clogging, but not my arteries.

i think it might make my thighs look thinner.

oh. my. god.

i am so excited. i have discovered my next project. yes, yes, yes...those of you that know me, "like she needs another friggin' project!" but seriously, i've been looking for ways to exercise that are joy-inspiring, not misery inducing. i can't really do the dance classes i want to at b'way dance center and the yoga classes at my local place because they just don't gel w/ my sked. so...i have found the equivalent of exercise nirvana for me...

click here.

is that the coolest or what? i realize it might be deemed "uncool" or too "rural" by some people, but thankfully, those people aren't reading my blog. rrrright? i'm just hoping they'll let me wear one of those big, poufy, crinoline red gingham dresses. crinolines are just begging for a comeback, aren't they?

i love love love movement - that is truly the one thing i really dislike about my current job - the lack of movement. my ever-increasing bum sits in an ever-increasingly uncomfortable chair for 7 hours a day, but exercise at the gym so frequently feels like, well...punishment. doesn't it? i find myself on the treadmill, not thinking of how fucking blessed i am that i have a strong, resilient body that can mooooooove, but how many calories i have just burned off by running at 6.5 mph for 45 minutes. this unconscious movement, i find, leads to injuries and a litany of lesser miseries (a chafed inner thigh from those damn running shorts) b/c i'm not listening to my blessed little body that i have ignores for so long.

if anything is sacred, the human body is sacred. - walt whitman

word to yo' mother, walty.

the irony is, about 3 years ago, when i was interviewing with my landlords for the awesome apartment that i am currently living in, they asked if i had any particularly noisy hobbies "like playing the guitar, or anything." if i moved in, they'd be living below me.

"not really," i said. "just clogging."

k., my landlord, claims to this day that that little bon mot was what won them over and secured me as their new tenant, beating out the columbia grad student that was vying for the spot as well.

ha.

don't worry, k. i won't be practicing at home. promise. but if you notice significant amounts of tulle missing from your fabric supply in the basement, i plead the fifth.
















it will be so much easier to buy Christmas gifts.
this t-shirt, for one, will be a big hit with me.

fashionably helpful

and so continues my obsession with katrina...it's victims...and helping in my wee-little ways...

at this website, you can get the special "regrowth" t-shirt (see the design above) for $10 plus $2.50 shipping and handling.

ALL PROCEEDS go to the Red Cross. none of this lame 5% (of the profit) bullshit that all of the pretty pink breast cancer awareness paraphanelia touts. they've already raised over 50k. i'll be modeling mine, in a powdery baby blue, very shortly. they have manly boy ones too, if you're lucky enough to know any manly boys...

www.threadless.com

in the puhleeeeeez department...

according to the ads, it will "help me soldier on"

oh.

my.

god.

www.hooabar.com

now you know, as ridiculous as this seems to me, i absolutely have to try it. in days, i might develop biceps rivaling demi moore's in g.i. jane...or maybe not. maybe just an overwhelming desire to watch al pacino films.

help katrina victims...

okay. ask and ye shall receive and all that...this just in this morning from my dear friend laurie, whose family has been greatly affected by katrina. i know i've been bothered by the fact that i can't do anything other than send money. well, here you are...a cry for all things household as well as clothing. so, if you're feeling the need for a little retail therapy as well as the warm fuzzies that come with giving stuff away to those who truly need it...here you are:

I didn't know how else to do this. Lots of people have been asking how they could help my family, and well, this is the only way. I hate mass emails, but I thank you in advance for reading.

My entire family is from South Louisiana, with about 60% living in New Orleans. There are at least 16 homes in family destroyed. Homes that survived all before this, ranging from my Grandmother, Great Aunts, cousins, Aunts, Uncles, and possibly sister (if they can get in on Monday withstanding the violence). They are all safe. A couple of hours ago the last cousin was accounted for. They have food and shelter, and are staying with other family members. As you can tell, I come from a large family.... and thank god for family - and friends.

Some of you have asked what you can do. That you don't just want to give money. I say this weekend is a good time to clean your closets, cabinets, drawers, and more. They will need towels, bed linens, kitchen utensils, phones, clocks, books, cleaning supplies, bathroom supplies, school supplies, toys, clothes and much more. Below is a list of sizes for those that I've reached. If it doesn't fit, I promise you that it will be put to good use. Truckloads have been going daily from my home town of Donaldsonville to Baton Rouge to aid refugees. My parents' address is also below if you want to ship anything.

Please, there is no need to email me back and apologize. You've done nothing wrong. But you can do something right. I know I didn't include everyone I know in this email so please feel free to pass to your friends and family.

Thanx.

Laurie Brown

Relief Supplies

c/o Kathryn & Tim Brown

142 Sportsmans Drive

Belle Rose, LA 70341

Ricky Macaluso (41): XL, short length shirt, 38 waist

Melinda Macaluso (38): size 16/18

Mia Macaluso (5): 5T

Josh Macaluso (3): 2T

Monica Macaluso (38): size 22

Gertrude Macaluso (86): size 14/16

John Macaluso (85): 38 waist

Francis Volk (82): size 16/18

Reid Macaluso (48): 46 waist

Eileen Morgan (38): size 14/16

(as you can tell, my family likes to eat:)

grrrrrrrrrrr...

ever have one of those days when you're just angry at everything? everyone?

pissed. pissed. pissed. (i used to get in trouble for saying that word as a teenager. pissed. young ladies don't say that. so i'm going to say it a lot.)

pissed b/c i can't do a goddam thing about the hurricane victims other than send money, which i know helps, but i want to go down there and actively help. scoop out food, pass out water, pray with them...anything that will make me feel less...useless.

pissed b/c i ate half a hershey's chocolate bar (again) last nite, as i was watching hurricane coverage on NBC.

pissed b/c yesterday, i had a cyst (caused, ironically enough, by an ingrown hair brought on by my favorite activity: shaving) the size of a dime ripped out of my skin without any anesthesia. it was the grossest thing i have ever seen and hurt worse than anything i have ever experienced, pretty much sealing the deal: no birthing of babies for me and no more shaving the netherregions. boy shorts all the way on the beach. (yes, yes i went there. deal.)

pissed b/c my apartment is a like one big dusty cat ball...how does this fucking hair get absolutely everywhere?!!??? i pick up my freshly-poured glass of water: cat hair in it. i pull down my black wedge heels from the closet that have been sealed in a plastic shoe box for months: cat hair all over them. couch, bathroom floor, computer chair, cuisinart...all have developed an unseemly calico pelt. why bother removing it? it will be back tomorrow.

pissed b/c i feel like i have so much to do and such little time.

