Le Duh

Okay, I just got it. For centuries women have slaved over hot stoves, slaved!, to cook meal after meal after meal for their families. And you know why? Well, because they had to. Plus, people need to eat and all. And this was their role.

This always seemed like a horrible sentence to me. History, as I imagined it, consisted of women wearing way too many layers of aprons and bonnet things spending all their days stirring big black pots over fires in some hot, dark dungeon room. Sounds like hell to me. Hell with bad, itchy outfits.

What if these women didn’t want to cook? Well, I’ll tell you what. It didn’t matter, because they had no choice.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’ve enjoyed cooking since my EASY-BAKE Oven days. I also enjoy listening to the Adult Alternative Music Choice channel on my cable TV. But seriously, how many times can you hear the same Bob Schneider song over and over? That’s basically how I feel about cooking. How many times can my brilliant husband actually enjoy my Cooking Light Enchiladas or my Martindale Chicken Salad? As it turns out, quite an unbelievable amount of times, actually. In fact, said husband is happy no matter who is cooking...him, me, Cafe Express, and the list goes on...as long as food (and I use this term loosely) is around eventually. But back to point. I think if I were forced to cook all day everyday, wearing multiple aprons, I’d hate it.

Or would I? This weekend, I might have caught a glimpse of some our foremothers’ psychology and insights. And here’s the recipe. When you’re cooking, you’re still contributing to the betterment of the village, doing ‘women’s work’ or whatever people used to label it back in the day. But oh my holy casserole, you can do it alone. Alone! Alone by yourself with your thoughts. Alone with your bad self chopping things, measuring things, adding things by yourself, for yourself, and for, oh, um, for the good of the dish. The very important dish that you are cooking.

Maybe this is just the introvert* in me screaming out for silent time in my own head. Because I adore my husband, and I’m obsessed with my son. But, that said, when I began cooking ridiculous amounts of food on Sunday for some friends in need... and my brilliant husband put two chairs in the kitchen doorway to block baby con queso from entering ‘mommy’s space’... I not only wanted to kiss him from here to Kansas, I wanted to cook.

So maybe it wasn’t all bad in that dungeon.

Plus, when I read things like Julie and Julia and Stuffed, it makes me want to hit the kitchen even more often.

Maybe I will.

And my dungeon will be granite-topped and very very French. In a good way.

*And yes, that’s right, contrary to some beliefs, I am an introvert. A classic introvert. Raised by extraverts. So I can fake it when I need to.

It's Exhausting.

I love this concept of being hospitalized for exhaustion. Because I like to know that when you’re just so tired that your brain is tired, your cells are tired, your hair is tired—so tired that, you’re exhausted even—you can check yourself in somewhere and rest.

Maybe like when you’re the mother or father of three-month-old twins. Or when you’ve just been to war. Or have worked 21 days straight at ground zero. Or are suffering from postpartum transition or depression. Or work three jobs to support a single-parent family. Or maybe even when you have three kids going in 47 different directions, all the while asking why they can’t do more, know more, go more.

Or. Really, and most likely, when you’ve worked your body to the limit every day of your life for only the crumbs of benefit.

But sadly, these are not the individuals who usually get to experience the perks of a hospital (or any kind of) rest.

So, don't you wish you were the boss of deciding who gets to be hospitalized for exhaustion?

So It Has Come To This?

Is this what they really mean when they say “America's Got Talent”?

Or this?

Or this?

I mean, I’m not one to judge. Really. But when I’m fencing in jello with stuffed animals, or playing the ukulele with my electric mixer, or doing the rumba with my naked blow-up doll, I only subject a select few to the torture. I don’t go on national television and swear my questionable behavior is talent.

But obviously a lot of people do.

Because this is what’s on TV.

No wonder I've taken up blogging.

That Sucks.

“Excuse me. Your son is scaring my child.”

“My son? This one? But he’s not that scary. And he’s a lot younger than your son.” (said partially confused; and frankly, partially impressed)

“Yes. But. He’s scaring my son with his pacifier.”

“Wha, huh?

“My son has never seen anything like that before. And he’s scared of your son’s big blue plastic mouth.”

