasons, as well as my own private reasons.

Reason Number One: It's not noisy. In fact, it's actually quiet. If my memory doesn't deceive me, there was no background music. Also, it was a good-sized room, but not at all crowded. The tables have a lot of space around them. I couldn't hear a word spoken at any of the other tables.

Reason Number Two: Great cocktails. I have no use at all for places that screw around with the classics. I don't want a lemon drop martini. I don't even want to be reminded that the lemon drop alleged "martini" even exists. I had a Manhattan, straight up, and it was great. Ice cold, big, properly garnished, and nary a drop of lemon-flavored vodka in it.

Reason Number Three: Ease of ordering. Upon perusing the menu, I decided on what they call the "Greatest Hits," and I call the Chef's choice degustation menu with the auto-wine feature. This choice, although expensive, means that once you've ordered, you don't have to talk or think about food or wine for the rest of the evening. They just keep bringing you a succession of delicious little dishes. If you're interested in wine, you get to try some nice new ones. And if you're lucky, they tell you what's on your plate and in your glass and then go away and leave you alone to enjoy it.

Reason Number Four: Yummy, interesting, but not overly precious food. We had a salmon appetizer, like a tiny Napoleon pastry made of layers of fish, garnished with a lemon/cauliflower cream sauce and topped with caviar. Then we had a single scallop (fixed very nicely I'm sure, but I can't remember it at all. Maybe the Chateau Carbonnieux Pessac Leognan 2002 was to blame). Then we had my favorite dish: frog's leg risotto with truffle and garlic oil. It sounds gruesome but it was delicious. I chased every grain of rice around my plate. Then we had a preparation of duck, and finally, a few precious slices of Kobe beef. Dessert was a chocolate-cinnamon layered thing with fresh raspberries and next to it, rather surprisingly, a scoop of beet sorbet.

Reason Number Five: Waiters who wait on table as a profession instead of using their food-transportation skills to finance, say, an acting career. The service was great; attentive without being overbearing. Also everyone was wonderfully low-key. I've been a waitress and I have every sympathy for people who carry around food for a living, but I'm damned if I want to become best friends with them. The waiters at Avenues were perfect. They were attentive and laughed at my jokes without trying to top them.

So we had a lovely, albeit hideously expensive dinner. (Although I could do without beet sorbet. It just tasted so ... beety.) So expensive that I'm consoling myself with the fact that they gave us an amuse gueule and some little nibbly sweets at the end of the meal, which at their prices, probably have a street value of about $50.00. Maybe more.

Although this isn't relevant to the review, I also liked the fact that we got to walk there and back. Although to be honest, I don't remember very much about the walk back, probably due to number of nice new wines I sampled. There was an Austrian Riesling, a white Bordeaux, a Chardonnay from New Zealand, two reds, and a glass of Sauternes. Basically, I should have been hungover this morning, yet amazingly enough, was not.

So Reason Number Six: A good wine cellar and a wizard sommelier (actually, "Dumbledore-like" is the phrase that comes to mind) who magically extricated me from the mess I was making of my brain cells.
So, to sum up:

Lack of annoying noise: *****
Cocktails *****
Lack of Foodie Blather *****
Food ****
Service *****

You'll notice that I gave the place five stars for everything except food. Well, I may have had a lot to drink, but the memory of that beet sorbet still lingers. So they lose a point for screwing around with otherwise tasty dessert ingredients. But for everything else, and the stuff that really matters, I give Avenues five stars.

I am, however, planning some kind of penance to make up for the deliciousness of this meal. Right now I'm planning on chaining myself to a rock for a week and letting birds of prey tear at my vital organs. That will show me.

She drives them crazy

I live in a very small town on the North Shore of Chicago. The population is something like 2,000. Of those 2,000, say half are female, 500 are of child-bearing age, 300 are the mothers of the children in my kids' school, and 50 or 60 are the parents of the kids in my children's classes. Of those 50 or 60 mothers, I socialize with exactly ... three.

