The Tasting – Part Deux

So it goes like this; Friday morning we woke up at the crack of dawn and headed out to Palm Springs.  We got there and walked into the seventh layer of hell.  There was a wall of heat that would’ve knocked me to my knees except that the air was so thick I couldn’t move.  The temperature was 115 degrees.  That is not a typo.

At the hotel, Patty, our cruise director, took great care of us.  We stayed in one of the villas again and pretended that we were rich and fabulous.  It’s a wonderful game.  The reason we were there (for those of you who didn’t read Friday’s blog) was to taste and drink our way through three evenings of festivities in one sitting.  It sounded like a ton of fun and it was, but then we got sick and it wasn’t.

Call me a neophyte, but I’m not used to sitting for six hours while I feed my gullet.  As much as I like the idea of decadence, I found out firsthand that it’s not as easy as it looks.  The hotel made the experience a once in a lifetime event with gracious servers, accessible chefs, and a warm, cozy setting.  But one can only eat so many dishes and I think we had over a dozen each, not including dessert.  With each course there was a wine for us to choose.  And then later with each dessert, there were little ramekins of toppings and fillings we needed to sort through and match together.  I won’t even tell you about the appetizers.

Start time 2:30pm.  End time 8:30pm.  Sam and I lumbered to our villa in exhaustion.  We had planned on hitting up a local honkey-tonk bar, but our foray into living like kings held us captive.  Instead, we watched movies and talked about the resort until the wee hours of the morning.  The heat dropped to a bearable 88 degrees at about midnight.

The Tasting

We are off to taste, to nibble, to sip, and to choose.  It’s called a tasting and we’re all over it.

How it works:  The hotel brings out samples of main courses, desserts, appetizers, salads, and whatever else you can think of that might be part of our 3 day fete in October.

Our Mission:  To eat it, to savor it, and then to say Yes or No.  It’s like being a king

If we like what we taste, then the food stays and becomes a part of our festivities.  The King is happy.  If we hate it on the other hand, we turn up our noses and shake our heads.  I might even yell, “Off with his head!”  just because I’ve really always wanted to that.

Then when our bellies are full and our taste buds are starting to protest, we move on to the adult portion of our program; wine tasting.  That’s right, we’ll also be tasting wine, beer, and fruity beverages.  Old hollow-elbow over here (get it? I can’t hold my liquor worth a darn so I’m hollow-elbow instead of hollow-leg?  Yeesh, never mind)…as I was saying, I’ll be tipsy after the first few sips so I’m looking forward to that spitting thing one does during wine tasting.  You know, you take a sip of wine, gargle with it to truly capture it’s bouquet and essence, and then spit it like a trucker into a tobacco spittoon.  I love that.

We’ll be back by tomorrow evening in time to catch a 40th birthday party.  Special thanks go out to Justin and Anne for watching our children, our very hairy children.  And for Izzy, who keeps asking that I write about her…there.  I just did.  Now off with his head!

Stimulus Check for Murder

The United States government, well-oiled machine that it is, sent 3,900 $250 checks to inmates in prison.  As the checks were intended to “stimulate” the economy, I can only assume that this was an error.  As far as I know, the rules to allow prisoners out of jail to go shopping still hasn’t changed.

The math for this snafu adds up to $975,000; more than most families make in almost 20 years according to the US Census Bureau.

So I have to look on the bright side – I’m sure not all of prisoners are rapists, murderers, drug-dealers, gang-bangers or armed robbers.  Probably a few of those checks went to petty criminals.  Sweet, gentle men who’ve been incarcerated in a state penitentiary for something minor like…like…well, I’m having a hard time coming up with anything.  It’s not like you go to prison for flashing someone.  That’s just a day in the clink.

I never got a check, probably because I haven’t molested anyone or organzined a credit card scam from my basement.  But I’m thinking about it.  $250 is a lot of money for buying whatever you buy in the big house.

Camelot. It’s Over.

For at least a half-decade, the Kennedy men have been a symbol of wealth, power, influence, and magnetism.  They weren’t infallible by any means, but they were handsome as sin and charming enough to make the public forgive them their foibles.  Alas, there was a curse put upon them and slowly, but surely each and every one them passed away.  Yesterday, the end of Camelot was punctuated by the death of Senator Ted Kennedy.  He was 77 years old.

Only one Kennedy man reigned during my lifetime, John Kennedy, Jr.  With that head of dark hair and those goofy, half-smiles, he was like a Ralph Lauren model and the cutest guy in History class all rolled up into one.  But then he was gone and that was that.

