Don't read this if you are scared of butter.

Remember how last week I told you I was super duper busy and stressed out? 

Well, I forgot to tell you that I sometimes watch the Cooking Network to help me relax.

 You know what really calms me down? Like, it puts me into an almost-comatose trance?

Watching butter and sugar cream in a Kitchenaid mixer.

(I know, is weird and a little bit embarrassing, but there it is.)

So, one day I was watching the Barefoot Contessa make a lemon curd tart, and I was like, 

yeah, I'm going to need one of those.

You see, I'd been wondering what to do with that entire tree full of ripe, juicy lemons I have in my yard, and now it all became clear: whip them with butter! 

Duh, right?

So I went to Fresh and Easy in my yoga pants (not just for yoga anymore) and bought three pounds of unsalted butter (only needed one plus a little more, but figured better safe than sorry), then left them out on the kitchen island, per Ina's strict instructions. She said it needed to be ROOM TEMPERATURE, and not just DEFROSTED. I mean, who am I, to question a Countess?

But my kids kept finding the warm butter, and sticking it back in the fridge. 

I'll bet La Contessa sin(o?) zapatos doesn't have this problem. I'll bet her grinny, giggly husband with the curly gray hair, and all her friends at the flower shop and the organic butcher, and her herb gardener who gets paid only in Mac and Cheese, and even the friends of friends for which she is always cooking pasta salad or paninis for lunches on the beach or on the sailboat, understand the value of soft butter.

It was very frustrating; but in the meantime, I was able to procure a nice tart dish at Ikea.

Finally I was ready. So I googled the recipe. But what did I find? That in the world of Lemon Curd, Ina might be the comtesse, but le roi is a man named Pierre Herme.  And if you want lemon curd that will make your eyes roll around in your head like loose marbles just before you lose control of your bladder and pass out on the floor in bliss, you want to make his. Since his recipe calls for adding the butter AFTER you cook the lemon/sugar/egg stuff, and blend it to create a sort of butter emulsion, the texture is remarkable.

The blogs were very positive about Ina's shortbread crust, though. Twice as much butter as regular pastry crust. Can't go wrong there.

So I set out on my own: I decided to tuck the Herme curd into the Countess' crust. Is a royal marriage like Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon's, or Charles and Di's. (Okay, this tart works way better than most royal unions.)

The results? Remarkable. I served the tart for breakfast at our book club overnight, with fresh berries and whipped cream. Is a very good way to start the day, but is unfortunately low in fiber.

(Is generic lemon curd tart image, not actual product. Who stops to take photos of delicious food when she could be eating it?)

You know what is even more remarkable? You wouldn't even know all that butter was in there, except that I already told you. You just think, 'MMMM', not 'BUTTERY'.

So you want one for yourself, don't you? 

Yes, I suspected you might.

So here is the Herme/Countess/Beeswax Lemon Curd Tart Recipe hybrid, for your eating pleasure:

Lemon Curd Directions:

Ingredients

1 cup sugar
Finely grated zest of 3 lemons (Beeswax note: I used 5 lemons. I like my tart very lemony, plus I have tiny slaves who zest things for me.)

4 large eggs
3/4 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice (from 4 to 5 lemons) 
2 sticks plus 5 tablespoons (21 tablespoons; 10 1/2 ounces) unsalted butter, at room temperature and cut into tablespoon-sized pieces (Beeswax note: I just scooped in a little at a time).
1 fully-baked 9-inch tart shell (see recipe below.)

Procedure

Getting ready: Have a thermometer, preferably an instant-read, a strainer and a blender (first choice) or food processor at the ready. Bring a few inches of water to a simmer in a saucepan.

1. Put the sugar and zest in a large metal bowl that can be fitted into the pan of simmering water. Off heat, work the sugar and zest together between your fingers until the sugar is moist, grainy and very aromatic. Whisk in the eggs followed by the lemon juice.