pissed b/c how do you get it through to someone, someone that you care about deeply (as a friend), that i am not interested in you...in that way. so lay off . without hurting someone's feelings or ruining a friendship?

then, even more pissed b/c can't even talk to the person i am interested in? isn't this supposed to stop at age 12? and why can't i talk to him? b/c of this stupid thing called FEAR. capital F. capital E. capital A. capital R. of rejection. or maybe what i'm really scared of is...holy shit! the possibility that he might like me too. or, at the very least, not find me repulsive.

pissed b/c when i look in the mirror all i see is a big, pudgy moonface looking back at me, and all my brain thinks is...hey fat girl, that's why he wouldn't like you. your cheeks are bigger than his backpack.

pissed b/c i am 30 years old, and i still have so much work to do.

pissed b/c i feel so very out of control. almost like my life is being lived for me instead of me living my life.

arrrrrgh!

thank you for listening. i feel better now.

now i'm going to go run on the treadmill for miles lest my head explode and totally ruin my freshly-washed, cat hair-free sheets.

forget apples. comfort me with m & m's.

hey, whatever helps you cope.

so at least i'm not the only one; everyone seems to be craving chocolate.

seriously. it's like a candy-coated zeitgeist.

everyone at my office had a package of m & m's on their desk today - peanut, plain, crispy. unable to do anything about the katrina victims, but watch it get worse (did you know they had thunderstorms today?)...we all attempted to comfort ourselves with cheerful little Technicolor candies that we dribbled onto our desks and into the hands of passing co-workers like some sort of rainbow rosary. our way, i suppose, of commiserating. even the maraca shake-shake-shake of the sugary baubles in their bag brought some sort of happy to our gloomy day, and perhaps the crunch-crunch-crunch of the candy shell alleviated some of the anxiety swirling about our brain begging us to do something.

i dunno.

maybe they remind us of a simpler, happier time? when mom, who usually wouldn't allow junk food to cross the threshold of your granola and yogurt home, brought home a big 1/2 pound bag of m & m's, unveiled them with the flourish of Houdini, poured them into a glass bowl, you'd plunge our "wash-your-hands-first!" digits into the jewel-colored pebbles...couldn't wait to see if the slogan were true..."melts in your mouth not in your hand"...squeeze squeeze squeeze your fistful of M's...and open to reveal...a veritable Rorshach test of food coloring and chocolate...lick...who cares if the slogan weren't true...

still...tastes...good.

perhaps it's just comforting to know that something so simple and something so good can remain after all of the death, devastation, and confusion of the past few days. even if it's just a favorite childhood candy that reminds us of rainbows.

they do follow rain, right?

god, i hope so.
____

fyi: r. tried to post this a few days ago in response to my previous post, but blogger blipped. here's what she wrote:

i tried to post and something got messed up----so here it is:

thanks for the link to help, i was frozen in all the media coverage, and i found this and thought it might also be a good source of info http://blogs.guardian.co.uk/news/archives/2005/08/31/katrina_blogs.html

that katrina girl is a bitch.

if i could, i'd buy luxury hotel rooms for everyone
down there and put chocolates on all their pillows myself.

God and i don't talk that frequently. i mostly talk to my mom. she probably bakes her homemade french bread and whips up a batches of her cheese fondue for Him regularly, so i figure he's more inclined to listen to her than to whiny ol' me, but today is one those days when i just feel the need to talk to the Big Guy himself.

so, say a little prayer, send good vibes, warm fuzzies, whatever works for you to the people down in alabama, louisiana, and missisippi. they need all Love they can get. pronto.

and, if you're as frustrated as i am about not being able to do anything, but watch the devastation grow with every click of the channel changer, every refresh of the CNN web page, every turn of the radio dial....don't just sit there. click here and pick an organization to donate to. it's far more helpful and far less self-destructive than what i'm inclined to do when feeling so helpless and anxiety-ridden - devour the 6 leftover Hershey bars in my kitchen cabinet.

chocolate, apparently, is not prayer. 'tis a shame. could've saved the world by now.

sangria + s'mores upchuck, er...i mean, update.

my kinda man.

had another fundraiser for my show size ate on saturday nite out in the so-hip-it-hurts borough of w'burg, brooklyn. sangria + s'mores were served...devoured...slurped.

still recovering from mild sugar coma, but for those of you that have asked, the evening could certainly be deemed a success. why, thank you for asking, sweethearts.

no rain...

a nice cooling breeze on the back patio...

plenty of lovely peeps that make my heart buzzzzzzz with gratitude...(some i expected, some i didn't, and some i expected to show but didn't. but i'm over it....really...i am...i swear. sniff. sniff.)

crisp, refreshing red wine sangria with a confetti of apples and oranges be-boppin' around in your glass...gets you drunk without you knowing it...

shake yo' booty music from my pals benicio + the del toros...i love these men.

some slammin' original poetry from some amazing, brave women...

an abundance of hershey chocolate squares and marshmallows roasted over an open fire melted and shmooshed in between crunchy graham crackers...almost better than camp. not a single solitary kumbaya round was sung.

someone said i looked "clean and pretty." amazing what a little shampoo and body spray'll do for a girl. (oh, don't get excited. he's married and happy, dammit.)

i only discovered one red wine stain on my white blouse when i got home that night: a record evening. (gotta love the clorox bleach pen.)

and most importantly, we raised some moolah! yippee! now we can buy programs and toilet paper for the bathrooms.

tee hee hee.

see you in november! buy a ticket!

a conundrum

mom taught be how to beat down bread and by default how to beat down you, so please...keep the comments to yourself.

if one more ogling man comments on my body (as i am walking down the street, minding my own friggin' business) as being "strong,""muscular," or "big-boned like the German track star i used to date" i'm going to turn around and punch them in the face.

but then, i guess that would sorta prove their point.

fudge.

a much belated reading list

i have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library.
jorge luis borges

a hundred years ago...actually, more like a month and a half ago, L. asked me to suggest some books:

in a recent post on here you said that you fill your time with things you love, rather than filling your mouth. this struck a chord with me. while i definitely agree with this, i have trouble putting it into practice. do you have any books that you recommend or resourced that help with emotional eating??

better late than never, i suppose. here's an abridged list (amazon only lets you list 25 - impossible!) of books and dvd's that aren't all necessarily geared towards dealing with emotional eating, but in one way or another make me feel good about me and my place in this world...without the nausea, guilt, and phlegmage that comes from devouring a pint of Ben + Jerry's Phish Food. score!

so, here you are, L. hope these help even just a little bit. click the link below.

books to feel better by...

here's a poem from hafiz's the gift, a book of sufi poems on my list:

YOU'RE IT

God
Disguised
As a myriad things and
Playing a game
Of tag

Has kissed you and said,
"You're it -

I mean, you're Really IT!"

