January 24th Sucks

It’s here. January 24th—the most depressing day of the year. I didn’t make this up. It’s like an official conclusion drawn by “them.” Yep, “they” said it, not me. Why is it such a downer?

• Weather—not only is it cold but there’s no end in sight. Well, unless you live here in Texas and the end is too soon.
  
• Credit card bills—remember all the fun you had running from store to store at Christmas time, singing, “Haul out the holly?” Well, you better haul out some money cause it’s time to pay up.
  
• NYR: If you’re one of them, it’s about this time that you realize you can’t stick with anything. The plus side? I get my treadmill back.
  
  
  I read an article about it this morning. It said, “In a word, Jan. 24th sucks.” I think it’s unfair. Last year they declared 1/24 the most depressing day and part of the equation was that it was a Monday. I thought for sure the title would go to 1/23 this year. But no, they have to pick on the 24th.
  
  But never fear, they offer some solutions to your blues:
  
  
• Eat different kinds of food like black bean lasagna and mango salad.
  
• Keep bright colored objects around your house like yellow throw pillows.
  
• Take time to meditate each day.
  
• Go on a brisk walk.
  
  What? So “they’re” saying that eating is going to solve my problem? Isn’t that how we broke the NYR in the first place? And like any of us can go on a brisk walk when it’s freezing outside. Oh and sure, I’d love to invest in some new, bright-colored throw pillows if I had ANY MONEY left after those darn credit card bills.
  
  I guess all I can do is meditate. Hom…Hom…
  
  This sucks. Meditating is boring. “They’re” right. This day sucks. I just feel bad for Uncle Neil since it’s his birthday. Maybe I’ll make him a mango salad.

Hail to the Haiku

I love rules. I love, especially, to make up my own rules and then force myself to follow them. Yesterday we were watching an episode of Curb your Enthusiasm (which is on about as often “I love the 80’s” and “The Gauntlet”). Larry met a man who was an Orthodox Jew therefore everything had to be kosher. I was fascinated by it and I told Frank I would like to be kosher. “That’s just cause you like to have rules,” Frank said. Yep, I love me some rules.

That is why my favorite form of poetry is the Haiku. Sure, anybody can write “free form” verse and call it poetry. I call it rambling. With the Haiku you’ve got rules. And as Robert Frost said, “Poetry without rules is like a tennis match without a net.” Here are the main rules: five syllables in the first line, seven syllables in the second line and five syllables in the last line. And the biggest rule? And the one that everyone disregards? It HAS to be related to nature. Now that you know the primary rules you will see why this Haiku of mine won an award in the fifth grade:

While looking upward
I saw many cotton balls
Floating in the air

Now that I know more about Haikus, however, I can see that mine is wrought with flaws. First of all, a Haiku (or “ku” as those in the know call it) should be in the present tense. Also you should avoid the use of gerunds (-ing endings). Then it’s supposed to have double meanings, puns, extra layers, etc. I got none of that. But I guess no other fifth graders did either and thus I won the coveted prize--an afternoon at the writer's workshop, listening to some speaker.

Today, I’m a ku machine. I can write one as fast as those kids in the Gauntlet can start fighting. Look, I’ll do one now:

Sunlight streams inward
as I write my daily blog
Must finish by 9.

It’s got it all: the rules, a little bit of nature, present tense…no double meaning but at least I avoided the forbidden gerunds. Oh, and why do I need to finish by 9? Cause I got some bacon cooking! Yum.

Darnit. I just remembered I can't eat that. Not kosher.

The Smallest Loser

When you’re a kid in Houston, Texas there are two school events that garner a lot of attention: The Rodeo Art Contest and the Science Fair. The rodeo was important because, let’s face it, even though it’s a big city we’re all basically hicks. The science fair was important because NASA was just down the street.

How did I rank in both events? Big-time loser. I couldn’t draw and not only was I not good at science, I didn’t care about it. Still don’t. Like yesterday on Oprah she had the guy from How Stuff Works explain how email works, how the TV works and how the phone works. I didn’t care. I don’t wanna know how stuff works. I just want it to work.

So every year for Rodeo Art I drew the same thing: a headshot of a cow. Not his body, just his face with some antlers. So I guess it was more of a longhorn. I did change up the background though. Some years it was blue, one year it was striped yellow and orange. I think before I got into the cow’s head I did the typical ranch scene in which the sky stops about an inch down from the top of the page. All the Rodeo Art winners knew to color their sky down to the grass. That seemed weird. I’m looking outside right now and the sky isn’t touching the grass. Damn hicks.

For the science fair I was at a real disadvantage. Unlike 80% of the kids in my school, my parents didn’t work at NASA. Therefore they couldn’t do my science project for me. I wasn’t going to be the kid with the volcano. Now all you have to do to have a decent science project is think of a question like “Do bananas rot faster in the bag or out of the bag?” and then state your hypothesis: “I believe bananas rot faster in the bag.”

This was too complicated for me.

Instead for my science project in first grade I decided to go around my yard and collect leaves. I then took four of them, taped them on the standard white poster board (which had to be glued to the standard-issue science fair folding peg board) and named them. I guess maybe my non-NASA-engineer parents were at least able to tell me the types of trees the leaves came from. Then I wrote at the top of the poster board in my very best handwriting…

DIFFERENT LEAVES

That’s it. I didn’t explain the leaves. I didn’t ask a question and I sure as hell didn’t have a hypothesis. I lost. I lost every year. I did go to the city-wide science fair once when my friend Emily Le (who eventually went to M.I.T.) won top honors for her project called “Emulsion Stability.” I clapped for my friend (whose dad DID work for NASA and even had that bumper sticker everyone in that area has that says “Space IS our future”) but I didn’t know what “Emulsion Stability” meant. I still don’t.

And that’s why my poor kids will carry on the tradition of never winning a science fair. And never winning the rodeo art contest. Well maybe they’ll be super-athletic. Yeah, right. And the sky touches the grass.

Hey, little girl, congratulations on winning the science fair! Why isn't your dad here to help you celebrate?

"Daddy's vewry tiwerd from staying up all night to make my vol...vol...carnio? What's this thing called again? Oh, who cares? I won! Can't wait for Rodeo Art!"

Early Adopters/Late Adapters

When I was six or seven, we were the first people on our block to get cable. But then my parents kept the cable box (the brown/faux wood kind with the white cursor) until I was 21.

And sure, we had a VHS (skipped right over the Beta phase) but now they refuse to replace it with a DVD player.

The folks were also quick to get call waiting, caller ID and Call Notes. Yet they haven’t changed the incoming greeting (with my voice on it) since about 1994.

When it came to computer technology, my parents were some of the first people I knew who had email. Proof? Their AOL address has the year ’95 in it. In fact, I was reluctant to get it but my dad kept bugging me. I thought “What do I need this for?”

But now I think they could use a little email crash course, you know, to bring them up to date on how the system has changed in ten years. I spoke with the book club girls about this the other night and they too had parental email anecdotes to share:

First, I’m not sure my mom knows how to reply to an email. Yes, if I send her one she does send a response but she always starts a whole new email and my message is nowhere to be found.

I also don’t think she likes to use the subject line because there never is a topic. I’m totally unprepared when I open her emails!

While ReadBecca’s mom DOES know about the subject line, she’s not sure how to use it. She always writes “Houston” (since that’s where she lives). ReadBecca is fully aware that her mother lives in Houston so this hasn’t proved helpful.

Also, ReadBecca’s mom always, always inserts the red flag on emails. Naturally, this just makes the reader numb to its urgentness. Although an uninformed reader might take that as “Houston, we have a problem.”

My friend Lindsay’s dad dates and time stamps the top of every email, as if it’s a formal letter: “January 19, 4:22 p.m., Dear Lindsay…” Will somebody tell him that the sophisticated email system actually does this for you?

And I wanna know, who taught my mom about attachments? She uses them all the time now. But she just puts little things in there. Like the other day she sent me an email that said, “I thought you might like this website” and instead of just pasting the link into the email, she attached a Word document with the link! What?


Don’t get me wrong, we’re proud of our Baby Boomer parents for experimenting with technology. We just think it might be time for a little intervention. If you wanna register your parents for it, just send me an email. But spots will go fast. Better red flag it.

Special Travel Edition: Pittsburgh

Frank used to work for American Airlines so we’ve traveled to a lot of places: Aruba, Barbados, Italy, St. Thomas, Cabo, England, San Francisco, New York, Puerto Rico…But today I want to tell you about one of our favorite places—Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

Frank’s dad is from Pittsburgh and still has a lot of family there (including Nana).

Every time we mention Pittsburgh to someone the reaction is always the same: “Ew, why would you want to go there? It’s all steel mills and smog.” I inevitably roll my eyes because this, of course, means that they have never even been to Pittsburgh. Although I have to admit, I had the same reaction before our first trip there.

So I thought I’d educate my thousands (well, maybe hundreds or dozens) of blog readers all at once: Pittsburgh hasn’t had steel mills since the mid-80’s. There’s no more pollution than Dallas. And beyond its’ smog-free environment it’s also a beautiful city—complete with hills, greenery and a river that runs right through downtown. It’s actually a lot like Austin without the heat.

In fact we liked it so much we almost moved there three years ago. Frank was accepted into business school at Carnegie Mellon so we went up there for their “welcome weekend.” They totally sold us on the city: gave us a historical tour on a train, took us to a reception at the Natural Science Museum and even threw in some potential friends for us to hang out with. We were totally pro-Pittsburgh but not pro-expensive-private-school.