2. Fit the bowl into the pan (make certain the water doesn’t touch the bottom of the bowl) and cook, stirring with the whisk as soon as the mixture feels tepid to the touch. You want to cook the cream until it reaches 180°F. As you whisk the cream over heat—and you must whisk constantly to keep the eggs from scrambling—you’ll see that the cream will start out light and foamy, then the bubbles will get bigger, and then, as the cream is getting closer to 180°F, it will start to thicken and the whisk will leave tracks. Heads up at this point—the tracks mean the cream is almost ready. Don’t stop whisking and don’t stop checking the temperature. And have patience—depending on how much heat you’re giving the cream, getting to temp can take as long as 10 minutes. (Beeswax note: mine took only 4-5 minutes).

3. As soon as you reach 180°F, pull the cream from the heat and strain it into the container of a blender (or food processor); discard the zest. Let the cream rest at room temperature, stirring occasionally, until it cools to 140°F, about 10 minutes.

4. Turn the blender to high and, with the machine going, add about 5 pieces of butter at a time. Scrape down the sides of the container as needed while you’re incorporating the butter. Once the butter is in, keep the machine going—to get the perfect light, airy texture of lemon-cream dreams, you must continue to beat the cream for another 3 minutes. If your machine protests and gets a bit too hot, work in 1-minute intervals, giving the machine a little rest between beats. (Beeswax note: My Bosch blender attachment didn't have any trouble.)

5. Pour the cream into a container, press a piece of plastic wrap against the surface to create an airtight seal and chill the cream for at least 4 hours or overnight. When you are ready to construct the tart, just whisk the cream to loosen it and spoon it into the tart shell.

Serving: The tart should be served cold, because it is a particular pleasure to have the cold cream melt in your mouth. (Beeswax note: Re-chill the tart for a couple of hours after you pour it into the shell, but not too long before you serve it, or it could become soggy. I served it with whipped cream and assorted berries.)

Storing: While you can make the lemon cream ahead (it will keep in the frige for 4 days and in the freezer for up to 2 months), once the tart is constructed, it’s best to eat it the day it is made.

- makes 8 servings -
Adapted from Baking From My Home to Yours, by Dorie Greenspan

Barefoot Contessa Tart Shell Directions:

• 12 tablespoons (1 1/2 sticks) unsalted butter, plus more for greasing, at room temperature
• 1/2 cup sugar
• 1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
• 1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour
• Pinch salt

Mix the butter and sugar together in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with a paddle attachment until they are just combined. Add the vanilla. In a medium bowl, sift together the flour and salt, then add them to the butter-and-sugar mixture. Mix on low speed until the dough starts to come together. Dump onto a surface dusted with flour and shape into a flat disk. Press the dough into a 10-inch-round or 9-inch-square false-bottom tart pan, making sure that the finished edge is flat. Chill until firm.

Meanwhile, preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.

Butter 1 side of a square of aluminum foil to fit inside the chilled tart and place it, buttered side down, on the pastry. Fill with beans or rice. Bake for 20 minutes. Remove the foil and beans, prick the tart all over with the tines of a fork, and bake again for 20 to 25 minutes more, or until lightly browned. Allow to cool to room temperature. (Beeswax note: Don't cook this long or crust will become very hard. Don't cook until brown, just cooked.)

Good luck to you! Remember, lemon curd is great on toast (or scones), too!

Neighbors, if you need lemons, gimme a call. I'll totally hook you up!

Confu-Sam say:

Sammy turned 6 last week. 

Not 100. 

In case you were confused.

You might be confused, because Sam is often wise beyond his years.

He likes to make us notes and post them around the house. They might be lacking a certain Leonardo-ish-ness, but they are sage and pithy.

I'll start with my favorite, which was posted on the garage door when Jake and I came home from our Valentine dinner:

"Sam. Worst Valentine's Day ever. I want to run away." (Ross stopped sharing his balloons because Sam had already popped three of them. Running seemed the only option.) 

Here's another holiday note, from a few days earlier:

  

"Valentine's Day Rocks. Love Stinks. To: Mom From: Sam." 

HUH? Is too deep for me to fully grasp, I think.

