Wherein the Past is Relied Heavily Upon


  70% Open 
  Originally uploaded by Madame Meow

You may be wondering why I'm using this picture today.

I'll tell you:  because it's pretty.  And because that day was cold.  And today it is almost as cold as that day.

The basil that is outside must be cursing me.  The tomatoes are mad at me, too.  I want spring.  We all want spring.

And when we get it and it's warm and sweaty and then it's summer and the mosquitoes are in full swing and everything is moist and uncomfortable, this picture will remind me of what was.  What might be. What is to come in a few more months, if we're all patient.

Bundle up tonight; live it up tomorrow.

To The One Who's Read Even the Boring, Crappy, Self-Indulgent Entries.

Thank you, Mom!  And here's a little something for my mom and all the mothers out there (courtesy of someecards.com):

Md_27b

Happy, happy one!

Randomata: That Baby/Duggared!

Hey again, everyone!  Please pay a visit to Zen Sarcasm Reviews to find out more about a CD and DVD called That Baby, and a special 20% off offer!  I am pretty sure you'll be pleased with it. 

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So have you gotten over your Duggar-induced shock from the last post?

Holy  crap, huh?  I don't even know what to think.  Someone who found my last post involving the Duggars from August of 2007 --when #17 was born-- took the time to leave a very detailed and hurt-filled comment regarding growing up in a large family and how she felt it shortchanged the children.  Being an only child --albeit one with a weird extended-family thing-- I can't say I have much of an experience with having to compete for attention, but I sincerely do wonder just how the real Duggars interact and cope with their sheer familial size. 

By far, though, the blogosphere seems most abuzz with Michelle Duggar's possibly cavernous vagina-- which, well... that's the blogosphere for you, right?  But still... ow.

I honestly don't think that I can seriously sit down and write about this more.  I've been busy informing the world of this development and gauging reactions.  Most people don't have a bell ringing when I mention the name Duggar, but when I relate the number of kids everyone seems to have an opinion.

And ironically, the more I think about it, the less clear my opinion becomes-- despite having written this entry on the Quiverfull movement not too long ago.

(Yes that's right MSNBC-- it's (unfortunately) Quiverfull with two Ls.  Get it right)

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What is so wrong?  What is so right?

And, if the Duggars choose to make America a part of it all by sharing their (happy?) news on national television, does that give us all the collective right to judge and maybe to condemn them?

There are no answers, really.  But maybe the questions being asked aren't the right ones, either.

Just When We Thought it Couldn't Get Better...

... Michelle Duggar goes and gives us the BEST MOTHER'S DAY SURPRISE, LIKE, EVAR!!1111!11!1

Yes.

She's pregnant with her 18th.  I'll be back later today (with a plug for a new, awesome video for kids), but it was too good to keep to myself.

Click here to read the good news and rejoice!

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And yes: for those of you who aren't up on How To Detect Written Sarcasm, if I had my tongue farther up my cheek, I'd be choking.

Live From the Third (or Fourth?) Circle of Hell

The house?  Quiet.

The baby?  Asleep, quietly snoring with a little wheezy feedback (he's been a little sick).

The mixer?  Here!  In gleaming red, ready to quite literally whisk me and my choice of ingredients away in a lovely adventure wherein I pack on more pounds and enjoy it until I weigh myself.

(I must add that I didn't pay the price on the site, but a far more delightful one-- who knew Amazon had kickass deals?!)

The recipe to officially break in this appliance?  Aye.  There's the rub.

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Ever since my cells' genetic information decided to start screaming at me about wanting to be a domestic deity and creating perfect cakes and cookies and possibly brioche --or at least simperingly AND whimperingly aspiring to do so-- I have wanted to have a KitchenAid mixer.

A KitchenAid mixer, I would tell myself, would solve all the problems of mankind.  Or at least would solve the problem of my developing tennis elbow whenever I decide to make something that requires stiff peaks.