Now
It does not matter
What you believe or feel

For something wonderful

Major-league Wonderful
Is someday going
To

Happen.

how can you not feel good after reading a poem like that? doesn't it just make you're heart buzz with anticipation?

i think hafiz and i would've had one helluva time together. he totally would've dug my red velvet cake.

so readers, tag you're it. add your suggestions. i'm always in the market for a good book, bluestocking that i am.

super aunt, or thinly veiled bragging

warning: annoying aunt bragging and pictures of children you don't know to follow.

really, people. i should be offended.

i mean, not even one suggestion for my super power character. okay, not true. ONE, from prissy/pissy missy. Self-Orgasmo was her suggestion which, while witty, is not precisely the kind of supernatural moniker i was hoping for. (i appreciate the attempt at verisimilitude the name suggests, but puh-leeez...i can't spend the entire party blushing.)

i should be offended. i mean, i know people are reading this bloody blog. why, i'm not so sure, but i know you guys are out there...reading, snickering, tsking.

anyway.

i should descend into an abyss of self-doubt:

do they really think i have no talents worthy of accessorizing with a cape?

do they think i am incapable of doing anything in "a single bound"? (they obviously haven't seen me man a xerox machine.)

all signs point to self-pity, self-phooey, self-pfffffft.

but i am not. i will not.

know why?

cuz...

i got a brand-spankin'-new, glorious nephew on friday morning at 3 am.













grant mitchell laskey

and i'll bet he'll think i'm super when i make him mac 'n' cheese 'n' franks someday and teach him how to cuss in french.

so there.

besides, my niece maddie has a far better idea for a costume than any of you could ever think of (see below). perhaps i can wear it around my calf.


















i love that she's not holding her stomach in.

probably not what anna wintour had in mind when she said red velvet was "back"

vogue editor-in-chief anna wintour
is hungry for a little red velvet lovin'...
or maybe she's just hungry.


take a peek inside my fake Coach duffle last friday before i left for my weekend getaway and you would have discovered an odd pairing:

a copy of the latest fall fashion issue of Vogue (numbering 600+ pages) and a box of Duncan Hines red velvet cake mix* nestled side-by-side.

oh, the irony of my dysfunction startles even me sometimes.

*yes. a mix. sue me. i couldn't travel with my entire baking impedimenta. besides, it's the frosting that counts. make that from scratch and you can fool the world! mwahahahahahaaaa!

it's a bird, it's a plane, it's...it's...(fill in the blank)!

a cape is what you make it.

my friend g. is throwing a super-powers party. now, it's not what you think. there won't be a bevy of supermen (although i do hope there's a slew of straight men in tights) or xena-the warrior princesses, or jem doppelgangers.

remember her?

jeeeem is truly outrageous, truly truly truly outrageous....ooohhhh, jem!

god, i loved her pink rock star hair.


i wonder if she wore contacts.
that eye makeup would be a bitch.

anyway...g is throwing this party and the rule is, you're supposed to come as your super-power. the super power you already have. for example, g. is planning on going as Metamorpho because she's blossomed from a bowl-cut, Jersey suburban nerd with glasses the size of tire rims to a successful, sexy textiles designer with choppy-chic hair, luminous skin and a passion for opera and Amaretto on the rocks. get it?

so, i'm thinking...what can i be?

my first thought was to go as The Self-Deprecator - a strong, beautiful, powerful woman capable of reducing herself to a sniveling, soundless sap with one word, one thought, one glance in the mirror at her chubby face or one look at her calloused, peeling feet.

her mantra? her battlecry?

I AM NOT ENOUGH. mwahahahahahahaha....waaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!

she carries with her a pink-sequinned whip with which she self-flagellates when the words just aren't getting the job done and always, on hand, a pint of ice cream which always makes her feel worse after ingesting it.

no.

no.

no.

that sucks. besides, what cute boy is going to hit on The Self-Deprecator? that dried chocolate ice cream crust forming around her mouth like a bad case of cocoa-flavored ringworm is so...well...unattractive. and the eyes, swollen and red from constant weeping...shockingly...not a turn-on. yes, yes, yes - perhaps the well-known superdicks, The Says-I'll-Call-You-But-Won't-Asshole or The Co-dependent Poet Alcoholic will hit on me, but i'm not interested in them anymore. i've got my eye on the Christopher Reeve lookalike in the corner...who is he?

The Lover?

The Baker?

The I'll-Bring-You-Cappuccino-in-Bed-in-the-Morning-Man?

The I-Think-Renee-Zellweger-is-Too-Thin-and-You're-Just-Perfect-Here-Have-Another-Chocolate-Guy?

yeeeesssss...that's the one.

but what will i go as? this is a call for suggestions. name me. christen me. stitch me a metaphorical cape. funny. serious. clever. whatever. if i use your suggestion, you win a batch of homemade cookies, your choice. if i don't know you, i'll send them to you, if i do know you, i'll invite you over so we can share them. by then, superman and i will be dating, and i hear he makes one hell of a kryptonite cocktail.

how to take a compliment.

thank you.

and, if you can bear it, smile genuinely.

do not flinch. do not turn away. do not say nooooooo, no, no, no, no, no, noooooo, bat your eyelashes and hide behind your chantilly lace fan. do not react as if complimenter has just hurled a baker's dozen of rotten tomatoes at your face in rapid succession.

why is that so hard to do?

dunno.

but i'm workin' on it.

i think maybe if they change it to accepting a compliment as opposed to take. take seems so, well...er...greedy.

thank you.

and i'm smiling. really. i am.

ouch.

i (heart) surveys.

sucker for online surveys + quizzes? i am.

try this one.

quiz

it's amazing how accurate it is.

*har di har har. i don't care. i'll still fill out the surveys if you send them to me. i like thinking about what color Crayola crayon i'd be (kelly green) and when the last time i cried was (yesterday). so there.

and everywhere that margrocks went, a diet book was sure to follow.

i wonder if she has to pee.

as i was walking back from the post office on saturday, i happened to pass a thrift store that had a couple of tables outside the store, heaving with boxes of books.

Mecca!

Medina!

