Project Runway Snarkfest #2

Warning: The following contains SPOILERS about Project Runway's Black and White episode.

TRACY: Omigod, they brought Angela and Vincent back! How annoying was that? Kayne said it best when he said they were like cockroaches. You keep squashing them into little gooey, crunchy piles of humiliated goo, and they keep. Coming. Back.

TROY: Did anyone really think one of these two would win the challenge? Vincent puts BUCKETS on his model's head! Angela thinks jetsetters look like hobos! Incorporating these two into the challenge added NO drama at all.

TRACY: Except to those who were dying to witness both of them explore the depths of self-humiliation AGAIN. Or to witness Vincent's megalomaniacal idiocy again.

But then again, it did add a little drama to LAURA's win.

TROY: Laura finally won a challenge, but AT WHAT COST (dun dun dunnnnnn)? The mid-show meltdown shocked me, since we've only seen Laura be strong and snarky.

TRACY: Spoken like a dude who has no chance of ever becoming pregnant. IT'S THE HORMONES, WATSON!

I felt really sorry for her. I mean, they've been giving them these horrendously exhausting challenges, she's pulling all nighters with little nutrition, they flew her to Europe and back so now she's jet-lagged, AND on top of this she's in her first trimester and none of the clothes she brought with her probably fit anymore. (Did you see that belly? It came out of NOWHERE!) She was totally due for a meltdown, and I give her major props for pulling it together and winning the challenge with a lovely dress.

TROY: Yeah, I'm happy her fire came back and she turned into drillmaster Laura again. I'm still undecided on the outfit. It's very pretty and well constructed, but the sleeves bothered me.

TRACY: Spoken like a dude who doesn't know the pain of being a woman with fat arms. My arms have always been fat, even when I was a size two. I look like a normal person with two big yellow sausages stuck onto my shoulders. I say YAY to the sleeves.

TROY: Making it strapless may have made the outfit younger and sexier (then again, I'm not a big fan of Laura's model, so it may look different on someone else). The outfit seemed fairly straight-laced and similar to something Britney Spears wore to the VMAs a few years back.

TRACY: I have to disagree, Roeper. I loved the outfit. I totally thought ti was Josephine Baker, and I can't see Ms. Cheetos and Beer Federline wearing anything that classy. It was charming and fun, and she did break out of her Ann Taylor-esque rut.

And speaking of Laura's model, what a whore! "Laura, how could this look ... you know. It's just ... you know. I mean, how could it look ... you know.... Young.... How could it ... you know?"

Nice. Just what she needs, after all the aforementioned stress and exhaustion, plus nearly getting the auf last week. And all her bored-and-pissed looking model can do is kick the pregnant woman when she's down. I think Laura should take Amanda (Kayne's model) now that Kayne is gone and kick her nasty model's bony ass to the curb. "Guess who's NOT getting a fashion spread in Elle magazine? That would be YOU, unbeliever!"

So, how about MICHAEL?

TROY: Flawless. I loved Michael's outfit. I was a little scared when we first got a peek at the outfit and the belt/garter thing, but it looked great on the runway. Very simple, classic, and he was smart about how to use the rest of the fabric, by lining the purse. He always has a great attitude and continues to push through, working hard until the last minute. This competition is his. Don't screw it up Michael!

TRACY: I agree. I can't even make a joke--Michael is fabulous. And how smart to go with white instead of black, which EVERYONE else chose.

ULI?

TROY: I think Uli is a very sweet woman and a talented designer. However, I am starting to think she is showing signs of being a one-trick pony. Uli can make flowy dresses! With wacky patterns! And crazy colors (except in this challenge)! She was able to branch out with the couture challenge and the results were great. If Jeffrey is this season's Santino (but less talented IMHO), Uli better step it up or she'll be out next.

TRACY: I totally loved Uli's dress, though. I'd wear just about anything she made, as long as she sized it for a real person and not a twig masquerading as a woman. But yeah, she's definitely in a V-necked, hippie-inspired, crazy-patterned rut.

