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we are chatting

Sarahk and I have been Gmail chatting our way through the American Idol finale.

We’ve been talking about fancy places, trollops, onesies, etc. And we simultaneously chat-screamed when Steve Martin showed up playing some sexy banjo. Or as I wrote in a frenzy “bamjo.”

I didn’t know life could be so good.

How about that Kris Allen? WOW. Good for you, dude. Good for both of you. You’re both going to be stars, I think. Each of you in his own distinct way.

Gmail chat, trollops, sexy bamjos.

Good times. Good times.

(Sarahk’s fabulous Snark of the whole event — in which she includes my chat comments, with my permission.)

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okay, gammie

Look. I see you staring at me in the produce store. I see you. Don’t think I don’t. And, you know, Gammie, just because I have produce stickers stuck to the zipper of my hoodie, it doesn’t make me a weirdo.

I’m a weirdo because I have produce stickers deliberately stuck to the zipper of my hoodie, okay, Gammie? I have plans, and, yes, they involve produce stickers and what of it anyway and maybe you just need to CALM DOWN about it, Gams.

Really. Please. It’s not polite to stare.

You’re a gammie. You should know this.

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ai: the difference

The American Idol finale just ended. Or, I should say, the final night of singing just ended. Adam Lambert vs Kris Allen. And I have to say, I’ve kind of fallen in love with Kris Allen because, over the course of the season, he’s surprised me more than anyone else. (Last week’s version of Kanye West’s “Heartless,” anyone? I’ve listened to that repeatedly.)

Adam is Adam: a diva, a great singer, a glam rocker, dramatic, a bit much, all that. Fairly static in what he’s going to do. I’ve known what to expect. Yet, I still don’t know what you do with him as a solo artist. Kris, for me, has been the more surprising and versatile of the two: playing piano, guitar, changing songs up in fresh ways, without those soaring vocals of Adam, yes, but with an accessibility factor that should not be underestimated.

For me, the difference is this: Adam invites you to stand there and watch him. Kris invites you in. I admire Adam’s performances, but there’s no room for anyone else, if that makes sense. He doesn’t want to share the moment; it’s always his. On the other hand, I feel what Kris does. He shares. There’s a warmth there that makes room for the audience to join in.

Adam says, “Look what I have.” Kris says, “I have this, want some?”

It’s the difference between just standing there drooling with envy over my friend’s 1965 Mustang convertible with the Pony interior and my friend smiling, tossing me the keys, and saying, “Wanna take it for a spin?”

That’s the difference, to me.

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notes on sunday

A family get-together at my brother’s (aka The Banshees’ dad).

~ First, and most important, I made my Mocha Chip cupcakes. Whenever I excel in the kitchen — you know, based on my own impartial estimation — I think of Jayne. I want her to be proud of me. I’m needy. It’s embarrassing. I mean, I talk to Jayne in my kitchen. Out loud. I tell her what I’m doing. “Jayne, look at the espresso beans I’m using for these cupcakes.” “Jayne, check out my mushroom cream sauce.” Stuff like that. So, uhm, also: I’m insane and possibly hallucinatory.

~ Original Banshee and Baby Banshee wore matching dresses. They looked adorable and yummy so I gobbled them up whole. Kind of a bummer, really. They didn’t get to have any Mocha Chip cupcakes, but on the upside, they were just as tasty as I always imagined.

~ So to my many outstanding attributes, add: cannibalism. It’s a real flaw.

~ And you probably wouldn’t think an outing involving cannibalism could be fun, but you’d be wrong, peaches. You’d be so very wrong.

~ Older Nephew handed me his iPod and let me listen to some tracks he’s recorded. Uhm, the kid’s pretty good, if I do say so myself.

~ Younger Nephew was forced to show me his abs. Meaning, I forced him, naturally. As his aunt, I feel I need to be kept up to date on their status. Current status: Six-pack, maybe even seven.

~ Within 15 minutes of his arrival, Younger Nephew plopped himself on top of his mom and me on the sofa. You know, we’re just hanging out, having some semi-private sister time and a nearly 15-year-old kid who is taller than both of us throws himself across our laps all because he knows I will rub his head. And I did.

