Sher-choc-olate chip?

I really hope one of Benedict Cumberbatch's friends or cousins or whatever bought this for him.

Because if there's a cookie cutter of your face, out there, on Etsy, I feel like you should own one.

And yes, I'm filing this under my "Baking" label.

My long national state nightmare is over.

Today I finally got my car, which I purchased in Pennsylvania, registered in Virginia.

It was a two-month saga that involved (and these are just the highlights):

1. Breaking down and crying on the phone with a PA DMV employee to the point where I frightened him,

2. Visiting the Virginia DMV six times and being given seven different instructions by eight separate employees (The seventh set of instructions were finally correct, and I can't even credit them to Virginia, since they came from the PA DMV guy that I frightened, and then I just ran them past the Virginia people and they were all, "Sounds good to us! I guess? We have no idea what we're doing!" or something like that.),

3. Being told by a Virginia DMV manager that I would have to return the car to PA and get my money back because I couldn't drive it in Virginia, and

4. Me going on a rant in Liz and Zack’s living room about how we need to abolish all state government. All of it!

Liz told me I was taking things too far, but I’m still not sure.

After all of that, the state of Virginia graciously allowed me to pay them an exorbitant amount in fees and sales tax. State sales tax.

Yeah.

The hilarious "head in a trash can" photo you didn't know you wanted.

So, today's perusal of foreign newspapers has yielded solid gold. And, I just realized that my description in the post title sounds a bit macabre, but fear not! The head is indeed attached to a body. A man in Aberdeen, Scotland (currently my favorite man in all of Scotland) got himself wedged into a trash can, or "rubbish bin" if you speak British.

Heaven bless whomever decided to memorialize this on film:

Head in a rubbish bin.

The best part of this photo is the person in the lower right corner, grasping his friend on the shoulder and pointing with great animation. That person is a kindred spirit to me.

I truly hope those are the kindest, most understanding firemen in Scotland. Happy Monday, everyone.

Never opine short of certainty.

It’s never enjoyable to have our own words thrown in our faces, but it’s fun to watch it happen to other people. Have a look. (Oh really, Mr. Khrushchev?)

“So unbelievably horrible, so appallingly unmusical, so dogmatically insensitive to the magic of the art, that they qualify as crowned heads of anti-music.”

—National Review founder William F. Buckley, on The Beatles, 1964

"Preempt Doris Day? Are you out of your mind?"

—CBS network president Bob Wood, rejecting an offer to air "Monday Night Football," 1970

“Tiger never does anything that would make him look ridiculous.”

—Golf Digest, asserting that Tiger Woods would make a fine role model for President Obama, 2010

“The concept is interesting and well-formed, but in order to earn better than a ‘C,’ the idea must be feasible.”

—A Yale University management professor, on a paper by Fred Smith proposing reliable overnight delivery service, 1960s. Smith went on to found FedEx in 1971.

“Reagan doesn’t have that presidential look.”

—United Artists executive, rejecting Ronald Reagan as a lead for the 1964 film The Best Man, a behind-the-scenes look at presidential campaigns

“The Japanese don’t make anything the people in the U.S. would want.”

—John Foster Dulles, U.S. Secretary of State, 1954

"Get rid of the pointed ears guy."

—NBC executive on the Mr. Spock character in the new series "Star Trek," 1966

"You’ve got to call yourself ‘Rock’ or ‘Jack’ or something. Anything as long as it’s not 'Elvis Presley.'"

—Rockabilly musician Ronnie Hawkins to Elvis Presley

"Of all the nations, [Germany] is probably the least corrupted by the lust of conquest...."

—Boston Daily Globe, 1901

"Nothing of importance happened today."

—King George III, in his diary, July 4, 1776

“We will bury you.”

—Nikita Khrushchev, premier of the Soviet Union, predicting that communism would triumph over U.S. capitalism, 1956

"I don’t need bodyguards."

—Union leader Jimmy Hoffa, one month before he disappeared in July, 1975

“To throw bombs from an airplane will do as much damage as throwing bags of flour. It will be my pleasure to stand on the bridge of any ship while it is attacked by airplanes.”

—Newton Baker, U.S. Minister of Defense, 1921

“And for the tourist who really wants to get away from it all, safaris in Vietnam."

—Newsweek magazine, predicting popular holidays for the late 1960s

All hideous opinions courtesy of the Bad Opinion Generator.

This cannot end well.

Check out this article from the New York Times. This has got to be the stupidest behavior I have ever encountered, and I have been to fraternity parties and read the entire Twilight series.

"The digital era has given rise to a more intimate custom. It has become fashionable for young people to express their affection for each other by sharing their passwords to e-mail, Facebook and other accounts."

Now serving complimentary crack rocks in the Super Bowl sky box.

"My husband cannot (bleeping) throw the ball and catch the ball at the same time. I can't believe they dropped the ball so many times."

