Because I can...

• Dearest Jonathan went to a Second Life convention in Chicago. You can read all about the skeeze factor here. Or not.
• Heh. Just for the record, I voted for the asterisk.

  Methinks no one will get their panties in a bunch about it, ala Roger Maris, either.

• I've found a new (to me, at least) foodie blog that I'm enjoying tremendously: Ruhlman.com.

  A few years back, when we were in the first ring of Entreprenurial Hell (tm), as opposed to the ninth ring we were dumped into shortly thereafter, the husband and I were in San Francisco for a convention. Precisely two months prior to a day of our choosing during our stay, the husband spent a good portion of that morning dialing and redialing The French Laundry, until he finally got through and managed to secure a nine p.m., six-top reservation. We were lucky to get it. (I think it's easier, midweek, to get a large table, rather than a table for two.) That night, we had what is still, four years later, the best dining experience we've ever had.

  I even managed to have a mini-orgasm during the "Delice au Chocolat et Caramel," with caramel "anglaise" and chocolate "dentelle", dessert course. (Yes, we still have the menu. That tell you anything?)

  The husband, inspired to no end by the experience, then proceeded to buy The French Laundry Cookbook, which, to paraphrase Bourdain from A Cook's Tour, is the closest thing to food pr0n that you're likely to find. It's a lovely cookbook, and it's a treasured addition to my collection. I just never use it because it's incredibly wasteful. One sauce that you use to simply poach lobster claws takes an entire pound of unsalted butter, if I'm remembering correctly. I think we all know, my devoted Cake Eater readers, I'm waaaaay too cheap for that. Wastefulness aside, it's still a gorgeous, well-written cookbook, and Michael Ruhlman, the proprietor of Ruhlman.com, is partly responsible for it.

  Among other things on his blog, he's currently on a kick to replace the chicken you'll find in many a Caesar salad with chicken fried pork belly. While I would prefer some nice strips of steak, this move must nonetheless be applauded by everyone who's suffered through a dried-out chicken breast being dumped unceremoniously on their Caesar, when all they were looking for was a little protein to go with the highly nutritional lettuce.

  If you're a foodie, I highly recommend checking the blog out. It's a lot of fun.

• Because the mailbag tells me that some people might be interested, (although, God only knows why, since I've blabbered on enough about it) the recovery from chemo is going well, thanks for asking. Thanks to repeated shots of Aranesp, we've got the anemia beat, I believe, and all the white cell numbers are finally back in line, too. It seems I've got an immune system, just in time for cold and flu season! Woohoo! The neuropathies are still an issue, but they, too, are getting better, only very slowly. I've even got more fuzz on the top of my head, and it's my usual color, too, instead of the pure white stuff that came in at first. Also, wonder of wonders, I have my eyebrows back. I have more energy than I've had all year long, but I've still got a bit of work to do to get back to 100%---although, God only knows what that might be, because, as I've realized, I haven't been 100% for so long---more than a year, at least---that I don't know what it feels like.

  In any case, I'm feeling good. And that's a distinct improvement.

• Just beautiful.
• Through the husband's work, I've met a fabulous man by the name of Christopher Hopkins.

  His name might be ringing a bell with those of you, my devoted Cake Eater readers, who watch Oprah as he's been on there more than a few times, to my understanding, and generally performs all the makeovers on her show. He is also responsible for the ReVamp Salon/Spa in Uptown, where I now get my (fabulous) pedicures. He's a wonderful man, with a great sense of humor and I can personally attest to the fact that he's a sheer wonder with scissors, as he's now cutting the husband's hair. Seriously. He's amazing. The husband's locks (and, yes, he has long, luscious locks that, occasionally, drive me to fits of intense jealousy in my bald state, particularly when I have to clean up after he sheds.) have never looked better. Yet, hair cutting is only a small part of the wonders Christopher can work, and since he's now got a blog, you, too, can benefit from his advice.

  Check it out, kids. If only for the phrase, "Bling on your butt puts junk in your trunk."

• Finally! A "fair and balanced" iPhone review. Heh. (I should caution that this link is not for the faint of heart.)

• Good girls!
• I'm going to the beach next week. The only problem with this scenario is that I needed a new swimsuit. Sigh. Try finding a swimsuit on the racks in Minnesota in September. I dare you. You'll have better luck finding a rhino in Yellowstone. If you can find one to begin with, it's most likely ugly as sin, or revealing beyond belief, as all the good, normal-sized suits that cover your ass were snapped up in May. I had to resort to shopping online and I have to say, surprisingly, I found this to be quite fun. It has all the fun of shopping, but none of the inglorious squeezing into suits in the dressing room while you're still wearing your underwear. This is also good if you've recently acquired a nine and a half inch vertical scar on your belly. No one, and I repeat, no one wants to be confronted with, "Good God! How'd you get that?" while they're trying on swimsuits. Or to be told, "Do you really think you should be going for the tankini option?" It's just adding insult to injury.

  I ordered this in apple green and blueberry, with navy blue on the bottom, and I'm confident no one on the beach will be any the wiser. I may be mostly bald, kids, but no one needs to know about the scar, even though this choice of swimsuit is directly related to it, as it's still sensitive, even all these months later. The top is loose enough that it shouldn't be too much of a bother, while it's fitted enough not to make me look like I'm six months pregnant. And, because it's Talbots, I know the sizes I ordered will fit me perfectly.

  And they're 75% off, too! Wooohoo!

  All in all, I'm a happy girl, which is not something you could normally say about me after purchasing a swimsuit.

That should do you for a time, my devoted Cake Eater readers.

If there are any of you still out there.

Posted by: Kathy at 11:43 AM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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Honestly, does anything more need to be said?

Well, just this: I really wish that fucker had gone down to Ground Zero and had the shit beat out of him.

But, really, that's almost too much to hope for.

Posted by: Kathy at 10:44 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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To: The jihadi m*therf**k*rs who occasionally make their way here via Google
From: Me

Don't think we've forgotten. We haven't.

And we never will.

Posted by: Kathy at 11:42 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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Ahem. I present you, my devoted Cake Eater readers, with The Hunt for Red October:

Watson: Seaman Jones here is into music in a big way, and he views this whole boat as his own personal, private stereo set. Well, one day he's got this piece of Pavarotti...

Seaman Jones: It was Paganini.

Watson: Whatever.

Seaman Jones: It was Paganini.

Watson: Look, this is my story, okay?

Seaman Jones: Then tell it right, COB. Pavarotti is a tenor, Paganini was a composer.

Watson: So anyway, he's got this music out in the water, and he's listening to it on his headsets, and he's just happy as a clam. And then all hell breaks loose. See, there's this whole slew of boats out in the water...

Seaman Jones: Including one WAY out at Pearl!

Watson: Including one way the hell out at Pearl. All of a sudden, they start hearing...

Beaumont: Pavarotti!

Watson: Coming up their asses!

I won't confess to knowing much about opera. I don't even really know all that much about Pavarotti, but I, like much of the world, can at least recognize a big, fat, gorgeous voice, overflowing with passion, when I hear it.

Here's the only Pavarotti I have in my music collection. U2's Miss Sarajevo.

Pavarotti could simply be singing "I have a wedgie" repeatedly and I would have no idea, but damn, ain't it the most gorgeous wedgie-whine you've ever heard? His vocals take the song to a whole different level.

RIP, big man. RIP.

Posted by: Kathy at 09:14 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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