Senator Ted Kennedy had quite a ride and as it’s not good manners to speak ill of the dead, I’ll just mention that his political career made a huge impact on America.  He was a major influence in the Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965, the National Cancer Act of 1971, the Federal Election Campaign Act Amendments of 1974, the COBRA Act of 1985, the Comprehensive Anti-Apartheid Act of 1986, the Americans with Disabilities Act of 1990, the Ryan White AIDS Care Act in 1990, the Civil Rights Act of 1991, the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act of 1996, the Mental Health Parity Act in 1996 and 2008, the State Children’s Health Insurance Program in 1997, the No Child Left Behind Act in 2002, and the Edward M. Kennedy Serve America Act in 2009.  He was also very involved in immigration reform and universal health care.

And so the reign of Camelot comes to an end.  The girls are left behind to weep and carry-on.  It seems that while the Kennedy men were full of life and vigor, the ladies always held themselves to the background.  Except for Jackie, but then she was only really a Kennedy for 10 years.  Perhaps tomorrow I’ll talk about the curse and of course, the Chappaquiddick incident, which I’m sure you’re all recalling.  But for today, I’ll just say, rest in peace, Ted and goodbye to Camelot.

Project Runway…It’s Baa-aack

Yesterday I logged onto Lifetime to watch last week’s episode of Project Runway, Season 6.  It premiered August 20th on Lifetime after 5 years on Bravo and a whole lot of drama.  The group has switched channels, moved from New York to Los Angeles, and Nina Garcia has another new title…what will the party be like?

Well let me tell you, it was same old same old in a good way except for the LA factor, which I’ll get to.  The group of budding fashion designers was on their best behavior so except for a little crazy peaking through the cracks, it seemed pretty normal.  I did notice however, that like five of them are from NYC, which begs the questions: what was Lifetime thinking moving Project Runway (PR) from NY and then having half of the contestants New Yorkers?  Because we’re not dumb.  No matter how many NYC people they put on the show, we’re still going to remember we’re in Los Angeles because…(and this brings me to the LA Factor)…

Lindsay Lohan?!  The guest judge on episode 1 was none other than scarecrow, trainwreck Lindsay Lohan.  I don’t know when leggings, high heels, t-shirts, and jean shorts became haute couture, but there she was in all of her extension glory.  It  just about broke my heart as I thought about the days of old when guest judges were designers or fashion leaders, not skanky LA actresses.  Is this what Tinseltown will do to the show?  Lindsay Lohan followed by Paris Hilton followed by Vanessa whatever-her-name-is, who keeps taking pictures of herself naked? We’re doomed.

But, loyal follower that I am, I’ll tune in next week to see what happens and who goes home.  My money says the top contestants will be:

1. Louise Black, the black-haired, 1920’s-looking gal who designs the vintage stuff.
2. Epperson, the dread-locked artist with a vision.
3. Malvin Vien, the androgynous, arrogant narcissist who thinks his designs are like scripture.
4. Ra’mon-Lawrence, the super-cute young man who got into the top three last week with his black, evening gown.
5. Carol Hannah Whitfield, the tiny, little blond from the South whose pleated dress showed great ingenuity.

Runner’s Up:

1. Johnny Sakalis, his design was good, but the drug-addiction might hold him back and take him down.
2. Irina Shabayeva, her lace design looked as if it had been pulled straight out of last year’s Monique Lhuillier line.  If she can design as well as she can copy and sew, she might be able to pull into the top 5.
3. Shirin Askari, he dress was boring, but the bolero jacket showed promise.  There might be more to this designer so I’ll wait and see.
4. Logan Neitzel, the handsome blonde had an interesting dress, but a poor use of fabric.  Everyone knows taffeta needs to be ironed, ironed, ironed.  If he can learn his fabrics and how to work them better, this guy will probably move on up.
5. And last, but not least, Christopher Straub.  His fun and flirty dress won the competition last week, but I think his confidence is going to get him.  I have my fingers crossed that that’s not the case.

And the rest?  Their days are numbered.

Nancy Drew and the Case of the Movie Marathon

It all started at 6:48pm on Saturday night.  Sam convinced me to go see District 9 and the next show was in thirty.  We jumped in the car and by 7:05 were sitting center, center waiting for the aliens.  They came…big time.

District 9:  Groundbreaking cinema, amazing visual effects, and a story-line that doesn’t quit.  Did I like it?  Let’s just say I wasn’t ready for it.  Next time I’ll be more prepared.  It’s a movie that doesn’t tread gently, but rather whacks the audience with a bloody arm bone…and then eats off the faces of the people in the front row.  I give it three tentacles up for ingenuity and artistry.  One bucket of vomit for violence and gruesomeness.

Approximately two hours later we snuck into the late show of Funny People.  I haven’t done a double feature since high school, but my partner in crime can be very persuasive.

