I have a secret. Sshhhh. I really want to share it with all of you, my dear blog readers (o.k., my sister, my husband and a couple of my coolest friends). What is it, you ask? Well, I have a secret obsession. I have a bit of a bad, reality t.v. addiction. Yes. It is true. In fact one of my favorite shows is Intervention on A&E and I might just be in need of my own intervention to stop my reality t.v. watching madness. I can't really explain what it is about these shows that makes me tune in. Sometimes the hook is a topic that I just really dig. Like Top Chef which is this season long cooki
ng competition filled with gourmet dishes and celebrity chef judges and lots of high spirited high jinks. There are always cats on there that you love to hate. Like Steven Aspirino from Season 1 and then this wolverine looking dude named Marcel from Season 2. Who was it last year . . . . I forget. Oh, but this year it was this grimmaced faced chic named Lisa. Too bad she had to go and ruin the Lisa name for the rest of us. Hiss.
Oh and I must admit that I do have a the teeniest crush on head judge, chef Tom Collichio. Grrrrr. The dude has hot baldness going on and it is working for him. Now that is yummy. But I digress.
Well, my two latest forays into the debauched underbelly of reality entertainment are very difficult for me to admit. One, well, is understandably a draw due to the crass and vicious humor. I am speaking, of course, of Kathy Griffin: My Life on the D List. People, this show is hilarious. Kathy is mean and nasty. She rips on everyone but reserves her harshest and most biting snarkiness for her A-List star counterparts. I stinkin love it, every deliciously venomous barb. Am I an evil person? Do I like to partake in the suffering of others? Well, maybe just a little. I can't help it. It is like someone bakes a warm and gooey chocolate cake and then leaves it out on the counter. You see it there and it is incredibly tempting. You just want to grab a hunk and gobble it up. This is how reality tv is to me. Like cake for the famished. Like water for the thirsty.
The second show that I am ashamed to admit watching is the zany episodic adventures of Denise Richards. I know. I know. This is the same Denise Richards who went through a scandalous divorce from bad boy Charlie Sheen and then supposedly broke up the marriage of Heather Locklear and Richie Sambora. I say supposedly because this is all tabloid hearsay and rumor. There is no proof as Denise will attest to on her show. She is misunderstood. As the show will reveal, Denise is just a sweet, single mom who only cares about her family and spending time with her gazillion pet animals on her ranch house. OK, maybe this too is a bunch of crap, but after watching five back-to-back episodes recorded by my TIVO yesterday, I have to say that I was rooting for her by show three.
Again, I'm not sure why I feel so compelled to watch these shows. I guess there is something intriguing by sneaking a peek into the lives of others -- others who may have more problems than I do, more fame and fortune and more mystery and complications. With the explosion of user-generated content, the You Tube and the blogosphere, it is only a matter of time before we all have our own reality shows. Would you watch me typing on my Mac and eating crackers? What about watching me do the laundry? Fun stuff. When we all get to the point where we record ourselves and upload it online for everyone to watch, what will they call it? Oh yeah, wait. I guess that is called LIFE. Life on display. No thanks. I'll keep my stuff to myself and just watch all the angst and self-loathing on my t.v. like the rest of the world. I like my feelings of unworthiness and shame to remain bottled up inside thankyouverymuch.
Friday night found the newlyweds on a date of sorts. [Sidebar question, do married couples go on dates? I mean, can you really call it a date if you are married? Talk amongst yourselves . . . ]
Mr. Oz and I partook in an ancient and time-honored ritual. We brewed our own beer! For Valentine's Day, I gave Mr. Oz a gift certificate to Vine Park Brewery and this was the weekend to redeem said gift certificate. We hit the brewery and had our very own brew coach walk us through the steps. They had a wide list of beer options and after some deliberating, we landed on a high gravity (that's brew-speak for high alcohol content) libation called Rattlesnake Lager. Here's the description from the beer menu: "The rich dark amber color and high alcohol puts it in the Doppelbock category. Even a relatively healthy dose of hops fails to diminish its malty sweetness." Sounds delicious doesn't it? The brewing experience was cool. I wasn't exactly sure what to expect, but the process involved a very hot aluminum and copper kettle and a big rubber glove that you had to wear when handling the kettle (protection people, protection). We measured and poured all sorts of liquid barley potions into boiling water, added precisely measured hops, threw in some glucose (i.e. sugar) and finished er off with some yeast. It took us about 2 hours. Our batch spends a week fermenting and then another week chilling in the cold room. Then we come back and bottle it all up. In the end, we will have six cases of our very own beer . . .
In the middle of our brewing, we met some folks who were there bottling their beer. They were a friendly bunch who had been coming to Vine Park for many years now. We were able to sample a bit of their mix and it was yummy. Although the brewing was fun, I think the bottling is where its at. Your friends can join you. They encourage you to bring in snacks and try your beer whilst bottling it up. Fun. I'll post more about our brewing adventure later and will include some pics of us enjoying the fruits of our labor.