Mount Saint Michel!

i cannot, try though i might, pass by any BOOKS FOR SALE sign without stopping to rifle through them. even if it's just to run my fingers over their dusty spines. you never know when the Thrift Store Goddess will choose to sprinkle your noggin with a little luck and direct your fingers to the "right" bin, the "right" book.

and so She did on saturday, God bless her.

my fingers alighted upon this little Knox Gelatine Modern Gel-Cookery (eww) Silhouette Recipes (copyright 1960) pamphlet between a couple of dusty 'n' lusty romance novels. you know the cover art - inflated breasts pressed against inflated pecs, rippling hair flowing in the wind, lips moist with passion. her female body round and fecund, bursting with vitality, wild - uncontained, uninhibited. you get the feeling she may have just devoured a healthy slab of steak au poivre and a bowl of fresh peaches drowning in heavy cream and honey.

and then...this.

scary Silhouette lady. strapped in. contained. cinched waist. pursed lips. boobs lifted and sculpted to resemble torpedoes. and, of course, she's not smiling. how could she be? she lives off of a diet of tomato aspic and jellied meat salad. hurl. (jellos should not, as a rule, be savory. nothing that is shiny and wiggles should ever taste like chicken. i don't care what the ladies who lunch say.)

it includes recipes for Cucumber and Grapefruit Mold, Tuna Fish Mold, and the piece de resistance - Silhouette Salad which counts 1 (10 1/2 oz.) can condensed cream of chicken or mushroom soup as one of its ingredients. no wonder they lost weight. vomiting will do that. nowadays we call it bulimia.


feast your eyes upon silhouette salad - yummy to your tummy!

not unlike many of the diet books today, it promises:

Eating for FUN While Keeping the Waistline Trim

If you like good food, here are some secrets that make eating more fun --and also make weight-control far easier.

Modern Gel-Cookery Silhouette desserts salads and main dishes give you light, non-filling textures.

And fresh, real flavors.

They are good, wholesome eating.

Completely satisfying to the whole family.

i just found this little book fascinating...and alternately, nauseating. i guess we all know that there have been quick fix 'diet plans' since, what seems like, the beginning of time, but it was interesting to see how things have changed...and of course, how they haven't.

protein drink, anyone?

barf bag standing by.

As a hot drink: sprinkle 1 envelope Knox Unflavored
Gelatine on 1/4 cup cold water to soften, Add
1 bouillon cube and 3/4 cup boiling water. Stir
until gelatine and bouillon cube are thoroughly
dissolved.

growing old, ungracefully.

i went to the dermatologist yesterday for a little mole check up (you should go annually by the way. it's painless and it takes about 5 minutes max. plus...free samples!) i just wanted to make sure that the mole on my arse that is slowly beginning to resemble the girl on trucker mudflaps isn't cancerous. her breasts keep getting larger...

nope. all is well.

i figured while i was there, i'd ask dr. s. about my skin care regimen...you know...am i doing everything i can to prevent skin cancer and aging? what cleanser do you recommend? is it true that margaritas, when ingested daily, act as natural exfoliants, from the inside out? etcetera. he told me the skin on my face and body was "no great tragedy" (i'm sorry...is that a compliment? please advise.) then he gave the me the typical schpiel...

stay out of the sun. if you are not a vampire, and therefore can't/won't do that then wear big wide-brimmed hats a la camilla parker-bowles and loads of sunblock. i told him i prefer Barbie sunblock. "it goes on purple, slowly blends in, and it smells like grape kool-aid!"

he ignored me.

"the most important thing you can do is stay out of the sun. if you want to start using a cream, i can recommend something as well."

of course i want you to recommend something! i'm a product whore, dr. s. have you seen my bathroom cabinet? furnished by ikea and duane reade.

"there's an excellent new product called Expensive-as-All-Hell that clinical tests have shown, in addition to preventing sun damage, reverses it as well."

"but doc, i say. do you really think i'm ready for a cream like this?"

meaning: am i really old and droopy enough to need this stuff? surely, i am not. surely, he's suggesting i should start using this stuff in another 4 or 5 years. not now.

right, doc?

doc?

doc?

he smiles a benevolent smile.

"of course you're ready."

i remained calm.

sort of.

*this little vignette reminds me of a quote from Olympia Dukakis's character in Steel Magnolias when Shelby, the ingenue in the play, reports having discovered crow's feet:

"Shelby. Time marches on, and eventually you realize it's marchin' right across your face."

would it be rude to ask Mr. T to wear slippers? these combat boots are killing my complexion.

breaking up with martha

i'm in love with an older woman.

i mean martha. martha stewart. she's 64 today.

i love her. i do. i am not ashamed. ankle bracelet and all.

how could i not?

she provided me the recipes for two of my favorite cookies - black and whites and aunt dillon's pralines. she taught me how to properly fold a fitted sheet. she has shown me the importance of maintaining good hair in the face of all sorts of tragedy - culinary, marital, felonious, or otherwise.

her magazine is like high-falutin' arts and crafts porn to me. i used to have a subscription. oh bliss! my heart would practically skip a beat when i'd arrive home to discover the glossy little mag on my doorstep. i'd pore over it for hours, making mental to-do lists of all the crafting and pastry-making and redecorating i'd be doing in the coming weeks.

never happened.

well, i wouldn't say never happened. i'd make the occasional almond meringue sandwich cookies filled with dulce de leche. i even attempted hot cross buns one easter weekend in my sweltering ozone park kitchen (their tooshes were burnt, but the frosting was lemony, sugary delicious - slurp!). i made handmade greeting cards and matchbox advent calendars trimmed with ribbon. i spent several hours painstakingly covering a styrofoam wreath with real cranberries (only to have it fall from my door and break in two pieces about 5 minutes after i hung it). so i attempted, and accomplished quite a few Martha projects. i realized one day, however, as i sat surrounded by stacks and stacks of MSL magazines (and the prospect of having to lug them from one apartment to another yet again) that they were actually taunting me:

look at everything you're not doing!

page 104, the little monogrammed tea kettle cozy screamed:

make me! make me! you don't drink tea, but you should! it's so much better for you!

page 64, the spread on sterling silver victorian serving spoons beckoned me:

helloooo! don't you need an asparagus fork?

page 145, special weddings issue, the 4 story wedding cake with iridescent fondant icing topped with bluebirds sculpted out of marzipan and dotted with crystallized blueberries and violets scoffed:

you couldn't make me anyway. i'm too complicated, and you couldn't even afford my ingredients.

i realized, as i sat there in the center of this MSL fortress that these bitchy ladies had to go. this magazine and the life it represented was not my life nor the life i wanted, really. the idea of it was lovely, but the reality was impossible. to get all psychobabbly on you, i was 1. trying to hold on to my mom (a kinder, gentler version of Martha who died when i was 12) and 2. avoiding taking steps towards my own goals and dreams...goals and dreams that had nothing to do with flower arranging, whipping egg whites to glossy peaks, and collecting antique jade bakeware. there was (and is) no glossy magazine that will tell me how to live my life. no recipe for success. no exacting measurements that will ensure a Rumi-esque "well-baked loaf."