“Oh. Right. Well, then I think my son’s big plastic mouth is probably the least of your son’s problems.”

(okay, so I didn't say that last sentence, but I thought it)

Pacifiers.

When did they become so freaking taboo? Like drugs, only worse. They're not even cool. Plus, there's no such thing as sex, pacifiers and rock n roll. Just sex leading to pacifiers, the end.

But very recently, at the Children's Museum, I learned that they are not distributed by responsible parents. They are not used by future Harvard graduates. They have never been seen by some 15 month olds. Plus, they are very extremely scary. And. They are the mark of the devil.

Apparently.

I didn’t get the memo.

Portion Control

J: I can almost personally blackout on Hipster Bingo. Except for the four-foot-tall girl. And the ironic mustache. I think I should probably grow a mustache.

T: I think you're too old to have irony on your face.

The Book Stands Alone.

Weekend Celebrity Sighting: Michael Gross, the brilliant author of 740 Park, made an appearance in our little queso room.

So read his book.

It's completely interesting. It's set in our favorite city. And it features a Lockhart Watermelon Thump Queen.* For these and many other reasons, a giant hola and mucho props go out to Michael Gross. As far as we're concerned, 740 Park is a must read, and he's a friend con queso. As soon as we have t-shirts made, I'm sure we'll send him one.

*Apparently, pre-Chisholm-Trail-Roundup, residents of Lockhart could become Luling crowned royalty.

Paige Turner Sighting At The Beach

One time I met someone named Paige Turner. Really. No one else I was with that day thought her name was nearly as funny as I did. Paige didn't even smirk.

On a related note, we're going to the beach this weekend. And people keep asking me for summer beach reading suggestions.

If my name were Paige Turner, this is what I'd recommend.

SPF 4
Light, fast-absorbing, quick coverage

• Tabloid Love by Bridget Harrison
• The Second Assistant by Clare Naylor and Mimi Hare
• Jemima J. by Jane Green
• Trading Up by Candace Bushnell
  

SPF 30
Easy to use and non-greasy

• Bel Canto by Ann Patchett
  
• The Time Travelers Wife by Audrey Niffenegger
• The History of Love by Nicole Krauss
• Atonement by Ian McEwan

SPF 50
Broad-spectrum protection, deflects, scatters and absorbs

• 740 Park: The Story of the World's Richest Apartment Building by Michael Gross
  
• Savage Beauty: The Life of Edna St. Vincent Millay by Nancy Milford
• Arthur and George by Julian Barnes
• Experience: A Memoir by Martin Amis
  

If you want more info on any of these, I recommend looking them up on Alibris. Because I'm way too lazy tonight to do links for each one. Sorry. I'm already checked out, deciding which sunscreen to use tomorrow.

It's Time To Play Hipster Bingo

You should know that (I’m fairly sure) I will spy all the characters to mark the card, blackout, and kick your arse, simply by walking from my desk and the nearest coffeepot. Because this summer my office has been invaded by approximately 17,000 interns who appear to have just stepped off the set of That 70’s Show.

*Also, this is not new and can be traced back to here. Although I received it in a spam email. Go figure. And that means, yes, sometimes I do feel compelled to read spam emails.

I Know, Let's Start a New International Super Craze!

Not all that long ago, people under the age of 50 were ridiculed for drinking coffee.

It’s true.

This kind of coffee hate may have been an oddity restricted to central Texas like this, or this, or this. But I think not. I think if we’re honest and can remember that far back…before the lower to middle 90s, when Seattle introduced the rest of us to a few treasures like this and this and this…coffee was strictly what old people drank when they were playing bridge or knitting doilies or something.

That said, it was always a pretty big deal in our house. The coffeepot was the first thing awake every morning, and it just kept going all day long. It was like air conditioning, only more important. We didn’t have any real inside pets, so the coffeemaker was a close-enough equivalent. We might have even buried one in the back yard when it stopped working. Maybe. Are you getting how serious coffee is to my people? I mean serious. Growing up in 786double6, we didn’t joke about running low on Folgers. And I mean Folgers. Because my people think, no they sway-er!, that it’s just as good, if not in fact “actually, a little better” than any coffee drink that ends with bucks. It is loved, it is plentiful, and it is served black in real estate company mugs all the day long.