But besides all the physical attributes Pittsburgh has to offer there’s other fun facts: Their sports fans are notoriously loyal, it’s the home to Heinz ketchup and the people talk with these cute accents. I would do it for you but it’s hard to convey sound on a blog. Plus, Frank’s Nana is there and if we lived there we could eat her food every day!

So next three-day-weekend (maybe for Baby Jessica Day). I recommend that you forget Miami, forget NYC and don’t even think about L.A. Pittsburgh, baby. Tell Nana we sent you.

Yay! We Love you, Pittsburgh!

I'm rich!

I got an email this morning that said I won the lottery:

We are pleased to inform you of the result of the Lottery Winners
International programs held on the 02/12/2005. Your e-mail address attached to ticket number:310878GH655BE which consequently won in the 1st category,you have therefore been approved for a lump sum pay out of US$2,000,000.00 (Two Million United States dollars).

They want me to contact them with all my information: Name, Address, Phone, even fax! I always dreamed of winning a lottery over email. Especially a lottery I didn’t even enter. Oh, and a lottery in which the notification comes from a very shady email address and the message is sprinkled with typos:

Remember, all winning must be claimed not later than 21 days...

This is better than all those free Gap clothes I got for forwarding a very official-looking text email to my friends! It's even better than all the free dinners I received from Chili’s for doing the same thing. For about six months there I would just get up, put on my khaki pants and white t-shirt (thanks, Gap) and head off to Chili’s for a free Turkey Combo.

And just like this lottery, I didn’t have to do anything! People just seem to want to give me things for free.

Oh, I just read this part:


CONGRATULATIONS!!! Due to mix up of some numbers and names, we ask that you keep your winning information confidential until your claims has been processed and your money Remitted to you.

Oops. So do me a favor and don’t tell anyone about this. I don’t wanna get pestered with all the sick kid stories and endangered animal causes just yet. I just want to sit back and think about how I want to spend my $2 mil. Hey, don’t worry. I won’t let the money change me. I’ll still write this blog. I’ll still be Writinggal. And Cookinggal.

But I’m totally upgrading my wardrobe to Banana Republic.

MLK Would be So Proud

When people get the day off from work, sleep in, sit around in their underwear and watch talks shows, well, that is just a beautiful tribute to the person we’re honoring, isn’t it? Sure, Dr. King would get a kick out of the parades and the newsmagazine tributes but beyond that I think he would say:

“What’s the deal, people? I worked hard and fought for civil rights! That doesn’t mean you should just sit around and be lazy! If anything, you should have to go to work on my day. I’m part of the reason for Equal Opportunity Employment!”

So in honor of Dr. King, I am writing my blog today. Yes, it’s a little late but I figured most of you weren’t up yet anyway.

Don’t get me wrong, I love me a good holiday. But it’s not like I’m going to strive to get one named after me. It’s tough competition. I mean we can only have so many holidays. And most are already taken—President’s Day, Veteran’s Day, Memorial Day, Columbus Day, Labor Day…what’s a gal gotta do to get one of these things?

I think maybe we should recycle some of them. Take Columbus Day for example. Sure, we’re glad he found America and all but it was over 500 years ago. Would anybody really get their feelings hurt if we swapped him out for, I don’t know, Oprah?

And Labor Day…why waste a day on such a general topic when we have people who are working hard to get days named after them? How ‘bout Baby Jessica Day instead? We’d all still get the first Monday in September off from work AND we’d learn about well safety! Then people would say, “I gotta go back to school after Baby Jessica Day” or “Oh, it’s Baby Jessica Day. That means summer’s over!” or “Wanna come over and cook out for Baby Jessica Day? Just don’t stand near the well!”

So even if you’re not working today, maybe you could still do something nice in honor of Dr. King. It can be a little gesture like taking your cart all the way back inside the store, throwing away your trash and someone else’s at the movie theater or calling your grandmother and saying, “What’s up?” Come on, if you do this you don’t have to do anything nice again until Oprah Day.

Girl Scout Cookie Monster

The other day I said there was no good reason to answer your door. I take that back. I can think of one: if there’s a young girl dressed in a green outfit adorned with badges, holding a sign-up sheet. She’s got the stuff! The tagalongs, the do-si-dos, the samoas and (let’s all bow our heads for a moment) the thin mints.

But now everything’s changed—even the names. I refuse to call do-si-dos “peanut butter sandwiches.” And the price—$4 a box! And their method of selling? Instead of going door-to-door (like I had to do) they just give the list to their parents and they sell it at work.

Now there’s one change that I like. When your co-worker approaches you about making a deal, you don’t just sign up and wait six weeks. You get the stuff RIGHT THEN AND THERE! The poor Girl Scouts now have to project how much they’re gonna sell. I like it now but if I have a Girl Scout of my own one day I’ll be stuck with a bunch of cookies. Hmmm…stuck with a bunch of cookies.

I told Frank to keep his ears open at work. I said, “Be proactive. If you’re in someone’s office and they have a picture of their daughter and she looks like she’s between the ages of 7-12, ask if she’s got the stuff!”

Frank and I strongly believe that this is the single best fundraiser of any organization. We don’t want wrapping paper, raffle tickets or giant tubs of popcorn. We want the stuff. The stuff you can only get once a year. It’s genius!

Last year Frank was at the grocery store and some Girl Scouts were selling the stuff outside. He went up to them and bought a couple of boxes (we had already run out of the stuff at home) and they said, “Thanks for supporting the Girl Scouts!” He replied, “Well, you’ve got a great product.” They were a little confused. But the point is that it’s so awesome that we don’t even think about the fact that we’re supporting an organization—we just want the stuff!

You know, I was pretty good at selling the stuff back in the day. And my parents refused to take it to work (“If I take this then I gotta buy all the soccer stuff, the band stuff and the church stuff.”) But I still sold tons just going door to door. If people said, "Oh, I can't. I'm watching my weight," I would come back with, "Then you should try our low-calorie trefoils!" The year that I sold the most was the year that the cookie mother of our troop had all of the money “stolen” from her car. Lesson here: don’t let a woman who carries a key chain that says “classy bitch” be the cookie mom.

Frank, if you find someone today, tell them I want two boxes of tagalongs, two do-si-dos, one samoas and four thin mints (we can freeze them)! And make it clear to whoever you buy it from that they can be our exclusive dealer from now on, as long as they don’t make us buy any giant tubs of popcorn.

Welcome to Life after Late Fees

Well, Blockbuster, I gotta tell you, life ain’t so great. Now when I go to one of your stores to rent a mega-hit like The 40-Year-old Virgin, you’re out. I had to call around to all the Blockbusters within a ten-mile radius and when I finally found one that had just one single copy left, I sent Frank racing out the door.

That’s what life after late fees is like.

And it’s not just the big movies. You were even out of Deuce Bigalow II. What kind of life is it when I’m wandering around Blockbuster, wishing you had copies of a flop about an unattractive, semi-amusing male gigolo?

Where have all the movies gone? They’re sitting in people’s homes. They never bring them back! And why should they? Sure, you have all these stages of punishment and eventually make them buy the movie but you give them an eight-day window.

So this isn’t “Life after Late Fees,” it’s “Life after Longer Rental Times.”

Take me, for instance. I’m a very by-the-book, rules-following type of girl. Last Friday I rented season three of Curb your Enthusiasm (we’re very behind) and Must Love Dogs (against Frank’s wishes). Curb wasn’t due back for a week but MLD was due back in two days. Now do I really want to make TWO trips to the video store when there will be no consequences if I just return them at the same time?

So on Tuesday (two days after MLD’s original due date), I dropped them in the little “Back on Time? You are so Kind” box. Well, I was semi-kind.

Yesterday you guys called me. It was an automated lady: “Hello, this is Blockbuster. Our records indicate that you have a video or videos in your possession that are past due as of January 10th.” Blah, blah, blah. Then she made some threats about making me buy the whole thing after seven days. I mean, MLD was “cute” but I don’t wanna own it! Frank would be humiliated. I tried to ask her if you guys had any copies of Deuce Bigalow II but she didn’t understand.

So Blockbuster, if somebody like me isn’t even turning in movies on time, your system isn’t working. I mean, now when they tell me when the movie is due I’m like, “Yeah, whatever. What are you gonna do? Charge me a LATE fee? Ha ha ha” (that was my evil laugh).

Yes, Blockbuster, we’re abusing you but you gotta admit, you didn’t really think this all the way through, did ya? And I don’t think I can live like this anymore. The other day I couldn’t even get the first Deuce Bigalow! And I was upset about it! Now that’s a sad life.

Brain Berries

You may sometimes ask yourself, “How did Writinggal get to be so smart?” I’ll tell you, I wasn’t always so wise. Back in August I learned a great tip from my dear friend, Oprah: Eat Blueberries.

Well, it wasn’t Oprah who said it actually. I think it was Dr. Perricone. You know, the guy who makes the promises? He was on her show and he pointed out all these foods we should eat (like salmon which Oprah and I like to call “Sammy”).

He also said that blueberries are great for your brain. So I decided to incorporate the little smurfy fruits into my daily routine. And what better time to eat them than when I’m hanging out with Oprah?

So now every day I have my Oprah snack. This includes a cup of blueberries and two graham crackers. They’re so freakin’ good on graham crackers.