This was plucked from under his pillow:

"Dear tooth fairy, my tooth fell in the Lego box. I am sad. Love, Sam." 

(Our tooth fairy is super flaky. Turnaround time is often a week or more.)

Found this little treasure hanging in the pantry, just above the trash can:

And this one, in the Church bag:

"I love my home on erth."

This came home from school:

On the reverse side:

"I have a dream that every day would be a fun day."

And finally, while on the way home from Chick-fil-A on Friday night, some advice on how to make friends:

Me: Jane, did you make a new friend in the play area? You are really good at making new friends.

Sam: Oh, Mom. I am sooo good at making friends! It is really easy. You just play with them, and play with them, and play with them, and then you have a new friend. That's how I got my girlfriend, Brunae. (He spelled it for me. I think he might not know his girlfriend's name.)

Happy 6th, Sammy! (Taken at the Beeson bonfire last month)

Here's to 94 more!

Raise your hand if you're super-duper busy.

You know what? Our weather might be fabulous right now, (seriously people, it can't get any better), but this time of year is rough. I am exhausted. And sleep deprived.

I mean, I know the holidays can be stressful, but in the fall (or if you live here, when temps drop precipitously into the 90s), you can start slacking on all kinds of stuff. Trust me. You just have to look harried enough, and roll your eyes around like crazy while you mumble it's that time of year, you know! 

This holiday excuse will work beautifully from October 15-January 15. 

Summer is also a wonderful excuse for laziness. First of all, around here, it is so hot that if you move too much or fast, you might actually die. Also, people are vacationing like crazy. Even if you aren't actually going anywhere, you can 'leave town' too! No, no, I'm not speaking of one of those 'staycations,' where you have to run your kids around to desert botanical gardens and Science Centers and sleep in tents in your backyard. Is a horrid idea. I mean, just tell everybody you are leaving, then barricade yourself inside your house and read blogs for a few days. Clothing and regular hygiene are totally optional! (In addition to your fake vacations, you can actually go to California and drag your kids to the beach and Legoland. Is not relaxing, but it does get you away from your other commitments.)

The summer will entirely excuse all laziness from May until school starts again in August. (Your dates may vary.)

There is also a small window of reprieve, where the burden of our cares is lifted, when the yoke is in the mire (no, wait, am mixing metaphors again), for a week at spring break. Sometimes, though, it takes some time to recover from spring break (I've seen some of the MTV coverage), so we can comfortably count out any productivity in the last half of March.

So, what have you left? August through mid-October, and then mid-January through 'til May. 

What does this mean? 

It means you have no excuse. 

It means a long, wide desert of piano lessons and science projects,  Abe Lincoln book reports and pinewood derby cars to design; of entire weeks of 6 a.m.s and midnights, and pediatric neuro-psychologist appointments (because your son's teacher thinks he's ADHD, but you aren't sure it isn't just a bad case of the wiggly-and-smarts), and new glasses to get to replace lost ones, and unplanted gardens. It all lies before us, a wasteland of work, bereft of fun.

It means your shoulders are to the wheel. 

It means you can't wriggle out of anything. You just have to DO IT.

It means you can't read or blog because your brain is fried. You keep re-reading the same tub-wrinkled old paperback chick lit, and find yourself saying "wow, how did this not win a Pulitzer?" (No?)

It means somebody better give you at least two pounds of See's chocolate for Valentine's Day, because you are going to need it to sustain you in the long nights ahead, even though you are still supposed to be on that diet you started in January. 

It means, people, that you are BUSY.

And as usual, when I say, YOU, I mean, ME.

But what about actual you? Are you busy, too? Let's see a show of hands.

No, really, Jake, I was at home doing laundry all day...I didn't go wander around in the desert. Huh-uh.

Heading east, on my way home from a delicious lunch at Pei Wei with Dad and Ryan, I noticed the Superstitions, dusted in snow from last night's storm. 

It was a real storm, the kind that blows cold, and rains all night long.