dammit.

so, i sadly cancelled my subscription. sniff.

i miss her, i do. i'm not sure that i'll ever get over her completely. whenever i'm at a bookstore, i always pick up her latest magazine, and my heart still does flip flops when i turn to the table of contents and catch a glimpse of all the crafts that could be mine - mwahahahaha! who knows. someday, maybe, i'll have the time to really indulge my inner martha. someday, maybe, when i have tykes of my own, and someday, maybe, when there isn't a show to be written or a song to sing or a line to memorize or a martini to sip.

for now, though, i'm improv-ing. no recipes. no how-tos. no monthly calendars detailing when i should trim my shrubs or can my orchard peaches. i think i'm at my best that way...doing things 'off the cuff'...in the kitchen, in the art supply closet, in life. my mother always said, "an artist never makes a mistake." her point was not that you couldn't mess up, quite the contrary, but that a true artist, will make a "mistake" into art. with a little flourish of paint, a little sprinkle of glitter, a little dash of salt, a mistake could become a masterpiece. hm. kinda sorta how (i hope) i'm living my life.

and that, as martha would say, is a good thing.

_____

send martha a bday greeting! http://www.savemartha.com/

life's a beach, then you cry.

duh... why didn't i think of this? i even had my ipod.

i'm experiencing post-big-event depression. times like this i wish i had an embroidered hanky so i could weep into my monogram.

sniff.

sniff.

sniff.

dab a tear.

sniff.

sniff.

sniff.

dab a tear.

i just got back from a long weekend in block island, rhode island where i managed to don a swimsuit, sip mudslides (basically chocolate milkshakes laced with rum - yum!), and "practice random acts of cartwheels" in the sand without experiencing the bouts of extreme self-hatred i'm accustomed to in such situations. wowza. growth doesn't always have to hurt. it can actually, egads, be fun sometimes. eventually, after all the unsightly nobs and buds and growing pains, a flower actually bloooooms:

oh, look! it's pink, it's pretty, and it has no thorns!

i digress into some sort of free-verse poetic reverie...pardon.

so, yes, i had a lovely time, but i have to say...i was jealous if only a weensy bit. jealous of the people i was hanging out with. why? b/c they romped about on the beach while i laid there, supine and looking decidedly literary with my New Yorker magazine because, let's be honest, i felt less...er, exposed. (laying down, i don't look skinnier so much as i look well, flatter, which seemed preferable.) now what made me so different from the others? the group i was hanging with was mostly male, and there was not an Adonis among them.

now, don't get me wrong, i love these boys. they are cute, handsome gents. they dress well. they behave well. they open doors and let me steal sips of their pina coladas. they are disgustingly talented. great catches all of them, but let's just say that none of them will be starring in the next Bowflex commercial. (and, for my part, thank God. i don't trust nor am i attracted to any man who wears that much body oil and that tan? puhleez. screams tanning bed.)

here's the thing though...

they

don't

care.

the fact that they don't have a six-pack to rival Marky Mark's or biceps comparable to crazy-wack-job Tom Cruise's doesn't keep them from having fun and fully enjoying their life. some of them may well have 'body issues' of their own, but they manage to enjoy their beers, french fries and whiffleball matches anyway, damn them.

one could go into why poor body image affects men less...cultural standards...they differ for women. women are supposed to be The All - thin, attractive, and beautiful - plus smart, intelligent, talented and able to hit the whiffleball just as far as the boys, blah di blah di blah di blah...we've heard it all before on Oprah, read about it in Oprah magazine, talked about it with friends during the commerical breaks of Oprah...

now, i loooove me some Oprah, but i don't really want to do that anymore. conjecture. analyze. not while i'm on the beach, anyway. i mean all of that Socratic introspection is fabulous and useful in it's own place, but sometimes ya just gotta put down your floral cloth-covered journal and dive in. life is too short, and so, unfortunately, are beach trips. it's not like the sunlight, the sand, or the sea feels any better on a "perfect" body than it does on an imperfectly perfect one anyway.

so watch out, fellas. because next time, i'm gonna kick me some whiffleball ass.

harassment for dummies

notice, gentlemen...she's not smiling, and they're even
harassing her in italian, while wearing well-tailored suits.

which scenario do i hate more?

i cannot decide...

walking down the nyc street, minding my own damn business, i walk past a young or old or smart or dumb or successful or homeless man (because disrespect for women, apparently, crosses all color, class and education barriers) who is, as the young folks say, checking me out. i do not make eye contact. i have learned, after being here for 7 years, to never make eye contact, but i can feel his eyes graze my body...if eyes could nibble and sting, they would...reducing me to nothing so much as human, just a series of objects or (ahem) orifices for him to critique and appraise...

slimily, man in scenario #1 says:

yo, baby. look it that...hmhmmm, that's how i like it. nice and tight. what's yo digits? nice headlights. oh yeah...

blah di blah di blah...sadly, if you are a woman, you know the drill.

i bristle. i want to scream. i want to shout. i want to throw my backpack at their smug little misogynistic faces and demand that they give me their mother's telephone number so i can call her immediately and ask:

did you mean to raise a heathen with zero respect for women?

i do not do this, of course. i ignore. i proceed...seemingly unmiffed. i am an actress, after all. i am Queen and they, are not worthy of my attention. (deep down, of course, i am a ruffian peasant girl who would love nothing more than to hurl expletives at them and grind their faces into N.Y.P.D. equine dung, but i mustn't muss the hair nor disturb the crown, and the cape is on loan from Phantom.)

or, man in scenario #2 says, suavely (is suavely an actual adverb? i dunno, but you get my drift.):

hey, where's the smile? why don't you smile? i'll bet you've got such a pretty smile. oh, c'mon. why don't you give me a little smile?

ohhhh...

this.

pisses.

me.

off.

see. i get it. i'm not supposed to be as upset by this little come on because he's referring to something innocent; my smile. nothing taboo, like my bosom or bottom or whoozywhatzit, but puhleezz....maybe i'm getting a little Feminazi on you, but it's just another form of objectification, and it ticks me off.

just because our female bodies are visible...yes, we have breasts. yes, we have a butts. yes, we have a smiles that can melt the hearts of men, and yessireebobster, these jewels are foreign to you. you do not possess these miraculous female tresors, poor dear, and i understand that this makes them evermore intriguing, appealing, and all the more difficult to ignore, but...this does not make them open to public scrutiny and/or harassment. our bodies do not take requests for dates, smiles, or (ahem) otherwise from strange men on the street, in a bar, or whizzing by in their environmentally-incorrect, gas-guzzling, overcompensating-for-lack-of-something-else Hummer vehicles.