And it never ends. This kind of veneration and propagation is passed on from generation to generation like a quilt. The last time my mother was here, I caught her trying to give her eight-month-old grandson a hit. (First one’s free.)

So obviously when I left our caffeine-enhanced abode and set off “on my own”, I drank coffee and lots of it because why sleep when you can do things? However, even though it wasn’t that long ago, (I swear I’m not that old, no really, I mean it, seriously) when I was in college, coffee was not all that cool. In fact, one particular night during my very extremely illustrious college years, there was this VERY cool person—let’s just call her by her Betsy-given name, Beyotch Beyotchison—who literally pointed and laughed when I ordered coffee at a bar. And okay, perhaps ordering coffee at a college bar has never been the coolest move…and of course they didn't have it...but it seemed like a good idea at the time, as it was really late and the night was still young. The thing was, B.B. then went on and on and on and on to not shut up about the stupid coffee. At a bar. Can you believe. How ridiculous. How strange. Oh the humanity. That was 1993.

This is now. And now you can't throw a glance without hitting a steamed, half-caf, low-fat, soy, double-foam, extra-hot delish. Talk about a religion. Coffee now has a bible. Lots of churches. And even its own festival.

And can’t we all agree that most of the frenzy, at least on a national level, can be attributed directly to Starbucks.

Love it or hate it, the Starbucks way has so dark-roast blended into our culture and venacular, that it has now served up its own inspired vocabulary. For example, my father is very extremely antiventi.

Antiventi
A person who rejects company size lingo and orders their beverage in small, medium and large.

Botulidm
Discomfort associated with a barista pressing a dirty thumb on the lid's sipping-hole while affixing it to your cup.

Chainchronicity
When you can stand in one Starbucks and see another, such as at Astor Place or on West Gray.

Coffotomy
Removal of unwanted beverage by pouring it into the trash, usually to make room for milk.

Coffusion
When two or more customers reach for the same beverage, unsure of its ownership.

Delait
When you are forced to wait for the milk thermos you need.

Denialinated
A high-calorie, high-fat beverage such as the Caramel Mocha ordered with skim milk to reduce guilt.

Hesitip
The act of waiting until the employee can see you place money in the jar, so you can get credit for it.

Textibitionist
A person seated so you can see the mediocre screenplay on his laptop.

By the way, all of these great new words were completely stolen from Brian Sack.

But when it comes to Starbucks, if there's one thing as consistent as the coffee, it's the coffee. You can order a grande, low-fat, extra-hot misto in San Jose or in Singapore. And it will taste the same. This is bad in theory. But very good in practice. Because when you are spending $3.30 for anything smaller than a car, you don't want it to be crap. Or at least to be a disapointment. And with the bucks, you know you'll pay them, but you know what you'll get.

So you can hate corporate America all you want for many and varied reasons. But I say that Starbucks--the first-runner-up for the company most responsible for recently changing our land and our lives in many good not bad ways--is pretty great. Therefore, I can not be a hater.

Plus it seems to be the only thing Mary Kate and Ashley will digest.

So.

What do you think the next craze should be?

I say crepes.

Because My Finder's Fee Is So Relatively Reasonable

Someone please buy this. And then let me in on the exact date of the Brangelina demise. I'd really like the win the office pool.

iTuesday

You knew it was coming. The random iTunes sorting smackdown.

And there's no cheating.

The songs will simply appear at the will of the Apple gods. I just set my iPod (that was very handed down from very brilliant husband when he got his very video iPod) to shuffle, and away we go...

First song:
"I Can't Stand It" ... Wilco, Summerteenth
A solid start. This song reminds me of the movie Election. Not sure why. Maybe the song is in it; maybe I heard it for the first time sometime around the time I saw that movie. I don't need to say much more about this song or this band because Wilco is revered by millions of very gushing, very vocal fans.

Second song:
"River" ... Travis, Turn (CD 1)
This is the Bside from the single "Turn". So great. Who knew Travis would be so motivated to cover Joni Mitchell.