You know, for all the times they subtitle her when I've never had a problem understanding her, there was one point in the show where she OBVIOUSLY insulted Angela, and I have no idea what she said. Jeffrey made some comment about Angela coming back, and Uli said something in a very snarky way that made everyone laugh, but no matter how many times I rewind my Tivo, it still just sounds like, "Oh, Angela, carpe farfegnugen Volkswagen CHEESE!"

TROY: No idea. I don't have Tivo, so I'm just going to be bitter. Anyway, that gets us to JEFFREY.

TRACY: Ugh. (Can you even say that nasty man's name anymore without automatically uggghhing?) The Neck of Darkness, as Entertainment Weekly calls him, sure outdid himself with that awful Little Bo Peepshow outfit. Anyone who wore that mess to a cocktail party, rock and roll or not, is just asking to be a magnet for every sweaty, puffy, fat married man with no soul in the room. "Hey, honey, how much?"

TROY: The opposite of Justin Timberlake, Jeffrey was bringin' FUGLY back.

TRACY: All you have to do is look at his neck, nonexistent chin, and sunshiney attitude to realize that fugly never left.

TROY: He managed to make his model stumpy in that trashy Pretty Woman costume reject. I ALMOST wanted to see Angela win the challenge just to see his smug self get the auf. I did have to laugh when they said he was doing Gwen Stefani style, as Gwen wouldn't be caught dead in that mess (then again, the 36 year old woman DOES prance around in a high school cheerleading outfit). While he's not the most disgusting reality contestant right now (that honor goes to you Mike "Boogie" Malin!), he needs to "leave quickly now" (see BUFFY).

TRACY: I have no idea who that is. Anyway, how sorry did you feel for Kayne? Ay. At least I don't have to see that sad little pout anymore.

TROY: Poor Kanye. Poor tacky confused Kanye. I really did like the front of his outfit, but when his model turned around, the white shoestring tying his dress was horrifying. ALL he needed was a white belt (similar to the garter/belt thing that Michael made for his model) to stay in the game. Oh well. He can go make some pageant gowns and make Oklahoma couture.

TRACY: Yeah, that looked like something you'd pick up at 5-7-9. I think it would have been nice if he'd thought of something better to do with the white. Ah, well. Miss Tennessee still thinks he's fabulous. And someone had to go along with ANGELA and VINCENT.

TROY: Totally wasn't surprised to see Angela go, especially once we saw her trying to pass off AUDREY II as an outfit (the collar was eating the model, ya'll!).

TRACY: You can't say "ya'll." You've lived in the midwest all your life!

TROY: Whatever. Vincent's outfit wasn't fairing any better, resembling one of those bags that you put clothes in and then suck the air out of to save space. Seriously, I was surprised his model could walk at all in that outfit. Crazy, but harmless, these two should be thankful they got to stay in the game as long as they did.

TRACY: I thought bringing them back was just cruel. Although really, I expected Angela to fare a little better. After all, the woman is the Grand High Priestess of Extra Fabric. (Everyone say, "My signature rosettes!")

TROY AND TRACY: ("My signature rosettes!")

TRACY: She should have left on a better note, IMHO. Someone ought to tell her that anytime you're tempted to use a fabric that "looks just like vinyl!" you're going to a very, very unhappy place in the land of fashion.

I know Vincent's dress was inspired by a tuxedo cummerbund, but did it have to be the size of one? Poor Javi. She looked mighty annoyed that they called her back to wear that non-contender of an outfit. All she had left after getting kicked off the first time was her dignity, and that hemline just took it all away.

And besides, what did Vincent mean when he said Javi "overpumped" the dress. Did it have an inflatable bra inside? Homeboy's lucky Javi didn't walk down the runway carrying that damn thing between two fingers at arm's length and holding her nose.

TROY: So I guess the finalists had their fashion shows this week.

TRACY: Oooh, really? I'm so oblivious.

TROY: The pictures of the final outfits and the designers are posted all over various blogs. EVIL SPOILERY BLOGS! I scrolled past quickly and saw a few outfits, but tried to avoid the rest. Should be an interesting finale to the show.

TRACY: You will end up spoiling it for yourself. I know you--you always do. Just don't tell me, and you can still be my brother. Con queso.

