Warm Me Up

Hi ya, World,

Man in Black recently contacted me to let me know in no uncertain terms that I am in violation of my blog probation. He's an ass. He thinks those ray bans make him look cool but he is wrong. They make him look like an ass. Which he is.

But that's not why I've gathered you here today.

For Christmas, I gave TWLITB a new parka. And not just any parka, no. For TWLITB, because I heart him so much, I sought out the warmest coat that Lands End claims to sell, and I bought it. This is what it looks like.

Nice, right?

But because his father and I are not the world's most effective communicators, he also received a coat from his Dad. Now, Dad's coat was nice-it was. I'll concede that. Sort of a fleece lined canvas army-inspired job. It was sharp. It wasn't the Warmest Coat Lands End Sells.


You can probably guess where this is going. He loved the coat his Dad gave him and refused to wear The Warmest Coat Lands End Sells. The hell? This was distressing to me. I need to know that my kids are warm. It is a deep-seated need. And this fashion over function bull, I'm just not buying it.

The coat sat around through a snow storm or two and I hoped that freezing temps would drive him to wear it. Well, that and repeatedly being sent out to shovel the driveway. But that did not happen.

It was time to return the coat.

First, just for kicks, I tried the coat on. And it fit. And it was the warmest. coat. ever.

I began to covet the coat. Like many Moms, I am loathe to spend lots of money on warm outerwear for myself. I admired the coat from afar, but still fully intended to return it. The coat and I exchanged meaningful glances over the next few days, but nothing happened.

Enter R. A couple days a week, R takes the public bus to her classes. To get there, she has to catch one bus from our neighborhood to downtown, where she waits outside for 20 minutes, and then catches another bus from there, back past our neighborhood, and to her school. The whole trip takes about an hour and half of that is spent outside. R is always cold. She complains non-stop about how cold she is. An idea began to take root. Maybe I couldn't keep TWLITB warm, but R clearly was in need of The Warmest Coat Lands End Sells.

She wouldn't wear it either.

That's when I said to myself, "Screw you ungrateful ingrates, I'm wearing the warm coat. That's right. I'm keeping it, I'm wearing it, and I'm going to be warm. I'm in love with this coat.  I want to marry this coat and have warm coat babies.".

I enjoyed a few super cozy days with my new coat. We were inseparable. In an email exchange with GG, during which I expressed my dismay that my children would rather freeze than wear the Warm Coat, and my delight in my new smoking hot relationship with the Warm Coat, GG suggested a song & dance routine I could use to taunt my children the next time they complained about winter and all its frosty coldness.

Sing it with me: (to the tune of Don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like me)

Dontcha wish your body was warm like me?
Dontcha? Dontcha?
Dontcha wish you had a nice coat like me?
Dontcha? Dontcha?

Can't you just picture the video?

So anyway, along about 10 pm a couple of nights later, I went to pick R up from her evening class. I was wearing my new coat. She climbed into the car and said, "Brrr. I'm freezing. I should have worn the coat. You were right."

Wait. Could you repeat that? I was right?

Cue the music.

Oh yes, I did. Right then and there, in my new coat, I did my best Beyonce' imitation. It was hot. And not just because of the coat.

Fast forward a week. Suddenly, whenever I go to the closet to grab MY Warm Coat, it is not there. We seem to have a loosely formed Society of the Warm Coat situation going on. I did not authorize this community of sharingness! I oppose this regime.  However, like Mubarek, I've been outnumbered. The Youth have revolted.

R decided that being warm trumps looking hot. Her interest in the coat caused TWLITB to see the Warm Coat in a new light. A cooler light. "Wait", I imagine TWLITB thinking, "maybe an expedition-style, fur lined hood IS cool...maybe it is just as cool as the Russian-style fur hat I ordered over the internet and spent all my Christmas money on and lost within two weeks." "Maybe", thinks TWLITB, "I'd like to wear that Warm Coat".

And just like that, I'm sharing my warm coat with my fickle children. I'm not sure how I feel about that. Other than cold.

Chicken out (in the cold)

this photo has nothing to do with my post.  It came up when I googled "Society of the Shared Coat" and I thought it was funny.  

Chicken Soup....

Hi World,


Judging by the scarce comments on my last post, some of us aren't comfortable discussing celebrity porn. Fair enough. I feel the same exact way about the apocalypse according to the Mayan calendar, accidents involving chain saws, and Piers Morgan. There are just some subjects that do not need to be discussed in polite company.

If we're not going to talk about celebrity porn, however, I thought we could maybe discuss another subject near and dear to my heart. Food.

I love food. I especially love how eating it keeps me and my loved ones alive. On the rare occasion, I even enjoy the process of making it. Truthfully, I'd much rather you made it. And while you are chopping, I'm happy to regal you with stories and entertain you with my sparkling fresh wit. Note: Usually I am more sparkling when offered a steady stream of wine.

To a point.

But alas, other people cooking for me doesn't happen all that often. It could be that I am not nearly as witty or sparkling as I think I am. And since the people I live with do not cook, if anything remotely nourishing is going to be consumed by my family, I'm going to have to make it.

Wednesday was a snow day for many of us in Rhode Island. Any day starting with three feet of snow calls for soup, don't you think? In fact, I think Einstein observed that and proved it mathematically during his Whole Food years (you can file that under things I made up that could be true).