I buy them at Costco. Natch, it’s a big ‘ol bag but I eat them every day so it’s totally necessary (like Frank’s poop tarts). And get this—they’re organic! I am so Leo DiCaprio right now.

Yesterday while I was having my Oprah snack I watched about ten minutes of an Oprah rerun. (By the way, I hate watching Oprah reruns—even if I’ve never seen them before. Another blog).But I watched this one from 2004 because they were featuring another doctor doing pretty much the same show and again singing the praises of blueberries! And there I was eating my blueberries with my graham crackers! I said to the TV, “I know! I’m eating blueberries! See?”

Anyway, since eating these blueberries has made me such a brain I wanted to share their magical powers with you.

And get this; they do more than just make you smarter. They also…

Lower your cholesterol
Protect against cancer
Protect against stroke
Lower your risk for heart disease
Protect against Urinary Tract Infections (yuck)

Plus, they’re low in calories and high in fiber. And you know I love me some fiber!

I know all the kids are digging on the Crystal Meth these days but I’m telling you, blueberries are so much better! And they won’t give you that nasty skin fungus or a stint in rehab.

So pick up a bag. And pick up your brain. Oh my gosh, that should so be their new slogan!

(Blueberry farmers: Don’t steal that. You will need to go through my legal team first.)

This is the Dawning of the Age of a Stupid Idea

If you were to say to me, “Oh, that guy is a jerk—probably because he’s a Sagittarius,” I would roll my eyes. Or if you said, “I prefer scrambled to over-easy. You know, since I’m a Gemini,” I would groan.

Get the idea? I hate Astrology. And not because I’m an Aquarius. And not because I’m so deeply religious that I think it competes with God. I hate it because it’s too simple. Too general.

I think the original idea was okay:

“Let’s classify people into twelve groups.”
“Good idea. But what will we base it on?”
“Um, their hair color?”
“No, there aren’t really twelve hair colors.”
“How about the letter their name starts with? You know, like if yours is L then you’re a lover and if yours is D than you’re a…then you’re a…donkey!! Hee Hee!” (it was a long time ago).
“Well that could work except there are 26 letters (and that’s just in our language) and I think we all agreed on twelve.”
“Then how about the month they were born? Except to jazz it up we’ll start counting at the almost-end of every month and go to the almost-end of the next month.”
“Genius!”
“I love it!”
“Okay, let’s give them funny names now.”

See, if I were making it up I would make it way more complicated like those email forwards that have you calculate your birthday times your age plus the last two digits in your social and then add the street name where you grew up. That would make my sign 56080 Hibiscus. So if someone else were 56080 Hibiscus then I could be convinced that we might have some similar qualities.

But does it really make sense that just because you have a birthday near someone else’s that your personalities are identical? Or even similar? That would mean I have the same personality as my sister, Thea, Jessi, Readbecca and Neil Diamond. I mean, what if there was a serial killer born under our sign? Do we have to claim him too?

It’s such a lame system that I REFUSE to read horoscopes.

I’ll just make up my own:
56080 Hibiscus: You will come into a lot of money today. You will not have to work hard for it. Many people will complement you on your shiny hair and ask where you get it done. When you say, “Style America for $14.95” they’ll be shocked! Oh, and you can eat all the dulce de leche Hershey chocolate kisses that you want and not gain any weight. In fact, you’ll lose weight and gain muscle. Yes, 56 H Baby, you’re gonna have a good Tuesday. And only five other people in the world will have the exact same day as you. Of course, two of them grew up down the street from you so that’s a little weird.

I’ll let you know if my horoscope comes true. Frank doesn’t believe that it will. But he’s a 56391 Governor’s Place. Those guys are always doubters.

Writinggal's Phobias

If I’m alone in my house and I sneeze, my biggest fear is that a voice will come out of nowhere and say “Bless you.” Kinda gives me chills just thinking about it.

And that made me consider other phobias of mine:

I hate going to the mailbox every day for fear I’ll have to make small talk with one of my neighbors.

Not a big fan of elevators (especially crowded ones) but I’m getting better at that.

I hate running into people I know at Target (again with the small talk).

Eating and watching gross things on TV

A dog wandering around by himself—no leash, no owner. When I’m out running and hear the clang clang of its collar I start shaking.

When someone knocks on the door. They may want to sell me something. May want to kill me. May want to make small talk. No matter what, it’s scary.

Okay so that pretty much covers it. Besides the obvious things like flying, things touching my neck and using our grill. Oh, and getting off the lifts while skiing.

Man, if I put all these things in a script I’d have one scary movie:

A young woman goes to her mailbox and runs into a neighbor. She makes awkward small talk for a few minutes and when she finally turns to go inside a random dog approaches her, barking. She makes it safely inside her house when there’s a knock at the door. Ah, more small talk! Or is it the leashless dog? She wants to just sit down and eat her lunch but Jerry Springer is on every channel! She cuts off the TV, sits down to eat her peppery lunch and naturally lets out a big sneeze. A voice comes from out of nowhere: “Bless You.”

I totally have chills.

Watch out Stephen King.

Why Nelson Rocks

I liked Ozzie and Harriet, David and of course Ricky. So why not like Gunnar and Matthew too? The twins formed their band Nelson in the early 90’s and immediately had some rockin’ hits.

I just heard one on the radio the other day and I totally turned it up while I was cruising down the tollway. It almost made me not mind the $.75 charge.

It was a Nelson classic…

I can’t live without your love and affection. I can’t spend another night on my own…

It freakin’ rocks.

And how ‘bout After the rain washes away the tears and all the pain…

Okay, I’ll admit it. Those are the only two songs I know by Nelson. But because they have two rockin’ songs rather just one (like our friend Rick Springfield) they fall into the category of “rock” rather than “kinda rock.”

So what are the towheaded twins doing now? Same ‘ol thing. Still making music. “They’re very popular overseas” their bio brags. Hey, Nelson, I hate to break it to you. But anyone can be popular overseas. Apparently they’re not a very selective audience. Hell I think I’m popular overseas.

Speaking of their bio, these are some of my favorite lines:


Magically melodic songwriting and soaring sibling harmonies ensure that this pair will be a vital part of the music scene’s future.

Critics tended to unfairly overlook Nelson, however, because of the brothers’ pin-up good looks.

I love it because I know they wrote this themselves. Well, they gave some writer a few bullet points and he/she added in the awesome alliteration like “magically melodic” and “soaring sibling.” And my condolences about the consequences of your pin-up good looks. I can relate.

But I think their grandparents Ozzie and Harriet and their dad Ricky would be proud of the twins’ mediocre success. Well, they would at least be glad that they cut their hair. Nelson, just continue to do what you do best—rock. And I guess that would mean just stickin’ to those two rockin’ tunes you got. Hey, maybe I’ll catch you on your tour overseas. I’ll be there anyway greeting all my fans.

I Think I'm Supposed to Talk Football

Writinggal doesn’t usually do commentary on sports. But that’s not to say I’m not a sports fan. I just only like games when something’s on the line. So last night when Texas played USC for the national championship, well, I think that counts.

We watched the game at a friend’s house and at the beginning of the night we were discussing how expensive the tickets were to watch it in person. They were about a grand which I will easily be able to afford next year after I win HGTV’s Dream Home sweepstakes.


But anyway at the beginning we were saying that was crazy. We would never pay that. But then at the end when things went our way Frank said, “It would have been worth it!”

I disagree. Yes, it would have been exciting. But look what I had: a couch, at least a foot between another person and myself, all the food I could eat (which was a lot) and all the beer and wine I wanted. You can’t have any of that at football games. You could try sneaking in alcohol in binocular-shaped flasks but I wouldn’t recommend it. Frank and I got caught once.

But my fave part about watching a football game at home is that yellow line. Before the yellow line I had to watch the crowd to know when to cheer. Sure, the guy ran with the ball but did he run far enough? How was I to know? I hope whoever invented the yellow line is a billionaire by now. It’s a fantastic invention. Right up there with Tifaux and the Internet and adhesive postage stamps.

The yellow line has changed the way I feel about football. I used to think it was just a bunch of guys running into each other and then pausing to take extremely long breaks. Well, I still think that. I mean, can’t they keep it moving? How ‘bout a little cardio, boys?

But ever since I started watching the yellow line I know there’s a purpose. They must pass that yellow line. And pass it again. And pass it again. And eventually get to the end zone (which I always understood).

Now if they could just incorporate that yellow line into the live football games, I might be willing to pay the hefty price. But only if they’ll let me take my flask-binoculars in too.

You're All Invited to my Mountain Home!

I am obsessed with the HGTV dream home. Every year they build this vacation home and for a few months you can enter EVERY DAY online for a chance to win. What do you win? The house, all the furniture inside, a truck and $250K!

I’ve saved the link to my favorites so I’ll remember to enter every day. I honestly hesitated about telling you blog readers about it because I’m afraid you’ll hurt my chances. But then I thought of something:

-Most of you probably have better things to do than enter a dream home sweepstakes every day.

But then I thought:

-Wait. These are people who read MY blog every day AND leave comments. They have NOTHING better to do!

But then I thought:

-If someone I know wins, they’ll let me come hang out at the dream home.

So let me tell you about it: It’s in Asheville, NC. What am I gonna do with a home in Asheville, NC, you ask? (assuming you don’t live in Asheville or the surrounding areas). Well you could sell it for one thing (which is what Frank plans to do if we win although I disagree). Or you could fly out there a couple of times a year and live in luxury. You can afford it because you’re gonna get the cash and the truck. I estimate that after taxes, paying the TTL on the truck and then selling the truck you’ll end up with about $175,000. That’s like 500 round-trip tickets to Asheville! You can bring the whole family.