For some reason, things acquire larger-than-life attributes in our minds; and ever since seeing my step-sister
obtaining her own gleaming, look-at-me-I'm-so-grown-up KitchenAid, I figured that the day I secured mine would be the day my kitchen would transform itself into a palace of culinary competence and cornucopian abundance.

That day came yesterday, as my Mother's Day present from Monsieur and Herr Meow arrived early. 

My kitchen has not gone Bibbidi Bobbidi Boo.

It hasn't even moved.

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But my mind has been racing.  Was it just frivolity, then, that led me to ask for a KitchenAid for Mother's Day?

Am I just one more dastardly consumerist searching to fill a void that deepens with every wretched interaction in this growing, festering sore we call life?  A chasm so large that the leaden weight of the KitchenAid stand (I'm guessing about 8 lbs) only pushes it farther in, threatening to create a black hole where my soul used to be? 

Okay, maybe a little.

And since it is a little unsettling to realize that one's new mixer is creating a level of hell in one's soul solely by weight (not volume), I decided to run to someone whose soul had already explored the vast depths of consumerist hell: one of my most beloved gurus, Craig Claiborne. (he deserves a post of his own sometime soon)

To The New York Times Cookbook!

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One word:  poundcake. 

Technically that's two words.  But oh.... POUNDCAKE!

In my opinion, there is no better, richer, or fluffier cake when done right.  And to do it right, you have to whip the crap out of it to allow more air.

Never in my life have I felt so fulfilled with so little... relatively speaking.

But so yes.  Welcome back, me, and all that good stuff.  And I'll let you know how it turns out, okay?

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Oh hey, you guys?  Faithful readers?  I have a question for you guys.  Would you buy things from me?  Would you visit my Etsy shop, were I to start one?  Thoughts?  Comments?  Shall I start up a poll?

Oks-- happy HumpDay!

All Things Seem Possible in May (Even a Little Rest)

Now that there is no NaBloPoMo for me, I am feeling a little naked and more than a bit aimless.  It's nice to have one's work cut out for one: much like wearing an uniform, somehow the identity takes a backseat and the mentality shifts into other pursuits.

I do realize that NaBloPoMo continues in May-- the theme this month is Voices, if any of you fellow bloggers are so inclined (and I also realize some of you brave and prolific souls do Blog365, which sounds like a great project as well).  But thirty days in a row is a fine endeavor as far as I'm concerned.  I feel accomplished and I need a little rest-- a longish weekend.

Also, I imagine some of you also need a break of my daily blogging, right?  You've stuck it out for thirty days-- I think you need to chill out, put up your feet, and use the time you've dedicated to reading my humble little musings to drink up whatever you want.  In honor of Cinco de Mayo I'd highly recommend a Margarita, but you can pick whatever you want whether alcoholic or not.

Cheers to you all and I'll see you back here on May 5th or 6th!

"Ñ" is for Lagniappe

Day thirty.  Honestly, the systematic, ordinal nature of this exercise has made it really easy and fun.  I've actually looked forward to writing most if not all of these entries.  I've enjoyed dreaming up sideways references and roundabout ways of getting to the heart of the matter.

I honestly didn't think it would be such a pleasure and a joy to do NaBloPoMo this month, but I guess that's just a little extra something I didn't expect.  A lagniappe, if you will.

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For those of you rightfully irritated that lagniappe does not appear to start with today's letter-- the one true different Spanish letter introduced here, and our curclicued little "enyay"-- allow me to explain:

A lagniappe is a Cajun derivation of the word ñapa-- a Spanish word derived in turn from the Quechua yapa and meaning an extra helping or aid.

In other words, it's a word by which you call a gift; something wonderful and unexpected that comes extra.  After all, you were already in the store and buying something, but then comes la ñapa.

La ñapa
makes things even better.  It's the banana and the apple that justify the $8 bag of freshly-shelled peas at Eastern Market-- still going strong, a year after burning down.  It's the extra samples of chips and delicious sauces and jellies that you get at Uncle Brutha's, along with a friendly smile.  It's the free ice cream and conversation that you get at Ben & Jerry's. 

