Teddy Bears and Food Chains

Could someone out there tell me what is wrong with people who have their heads so wrapped up in their religious identities that they can’t behave in a civilized fashion?  It would certainly help me at least begin to try to understand them. Or pretend to try and understand them.  Okay, so maybe not.

I’m not one to judge what people believe and why.  Really.  I notice and move on.  I may question it, think about it, maybe even worry about it or roll my eyes a few times. But that’s all. I completely understand that my purpose on this earth is to be a constructive human, and to raise productive humans.  I don’t point fingers, or get too caught up in others’ day-to-day drama. Blogging doesn’t count.

But once in a while, I wonder why there are people who are so consumed with their beliefs they aren’t satisfied until those beliefs are plastered everywhere forcing everyone else to see and know what they stand for — religiously.  I’m not talking about tree huggers here, okay?

I have trouble understanding when said people consumed with their religious beliefs (read men in Sudan and other places, but especially Sudan for this particular point) that they take to the streets calling for the execution of a woman who allowed her child to name a toy.

Surely this warrants an eye for an eye.  (I’m trying to understand here, okay?)

Surely, they have absolutely nothing better to do with their time after they’ve just finished worshiping than to crowd together acting like complete barbarians for the sake of a man who, if alive, would most likely be horrified to know that what he stood for has been so completely distorted.

When events such as this happen, I try to put myself in the position of the one so rudely offended.  I try to find a similar situation where I (or another as noble and understanding as myself, of course) might be equally offended.  Now the first example that comes to mind is the fact that many families from Spain (or countries that were invaded by Spain when it was obsessed with its religious beliefs and killing those who didn’t agree…) traditionally name their male offspring “Jesus.”  Say “Hay-soos” and you’ve got it.  I have heard someone question whether this is “okay” since fair-skinned individuals who are avid believers in Christianity would never name their male children Jesus.  Never.  But that’s a weak example, isn’t it?  Hmmmm…?  Okay, everyone…to the streets!  Such heinous disrespect!

Do they TRULY believe the British teacher should have to face imprisonment, 40 lashes, deportation, or as the learned masses demand — execution?  Really?  Why might the children not understand that this isn’t appropriate?  Might the families be falling down on their religious responsibilities to educate their children about all the truly important dogma they must adhere to in order to become crazed zealots by the time they’re old enough to join a crowd in the streets to call for revenge by violent means?

You know.

To even the score.

Sure.  That should take care of it.

I know somewhere, there’s a connection to the food chain.  Everything has a place on it.  I’m wondering what religious zealots’ place on the chain is.  What their purpose in life is.  Why entire countries and their governments have gotten it all so horribly wrong.

They must not have enough to read.  Not enough to stimulate their intellectual capacity.  Enough to encourage individuality and creativity.  Constructive inspiration.  Freedom.

It’s challenging for me to not acknowledge my intense reaction when I read about events such as this, or watch segments on the news.  My distaste is extreme, and familiar ability to tolerate missing.

I don’t want to understand their reaction.

I don’t feel like I should have to try.

I’m not comfortable with their actions…

…or them.

They’re dangerous.

Yawn…I think she’s alive. Maybe.

So do you think it’s a problem that yesterday, I FINALLY wrote after so many days, and then when I logged in today to write again WOOT, I’d discovered the post I wrote yesterday…um…not there.  Or here.  I guess I’d inadvertently marked it “private.”  So sorry ’bout that.  Now, here it is.  And only a day late.  Sheesh.

Okay. I’ve sulked long enough. I’ve dragged myself out from under the bush I crawled under to get over myself. Actually, I’m just transitioning between Fall and Winter. Getting ready. I’m not sure what for, but it seems to be something I do. Sounds scientific, doesn’t it?

And since I have serious ground to cover, I’ll start by warning you that I’m loaded with tagging. Pay backs are hell, aren’t they?