~ Later, an impromptu volleyball-with-a-beach ball game broke out in the backyard. Baby Banshee was in charge of “serving” the ball over the net. Since she’s only 14 months old, this involved her cousin, Younger Nephew, lifting her up above the net with the beach ball in her chubby hands while she squealed and plopped it over the net. So cute. Younger Nephew is so good with little kids. Gets me all choked up.

~ When the Doritos and chips were brought out and we all began munching, Original Banshee started running over from the volleyball game about every two minutes — breathless from standing there in her dress — and saying, “Oh! I need more energy!” while stuffing a Dorito in her mouth. It was hilarious. The way she said “Oh!” as if she had the vapuhs and needed her smellin’ salts.

~ At one point, we all trudged down the road to a nearby canyon to check out the rope swing. Now Piper, who ADORES her Uncle Beloved, wanted to walk with him and talk with him and hold his hand. Original Banshee, who ADORES her Cousin Piper, wanted some to walk with Piper and talk with Piper and hold her hand. Alas, these were conflicting desires, you see. Piper wanted Uncle Beloved all to herself. But I’ve discovered one can never underestimate Piper’s understanding of what makes people tick and one can never underestimate her perception into a given situation. It doesn’t matter that she’s only eight years old. She has an uncanny insight about people and she definitely knows what makes Original Banshee tick. So as she was holding Uncle Beloved’s hand, she said slyly to The Banshee, “Hey, Banshee. Our group needs a leader! We need someone to lead us there!” And — KAPOWW! Piper lands the knockout punch! What? A leader? The spotlight? Me?? The Banshee was GONE instantly in a puff of Banshee smoke. MB just looked down at his little niece holding his hand and said, in that kind of “you’re busted” voice, “Piperrrr ….. you’re a tricky one.” She just smiled up at him and said, “I know.” Hahahahahaha. I’m still laughing about this. You go, Peeps.

~ We were all treated to a performance of “Put on a Happy Face” by Original Banshee. Girl can sing. On key. And she’s very cute. But she IS a little performing monkey. She just craves that spotlight and will probably arrange to have one following her around for the rest of her life. (Why everyone seems to blame me for this tendency, I have NO idea. When I was five, I couldn’t put two words together, I was so cripplingly shy.) Piper sat on her mom’s lap and watched her little cousin sing, just agape. It was like she was thinking, “What is she DOING??” Piper’s energy is much more laid back and easygoing, so I think she wearies of her little cousin more quickly than The Banshee knows or would even suspect at this point. I literally had to stifle guffaws watching the performance because, just looking from one cousin to the other, their differences were so glaringly apparent: the Banshee performing as if no one but Piper was even in the room; Piper plainly astonished by the spectacle of it all. Those two just kill me.

~ The Mocha Chip cupcakes were devoured. In spite of what I said before, Baby Banshee did get to gobble a portion of cupcake and then, well, probably didn’t sleep that night because of the ground espresso in the cake.

~ As we left, both MB and I scored hugs AND kisses from Original Banshee, which is a decided step forward. She just has her way, you know. We drove away into the night feeling all high and victorious and warm inside.

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for nightfly

For your iced coffee needs!

Here’s a link to a toddy maker very similar to the one we used at The Beanhouse when we made smaller batches of toddy — usually for decaf. This would be good for home use, I think, just looking at it. I have not personally used this, but I’ve used ones that look nearly identical.

If Ladybug likes iced coffee so much, she might really like to have this on hand.

In fact, I think I want to get one, now that summer’s almost here. YUM.

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snippets

~ Well. You look very Love Boat.

*****

~ He has a conspiracy mustache.

*****

~ You know the man with the Midas Touch? Yeah, that’s not me.

*****

~ Don’t you think that going “k-k-k-k-k-k” to yourself as a kid is a little OCD?
~ No. I think it’s winning.

*****

BANSHEE: Mommy, they talked about idols in Sunday School and the teacher asked us why we shouldn’t have them. I said because idols would make us unhappy with God and she said I NAILED it.

BANSHEE’S MOM: Well, I think you got it, sweetie.

BANSHEE: But, Mommy, do you think I NAILED it?

BANSHEE’S MOM: Yes, honey. I think you nailed it.

