Martha wants to eat your baby!

I have this love/fear relationship with Martha Stewart. For example, I love her magazine, but I would be terrified to have dinner with her. (I’m certain she’d yell at me for my salt intake or my Sally Albright-like requests for extra ice in my Coke.) A recent article on her website about costume ideas for babies is a perfect example of my joy tempered with terror in all things Martha. There are some lovely photos with sweet lambs:


...and adorable chickens:


But eventually it all devolves into cannibalism:


That? Is horrifying! Martha wants to eat your baby like a turkey! Or bake him into a pie:


And let’s not forget succulent baby lobster:


At one point, didn’t the photographer have to ask himself, "Why am I putting so many babies on plates today?" And I imagine Martha saw his look of uncertainty, and pulled out her whip. An exquisite, hand-woven whip made of stingray leather and trimmed in ostrich feathers to be sure, but a whip nonetheless. Terrifying!

Now I had this post all typed up and ready to go, and then this evening at dinner two of my closest friends informed me that they bought a lobster costume for their infant son and were planning to take his photo as he sat in a stock pot. Hopefully, they will not read this blog and hopefully no one (I’m not naming any names, Chris) will tell them about it. I adore them and their son, but that photo is going to Wig. Me. Out.

A positively perfect day

My friend Melissa recently fulfilled her dream of moving to Arizona. Before she left, she tried to fit in all the things in Pennsylvania that she had never gotten around to doing. This made me think of the times I was working in New York City and all the New York natives told me that I had seen more of their city than they had in all the years they lived there. Unfortunately, we rarely spend much time exploring our own hometowns. This inspired me to have a Pennsylvania Renaissance. I’m going to act like a tourist in my own hometown. I already watched someone eat three pounds of beef in Clearfield, so a visit to Frank Lloyd Wright’s world-famous masterpiece seemed in order. On Friday I went to Fallingwater.


The BBC’s Elizabeth Bennet may have said of Pemberley, “I have never seen a place so happily situated,” but had she lived long enough (or at all) to see Fallingwater, Mr. Darcy’s home would have fallen in her estimation.


Fallingwater is cantilevered over a waterfall, which runs underneath the house, its boulders being worked into the home’s design, forming a hearth in the living room, a shelf in the kitchen, and the foundation upon which the building rests. The house is not my style at all; it’s all low ceilings and straight lines and steel and concrete. But the way in which it’s put together, the genius of its design, the loving care taken to incorporate it into its surroundings, almost made me cry. Its beauty defies description. In the words of little Miss Maggie, “Oh, I could live here.”


All that touring made me hungry. My perfect lunch consisted of the most delicious tuna salad I’ve ever tasted, served on mushroom bread, with a side of cole slaw, a frosty fountain soda, and a gob (which was wrapped up and eaten later – that sandwich was huge!) I love museum café food. It’s almost always great.


I ate this on the café deck, listening to BeeGees music on my iPod, and enjoying this view:


On the way home, I listened to the Cousin Road Trip CD, and relished the natural beauty surrouding me. The road between my house and Fallingwater is all gentle curves and hills winding through sun dappled meadows and fiery autumn trees and sparkling streams. It made me so thankful for a western PA autumn.




Inspired by Liz and Zack, I stopped at a pumpkin stand:




A perfect Pennsylvania day.

My team is as shallow as Paris Hilton

I am doing shockingly, particularly well in Fantasy Football. I have had the overall top score for three of the five weeks we played. And you know what? I think I figured out why. Listen up, people, because here is the secret for a winning FF team: no depth on the bench. No depth on the bench. That’s all there is to it.

I discovered this when I looked at Jonesy’s bench this week and saw a mortifying 95 points there (more than his starting lineup actually scored), including 32 points from DeAngelo Williams alone. This has happened to many of my fellow players, but not to me. My bench never scores high. And that’s when I realized it: I have nobody good on my bench, therefore I have no real decisions to make for my lineup, therefore I avoid all that tinkering that can end up biting you in the butt.

Now, if some of my starters get injured, I am screwed but good; but if they can just stay healthy, I can continue to avoid making any decisions at all, aside from the ones I made on draft day. And there it is ladies and gentlemen: no backups, no handcuffs, nothing that can insure you from total disaster in the event you are “Tom Brady-ed.” I may be one snapped hamstring away from complete annihilation, but that’s the way I play.

Now please, for the love of decency, pray for my hamstrings!

Burgers the size of your head

Last night was the great burger challenge at Denny's Beer Barrel Pub.

Chris got the two-pound challenge burger:


And "Mr. Slim" got the amazing three-pounder:


We spectators cheered the competitors on with silver pom-pons and lots of enthusiam. Alas, it was not enough. Chris ate about half of his burger before posing for a photo with a big loser symbol on his forehead. Mr. Slim came so close, finishing all the meat, but being undone by the mustard and relish-soaked bottom bun which was covered in raw onions.

However, much like General MacArthur on the Philippine shores, he vows to return one day for his ultimate triumph. I can't wait to go back myself. I tried deep fried pickles (so ridiculously delicious!) and a good time was had by all.

On the menu for tonight...

I am going to Clearfield, Pennsylvania, to watch two of my friends consume a two-pound hamburger and a three-pound hamburger, respectively. Amanda, you know all I will be thinking is, "Big bear chase me!"

I cannot wait.

Quotations from a Scrabble game...

I would like to preface this by saying, in my defense, that it was incredibly late when we were playing Scrabble this past weekend.

Me: Is B-E a word?
Aunt Linda: V-E?
Me: B-E.
My mom: Like, “be”?
(pause)
Me: I am so tired!

Later…
Aunt Linda: "Is B-E a word?" Heh. My goal in life is to never say anything that stupid.
My mom: You’re setting your sights high saying it’s your goal for life. It’s your goal for tomorrow, maybe.

Umm... what?

I got a piece of Viagra spam today, subject line: "New Outdoor Collection!"

Yeah, I don't get it.