ok, ok...stepping off soapbox now. sorry.

please. just be human, and say something novel like...

hello. how are you? disgustingly humid day we're having, eh?

and try, please try, not to talk at our breasts. much as they would like to, they cannot respond.

so in my little fantasy...here's what i'd say...to mr. scenario #2:

what? am i not allowed to have a bad day? do you think life is one perpetual Crest Whitestrips commercial, and that God painted this miraculous smile on my face simply to brighten your sad, pitiful day? no, sir, i do not have a smile for you. what i do have is a Jennifer Garner-esque round-the-world-kick that will dislocate your nose from your face if you tell me to smile one more time . perhaps, i do not feel like smiling. perhaps, my dog died. perhaps, i just lost my job. perhaps, i am wearing a thong that is chafing so badly i'm rushing home to slip into some white cotton granny drawers. perhaps, i do not care that it takes more muscles to frown than it does to smile. perhaps, i like to think of it as a little bonus workout, burning off excess calories by scowling as i walk down the street...ignoring you . i do not have to be happy. i do not have to smile. i have the right to have a fucking bad day without an endless litany of sappy requests from you to put on my eyelet lace Pollyanna panties and bake you happy-face cupcakes, so back the fuck off!

there.

now.

i feel like smiling.

if i want you to appraise my melons,
i'll invite you over for fruit salad.

accidental bliss.

okay...so i wore a shirt, but this is about how i felt.

oh, dear readers...lest you think i'm always in the throes of despair, lamenting the size of my thighs and my spotted chin (not to be confused with spotted dick - "a dish of British extraction, it's a steamed, log-shaped suet pudding studded with currants"), you should know i had an absolutely marvelous, though jam-packed weekend that made me feel blessed from frizzy-head to calloused toe.

how could you not feel blessed when...

...at 3 am on saturday morning, you share vanilla sponge cake squishy with layers of chocolate pudding and fresh strawberries with your band members in simultaneous celebration of your last NYC gig together and b's, the piano player, bday. making you, of course, just a little regretful and weepy of your decision to quit. boo. hoo.

...or when you get to perform in a show that speaks to you, through you...the words you are lucky enough to speak are delicious, fiery morsels, and if you could eat them, you would b/c in those words passion resides and Dad always said that "what you want in life is a certain fire in your belly." but instead, you share them with the audience members and, miraculously, they get it. (there were also 3 reviewers there...let's hope they got it too. eeks.)

...or when you watch the sunset over Central Park from the roof of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, a giant butterfly kite hovers above the trees, suspended in silhouette against the buzzing, warm corona of the sun...the light, the colors, the lazy ambience so similar to those in th Monet/Manet/Renoir paintings you just passed inside. all that is missing, you think, is your parasol (and fluency in french, of course).

...or when you don a bright pink wide-brimmed hat and a flouncy white skirt that makes you feel, if even just a little bit, like a combination southern belle and ballerina. you have to tug on your shirt throughout the day because your belly keeps wanting to peek out from beneath your camisole, an impudent child who should be in bed, hoping to catch a glimpse of the glamorous grown-ups, but whatever...you fancy yourself pretty anyhow.

...or when you have dinner with friends in from Mississippi in a candlelit italian restaurant. you devour long-legged strands of al dente linguini in a simple dress of sauteed spinach and feta cheese, sip a cool glass of pinot grigio, and ride the cadence of their southern speak...a molasses and grits rollercoaster of colloquialisms and drawls.

and how could you not feel blessed when, looking out the open window of the cab as you ride over the 59th street bridge - you are sleepy, the whirring of the wheels against the pavement, the wind playing with your hair, together a strange city lullaby - you realize...

holy shit...i'm happy.

a margarita a day...

coffee break? nah. margarita break, please.

does it keep the blues away?

today

is

just

one

of

those

days.

argh.

feeling useless and aimless and directionless, waistless...whatever-less. i just don't weigh less. dammit.

i'm wondering. i desperately want to test my theory. something frozen and fruity and highly-alcoholic might very well color my blues, well...pink. at least temporarily, right?

on my lunch hour, i walked past an embarassingly colorful chain restaurant near my work that offers ginormous portions of tex mex food. the food, swimming in fluorescent orange pools of lard, did not appeal at all. what did? the little paper tent on the table beckoned me...a watermelon margarita. ole. tempted to dive in and disappear into a tequila and watermelon haze. should i? should i slip in and have a margarita on my lunch hour? surely, it would make everything seem a little better for a little while, wouldn' t it? would they know? would they smell the tequila on my breath back at the office? i could just say it was a new Demeter fragrance, "i just popped into sephora for a little spritz..."

hm?

hmm?

hmmmm???

nah i am, at heart, a goody two shoes, and work, while not particularly stimulating currently, still offers a good job, decent pay, and marvelously intelligent people that alternately challenge me to be a better person and confirm my worst suspicions...

they are all smarter than you. you, my dear, change toner. the highlight of your day is the walnut, blue cheese, beet, + baby spinach salad you eat every day for lunch. these people are changing the world. you're just eating it.

(wow. if i were dating myself, i would so break up with me. wouldn't you?)

but. it's a job, and i do not want to lose it. besides, that sort of behavior smacks way too much of a little disease called alcoholism. my family has the unique distinction of counting many of its members proficient in the art of dipsomania, but this apple is choosing to fall far from that dysfunctional tree.

so, i did not order the margarita. i bought myself a sparkly necklace with beads that match the color of my eyes (what i like to self-indulgently call amber-hazel) at a local flea market instead. and yes, i ate my requisite spinach salad. i am now sitting at my desk surrounded by brilliance incarnate, waiting for my muscles to grow, and try-try-trying to remember popeye's philosophy as it applies to me...