Anyhow, today the air is clear and bright, the clouds are high and fluffy, the desert is wet. There is nothing more hopeful than the desert after a good soak.

When it came time to get off the freeway, I didn't. I just kept driving: a couple miles east, until the freeway ended, and I was on the Old West Highway 60. I headed north, then east again. Somewhere around Broadway and 4 miles east of Goldfield Road, I stopped in front of an empty lot, and got out. We wandered around.

 

I pointed out some snake holes to Tommy. He was very thrilled but also 'scay-yerd'. 

Tommy's got an extra-hard 'r', sort of midwestern-y or something. Is fairly hilarious.

I took some pictures.

Can you believe my desert? If you know the Superstitions, you know they don't ever look real. And the closer you get to them, the more they look like a mirage. Which is ironic, as actual mirages don't act this way. Out here, just a few miles from town, you feel like a character in a Louis L'Amour novel. Like cowboys oughtta ride into view, little dogies should get along, and country music will play. 

But country music didn't play. I was listening to the Evita movie soundtrack. (I don't care what anyone says. I think Madonna did a fab job. And is the only time I ever liked Antonio Banderas.)

Some cute boys from Holland pulled up in an ancient maroon Buick and asked how to get up to the base of the mountains. I pointed them north and wished them luck. I didn't get their pictures. It would have been weird.

Trust me.

Anyhow, the Superstitions are steep and angry mountains. 

Full of critters with forked tongues. And cacti that jump.

But they are very nice to look at, no?

And they are nearly in my backyard.

The story I can't tell you (because criminals might attack us in our own beds, if I do)

Had terrible dreams last night filled with creepy psycho-killer, with face of Chucky-slash-infantile Dwight Schrute, coming to get us. Did not sleep well. Am feeling rather groggy.

Also, am going to take sister Jen on her first trip to Ikea. Will be tour guide, instructing her to drink Lingonberry pop and eat hazelnut ballerina cookies, but to avoid meatballs. To buy cheap kitchen utensils and gift wrap, but not chipboard furniture. Etc.

But I haven't really done anything yet to celebrate Man Appreciation Week, and am feeling guilty. Don't want to have underappreciated men on my conscience. But what to say?

Have got it! Will ask a man! So, quizzed Jake: what would you like to see on my blog that would be very interesting to you and other males?

He had some ideas, all right.  Was full of them.

But am not going to take photos of self in bikini and post them on interweb. (Do not have bikini, among other reasons.)

Decided that Jake's list is rubbish. 

Decided will tell manly story about Jake and his property management adventures. One that made me sweaty-pitted and nervous. Only long, hot bath with Ben & Jerry was able to restore my equilibrium after tiny-anxiety-attack-inducing story.

Called Jake to get details so that story would be truthful, and full of journalistic integrity. (I was an editor on Granada Hills High School newspaper, Highlander Highlights, you know.)

Jake said cannot post story as we might get revenge-seeking criminal-types coming after us while we sleep, even though is super fabulous story, including crime-infested neighborhood, breaking and entering (Jake's), police helicopters, assorted cop cars sport parked at angles in street, Jake getting patted down and frisked in manner of common burglar and car thief (crimes which the police believed he had committed), and more. 

MUCH MORE. (I can't even tell you the best part of the story.)

I have to stop. May already have said too much. Is a dangerous game I am playing. 

This man stuff is serious business. Also, moderately exhausting.

Jake is perfectly well, in case you were wondering. But sometimes, I do wish he would go back to Tax Accounting. Although, not at this time of year. Is busy season. 

Update: if you are really dying to hear my story, send an email to kellybeeswax@gmail.com and I will email you all the gory details! Or leave your address in the comments, if you like. But give me a couple days, because I am going to cabin with Book Club tomorrow afternoon! Am thinking about making Barefoot Contessa's lemon curd tart to bring along, since bought cute new tart pan at Ikea for $3.99. Also, I have an entire tree full of ripe, juicy lemons, right in my backyard. Go ahead and be jealous, if you want.

It's Man Appreciation Week!