Let’s talk about the house. First, take a tour of it. (Hey, don’t tell me you have anything better to do!)

Did you love it? My favorite part is the outdoor living room. How much fun are we going to have at my mountain home? You can even bring your dog and he/she can stay in the doggy dream home! I think it’s nicer than my own home.

When you come to my mountain home we’re going to have barbecues on the terrace, watch movies in the family room, drink wine in the wine cellar and do projects in the project room! Okay, I don’t really know what that room is for but hopefully one of you will have some ideas.

So go enter now. And if you win, be sure to put me down on your house warming party guest list. And while you're at it could you make a note that I'll be needing one of those 500 plane tickets you're gonna buy?

Get off my Treadmill

Now’s the time of year where I stand behind the stranger on my treadmill at the gym (I always have one in particular that I’m loyal to) and say under my breath, “Why don’t you just get off my treadmill now? You know you’re gonna be gone by February 1st anyway.”

Oooh, those New Year’s Resolutioners (NYRs), they make me so mad. How cliché to start a diet on January 1st. And how financially irresponsible to join a gym during the most expensive time of the year. I have an idea; pick another day. Or better yet, pick another resolution.

Some Possible Topics to Tackle:

I will always pick up my trash at the movie theater. I will not be the jerk who says, “But if I throw my popcorn bag away, the movie theater workers will be out of a job.”

Each week I will call a friend I’ve lost touch with and catch up. Or at least email.

I will not go in the express lane at the grocery store if I have more than 15 items.

I will return my grocery cart to the cart corral or even back to the store. (This can coincide with the idea above in a whole “grocery store behavior” themed resolution.)

If I do decide to go on a diet, I will donate all my forbidden food to the homeless.

When I see a tragic story on the news, I will do more than just say, “Aw, too bad.” I’ll help out. Or I’ll at least eat a pickle.

I will always put the trash bag back in the can.

One year I made a NYR to stop sucking my thumb. I know, if you’re old enough to make the NYR, you’re way too old to be sucking your thumb. I was eight.

So if you must make a NYR, just do me a favor and pick something you can stick with. Don’t wimp out after a month. Or even two months. And most importantly, don’t use the treadmill that’s next to the fan. That’s mine.

Have you Met Safety Dave?

This is Safety Dave. He can be hired for 21st birthday parties, First Communions or Bar Mitzvahs. Here he is entertaining and educating people at a New Year’s celebration. He’s really versatile.

What does he do? He spreads the message of safe drinking. No, Safety Dave isn’t a party pooper. He believes you can drink as much as you want as long as you take necessary precautions.

For instance, at this particular New Year’s party Safety Dave indulged in about a dozen beers, demonstrated proper keg stand formation and downed a few shots. Later he even put his mouth directly on the chocolate fondue fountain. This man’s a party animal! But he does it all with his trusty ski helmet.

You see several years ago, when he was just Drunk Dave, he was doing the Macarena while drinking a beer (I said it was several years ago) and when he got to the part where you wiggle your hips and say, “Hey, Macarena” he became disoriented and tumbled over into a crowd of jean-short-wearing guys and gals (several, several years ago).

When he finally awoke from his coma his first fear was that he would never be able to party again. When the doctor said he simply suffered massive brain cell loss (both from the fall and the excessive drinking), he was so relieved. He asked, “But can I still go to a kegger this weekend? I promise I’ll be careful!”

When Drunk Dave returned home he knew what he had to do. He decided he couldn’t afford to lose anymore brain cells. (I mean, how would he be able to do a keg stand or shot gun a beer if he was any dumber?) So in order to protect his head, he decided he would never drink without wearing his ski helmet.

And that’s how Drunk Dave became Safety Dave.

Now he’s the hit at parties. As long as he has his helmet on he can dance, wrestle and even do gymnastics. What’s the cost? All the free drinks Safety Dave wants. If you have Safety Dave at your next event, you’ll see that he really livens things up. Here's what people are saying:

"2006 is gonna reakin' frock because of Dafety Save!!"

"Ever since I hired Safety Dave, girls like me!!"

"Safety Dave, I'm never having a party without you, man! I love that cute lil' helmet of yours!"

Please let me know if you would like to hire him and as his agent, I will set it up. For an additional charge he will bring Safety Dave helmets in a variety of colors for all your party guests. We cannot be responsible if Safety Dave licks your chocolate fondue fountain, hits on your female party guests or if he spontaneously starts the Macarena.

More Lessons from My Dad

"New Year's Eve is for amateurs."

- Elsa's Dad

I said I'm Cookinggal, not Bakinggal

I think I've mastered this cooking thing. I just follow recipes. But now I'm so darn good that sometimes I substitute things. And when I get really crazy, I just add in things. Like last night I made King Ranch Chicken (thanks, Jenny Johansson) and I just threw in some jalapeños. Actually, it's usually jalapeños since we got that giant tub of them at Costco.


But apparently when you're baking, you can't do that. For instance, I attempted to make Mandy's rolo cookies the other day even though I lacked most of the ingredients (and a few baking brain cells).

Recipe called for "unsweetened cocoa." I thought Swiss Miss sugar free hot chocolate would work fine.

Recipe called for one cup sugar. I ran out of sugar after half a cup. Why not use 30 Splenda packets for the other half a cup? As I told Frank, "It says 'it's made from sugar so it tastes like sugar.' It's the same thing!" Nope.

Recipe called for butter. I used margarine.

Oh, and I just used the odor-absorbing Arm and Hammer box (which has been with us through two fridges) for baking soda.

After I slaved over these damn things for hours, Frank and I had the following conversation:

Elsa: "How do they taste?"
Frank: "Well, I guess I don't know how they're supposed to taste..."
Elsa: "What kind of answer is that? If they tasted good, you'd just say that they tasted good."
Frank: "They're not good."
Elsa: "Well, maybe you don't like rolos. Is it the rolo that makes it taste weird?"
Frank: "No, the rolo is the only part that tastes good. It's the part around the rolo that tastes bad." (i.e. the part that I made).

So it's not that big a deal that I screwed up Mandy's rolo cookies. It is a big deal that I chose to tackle my first baking recipe for Frank's work superiors and co-workers. I even bought these cute little Christmas bags to put them in. Frank didn't want to take them to work but he reluctantly agreed when he saw the bags. And the bows.

I think for me I need two chances with baking. Remember my double layer pumpkin pie I made for Thanksgiving?

Yes there are two layers but they're sort of layered together in one pumpkin pudding mess. Still tasted good.

But for Christmas I wanted to get that line between the layers. So I took the advice of Jessi (a friend and loyal blog reader) and put the pies in the freezer overnight. There was a bit of panic when they were still frozen a half hour before we were to have dessert. But after a quick visit to the oven, they looked like this:

Look at that line!! It's magnificent!

So I think I'll leave the baking to experts like Mandy. But I WILL attempt to make those rolo cookies again. This time I'll follow the recipe exactly. I won't even add in jalapeños.

And the Winner Is...

First, I have some good news and some bad news:

Bad News:
I did not get 100 emails.

Good News:
I did not get 100 emails.

Why did I think I wanted to receive and sort through 100 emails? Frank said I should have made it 20. Hello? It wasn’t the TWENTIETH blog now was it? That’s something you should have mentioned back in September!

So I took all the emails I did receive (still a pretty good amount) and put your names and favorite blogs into an Excel spreadsheet. So if you voted three times you were in there three times.

I drew the names out of a hat that Frank got for free at the White Rock marathon. Hee hee. I always almost write “marathong” when I write that word. It’s so weird. It’s not like I write the word “thong” that much. Or ever.

Anyway, the winner is…drum roll…Alicia Clayton of Fort Worth, Texas!!!

The funny thing is she WAS the last person to email me and she thought she was too late! But she did make it into the drawing with only one vote.

Her choice? Food for Gross Thought

Here is what she says: “It just reminded me of the good old days when we watched Lifetime movies on our lunch breaks and you freaked b/c we passed by Jenny Jones!” That is true. Also, Alicia makes a damn good peanut butter and jelly sandwich. She doesn’t skimp on the PB or the J.

Also, I just thought you should know her husband Doug (who ironically was the FIRST person to vote yesterday) and her daughter Avery (who’s too young to vote both on Writinggal and in political elections) sometimes dress alike…

As far as your favorite blog, there was a four-way tie:

Go, Grannies, Go


Oh, the Places Frank’s Feet Will Go


What Happens in Cabo Stays in Cabo


Tips from Thea


So while Frank always assures me that he is the favorite “character” in the blog, it looks like people are more pleased when Thea makes an appearance. Although Frank's feet have quite a following. I will keep this research in mind for future blogs.

Thanks to everyone who voted and for reading these past 102 blogs! And as Big Daddy Doug Clayton says, “Here’s Looking Forward to the 1,000th!” But then again, this is coming from a guy who dresses like a two-year-old.

101st Blog to Come Tomorrow

If you can stand it, I'm going to wait until tomorrow to announce the winner in my 101st blog. That way I can make a whole blog about it.

Darn it. THIS is my 101st blog now.

So tomorrow, in my 102nd blog, I will announce the winner.

See you then.

Writinggal Out.

100th BLOG BLOWOUT!!