About two decades ago, Sam of Temporarily Me (who is slogging through NaBloPoMo like a trooper and is almost there!) smacked me upside the head with something about Crazy 8’s. If you don’t know Sam, you should. She’s completely hilarious and says what my brain is thinking with respect to calling things like she sees them. Plus, she designs her own site and I swear changes the design like someone changes underwear. It’s the best comparison I could come up with, OKAY? Her designs are excellent and when I actually get around to acting serious about design, after I grow up, I want to be just like her. The woman has talent. Be nice to her when you visit. She’s preggers and is a tad cranky right now. Teasing, Sam! Teasing. Don’t hit me, ‘kay?

This oughta take about three years to finish. And I have a sale to run to right in the middle of it just to make sure it takes all day. (Erm…just got back from the sale. The line was down the block, so no.) Moving right along with this Tag-a-Scrum-Dilly-Icious post.

Here are my Crazy 8’s:

8 things I’m passionate about:

  1. Solitude. You know. Places with no people in them. Lots of complete silence. I know. People in hell want ice water. Feh.
  2. Days with no plans. Lots of them. Like forever.
  3. Cooking, food, eating, grocery shopping, looking at cooking magazines, cooking blogs, restaurants, reality food shows, does that cover it?
  4. Writing, words, letters, typography, books
  5. How much I completely detest jerks in general and people who drive like their face. (Have you ever really wondered what that means?) And….ahem.
  6. My Mac and if you touch it you’re toast. Don’t —
  7. Being passionate about being passionately passionate about passion
  8. My guys (this is here for those of you who have already clucked about my not putting it in the numero uno spot and gimmeabreakalready).

8 things I say often:

  1. Sonofab*tch
  2. Shee*t
  3. Jeez Louize
  4. It’s hi-LAR-ious.
  5. “Go poopoo over there.” (said to Doggo who will drop her load the SECOND she gets out the door because she thinks she’ll get left outdoors even if she never does and it drives me crazy.) Honestly, I only say it twice a day. But it adds up, yanno?
  6. Did you have a good day how much homework do you have?
  7. I need that (insert item here).
  8. I want this (insert item here).

8 books I’ve read recently:

8 things I want to do before I die:

    1. Own my own little shop. A cute one that sells lovely things that everyone can’t live without or find anywhere else. With a little fence and flower boxes. And a bell.
    2. Figure out how the clothes in my closet that don’t fit multiply in the night even though I keep giving them to the Good Will.

  1. Make a real Beef Wellington. You know. The whole enchilada. I’ve made the individual ones a couple of times. But without the cool music in the background.
  2. Renovate an old house part by part.
  3. Write something that people will actually purchase. A book would be good.
  4. Spend an extended time traveling — mostly in Europe.
  5. Enjoy exercising. Okay, so maybe pretend like I’ll enjoy it. Sort of.
  6. Develop a REAL sense of patience instead of just acting like I already have it oozing out of my pores.

8 songs I can listen to over and over again, and probably have:

  1. Beatles: Help
  2. Carly Simon: You’re So Vain
  3. Heart: Alone
  4. Roy Orbison: I Drove All Night
  5. Red Hot Chili Peppers: Snow (Hey Oh)
  6. Simon and Garfunkel: The Sound of Silence
  7. Harry Nilsson: Without You
  8. John Lennon: Imagine

8 things that attract me to my friends:

  1. Irreverence
  2. Common interests (food, wine, snarking, travel, books, gardening, wine…)
  3. Food
  4. Wine
  5. Snarking (this is NOT the same as number one, so put a cork in it, babe.)
  6. More wine
  7. Laughter. With snorting involved. It’s a gift.
  8. Waxing of possibilities and never doing anything about them.

8 things I learned in the last year:

  1. You really can just walk away from a career. Period. Okay, so maybe not with bows on or anything. But you can run as fast as you can and keep watch over your shoulder that it’s not chasing you or hiding under your bed at night. Or in the closet.
  2. It takes quite a bit of time to blow the dust off of everything you once loved and gave up for a job. About a year. And then some. And even then, some of it is so lost, reminding you that it could be true what they say about opportunity only knocking once. Pessimistic, but lamentably true.
  3. There will never be enough hours in a day to blog and then actually do all of the other things I’d like to do. Okay, I know some of you manage, but I’m not. Make that choose not to.
  4. You never will do all the things you say you will do if only you didn’t have to go to work. Because you develop new interests. And then you wish you could do all the things you said you’d always do if only…
  5. There are some aspects of not having all my female equipment that are actually enjoyable. Okay. One. Maybe two. But I wouldn’t want it back. I was done with it anyway.
  6. Your 15-year-old won’t develop a neurosis from his mother relentless food photoshoots.
  7. For some of us, there’s no such thing as a Little Black Dress.
  8. There really are things to talk about in the evening that aren’t related to work. They’re not scintillating or anything. But still. It’s nice.

