More words I hate and more quinoa.

The other day, I expressed my irritation with a product I was reviewing on my other site, Nivea Creme. Yup. You read it right. They misspelled "cream" and didn't even misspell it right, "crème." Also, I ain't French or nothing and it's been pointed out before that my French is really bad, but wouldn't it be Creme [sic] Nivea rather than Nivea Creme? I would have been most pleased with Nivea Cream, but no one asked me. This annoying detail probably a lot to do with my preference for Fresh's Crème Ancienne or the famous Crème de la Mer. I prefer Fresh's crème for many reasons, one of them being that it's available right here in my town at Pout. But I digress.

I am also irritated by American shopping malls named "Such-and-Such Centre." As far as I know, "centre" is not a word in English, which is fine, but they need to call it "Centre Such-and-Such" instead. Which is stupid, because everybody's just going to call it "Such-and-Such Mall" anyway, now aren't they? Upon reading my mini-rant, a friend sent me this e-mail:

I JUST thought about you when I washed my face. I was using a sample and the directions said "use about half the packette". Excuse me, it is no longer a packet. It is the much more sophisticated packette. I am getting in my bedde to have a blissful sleepe now.

which cracked me up. My friend, incidentally, owns a shop located in "The Shoppes at W--." You know that place, "W-- Mall." *snort* She is a funny lady, my friend. She e-mailed a couple days later.

I used the rest of my PACKETTE last night.

which cracked me up again. Guess what other word I hate...eatery. It's a freakin' restaurant, a café if you must. It seems I have even more Bad Words than I thought. And I haven't formed a complete opinion yet on "artisan." We'll see.

In Quinoa Week 2009 news, I plan to toast a little quinoa and pine nuts to toss in a salad tonight, a salad that will accompany beef brisket from Eubank Farm, turnip greens and collards from the All-Local Farmers' Market cooked with Miso, Parmesan foccacia from Heather's Artisan* Bakery and Carolina Plantation Gold Rice from Rosewood Market. Yes, I am bragging. I'm also really looking forward to dinner.

By the way, someone asked after my last post if I rinse my quinoa to remove the bitterness. I do not, even when I get it from the bulk bins at Rosewood. I re-cook it after boiling, either by roasting or toasting. Maybe that removes the bitterness. Also, as TF mentioned in the comments section, roasted or toasted quinoa is delicious with just a little balsamic vinegar. The batch he used had been toasted with lemon-infused olive oil from Perrone's. You could go nuts and add a handful of herbs, too. Just sayin'. Please excuse me. I gotta' go marinate a brisket.

Namasté, y'all!

* Huh. Can't hate that word when the bread is so damn good.

In which I am confused. Again.

I get confused. I need explanations for some things. Or maybe not. If you have explanations to offer, I'll certainly entertain them (like, with cocktails and olives in little bowls.)

1. This shocks me. I thought the Bible Belt was the home of all things sexist and antiquated. I thought this article was a joke. In fact, it was not a joke. These girls exist. And I say "girls," because they don't behave like any grown women I know. Why on earth would women, with educations, personalities and jobs depend so heavily on men for stuff they wanted? They are more dependent than this stay-at-home, un-employed mother of three. As one of my brilliant friends on Facebook said, "Seriously? Gen Y has officially killed feminism." Dear young ladies, take a piece of advice from an old hag: If you want stuff, get it yourself.

2. What is the deal with those couch sales on the side of the road, in parking lots of places like Advanced Auto? Is a cheap velour couch really an impulse purchase? You're driving home from work and...screeeeeech go your tires as you whip to the side of the road.

"OHSWEET JESUS! I NEVER KNEW I NEEDED A VELOUR MOCK-LA-Z-BOY COUCH! I NEED IT NOW! TIE IT TO THE ROOF OF MY CAR! NOW!"

My friend Julie called me about this phenomenon the other day as she passed a parking lot full of couches and, of all things, toddler-sized lounge chairs. She felt it was blog-worthy and I agree. What the hell are those couches doing in a parking lot? I've seen patterned rugs for sale on the side of the road, too. Some of them are decorated with an enormous animal face, something exotic like a zebra or cat. While I have considered a tasteful cheetah-print area rug, like this one, the huge-face rugs don't do it for me.