For the Sake of Mind and Musical Expansion

Found this in an iTunes review of an Alice in Chains compilation today:

"To most, sadly, the 90s alternative movement has faded. To those who grew up during those years, it represents our youth and what we consider one of the last true musical revolutions. It will never die! When breaking music boundaries actually meant something. Alice in Chains is one of those great bands, along with Nirvana, Smashing Pumpkins, Phish, and so many others who created their own sound for the sake of mind and musical expansion, unlike today's bands who lack and do not appreciate identity and originality."

You know, I always said I was going to move with the times and not get irretrievably stuck in a certain decade (PARTICULARLY not the 80s. Dear God, my hair...). But when it comes to music, lately I've been digging in my heels and staying in the 90s. Weird melodrama aside ("It will never die!"), I found myself nodding in agreement when I read the AiC review cited above. I hear you, my brother in grunge, mi amigo con queso.

Let me warn you, I hardly have the musical vocabulary or savvy of, say, a Rolling Stone magazine reviewer. Ergo, I'm not going to come out in this blog with an uber-hip, musically intelligent sentence like: "But where the music of those classic Bach-rockers had moments of pastoral clarity, the band favors unrelenting density, often through free-jazz clatter and Afro-Cuban percussion onslaughts." I just know what I like and what I don't, and I'm compelled to blog today about how I've developed this odd musical ennui lately that has me responding to just about every new band and artist I hear with a resounding MEH.

My poor brothers have heard me natter on about this ad nauseum in the last couple of years. (Jose isn't into music much at all--the last song he made me buy off of iTunes for him was :::shudder::: Five for Fighting's "100 Years." There you go, honey. Make me spend 99 cents on a sugar-shock-fest like that, and you will be blogged about.) But I think rock music needs to find that "new sound" again, the one that caricatured, over-the-top record producers on television were always waving their hands and ranting about on shows like Joanie Loves Chachi or The Monkees reruns on MTV back when I was a kid.

Seriously, have you ever heard a piece of music for the first time that just made you drop everything and move closer to the speakers? The one that's so different, yet so amazing, you're floored by what you're hearing? The artists who create that sound are the ones that have moved into legend territory: Elvis, Smokey Robinson, Donny Hathaway, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, the Beatles. According to Wikipedia, in 1966, former Animals' bassist and record producer Chas Chandler had this idea in his head that the folk tune "Hey Joe" would make a wicked rock song. Keith Richards' then-girlfriend introduced as-yet-undiscovered Jimi Hendrix to Chandler, who somehow must've heard about the producer's love for the song. Left-handed Hendrix got out his upside-down, restrung, right-handed Stratocaster and launched into his own version of "Hey Joe" at their first meeting. Chandler promptly spilled a drink on himself.

It's hard to describe the elusive "new sound," but everyone knows it when s/he hears it.

Despite not having soiled my clothing in any manner at the time, I still remember when I first heard Nirvana. After the New Wave movement had died, local radio stations in my college town could only blast treacly ballads by the likes of Richard Marx and Michael Bolton, mixed in with the last of the dying breed of hair metal bands (Skid Row, anyone?). A friend of mine and I had a Sunday morning radio show on campus, "Up for Church with Tracy and Rose" (Catholic university--what can I say?), on which we mainly played 60s and 70s music due mainly to my hatred of just about everything on Rick Dees' weekly top 40. (She'd sneak George Michael in the middle whenever I stepped outside the studio, which was always good for prompting a slew of angry, drunken phone calls. "Whasshh thisssss shhhhhhhhhhhh%$@?")

Anyway, someone--most likely from out of town where the radio stations weren't spinning all Guns N Roses, all the time--called in and asked us to play "Smells Like Teen Spirit" by Nirvana. Once the caller assured me that no, she wasn't asking for a deodorant commercial, I promised we'd look for it, but told her I highly doubted that an "alternative rock album" was sandwiched anywhere among the likes of Wilson Phillips and Color Me Badd in our meager library. But lo and behold, some forward-thinking soul had either bought the album for the station, or Geffen Records had sent it to KSMR mistakenly thinking we were a hip, alternative college radio station instead of the jumbled, motley assortment of deejays with our own odd musical agendas, determined to rebel against the station manager's top-40 mandate. Ever dutiful to our eight listeners, we put it on ... and I remember dropping the Crosby, Stills, and Nash record I was holding and spinning around in my chair to stare at the turntable in shock (yes, they were actual vinyl records. Do I look old now?). Instead of being the last of a dying hair band era or a bubblegum pop "sensation," Nirvana was shockingly different. Edgy. The very essence of cool. I felt hip and deep and misunderstood just listening to the song.

