Sparkly Art

One of the most common questions I've never been I'm asked is, "What kind of art do you enjoy?" My goodness, what a complicated question! Generally speaking, my taste in art runs in the vein of the contemporary. Oh sure, DaVinci was alright I guess, considering he was designing bicycles, gyroscopes, or whatever the hell else in his spare time. Michaelangelo's Sistine Chapel isn't too bad, although every time I see it I think God is suggesting that Adam pull his finger. I guess fart humor really is timeless after all.

The first time The Mister and I went to Australia we spent a day at the Sydney art museum. There was a shitload of great art, but when my husband saw some works by Brett Whiteley he almost wet himself. We bought a couple Whiteley prints and had them framed. This one is in our dining room, and this one hangs over our mantle. The internet pictures don't do them justice; they are truly spectacular works of art.

The rest of the pictures I have are family antiques and are exceptionally proper and rather fussy, because my ancestors were tall on money and short on taste. (I am totally getting haunted for that.) The family art is comfortably resting in the basement, where the pictures of Old World ships, pilgrims, and sleighs will stay until I can pawn them off on distant cousins. Or sell them on Ebay.

One of my favorite images of all time is this Wegman photo, but it's damn hard to integrate a Weimaraner lounging in a metal chair into your home decor. Better Homes and Gardens doesn't have a section on this shit. Which is unfortunate, because you just try to tell me this isn't one of the coolest photographs you've ever seen in your life:
I've long since given up on having a magazine cover home, though. Which is probably why this large, framed print is prominently displayed in our house:



Anything that uses the word "hosed" is my idea of great art. I'm totally sophisticated that way.

Embarrassing Confessions: #273

The other day, as I was sitting in traffic and flipping through the radio stations, Backstreet Boys' I Want It That Way came on. I sang along. At one point there were even jazz hands.

I'm pretty sure I'll never be able to take myself seriously again.

It Probably Feels like 109 Years For Him

About a week ago a strange white cat began hanging around our house. He seemed like a pleasant enough animal at first although he had kind of an inbred look to him. I know this because I have personal experience with inbred animals, and no, I'm not talking about my family. When I was a little kid we had a dog named Beasley who was procured by my uncle from a cardboard box outside a grocery store. Because in my family we are all about planning, forethought, and research.

Anyway, Beasley was a very sweet puppy, but as he matured he became a bit, er, flighty. When I was about two or three years old he started to display some aggression toward me. He never touched me, but he'd growl from time to time for no particular reason. There I'd be in the backyard in my plastic pool, splashing and rolling around in my hot little toddler bikini, and Beasley would be standing in the corner of the yard, glaring at me with his tiny mongrel terrier teeth bared.

Needless to say my parents were less than pleased by this, so they carted Beasley off to the vet to see if there was any sort of physical problem that might explain his sudden change in temperament. The vet examined him, asked some questions, and informed my parents that Beasley was probably inbred. I have no idea how he knew this. Perhaps that was his stock answer. Hair falling out? Inbred. Tail crooked? Inbred. Doesn't like Alpo? Eh, inbred. Of course, given what we knew about Beasley's box-in-front-of-a-grocery-store provenance he could very well have been descended from a long line of brothers and sisters.

Anyway, long story short (too late!), my parents found Beasley a new home with no other animals or small children and he lived out the rest of his psychopathic days in peace, happiness, and harmony. But I still remember The Look he'd get before he lost his shit, and this new neighborhood cat definitely had that look. Inbred? HE MIGHT BE!

The first day the crazy white cat started hanging around I thought he was a bit forward, since he traipsed around our deck and backyard like he owned the place. I found that a bit presumptuous, but then I noticed that he had a petunia stuck to his butt, and how can you not love that? Apparently he'd been rolling around in the plants between our house and our neighbors' and as a result he had a blossom festooned on his bottom. It's pretty hard to be all big, bad, and fierce when you've got a flower dangling from your ass. So I gently shooed him away lest he upset the two feline princesses we have living in our house, and he contentedly trotted off.

Fast forward a couple days to Saturday. I was standing outside on the deck with Gloria who was lounging around in the early morning sun while Maggie was still inside the house crunching on her breakfast. I noticed the crazy white cat out of the corner of my eye but didn't pay too much attention. Not until he stormed the deck and started attacking Gloria. I managed to grab a nearby broom and raced over to him before he was able to inflict any injuries. I started shrieking things about fuckers having to go through me if they wanted to get to her, waving the broom around, and tripping over my flip flops as I chased the psychotic animal off the deck and into the backyard. I stood guard there for a few minutes, broom in hand, making sure the white menace didn't come back up on the deck. About this time our next door neighbor came outside to observe the situation. Either that or he wanted to get a close up of my awesome striped seersucker pajamas, which is a definite possibility. They are pretty sweet.