Third song:
"Symptom of Disease (with Mr. Velcro Fastener)" ... Erlend Oye, Unrest
Great artist. Half of Kings of Convenience. Check him out. I found his music on brilliant husband's iPod and immediately asked said husband to do his magic to make it appear on mine. Because he's very smart like that and I'm very dumb like that.

Fourth song:
"You’ve Changed" Nat King Cole Trio, Complete Capitol Recordings Disk 11
Ah romance. One time when we lived on Shakespeare, I asked brilliant husband to download a few Nat King Cole songs for me, and he downloaded 18 discs chock full of them. He is very much an overachiever like that.

Fifth song:
"Sassafras" ... The Helio Sequence, Com Plex
I didn't know this song was on there. I know nothing about it, and I'm pretty sure I'd never heard it before, even though it's in my collection. I know. I know. But it was quite good.

Sixth song:
"Superstition" ... Stevie Wonder, The Definitive Collection
Probably the third best song ever recorded by Stevie Wonder. Writings on the wall.

Seventh song:
"Loveblind" ... Jamiroquai, Dynamite
Jamiroquai just makes me happy. Bottom line. Their songs all have very similar qualities, so no matter which one I hear, it links with a memory. A week in Denver when we had incredibly fab dinner parties and listened to Blair, Space Monkeys, Brand New Heavies and Jamiroquai constantly. And maybe someone dressed up all Goodwillafrocraptastic to go dancing. Maybe. I'll only say that Shasta throws one heck of a party. The end.

Eighth Song:
"Since U Been Gone" ... Kelly Clarkson, Breakway
Go ahead. Make fun of the first American Idol. But if you say you can listen to either this song, or "Hit Me Baby One More Time" by Mrs. Federline, (which also has been brilliantly covered by Travis) without either of them being trapped in your head for at least the next 48 hours, then you're either a robot or you're a liar.

Ninth Song:
"Sister Surround" ... The Soundtrack of Our Lives, In Good Company Soundtrack
I didn't know this song was in a movie. I didn't even know I owned the In Good Company Soundtrack. But I love this song.

Tenth Song:
"Learn to Fly" ... Foo Fighters, There Is Nothing
Ah, from the good men who fight the good fight to save us all from the foo. I love this song. This song makes me want to, um, fly. And I love me all things Dave Grohl. Amen.

Germs.

This cheek has been kissed one hundred and ninety two thousand, four hundred and thirty six million and eighty eight point seventy five trillion kabillion-gillion times.








At least.

Martini Please...

Martinis are tricky. Deceptively simple, it's quite tough to make a really good one; because it's all about perfect proportion. And I think we all know how hard that is to achieve.

But real martini drinkers take this very seriously. Very.

In a book appropriately called The Martini, author Barnaby Conrad III says:
"The Perfect Martini, as an idea, has infinite possibilities. For me, the Dry Martini remains as an American symbol of elusive perfection, a kind of pagan holy grail." He then goes on to compare it to a religion that "takes away the sins of the earth." Okay. Please. I even kind-of know what he's trying to say, but oh good Lord, that's so completely over the top. I mean, it's only a beverage. Although a fantastic one, if only because its glasses are cool.

However, sadly, to make a proper one, you have to like olives. And I hate olives.

Hate.

And you pretty much have to tolerate them to enjoy the classic martini. Also, there's some debate about if a martini can be made with anything other than gin and still be considered a martini. Probably not. But I'm an equal opportunity drink maker, and I recognize that vodka has feelings too.

It should be fairly obvious then, as I am a vodka lover and olive hater, that real martini drinkers like the good reverand Baranby Conrad III have no time for me.

But I've got time for martinis.

So in order to develop my own taste and prove that I am my mother's child, I like to concoct my own unique and special brands of unolived treats, as often as I possibly can. Usually it starts with raiding the refrigerator and/or liquor cabinet to see exactly what I can create with that which we have in stock. Sometimes this is a really difficult task. Sometimes the results are scary. Tonight's was not award winning, but not too bad.