Now, who’s up next:

  1. Chick (who’s going out of town, so I can spring this on her unsuspecting self)
  2. Meleah (who’s probably already been smacked with this one and 10 others)
  3. Cooper (who less than loves these things but actually did one not too long ago, so…)
  4. Robert (who will most certainly put a redneck spin on this)
  5. Olga (who can do this in her sleep, but really because I want to see if she can connect all of it to the “girls.”
  6. mel (whom I’ve harrassed with this stuff since the beginning and she’s smart enough to ignore me)
  7. beth (a used to be Paradise resident whom I hope will forgive me because I haven’t known her all that long)
  8. if you’re not on this list and are brain dead, by all means, sign yourself up. This one’s not too horribly painful. And besides, you won’t be able to tell if you’re brain dead.

Okay, so now, here’s round two (and I know there are some others, but this will have to suffice for today, because…well…I’ll think of a reason. Surely there is one.

Robert of Observations from the Back 40 honored me with an award: Roar Award A Roar for Powerful Words many days ago before I had my shopping meltdown and I’m just now getting around to saying THANKS for the recognition. I appreciate it!

I Don’t Like Party Dresses

So is your rear end dragging as much as mine is? Jeez. I’d like to get the number off that truck that just ran over me. Seriously.

Unbelievably, I’m just now getting things back in order after Thanksgiving. The kitchen sink backed up and nothing we did was able to unclog The Clog. Of course the plumber man showed up today not an hour after I called with motorized 5 mile long snake and The Clog was history. So I’ve had to begin to carry the dishes still not washed from Thursday from the laundry room back up to the kitchen. But I’m not complaining. I’m just sick of looking at dishes all over everything. It’s enough to make someone crazy.

But that’s not all.

We were invited to a “Black Tie Affair.” Excuse me? Moi? The one who has practically lived in jammies and sweats or jeans for the past year? Goodness. To make matters worse, my dear MoH loves to go out in the shopping jam after Thanksgiving. It must be a type of party atmosphere to him and we sort of stroll around aimlessly, some years beginning to look for the perfect gifts for all 8,000 members of our combined families and friends’ neighbors’ brothers’ gardener’s mailperson. Yanno? Like that.

But not this year. I was forewarned that we would have a leisurely shop for a party dress so I could get beautified for this bash where I would know maybe like ONE person other than my beloved. O.N.E.

So with all my accumulated fashion wisdom gleaned from Stacy and Clinton egging me on, we proceeded to go into Bloomingdales, Macy’s Nordstrom, Ann Taylor, Sak’s and Needless Markup. I tried on dresses with straight skirts, and cocktail frocks with flouncy skirts. I squeezed into black dresses and dresses with net sewed over the skirt. Bows, sashes, vee necks and scoop necks. I tried them on. Everywhere I looked, I had to push through countless versions of Baby Doll dresses Babydoll Dress in every size color and shape, and resembling a baggy shirts, or large handkerchiefs with lace and a token bow or ruffle. In size ZERO of all things. I know there were tiny women when I was growing up, and there was no such thing as a ZERO. Whose idea was that? How can you have a size that isn’t anything? Black Dot Dress This one was tasteful, but it would have been nice if I could have gotten the sash around my upper torso — NOT the smallest place on my abdomen even though all the fashionistas swear that it is. Notice that the sash isn’t around the model’s upper torso. Guess my mid section is longer than hers. And maybe about 50 lbs. attached to my larger frame.

I HATE trying clothes on.

I especially DETEST trying on dresses.

I don’t want to be reminded that I’ve never been madly in love with my body (even when it was seriously worth being in love with), and that the whole point to putting on a party dress is to show it off.