All that beer making caused us to build up a powerful thirst. So, we grabbed our pal AKH (otherwise known as poodle) and headed over to St. Paul watering hole Sweeney's. They have a great patio and it was a perfect summer night. I do have some sad news to report, however. On the way in we encountered a very dead and very disgusting mr. squirrel. I tried to take a photo with my phone, but it was too dark and I couldn't get the shot. I thought my buddy over at Hollow Squirrel might appreciate a last commemorative photo of a fallen brethren. Probably for the best as the image was not pretty. Oh, poor little squirrel. I hope your last days were filled with sunshine and happiness and I hope your passing was swift and painless. Know that I was thinking of you as I hoisted a frosty cold one in your honor. And let this be a lesson to all you other squirrels out there. Look both ways before you cross the street and be careful leaping from tree branch to tree branch. It is a dangerous world out there.
I have been remiss and my blogging has been sorely slacking and lacking. Lo Siento. My apologies senior and senioritas. You might be wondering why all of this Spanglish infused in my usually non-Spanglish free posting? One of my new BESTS has got to be the Mexican Riviera. For reals. If I hadn't been filled with the theological ideals of angels with wings playing harps on puffy clouds by pearly gates, I might actually believe that my Mexican honeyoom destination WAS heaven. It was heavenly. Hot and heavenly. We spent a week at the El Dorado Royale Spa Resort which is about 20 miles from Cancun. If you are looking for a relaxing, refreshing, gourmet, all-inclusive, classy type joint with gorgeous white sand beaches, jewel blue Caribbean waters and those fun swim up bars where the margaritas flow free and the guacamole is fresh -- well, my friends, this place is calling your name. We stayed in an ocean view junior suite with a jacuzzi. Oh Yeah baby. It looked like this:
Now, this isn't actually OUR exact room, but it looks amazingly close to it. I must admit, we did not have the fresh fruit bowl on the desk like the image above, but one day the maid put a cute towel swan on our bed. I loves me some towel animals. A lovely swimming pool was located a mere 5 feet from our patio. We spent many an hour sunning ourselves there. Then about 20 yards beyond that was the ocean. Nothing to do. No appointments. No emails. No work. Just a lot of nothingness. Again, I must repeat. It was HEAVEN. I want to go back. Does anyone want to go?
Now, Mr. Oz and I had a fantastic time. We really did. I would say one of the highlights was our candlelight dinner on the beach. Very romantic. We did comment that it would be a great place to go with friends. Not friends on our honeymoon, but maybe a different time. Who's in???
One word of warning. We left the resort once to go on a day long tour of some Mayan ruins. Good fun but DON'T drink or eat anything off the resort. You are just rolling the dice and, let me tell you, the dice could come up snake eyes -- poopy snake eyes. I was sick for a week. I finally had to go to the doctor and get some antibiotics. Some sort of Mexican buggy done crawled up in me and was attempting to set up house. Naughty Mexico.
I have a question and I need some answers. What compels people to climb mountains? I'm not talking about little treks up a nearby hillside. I'm referring to those who seek the thrill that only a summit to Mt. Everest or K-2 can fulfill? I simply don't get it. Why would one have this need to climb 28,000 feet above sea level, risking their life in bitter cold, treacherous conditions without oxygen? Hypothermia, frozen fingers and toes, getting lost, falling off and crashing on jagged rocks below. . . do these sound like fun activities to you? Nope.
My TIVO is recording a show right now documenting the experience of a group of Mt. Everest climbers who had a tough journey. The show is fascinating. The sheer folly (at least in my feeble mind) it must take to say to yourself "hell yes. I'm going to climb to the top." Then, the sheer determination to survive when brutal storms arise and there is nothing to do but gut it out and pray to god you find base camp. While I am thoroughly engaged in the real life story, watching it does not make me feel any closer to understanding what urges people to undertake such a feat. At first I chalk it up to mental ailment. After all, you have to be crazy to do what these people do, right? Thinking about it further, I guess there has to be something more at work. Is it the desire to go above and beyond what is considered humanly possible? Is it the need to conquer fears? To stretch the limits and dominate Mother Earth? To prove yourself worthy? To show up your friends and neighbors? To have something to talk about when looking for a conversation starter at the inevitable cocktail party? What is it?
There is something about the highest peaks that, for time eternal, has called to mankind. Maybe we are just trying to get closer to God. Looking to elevate ourselves to the top of the world in order to touch the heavens, stretch to the angels and, in that act, grab a small piece of the immortal and the divine. A part of me wants to believe that is possible. But, another part of me knows that you don't have to climb 28,000 feet to get there.
