( more beneath the cut tag )

We're fine--we still have no power, but we do have water and gas service. I'm picking up a connection from a closed Starbucks at the moment. There was no damage to our house, but the yard got beaten up; we lost one tree, but thankfully it fell in towards the yard instead of on top of the fence it was next to. We currently aren't getting estimates for when power will be restored. Thank goodness it actually cooled down today!

from ubiquity75: Rush plays the Rock Band version of "Tom Sawyer" backstage at the Colbert Report

I can't play that song on expert, either.

Our motto here at Half-Assed Housekeeping Headquarters: It's not about doing it better--it's about feeling better about not doing it.

You've probably heard of Flylady by now. I tried not to comment when she was taking the Internet by storm, because I realize many people have found her advice genuinely helpful, and far be it from me to impose my cynicism on a cult of devotees who have are happier and more well-adjusted at the hands of Flylady's domestic ministry.

But screw it. I'll do it anyway. From Flylady's site:

Today I want you get up and get dressed to lace up shoes when you first get up in the morning. This means fix your hair and face too.

In order for us to change ourselves we need to remind ourselves of what we are doing. I did this with yellow sticky notes throughout my home to guide me through my day. This was the beginning of my home control journal. I had little notes on my bathroom mirror to remind me to get dressed to shoes. When you see the many reminders in your inbox from Yahoo; just think of them as yellow sticky notes. You don’t have to do them yet; they are just there as a little reminder. Read the subject line and you will be absorbing the flow of them. Do not allow those voices in your head to say this can’t possibly work with so many emails. Then when you hear those voices say I don’t have time, Set a timer for 2 minutes and just read a little and then delete at will.

First of all: "lace up shoes"? When I get angry, will Flylady tell me to "use my words"? Before I call a friend to see if she wants to go get cocktails, am I supposed to request a "play date"? ("Here's your ginny-winny pooh and tonic, with less edgy, more suburban bitters.")

If you don't have "lace up shoes," you're supposed to go out and buy a pair. It's the uniform. And before any of you say, "You know, the lace up shoes truly do help," it doesn't matter whether or not they help. If you follow my guide, you might not get shit done, but you'll fail to be productive with dignity.

Second: the email deluge. "Read the subject line and you will be absorbing the flow of them. Do not allow those voices in your head to say this can't possibly work with so many emails." Sweetie, "absorbing the flow" of my subject lines could very well lead to a portfolio of worthless penny stocks, a stack of 56 Gevalia coffee makers, and exposure to potentially dangerous bodily fluids. The only time I've ever found spam a motivational tool was when I was inspired to make Spam-Fried Rice.

So, with it established that this guide is not for anyone who harbors tender feelings for Flylady, here it is:

You should let things get dirty before you clean them.
I'm not advising anyone to let their house get to the point where it could be featured on Kim and Aggie's How Clean is Your House? This is about being half-assed, not slovenly. However, if you're dusting before you see any dust, vacuuming before you see any dirt, or scrubbing tubs you never use just because it seems like time to scrub the tubs, you are over-exerting yourself. When tufts of pet hair begin to merge into pets in their own right, that's your cue to begin the process of "cleaning consideration."

Buy a decent vacuum. Indulging in too much cleaning consideration, which you will undoubtedly do from time to time, chokes cheap vacuums.

Avoid buying or renting more space than you need. My house in Orange county was just under 1200 square feet. My house in Texas is around 3100 square feet. You know what the difference is when you have visitors coming and have long ago added Flylady's emails to your spam filter? A whole fucking day.

Cultivate the type of personality that strongly discourages drop-in guests. Drop-in guests are the bane of half-assed housekeepers. Maybe such guests are normal where you live, but I used to live in Los Angeles, where it can take an hour to get to anybody's house, even if they live six blocks away. I liked it that way. Travel time encourages guests to plan. If they insist on not planning, answer your door in your bathrobe (put it on over your real clothes if you have to) at 4pm enough times and people will begin to get the point.

Lace up shoes, incidentally, are terrible for discouraging drop-in guests. They know you're ready for anything if you're wearing lace up shoes. I mean, hell, you tied a bow.

Never actually start any of the projects you see featured on HGTV or the DIY Network. Come on, now. You know you're going to half-ass it. You'll get one hour into ripping up some vinyl flooring, you'll say to yourself, "You know what sucks? This sucks," and you'll find yourself thinking about just slapping the old, ripped up flooring back down and pasting some new flooring over it--probably with a Glue Stick you stole from your kid's school supply box, because you can't be bothered to go to Home Depot for construction-grade adhesive. Think of HGTV and DIY Network shows as nature programs, full of strange, exotic beings engaging in activities you don't see much around your parts. Lisa LaPorta has boundless energy and a talented crew. You have a limited supply of Diet Coke and sketchy instructions from some website that still uses yellow text on a red background.