So how’d the shopping go? I smiled the entire time. Until we returned home empty-handed and sat down at the computer to see if being a resident of Paradise is the problem I know it to be with respect to lovely clothing. I had that knowledge confirmed in a matter of minutes when I located several “ideas” for dresses that I’d venture out to begin again with on Sunday by myself. None of the dresses I remotely liked had been available in the stores we visited. They were available on line, however.

Then, I made the mistake of doing a Google search for something like “evening attire for mature women.” That isn’t exactly it, but I did find a link which proceeded to tell me all the things I shouldn’t do when dressing for elegant occasions when you’re my age. And although none of it was unexpected, having the stoopid smiling witch in the upper corner of the About page whose offensive information was “printed with permission” shut me down. My smiles were over, and the humiliation of the entire experience caved in upon me.

And so I indulged in a great blubbering, yelling, self-deprecating hate fest. Now this is pretty disgusting, because I do sort of like myself and deal with my insecurities by being humorous, wearing blase colors, less than perfectly-fitted clothing, and not looking in the mirror any more often than I need to. These techniques have gotten me by for quite a good number of years.

But I’d rather buy lovely things for my house than ever shop for a dress. And wasn’t I pathetic.

The MoH never quite understands how to deal with his Matilda the Hun when she gets like this. So that just makes it worse, because it feels like everything has abandoned me to my misery, and that no one has a life saver to offer me. I have to slosh through the ugliness of myself, let it work itself out, and then feel badly because my normal stalwart self vanished for a while leaving everyone else uncomfortable. And then that reaction makes me angry. Fire-breathing dragon, anyone?

Like I said. Pathetic.

But Sunday bloomed, and I went out. I even went to a different area of town, going into little boutiques I’d never be caught dead in because I just don’t feel comfortable in them. I even tried on clothes in them. I even allowed the shop owners to assist me. And I even thanked them for their patience as I left with nothing in my hand. Smiling.

I did impulsively purchase a dress that I managed to squeeze into in one store. It was cute, and so I gave in, giving up my life time love affair with structure and classic lines. Think Katherine Hepburn here. But the dress was more of something Audrey Hepburn would wear. It had a bow, for gawd’s sake. A flat, tasteful bow.

But I looked like a polska kielbasa in it. Sausage

There were divets and lines in places the designer never intended for them to be. So I made a mental note to figure out where I could purchase some Spanx and also snagged a pair of black dress trousers for good measure. Maybe, just maybe, I’d manage to escape having to wear a dress after all. But it wouldn’t be for lack of trying.

Good thing I bought that dress, because the more I shopped, the more determined I was to find something better. Like this one. Do you actually think I might have been able to find it on the racks? Tasteful Black Dress Um. NO. “We can order it for you and it can be here in five business days,” the clerks repeated over and over again. I could drive to L.A. faster than that. Or this one? I almost sort of kinda liked this one. Black Bow Dress I actually tried it on TWICE. It looked great with my brown socks in that ugly dressing room light, so I figured I’d have half a chance with it at the “affair.” Except the upper arm police would give me a ticket. And a “shawl” (now how long have we been calling them pasmimas, hmmmm?) was a no-no, so with a sigh, I gave up the last semblance of hope that I’d possibly wear a dress to the holiday evening event at the Hotel del Coronado.

Hotel del Coronado

I did finally find a pair of shoes, Black Slingbacks a champagne colored shell, and a black velvet swing jacket to go with the trousers I picked up with that dress, so my excursion and steel edged tenacity paid off.

Wait. Pants, you say? What happened to that dress? Well, I made it back to Bloomingdale’s and found the Spanx that were going to help me look like a smooth sausage instead of a lumpy one, but there was only one “expert” available, so I never got my question answered about whether the Spanx I was eyeballing could be pulled up over my head so that after inserting my entire self into it, and then the dress, I could be incognito. It certainly looked long enough to accomplish that. A couple of eye peek holes, and I would have been set.

My shopping excursion was seven hours long. Seven. I ended it at the grocery store, gathering a few things for the RT’s lunch this week, and ingredients for a dinner that had nothing to do with turkey or Thanksgiving. Thankfully.