Now I'm a gregarious soul, and I've lived in this town for almost seven years. So these numbers trouble me slightly. Why on earth don't I have more friends?

Well, I think I've figured out why.

Through a combination of entropy and sheer ineptness, my husband and I haven't been spending our money the way we're supposed to. I might be wrong about this, but in this town, you're supposed to spend your money on huge, House Beautiful-style houses and big-ass SUVs and/or imported luxury sedans. And we don't. Not that we can't afford to; we just can't be bothered because we don't care enough about that kind of thing.

Well, OK, we care a little. I mean, if someone could wave a magic wand and give me a new car and even more important, get rid of the old one for me, sure, I'd take it. But if you're not interested in cars, the process of acquiring one is labor-intensive, anxiety-producing, and ultimately, pretty boring. You have to hit all these websites and compare makes, models, years, options, Consumer Reports articles, crash-test results (who the hell cares? I don't plan on having any accidents, anyway,) etc., etc.

And let's not even go into the little matter of Real Estate and how much fun it is to buy and sell. Every time I think about dumping this house and moving into something a bit more House Beautiful, I think about having to put it on the market ... and I end up in front of the bar, gulping Jim Beam out of the 1.75 liter bottle. I'm kidding. (But not by that much.)

So we're driving around in a 1993 Saturn SL2, the first car I ever owned, bought when we lived in the city and had to park it on the street. We're also driving my sister's old 1994 Volvo 940 Turbo wagon. Which by the way has a big-ass dent in the driver's side door because in 1999 a teen-aged girl backed into me. The insurance company told me we could get $1,800 to fix it but I've never bothered to figure out how to get the money from them or have the dent fixed. See what I mean? Talk about entropy!

And we're living in what would be a starter house, except we're such lame-os we'll probably end our lives there. Or at least hang out until they cart us, our walkers, and our hearing aids to the Bide a Wee Retirement facility.

Now nobody around here would be so crass as to say "Wow, you people must be really poor the way you live in a small, not-particularly fixed-up house and drive the two oldest, most beat-up looking cars in town." But that's probably what they're thinking. And since poor is among the least attractive things you can be in these parts, they're giving us a wide berth.

Either that or it's my breath.

What am I, chopped liver?

I mean, what the hell???

If you pay any attention to the news media--and I admit, I pay as little as I can get away with--you'll have heard all about a big storm on the East Coast. Well, it just so happens that it snowed like crazy here in Chicago, but does anyone care? I guess not. And that is just. so. typical.
So I have only one question: do people in NY not realize this has happened? And if so, does the editor of the NYT want to come shovel my driveway? I'll make it worth his while--I'll pay him twenty bucks, no problem.

Click me

Poppy

The latest way you can tell I am out of it

I've been participating in a usenet group, alt.fashion, for over eight years. AF is supposedly devoted to the subject of Fashion-with-a-capital-F, but it has evolved into a freeflowing discussion of more mundane matters such as what so-and-so wore to the Academy Awards, which long-lasting drugstore-brand lipstick is best, and whether ponchos and/or Uggs are So Totally Over.

I've been reading AF long enough to have it become my primary source for information on celebrities and their style. Or the lack thereof. For example, I know all about "the Rachel," not because I've ever watched Friends, but because of the discussions of Jennifer Aniston's appearance that I've read on AF. Ditto Sex and the City. In fact, AF has become my own private Sargasso sea of style-related trivia. I pretty much refuse to watch television, but I learn everything I need to know there.

Yesterday, in yet another attempt to waste time on the internet, I checked the posts and saw one headed "What color were Laura's shoes?"

Well, I skipped this entire thread and read a bunch of other stuff, because who cares about some random soap opera star's shoes? I mean, even when I'm wasting time, I'm not going to read every single post if I have no idea who this "Laura" person is. I realize that my attempts to waste time on the internet are hampered by my inability to waste time watching television, but that's just the way it is, people. I have my limits. Call me stubborn, but I'm not going to start watching soaps just to gratify your every whim. When it comes to wasting time, I have my priorities.