I'm sure the guide at this point is incomplete, but man, I sure could use a nap. I didn't need to tell you that in a pinch, a dishwasher can be used for general storage, did I?

Nah. You knew.

My effort to avoid running through my Ambien stash too quickly has left me awake so long that I think I'll just start on caffeine now and ride the wave until it crashes.

In better news, I've started re-reading L. Frank Baum's Oz series, because it's been maybe 25 years since I last read the books, and I loved them the first time. Then again, I was 10 or 11. My judgment was probably suspect.

One of the things I love about the Internet is it puts me in touch with people--like some of you--who would actually be capable of pulling off these Balenciaga "Lego" shoes if you were so inclined:



These ones from Chanel? It's a wee bit more difficult to figure out the target customer, especially since they're from a "resort" collection, but it really wouldn't be wise to wear these little numbers to the airport on your way to a resort. Or to pack them in your suitcase, for that matter. So far, all I've come up with is Bond Girls, miscellaneous femme nikitas, and Inspector Gadget's dominatrix (you know that dude's a bottom).

A few years ago, some friends and I had a conversation about the worst possible jobs we could have. Here are the rules: you can't consider things that are obviously totally unsuitable for you--for me, for example, I'm not even considering jobs involving heavy manual labor, slaughterhouses, or anything that's ever been featured on "Dirty Jobs." If you're the kind of person who's more suited to heavy manual labor, you might not put any standard office jobs on your list.

Here are the top three jobs I would kill not to have:

1. Mosquito "Surveillance Specialist" - Take a look at the article in that link, particularly this excerpt: "To measure the problem, the control board dispatched inspectors and 'surveillance specialists' to stand like scarecrows beneath trees and wait for 60 seconds. Then, each inspector and specialist counted the number of mosquitoes that landed on their body... Anything more than 25 landings every 60 seconds is considered bad; some inspectors reported rates exceeding 100 landings a minute."

If I ever made it to the first day of that job, you can bet I'd be wondering if they'd pro-rate me 30 seconds of work before I took off, never to return.

2. Wedding or Party Planner - I'm honestly surprised we don't see more stories of wedding planners going on rampages. Dealing with people who are capable of sobbing if the flowers don't perfectly match their mother's dress, with people who insist on fried chicken at the reception and then wonder why it isn't crispy after steaming in the buffet, with people who insist that all their bridesmaids look, smell, dress, and smile the same (it wouldn't shock me to see a trend in Botox injections and teeth whitening for wedding parties): it's not for me.

Throw in 100k-plus sweet sixteen parties or bat mitzvahs on the side, and you might as well stick a fork in me.

3. Air Traffic Controller - Too much stress. Probably not the best job for someone with chronic insomnia, or for someone who occasionally enjoys playing Grand Theft Auto. Also, Pushing Tin was terrible.

What would be the worst jobs for you?

So, jury duty last week: I showed up at 8:30 am and found that parking was going to be a gigantic clusterhump. The lot marked "jurors" had about 20 spots, and I later found out that a good 400 of us had been called in for the various trials beginning that week; I ended up having to park a good six blocks away. Once I got into the jury assembly building, I snagged a folding chair, but many of the people who came in later than I did had to stand. I looked around and noticed Moses Malone had been called in to report for jury duty as well.

The unfortunate folks without chairs had to stand a good two hours, since that's how long it took for preliminary instructions to be given, for last-minute excuses to be asked for and granted (or not granted), and for a "you're-doing-your-duty-as-a-citizen" video to be shown--which about a third of us couldn't see, because our folding chairs were wrapped around into a second room, and it wasn't the room where the video was playing.

I was put into a pool of 67 people for the 400th district court. After waiting in the hallway outside the courtroom for another hour or so, they began calling us by name, handing us numbered placards, and telling us where to sit. I was number 56, which sounded promising to me until I noticed my seat was in the actual jury box, and I wondered briefly if that was a bad sign. At least those seats were big, cushy leather ones. By the time all 67 of us had been seated, it was about 11:30, and we all thought we were finally going to get started. Nope! The judge told us we were going to have an hour and a half for lunch, and we needed to meet back at the courtroom at 1:00. One guy asked the bailiff if he could have cocktails with his meal.

After the exceptionally long lunch break in an area that has little to offer in the way of lunch, we all reassembled and took the seats we had been assigned. We were then informed we needed to hand in our placards and go back out into the hall, because they had assigned us all new numbers. This time, I got number 44.