(Okay. Pardon the interruption. This is Tee Tee. Uhm, Banshee? Precious performing monkey? Could you please give Tee Tee, your favorite auntie, your Sunday School teacher’s phone number and/or email address? Tee Tee is just wondering why five year olds are even being taught the concept of idols. She just finds it rather …. odd. I mean, shouldn’t you be coloring pictures of Joseph’s many-colored coat and stuff like that? So, yeah. That’d be great, Banshee. Don’t worry. Tee Tee just wants to have, you know, a friendly little chat.)

*****

~ I hate you when you’re driving.
~ No. You hate me when I’m backseat driving.
~ But now you’re driving and you’re telling me how to backseat drive.
~ So I’m front-seat driving?
~ You’re front-seat and backseat driving and I hate you.

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look, starbucks

All right. I admit. Since I no longer have my own coffeehouse, I’m now a coffee whore. I patronize whatever-whichever coffeehouse happens to be closest to my hot little hands at any given moment. Seattle’s Best, Peet’s, independent coffeehouses, and, yes, even Starbucks. So, whatever, I drink around. A coffee slut with no deep foundational principles or steely moral core; that’s me. This, because I started to feel sorry for Starbucks since they now suck so bad and because I evidently thought my personal patronage would make ALL THE DIFFERENCE in their sucky bottom line.

But there are ongoing customer service problems I’ve encountered that go beyond their typical bitter brew. I’ve experienced these two issues at multiple Starbucks locations now, so it’s not a fluke or something unique to a particular location.

And I must address them.

(And Katie, I know you work at Starbucks — please don’t hate me.)

All right.

1) The way Starbucks handles the simple purchase of a cup of coffee is totally whack.

Here’s how they do it:

~ You order your cup of coffee.
~ They take your money.
~ They give you change.
~ (You leave a tip for, um, receiving nothing at this point.)
~ Again, they have your money, they have a generous tip, YOU have nothing yet.
~ So your end of the transaction is over — the cashier has moved on to the next customer, even, — but you must stand there off to the side, trying not to be in the way, while someone is back there, pouring your coffee. You hope.

No, Starbucks. NO. This is lame. It’s rude. It’s awkward for the customer. It creates a traffic jam. Not to mention it’s just flat-out inefficient. It happens EVERY time I go — in EVERY Starbucks I patronize. It’s like they’re told, “Get the money first and maybe the customer will just wander off and forget they ordered coffee.”

I understand, of course, that when you order a latte, a cappuccino, any other bar drink, you need to wait for it. But for a simple cup of coffee? No. NO.

Here’s the way to do it, Starbucks. The right way. Uhm, the way I did it, which — this cannot be overstressed — is THE RIGHT WAY:

~ Customer orders a cup of coffee: “I’ll have a small coffee.”
~ Cashier punches in the order and says, “That’s going to be $1.60” or whatever.

This next part is the key:

~ Cashier then steps away and actually gets the customer’s coffee for her.
~ This brief moment allows the customer time to dig around for the cash to pay for the coffee.
~ Cashier places freshly poured coffee in front of customer and repeats the amount due.
~ Customer pays, gets change, leaves a tip, and most importantly, her end of the transaction is over AND she has her coffee, simultaneously. Imagine that!

See that? That’s an even, simultaneous exchange. Coffee for money, money for coffee. No one stands like a poor lost soul in no man’s land waiting for her cup of coffee. No one gets the sense that you care more about her money than you do about her satisfaction. It’s beautiful is what it is.

Moving on.

2) The way Starbucks handles its paper coffee cups is whack. By that I mean, the way the barista grabs the cup into which they pour the coffee. (Yes, I notice even this tiny detail.)

Before I describe how they do it, I need you to picture your typical stack of paper coffee cups at your local coffeehouse. Picture it in your head right now. They’re stacked like a little paper pyramid, right? Stacked upside down, one on top of another. (Or they should be.) The bottom of the coffee cup is on the top of the stack, closest to the barista using it. You’ve got that in your head now, right? Okay.