I swear, it took me about 20 minutes to realize they were referring to Laura Bush.

I just so totally RULE!

I order you to be impressed! Just think--I altered my first html code yesterday, and already I'm adding idiotic links to my blog. Can my cheesey website complete with moop beep music and a webring be far behind?

Not that the Bettie Page link works yet, but give me time. It's supposed to be a link to Quizilla. I won't be satisfied until my readers can click on it to see what kind of Bettie they are, and that's not happening yet.

But talk about time wasting--I've already taken the quiz twice. The first time I was Leggy Bettie, and now I'm Lingerie Bettie. I'm telling you--this could go on and on like a Thanksgiving turkey.

As for the phases of the moon--isn't that awesome? And in a related superlative--isn't the phrase "Waxing Gibbous" hilarious? I want to see if I can get it as a user ID. Maybe on AOL, so I can use it as a sock and post all kinds of obnoxious remarks to various usenet groups.

I'm telling you, this html stuff is time-wasting squared--nay, cubed. It's the coolest.

In which I discover the secret of time travel

This is a momentous occasion for me, a somewhat elderly Humanities geek trying to survive in a world of technology-savvy whippersnapping whiz kids.

You see, ever since I started this blog, I've been consumed with envy of the links on my pal Badger's blog, and I badly wanted to add links to mine. Even though this meant two things: 1) figuring out how to get at a bunch of html code and 2) altering it without totally screwing up my blog.

And this is precisely what I've managed to do, and with very little trouble, I might add. Plus I only messed up once and had to go delete a few extra http://s that sneaked into my urls when I wasn't looking.

So now I have links. And pretty soon, I'm going to work up the courage to get rid of the default link--the one to googlenews. (Which is a really lame news site, so I guess some kickbacks are happening here. Everyone knows that for news you go to Yahoo. Or the New York Times, if you're feeling particularly leftie-bolshie.)

Anyway, it's not nearly often enough that I find an exciting new way to waste time via computer, so I am thrilled. My last major time-waster--other than this blog, of course--was when I discovered Snood, and that was a while ago. So this is perfect. I can think of no better time-waster than learning a goofy chatty programming language in order to endlessly tweak and perfect the appearance of text on a computer screen.

I have no doubt that my newly-found desire to learn html will occupy the next few years of my life. How much do you want to bet that I end up with a website? With backgrounds and links to various loserish web-rings and a counter to keep track of how many people aren't visiting it and cheesey moop-beep music playing seasonal ditties like "Deck the Halls" while badly animated snowflakes drift down the monitor.

So you see, the way I look at it, in another year, it'll be 1996.

--P.

Earth to Badger ... Earth to Badger ...

... check out your January 8 Lipstickismycrack post for a helpful comment from me.

--P.

p.s. http://lipstickismycrack.blogspot.com/2005/01/january-8-2005.html

Orgy Night ...

... and it's not what you're thinking at all, so cut it out. If you're looking for pervy stuff, go check your email. If you don't get enough pervy spam to keep yourself sufficiently occupied these long winter evenings, let me know, and I'll forward mine to you. OK?

No, dear reader, the orgy I speak of is the vast pile of new books and toys I accumulated today, plus the fact that my New Favorite Television Show will be on tonight. (See previous entry.)

So in addition to watching "How Clean is your House?" I get to read my new library book, Fer-de-Lance, by Rex Stout, which only happens to be the first Nero Wolfe mystery, that's all. And being the geek that I am, I fully expect to read through all of the rest of the Nero Wolfe mysteries, in strict chronological order, because that kind of thing makes a geek really feel alive.

And as if that weren't enough enjoyment for a single evening, I get to also flip through two new magazines, Esquire and Shop, Etc., both of which look very promising, as well as a copy of InStyle magazine's Getting Gorgeous which is just like an InStyle magazine except there are no ads, how cool is that?