Did you ever wonder why they don't enforce a mandatory retirement age on certain television shows? Have you ever considered that sometimes, just sometimes, it might be time to throw in the towel, pack it up and start drawing what's left of social security while you still can? Yes, I'm talking to you Andy Rooney! Why, dear God, are you still cashing in on your 15 minutes of fame by ceaselessly prattling on and on at the tail end of each and every episode of 60 Minutes? Andy Rooney is my anti-best.
Andy Rooney is to television journalism as Carrot Top is to witty and insightful stand-up comedy. They just don't go together people. I love to hate Andy Rooney. Lest you think this is all about me hating on the elderly and before you call me an age-ist, let me just say that it has very little to do with Andy's chronological age. If he was in his early 30's and still attempted to entertain us with his ridiculous take on the thickness of New York City phone books or the number of old shoes he still owns, I would still despise him. Why does this matter Andy? Why should we care? What is the relevancy for the love of all that is holy? And who in their right mind produces this tripe? I can only assume that whoever is in charge of 60 Minutes -- or the Andy Rooney segment of the show -- is an even bigger curmudgeon than Mr. Rooney himself.
I have this theory and I think it applies here so hang with me for a second. Have you ever seen a person who seems to have found their "best" hairdo in 1981 and decided to stick with it for the rest of their lives? It's like they got stuck and just couldn't get unstuck. That same wavy perm with the Farah Fawcett flip has lasted for well over 20 years and no matter how styles have shifted and hair trends have improved, it just doesn't matter. They are trapped in a bouffant time warp. This is not exclusively relegated to hair do's. Nope. It spreads way beyond. Andy Rooney suffers from this malady too. His commentary would likely be SUPER funny in 1958 but in 2008 it falls incredibly flat. Oh yeah Andy, shave your eyebrows too. They are freaking me OUT. And that, my friends, is the rest of the story.
It has been a long winter in Minnesota. Cold, snow, ice, frigid temperatures dot the landscape of Minnesotans not so distant memories whilst dreams of blooming flowers, warm lakes and bright sunshine dance in our heads. Well, I haven't seen a snowflake for, uhm, like at least 5 days now. I think one more day and it might actually qualify as Spring. I'm not going to hold my breath but I am feeling ever so slightly optimistic. My giddy anticipations brings to mind many pleasant thoughts. When I think of Summer my mind turns to patio decks and cold beer. Some of my favorites, particularly as the weather turns more temperate, would fall under the wheat beer category. Hints of citrus and clove dance on the tongue as the faint traces of coriander intermingle with the
yeasty undertones of the liquid ambrosia.
Ahhhh, wheat beer.
Give me a frosty glass and garnish it with an orange. Sample a few this Summer. Blue Moon, Bell's Oberon and Paulaner Hefeweizen just to name a few. Enjoy the season and quench your thirst.
Dear friends and loyal readers. [NOTE: I have no readers so I type this with a great deal of sarcasm in my font], I have been remiss. I have failed you. And, for this I'm incredibly sorry. When I embarked on my little blog mission, I said that I would write about 'My Best' things, people, places, experiences, etc. While I have dabbled in this adventure, I really haven't given it my all. You see, I've been a little busy lately. Wedding planning takes a lot out of a person. It sorta became my part-time job. Well, all of that is behind me. The wedding happened. It was lovely. All that I imagined and planned it would be.
And this, dear friends, brings me to my original point. There is absolutely no way I could continue bloggin about my BESTS if I didn't give a huge shout out to my wonderful, beloved, absolutely fantastic, uber smart and cute David. My new hubby, my soulmate, my love. I really didn't imagine that I would find such a man to spend my life with. He makes me incredibly happy. He is supportive and caring and has opened my eyes to new ideas, deeper thoughts, harder questions, living in the present, eliminating fears, embracing dreams and exploring the possibilities. For this, and so much more, I love him.
When we were fast approaching our wedding day, I asked David if he felt any twinge of worry, any inkling of doubt. I wanted him to be completely sure. My fear spilled over into my questions and I conveyed my own concern that someday -- maybe sooner, maybe later -- he would off-handedly refer to me as "the ball and chain." When I told him this, he laughed. And in only the way that David can express it, he said "nah, baby. You aren't my ball and chain. You are my wings. You lift me up." Guess what, David? You are my wings too. Always and forever my love. Always and forever. I love you.
ng competition filled with gourmet dishes and celebrity chef judges and lots of high spirited high jinks. There are always cats on there that you love to hate. Like Steven Aspirino from Season 1 and then this wolverine looking dude named Marcel from Season 2. Who was it last year . . . . I forget. Oh, but this year it was this grimmaced faced chic named Lisa. Too bad she had to go and ruin the Lisa name for the rest of us. Hiss.