Today is my 100th Writinggal blog.

Thank you. Oh, you’re so sweet. Oh, stop. I’m blushing. (That’s me responding to all of your “Congratulations,” “I love the blog” and “You are so multi-talented what with your writing and cooking and spinning. You should run for president against Oprah.”)

Obviously for the 100th blog we have to do something spectacular. And this time it will benefit you, the blog readers, as well.

Here’s what we’re gonna do: Just as if we were a Mom and Pop grocery store, we’re gonna reward the 100th reader of the blog today. No, there won’t be any sirens and confetti and you won’t get to run around the blog and shop for one minute. But it will be almost like that.

You see I can tell once 100 people have viewed the blog but I can’t tell who you are. So after you’ve read this, send an email to elsasimcik@hotmail.com (I don’t want you clogging up my Writinggal email) and tell me your fave blog of the last 100. I know, I know. It sounds self-serving and vain. That’s probably because it is.

BUT the 100th person to email me will get a prize. It will be personal, mailable and of course, edible.

Now you want to ask, “But Elsa, do 100 people even read your blog?” Not exactly. I usually get about 105 “page views” a day. But that counts people who go back multiple times. Plus, with the holidays we may have a weak readership day.

SO you can email me up to THREE times but you have to put a different fave blog in each time. This will also help to prevent against people waiting until 5:00p.m. to email me.

Ooh, ooh. I just got another idea. When I announce the winner I’ll also tell you which blog was the favorite. Man, I have a lot of reading and counting to do today. Good thing I've got that calculator handy.

I’ll post it later tonight (around 8p.m.) in my 101st Writinggal blog. Oh, thanks again. Yes, it is like that. No, no, I’m not going to stoop to that level. Well, maybe. (That’s me responding to people saying, “Wow, 101 blogs. That’s like as many blogs as there were Dalmatians" and "What if I send you a steaming bowl of queso? Then can I be the winner?”)

I'm Dreaming of a Mildly Cool Christmas

Hi. It's me, Writinggal. On location from Friendswood, Texas (or as Scott Womack calls it "Pleasantville.")

Frank and I rolled in about 8:00 last night. He was wearing short sleeves. He would have worn shorts if I had let him. He ALWAYS asks if he can wear shorts. Sure, it's not that cold but it looks weird to wear shorts in Dec/Jan/Feb. I can't convince him.

I donned my very light-weight "Team Captain" jacket. (Oh, and my mom also asked me what I was the team captain of.)

It's warmer in Pleasantville than it was in Dallas! On the way down I asked Frank to turn on the A/C. He reminded me that his A/C is broken. "Darn! We need that A/C!" I said, sweating.

What kind of warped state do we live in where a gal complains that the A/C is broken in late December? On the first official day of winter!

We poor Texas kids have never made a snowman on Christmas. In fact, I don't think I've made a snowman ever. We've never had snowball fights. We've never laid eyes on a sled. And that one-horse open sleigh? Never dashed through the snow in it.

God, Jesus, Mother Nature (to whom it may concern), I'm not asking for a white Christmas. It would just be nice for a little breeze. Perhaps some brown ice? Or maybe just a Christmas where Frank doesn't even THINK to ask if he can wear shorts.

Writinggal, signing off from lukewarm Pleasantville.

Is the Folger’s Christmas Commercial Guy Still Single?

I love how Folger’s digs up “Peter Comes Home” every year for Christmas. You know the commercial from the early 80’s:

The older brother comes in the house early on Christmas morning. His much younger sister (obviously an oops child) greets him at the door with excitement. She says that nobody is up yet and you know she wants to go jump on their heads and annoy the crap out of them. But big brother Peter knows that Mom and Dad would just say, “Dammit, Oops! Get outta here! I knew we were too old for this. When does this one go to college?”

Instead Peter says, “I know how to wake them up.” He then heads into the kitchen and starts making Folger’s. Suddenly the camera flashes to 80’s-fro mom inhaling deeply, enjoying the fresh aroma of Folger’s. Everybody comes downstairs and mauls Pete. Oops gets shoved to the side. It’s sort of like the Prodigal Son. Except they drink coffee instead of slaughtering the fatted calf.

I love the fact that Folger’s hasn’t improved on the quality of the commercial. In fact, I think they may have purposely made it fuzzier just so people know it’s old and don’t think they dress their talent in puffy vests. Wait. I think those are back in style. Go Folger’s.

Oh, but my main question is: Is the actor who played Peter still single? I’m thinking he’d be a good catch for some of my single blog readers. Hello? He’s hot. Sure, it’s about 23 years later but I bet he’s a distinguished silver-haired man now. And plus, he’s totally loaded. Do you know what kind of royalties he’s getting from having this commercial run for that long? Unless he made some bad deal like a lifetime supply of Folger’s. Then he’s stupid. And poor. So now he’s just a stupid poor old man. Forget it.

Plus, if you married him you’d have to spend every Christmas morning with Oops. Ya know she’s gotta be screwed up by now. She’d for sure jump on your head. And that is not the best part of wakin’ up.

Santa's Lunch Break

‘Twas five days before Christmas and all through the mall
Writinggal was shopping; wishing she wasn’t too old for a doll

Jessica Simpson’s Christmas album played loudly on the P.A.
She sang of happier times, when she was still married to Nick Lachey

Okay, okay. That’s all I got. What I really want to tell you about is how I saw Santa returning from his lunch break.

He was heading back towards his North Pole set-up. (And by the way, the Shops at Willow Bend, the fanciest mall I’ve ever patronized, has the most over-the-top Santa’s North Pole I’ve ever seen complete with snow falling!) He was carrying a bag from Sonic. (They have one in the food court! I told you it was fancy!) He was also carrying a Route 44 Cherry Limeade. (I know because I used to work there. Not at the one in the mall. One in my home town.)

Anyway, I kind of smiled at him like I was spotting a celebrity. It was sort of like the time I saw Joe E. Tata who played Nat on 90210. We were in L.A. and I wanted to take his picture but I had one of those disposable cameras that only worked outside. So I didn’t want to have to ask him to step outside the restaurant. But it was still really cool. It’s like I was this close to seeing Luke Perry.

But back to Santa. It occurred to me that it must be hard for Santa to just wander into the food court and grab some lunch. I mean, do the kids mob him? Do they tug at his pant legs and try to tell him what they want for Christmas? Does he just sit at a table in the food court by himself? And I guess he has no choice but to keep all the garb on. Otherwise he would confuse all the poor Plano kids.

Also, he looked pretty disgruntled. When I first realized there wasn’t a Santa I think I still thought it was a pretty good gig to play him at the mall. Now, at age 28, after looking into the eyes of that curmudgeon of a Santa, I think I’ve figured out something: playing Santa at the mall is like the worst job ever! I told this to Frank last night and he said, “Really? Why do you think that?” I said, “Well it obviously means the guy didn’t have another job!" He must have been waiting in line at the unemployment office and somebody came up and said, “Hey, you’re fat. Wanna put on this beard, red suit, hat and have kids potentially pee on you all day?”

Poor guy. He’s got no money and a bad body image. What could be worse?

Listening to Jessica Simpson's whiney voice sing "Hark the Herald Angels Sing" all day long. Yep, that could be worse.

Queen Latifah, you best not get me a Wal-Mart GC for X-Mas

Have you seen that Wal-Mart commercial with Queen Latifah and her mom? They get in the car to go shopping and QL is all, “We’ve got so much shopping to do. I don’t know how we’re gonna get it all done in one day.” Then they get to Wal-Mart and her mom grabs a gift certificate and says, “We’re done.” QL smiles as if to say, “Oh, mom. You’re so clever!”

Now let me just tell you if I was a relative or close friend of Queen Latifah’s and I opened up a package from her and saw a Wal-Mart GC, I’d be pretty bummed. I mean, unless it was like $5,000.

You see, this is why I don’t want to be rich and famous. Because once you’re of a certain status the only acceptable gift is a car. And then it just gets ridiculous. I mean, did you see Nick and Jessica giving each other cars every year for Christmas? And then her parents got in on it, too. She should say, “Look, Mom. The only reason you could afford to buy me that car is because you and Dad take 10% of my salary. I THINK I can afford to buy my own car.”

Plus, don’t they want to pick out their cars??

If Frank and I were famous (come on, we could be like Reese and Ryan don’t ya think?) I would just say, “Hey, don’t buy me a Bentley. Don’t buy me a Benz. Let’s just buy another home in Aspen and call it even.”

Also, if you’re a celebrity, you have to give a huge tip every time you go out to eat. If you leave even 30%, the waitress will tell everyone at the Ivy that you’re a cheap ass. Same goes for the hair salon. Same goes for the nail place. And even at Subway where they shouldn’t have a tip jar in the first place!

So Queen Latifah, I’m okay if you buy my present from Wal-Mart. I mean, I understand that you’ve got an endorsement deal with them. But at least get me a plasma TV or something. You don’t even have to go shopping for it yourself. Don’t you have an assistant who does that for you? Or just send your mom. Or better yet, send Jessica Simpson’s mom. But just know that she'll take 10%.

Writinggal's Persons of the Year

Time magazine is confused. What’s more, they’re confusing everyone else. They can’t decide if the Person of the Year is a good thing or a bad thing. So this year it’s three philanthropists: Bill & Melinda Gates and our friend Bono. (I once almost went to a beach in Italy where Bono was a few days before. Thus the “our friend” label.)