3. Why is it now acceptable for Brad Pitt to have pock-marked, large enormous-pored skin, like he does in the most recent issue of W? Perhaps he no longer feels the need to prove he's hot, since he must be or he wouldn't be with Angelina. He has to be good-looking though, because his chameleon-like behavior with every woman he's ever been with would indicate a lack of personality. He is an accessory. Maybe the spread was too arty for a small-town girl like me.

4. Why does my husband lie to me so much about little things? Once and for all, does this or does this not indicate he will one day cheat on me? If, in fact, he does cheat on me, will he do it in a way I can ignore or will it be obvious? The suspense is killing me.

5. Why I can't have everything I want? And why don't I get it when I can? I saw these boots in tan on E-Bay for a buy-it-now price of $300. I didn't buy them then and the bidding surpassed $400, which doesn't fit into my budget, on acount of my kids seem smart enough to make it to college and we'll need to pay for it. I'm kicking myself, but it doesn't hurt, because I'm not wearing boots. Why didn't I buy them? Why?

Anyhow, these are things that befuddle me.

Namasté, y'all!

I love awesome stuff.

And I got some pretty awesome stuff this weekend. Saturday, I rushed into the All-Local Farmers' Market at the very last second, snapped up all three and a half dozen eggs that were left and managed to catch the delightful Donna of Floral and Hardy Farms in Lexington. I've said it before, but it bears repeating: Donna is a floral genius. Rather than choose my own bouquet, I prefer to leave it to the expert. I name a so-reasonable-I-can't-type-it-out-because-you-big-city-folks-would-cry price and she creates...

Because the flowers are so fresh, they smell as good as they look and last more than a week, sometimes two or three. I also gushed about her work here, here, and here. Oh, and here, here and here. Ahem.

I also canceled an order from Target online and went to the store instead to see their new line from Hayden-Harnett. I've been hurt before by Target's attempts to have higher-end designers create lower-priced lines. And I feel such affection for Hayden-Harnett. Don't tell anyone, but I just counted and I own...gulp...seven of their bags. And I might be leaving one or two out. I lost sleep worrying about how Hayden-Harnett for Target would compare. It was with great trepidation that I approached the rack of Hayden-Harnett for Target bags. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and...surprise!...felt pretty good once I opened them. I reached for the Chain Bag in brown, one of the ones I had considered ordering. I carried it around the store as I filled my cart with other important items, such as magnetic curlers, a shower cap to protect my new hairstyle, a travel-size can of Elnett, a can of that stuff you spray in the shower with the little talking bubbles with eyes and a pair of blue Converse One-Star suede soccer shoes for the X-Man. When I finished my shopping, I checked the rack again and someone had returned the bag I really wanted, the Canvas Hobo. I debated buying both, felt greedy and chose the Hobo.

Here it is, but for some reason it looks more blue in the picture than in real life. It's more purple than blue.

Although Hayden-Harnett style rocks, function shouldn't escape mention. Every single one of their bags allows me to access my stuff really easily. Do I sound like an infomercial? Whatever. Listen to me preach it, sisters. These folks design pockets and compartments like no one else. I thought the Target line would skimp in the pocket department. Au contraire, ma chère! Look at these...

The front pocket is actually two pockets, a bigger one where you could stash keys and a phone and a smaller zippered compartment for spare change, gum and lady products, like lipstick and...other lady products.

Inside the bag, the large zippered pocket could hold fourteen lipsticks and a compact if you're like me or lots of other stuff if you're not such a freak that you need fourteen lipsticks and a compact.

Across from the zippered pocket, three open pockets hold your phone, iPod, a small camera, business cards or whatever else you want. Far be it from me to judge.

I never manage to lose anything in my Hayden-Harnett bags, which makes them a perfect choice for this ADD-addled housewife. Long-time readers will remember this one - and it's contents - still one of my all-time favorites. Isn't it refreshing to find a bag that doesn't force you to sacrifice your style in the name of organization?