(The working title was "I Know What Boys Like," but then I googled the lyrics, and that song is a bit more suggestive than I actually remembered. So I nixed that idea. Sorry, boys.)

So, what about the boys, er, men? 

Well, in general, I assume they aren't reading my blog. In my mind, I write to all you lovely ladies out there. I whine about my thighs or my new haircut. You leave me comments telling me my legs are just fine and that The Rachel is totally back.  Is wonderful, symbiotic relationship, in manner of Amazon Fruit Bats and fig trees, or Sea Anemones and Clownfish. 

I figured I drove away any male readership long ago. All except my Dad, maybe. Hi Dad! 

Even my husband quit reading, or at least went deep underground. I tested him with occasional sneaky references to things I only wrote on the blog. I only received blank, uncomprehending stares. 

Honestly, it was sort of liberating.

But then last week, a few things happened to make me think that maybe there ARE some boys out there, and that I have been neglecting them horribly.

Let me tell you what happened:

1. First, my husband tells me that his mission companion, a SLC lawyer we shall call BART (we'll call him that, cause that's what I call him, even though his real name is Ryan Braithewaite), has been reading this blog. When BART read about how Jake brought me Chili's Molten Chocolate Cake with chocolate and caramel last week, he rung Jake up, long distance, just to call him a wuss. (Or similar. Not sure of actual names called.)

I apologized to Jake, and told him I had no idea that any men would be reading said post. I told him that I figured all the female readership would only think more highly of him, and might even perhaps be a little jealous of me for having such a dreamy, cake-fetching spouse.

Jake told BART that the Chili's cake was already in the works before I even mentioned Ina's TV cake, but honestly, that only shows he is so in tune with my needs, that he can fulfill them before my own conscious mind is even aware of them. Doesn't do much to re-establish macho credibility, IMO.

2. Remember when I went to El Charro last June? How could you forget, right? Well, in that post I mentioned a boy who took me there in 1992. I named him (by his actual, real-life name) in the post, and he actually did google himself, and sent me an email to tell me that he still loves El Charro; that he is married with five kids and lives in Gilbert; and that although El Charro does, in fact, rock the taco, if I really wanted a mind-blowing burro, I should try Espo's in Chandler (not a direct quote).

3. Lastly, at the Beeson Bonfire Saturday night (click there and here for pictures. I'm in the hot pink hoodie), Jake's brother Brigham commented on my hot dog's religion, which lead me to believe he'd read this old post.

So you see, four boys (er, men. Very manly men) right there. (I'm including Dad).

So I thought that this week, I would blog about things that boys like! A sort of MAN APPRECIATION CELEBRATION! Because we (speaking for women in general now, not for self only) also have important symbiotic relationship with you men, in manner of birds and bees (birds and bees with flowers, not with each other. Latter is against laws of nature).

Tomorrow I will brainstorm some BOY BLOG ideas, but in the meantime...

There was a Big Football Game yesterday, right? Big home team was in it? But they lost? Are you very sad, boys? Please share feelings.  Is safe, nurturing-type environment here at None of Your Beeswax. 

Is okay to cry.

Girls are invited, too. Of course. You can discuss football. 

Or, you can talk about boys. 

Whatever.

I wish I had baby giraffe thighs

But I don't. I never did. 

So, when Tommy (2.5 years old) and I were in the shower yesterday (don't judge me, is the only way I can concurrently maintain my personal hygiene and be certain that he doesn't eat poison), and he pointed to my thigh and said:

Hey mama, you have a BIG leg!

I was okay with it. Totally copacetic.

Yup, that's right I replied, as I rinsed out my shampoo. 

But he wasn't finished. He decided to persever, as he often will.

Your leg is BIG, mama!

Um-hmmm, I mumble. I try to tune him out. It is hard.

So big! Your leg is VERY, VERY BIG!

(When he says 'big', his voice gets very deep and throaty. For emphasis.)

Yes, it is, Tommy. Is my leg big? Sometimes if  I turn it around into a question, he gets confused and quits.