-Giselle, apparently gunning for a spot on the SportsCenter team

  

[sarcasm] She is such a classy lady. [/sarcasm]

It's hard to be menacing when you're dressed like a Wonder Twin.

So tonight I finally sat down to watch a DVD Brian lent me, The Warriors. Brian loves this movie and has since he was a kid. And it is a movie with a huge cult following. However, Melis would describe this film by using word "crap" as every possible part of speech. I hesitate to comment on something that has been the lynchpin of disagreement in their marriage, but this cannot be ignored.

I actually really like the premise. This group of guys has to get from the Bronx to Coney Island (and that is a looong way, babies) with every gang in the city gunning for them. Good premise, lots of potential. The execution, though? Oh no. This film was written, directed, and most importantly costumed by someone who has absolutely no idea what the term "street gang" means.

The film opens with footage of various "gangs" making their way to the Bronx for a gang meeting. I sensed something was amiss when I saw the guys in the hot pink sequined vests, but my suspicions were confirmed by the appearance of a gang of mimes in white pancake make-up, suspenders, and top hats.

Take a moment and let that sink in.

The only thing missing were the little robot silhouettes at the bottom of the screen. Three minutes into the film and the director had already lost me.

But then! We see the gang conference, where approximately 179 gangs of 9 guys each have converged in the Bronx for a smorgasbord of costume delight. We have the gang in jaunty French striped boatneck shirts, the gang in skin-tight purple unitards with matching knit caps, and the gang who goes shirtless and wears porkpie hats. And let us not forget "the most powerful gang in the city." To flaunt their authority they choose to attire themselves in... flowing silk robes.

I have news for you, gentleman. The Bloods are going to kill you all.

Look, I am sympathetic to the poor woman who had to come up with dozens of individual types of gang attire for this scene, but the moment she gave me the face-painted dudes in the baseball uniforms and the guys in the sheepskin vests, I entered the realm of the ridiculous and there was no clawing my way back.

People, this is the type of thing I am dealing with:

You know you look ridiculous, right?

Indeed

So, I'm standing in line...

...at the Paratroopers at Idlewild today, and I hear a twelve-year-old boy tell a five-year-old boy, "You have to learn to act like a man, not a little boy."

Yeah.

Salsa!

You know how, if you're speaking to someone whose first language is not English, and he doesn't understand you, your instinct is to repeat yourself very slowly and very loudly? This always happens to me when I order takeout from Rey Azteca. When I order extra salsa (Which, how could you not? Their salsa is heaven in tomato form.) the guy on the phone always thinks I'm asking for flautas. So, the conversation, including the one I had today, goes thusly:

Ali: ...and a large salsa.
Rey Azteca guy: Flautas?
Ali: No. Salsa.
Rey Azteca guy: Flautas?
Ali: No. No flautas. SALSA!
Rey Azteca guy: Si. Flautas.
Ali: SALSA!

And, I thought, "How silly to repeat myself slowly and loudly as though that will magically translate my words into Spanish." And then I realized every word I was speaking, after the question of flautas came into the business, WAS Spanish. So, I really don't know what to do about that.

After some continued shouting, I got my salsa. And it was delicious, marvelous, totally worth the laryngitis.

Okay, seriously, what?

So, we went to Alexa and Maggie's recital tonight. I was in the ladies' room when an elderly woman approached me. She put her hand on my cheek and said the following words, which I cannot even believe now as I'm typing them:

"You look so cute. I just love little kids."

Then she walked out of the ladies' room and left me standing there with my mouth agape.

I just... what?

All aboard!

I was transferring my photos to the computer when I came across this shot and realized I hadn’t written about my stagecoach ride across the state last week.

So, you all know how my wretched deathtrap of a car broke down in Philly last week. So, after birthday/Oscar weekend, I caught I ride back with Linda, Giz, and Kris so I could pick up my car.

Picture it: I was sitting in the back seat behind Linda, and Kris was behind Giz. The sun was beating down pretty hard on me and Linda. I was trying to snooze and had rigged up my sweater in the back seat to shield me from the sun, but to little avail. Then Linda had a flash of brilliance. Linda keeps a sheet in the car as a blanket/sunshield and she decided to hang up her sheet along the side of the car and create a sunshade for us both. But instead of telling anyone her idea, she just decided to put it in motion.

She lowered her window a bit and fed a little of the sheet out, but the wind created by a car speeding down the Turnpike is enough to make mincemeat of even the sturdiest bed linens. A several feet of sheet flew out and up like a kite as Linda held on to the remaining end of the sheet. Kris and I heard Giz shriek in astonishment and we snapped awake in time to see a billow of white protrude from the passenger’s side window. The people in the car in the next lane must have thought we were deranged. Linda scrambled to pull the sheet back in and when the four of us stopped laughing hysterically, we were able to create a serviceable sunshade:


From the outside, it must have looked like a stagecoach, but from the inside it was wonderfully shady.

Decorating = out of hand?

No need for lamps. I now light my apartment entirely with Christmas lights. Except the bathroom. I do have some limits.