For those of you who care more about form than function (I understand. Have you seen my new Louboutins with the 5-inch heels?), the hardware on the bag is decent, much better than Target's usual, if you ask me. Which you didn't, but you're reading my blog so you must care a tiny bit what I think. Right? Do you like me? Do you? Here's a side view:

And a close-up of the front.

If you've made it this far, you might even care to know I'm considering buying the Hayden-Harnett for Target Flight Tote in black, which appears to be remarkably similar to the Flight Tote from their regular line...which is back-ordered and $150 more. Whee!

Another awesome thing I got this weekend was a new set of eyelashes. I even took before and after pictures, because who doesn't love before and after pictures? Maybe I'll take before and after pictures of my stuff in a regular bag and the same stuff organized in a Hayden-Harnett. How exciting!

Namasté, y'all!

An entry full of footnotes...

Namasté, y'all!

P.S. I had to say that first, because the rest of this entry consists of footnotes, which traditionally follow the sign off. Duh.

* Frogmore Stew should also be served with little ramekins of cocktail sauce. Cocktail sauce = ketchup + horseradish, proportions to be determined by the chef.

** I bought the dryer at Beauty Basic Supply, online. Here is the link. I don't get a kickback from that site, but I wish I did, because I know y'all are all going to order one. If I had a dollar for every...

*** The rollers are large, pink velcro rollers, purchased at Target. I bought the biggest size. I clip them on with metal clamp-style clips, but plan to switch to rippled bobby pins soon because I heard they don't leave dents in your hair.

**** For those of you who think you shouldn't get the dryer because your hair is too short: Get it. Leave it out to remind yourself not to get a haircut. Kind of like those freaks who hang a bikini on the fridge to keep themselves from eating. But not at all like that because big hair is a far nobler goal than a tiny a**. Bottoms of all sizes and shapes can be cute. Hair, on the other hand, is best when it's big.

***** I'm thinking of ordering two or three more dryers, so I can have hair parties at my house. We can talk really loud over the noise of the dryers and read celebrity magazines. Is this a good idea? Discuss.

****** The baby blue Jaguar was totally from Nancy Drew. I was a huge fan. How could I not have realized this? Cool!

******* I saw my aunt and her mom yesterday heading into Devine Foods for lunch as I was leaving LaRoque. They are so much fun. I had already eaten, but I sat down for a Diet Coke and one of their awesome cookies (chocolate, nuts, oatmeal, raisins...excellent). Aunt K asked for my Baked Brie Recipe and I remembered promising to share on my blog. It's more like a list of instructions than a recipe. As an aside (because I can't really do a footnote to a footnote, now can I?), I was very flattered to be asked by Aunt K for a recipe. She's one of the best hostesses and cooks I know. Color me tickled.

Baked Brie

Take a can of Pillsbury Crescent Roll Dough, the scary kind that explodes when you peel off the wrapper.

Open it, lay it flat in a pretty oven-safe serving dish and press out the perforation marks with your fingers.

Take a small wheel of Brie and cut it into two layers, like cake layers.

In between the layers, put some jam and nuts, whichever ones you have in your pantry. Apricot jam with pecans is nice. Or fig jam and almonds. Or raspberry and cashews. You get the picture.

Place the Brie, Jam and Nut Sandwich on the pastry and fold the pastry in until the Brie is enclosed. If you are artistic, maybe you will make a nice design. If you are me, maybe you will cram it closed any which way and turn it over for cooking.

Cook until it's done at whatever temperature the package says.

Serve it and try to ignore the mocking of your husband who is half-French and thinks this is an abomination. Don't be smug when it disappears and your guests rave.

I love being a grown-up.

All my dreams have come true. When I was about ten years old, around the time my Nana got me a subscription to Vogue, I saw a Cartier Tank Française and thought, "Yup." And I was willing to wait. While I waited, I got married, stayed married and co-produced three adorable sons, never once complaining about not receiving jewelry, because I had a plan. Just before our tenth anniversary, I announced I had done the math and it was time for the Tank. Now that I think about it, such diabolical selfishness is probably one reason the other Tank, the mad toddler, came my way. All's well that ends well, n'est-ce pas? Though he tries my patience, 99.9% of humans would agree he is beyond adorable. And I really love the watch*.