The dress is going back today. Okay, so maybe tomorrow.

And I’ll smile at the party, enjoying all the women dressed as meringues and flamingos, butterflies and divas. I’ll be able to wear each of my articles many times again and make like a glamorous vintage movie star.

Kate Hepburn

And I’ll never walk down the party dress path again.

Thanks for your patience. As I said in my previous post, I’m well behind on many niceties and duties (awards and memes…)in Bloggsville. I have been in foodland, but also have just been BLAH. I’ll blame it on the party dress debacle and then I’ll snap out of it. In the meantime, I hope you’re well. I’ll be by soon and you can smack me around for being so neglectful.

The End of NaBloPoMo: The Heidi Chronicles

So I’m officially a NaBloPoMo failure. I figured I would be when I never realized in the beginning that Thanksgiving was actually in November…whatever. But I was rolling along, and then when Wednesday hit and I was up until after midnight (looking longingly at the clock watching that minute hand creeping ever closer to the magic hour which would cast me into the ranks of blogging quitters and thinking that I could run upstairs and just squeeze out a fake post to keep in the game….)

But NO.

I let my faithful followers down. My NaBloPoMo compatriots. *heavy sigh*

I was too tired. I was whipped. I was everything but perky in the waning hours of the day, sitting in my chair, enjoying the wafting scent of spiced candles and final bottle glass of wine before retiring for the night. Staring at a chic flick I’ve seen a million times so I wouldn’t dream of scanning lists of ingredients in recipes, and filling small white porcelain dishes for mise en place or whatever the heck that’s called. Watching the time evaporate, ending my quest for NaBloPoMo fame.

It just wouldn’t be a class act to slam out a crappy post at 11:57pm.

But the dinner tables (yes, that’s an “s” on the end of tables) were set, the flowers arranged and the candles organized just so. The old linen napkins were lightly starched and softly folded.

The  Primo Seats

The  Not so Primo Seats

Nary a cat yack stain was visible. Well, maybe one because Freshness, Her Royal Butterballness Barf-o-rama on wheels in disguise did summarily regurgitate her afternoon snack upon my freshly cleaned carpet. Just. Once. To let me know she was still in control of my destiny.

Dumb ass cat. Lovely pet that she is.

Blackness & Presh-Ass, The Yack Star

But I digress.

We fell into bed for a night of tumultous passion exhausted sleep (we, because the MoH seriously pitches in during the holidays, lovely man unit that he is) with windows open (yes, in Paradise, we’ve still not shut our windows for the winter) and covers nicely fluffed.

Paradise:  Overcast, but warm.

Ready to begin again at seven-freaking-ay-em the next day.

But there was plenty of bubbly on hand throughout the day for mimosas and champagne cocktails, or just a plain glass o’ bubbly.

Thank. Goodness.

And thank Mr. and Mrs. Diestel who grow turkeys somewhere in the Sierra Nevadas for our lovely bird whom I immediately named Heidi when I saw her cozied up in that little box all tricked out with handles.

Heidi the Turkey

She performed well on the day most revered by this foodie — the super bowl of Food.

Oh. My.

If there was ever a question that a bird should be ordered by phone ahead of time, fresh-not-frozen, heavily discounted because your son works there WOOT!, artfully brined, and lovingly basted each half hour by the MoH, this was it.

Simply droolworthy.

And the guests were jolly, filled to the gills with the tasty fare.

The highlight of the evening was the iChat session with family in VA which broke into a bawdy session of, well, you’d have to know my family to understand. Suffice it to say that we all seem to have a fixation with the posterior portion of the human anatomy and it’s only a matter of time before a parade of buttocks fill the screen. I do think it must have something to do with not having a proper number of opportunities to share on Show ‘n’ Tell day in kindergarten. Thank goodness for the Internet and family members who are only a sign-in away. We aren’t for the faint of heart.

The VA iChat Visitors

They sort of resemble that Chumbawumba album cover, don’t they?