And if that's not enough, I have a new jar of bath salts and three new pairs of shoes. And don't break out into a nervous sweat or start to drool or anything, but one of these new pairs of shoes is a pair of ponyskin leopard print pumps by Casadei with a tiny keyhold opening near the base of the toes and a teeny little leather bow, a slightly rounded toe and killer four-inch stiletto heels. They are so totally Honey West that I may wet my pants. I realize, dear reader, that you probably have no idea what I'm talking about, but for Baby Boom women, that is an image that resonates powerfully. We all were in thrall to Honey West. Trust me on this.

So after reading my new books and magazines and watching my new favorite teevee show and taking a long bath with my new bath salts, I'll probably spend some time admiring my new shoes, and maybe even taking them for a test spin around my bedroom.

Hmmm, on second thought this is actually starting to sound kind of pervy, so I'd better shut up now before I embarrass myself.

My new favorite TV show

OK, I lied.

See, I'm not one of those people who goes around trying to impress everyone by claiming that I never watch TV. I really do watch less television than anyone I know. Except my husband. He never watches television at all, and I watch one show. It's called "How Clean is Your House?" and it's currently airing on the Lifetime network.

I guess I shouldn't really call it my new favorite TV show, because my old favorite TV show was on the air before I had children, and just so you know how long ago that was, I should tell you that my oldest child will turn 10 this year.

I guess by now it's clear that keeping up with popular culture by means of my comments on television shows is about as useful as trying to tell time by looking at the hour hand of a clock. Maybe even less so.

(Note: It's a good thing I'm not proposing to wax lyrical on the subject of my favorite pop groups.)

Anyway, now to describe the greatness that is "How Clean is Your House?" I can't really decide whether it's a more of a makeover show or more of a reality show. I mean, it's obvious that these people's houses are getting made over. And like a good makeover show, there's a formula.

This is how it goes. Every week Kim and Aggie inspect someone's house, screech about how foul it is, lecture the person responsible, share one or two cleaning tips, and squeeze in at least one product placement. In every show the owner is filmed doing part of the de-junking and cleaning up. A team of heavy-duty cleaners then takes over, and the last part of the show is shots of the owner returning to an immaculate, decluttered home. Then, just like that show with what's-his-name and what's-her-name making people's wardrobes over, a couple of weeks later there is a return visit to see whether the makeoveree has begun to slip.

So there is definitely a strong resemblance to--wait a minute--it's coming--aha!--"What Not to Wear."

But there's also something of a reality show vibe about "How Clean Is Your House?" I mean, it's one thing to see how horribly someone dresses when you're filming them on the street or asking them to bring their old clothes into a television studio; they might not know they're being filmed, but they are in public, after all. It's not like they're being filmed through their living room windows. It's another thing altogether to shoot the contents of your subjects' refrigerators in all their disgusting glory. Or show the fresh mouse droppings on their living room rug. Or the cat vomit all over their shoes. Or mold on someone's dental floss container.

Anyway, my husband calls this show "Television for the Smug." Which deftly eludes the question of genre that I've been nattering on about, and which was interesting to me and probably nobody else. And that's just as well, because who cares what kind of show it is? The point is, this show exists to make me feel superior, and really, what could be better?

With its entertainment centers and wall-to-wall carpeting, its mouse droppings, expired dairy products, and mold, this show combines the best of bad taste and outright squalor. These people's houses and apartments are so stultifyingly style-free and unbelievably filthy that I'm riveted to the television every Monday night. I've even awakened my husband by screeching "Eeeeeeew!!" when the camera zooms in on little bugs all over someone's mattress, or when Kim and Aggie open a carton of sour cream only to disclose something that looks like brown shoe polish.