Since they’re the “Persons of the Year” for doing good things they make comments like, “We’re so humbled” and “What an honor.” Did they know they share this “honor” with Hitler?

I’m not saying it shouldn’t switch from bad to good. That’s okay. Time just needs to be more consistent in how they pitch it. Like this year they’re going along with the whole “honorable” thing. Instead they should push their point about how it’s the most “influential” person/thing—good or bad. Because next year when they pick Bin Laden they’ll have to defend themselves: “No, no. It’s never an “award,” it’s just whoever makes the biggest difference—good or bad. It’s always been like that.”

Plus, I totally have other ideas for who it should have been this year:

Oprah-It’s her 20th anniversary. And she helps in Africa, too! Plus, she buys people houses. And iPods.

Jessica Simpson-Thanks to J.S. I totally dug out my Daisy Dukes this year. But then quickly put them away.

Tom Cruise-We were all glib until we listened to him.

Weathermen…women…Weatherpeople…Weatherpersons?-That’s who Best Week Ever said had the best year. And I always defer to them.

Aunt Marilyn and Uncle John-Maybe they can be the persons of the year for the blog.

I’m just left with so many questions for Time. Like when they notify someone that they’re the person of the year, what do they say? Congratulations? That doesn’t really seem right. But I bet they do when it’s a good person. Or persons? Doesn't anybody say people anymore? They’re so confused. I'm so confused.

Hey-I wonder what kind of music Bin Laden will request at his photo shoot. I peg him as a Limp Bizkit kinda guy.

Confessions of a one-time Sub

Last Friday Frank and I let out a big “schwoo.” That’s a collective sigh of relief. They had layoffs at his company (a large manufacturer of snack foods). We got the word in early November and panicked for about a month before we found out. During this month I thought of different options for us if he did lose his job (not that I don’t make enormous amounts of money writing this blog).

I thought maybe we could substitute teach. I actually have experience in this area. You see when I lost my job in 2001 I was a substitute teacher—for one day.

I was assigned to an elementary school in the very affluent Highland Park. Does this mean the children are better behaved? Smarter? Nah. Just means they all carried cell phones. And this was before cell phones were cells.

I was to teach computer class. Great-I’m an IT genius! Well, not really, but come on, this was 1-5 grade, how hard could it be? The computer-teaching part actually wasn’t hard. We cut and pasted, learned how to change the color of fonts and practiced typing spelling words.

I couldn’t, however, master the art of getting kids to walk in a line. I thought they just did it automatically. Not if there’s a sub. Especially a sub who seems easy to overthrow. I tried to walk a class of first graders back to their classroom and they all walked in a mob.

“Get in a line!” I yelled. A couple of kids wandered off towards the bathroom. “Oh? Is it like an organized bathroom break now?” I asked (big mistake). “Yes,” one of the boys answered and giggled. Several ran off to the bathroom. A few more just ran away. The ones I could find I ushered (maybe shoved a little) against some lockers. “Sit there! Don’t move!” I said. “But we’re not even in this class,” a little boy cried. “Oh, well then you can go,” I said. When I finally delivered the kids to their regular teacher, we were probably missing about 1/3 of the class.

Whatever. It was time for lunch. Now this I was excited about. I had missed school lunches for like 12 years! And that day, in the rich elementary school, they were having chili cheese dogs—yes! “I’ll take a chili cheese dog, some tater tots and two chocolate milks!” I said. “Um, you know, the teachers can have salads,” the cafeteria guy said. No way was I gonna waste this opportunity on a teacher salad! The coney was so good. Yes, the other teachers looked at me weird as I dipped my tater tots in catsup and mayonnaise. (Just like old times!)

Later that day I had another first grade class. We were practicing something in Word and the Microsoft Office Assistant (paperclip man) popped up. “Who’s that?” one of the kids asked. “Oh, it’s nothing,” I said and deleted the paperclip man for him. “NO!!!!” the kid shrieked, “I-want-him-back-I-want-him-back!!!” “Oh, sorry!” I said and found the paperclip man for him again. Soon the whole class was shrieking, “I want him too! Why don’t I have him?” I had to go around the room and get the paperclip man to appear on all 30 screens. We didn’t make any progress on changing the font color that day.


As I helped one of the first graders find the paper clip man she looked up at me and asked, “Why is your tooth crooked?” How do you respond to that? “You know. My dad is a dentist. He could fix that for you.” Stupid rich kids. Although she’ll be happy to know that based on her “encouragement” I did eventually get a crown on that tooth. But not at her dad’s office in Highland Park. In the shopping center with the sign that just said, “Dentist.”

So I never substituted again but not because the kids scared me away. Or the paperclip man scared me away. Or because I lost some of the kids. Or because I asked for seconds on tater tots. Just because I got another job. But if it came down to it, I could sub again. But next time, I hope it’s on free ice cream day. I’m so craving a push-up!

Food for (Gross) Thought

I can’t watch certain things on TV and eat. Luckily Frank’s got it down and he knows the rules. If we sit down in front of the TV with food (which is a lot), he must adhere to the following:

• Find something acceptable right away. No flipping!
  
• No trashy talk shows (i.e. Jerry Springer and I’m gonna go ahead and eliminate Tony Danza and that new Tyra show)
  
• No surgery—Duh.
  
• No Animal Planet
  
• No shows that take place before 1899
  
• No news…you never know
  
• No Married with Children
  

No Science Fiction movies (even when I’m not eating)


I think that covers it. So what is allowed? Sports, actually. I don’t really like ‘em but they don’t make me nauseous. I’m not even sure the other stuff makes me nauseous anymore but I don’t want to risk it. Oh, and most sitcoms are okay too.

Once when I was working at an advertising agency we had lunch at an editing house where we were finishing up a commercial. We all went to eat in the conference room and they turned on the TV to JERRY SPRINGER!! You see that I put that as my #1 no-no. That’s not an accident. JS is the absolute worst thing I can watch and eat. But since I didn’t know these people that well I couldn’t say anything. I just stared down at my food and didn’t look up. The worst part is they weren’t even watching it. They were like, “There’s nothin’ else on.” And did I mention it was my birthday?? Worst birthday ever!

Another time I was forced to watch the movie Dune while eating. I think I just starved. Now Frank likes to play this game: “Which would you rather watch while eating? Dune or the Surgery Channel?”

Oh, and another good rule: I don’t eat during commercials. You never know when an ad for hemorrhoid cream’s gonna pop up.

But it’s not just TV. Once we were at an outdoor restaurant in San Francisco and there was this person dressed up like a clown/street performer/weirdo. We were with a group so I didn’t say anything but Frank could tell something was wrong. He turned around to see what I was looking at and started laughing. He said, “You can’t eat and look at him, can you?” Now that’s another favorite thing of his to bring up. If somebody looks gross he’ll say, “Could ya eat and look at him?”

It’s a wonder I manage to eat anything what with all the grossness, ickiness and science fiction in the world. The good news is that if I need to lose a lot of weight very quickly I could just put my TV on a continuous loop of the forbidden programming. I’m calling it “The Dune Diet.” Hey, don't steal that. I've got a patent pending.

Update on my Gym Friends

About four months ago I introduced you to my gym friends. Back then I didn’t know their names or much about them except shallow observations. Now that I’ve been going there for awhile (and even teach classes there) well, I still don’t know most of their names but I thought I’d update you anyway. You may want to review the original post first.

Done? Okay, here goes:

Uni: Yes, she still does her own spin routine and she still wears unitards. However, Uni has made a major change: She now wears a way-too-long t-shirt over her unitard. It goes past her knees like pajamas. She gets all tangled up in it when she spins. Somebody help this woman!

Clepto Clarice: CC is actually really sweet. The first time I ever taught spin she came up to me afterwards and told me I did a good job. She said it was a good workout and she sweated a lot. For some reason I then told her the story about the time I went running and when I came back I was so sweaty that my neighbor asked me, “How was your swim?” CC laughed even though it was a gross story. I like her. Oh, and she hasn’t stolen my bike in months.

OCD Olivia: She’s still obsessed with running too far on the treadmill. And she’s still there at all times of the day. But I found out she was training for something. I spotted her at the White Rock race this past weekend. She ran the half marathon too! We passed her and I nudged Frank and said, “That’s OCD Olivia! I blogged about her!” I looked up “OCD Olivia” in the official results but I guess she ran under her “real” name.

Lisp Girl: For awhile I thought Caithlyn quit working at the gym. I never saw her anymore. But then the other day I taught spin at another location: the Plano SUPER SPORT (it’s like the V.I.P. gym which just means it costs more.) Caithlyn was working there! I didn’t say her name because I refuse to sound like I have a lisp too.

Screwed-up Steve: He’s the same. Still listens to his own music. Still chews on the towel. I do know more about his taste in music though. He likes devil music. I don’t. We’re not compatible.

Since I work at home it’s nice to have this circle of gym friends to hang out with during the day. Even though I don’t know most of their names. And I’ve never talked to most of them. Still, I think I’ll invite them over for a little holiday party. But if Clepto Clarice is comin’ I better hide the silverware.

A Lesson from my Dad

On days like this (when I'm a busy writinggal), I think I'm just going to leave you with some wise words from my dad. This is my favorite and I very much believe it:

"If you're bored, you're boring."-Elsa's Dad

Goldilocks and Her Running Partners

Ever since I started running I’ve been on my own. Solo. Or SoulO as Nick Lachey puts it. Sometimes when people hear that I run they’ll say, “We should run together!” and at first I thought that was a good idea. So I tried it.