He ignores my question, and points down to my calf. Mama, down there your leg is little! VERY little. But, up here, it is big. So, SO big. Mama, why your leg so big?

And so it went. Through conditioning, rinsing, exfoliation. 

Nobody deserves this sort of harassment.

Tommy, I said in my sweetest voice: Why don't you go find some poison and go play in the street? Mama needs to towel off her huge thighs. It might take awhile.

What is up with FEEDJIT?

I was looking at FEEDJIT just now. I can't figure it out.

It said that I am a #4 most locally relevant Mesa blogger (maybe just for this morning. I don't know.) They also had about 15 #4s. I was sorta in the middle of all the 4s. Then I looked and found that I am a #16 most popular Mesa Blogger! 

Which is way more popular than I was in high school.

Is sort of a coup.

(Yes, this is the sort of stuff I do when I ought to be cleaning my house.) 

What's up with FEEDJIT??

Don't make me get up: Confessions of a wussy

Thursday morning.

Beep-beep-beep-beep. Four staccato syllables.

Miss-is-ipp-i. 

Or, Con-sti-pa-tion. 

Or, Jan-u-ar-y. 

Or, El-e-va-tor.

Better than the alarm that shrieked like it wanted us to put on fireproof clothes and slide down a pole, or the one that squealed so high it was nearly-but-not-quite in a dogs-only frequency; and better even than the one I'd set to blast mariachi music. Like I was trying to punish myself for something. (I'm not sure for what. I'm not sure what sort of behavior deserves that sort of awful punishment. Too bad Obama decided to shut down Guantanamo Bay. He mighta coulda used my alarm clock over there.)

So even though the four-beep alarm always wakes me, it isn't quite annoying enough to encourage me to get out of bed. I usually end up pondering stuff. You can ponder, and still be immobile. Pondering's great that way. 

First, I think: Don't make me get up.

It comes, unbidden, every morning. Years and years worth of mornings. So that now, it is a mantra. (An unhelpful mantra.) I can't remember its genesis, but it was even before the time I had to get up at five for early morning Seminary, in the cold, dark house on the hill. Mom didn't (and doesn't) believe in 'fake heat.' Fake heat is the heater. And you couldn't turn it on, even when parts of you were turning blue. I think the coldest I've ever been is standing naked in my bathroom in that Andasol House, the house where I lived in high school, waiting for the water to heat up, so I could step into the shower. 

Did I mention this cold, dark house was in Los Angeles? Which shows you that my life hasn't been very cold. Or very dark. And that I'm pretty much a wussy. 

So I think: I'm very self-aware, for a wussy. I should write this stuff down. Is good, whiny stuff!

But then, I think: no one wants to read stuff written by a wussy. 

That's why I can't write the Great American Novel. I'm lazy, and nearly angst-less. There is nothing to write about. (Brr! Cold showers. 50 degrees, sometimes! WAAA!)

I open one eye and squint at the clock. I can't see the time. Am very blind.

I should get up. Even though it is still dark. It won't be, for long: Soon the sun will be so bright, it will burn your eyeballs. In January. I tire of this desert sun.

Yes, yes. I know. Only a wussy complains about sunny days. Is very unattractive.

Even I know that.

Yesterday was another 80 degree January day in the desert. It is beautiful. It is. Sometimes it is hard to remember to be greatful for it.

Then I think: Don't make me find clothes for the kids. 

I always find clothes for them, so they won't go to school looking like goobers.

They don't get all ironed up or anything; just, you know, decent. Presentable. I know that the Love and Logic book probably specifically forbids this, because I'm being a helicopter parent or a drill sergeant, or a poison fairy or some other horrible thing; and making sure their t-shirts match their pants will probably encourage them to be alcoholic womanizing adults, who steal money from my old-lady purse, but you know what? 

They'll look decent doing it. Toxic livers, V.D., or rap sheets, maybe, but not high-water pants!