There was something else I wanted, besides a baby blue Jaguar. Big hair. And I knew how to get it. After careful research, I determined the most efficient route to big hair - big curlers on wet hair under a hood dryer. My poor ten-year-old self felt very sad, as I believed such things were only available in salons. Even a ten-year-old knows you have to be pretty rich to afford a professional set twice a week, so I collected good grades in hopes of going to a good college so I could get a great job and afford to have my hair set twice a week. I don't really like hard work, but I was willing to do what had to be done. Over the years, I experimented, with varying results.

• Pink foam curlers worn overnight on wet hair didn't work for long hair, which would still be wet in the morning. Also, they ripped out half my hair.
• Hard plastic curlers were too hard to sleep in. Ouch.
• Ditto velcro and wire curlers.
  
• They worked a little better under my mother's vintage bonnet dryer, but that took hours and there was a pretty serious risk of electrocution. Also, it burned my ears and scalp pretty bad.
• Blow-drying by hand with a big round brush. Took too long, hair got tangled and flyaway pieces inadvertently dried frizzy.
  
• Blow-drying by hand followed by extensive use of a curling iron was a decent option, but very time-consuming. Also, I needed one or two more arms to do it well.
• Blow-drying by hand followed by hot rollers works okay, but the style doesn't hold, no matter how many products I use.

At some point, I learned that hood dryers were available for private use at home. I have no idea why I never did my research**, but I assumed they were thousands of dollars and dismissed the idea. Why did no one ever tell me? These things are less than $100. Several days before Christmas, I broke my own rule about not buying stuff for yourself right before a holiday and drunkenly ordered a hood dryer, after reading a bunch of reviews, getting confused, pouring another glass of bubbly and picking one based on the fact one random person in Texas said it was big enough for really big curlers extensive research. My new Hot Tools 1875W Anti-Static IONIC Salon Hair Dryer was only $44.99. And I got free shipping. See how happy I am?

Bonus: I can't hear a thing under the dryer. If two kids are fighting and no parents hear it, did they still have a fight? I think not!

See how happy I am sitting in the car taking pictures of myself after an entire bottle of bubbly at Dianne's on new Year's Eve with my big hair?

And that set, pumped full of Elnett bien sûr, lasted for several days. All for the low, low price of $44.99. And free shipping. Can you hear the music swelling in the background?

Namasté, y'all!

P.S. Please see important addenda to this entry here. Merci.

* In my defense, I only ever wanted the stainless steel version. In fact, my dear husband asked if I wanted to hold out for the Tank with diamonds and I didn't. Because that would look silly in the day time and wearing a watch at night makes you look uptight. I don't wear a watch at night, because I like to party.

** Oh yeah. When Grandma was little there was no internet. And my mama wasn't the type to take me to beauty stores.

Put on some lipstick. Or brush your hair. Or something.

I took the kids to the mall Monday for our annual visit - the one where I convince myself that the mall would be a welcome distraction from the tedium of winter break. I also needed to return a pair of pants to Gymboree. I never buy clothes for my kids. I depend on my mom's embarrassment threshold, which is much, much lower than mine. My own bad behavior doesn't even embarrass me so having a child dressed like a street urchin doesn't faze me in the least. My mother tries to dress my children appropriately. I've learned not to waste the money; no matter what I buy, they'll wear the same soccer kits, grimy sweatshirts and well-loved t-shirts over and over. A month or so ago she brought the kids some cute duds from Gymboree. The Tank, after some wrestling, conceded his were pretty cool. O, the big kid, was polite yet firm. The khakis were not for him. Are there any actual fifth graders out there still willing to wear clothing with a Gymboree label? I guess it would be mean of me to call them dorks so, um, I won't*.

I tried to return the pants and found that such a thing wasn't really possible. I had the receipt and asked them to credit the $12.99 plus tax back to my mom's credit card. I, of course, did not have my mom's card. I wish I did. It probably has way more room on it than mine. But I digress. I didn't want to deal with a store credit given the high chance of my losing the credit before my return a year from now. Store policy wouldn't allow them to get the number over the phone from my mom. The full number wasn't on the receipt, just a portion of it. I get the policy, I do, but who would get mad if someone credited their card? But I digress again. I decided to let my mom deal with it and we left.