Recipe for Yummy Summer Martini
1/4 cup of orange juice
3/4 cup of peach juice stolen from son's bottle*
1 whole fresh squeezed lemon
1 cup Absolut Citrus vodka
3 tablespoons of Contreau
3/4 cup of gingerale**

Mix together/stir in a pitcher.
Put this on the rim of your glass with lime juice. Add a lemon twist. Enjoy.
Makes 4-6 martinis, depending on your glass size.

*Stolen peach juice is made by boiling 4-5 largely sliced peaches in a medium-sized pot with distilled water. Extract the peaches to be pureed for son's breakfast treat. Keep the water, which is now juice, to put in son's bottle and/or your martini.
**If I ever make this again, I would not use as much gingerale, if I used any at all. It did give it a bit of a nice fizz though.

Recipe for Fab Friday Night at Home
Put 1 child to bed
Drink 3 Yummy Summer Martinis
Watch 1 surprisingly better-than-it-sounds "Social Class in America" documentary with brilliant husband

Let me know if you have a favorite olive-haters martini recipe. Because sharing is caring.

Ken Lay

I will usually write about very serious and important things on here. Seriously important things like why Parker Posey, Dave Grohl and the Hurricane completely and totally rock. I will most likely never write about politics, the economy or Kabbalah. I will definitely not write about math problems.

But, that said, in breaking predicted and promised tradition, I want to write about Ken Lay... which is weird and out of character because I don’t typically like to talk or type about things that are THAT brand of serious. And Ken Lay is really serious today, because he died this morning.

The news of his death, just made the whole Enron plot even more tangled, or final, or personal or something. But really the whole Enron complexity has been pretty personal here in Houston for a long time.

I know a lot of people who aren’t in Houston take it personally too, because I’ve listened to their accounts and opinions. Over the last five years I’ve heard people from all over the country speak about it as if they were discussing anything from Nazi Germany to the Good Ship Lollipop. We’ve heard it dramatized by made-for-TV movies and newscasters. We’ve heard it demonized by angry professors and politicians. I even heard a guy rap about it onstage in Def Poetry Jam. And really, everyone from motivational speakers to late-night comedians has gotten in on the act.

I can’t tell you how many times it’s been name dropped by hopeful interviewees, straight out of school, citing it as the reason they were joining the workforce, “…to bring integrity of communication and reporting back to the American workplace, integrity that was stolen, stolen!, by Enron.” Huh?

Okay, let’s just take a breather right here.

For starters, I’m pretty sure my integrity has not, nor has anyone else’s I’ve actually encountered, been stolen by Enron. I want to tell them this, but I hate to interrupt them in the midst of a memorized speech. Because it’s tough to memorize things, and they should get credit for trying. Even if they are spouting nonsense. However one time, I did interrupt. I stopped the guy mid-sentence and asked him if he even knew what he was talking about. Specifically. I asked him if he knew what Enron did. I mean, what it did pre-2001 besides cook some books. He didn’t know. He didn’t know at all. He thought it was "a telecommunications company." "Or something. Or whatever. The point is...” Well, the point is, it seems it was and is something different to everyone, whatever they do and wherever they live. But it seems especially so here in town.

I’m good friends with a lot of people who were personally involved and affected by Enron. People who knew a lot about it way before 2001. Two of my favorite friends were very close to it. One was instrumental in lending Enron a lot of money and was pulled into the whole courtroom ripple effect and undertow. Another lost her non-profit fundraising job because Enron was hands-down their largest donor. The whistleblower went to church with me. One friend’s mom worked there and lost her retirement savings because she invested it all in Enron. Another friend’s mom worked there and invested little to nothing in Enron. They both made way above what they would have made doing the exact same thing elsewhere. We thought one was so set and one was so crazy. Turned out we were thinking incorrectly. The crazy one is doing just fine.