Anyway, so Einstein likes soup, I like soup, and men and little boys who have been out shoveling snow for hours really like soup. I scrounged around in the fridge to see what I could come up with and the result was this quick, hearty and tasty, hamburger soup.

I started with a basic internet recipe and played with it based on what I had available. I think the result is probably much better than that generic recipe. At least that's my story and I'm sticking to it. Just like this soup will, er, stick to your ribs.

That was lame. I know. I'm no Rachel Ray.

CHICKEN'S HAMBURGER SOUP:
2 lbs of the leanest burger you can find
2 cups chopped onion
1 cup chopped celery
1 cup chopped carrots
4 garlic cloves, finely chopped
2 cups chopped tomato or one can diced tomato
8 cups Chix broth (or homade broth if you are ambitious)
salt and pepper to taste
1/4 cup butter
2 Tbsp steak sauce, chimichurri, or worcestershire sauce
Finely chopped parsley if you have it

In a soup pot, brown the meat with onion, celery, carrots and garlic. Once browned, add broth, steak sauce and tomatoes. Bring to a boil and simmer for 15-20 minutes. Add salt and pepper to taste. Turn off heat, stir in butter, sprinkle with parsley and call yo' men to the table.

Have a great long weekend, World. Enjoy the soup. Chicken likes this new image as nurturer. It is not as exciting as being a porn pusher, but it is maybe time to grow up anyway. We can't all be Hugh Hefner.

Maybe I'll learn to make candles or some crafty thing out of dryer lint over the weekend, and I can share that with you on Monday. You can call me "Auntie" if you want (shrug/smile).

I'm kind of interested in seeing those nude photos of Camille Grammer. Does this make me a bad person? Or is it just a little female jealousy?

Hi Worldans,

What do you get when you combine red wine + snow day + insomnia?

Free Association Tuesday! Er...Wednesday....whatever.

On Free Association Tuesday/Wednesday, we get up in the middle of the night and babble on about whatever comes to mind without really caring if anyone reads it. We try to use correct grammar and spelling, but this is by no means guaranteed.

And so.

Good evening, Passengers, this is your Captain. But you can call me Chicken. Well, it looks like we have some gnarly weather conditions out there tonight, Chicksters, so buckle in and flag down your flight attendant for free peanuts and a $5 beer. And don't worry so much. It might get a little bumpy, but I'll get you to where we are going. Wherever that is. Thanks for flying with the Chicken.

Andddd we're cleared for take-off.

As you may recall, over Thanksgiving, between tweets, I unwittingly fell captive to a Real Housewives of Beverly Hills marathon. I went from, "This is so stupid" to "Hey, are those Julia Robert's lips", to "More. I need more" in about 30 minutes.

I don't know what it is that has me so enthralled; maybe the parties, maybe the clothes, maybe the botox. But whatever it is, it seems to me that in between the bitching, fighting, and catty commenting, these ladies are having a lot of fun in the sun. With pretty dresses. And accessories. It is my current guilty pleasure and I'm owning that right up front. Hey. I'm not proud of it. I'm genetically predisposed to bad television. But this is not a cry for help. Let's be clear about that.

If you, too, are genetically predisposed to bad television and have been watching the RHOBH, you know that the bad girl Housewife, Camille Grammer, (Yes, married to Kelsey Grammer, for all you non-watchers), has been the subject of much speculation of late. Not only is she not a housewife, so much as an ex-wife, these days, but her cast mates have found, and recently circulated web-wide, some nude photos of her from a previous career. (Because, after all, if you can't depend on your mates to pump your publicity, who can you count on?).

Frankly, Camille is hot. And I don't want to hear about the enhanced boobs, the manipulative streak, the cattiness, or any of the other unattractive traits that personify the bad housewife. If you do not think she's hot, that's fine, but I challenge you to find a hot blooded, heterosexual male who doesn't (and it has to be an honest one, not your husband who might get hit with a shoe if he says, "yeah, I'd tap that"). I know, I know. It pains me every single time she purrs that all of the ladies are jealous of her. And then does the shrug thing. And flashes the sly smile. It does. But she's a little bit right.

Camille looks great. There are naked pictures on the internet. And I want to see them. Am I the only one? I'm not really sure what to make of this urge. First of all, it's not like there's much left to the imagination on the show. Do I really need to see pubic hair and nipples to complete the picture? I'm curious, but even my curiosity does not generally sink to that level of shallowness.

I blame genetic mapping. Yes. Somewhere, back when evolution started, after the apes, maybe, but before language, back when real women were cave women, there was no shame in checking out the competition and sizing up the threat. And beating them with an ugly club should the opportunity present itself whilst out picking wild berries.

"Oops. Is that you Camille? So sorry. Thought you were a wild boar. (shrug/smile)"

Now we do not do that. We say, "Well yeah, I guess she's hot, if you like silicone and peroxide (shrug/smile)". And then we either look for damaging photos on the internet, or make a play for Kyle's husband, depending on our perspective. But I could be projecting.

Where was I? Oh. So all over America, women are cheering because they think Camille has been thrown from her high horse. We are oh so wrong, Chicksters. She's not been thrown. Dude, she's been launched! She's single, she's wealthy, she's hot (I still maintain), and now she's famous. She'll be co-hosting the Regis and Camille show before the end of 2011.

Well, perhaps she might not be pegged for Kelly Ripta's role, given that Kelly is both hot and well liked, but mark my words, she'll be hosting something. Right in your face.

Hide yo' husband.

Chicken out