He asked if one of our cats had had a run-in with the white cat, and I told him what had just happened. He said that he'd posted notices on the neighborhood listserv in an attempt to find a home for the cat, and that he and his family had been feeding the stray. They'd even let him inside their house with the intention of keeping him permanently, but he'd violently attacked their existing housecat and no amount of acclimation seemed to be working. The neighbor had given up and made an appointment with Animal Control to take the cat in.

Later that afternoon after The Mister got home I told him that the white cat had been back and up on the deck again. Blah blah. My husband reacted with mild interest until I told him that Gloria had been jumped. Oh, the fury! I might as well have run up to him and kicked him in the shins.

Later that evening as we were leaving the house (with the cats safely inside) I saw the white cat coming up the steps of the deck. I pointed it out to The Mister, who proceeded to grab a croquet mallet and set off in search of The Fucker Who Tried To Hurt Gloria. (Yes, we have a croquet set, and yes, we play croquet. I've made no bones about the fact that we are tremendous dorks. I don't know why you're surprised so quit looking at me like that.)

I started to shout something about just scaring the white cat and not hurting it, but it was like standing in the infield of the goddamn Indy 500. It was dizzying. I saw a white streak go around one side of the house and emerge on the other side a few seconds later only to be followed by my husband swinging a croquet mallet furiously over his head. My man can move, y'all.

I'd like to say here that it was precisely nine years ago today that my husband and I walked into the courthouse in Columbiana, Alabama to get married. We had no rings, no witnesses, no nothing -- aside from the can of Country Time lemonade that I brought in with me because I was so damn thirsty. We got married in the A/V room of the courthouse by a Judge Judy lookalike who was named -- wait for it -- Judge Judy.

So it's nine years later and every day of my life I'm still reminded of how lucky I got. There are any number of reasons why I did better in the spouse department than I deserve, but when I see my husband running around the house with a croquet mallet helicoptering over his head, hissing and shouting profanities at a mentally unbalanced cat, I know somebody or something is looking out for me. Fate totally did me a solid.

I Should Totally Have My Own Cooking Show

I have discussed -- in rather agonizing detail -- my fascination with the phenomenon that is Sandra Lee. For the uninitiated, Ms Lee has a show on the Food Network called Semi-Homemade Cooking With Sandra Lee, which consists of her opening a few cans, dumping the contents into a bowl, and calling it dinner. Sometimes she stirs things. Oh, and she also has a big rack:
Anyway, I watch her show from time to time just to see what sort of culinary assault she has planned for that day. Very often I'm reduced to crippling fits of squealing laughter, but once that subsides the bitterness begins to creep in. How is it that this fool is making a fortune when some nice girl like me who actually knows how to cook is relegated to a life of having to rely on skill and/or hard work in order to make a living? Is there no justice?

I'm no longer content to be a hapless victim. If this clod can create a mini-empire doing this shit then what's stopping me? Nothing, that's what! So I'm going to put on my worst bra, tightest sweater, and submit my proposal to anyone who will listen. Here's my can't miss, surefire menu:

Bavarian Snack Twists

Ingredients:
One bag store-bought pretzels

Preparation:
Empty pretzels into a bowl.
Serve.


Creamy Shrimp Bisque with Savory Flatbread

Ingredients:
1 can creamy shrimp bisque soup
1 sleeve saltine crackers

Preparation:
Empty soup into a pan and heat on the stove. Until hot. Maybe stir it once, too.
Take crackers out of wrapper.
Serve.

Succulent Roast Chicken with Homestyle Mashed Potatoes and Haricots Verts

Ingredients:
1 rotisserie chicken from the supermarket
1 box instant potatoes
1 can green beans

Preparation:
Take chicken out of container.
Dump box of potatoes into a saucepan and add water or whatever the hell the side of the box tells you to.
Open can of green beans and empty into a pan on the stove. Turn the stove on. The beans will get hot eventually.
Serve.

Grandma's Blue Ribbon Double Chocolate Cake

Ingredients:
1 box chocolate cake mix
1 container chocolate icing

Preparation:
Put contents of the box of cake mix into a large container. Many people use cake pans, but this is negotiable. Add some eggs and some milk or maybe some water. Possibly some oil. Mix it all up and then put it in the oven. Remove when done, whenever that is.
Open container of icing and smear on the cake.
Serve.
When in doubt, dress up as Cher. Nothing emphasizes your cooking prowess quite like a big ass headdress and a plunging neckline.

So there you have it. It's only a matter of time before I am a world-renowned lifestyle expert. Do not fret though, my people. I'll remember you when. And I'll even prepare some Bavarian Snack Twists for you.