Finally, the lawyers began the voir dire (judge: "or voy dyer, as we say here in Texas"). It was a felony case: the defendant was being charged with one count of aggravated assault with a deadly weapon and with one count of possession of a controlled substance. The prosecutor began; his questions centered mainly around issues like:

- the difference between "assault" and "aggravated assault," and what "deadly weapon" can mean
- whether or not the jury would trust a cop as a witness more than they would trust testimony from a layman
- whether or not the jury members had any biases that would require them to hear from multiple witnesses before they could vote to convict, when the law only required one witness
- whether or not the jury had any biases in drug cases

The last one was where it got interesting: the prosecutor asked if any of us thought drugs should be legalized. Juror #12, who I knew from standing next to him in the hallway was doing his best to get out of serving, said, "I'll bite: I bet a whole lot of us here have smoked pot."

"No, no, I'm talking about serious drugs: methamphetamines, heroin, cocaine," replied the attorney. He then gave a little cough and added, "Not that marijuana isn't serious."

The attorney for the defense eventually took over, and her questions centered around issues like:

- whether or not the defendant's status as a "resident legal alien" would affect anyone's judgment. When someone asked what exactly a "resident legal alien" was, she either couldn't or just didn't answer the question. In effect, her failure to define the term convinced a number of the potential jurors that the defendant was here illegally, as some of them later told me in the hall. Way to go, lady.
- whether or not the fact that the defendant was more comfortable speaking Spanish than speaking English and was choosing to use an interpreter would have any effect on our judgment. "Well, how good is his English?" one person asked. Another chimed in with, "And how long has he been here?" This went on for a while. I kept my mouth shut but couldn't help but sigh loudly once or twice.
- whether or not any of us had two boys, and whether or not we thought it was normal for brothers near the same age to share clothes. ("Good lord, tell me that's not all she's got," I thought.)

After she wrapped up her round, they made the actual jury selection: it was to be most of the people from spots one to fifteen, with a few exceptions. Juror #12 had successfully been enough of a gadfly to get himself deselected.

I left with the impression that, while I didn't get impaneled to hear any actual evidence, the defendant was probably in pretty grim shape. I'll have to look up the case soon to see if I can find out what kind of verdict the jury reached.

Jury duty tomorrow--crazy early, of course. Gah. I have absolutely no legitimate excuse to get out of it. Can I hire one of you to go for me?

The wife of one of Jeff's coworkers apparently is trying to give away a tiny black kitten with blue eyes. We don't actually want another cat. (Do I want another cat?) Poor Leo's cranky enough in his old age. We don't want another cat. (But it's a tiny black kitty with blue eyes!)

The coworker apparently has a well-developed sucker detector and knows a soft "no" when he hears one, so he's having his wife email me pictures of the kitty. I'm going to try to tell myself I really don't need to spend more time than I already do scooping cat poop.

In other news, this guy loves to hang out by a creeping vine we have on a lattice outside. I've named him Lizard Borden.

My early adulthood memories suffered a blow last night when, in a fit of insomnia, I changed channels until I settled on this movie and realized it's possible--for only a brief time, but it's possible--to mistake River Phoenix for Kevin Bacon. My memories were further battered when I had been watching the movie for a while and realized it was possible to think, "Holy crap, River Phoenix is being out-acted by Dermot Mulroney."

Because I started reading her blog well after she made this post, but I stumbled across it and it's cool: Jaden from Steamy Kitchen's guide to making cheap cuts of meat more tender. She focuses on steak, but according to the commenters, this works with other meats, too.

Also: you know how sometimes you see something, decide you want it even though it's not at all a practical purchase and you know you won't buy it, and then you think about it at least once a day for weeks? That is my situation with this bed.

Poll #1169349 burn it
Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: All

If you're a woman, how often do you wear a bra while you're at home and not entertaining guests?

No pubic hair? No problem! They'll wax your 8 year-old's bikini line anyway.

You know what's not right? This.

Hey, banshee! Remember the big flap about using canned or boxed chicken stock in cooking? This argument is just as good (here's where it heats up.)

I didn't know it was possible to be such a wanker about bread.

Before:



This is actually a photo from the real estate listing before we bought our house.