I wonder how they'd look in the bathroom...

I wear the cheese, it does not wear me.

Last night I dreamt that a giraffe got loose from the zoo, got onto my enclosed porch, and trashed it. Flower vases smashed, chrysanthemums eaten, ceramic garden stool tossed to the wind, and my Nikon D40, with lenses, totally smooshed.

What did I take away from this? I feel like an irresponsible camera owner who left her D40 out in the path of maniacal giraffes. I'm certain James will chastise me.

Look out. I think Walsingham just shivved Sir Robert Dudley.

So, much of the family is in NYC for the aunts' annual theater trip. They and whoever else take a day trip to the city, see a couple of shows, and eat at John's or Junior's or both. Good times.

Well, Melis and Kris called me from West 44th to tell me that they had just walked out on a play. Mary Stuart. Apparently it was appallingly boring and the man next to them fell asleep 3 minutes after the curtain rose. At one point, there was a soundtrack of applause onstage and he jolted awake and began to clap, thinking it was the end of the first act. That was the most entertaining thing to happen in the Broadhurst Theater this evening.

Kris was also concerned about historical inaccuracies, including costumes such as three-piece suits for the men (keep in mind this is the 16th century) and a polka-dot dress for Queen Elizabeth. They expressed hope that things would improve in the second act for the people they left behind, but that's unlikely since my perusings online show a man in a leather jacket having a switchblade fight in Act 2. That's Act 2 of a play set in the 16th century, in case you weren't paying attention before.

For pity's sake.

I had wanted to see this play, but since I can't take the historical inaccuracies of The Tudors, a show that actually bothers to use jerkins and doublets, I doubt I could have endured this.

Did I tell you my friend is kind of famous?

You know how I went with some people to Denny's Beer Barrel Pub to watch them try to eat some ginormous burgers? And then how I went again with some other people? And both times everyone failed to complete the (absurd) task? Well, third time's the charm, because I finally got to see my friend Aubrey shove a two-pound burger into his stomach in 59 minutes, just one minute under the time limit.

I'm not going to lie, it was pretty gross. But that's the price of fame and rewards like a certificate and a t-shirt and a mention on the Beer Barrel website My friend is pictured in the third shot, labeled Mr. Slim.

Kristen, look away!

Guess who I'm having breakfast with tomorrow.

This guy:


Prayers for my sanity are greatly appreciated.

I think the pressures of the recession have caused the Showtime advertising staff to start smoking crack.

Okay, so this is the poster for the new season of The Tudors. Can somone please explain to me why Jonathan Rhys Meyers appears to be sitting on a throne of naked people? That's ridiculous all on its own, but let's also remember that this is season three. The Jane Seymour season. Jane Seymour was rather conservative. Jane Seymour was so conservative that she limited the actual number of pearls her courtiers could wear on their persons. She didn't want people getting all flashy with the pearls. She was Tudor England's version of Martha Stewart, if Martha Stewart had shunned the decorative arts and entered a nunnery. Jane Seymour would have been mortified by this picture.

Seriously, ad people, why is he SITTING on a throne of naked bodies?

Freeze, drop the pantry, and put your hands in the air.

So, I love my new apartment, but the kitchen is tiny. Seriously tiny. It gets fabulous light, though, so I forgive it. The point is, I needed some more storage. Yes, I know I don’t cook, but a girl’s got to be able to keep a box of cereal and a bag of Swedish Fish on hand, and my cupboards are not tall enough to accommodate anything taller than Grape Nuts. And I cannot live on Grape Nuts alone. I can’t. I won’t.

So I spotted this adorable red pantry cabinet at JC Penney and snapped it up on an awesome sale. Check it out:



As I was checking out, the salesgirl regaled me with a tale that was both incredible and hilarious. The floor model, she told me, had just been put together that day, because the previous floor model had been stolen in broad daylight. Well, broad fluorescent light. Some dude had picked the entire thing up (and this thing is not light – I could barely even lift it) and run, yes run, right out of the store, into the mall, and outside before anyone could stop him (I know!) and is currently at large with the pilfered pantry. Is it Greek Week? This is so ridiculous. If you wanted to steal something pricey and kitchen-related, surely you’d have an easier time with a KitchenAid. This pantry is more than five feet tall!

I only wish I could have seen him rush by me, huffing and puffing under the weight of a 64 inch, solid wood, glass-fronted pantry cabinet with three saleswomen and Mall Security personnel in hot pursuit. I can’t imagine I’d have gotten my camera out in time, but it would have been a sight to see.

Apparently now is the time to start my crime spree.

I have shallow fingerprints. I found this out today. I had to have my fingerprints scanned at work for reasons that are boring and long, but the upshot is that none of them scanned satisfactorily. The bare minimum is a 60% scan. I got 40% on one thumb and 20% on the rest of my digits. I was sent away in shame. Or something.

So, I guess I can handle murder weapons all I want and touch crime scenes with reckless abandon. Freedom!