I can imagine people having a similar experience at Woodstock when Jimi Hendrix played "the Star-Spangled Banner," or when Janis Joplin broke into "Ball and Chain" at the Monterey Pop Festival. Or even when the Talking Heads and Patti Smith moved the music world away from seventies rock into the New Wave era. (Apologies for not mentioning any hiphop artists, the evolution of which has seemed really gradual to me--I can't imagine someone spilling a drink on themselves after hearing Run DMC, but maybe it happened.)

All I know is I'm feeling the same way about today's music as I did back in early 1991, before three boys from Seattle caused such a sensation. (For my brother Tom, rabid member of the Jamily (Heh. He hates that term.), I must also acknowledge Pearl Jam as fellow progenitors of the Seattle grunge rock movement. And I can honestly say that I was just as blown away when Tommy played "Even Flow" for me from his dark basement hovel of a room at our parents' house as I was when I heard Nirvana.)

Of course, there are still musicians I admire today. I love Evanescence's I'm-nearly-suicidal, goth-rock sound. I think Mary J. Blige has the talent to be one of the most astonishing singers of our time--thank God she's off drugs. I admire the continued growth and timelessness of Sting's music (had to slip him in there). Kanye West is amazingly creative, creepy porn addiction aside. Justin Timberlake's first album was amazing, especially considering his musical roots as part of the Mickey Mouse Club and N'Sync. The talented but little-heard-of Alana Davis is shamefully underrated.

But on the whole? ZZZZZZzzzzzZZZZZZzzzzzz. I'm waiting for the next big musical thing to come and expunge the pretend-hip-hop and Pussycat Doll detritus from the charts with his or her bold sound and sweeping innovation. I'm waiting for everyone to jump on board and start imitating this NEW next big thing, instead of recycling the same old guitar rhythms and bass runs and tired lyrical sentiments. I'm waiting for the Pussycat Dolls to DIE DIE DIE! (Musicially, not for real.) And I'm waiting for 50 Cent and his ilk to realize that gross misogyny utterly negates true artistic talent. (I'll take you to the candy shop and hack it off, you nasty man. Go talk to your mama that way and see if she doesn't smack you upside the head.)

Elvis, if you're really not dead, it's time to create a shockingly good new musical sound and come back to us. Because we really, really need it.

What do you think of today's music? Anything good out there that I'm missing? Has the new sound come and I've just missed the boat? Am I turning into my father, who would always stare at the car radio whenever I was changing the station from his beloved NPR in the eighties and pitifully note, "It all sounds the same to me?"

If you want to read a really interesting (and hilarious) discussion of innovative Canadian musicians, Her Royal Highness the Queen-a Athena has been knocking out some wicked fun blogs lately on the subject over at the Scribbling Goddesses.

Reports of Our Demise Have Been Greatly Exaggerated

Just wanted to surface from Deadline Purgatory to clear up an email rumor some of you may have heard. The RUMOR: Harlequin's Intrigue line is not doing well and is being shut down. FACT: The Intrigue line is one of Harlequin's bestselling lines, and it is not going anywhere. This is straight from Denise Zaza, Intrigue's lead editor. (Actually, it's from Julie Miller, who e-mailed Denise and received a phone call from her in response aimed at quashing this horrible rumor immediately. But I didn't want to sound all: "My best friend's sister's boyfriend's brother's girlfriend heard from this guy who knows this kid who's going with a girl who saw Ferris pass out at 31 Flavors last night.")

We suspect that the person who started the rumors of Intrigue's demise was confused by the imminent changes to Bombshell and Intimate Moments. Long story short, Bombshell is being phased out. The Silhouette Intimate Moments line is shifting slightly, so ALL of the books in this line will be romances with a suspense element. The suspense element cannot overshadow the romance in this line, unlike in Intrigue, where the suspense is emphasized to the point where the books are quite mainstream in tone.