"i yam what i yam."

grumpy was my favorite dwarf

probably waiting for the fucking subway...pool of sweat forming betwixt his bumcheeks...

dear dear readers...i am so sorry i have been so lax lately in my blogging. i have been, suffice to say, busy with, er...life. when i first starting blogging, i resolved to write daily, but soon realized that that resolution and my unwavering commitment to that resolution was keeping me from 1. getting enough sleep and 2. living my life. and really, in the grander, what-i-want-to-be-when-i-grow-up scheme of things, that's really what this blog and my show is about...living life.

so...my blogs will probably be a little more spotty in the future. 2-3-4 times per week. but, dear reader, i do hope it's a case of quality not quantity that you look for in a Blogstress. if so...voila!

besides...who wants to do anything but suck on ice cubes and stand naked in front of the air conditioner in weather like this? my hair is frizzy, my stomach's upset, and i swear i can actually feel my pores clogging as i type this...

a little fetal zit is forming right on my chin, it will burst forth and bloom like one of grandma's roses in a matter of days...oh joy.

at least, it seems, i am not alone.

the grumpy factor

save another date for sangria + s'mores

you would look so good in that chair...there.

save the date

another size ate fundraiser
saturday, august 27
7-11pm

$10 gets ya in, free sangria while it lasts,
+ s'mores you can grill on the back patio!
featuring live music from benicio + the del toros

@ stainbar
766 grand street
williamburg, brooklyn
L to grand, 1 block west

forget tom cruise, i (heart) tom arnold

oh, the possibilities...

Tom Arnold commenting on his relationship with Roseanne Barr, in today's New York Times' Boldface Names column:

To be with a woman that you can sit and eat a gallon of ice cream with in bed is not the worst thing in the world.

a-fucking-men.

the 3 best things about my family reunion

my nephew

you can't help but feel pretty when you look at him...he does nothing but smile, smile, smile.

my niece

i taught her how to give butterfly kisses, and we put on lip gloss...

another nephew

he told me i had "good hair," and proudly showed me his long, "chapter books."

brilliant children.

family re-EWWWWW-nion weekend

i should be sleeping.

i haven't slept in about 6 days.

why?

dunno...the mind is racing....a gerbil on a treadmill...will...not....stop.

argh.

off - early early early - 6 am flight - to michigan for a family reunion tomorrow.

must sleep. must get my beauty sleep. can i lose 10 pounds overnight?

i will see family members who, i know, love me, but are also more than a wee-bit-obsessed with appearances - thinness, clear skin, and callous-free pedicured feet (none of which i have at this particular moment).

i will see family members that i have never met, or that i met when i was 8-years old. before i became a woman-obsessed. before i learned to hate my legs in shorts, before i learned to not smile too big in the family reunion photo because it made my face look too wide...

i will see family members and friends who remember my mother only as a perfectly beautiful, perfectly angelic woman. flawless, blond, long-legged and bringing home-baked pies to the garbage men on christmas eve because she felt bad that they had to empty our trash. trash that contained our great dane's sizeable...er...excrement.

in their mind she is a goddess. a goddess, not only of beauty, but of generous spirit and prize-winning tuna casserole.

i

cannot

measure

up.

i am human. my torso is longer than my legs. i am no angel. i am no goddess. i bake pies for the guys at the firehouse, but please...i don't do it for purely altruistic reasons. they're cute, for chrissakes.

so...this time...i will not try. oh sure. i will look presentable. i will brush my hair. i will moisturize my calloused feet. i already shaved my legs and packed the 'feminine shoes' (kitten heels) my grandma likes so much instead of the 'big shoes' (i.e. birkenstocks) i like so much.

but...if i want to swim in the hotel pool. i will. i will put on my swimsuit and feel the sun and wind against my skin and ignore the glances...approving, disapproving or otherwise.

and.

and. i will smile real big in the family photo. even if it means the photographer has to change to a wide-angle lens.

you deserve a...er...coronary today.

yes, yes you will.

The Worst Fast Food Choices

i think i'm going to vomit.

hard to believe i used to love this schtuff.

when i was little and living in a teensy town in michigan that matched my diminutive stature, i loved mcdonald's. perhaps loved isn't even a strong enough word. i was an advocate of mcdonald's. i lobbied for mcdonald's. it is not, i think, a small coincidence that both my name and that restaurant begin with the same letter - M. i actually wanted to work there when i grew up, thinking,

what could be better? free filet-o-fish, small fries, and a medium hi-c orange drink every day. wow. them there's the life.

we didn't have a mcdonald's in our little village for the formative years of my life, but just as i was about to turn 8, it was announced that we would, in fact, be getting our very own Mickey D's, to be constructed right across the street from the Big Boy Restaurant (we used to go there for their burgers with their "special sauce." "special sauce" my eye...it was thousand island dressing.) the joy i felt was indescribable. upon our first visit to the golden arches, i turned to my mother and said, in complete childlike earnestness:

Mom. Before we were just a town. Now that we have a McDonald's, we're a city.

ha.

i loved everything about McDonald's. the weird-ass looking Ronald (closeted gay man. who else would wear red and yellow so...glaringly?), the high-fructose corn syrup sweetened little cardboard-textured cookies shaped like the Hamburglar, the shiny red plastic seats with grooves where your bum nestled in juuuust so. they'd swivel back and forth when you kicked your brother sitting across from you for stealing your last fry.

but it's MINE!

i had my eighth birthday party there. the one picture i remember from that day is me sitting in a booth, donning a little pink monogrammed sweater, mugging for the camera, eyes wide, holding the cheeseburger in my hands and shoving it into my mouth. that kid wanted to be in pictures. i had the requisite paper crown on my head. they even took me to the back to see the 'behind the scenes.' i was pretty disappointed by the quotidian nature of it all. just a bunch of bitter high school students slapping mustard, onions, lettuce, tomato on a sesame seed bun. (is that the rhyme?) i thought they'd be all bonny and blithe like the rosy-cheeked valedictorians that worked there in the commercials.

thankfully, mom was a bit of a health food nut, so we didn't get McDonald's that frequently (we were a no-sugar cereal, no-pop kind of household) and i, after a 4-year fast food subsistence diet in college, have since revised my eating habits to all but eliminate fast food (my ass and arteries thank me). i'll admit to the occasional McDonald's sundae when i'm a bit schnockered and strolling through Times Square, weaving towards the subway, (i can't help it! the arches call my name!), but ever since they've discontinued the caramel one, what's the fucking point?

i told my mother that when i grew up the only foods i was going to feed my family were "mcdonald's and spaghetti-os."

ha.

perhaps this explains why God has kept me single and childless. my menu would have killed them.

so how come the japanese get these
hipsters and we get the creepy clown?

better belly than britney's

as i type this, a miniature statue of the Laughing Buddha gazes down at me from the top of my computer screen. beneath him is a banner i got at a yoga retreat a few winters ago that says:

you are buddha-full.

ah.

i am.

you are.

i mentally remark how funny it is that we miss the messages that sit right in front of us day after day. free. no charge. waiting patiently for us to see them, hear them, take them in. pluck them like rosepetals, rub them between our fingers, and carry the scent with us for days...