The first girl said I was too slow. Well, she didn’t say that to my face but she told a mutual friend, “I just can’t physically run that slow. It’s bad for my knees.” I certainly didn’t want to be the cause of her paralysis. I’d try to run with other people and they would say I was too fast. I like that better than being too slow.

I notice when I run in races there’s usually no one around me. No, I’m not at the front of the pack. But I’m not at the back either. Just nobody is running the exact same pace as me. Or else I smell like garlic.

Also, I don’t really like to talk when I run. I just like to let my mind wander. Running through neighborhoods is my favorite because I like to try to figure out people’s floor plans. I’m not going to rob them or anything. I just like to try to figure it out.

I think it’s funny when people say “but running by yourself is so boring!” Boring? Running is hard. That means it hurts. Is going to the dentist boring? Is having a baby boring? When you’re in pain, boredom is the last thing on your mind.

Yesterday I ran the White Rock half marathon here in Dallas. At about mile 7 I noticed these two girls who were running right next to me. They asked me what mile we were on and we started talking from there. Their names were Dixie and Allison. I knew Dixie’s name right away because Allison kept saying it: “Ya doin’ okay, Dix? How ya holding up, Dix? Look, Dix, we’re almost there!”

We chatted and ran and Allison commented, “You run the same pace as we do! You should train with us!” I told her about how nobody is ever running around me. She said, “That happens to us too! Right, Dix?”

But then we realized that I lived in Dallas and they lived in Oklahoma City. So alas, we couldn’t be the three legendary running ladies. But we finished the half marathon together. Even though Dixie almost gave up. “I can’t go this fast, guys!” she said. Allison said, “We won’t leave you Dix!” I thought, “Speak for yourself!”

We all crossed the line at the same time and had our best half marathon times ever.

So even though I’ve never found the right running partner for me I think the few that I’ve had have helped me along the way. Especially the first one who thought I ran too slow. Oh, by the way, she ran the half marathon yesterday too.

She came in a minute behind me.

Why Rick Springfield Kinda Rocks

Now normally only people who totally rock make my blog but I had to give a shout out to Rick Springfield. Why does he kinda rock? It depends on how you look at it: Is it more important to have A LOT of mediocre songs or one exceptionally awesome, kick-ass song? If that one song is Jessi’s Girl, then I’ll take it.

Jessi’s Girl is a masterpiece. Let me point out my favorite parts:

• First, there’s the rockin’ guitar solos—nah, nah, nah, nah, nananana
  
• Then there’s the quiet rhythmic verses where Rick’s voice gets softer and the instruments are really subtle (“I played along with the charade.”)
  
• Natch, there’s the lyrics:
  “…and she’s lovin’ him with that body I just know it”
  “I’ve been funny, I’ve been cool with the lines. Ain’t that the way love’s supposed to be?”
  “I feel so dirty when they start talkin’ cute.”
  
  

I heard Rick on a radio interview the other day and he said Jessi’s girl is a REAL person. But the guy’s name was Gary. Can you imagine how different our lives would be if the song was, “I wish that I had Gary’s Girl?” Actually, I kinda like the alliteration. No, no. It has to be Jessi.

But poor Rick. He was doing this radio interview in an effort to promote some new album full of cover songs and all the DJs wanted to ask about was Jessi’s Girl. I mean, the guy sang TONS of songs (although I can’t name any besides JG) and he starred on General Hospital! But everywhere he goes I bet people play air guitar and sing the chorus.

He shouldn’t feel bummed about it though. I mean, some people never have a hit song. I know I haven’t. Have you? So that’s something to be proud of. It’s just weird to be defined by one thing. It’s like Kato Kaelin. Or Baby Jessica. Or that guy with the shampoo bottle from my junior high.

I know if I met him I couldn’t resist either. I’d say, “Rick, I wanna tell you that I love you but the point is probably mute.” And of course I'd tell him that he kinda rocks.

Have you Met Hillary?

We had so much fun playing "Have you met Mandy?" that I thought we'd try the game with another lovely lady, Hillary Hansen.

Background: Hillary lives on a ranch in Dillon, Montana with her husband, Jon (both pictured here) and their two kids Savannah (4) and Brock (almost 2). Guess who else lives there? Jon’s family—his parents, his sister’s family and his brother’s family. Guess who his sister is married to? Hillary’s brother.

Confused yet?

I was at first too but pay attention:

Backing up More: Hillary grew up in Wharton, Texas and went to college with me at UT. Her brother, Scott, went to TCU for their ranch management program.

Jon grew up on the ranch in Dillon, Montana and also attended ranch management school at TCU. He met Scott there and at graduation, Jon’s parents offered Scott a job on their ranch. So he moved to Montana.

In Montana Scott met Jon’s sister, Jodi. They hit it off. He decided to invite his younger sister Hillary to Montana to hang out on the ranch one summer. She met Jon. They hit it off.

Foreground:
Now Hillary is married to Jon and Scott is married to Jodi. No, there’s no incest there. Just a brother and a sister who married a brother and a sister. Oh, and Hillary’s parents went ahead and moved there too. I mean, why not? Everybody else did!

Anyway, Hillary sends out emails on a regular basis with pictures and updates about life on the ranch. Sometimes I get ranch envy and wish I lived there with the gorgeous mountains, beautiful sunsets and the ocassional outing "into town."

But yesterday she sent an email about the weather. At first glance I thought she said it was 25 degrees. I thought, “That’s how cold it is here in Dallas!” But then I realized she said 25 BELOW! Little Savannah even had a bit of frostbite on her cheek. I felt a tad guilty for constantly whining to Frank, “I’m frozen!”

But when it’s not so cold the ranch seems like a blast. And if you’re starting to get that itch to travel there, well get ready to…uh... scratch it? Their ranch, Hansen Livestock Company, now has cabins for rent—some rustic, some really rustic. You can hunt, fish or just hang with Hillary and the kids.

Thanks for playing, “Have you met Hillary?” I’ll leave you with some pics to help you feel even closer.

Hillary and Brock

Hillary and Savannah

Look how much fun they have on the ranch!

The Friends who Never Call Back

I remember when 911 first came out. They had posters all over Landolt Elementary School. It sounds so normal now but back then, we had to practice it over and over again to remember it. I guess it worked. Because I use it a lot:

--There was the time my car got stuck in the ice on a day like today. It was early in the morning and I was driving from my apartment to the gym. I swerved, I spun and then I stopped. I ran up to my apartment and called Frank. He lived about 20 minutes away so he just said, “Go try and push it!” I guess since I was on my way to the gym he thought I had super-human strength. So I did. But it didn’t move. Soon after, a car carrying a couple of other girls, also en route to the gym, got stuck. They were dressed really cute like they were just going to the gym to stand around and pose. They immediately made phone calls and announced that several men were coming to help. “Great! My boyfriend just told me to come push it,” I said, pointing to my apartment. I guess they thought he was actually in the apartment and that I had the meanest boyfriend ever. Their men showed up and moved their car. The thing is, they didn’t even bother to move mine! They just all left—probably to go do some pretty-person activity like drink Starbucks.

So I called 9-1-1. They said, “We have about a thousand other cars to get to before yours. I suggest you leave it.”

--Another time I called because my apartment was on fire. Okay, it was one of those oven fires where there’s a crumb on the bottom so when you cook pizza it sparks up. I was screaming on the phone to 9-1-1 when Frank walked in. He put it out and I had to tell my 9-1-1 friends, “Nevermind.”

--I used to run in a neighborhood in the mornings and one day I saw this house with a blinking light. I mean like the lights in one room were blinking on and off, on and off—very deliberately and very consistently. Hello? I was a girl scout! I know what that means! S.O.S.! I don’t know what it stands for but it means someone’s in trouble. Natch, I called 9-1-1 when I got home. They said they’d go check it out. But every day after that I saw the same thing. Guess it was their alarm clock? Not a bad idea…

--I’ve called several times for things I’ve seen on the road—accidents, suspicious people. One time in Austin I saw a lady crossing the bridge of a major highway because her car had stalled about a half mile back. I didn’t want to stop and help her but I thought maybe my 9-1-1 friends would. I called them and this time they asked for my number in case they had any questions. I was going to a Christmas party but I kept my phone by me all night, explaining to everyone that I was an important witness in a police investigation and I could be called away at any minute. But they never called.

Now I know you’re thinking that I should be calling 3-1-1 in some of these cases and I have—for debris in the road and things like that. But they take forever to answer. I’d have better luck calling MedCo!

--I once struggled with whether or not to call my pals at 9-1-1. I was running outside (you see a lot of things when you’re running) and I saw a very normal looking man standing outside a very normal looking restaurant. The only abnormal thing was that his pants were down around his ankles. I won’t describe what else he was doing (for Grandma Valerie’s sake) but I don’t think he should have been doing that. When I got back to my apartment (after running really, really fast—not sure why. It’s not like he could chase me with his pants around his ankles) I called all my friends and told them the story. Later I decided maybe I should put in a call to my friends at 9-1-1, just in case. So I dialed that familiar number and when I told them the story they said, “Hey! Why didn’t you call us sooner?”

Writinggal's Conspiracy Theories

I believed in Santa Claus until I was, I don’t know, 16? Like all kids, I weighed the options:

1. There’s this portly man who lives in the North Pole and he flies around with reindeer one night of the year and delivers presents to every single kid in the world—even in the remote areas of Cambodia. Oh, and he manages to fit down your chimney.