In a move I confess I find a little baffling, HQ/Silh. marketing is changing the Intimate Moments name to Silhouette Romantic Suspense. I find this a little confusing, because it seems to place more of an emphasis on the suspense than the "Intrigue" title does, so I think it will confuse readers. Perhaps they should call the new line "Silhouette Romance With Some Suspense" or "Silhouette Romance With a Little Suspense But Not Enough To Give You A Bad Case of The Heebies."

I wonder why marketing doesn't ever check with me about these things? Clearly I am a marketing genius.

Anyway, long story short, Intrigue=selling well; sticking around. Bombshell=sadly going away. Intimate Moments=Changing to Romantic Suspense (though not as much suspense as in Intrigue).

So I've done my part to straighten out this mess. My work here is done.

Remembering ...

It's hard to believe that September 11th happened five years ago already. It still seems so immediate, even though so much has happened in that time for Jose and I--we moved to Korea and back to the US, had our two girls, he went to war and came back....

Five years ago, I was in my office in DC when the towers were hit. My boss, whose office was across the hall, had a news website up on his computer and called me in to see a replay of the first tower getting hit--a strange and horrible accident, we thought. Then he called me in again when tower #2 was hit, and we watched together as the Pentagon was hit and the first tower fell. Dennis mentioned his friend who managed the restaurant at the top of one of the towers. I got a call from a friend who lived near the WTC, which was abruptly disconnected when the second tower fell. Several coworkers came in to worry out loud about a former staff member who now worked inside one of the towers.

My coworkers cleared out of the office, one of them telling me that there was a plane still in the air that was unaccounted for and a rumor spreading up and down K Street that the Mall was on fire. Another soon surfaced that the Capitol had been hit.

During the next few hours, determined to stay in one spot until I heard from Jose (who did not work at the Pentagon, thank God) I watched streams of people walk past my window toward the Metro, until the streets emptied completely and a truly eerie silence descended on the city.

I looked at the news one last time on my computer, saw that the missing flight had crashed in Pennsylvania. I still remember hearing Katie Couric speak for the first time of hints that "there had been heroism on Flight 93." I wondered whether those heroes had saved the lives of my coworkers and I, too, since we were a mere four blocks north of the White House.

Jose called, blessedly safe--no freak trips to the Pentagon that day. I packed up and headed for home. The streets were deserted, and I met no one until I actually went into the Metro station. A CNN reporter sat near me on the train, and the few people there clustered around her, hoping to hear something from her that would make sense of the day's events. She mentioned terrorists. We all talked in whispers.

The rest you know--the somber reports delivered by disbelieving newscasters; the endless streams of terrified people clutching posters of their loved ones and begging someone to please tell them they'd seen this person alive and well and in some hospital far, far away from the devastation; the replaying footage of firefighters going up, up, up the WTC stairways.

I know I promised when I set up this blog not to get political, but I have to say, I find it mind-boggling that we're still sending young men and women--many of whom signed up to defend their country in the wake of 9/11--to their deaths in the name of the victims of 9/11, even though we now know that ties between Iraq and the 9/11 perpetrators are fiction. I honor the victims by speaking out where my husband can't (court martials, you know).

Martin Luther King, Jr. said, "Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter."

9/11 matters. Everyone going off to fight this ridiculous war matters. Those who are speaking out against it matter. Our right to disagree with each other matters.

Project Runway Snarkfest #1

WARNING: SPOILERS AHEAD!

Yeah, we missed a few episodes, but my little brother Troy and I decided we needed to start blogging Project Runway, which is currently having its Best! Season! EVAH!

Everybody give it up for Troy, who will be guest-blogging with me every Friday, except for the Fridays that he doesn't. (We can't blog the day after Project Runway airs, because that would be Thursday, Troy's "hell day" of nonstop classroom fun at the University of Minnesota.)

So here goes our uneducated-yet-hopefully-amusing take on the winner, the loser, and the rest of the designers from this week's "Couture du Jour" episode.

TRACY: So JEFFREY won. Unbelievable. I loved when he said of his toxic-waste-in-a-plaid fabric, "It just jumped out at me." YEAH, it jumped out at you. Like the Mothman jumps out at unsuspecting West Virginians.