So you’ve ordered a cup of coffee and here’s what Starbucks does:

~ Barista grabs a coffee cup
~ Barista grabs a cup sleeve
~ Barista puts the sleeve on the cup, most likely touching the lip of your cup — where your mouth will soon be going, pippa — with his hands, which, well, might be clean but might not be. And let’s not forget, there’s the dread swine flu. Now, personally, I’m not really a germaphobe, but some people are and coffeehouses need to take that into consideration. And anyone who puts milk, sugar, etc., into his coffee will do a “test-taste” after stirring and drink from the cup with the lid off. Right? You take the lid off to add stuff and then stir it and taste it before putting the lid back on. Right? Well, of course, right. I watched this every day. I mean, I secretly TIMED people at the condiment stand with my stopwatch, for Pete’s sake. I noticed things.
~ Barista pours coffee into the cup and then — ugh — grabs a lid, gets his hands all over it — where your mouth will soon be going, pippa — and, ta da, hands you your pristine cup of coffee. YUM. Drink up!

No, Starbucks. Again, NO.

Here’s the way you handle your cups. The right way. The way I did it.

Someone has ordered a cup of coffee.

~ You grab a cup sleeve, FIRST — key, key, key
~ You shape it into an O — just curl your fingers
~ You take that O of a cup sleeve and you slam it down on the bottom of the cup at the top of the pyramid
~ You take a finger from your free hand and place it on the cup pyramid — in the space between the top cup and the next cup in line — and use it as a little bit of leverage whilst you pull the top cup off the pyramid by the sleeve that you just placed on it. This whole action takes two seconds. It’s fast. It’s easy. And no customer will every say, “Did you just put your finger on/in my cup, the top of my cup, somewhere I don’t want it?” Because that does happen. People notice. Or, rather, certain people are prone to notice and make it an issue. So just de-issue it, okay? De-issue everything as much as possible on the front end of things. This method — the “O” coffee sleeve method — is so fast, so clean, really, I don’t understand why I don’t see it at every coffeehouse I ever go to, but I’ve only seen it in two places: The ol’ Beanhouse and later, my own coffeehouse.
~ The final step, the lid step — well, that just shouldn’t be happening, in my opinion. Lids should be at the condiment stand for customers to put on for themselves. I know putting lids on for the customers minimizes spills, but I never once had a customer complain about being able to handle their OWN lid. It gives them control and they don’t worry about any random barista cooties.

And, sometimes, pippa, I hate to tell you: there be cooties.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve fought the urge to demonstrate the O Coffee Sleeve Trick to Starbucks employees. I mean, I have stood in Starbucks recently, like, oh, maybe today, literally telling myself, “Don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t do it.” A couple of weeks ago, I took a manager’s business card from the little cup on the counter vowing to “write him a helpful letter.”

I have not done that.

But I still have the card ….

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bloopers

Oh, JOY! A whole site dedicated to bloopers! Hallelujah!!

And you think Jesus doesn’t love you? Tsk, tsk, tsk.

(I’m loving the ones from House: Cuddy and Cameron doing alternate scenes in Valley Girl voices; Robert Sean Leonard (Wilson) losing his place and saying, “No idea. I could be in Chapter 2; I could be Walter Matthau right now; I have no idea what play I’m in at all.” Hahahaha.)

I can’t wait to dig in even more over there. I mean, who doesn’t love a good blooper?

Brilliant.

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misunderstandings with bruno

Good thing he’s sexy because Bruno, The Voice in My Head, is sometimes a straight-up dummypants, yo.

Alas, it’s true.

Look, Bruno. I speak very clearly. I do. I have been told so. As a compliment AND an insult. When you’re an actress, you learn quickly that mush mouth ain’t gonna get you anywhere. Ditto with singing. Or …. yeah, good Lord, being a hostess on a shopping channel – (Hahahahaha. I can’t even write that without starting to laugh. I promise to tell the story(ies) some day.) Or, you know, role-playing courtroom transcripts for court reporting students at 225+ wpm.

You cannot have a mush mouth in any of these scenarios. And I don’t.

But today, when I read, “Now is the best time to launch some dreams,” Bruno, you heard, “Now is the best time to launch some tureens.”

Later, when I read, “Everyone who creates does so from the sacramental center” — and even though I gagged and thought it was New Age twaddle, I read it clearly — still, Bruno, you heard, “Everyone who creates does so from the Sacramento Center.”

Wow. Good thoughts, you know? Deep, deep stuff. Think about it, pippa. Breathe deep and ponder the wisdom of Bruno.

Then get out your butts out there, catch a flight to Sacramento, and LAUNCH SOME TUREENS!