But the sink backed up, we ran out of counterspace, and I believe there was not a dish in my kitchen left unused. The stacks of dishes and pots, bowls and platters, wine glasses and utensils riveled Dr. Seuss’ buildings in Whoville.

But I survived.

Barely.

Sorry I haven’t been by to visit…I have serious catching up to do, and tagging to unleash on unsuspecting neighbors in Bloggsville. Be warned.

Life is grand, isn’t it?

Dear Mr. Gynecologist…

As Toto and Dorothy continue along the long and winding road on their NaBloPoMo journey, Dorothy has gotten snippy, and Toto has begun to look longingly at her ankles, imagining what they might taste like, and just how loudly she’d scream if he chomped firmly on one…

November 20, 2007

Dear Mr. Gynecologist Doctor Person:

Reminder I just received your reminder in the mail about my annual check-up. Damn. I thought you’d have forgotten about me since I only saw you a few times. What a pleasant surprise that you remembered me! Although I must commend you for the stereotypical tasteful predictable pink fuchsia gerbera on the cover and pleasant sans serif font, it doesn’t diminish the fact that I absolutely HATE and am completely TERRIFIED of rarely look forward to taking care of this particular business.

I know. It’s necessary. And I did promised myself that after last winter, I’d take better care of myself.

But you made some adjustments last December, remember? Removed everything? There’s not a single girlie organ left. Not. One. Nada. If you knocked on my abdomen, it would most likely sound like a watermelon. Perfectly hollow.

Okay, so there are still a few other types of guts left in there. But still.

So, uh, I’m wondering just how you go about this favorite check up of mine. You know, the one I successfully avoided for more than five years which is why you had to relieve me of my equipment? Yes, that checkup.

How exactly does one have a PAP smear when one has no cervix? No uterus? Zippo ovaries? Hmmm…? I mean, think about it. You take your car to the garage for a tune up, you lift the hood, and whoops! There’s no trannie. No carburator. Hell, the engine is even missing. So what do you do? Shine things up a bit? Steam wash it? Make sure everything’s squeakin’ clean?

I can see having to go if a tune up is in order, but what exactly will you tune?

I don’t like that table with the motorized end portion. Or the stirrups. And I absolutely detest that light whose brightness resembles the ones they use when they work on freeways in the dead of night allowing anyone interested to see all the way to China without their glasses. Bright. Yanno?

But what I’m completely freaked out about is that you’re going to poke at my scars. You’re going to push on my abdomen. They not only still bother me, they creep me out, and I’m already wincing, just thinking about it.

Completely disgusting.

So I hope you don’t mind that I’ll just put this off a bit until I adjust to the idea of having missing equipment checked and hearing you say, “Yup. It’s still gone.” or “Need anything else adjusted?” And I won’t know how to respond since it’s difficult for me to tell when things are wrong with my body. I’m just not good at it. Well, unless it’s my left elbow which is completely screwed up right now. But you aren’t an elbow man, are you?

What I’d really like to say about this check up is, “Let’s not and say we did. ‘Kay?”

Okay, fine. So are there any bars near your office then? I’ll knock a few back before I get there. Well it sounds better for this situation than sipping wine and nibbling on a salad. Don’t expect me to be able to actually stay on that table once I get there, though. Okay?

Mortified,

Me

p.s. And I don’t want to hear ANYTHING about not taking my hormones. Got it?

p.p.s. I know. There’s no whining, either. Whatever.

Dear ustream.tv Gurus…

November 19, 2007

Dear Whomever thought of ustream.tv:

What a completely cool idea. Yesterday I had so much fun being on “TV” while I was working in my kitchen. Who knew? Does this mean I’m a closet Giada or budding Rachael? A potential Bobby or possible Mario? If you’re even thinking of swallowing this, pigs are circling over your head as we speak. But still.

ustream.tv broadcast

Setting up a broadcast on ustream.tv was the means to an end. I have quite a few cyber baking buddies, and because we’d planned to cook together yesterday (quite the feat considering I’m on the Left Coast, a couple are in the Midwest and East Coast, and one lives in Argentina. And the plan was to have used Yahoo for instant messaging.

Right.

And I have swamp land in Florida. For sale.