That's exactly the fabric I'd use if I wanted to sew a sign warning people that a major bio-chemical spill of nastiness was sludging their way. That dress was a complete horror show, and I don't know what Heidi Klum and her merry band of idiots were smoking to declare that ugly, flailing, plaid bathmat-in-its-death-throes of a dress the winner.

TROY: I seriously expected to see his model whip out some multi-colored bagpipes on the runway. WTF? I'd thought it would be near the bottom, let alone the WINNER. Am I missing something?

TRACY: If you are, so am I. If hating that dress is wrong, I don't EVER want to be right.

TROY: Is that a dress you'd see in Vogue? Now, I don't read Vogue, but this dress seems more likely for Hoe-down Weekly.

TRACY: Heh. As annoyed as I am that Sparky McNeckTattoo won two in a row, I am glad that MICHAEL, despite putting some ruching on his gown that made his model's breasts look like the Hooter's logo, still managed to stay safe.

TROY: That dress looked like it was eating his poor model ("from beneath you it devours"). And he cannot blame the egg incident for the WHOLE dress. The egg hit the bottom, which the judges didn't complain about.

I knew his wasn't bad enough to get him the "auf," but hopefully it inspired him to get it together and make it work next week. He can't be perfect every week, but if he's not in the top two this year, there is no justice.

TRACY: Totally. He had me at the coffee filter dress, and this week was his only slip-up all season so far, IMHO. But you know, he still managed to impress me this week--not with a killer outfit, as usual, but by uttering the night's best line: "I'm sweating like a whore in church." Ha!

How about LAURA's dress?

TROY: ZZZzzzZZZZZzzzZzzZ. Boring. Boring. Boring. And ugly. It would, however, have been perfect for French Maid Elvira.

TRACY: Or something you'd put on a dowager empress for her wake. I keep wanting her to pull off something outrageous, but I think she's going to end up designing for Ann Taylor. Nothing against Ann Taylor, but the company is pure Laura--flattering and sophisticated, but very, very safe.

TROY: I think Laura will be right at home working at a safe, well-tailored mall store. If only her clothes were as sharp as her snark, then she'd have something.

TRACY: I love her snark. Her snark is excellent. And I read somewhere that she's just as snarky at herself, so that makes it all OK.

TROY: ULI?

TRACY: Loved Uli's dress, but did the bodice remind you a little of Santino's gray party dress that he made for Nicky Hilton last season? Didn't that have braided straps, too?

TROY: Santino's Nicky Hilton dress was also exactly what I was thinking. I love Uli and hope she continues to improve, pulling out a win before the finale. She's been robbed a few times (the mother challenge!), and her deviation from the crazy colors and patterns was a step in a good direction.

TRACY: Agreed. Even if Uli's dress was inspired by a Santino creation, it was beautiful and a nice departure from her usual patterned creations with the Y necklines.

And then there's poor KAYNE. He breaks my heart with that sad little pout every time the judges rag on him. Is it just me, or was Kayne's dress really, secretly quite nice? I think if he'd picked a solid chiffon for the skirt, it would have gone over better with the judges.

TROY: Much better than the gay bat wing shirt from last week. I honestly thought Kayne would have been a contender for the winning position this week. I was confused at all of the discussion of the corset being "tacky."

TRACY: I loved the updated 18th-century feel of the corset top! Maybe it crossed over into the Land of Liberace in person, but on camera, it sparkled.

TROY: Yes, it may have been a "Monet" (where from far away it looks nice, but in person it's a "big ole mess" - Clueless), but on TV it was looked very nice.

TRACY: Heidi Klum, you troll, I shake my fist at you! I mean, honestly, if that was over the top, then how did Jeffrey's demented banana on a golf outing win the challenge?

But thank you, Jesus, VINCENT finally got kicked off.

TROY: Vincent makes the baby Jesus cry. Allison should have outlasted him (bitter. bitter. bitter.). I do think he was trying to honor Angela with the rosette-looking flower on the bum, but we saw how well that did for her.

TRACY: Everybody say "fleurchons!"

TROY AND TRACY: FLEURCHONS!