We had lunch, we rode the carousel and I almost vomited. Fun times. With full stomachs and brighter dispositions, the children and I agreed we might be able to choose some underpants in exchange for the hated baby khakis. Gymboree underpants rock. They are soft and have cool pictures and y'all know how desperate I am to talk the Tank into underpants**. I quickly found three pair, just his size, that more or less covered the credit. I waited in line.

And I waited some more. The woman in front of me had a few questions and she saw no reason the sole employee shouldn't answer all of them. Right that minute. She had a large stack of clothes, a credit card and what I believe was an unhealthy obsession with matching children's clothing.

"Do you have this in 18 to 24 months and size 6?"

"Well can you check in the back?"

"We already have everything from the Cupcake line. Do you have any more of these?"

"How about these?"

"Do you have anything else in the Craptastic line? How about the Silly Twit line?"

"Can you check in the back?"

"Can you check in the back again?"

I was this close to checking her in the back. What kind of mother knows the name of each individual line of clothing at Gymboree? I didn't even know they had names. What kind of person holds the sole employee hostage in a desperate attempt to secure matching outfits for her oblivious children? I'll tell you what kind of person. The kind who spends so much time thinking about how her babies look she's left with no time to put on lipstick, brush her hair or even pick out a decent looking track suit. The kind of person who is either oblivious or doesn't care that the next person in line has a five minute transaction and three antsy children. The kind of person who has "let herself go."

Don't jump down my throat. I'm not asking you to starve yourself, spend a fortune on clothes or spend hours at the gym each day***. I do think we should try to look decent for our spouses, our friends and ourselves. Don't go hating on Heidi Klum either - she speaks the truth. You may not be a super model, but you can come pretty close to your pre-baby body and you should try, as much for your health as your looks. And if you do keep an extra pound or seven, stop hating and buy yourself some decent clothes. And put on some lipstick. And brush your hair. Children are effortlessly cute, so spend as much money as you like on their clothes, but recognize the frivolity. I have no objection to frivolity - it's the cornerstone of my existance - I just want you to stand up straight and smile.

According to my childless-as-of-yet-but-brilliant-nonetheless friend Kristy, you should set a good example for your children by having high expectations. Demand a birthday cake for yourself, with candles. Insist on presents. Buy that cocktail dress before you even consider any cr*p from the Cupcake line at Gymboree (whatever the h*ll that is). Kristy explained that by not taking care of yourself, you teach your children to feel affection for people with low expectations. Next thing you know, they're bringing home dirty hippies with zero ambition and little to no energy to seek out birth control. Soon enough, you'll be housing your adult child, the aforementioned dirty hippy and their child, who will be adorable, really, but a bit of a burden if you're honest. Don't you want the house to yourself eventually? You paid for it. Shouldn't it be yours? The dirty hippy will not contribute to the rent. Or the housecleaning. So put on some lipstick already. How about this one? I found it at Pout recently and I think it rocks.

Namasté and Happy New Year, y'all!


* I lied. DORKS! Those are baby clothes!

** Didn't work. "I said 'Nooooo, thanks!' Dey not for me. I wanna' diaper." That's a direct quote. Hmph.

*** If you do, however, I salute you. And bet you are hot. Nothing wrong with that, sister!

Ultimate Balls, Sausage Style.

That is the recipe included in the Free Times this week. I was tempted to replace the phrase "So go for it" with "Sack up and buy the fancy cheese." As I sat at my desk, debating the issue in my head (or maybe out loud), the phone rang. It was my dad. Obviously a sign I should leave the offending phrase out of the article. However, it's much funnier, so if you read the piece, please make the substitution. The article isn't up online yet, but you know I'll give you the link when it is. Because I love you.