Funny People:  Not so funny.  More like a commentary on how truly miserable funny people are, but we already knew that.  Even in Fame, the comedian is the one who’s most tormented.  And didn’t Smokey Robinson sing something about how sad clowns are?  I’m fairly certain Richard Pryer did a shtick about it too.  It’s no new concept.  And I’d also like to say that I’m really tired of the male genitalia jokes.  It was funny in SuperBad, Talladega Nights, Knocked Up, Pineapple Express, The 40 Year Old Virgin, and Don’t Mess With Zohan…but now I’m over it.  I’ll one positive note though, just to be fair; Judd Apatow’s kids are really cute.

At half past midnight we exited the movie theater exhausted.  Two shows, five hours, one bag of popcorn, and a coke later we dragged ourselves home.  Sunday at 4:30pm we found ourselves back at the movie theater and sitting center, center again for Inglorious Basterds.  We were on a roll.

Inglorious Basterds:  There’s a new face in this film that steals the show.  Christoph Waltz who plays Col. Hans Lander, the Jew Hunter is absolutely amazing.  From scene to scene we were unable to take our eyes away from his amazing performance of a Nazi psycho-detective.  Brad Pitt was his usual eye-candy self and between the two of them and Quentin Tarantino’s imagination, the movie was slow, but good.  I heard a woman behind me say that it was the best film she’s seen all year.  I wouldn’t go that far, but maybe she hasn’t watched District 9 or 500 Days of Summer yet.  I give it a middle finger to the Nazi’s and a middle finger to the Fuhrer up.

And so wraps up the Case of the Movie Marathon.  Tune in next week when Nancy Drew tackles her biggest challenge ever, the Case of the Gingivitas Monster.  I promise, it’s a doozey.

The Trial of Amanda Knox for the Murder of Meredith Kercher

Update:

The angel-faced Amanda Knox may get off on an OJ.  Defense attorneys for her boyfriend and possible partner-in-crime, Raffaele Sollecito say that the DNA evidence can’t be used; the police mishandled it.  It looks like even the lawyers in Italy watched how Johnnie Cochran and F. Lee Bailey did it.  It’s called the ‘he’s so guilty they even have DNA proof, we can’t prove him innocent, we’ll have to go after the investigators instead.’

And that’s what they’re doing.  Trying to insinuate some doubt into the minds of jurors.  With the testimony of one doctor, the defense is insisting that the bra clasp of victim, Meredith Kercger, wasn’t handled properly.  A) it was found 47 days after the initial search B) it wasn’t bagged properly and C) the people analyzing it didn’t change their gloves in between handling it and other evidence.

And then everyone is thinking about what went wrong and who messed up.  And the fact that Sollecito’s DNA was found on the murdered girl’s bra clasp is forgotten in the tidle wave of scientific mess and finger pointing.  Meanwhile, the Italian court system is on summer break until September.  We’ll see then if the OJ defense does it again.

Sexual Deviant

I went to Whole Foods last night to get some food because our house was so bare that even the freezer was empty.  I grabbed two recyclable bags and shopped until my cart was full.  At the cash register I had a short, but smiley conversation with the woman in front of me; and then it was my turn.

I unloaded the cart and took my two bags to the end where I could start bagging.  One bag is green with wooden handles that says  ‘Goo chi’ on the front (the mother of an old boyfriend made it for me – it’s very cute) and the other bag is a plain, black sack with ‘Ralph’s’ written on one side in red.  I smiled at the clerk working the register and he smiled back.  I think we may have asked one another how our days were.  He was a young, Asian man about the same height as me who was wearing two t-shirts, jeans, and a baseball hat.  He grabbed the black bag as I grabbed the green one and we began divvying up the food.

And then he looked at me really weird.  In his hand was my milk, the first product to go inside the black bag, only it was paused just above the bag.  “Is there something in there?”  I asked.  Maybe I’d left a receipt or something from my last grocery trip.  The young man glanced several times from me to the bag and back again, his eyes burning into mine, searching for something.  “A piece of plastic, I think.”  He finally answered and I let it go.  Probably he just found one of those plastic safety rings they put on drinks.  No big deal.

The two minutes it took for us to bag up everything, he kept looking at me.  I told myself he was just being friendly and I looked like a friendly person.  I was having a good outfit day and for once, my hair was clean.  It was nothing more than that.  He didn’t give off a creepy vibe; in fact he was super nice, super friendly.  He gave me another smile and another one of his deep, meaningful glances…and then I was off.

At home I unloaded the green bag first and then the black bag.  And that’s when I saw it.  “Oh my God.”  I whispered alone in the kitchen.  I closed my eyes and shook my head in mortification.

In late-July my girlfriends threw me a fantastic bachelorette weekend-getaway in Newport Beach; Lido Island to be exact.  I guess we must have used the black Ralph’s bag to transport something because there was it,

shiny

and plastic

in all it’s pink glory.

A penis straw with veins and testicles and everything.

One of the few gag gifts from the bachelorette weekend.