TRACY: Dear God, what WAS that horrible, sycophantic blather-fest coming out of Vincent when he was talking to Catherine Malandrino on the boat in Paris? I actually COVERED my eyes and was CRINGING away from the TV while he was nattering away about her fashion and her shoes and her style and, oh, wow, that was awful.

Maybe he was trying to bamboozle her away from criticizing that bridesmaid horror of a dress? I think I wore that mess in a wedding back in the eighties, butt-flower and all. At least we don't have to hear him talking about what gets him off anymore. Bleeecccch.

TROY: In CONCLUSION, I say good riddance to Vincent's auf. Hope Jeffrey follows him next.

TRACY: I think the judges and producers are grooming Jeffrey for a spot in the final three, to my everlasting chagrin.

TROY: I totally agree that Jeffrey is now going to the final 3. The producers must seem him as a Santino-esque character, but at least Santino had his spectacular Tim Gunn impression. What does Jeffrey have (besides a stupid neck tattoo and overinflated ego)?

TRACY: A serious problem with rage. And an overly doting mother who needs to open up a serious can of whoopass on certain spoiled, creepy sons of hers.

Alone. Alone alone alone. Alone.

So, my husband just packed the kids up in the car and left for Pensacola without me.

You know, that sounds a little dire. Let me rephrase.

My husband just packed the kids up in the car and left to visit his parents in Pensacola without me. (He is coming back.) I suspect it's because I've been being such a pill about getting my work done and meeting my Oct. 1st Intrigue deadline (SHRIEK!), he wanted to give me some alone time to get some stuff done without having to worry that I'm the Worst. Mother. Evah. while I neglect my kids for the computer. Actually, he probably just wanted to get away from the stellar and prolonged impression I've been doing lately of a fishwife. (In my defense, I do not buy that men suddenly forget how to vacuum once they get married, nor that I should always do it because I'm "better at it." How hard is it to shove a vacuum about the carpet for a few minutes? Really? Did the priest eat your brain during the wedding ceremony when I wasn't looking? Because if not, it's time you and Mr. Kenmore got better acquainted, dude. That is, if you ever want to see your non-fishwife wife again.)

So I should be loving life right now. I've got a clean house (not a plastic Dora doll or Peek-a-Block in sight!), a refrigerator full of Diet Coke, the Schwan's man came yesterday to replenish my supply of Chocolate Peanut Butter Passion ice cream, and I have the entire weekend to write. I have complete and utter silence. I can sleep in. I have copies of Match Point and Take the Lead waiting for me to meet my daily goals so I can relax in front of the DVD player in the evening as a goal reward. And I just revamped the first chapter of the Book Formerly Known as Renegade Ridge (that's a whole other blog entry), and it's not bad.

Am I loving life? Yes and no.

This is the first time since Marin was born nine months ago that I've had not just one full day, but two and a half full days all my own. I'm not at a conference. I'm not in DC visiting my workplace. I can decide what to do with every single minute of the next two and a half days until they come back Monday afternoon. Bliss.

But I miss them. At the risk of sounding sappy, my arms feel empty. I want to take Maggie to the pool, and I want to see Marin walk some more (she's been tooling around like a pro for about two days now). I want to put in that baby sign language DVD and see if we can learn something. I want to go to the bookstore and replace Maggie's Disney Princess Sticker Book (because even though the book says the stickers are reusable, they're LIES, all LIES).

This is idiotic. I need to enjoy these two days (and a half), because who knows when I'll be able to have time to myself like this again? So here I go. I'm enjoying myself. Yes, I am. Relaxing, having a glass of wine, and writing up a storm. Yep, that's me.

I miss my kids. (And Jose, even if he doesn't vacuum.)

The Joy of Cooking (Not.)

(Yeah, I'm back. Where I've been will have to wait for another day, because I actually have a topic in mind....)

So I have an unfortunate addiction to cookbooks. Which is sad, because I hate to cook, and they inevitably just end up sitting on my shelf representing the needlessly chopped up trees of the world, while I resort to butchering my mother's spaghetti sauce recipe or overcooking some chicken.