My other option is homeschooling. The first rule of homeschooling would be nobody gets out of bed before eight o'clock. Or rubs any vocal folds together. But most homeschooling Moms are very organized and get all sorts of stuff done, usually at four o'clock in the morning, from what I hear. They are not wussies. And actually, sometimes their kids look pretty goobery. Is probably some kind of fantastic parenting technique, of which I am completely unaware (or pretending to be). So I'm not sure I really want to join that cohort. Or even, you know, if they want me. Well, probly they'd let me in. They do seem very inclusive.

So then I think: What was that?

Thunder.

Oh yeah. Today is supposed to be rainy. I love rain. 

Then, my husband stirs. And I remember how last night, I was watching Barefoot Contessa make a chocolate cake with butter cream frosting, which Contessa Ina called the best in the world. And I asked Jake, with my tongue partly in my cheek: "better than Chili's Molten Chocolate Cake, you think?" He just grunted, or raised an eyebrow, in that way a man does, which makes you think he knows you are alive. The glazy eyes, though, make you think he probably isn't listening, since you aren't really saying anything, anyhow.

And then, he went to return some movies, and he came home with chocolate cake from Chili's. And so we sat up in bed and ate it, and spilled chocolate and caramel on the clean, white sheets. 

Which sounds sort of sexy. 

And it was. 

But maybe not in the way you are thinking.

Because the sexiest part? The listening. Even behind those glazy eyes. Is tricky boy behavior.

And BTW, the cake? It WAS better than Ina's, cause hers ended up being full of coffee. Which  is ick.

So then I think: I sure have a good life, for a wuss. 

And then, I pray:

Thanks for my life. 

The husband. And all the listening. And chocolate cake.  

And the TIVO in my bedroom, on which I can watch Barefoot Contessa at all hours. Rain and thunder. Sun. School-teachers. 

The kids. And their clothes. And angst-less-ness. Great American Novels (even if they aren't mine). Self-awareness. Los Angeles. Fake heat. Nice alarm clocks. Warm beds. 

And pondering.

Please help me to get up.

And then, I did.

I got up.

Every time you go away...

You take a piece of meat with you.

That's how Ryan sings it.

(Remember my brother Ryan?)

So now, this song is stuck in my brain.

Thanks, Ryan.

So then, I looked it up on YouTube, and now I can't get that haircut outta my head, neither.

Apologies, people.

P.S. Speaking of haircuts...

I got one.

I told the lady: "extra long bob." 

My Mom said: "You got the Rachel."

Well, I like it. 

That Rachel must have been ahead of  her time.

Because if she wasn't, I'm just 14 years too late.

What do you think? Is the Rachel back?

(Now that I'm looking at it, it seems like Heathcliff, from yesterday's post, might have the Rachel, too. Only, he needs a good round brush. His roots need some volume.)

Don't look at my messy kitchen.

Wuthering Heights: Starring Dwight Schrute as Heathcliff

Last night I was watching watching Wuthering Heights on Masterpiece Theater, and it occurred to me that the Heathcliff/Cathy/Edgar Linton love triangle is eerily similar to the Dwight/Angela/Andy triangle (on The Office). 

Cathy and Heathcliff: can't deny what they feel. "You know I could as soon forget you, as my own existence." But she gets scared off when he gets gleeful over her sister-in-law's death.

Angela and Dwight: another passionate, secret love. She leaves when he kills her beloved cat, Sparkles.

Edgar Linton, with soon-to-be-wife Cathy. He's the whole package: Rich, educated, appropriate, good-lookin', and doting. Why does she agree to marry him, while she still has the hots for someone else? Is a bad idea, Cathy.

Andrew Bernard and his espoused, Angela. His unconditional love is unrequited! 

No really. 

Think about it. 

Pretend Heathcliff is a brooding beet farmer.

Now, imagine that Edgar is a Cornell graduate with the voice of an angel.

Okay, then.

So now, you can stop chewing your nails over what will happen next Thursday night. It seems fairly obvious:

 

Angela will marry Andy, regret it mightily, then croak. 

Dwight will end up digging up Angela's grave and fondling her decomposing remains. 

I can't wait. 

It is going to be SOOOO funny.