I won’t go into the sordid details of why this never actually happened other than to say that I, using the web version and in Beta, somehow did not fit in. So rather than collecting my baking pans and calling it a day, logged on to ustream.tv and launched my show, “Kelly Cooks.” I’m not there right now because my tongue’s still hanging to my knees after yesterday. Jeez.

It was completely hilarious. And not unlike blabbing with friends or family sitting on the other side of the bar while I cook at a party. In fact it felt exactly the same.

Of course there was no clevage, or giant sets of teeth, no Eee-Vee-Ohh-Ohh. In fact, sometimes, there was no food, or no face. And never both at the same time. The camera is at the top of my screen so making it point in a particular direction isn’t an art. Yanno? I don’t exactly live in a television studio, and that wasn’t the purpose of the broadcast anyway. It was to chat with friends while I cooked, remember?

And I got to chat with Helen of Tartlette which is the most amazing dessert blog you’ve ever seen. And Jerry of Cooking By the Seat of My Pants, who has several blogs (I don’t know how he does it…) and is also caught in the throes of organizing his place like I am. Jerry’s trying to get me to cook by the seat of my pants, too. And he’s encouraging me to drink wine while I’m doing this. This reminds me a bit of running with scissors, but I can, and do. Frequently. But I was on tv, yanno? You have to maintain some degree of hoity-toityness, right? And let’s see, who else? Breadchick of The Sour Dough and Ben of What’s Cooking?. And if I remember correctly, Sara of I Like to Cook. Of course practically my whole fam damily in Virginia, because I called them and asked if they wanted to see me make an ass out of myself on tv and of course they said yes and could they have a front row seat. So they hunkered on down for the duration on several computers. And it was quite the duration. Nary a cyber tomato hit me. Imagine that! Rotten pitchers, that audience of about…oh….I’d say about 10 whole people. Actually, the stats say there were 326 drive bys views.

So what did I make? Cinnamon rolls. Homemade pasta with roasted peppers and herbed goat’s cheese. I’m completely pooped. Totally. Multitasking has been taken to a new level. It was hilarious trying to remember what I was doing while trying to read the questions and comments written the the chatbox. But it wasn’t too bad. At least I didn’t pulverize the English language like Dub-Yah does…did? Does he still do that? Whatever.

A hot bubble bath smelling somewhere between a fig and a grapefruit, a novel, candles (to see my book because the light’s not great) and more wine were seriously in order after all was said and done. Ahh….such is the life of a web tv drone star.

So thanks, ustream.tv gurus. I had a blast meeting new people as well. I’ll have to be a bit more organized if I do this again, but I don’t know how. Plus, I had to carry my beloved Mac down to the kitchen, so that was an annoyance to others in the house, even thought they didn’t actually complain. I would have. And my niece said I should have some kind of sign that states what I was cooking so each time someone new entered the chatroom I didn’t have to repeat what I already said.

Perhaps a sign that hangs around my neck? A chalkboard. Park someone with a hook off camera for dragging me off screen when things get truly pathetic, lapsing into, “A guy walks into a bar with a monkey…” while I’m whipping egg whites. Yes, like that.

I’ll let you know when I do it again. Heck, I’ll even give you advance warning so you can make sure you’re not anywhere near a computer. Bwhahahahaha!

Sincerely,

Me

p.s. One kind viewer/chatter said that there is also something called stickcam which allows the viewers to be heard and seen as well. I’m going to check that out. And Yahoo? Well…feh.

Kelly Cooks

Well, after a ridiculous morning trying to set up an instant message conference with some baking buddies and completely failing (yahoo and apple most likely have a sheriff out looking for me considering the number of reports I filed for the errors and unexpected quits and failures to launch downloaded software…) I’m now broadcasting.

So if you’re completely bored today, or are not a football fan, or if your team is losing and you’re in complete despair.

Drop on by.

I’m making something in the kitchen. But don’t expect me to explain anything. That would be too much like walking and chewing gum at the same time…

And give me some feedback about this ustream.tv business. How does it work and all. Yanno?

What day in NaBloPoMo are we?

Kelly Cook

Go ahead. Click it and see…