The reason I hate cooking is that I'm terrible at it, and no amount of will or effort mitigates that. I can't taste something and recreate it just by using the Force. I can't embellish a recipe by adding a dash of this and a pinch of that, without making everything taste like a mixture of sawdust and too much salt and look like the brown and red sprinkles my elementary school janitors used to clean up the mess when a student vomited. I can't listen to a list of ingredients and intuitively combine them in ingenioiusly tasty ways (see vomit sprinkles comment above).

Actually, I can barely follow a recipe that spells every step out for me, and when I do, I have about a 50-50 chance of over- or undercooking said recipe, even with an idiot-proof listing of cooking times. All I can say is, God bless the Schwan's man and his dinners in a box.

Despite my complete and utter failures as a cook, every time I see a really nice cookbook--one with yummy recipe titles, beautiful pictures, and pretty, pretty fonts--I'm always, and I mean always, taken in by the promise between those covers. Maybe this is the one that will finally make me love cooking. (I had a roommate once claim cooking was "relaxing." Yeah, about as relaxing as downing a vat of Jolt cola and jumping into the tarantula tank on Fear Factor. )

(OK, maybe not that bad, but still....)

Maybe this is the one that will help me inject some variety and, oh, flavor (other than too much salt) into my dishes. Maybe this is the one that will be completely and totally idiotproof, so I can't screw things up.

Unfortunately, after many years of assembling what is now an entire pantry shelf full of cookbooks, I haven't found The One. But I still hold onto the dream.

This time, I bought Gordon Ramsey Makes it Easy. Did I mention that I'm about 87.5% more likely to be suckered into buying a cookbook if it contains the phrase "makes it easy" or "made simple" or "fast and delicious" in the title? Cooking for Kitchen Idiots? That's me! Bring it on! Anyway, you may know good old Gordo as the f-bomb dropping Scot from the hit summer reality show, Hell's Kitchen, where he's head chef over a bunch of dubiously talented wannabes competing for their own restaurant. It's a fun show, and I have to admit, despite his abusive behavior toward the contestants, I've been rather taken in by both Ramsey's passion for cooking and his tacit promise that even the most slackjawed yokel can make amazing food,if they just follow his directions. If Ramsey could help sweaty, puffy Tom the unemployed misogynist from Brooklyn churn out a tasty fish entree, why couldn't this book help me? I'm not sweaty, and I'm fairly intelligent (and not misogynist), so it could happen, right?

So here's the cookbook. On my kitchen counter. Mocking me. I spent money on it, so now I guess I need to try a recipe. But unless it's a dessert (which, for some unfathomable reason, I always get right), I'm doomed to rubberize it, turn it into charcoal, or accidentally drown it in salt. Or, I'll just crunk everything up altogether by forgetting to buy fresh rosemary and trying to avoid another trip to the hated grocery store by substituting a bottle of dried rosemary and some green onions. See? I suck.

Even though I know I'm doomed to failure, there's a part of me right now that's still made happy by this cookbook. I haven't crunked up anything yet, so deep inside, I can still believe that Ramsey is going to turn me into a cooking genius. I love the idea of making Maggie his spiced breakfast bread, or the fresh macaroni and cheese with crimini mushrooms. I'd like to try the wild mushroom risotto that's gotten so much airplay on the Hell's Kitchen show. ("Polly, your *BLEEP*ing risotto is a *BLEEP*ing *BLEEP* of *BLEEP*!") And maybe, if I just follow the directions, the broccoli soup would turn out to be tasty enough that I could cram a vegetable into Maggie's stomach without her realizing I'm cramming a vegetable in there. Marin might like it, too.

There's also a charming section on cooking for kids. (Fish cakes with eyes! Pasta with bacon and peas! Cut-out cookies!) And all of his talk about buying organic vegetables and fresh, bakery bread makes me believe, just for a moment. I BELIEVE I can cook. I can!

(I so can't.)

Speaking of ingredients, there are some weird ones in there, which helps to narrow down which recipe I'll choose to butcher. Baby octopi? Fresh eels? Blood sausage? BLECH. I'm also wondering what the crunk creme fraiche is. Some weird UK thing? Some secret ingredient that only cake-eaters know about because it's only available in expensive cake-eater grocery stores to which I am not privy? I think I may need it for the breakfast bread.

Anyway, I'll keep you posted. Once I get up the courage to watch my dream die, once again.