( not quite complete, but you'll get the idea )

Jeff's mom left today after a nice visit; his sister a couple of days ago. While they were here, we made:

- chicken and cheese enchiladas
- mixed green, feta, and kalamata salad
- homemade ice cream topped with watermelon and raspberries
- pancetta-wrapped pork loin
- potatoes au gratin
- roasted asparagus
- pasta with sun-dried tomatoes, Italian sausage, and kalamatas
- grilled Mahi-mahi
- coffee cake
- fish tacos from the leftover Mahi-mahi
- rotisserie chicken with homemade barbecue sauce
- cornbread
- orzo with brown butter and cinnamon
- crab cakes
- bacon-wrapped jalapeño thingies
- gemelli with artichokes, feta, and capers

I think I need a walk. Or twelve.

After some investigatory journalism, I have figured out what became of the Nelson Twins.



They are currently out to pasture but are very much looking forward to stud season.

The normally ultra-tactful Tim Gunn was recently interviewed in the Chicago Tribune, and apparently, he thinks Victorya is a hose beast. Why the producers didn't edit more of her behavior into the show, I have no idea. When a reality TV contestant brings the crazy, don't people want to see the crazy?

MR: Wasn’t [Jack] in the hospital for a week?

TG: “Yes, a week on an IV drip. And frankly, we needed to exit him through a story line. He was there about a day too long. Victorya in particular was so hysterical with me and with the producers, [saying] ‘What are you doing to him? He should stay.’ It’s like, ‘You know something, he should be in the hospital right now. Stop it, and stop being so selfish.’”

MR: I don’t really understand why she was so upset. Can you explain that to me?

TG: “She was sourpuss, a crabby apple as I keep saying, throughout almost all the show, other than Days 1, 2 and 3. She became this sour pill. Rich Bye, one of the executive producers, and I had two off camera interventions with her. I said to her, ‘You know what makes me beside myself is the fact that there are thousands of designers who would love to be in your place. What’s the matter with you?’

( there's more! )

It seems I wasn't the only one yesterday who saw more people waiting in the Democrat line than the Republican line. The numbers I'm seeing from the New York Times Election Results page are fascinating, particularly in a state that is well known for voting Republican. Obama and Clinton each got more votes in the Texas primary than did McCain and Huckabee combined.

It was also entertaining to hear some men on the news making fun of George W. Bush last night. Their conversation went something like this:

"He likes to push something around with a tractor every once in a while, set some brush on fire, and call himself a Texas rancher," one observed.

"I hear he's afraid of horses," another man said in agreement. "He doesn't want to go near them. Helluva cowboy, afraid of horses, eh?"

A third man summed it up: "Yup. All hat and no cattle."

The polls aren't closed quite yet, but I can tell you that during the after-work voting rush, the line for the registered Democrats at my polling place was a good five times as long as the line for the Republicans.

Some kid just came to the door and asked me "if my mom or dad was home."

Bwahahahahaha

Potential Darwin Award winner as seen by Jeff's coworker on Highway 59:





The kicker? The guy was talking on his cell phone, too.

1. Pick 10 of your favorite movies.
2. Go to IMDb and find a quote from each movie.
3. Post them here for everyone to guess.
4. Strike it out when someone guesses correctly, and put who guessed it and the movie.
5. Looking them up is cheating, please don't.


1. Also, you'll find a pair of safety glasses and some earplugs under your seats. Please feel free to use them. ubiquity75: Rushmore

2. Our apartment was so small that mother made me play in the oven. Late at night I would listen to the voices of the American masters: Tony Tennille, Debby Boone, Anne Murray--who was actually a Canadian working in the American idiom. And then there were the crypto-homo rockers: Lou Reed, Iggy Pop, David Bowie--who was actually an idiom working in America and Canada. syz and seamusd: Hedwig and the Angry Inch

3. The Computer Dating Service offers you at least three dates on the initial investment. They screen out the fat and ugly, so it is obviously a firm of high standards. rabbitlight: Harold and Maude

4. Writers come and go; we always need Indians! deadflowers and sweet_byrd: Barton Fink

5. And the Man ruined the ozone, he's burning down the Amazon, and he kidnapped Shamu and put her in a chlorine tank! And there used to be a way to stick it to the Man. It was called rock 'n roll, but guess what, oh no, the Man ruined that, too, with a little thing called MTV! alchemi: School of Rock

6. Chinaman is not the preferred nomenclature. Asian-American, please. seamusd: The Big Lebowski

7. Bloody typical, they've gone back to metric without telling us. rabbitlight: Brazil

8. In ancient times, hundreds of years before the dawn of history, an ancient race of people... the Druids. No one knows who they were or what they were doing... hodsthorn, syz, and seamusd: This is Spinal Tap

9. I'm sorry, Bruce. These boys get that syrup in 'em, they get all antsy in their pantsy. lexophile: Super Troopers

10. Jack, please, I'm only an elected official here; I can't make decisions by myself! hodsthorn: The Nightmare Before Christmas