No wonder he kept looking at me!  I went to the grocery store with a penis in my bag!  He probably thought I was coming on to him!

Oh God.  That man bagged my groceries and stared at a penis straw the entire time.

Note to self: check bags from now on so strangers don’t think I’m a sexual deviant.

A $19 Hotel Room for Nothing

The Rancho Bernardo Inn in San Diego is offering a new special.  They call it the ‘Survivor’ special.  For $19 you get a room with a light bulb in the bathroom and that’s it.  No bed, no sheets, no air conditioning, no minibar.  Heck, not even toilet paper is included.  You get the room, just the room, and nothing else…except for the tent where the bed used to be.

Vacationers are thrilled and have been packing up their sleeping bags and a few rolls of Charmin to take advantage of this ‘great opportunity.’  I know the economy is down, but what is so great about this opportunity?  A tent on a dirty hotel room floor?  No lights?  No toilet paper?  And you have to pay for this?

But alas, with a pool, a golf course, and a spa (which you’re going to need after sleeping on the ground all night), many people who couldn’t otherwise afford to go on vacation this year are getting the chance.  I guess their thought is so what?  Who cares if I’m packing my suitcase with tent poles and TP?  Or reading myself to sleep at night with a flashlight?  At least I’m out of the house.  And in the day time it won’t even matter because I’ll be playing golf or hanging with the kids by the pool.

For $39 the hotel will throw the back in and for $59, you’ll even get some sheets.  I guess for $20 I could pack my own sheets.  This seems like a better deal because I mean come on, no bed?

Swing Dancing: the Aerials Class

Yesterday, Sam and I participated in a two hour workshop on flying through the sky on the dance floor.  It began easily enough; the teachers asked us to warm up by running around the room in a circle counter-clockwise.  I looked down at my Lanvin ballet flats, my searsucker shorts, and my linen blouse.  No one had said anything about running, but I could do this.  There were about 10 other couples in the class and as I ran around the clock, I was lapped twice.  Even Sam left me at one point.  This was not a good sign.

The next step was to stand with your partner at a point on the circle.  We were going to learn the basic jump.  Besides Sam instructing me from the sidelines (I’m sorry, had he taken this class before?) it worked out pretty well.  The trick is to get your bottom really high up and to stick it as far as you can behind you.  I felt like a leap frog, but by god, my hiny stuck so far out it was practically it’s own new state.  I gave myself an A.

With this accomplished we moved on to the Sidecar.  Now for those of you not in the know, a Sidecar is when the gentleman picks up the lady whom he’s dancing with and swings her up into the air and over his left hip…up into the air again and over his right hip…and then finally up into the air and back onto the dance floor.  It’s an awesome move.  I was up!  I was flying!  I was over the left hip!  I was flying!  And then Sam dropped me and I crashed onto the floor like a bag of bricks.

Now I have no idea why I did this, but I jumped up with my arms held high.  “I’m okay, I’m okay.”  I shouted to the other dance couples.  (maybe I thought I was in a movie or something)  Turning around, I gave Sam the hairy eyeball.  “Sam!”  I whispered so that the other couples who didn’t drop each other couldn’t hear me.  “You dropped me!”  “I’m so sorry, honey.” He told me with a hug. “I guess I just haven’t been lifting enough weight at the gym.”

Heedless of my girth, we eventually mastered the sidecar and moved on to the last move of the day.  Some call it the Knickerbocker, others just the Bocker, but basically it’s a full backwards somersault in the air.  This was no ordinary flip.  First I had to get myself from in front of Sam to beside him, then we had to launch me up in the air backwards…over his arm…and back onto the ground behind him without breaking my neck.  Good American fun.  So the teacher split us up into groups of three couples and at first I was happy about it.  One of  the guys in my group I already knew from Thursday night dance class and he’s a very polite 30-something man who’s really into Japanese culture.  The other couple looked normal enough until the brunette started teaching us.  I looked at Sam who looked at me.  Oh boy.

You know those people who always have something to say because as far as they’re concerned they’re an expert on everything?  Yeah, she was one of those.  I pretty much ignored her although my claws peaked out once when she told me to stop throwing my head back.  It was like the tenth ‘helpful’ comment and I was done.  “I’m not throwing my head back.” I said smiling nicely. “I’m doing a backwards somersault four feet off the ground; my head’s just going to go backwards naturally.”  About a minute later the teacher came by and told her to stop tucking her neck.  I smiled to myself, but politely refrained from commenting.  Mostly I just felt bad for her poor boyfriend who she kept correcting and correcting and correcting.  How could he stand it?

I came home exhausted, sore, and exhausted, but happier than I’ve felt in a long time.  Sam and I laughed so much yesterday and were still laughing at 10:30pm last night.  And despite his numerous comments about how much his back hurt or how I must have strong, high-density bones, I know he had just as much fun as I did.