In the late 1990s, tons of Enron employees, mainly hot shot guys with lots of promise and cash, lived at the Rice downtown when I did. Right down the hall. We all used to go to this great bar at the bottom of our little high-rise loft collection. It had a 1920s feel, and it was roaring. These guys worked hard and played harder. They gloated and spent to the envy and annoyance of most of the rest of us. They would talk about Enron and our eyes and brains would glaze over. Who cared? They did. Definitely. Now we’d say they were drinking the Kool-aid. At the time it seemed they were drinking the Cristal. And sometimes they’d buy a round of it for all of us. It was a crazy time, a wonderful time. Even now the fantastic bizarreness of it thrills and delights me. But then the consensus was, these Enronites, as we called them, were brilliant players, insanely hard workers, smarter than most and arrogant as hell.

But everything was different then. The vantage point was different. Seriously. Enron wasn’t a household word. A college essay example. A resume equivalence to concentration camp guard. It was just a big company. A big company that most people had never heard of. A company that did pipeline stuff. Or energy trading stuff. Or bad-ass IT stuff. Or all of the above. It was a place for MBA hot shots to make some serious cash, doing serious stuff. It was a place to make a really good living as a secretary or administrative assistant. It was a place to get the funding you needed for your cancer research or for a hospital wing for burned or abused children. It was a lot of things. It was a lot of things to a lot of people. And everyone who was touched by it personally has a valid point of view.

Including Ken Lay.

No matter how you see him, as villain or as victim, the man was a man. He had his brilliance and his demons. Like we all do. In this case, the deadly sin of greed became a literal one. And since death is the great equalizer, I think today, we should remember that he meant the whole world to a very few people who knew him best. His wife, his children, his grandchildren. Whatever his story, whatever truths or falsehoods there are in his story, it was his story. He lived it. And if he was anything like his protégées at the Rice, you’d probably really like him, and hate him, and be jealous of him, and be annoyed by him, and want to kick his ass, and want to drink with him, and probably actually laugh with him in spite of yourself and in spite of it all.

The Birth of the Queso.

Hi, My Name is Laura...And I like cheese. You should also known that I'm from Texas. And our people call it queso.

Behold the power of queso.

I discovered blogs in 2002 when I was up to my eyeballs in press releases and parties in the bubbly PR world (and oh my was the bubbly flowing). I could tell you stories, and I probably will. Eventually. But now I'm a VP at an advertising agency located only 10 blocks from my house. I love my job. I do. It rocks. And the best thing about it is that it's only 10 blocks from my house.

I share my house and my life with my favorite person ever (my husband...the HcQ) and the best thing we've ever been a part of (our son...the Hurricane).

There's other stuff too, but that's a good start. If you need more, you can also read more about me here and here.

But to sum up...

I dig: Jello, British music, sushi, design magazines, enchiladas, and Elvis.

And I'm not too excited about: snakes, pastels, whining, and commitment.

...And I'm Committing....I'm turning the corner, however in years past, I've not been all that keen on commitment. Mainly because keeping commitments meant that I had to uphold bad decisions I'd made. And, I wasn't known for fantastic decisions in my adolescence or 20s.

However, as the record shows, I've made some pretty great ones over the past few years. And in doing that, I’ve made two of the biggest commitments of my life... marrying the HcQ and having the Hurricane.

So now, I'm a WOTH mom, which is kind-of like a goth mom, but with less eyeliner and more suits.

We call our son the Hurricane because he was born smack dab in the middle of Hurricane Rita. While everyone evacuated. Including my doctor. And all the other doctors in the region. But it all worked out in the end because our Hurricane is the most hilarious, beautiful, kind little person I've ever been around; and I love rediscovering the world with him. He's a miracle. And he's a Hurricane.

And so speaking of the Hurricane (and back to the blogging), after he arrived, I started googling everything under the sun…questions like 'what does a one-month-old child like to do in his spare time?'; 'when the heck will he ever sleep through the night?'; 'what can I expect from a daycare?'; 'how do I find a good nanny?'; 'why does teething turn babies into the devil?' and so on. I would actually write questions like this into the search bar. And you know what links popped up? Blogs. Blogs of real women meandering through their new lives with their new children. I got into it. And I wanted to join in on the discussion. Plus, taking a cue from Virginia Woolf , I wanted a room of my own. So I got a room con queso, and I committed.

Now, I should probably be committed.

It’s all connected like that.

...So Welcome to the Queso.

It's where dreams come to drink.