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“the enchantress of florence” redux

I’ve been rationing my reading of Salman Rushdie’s The Enchantress of Florence because I don’t want it to end. Because I basically want to devour this book and I fight against that. I don’t want to, but I easily could, gorge like a glutton without really tasting. The book needs to be savored, slowly, knowingly. On top of this voluntary rationing, there was some involuntary rationing when I lost track of this red book in my current flood of red-book reading — I misplaced its particular redness and tried to satisfy myself with other redness until it resurfaced once again. Thank God! I was becoming frantic. Where is “The Enchantress of Florence”? Where is it? WHERE??

I imagine that some part of my delight in this book has been discovering that Salman Rushdie is the complete opposite of the image I had of him — the dry fusty intellectual. I can’t say how I came by this view of him; it may have been based purely on his looks alone. But the man is witty, bawdy, and, yes, SMART, prodigiously so, but not intimidatingly so. I’m so thrilled to discover him and to have the realization dawn on me, page after gorgeous page, that he is, well, somewhat of a little scamp, I think. He’s impish and clever. He’s made me laugh out loud repeatedly. He’s secure enough to be whimsical and somewhat mad. The book centers on an enchantress, but Rushdie is the enchanter here, casting a spell under which I’ve willingly fallen. The book is like a Matryoshka doll: the fine points, the deep points, beautifully hidden, but not undiscoverable, inside layers of fable and fairy tale and dreams. It travels in and out of chronology and place yet I’ve never felt disoriented. Quite the opposite. I feel completely oriented in this world of the invisible and and the pretend and the mythical and the real. I don’t know how he does that, honestly. I’m completely in his thrall and will now be gearing up to read basically everything he’s ever written.

Some short excerpts that I’ve particularly enjoyed:

I.

By proper use of Sunni-Uzbeg potato-based spells it was possible to find a husband, chase off a more attractive love rival, or cause the downfall of a Shiite king. Shah Ismail had fallen victim to the rarely used Great Uzbeg Anti-Shiite Potato and Sturgeon Curse, which required quantities of potatoes and caviar which were not easy to amass, and a unity of purpose among the Sunni witches which was likewise difficult to achieve. When they heard the news of Ismail’s rout, the eastern potato witches wiped their eyes, ceased their wailing, and danced. A pirouetting Khorasani witch is a rare and particular sight, and few who saw the dance ever forgot it. And the Caviar and Potato Curse created a rift between the sisterhood of potato witches which has not been healed to this day.

II.

Ignoring his wounded right arm in its sling, he galloped home upon the wind. For indeed there was a wind that night, and they saw olive trees uprooted by it, and oaks flung aside as though they were little saplings, and walnut trees, cherry trees, and alders, so that as they rode it seem that a forest was flying through the air alongside them; and as they neared the city they heard a great tumult, such as only the people of Florence knew how to make. However, this was no tumult of joy. It was as if every man in the city had turned werewolf and was howling at the moon

(ed.: In this excerpt, Emperor Akbar’s mother and one of his wives have a conversation with their despised rival, Jodha, the emperor’s favorite — and invisible, possibly non-existent — wife. Out of necessity, they feel they must align themselves with her to protect the emperor from what they believe is his impending madness. They need Jodha, to exercise her many “powers” over the emperor.)

III.

They genuinely couldn’t see the woman to whom they were speaking, yet they were willing to arrange themselves on her carpets, lounge against her bolsters, drink the wine her servants offered, and tell the sexual secrets of women throughout history to the empty air. After a while they stopped feeling that they had lost their minds and acted as if they were alone, just the two of them talking to each other, speaking openly about what had always been closed, laughing helplessly at the shocking comedy of desire, the absurd things men wanted and the equally absurd things women would do to please them, until the years dropped away from them and they remembered their own youth, and recalled how they had been told these secrets by other stern, ferocious women, who had also dissolved, after a time, into guffaws of joy, remembering, in their turn, how the knowledge had been given to them, and by the end of it, the laughter in the room was the laughter of the generations, of all women, and of history.

They spoke in this fashion for five and a half hours and when they finished they thought it had been one of the happiest days of their lives. They began to have kinder thoughts toward Jodha than ever before. She was one of them now, part of the women’s relay; she was no longer the emperor’s creation alone. In part, she was theirs as well.

Okay. So I now have a crush on Salman Rushdie. Whatevs.

You had me at “potato-based spells,” Salman.