Getting Ready For EUROPE:
I am hella turnt up for Europe. Every day it gets a bit closer. At this exact moment, it is 6 weeks, 5 days, 8 hours, 8 minutes, and 35 seconds away. Not that I’m counting down or anything. I am. I check the countdown like fourteen times a day. I haven’t been to Europe in warm weather since 2011. When I went in 2012, it was winter. Not a fan of that whole winter thing, as you know. It will be June and so warm when I arrive gloriously in Iceland and England and France and the other places I haven’t yet booked. You remember that I didn’t buy a return ticket — who knows where I’ll end up. (EGYPT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) I am so looking forward to wandering through Portobello Road and admiring the flowers at Kensington Palace. I’m already planning all the picnics I’m going to force Jessica into going on in Paris. We’ll picnic in the Jardin des Plantes, at the Tuilleries, at Les Invalides, along the Seine, at the Bois de Bologna, at the Parc des Buttes Chaumant, and at hundreds of little green spaces all over the city — oh! AND THE PLACE DES VOSGES! I love picnics so freaking much. Then we’ll wander through Montmartre and finally go to that Absinthe bar. We’ll shop at Picard and the new Karl Lagerfeld shop. We’ll go to Disneyland and maybe even take a day trip someplace. I CAN’T WAIT. Time can’t go by fast enough.
FINALLY, after a long and endless winter followed by a rather miserably beginning to the spring, the nice weather is hear. FREE AT LAST! GOD ALMIGHTY I’M FREE AT LAST! It’s really ridiculous how the weather changes me into a nice person. All winter long, I’m a terrible bitch. I’m unpleasant and say rude things. I sleep all day long. I eat all the foods. I don’t do much of anything. Washing my hair is a tremendous effort and I’m always exhausted. But not anymore. I feel like how I’m supposed to — the way I felt when I took those Vicodin pills. Now, I’m busy all day long. There’s nothing I can’t do. I don’t dread any task, but get to it with alarming enthusiasm. For the past three days, I’ve been in a glorious Martha Stewart style frenzy where I’ve worked from dawn to dusk without growing tired. It’s remarkable. I’ve made massive vats of soup, scrumptious chocolate cakes, the entirety of the house has been scrubbed. The grounds have been mowed and trimmed and edged. The saplings have been chopped down. I’m clearing out some areas that have become terribly overgrown over the past few years. I pruned the lilac. I’ve drawn up plans for a secret garden in the old chicken yard. I’ve researched holly plants and other kinds of fencing plants. I’m having the best time. I hate going in at night, but I can hardly see. I can’t wait to get off work today so that I can go look for morel mushrooms, do some more trimming, and luxuriate outside. I have to devise a way to string lights between my old row of maple trees. I think that will just be stunning in the springtime evenings.
I don’t watch many scripted television shows these days. I don’t know why, but I tend to stick to chatty talk shows and reality competitions. But, every so often I will discover a fondness for a show and devour it. That’s what I’ve done with Veep, the HBO series starring Julia Louis-Dreyfus, one of my favorite actresses, even though I refuse to watch Seinfeld. It does not make me laugh. Another of the few sitcoms that I enjoyed was her older series, The New Adventures of Old Christine. I don’t think I ever finished watching the show, being in high school was awfully time consuming. Maybe it’s on Netflix. I can binge watch that right after I’m done with Hannah Montana! I love that show. Don’t tell anybody. Anyway, Veep is a fantastically smart comedy that is about the role of vice president, played by Julia. She’s absolute perfection and she’s the politician I would be if I ever become one. She’s bitter and funny and mean and self serving and she’s flawless. As you know from my many casual references to my future gubernatorial run, I have an interest in politics. I think helping people is nice and I think that hosting costume galas for Halloween at the Governor’s Mansion is even nicer. I’m off topic. The show is amazing and I can’t wait for this weekend’s episode. I highly recommend you catch up on this one, reader.
When I lived in Paris, I had to rely on the most ridiculous methods to watch my television shows. I don’t really watch that many programs, as I said, but I kind of missed watching things in English. I speak French and I don’t really have trouble following along with the programs that were on, but I did miss comedy, which is something that does not really exist in France. They don’t have a sense of humor, not one that they express comedically. So, when I had withdrawals of 30 Rock or The Late, Late Show With Craig Ferguson, I had to resort to the devious world of torrents and all sorts of shady nonsense that I tried not to feel too guilty about. It worked, but it was terribly annoying. Fast forward five years to this marvelous world we live in and there are sites like WatchSeries where you can find almost anything to stream. It’s marvelous. I barely need cable anymore. I wonder if they have Wendy Williams on there? I hope so. Maybe I will ditch cable — no, I couldn’t, then I would lose TCM. I shouldn’t do that since we’re friends. We follow each other on the Twitter. Are you followed by any major cable networks, reader?