I love you so much I won't taunt you about the fact that we are headed somewhere very warm for Thanksgiving. Because if I did taunt you, it would surely rain the whole time. So, consider yourself not taunted. Being me, I'm experiencing a fair amount of anxiety about the trip. These are the things that are flipping me out, in no particular order:

• The Tank is not potty trained. On the bright side, we may have time to work on that during our vacation.
• We never fly. All these new regulations scare me. What if they take my wrinkle cream? I will come back even uglier.
• I didn't have time to get a spray-on tan. My whiteness will blind and scare people.
• The possibility of diarrhea. We have three kids, y'all. Three. That is a lot of diarrhea potential.
  
• What if I can't summon the worldwide internets at the resort? I'll feel so lonely! And I won't be able to update my other blog, which I have to do because I've turned it into my job.

Speaking of my job, I'm having a giveaway on The Shop Tart. Check it out. Maybe you'll win. Besides, the more creepy food pictures I get, the better. The contest is a tribute to one of my favorite cookbooks. The recipes are fairly useless, but the pictures are amazing.



The cookbook is very thorough. It provides recipes for both dinner and supper. Apparently, these are two different meals. I did not know this and can't decide if it interests me or not. The recipes may not be prepared for lunch. Duh.

Here's to my new friend Wellbutrin. Hope it can get me through Survivor: Dominican Republic with the In-Laws!

Namasté, y'all!

How to be less gross.

If you only know me from the witty and sparkling chatter found on my blog, you probably think I'm gorgeous in person. Well. That just depends on the day and whether or not I had time to put on lipstick, now doesn't it? Actually, I probably look the same to the world at large every day of my life, but (like almost everyone in the Western world) I notice myself a little more than other people do.

When I was eighteen or so, I had a friend, sort of like a boyfriend, but I don't think he was that into me, so maybe not. We were supposed to go to some party or another and I had a zit on my chin. I freaked, threw a full on hissy fit and refused to go to the party. Looking back on it, I'm not sure why. Could one zit really change someone's opinion of me? Did one zit indicate a great character flaw I needed to hide from the world? Um. I have no answer for that, m'kay? I was eighteen and ridiculously self-conscious and self-obsessed. My friend did me a big favor.

"You know," he said as I sniffled dramatically, "Nobody cares about your stupid zit."

What? This was a statement both depressing and liberating. Nobody cares. Nobody's watching. The world just isn't that into me. He chastised me for being willing to miss an entire party over something so inconsequential as a zit.

"Do you realize how small that thing is compared to your entire body?"

I did the math. He was right, the percentage was minuscule.

"NOT THAT I'M SAYING YOUR BODY IS BIG. YOU ARE VERY, VERY SKINNY."

Well, thin or slender are nicer words, but to quote Sarah Silverman, "I just want you to think I'm skinny." Although he was also eighteen, he was a wise man.

So, thanks to that guy, I haven't turn downed a party since. Thanks, that guy. Now I'm an alcoholic. But I digress.

This time of year, when the weather changes, my skin goes into panic mode. Yesterday, I had dry, peeling skin, all over my face. No amount of moisturizer made it disappear. Desperate for a fix, I went to the kitchen. In a bowl, I mixed the following:

• a spoonful of almond butter.
• a blob of mashed, overripe banana (froze the rest for banana bread later).
  
• a spoonful of sugar.
• a large squirt of honey.
• a dash of extra virgin olive oil.
• a dollop of buttermilk, which I'm still trying to get rid of. Suggestions?

It didn't look like much, but then I remembered this cool soap I had one time from Lush. It was supposed to be a massage bar and had all these aduki beans mashed into it. I did not have aduki beans, as that is not the sort of thing a housewife keeps in the pantry. I did have some (much smaller than aduki beans) raw quinoa, so I added that. Then I rubbed the whole mess on my face and left it there for a while. I licked some of it from my lips and it tasted pretty good, but I wouldn't drink it. I don't think the quinoa added to its effectiveness, but it felt good when I was massaging it into my skin. I looked funny with all those little quinoa balls on my face. It made me laugh, out loud, alone in the bathroom. That's the kind of crazy person I am. I rinsed it off after about ten minutes, patted dry and rubbed in some La Mer cream. The flakiness was almost gone. I applied the gooey homemade face wash one more time in the shower that evening and the flakiness was conquered. This is huge. Usually that flakiness lasts for days. I feel happy.

Namasté, y'all!