poor buddha. he must be tired. standing there for weeks w/ his arms up like that. and yet, he still smiles. ear to ear. chubby chin to chubby chest. just happy, i guess, that he finally got my attention.

you are buddha-full.

i ponder buddha's round frame and wonder if he ever felt self-conscious about his girth.

i don't think so. he's too busy laughing. loving. being. doing The Wave at some eternal sporting event.

you are buddha-full.

i ponder my woman's frame and wonder why i always feel self-conscious about my girth, my birth, hell...my worth.

i dunno. i'm too tired to think about it. too tired to create my own mantras. for tonite, i'll just follow the buddha's cue, throw my hands in the air, and laugh:

i am buddha-full.

that little round guy over there on my computer screen said so.

happy 4 o' july

happy fourth of july everyone!

in honour of our country's independence day today, i attempt to free my body and my mind from the typical penitential refrain of

don't eat that.

don't have that second margarita with the little pink umbrellas that you love so much.

don't wear your swimsuit in front of all these people.

don't let them see your calloused feet.

don't wear your big, rhinestone-y earrings that look like fireworks, they might think you're weird.

don't sing the star-spangled banner full-voice and make appropriately-placed cymbal sounds by banging the garbage can lid with your empty margarita glass.

in other words:

DON'T

HAVE

FUN.

screw it. our forefathers, after all, fought for life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, dammit.

so go forth, countrymen and women. pursue The Big H.

eat hot dogs smothered in ketchup, sour cream pound cake topped with blueberries and strawberries (you patriotic eaters you!), dip your feet in the pool, run through a sprinkler, and write your name in the night sky real fast using sparklers!

and don't forget to cry during the fireworks finale when the Star-Spangled Banner is sung by a B-pop star.

----

as an afterthought - last nite, as i was giving myself a pedicure akin to an archaeological excavation (the amount of scrubbing and filing i have to do - positively aerobic), i watched demi moore in g.i. jane. the movie is about a woman who attempts to become a navy seal. why any woman would want to do this, i don't know, but she does, all the while maintaining a perfect size 6 and miraculously smudge-free mascara!!! as i watched her get harassed by mysogynists in camoflauge and get beat to a bloody pulp, i thought to myself, "hey, if she can get through that, i can finish this f-ing pedicure." just as demi was presented with her pair of little navy seal wings, my feet started to look like feet again. all those razor blades and callous-eating ointments were worth it. ah...there is no end to what us womenfolk will do for our country.

ode to a peach

quite possibly the perfect man

too hot

too sticky

to write

too much

today

but...

let me say this:

i have found my true love

in the nectar of

a perfect, chilled, ripe peach

skin

just taut enough

flesh

just tender enough

juice

just plentiful enough

for a rogue drop

to escape my mouth undetected

and descend

casanova-style

down

down

down

to the tip of

my

chin

where it

took in the majestic view

and

fell (or jumped?) helplessly

plop

into my

welcoming

decolletage.

my, what a lucky little dribble.

my, what a lucky little me.

-----

psst...i got them from freshdirect.com!

multigrain feelin' BLUEberry scones

served with a dollop of real full-fat greek yogurt
and fresh b-berries on my mum's china.
quit drooling on your keyboard!

some things just make me happy.

baking.

little red shoes.

coffee with half and half.

crinolines.

scones.

scones. ahhhh....scones are my ne plus ultra of breakfast pastries. i just looooove them. they're all the good parts of a muffin, but less delicate, more substantial, more messy. in the football lineup of breakfast baked yummies, the scone is a linebacker - hard and rough on the outside, but open him up and he just crumbles, and you can't help but love him.

now, i hate summer, but i'll admit that it has a few good things going for it. one of them is the fruit. peaches. raspberries. blueberries. after a winter of nothing but apples...apples...apples, summer fruits are a welcome wake-up call for my tastebuds. ring-a-ding-ding.

i found cartons of blueberries at the Stiles Farmers Market on 9th Avenue between 41 + 42 Streets for $1.50/carton. (do you know how good b-berries are for you? look here.) i stocked up, and i've been incorporating them into every meal i can - salads, oatmeal, peanut butter and jelly with smooshed-up-b-berries sandwiches. i even created a vodka blueberry gimlet in honor of the season (just make a traditional gimlet, smoosh up some blueberries with the lime juice, then devour those ambrosial, spirit-filled berries when you've finished off the drink). cheers!

so, the other day when i was feeling a bit...er...pardon the pun...blue, i decided to whip up a batch of blueberry scones. refined flour does funny things to my tummy, so i made mine with whole wheat and tossed in a few other whole grains, but if you're more refined than i (and no doubt you are), regular white flour will do just fine.

ah. i feel so much better. now all i need is a crinoline.

Multigrain Blueberry Scones
makes 6 ginormous scones the size of your noggin

Preheat oven to 375.

1 egg
1/2 C sugar
5 T grapeseed or canola oil
1/8 teaspoon orange zest
1/2 cup old-fashioned oatmeal
1/4 cup wheat bran
1 1/2 cups unbleached flour/whole wheat flour
You can use all of either or a mixture. WW flour makes for a more substantial, rustic texture while the unbleached flour makes for a more refined crumb. Both are delish. WW is better for your colon. ( :
2 tablespoons coarse cornmeal
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 - 3/4 cup milk
1 1/2 cups fresh blueberries

The scones don't necessarily need this topping, as they're pretty sweet to start, but...
Zest-ay Orange Topping
3 tablespoons orange juice
1/2 cup confectioner's sugar

Whisk egg, sugar, oil in a bowl. Mix orange zest and dry ingredients in a separate bowl until combined. Slowly add dry mix to wet mixture to create a thick dough. Add milk. (if you use whole wheat flour, you'll probably need to add significantly more milk than if you use regular flour). Mix well. Gently gently gently stir in the blueberries, trying not to totally mangle the delicate little fruits. Spoon up the dough and drop onto a cookie sheet, leaving approx. 2 inches in between (I didn't do this, and ended up with 6 scones connected to one another, but they separated quite easily.) . Bake 20-25 minutes until barely golden brown and dough is dry. Cool for 10 minutes. Drizzle orange topping over scones.

i (heart) shel silverstein.

there once was a tree, and she loved a little boy.

Listen to the mustn'ts child,
Listen to the don'ts,
Listen to the shouldn'ts, the impossibles, the won'ts.
Listen to the never-haves,
Then listen close to me;
Anything can happen, child.
Anything can be.

-Shel Silverstein

the one and only poem i have committed to memory. sad? nooooo. heartening. i cannot recite this poem without smiling and feeling anything but hopeful. and neither can you. try it. i dare ya.

take a little trip down memory lane and check out his website.