P.S. Remember that one time, when Ralph Fiennes was Heathcliff? 

I do.

Hubba.

Hubba.

Sometimes, what happens in Vegas comes home in Kelly's new camera

And on her rear end.

So, I went to Las Vegas on January first. 

Mostly cause I wanted to eat stuff there. 

Which I did.

Immediately upon arrival, we had some delicious paninis at 'Wichcraft. I wish we had this kind of fast food here at my house. 

(Dear 'Wichcraft, you can totally move in over where the Del Taco is now, over on Signal Butte. They are just taking up space, with their nasty grisly tacos.)

For dinner on New Year's day, we went to Emeril's. I had some tasty gumbo, a salad, and some shrimp bisque. All good.

Here we are at Carnegie Deli at the Mirage. Everyone (but me): Dan, Sarah, Jen, Andrew, Hillary, Ryan, Jake at Carnegie.

I split the Woody Allen with Jake, which is half pastrami, half corned beef. Never again, people. Who eats corned beef when they can have pastrami? Is a mystery of the universe. Either way, though, don't forget the mustard, pickles, and a side of sauerkraut. And the cheesecake with strawberries.

I took half my cheesecake to go, carried it around in my purse all day, and finished it later, outside the Hermes store in the Bellagio shops. 

(Dear Fred Leighton Jewelers in the Bellagio shops, you are fabulous and awesome. I wish you would come to my neighborhood, too. You can have the spot where Bed, Bath & Beyond is going out of business, kay?) 

That night, fuimos a comer at Mesa Grill (Bobby Flay's place), at Caesar's Palace. Again, I went for an assortment of appetizers. I'm not really into large plates of carne (with notable exception of pastrami. And In-n-Out burgers). Gala Apple salad with spicy Orange vinaigrette was caliente y bueno. Tiger shrimp with roasted garlic corn tamale, and the goat cheese queso fundido also muy delicioso. Yucatan Chicken tacos and Roasted pumpkin soup (with smoked chiles and pomegranate crema) son solamente medium bueno. Wild mushroom quesadilla with white bean hummus and white truffle oil was too strong and truffle-y. No me gusta mucho. 

Pero, es posible que the quesadilla was mejor de mi espanol.

Beeswax y su hermanita, Juanita (Jen).

Los Porter, Sarah y Dan

So after much deliberation and a couple of false starts (including a trip deep into the underbelly of Vegas, to attempt some Karoake at a nasty little Asian-themed spot called the Imperial Palace, where we saw Elvis, but couldn't get our picture with him because he was too busy talking to LADY Elvis), we decided to go see the Wynn hotel. (I believe that other than food, the best part of Vegas is wandering around fancy hotels. Bellagio and Venetian were my favorites. Jake like Wynn.)

Did you ever wonder what the GREAT AND SPACIOUS BUILDING looks like on the inside? Well, it looks like soul-less Disneyland versions of the canals of Venice, the palaces of Rome, or the pyramids of Egypt. With smoke and slot machines. And really, really good shopping. I bought some lipgloss at MAC in the Forum Shops at Caesar's.

Jen and Hillary

Ryan and Jake

Jake y su esposa, Beeswax. I'll stop with the Spanish now.

After some ice cream at the Wynn, we all hopped in a stretch limo where some things happened that need to stay in Vegas, like some dancing and some shaking it. 

We got back to the MGM just as the Neil Diamond concert was letting out. There were lots of oldish people, and more than a few Pride Jazzy scooters to evade as we fought our way against the flow of traffic through the casino.

I don't know if all the seniors made us look relatively young, or what, because then, something wonderful happened:

Hillary, Jen and I got carded.

I know. Is fabulous news.

Then, Andrew played a little craps. 

I learned that this is quite different from taking a little crap.

What's that in Andrew's breast pocket, you ask?

He kept it tucked in there the whole night. Was hilarious.

Thanks for the trip, Jake! 

Happy 35th birthday.

(P.S. I got that clip at Bendel's in New York. Cute, isn't it?)