Personally, in terms of the smug factor, I think "How Clean is Your House?" leaves "What Not to Wear" sitting in the road. Sure, I feel smug when I see some poor style-challenged nitwit running around wearing baby tees and toe socks, but for true smugness, show me someone who stores her shoes in her bathtub because if she doesn't, her cats will vomit on them. Naturally I pity a clueless goofball whose idea of style icons are Elsa Lanchester as the Bride of Frankenstein with just a soupcon of Betty Page thrown in for good measure. But only the truly pathetic have me saying "How can anyone LIVE like that??" in a tone of utter bemusement every Monday night.

So anyway, check it out. It's a quick 25 minutes of fun, interrupted by regular commercial breaks in which--mark my words--you will find yourself picking up the room. See if you don't.

When every day is a bad hair day

OK, right away I will mention that I haven't undergone chemo, and whining about bad hair seems pretty insensitive when half the women I know are going around with scarves on their heads (instead of around their necks where I'm sure they would much rather be wearing them, if at all.)

But I'm going to whine about my hair anyway, because at the rate things are going, I'll be wearing scarves on my head sooner or later. I mean, it just seems inevitable at this point. Doesn't it? Almost like everyone's fifteen minutes of fame?

So on to the burning issue of my hair and why it drives me crazy.

Because I am not as young as I used to be (by the way, dear Reader, I can tell without looking--call me psychic--that neither are you--but I digress) my hair is dyed. Because it is dyed, it is fried. (Hellooooooo Dr. Seuss!)

So what I have is a mess of medium chestnut brown hair with some of it highlighted lighter (so as to escape that "I poured a bottle of brown shoe polish on my head" look) and some of it low-lighted darker. My hair dyer assures me this adds "depth and a look of extra fullness," but we're all going to have to take her word for it. It's possible, of course, that this depth and fullness is going on behind my back where I can't see.

So anyway. I'm sitting here with it wet, and I can feel it drying into little wiggly frizzles. Now pre-chemicals, my hair was as thick and straight as a horse's tail. So I breezed through the 70s and 80s pretty much wearing it long and straight or short and bobbed. I bought a can of mousse, developed a faint competence with the blow dryer, and all was well.

Now, however, those choppy layers are in style. And I hereby curse whoever the hell it was who did that to Meg Ryan in the first place. Also the person who did that to Jennifer Anniston the first time around. Because now we all have all these damned layers cut into our hair, and I, at least, have no idea what to do with them.

So for the moment I have two kinds of hair: the envy-producing professionally- colored and blown-out just-left-the-salon high-maintenance look. And the starting-to-show roots, madly frizzy, ineptly-blown-out-at-home look.

Unfortunately, since I loathe beauty salons and only go when things have gotten really, really bad, the ratio of the first to the latter is about 1 in 60.

Speaking of which, I had better go apply some product and blow my hair out now, or I will spend the rest of the day cringeing every time I pass a mirror. I've truly enjoyed ranting, but I have my public to consider.

-P.

Badger Meets World

Badger Meets World

In which the voices in my head make fun of me on-line

Hello there.

Remember that dearth of snow I was whining about a while ago? Well, we have received an ample supply due to the overwhelming generosity of Mother Nature. And I mean ample. I think somewhere in the area of six to ten inches' worth. (Am I or am I not supposed to use an apostrophe with inches? I've tried it both ways, and both look dumb.)

Enough so that the children's babysitter couldn't get into the driveway.

(Her children have a babysitter? And why is that, exactly? She's a housewife!)

Enough so that the milkman couldn't deliver the milk.

(She has a milkman--isn't that retro of her!)

And my daughter sat glumly munching on a bowl of dry Kix for breakfast. Until the babysitter showed up and voluntarily went back out to buy a gallon of milk at the convenience store.

(Could she be more lame--getting the babysitter to do all the dirty work!)

And it's still falling.

So I'd better get out there and start shoveling. Maybe I'll even figure out how to use that snowblower my husband bought a couple of years ago.

Yeah, it's time to get out there.

(Better get up before your ass takes root!)

Oh yeah? Well, that's easy for you to say, curled up all snug and warm in my cranium--probably drinking hot chocolate with marshmallows, for all I know.

--P.