“Joan Knows Best” Season Finale:
Reader, I feel empty and dead inside. I have nothing to look forward to anymore. NOTHING. I’ve mentioned a few times that I don’t watch much television, but I’ve come to realize that the statement seems to be a bunch of crap. I do watch a considerable amount of television — but it’s specific stuff and I don’t spend every evening on the couch stretched out before the television. I would be so amazingly bored if I did that like so many people do. I’m very selective about what I let entertain me, and this show is one of the best ever created. It’s not even a real reality series — it’s clearly scripted and I don’t give a crap because it’s sheer genius. The unfortunate thing about television, though, is that the seasons come to an end. IT’S NOT JUST! IT’S CRUEL! Well, last weekend was the ending of my beloved Joan Rivers series until next year comes around. Don’t worry, reader, she’s basically immortal, she’ll be around forever. In the final episode, Joan went to Canter’s on Fairfax and I nearly wept openly. I had just eaten there a few weeks ago. Imagine, just imagine it: ME and JOAN RIVERS together in a selfie at Canter’s. Oh, how the gods would have smiled. I love Joan. I want her to be my grandmother.
Everything on the Food Network but Ina Garten:
I used to spend all of my summers watching the Food Network back in the glory years of the network. Those were idyllic times, back when Giada spoke without over-enunciating and didn’t smile massively all the time. Rachel Ray was all over the place getting drunk on $40 A Day. The original Iron Chef would play for hours in marathon and my sister and I would get incredibly competitive about something we had no influence over. How could you not get unreasonable excited for a show that had this introduction?
Hiroyuki Sakai will forever be the greatest Iron Chef of all time. NO CONTEST. Best of all, Alton Brown was always on in the late hours and his show was the best. As time has gone by, the network has become drivel and awful and unbearable to watch. The only thing that I will watch with pleasure anymore is anything and everything with Ina Garten. She’s a flawless queen who should be our ruler. Her show is best because she’s not overacting with ridiculous “energy.” I’ve tried out for television shows, I know the reason my handsome face isn’t gracing your screen — I can’t maintain the enthusiasm that producers want their talent to have. That’s Giada’s main problem, that and her odd necessity to say, “AHHHHHHH,” every time she does anything. Ina never does that. Ina is perfect and she’s the only thing worth watching on the Food Network. She should just take over all the programming.
Can’t Find A Guinea Pig Study:
Reader, I am so freaking annoyed. I decided that I should probably sell my body to science so that I can have more money to travel. Some celebrity was on television talking about how he got punched in the arm by a robot and then took some kind of experimental quick healing drug. He got paid $1000 for it. $1000! That’s what I make in like three weeks. NO FAIR. I’m willing to get punched by robots. I’ll stay awake for two days. I’ll live in the dark. I’ll drink milk underwater. I’ll pretend I’m going to Mars. Whatever, YOLO, I’ll even sell my plasma. So, ready to become a guinea pig — not only the money propelled my interest, but also, think of the great stories for my eventual autobiography — I got on the Google and started looking around. Annoyingly, you have to have some kind of disease for all the ones around here. You have to have cancer or anal issues or some kind of rash. I feel really suppressed though because I’m super healthy and a specimen of perfect fitness. They don’t want me. HOW VERY DARE THEY! Surely there are experiments that they can do to me. I NEED MONEY.
Never Mind Not Being Nevermind:
I hate a lot of things in this world, but none so much as never mind being two separate words. It doesn’t even make sense. We make other compound words all the time and yet we can’t combine never and mind! It’s absolute madness? It is nonsense. It’s the stupidest thing in the history of all the world. I suggest we all start a campaign to get this nonexistent word into existence. Call the people at Oxford! Call the people at Webster! Call the president! Call Oprah! This is just ridiculous. I’m so upset.
Outdoor Cats Acting Like Jack the Ripper:
The other day, I experienced the most awful thing I’ve ever seen in the entirety of my life. I’ve been all over and I’ve seen some strange things — like those cadavers that had their skin peeled off — but yesterday was the single most disturbing event so far in my life. It’s kitten season on the farm, one of the most glorious and devastating few weeks of the early spring. It’s so wonderful when the little kittens are bouncing all over the yard, hopping after you, falling asleep in your arms. On the farm, though, it is survival of the fittest, and there is a portion of the babies who die. I’ve grown used to this, though I’ll never grow immune to the sadness that accompanies it. When I was weeding yesterday, I discovered two recently dead kittens, which was awfully sad, they were the first two of the year. The mother still looks pregnant, so I’m not entirely sure what’s going on. Anyway, I pulled them out of the area I was working in and laid them on the boardwalk so that I could properly dispose of them later. In the meantime, my mother came over to the house and we walked around the grounds a bit, admiring what needed admired. When we returned to the house, we saw a cat that had blood around its neck. I assumed that it had been in a fight or had some kind of sore that these wild cats sometimes get. It’s not abnormal, so I’m not bothered by it. Mother called me out of the house a few minutes later to a truly alarming discovery. There was one of the dead kittens cloven cleanly in half, its innards pulled out, its body in repose with gore hanging out. It was awful. Absolutely awful. That cat with the blood on it we had seen earlier HAD MUTILATED AND EATEN THE KITTEN. I have never been so disturbed, reader. I don’t know what to do. The only thing to do is listen to a song about Jack the Ripper, obviously.