2. The entire adult population is lying to the entire kid population.

I chose to go with #1. I rationalized it with the old “the elves help him.” When I found out there really wasn’t a Santa Claus I started to become suspicious of everything—
particularly large, money-hungry corporations. That little Enron oops didn’t restore my faith either. I’d like to reveal some other scams happening right under our red noses:

Bank of America is stealing from you:
I know because they used to steal from me. It’s like the Office Space plan. They take about a tenth of a cent from all unsuspecting customers every so often and when you balance your checkbook and see you’re a few cents off, you blame yourself. Hey, you’re good at math, especially addition and subtraction! These aren’t logarithms, people (not that I know what logarithms are. Frank?) After awhile of always rounding down my balance, I got fed up. I started checking my bank account online every day—watching for the little withdrawals. And you know what? I never found them. You know why? Because BofA NOTICED I was online all the time and they figured they couldn’t mess with me! So don’t let ‘em mess with you.

There’s no such thing as a rebate from Sears:
We bought a washer, dryer and a refrigerator from Sears in July. We got free delivery with a mail-in rebate. Great! After the appliances were delivered we promptly mailed in our rebate and waited. And waited. After the allotted 90 days we called Sears: “Hey, where’s our rebate?” Surprise! They never received it. “It must have gotten lost in the mail.” That’s weird. I sent out 200 wedding invitations and none of them got lost in the mail. I send out over 100 Christmas letters every year and they never get lost in the mail. So Sears is telling me (very confidently I might add) that the ONE time I mail ONE thing to Sears, it gets lost? They tell me to fax it in. We do. I call a couple weeks later: “Hey, it’s me, Elsa. Where’s my rebate?” Double surprise! They never received it. “It must not have been processed correctly.” I get it, Sears. You’re counting on your customers to be lazy. We don’t want to have to deal with this. In fact, we might even forget about our rebate. But you obviously haven’t dealt with the Simciks, Sears! We will drive to your headquarters in Chicago if we have to. We WILL get our $50!

You’re not covered by insurance:
The medical insurance scam is similar to Sears in that they try to annoy you into paying. If you want them to pay you have to go through so much red tape, fill out so many forms and talk to so many automated answering services that you might be inclined to say, “Fine! I’ll just pay for it myself!” Plus, you have to go to medical school just to be able to fight with them: “What do you mean you won’t cover Dysplastic Nevi? I mean, I don’t know what it is but I’ve got it and you better cover it!”

I just wanted you all to be aware of these evil plots to take your money. And these are just a few of them. I could probably tell you about scams until Easter. Oh, and don’t even get me started on that bogus, basket-carrying bunny.

My Dream of not Working

I called my Grandma on Thursday and like a good granddaughter I said, “I told you so!”

During one of my visits with her I had informed the 83-year-old that I was going to quit my job to be a full-time freelance writer. She had lots of questions: “So where will you go to work?” “What? What do you mean you’ll work from home?” “Will you make any money doing that?”

I explained to her that while Frank went to business school I worked so that he could follow his dream. I said, “Now he’s going to work so I can follow my dream.” She responded with, “Your dream of not working?”

I thought THAT comment made my blood boil the most but that was before she went on to tell other relatives:

“Frank has a big job at Frito Lay [she thinks he’s like the CFO] and Elsa’s not going to work.”

After awhile of her telling people that and me rolling my eyes and sighing she would follow-up that comment with, “She gets mad when I say that" and then giggle.

“Really?” I asked her, “You noticed? Cause you don’t act like you do!”

I would call her periodically and give her updates on my writing. Try telling an 83-year-old who’s never even turned on a computer that you write articles on the Internet. “What? You mean your articles are on TV?” she asked (rather suspiciously I might add).

I decided that the lady needed proof. I sent her a magazine article I had written in Women’s Health and Fitness. That did it. She immediately called me and gushed about my talent, my fame and naturally, the enormous amount of money I must be making as a result of all of this. I didn’t argue. In fact, since Grandma is under the impression that I’m rich and famous now, I’m pretty sure she thinks that I’m stooping beneath my level by being with a guy who’s merely the CFO of Frito Lay.

After she sung my praises I just couldn’t help it. I had to tell her, “I told you so, Grandma. And you said I wasn’t even working!”

She said, “Well there goes your dream.”

Far enough from Fargo

As I sit here and blog my toes are frozen. It’s this weird thing that happens to my feet every winter. My toes turn white and then they go numb—even if I have socks AND shoes on! Frank will sit on them, we’ll run them under hot water, he’ll even put them in his armpit. (Thea—who is anti-feet—is not liking this right now.)

But I guess that’s what you have to deal with when you live in the cold North. Sometimes I hear Al Roker talking about other places that are even colder than Dallas. Like Fargo, North Dakota where it was like 15 below today. I guess if I moved there my toes would just fall off. Yes, I would get off the plane, look down and I’d be toeless.

So I’m not moving to Fargo, North Dakota. And it's not just the cold. I also can’t move there because of the absence of queso. Do you know that people outside of Texas don’t even know what queso is? Sure, they act like they do but if you order it you’re either going to get a cup of shredded cheese or if you’re somewhere semi-southern, they’ll bring a bowl of some white mush. If I lived in Fargo I would have to always have a block of Velveeta and Rotel on hand so I could make it in my queso maker. But do they even have Rotel in Fargo? By the way, did you know that Rotel was invented in Elsa, Texas? How could I leave?

And although I still argue that I DO NOT have any sort of Texas accent, I’m not sure the Fargoians (Fargonites?) would understand me. You see, I once met some people from Minnesota at my friend Jessi’s wedding. I’m gonna lump them in with Fargoians; It’s all the same to me. We got into the whole dialect discussion: You know, Coke v. pop, y’all v. you guys, etc. One of the girls asked me, “What do you call that thing that you carry around that has a strap and you put stuff in it like books or clothes?” I answered, “A bag.” She started laughing and told her fellow Minnesotians (Minnesotites?), “See? She said it! I told you she would!!” I asked, “How do you say it?” She said, “Duh! It’s BEG!”

Obviously the lack of queso has affected their brains. Plus, the fact that their toes have fallen off probably doesn't help. I pity these people.

So I’ll just stay right here in Texas where it’s cold enough as it is. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go put my toes in the oven.

You can't tell but I'm trying to spell out "Help! My toes are frozen!" with my breath.

I've got Q-tips to last me until April 2008

Yesterday, I went to Costco. And along with my 1,750 Q-tips, I also picked up a smorgasbord of emotions:

Excitement: Wow! Look at all the giant TVs and is that a revolutionary space heater? The kind that doesn’t burn down your house? It’s so warm!

Awe: Everything is so neatly stacked and the aisles are so wide. And the floors? Immaculate.

Serenity: It’s so not crowded and the people who are here are so much more desirable than my co-shoppers at Wal-mart.

Greed: I think I do need a giant inflatable snowman. No, wait! I need 20 of them!

Gluttony: Sure, I’ll take a sample of the sun-dried tomato/cream cheese cracker. And a vitashake. Soy milk? Bring it on! Pass the chicken wings, please. Are those little spiral turkey thingies? I love them!

Regret: I think I ate too many spiral turkey thingies.

Confusion: Hmmm…$50 for 100 rolls of paper towels. I KNOW that’s technically a good deal but I just can’t bear to spend $300 in one visit. Okay, fine, I’ll get them.

Frustration: I can’t lift 100 rolls of paper towels!

Desperation: Help! I’m buried under 100 rolls of paper towels! Somebody…spiral turkey thingie sampler…Yes! I’ll buy the box of spiral turkey thingies…what? The chipotle kind! Yes, I know they’re great for parties! You just defrost them, put them on a plate and everybody thinks you made them. Although no one will believe I could wrap them so perfectly. Just help me, please!

Exhaustion: Glad to be out from under the paper towels but now cart is too heavy to push. Need to take a break…What’s that? A gallon of olives for $12? Can’t beat that.

Frazzled: What? You need my Costco card before I can buy this stuff? Okay, it’s in here somewhere. Yes, I know I should have gotten it out because you ask for it every time. But I’m fairly new to Costco.

Defensive: Yes, I know my eye is closed in the picture. I had an infection. No, it’s not pink eye. No, it’s not contagious. I don’t have it anymore. I just did the day I took the picture.

Embarrassed: Oh? You don’t take Visa? What about Discover? What about Mastercard? I guess I’ll use my check card. Wait. Let me balance my checkbook really quick to make sure I can afford this. If I can’t, the olives are gonna have to go. Yes, I know $12 is a good deal for a gallon of olives. It’s just that I don’t really eat olives. I don’t even like them.

Irritated: Hi, I’m just trying to push this heavy cart to my car…thanks. Oh, right. You want to see my membership card. I’ve got it right here. I kept it out because I knew that they had people positioned at the exits to check them. What? You want my receipt? Yes, I get it that showing my membership card doesn’t prove that I didn’t steal the merchandise. I’ve got my receipt here somewhere. Oh, it’s under the turkey spiral thingies. Yes, I know they’re great for parties.

Relief: I'm so glad to be out of there. Now I'm all set with my paper towels, olives and a bunch of other random crap that I may not have wanted but the unit price was too good to pass up.

Grateful: At least I don't have to worry about buying Q-tips for another 2.4 years.