And it's like the wonderful, buoyant feeling the Meow family got today at The Argonaut, eating one of the best meals we've had in a very long time (seriously!!! THAT GOOD!!!!) with a really great cider AND getting reeeeally good service AND (AND!!) getting Herr Meow's food for free because Wednesday kids eat free!!!  THAT'S LIKE ÑAPA PLUS!  (And DC people?  Go to The Argonaut and help revitalize the H Street corridor!  DO IT!)

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And
it's the happy feeling that you get, because somehow someone's seen fit to help you and boost you up and make you feel even better than you were already feeling.  It's like awesome PLUS.  PLUS PLUS!

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And it's the feeling of concluding thirty days of posts and not wanting it to end.  Thank you, lovely April.  Thank you, NaBloPoMo.

See you in May?

"Ll" is for This One Ranchera Song

I have been racking my brain as to how to deliver a short, lazy entry for a letter for which most of my audience has no context.

Enter YouTube.

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Mariachis are bands.
They sing songs-- there are no mariachi songs, per se.  But there are Rancheras, or Ranch songs.

And one of the most famous ones happens to be called "El Rey", or "The King", by a famous Mexican singer-songwriter called José Alfredo Jimenez.

Its lyrics are a first-person rant to an unnamed and cruel-sounding woman --as most tend to be in these songs.   The man may die soon; this could be because he's about to die or duel or perhaps drink himself to oblivion.  Or maybe he's just not going to die at all, but he's a mean drunk.

The beginning lyrics of the song --which tend to be sung by many a drunken person south of the Rio Grande, as they may be too drunk to get to the second verse-- go like this (translation mine):

Yo se bien que estoy afuera                     I know I'm on the outside   
Pero el dia que yo me muera                   But on the day I die
Sé que tendrás que llorar                        I know you will cry

¡Llorar y llorar! ¡Llorar y llorar!  Cry and cry!  Cry and cry!

Dirás que no me quisiste                       You'll say you never loved me            
Pero vas a estar muy triste                    But sadness will overcome you
Y así te vas a quedar.                             And will stay with you always.

Harsh huh?

Anyway, when I was thinking of what to write for the letter Ll ("eh-yay", sort of), all I could really think of was the back-up singers wailing with gusto, and all the drunks of the world howling along with them.

And so, Ll is really for those sad, crying drunks out there, singing and drinking themselves to oblivion and complaining that the world cannot change for them: thank you for the laughs, but please get some help.

And because you want to hear the singers wailing (and the song's author mugging it up):



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Do you have a problem with alcohol?  Answer these questions. They can help.

"Ch" is for the Best Superhero Ever

Although in a way both the Ch and the Ll in Spanish have been demoted as full letters and their words are featured in the dictionary mixed in with the C and L listings respectively, I of course will honor them here.

There was something satisfying about reciting the alphabet with those three extra mouthfuls for me, and it's a little sad to see that dictionaries are doing away with giving these two letters their own sections.

But anyway-- this post is not about letter demotion, but it is about the letter Ch (Tchay for those of you who may be wondering).  And specifically, it is about El Chapulín Colorado.

(And El Chavo del Ocho.  And Dr. Chapatín.  And my original alter ego, La Chilindrina.  But they may come back for another post)

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There are some things that I wish Herr Meow can get to experience from the Spanish language and culture before he thinks it's all stinky and boring and cannot be bothered.

And then there is El Chapulín Colorado, chief and paramount amongst them.

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If you're itching to know what on earth I'm talking about, get thee to a Wikipedia article about him, or to an English-language fansite devoted to him.

If you cannot be bothered to click links (you bad person, you), you should know several things:

  • I'm talking about a Mexican TV show,
  • Which is about an incredibly clumsy and easily-frightened superhero,
  • Whose name means "The Red Grasshopper", kind of a Spanish-language Green Hornet (or possibly, the Green Lantern, whose genesis story is similar to Chapulín's),
  • Whose shield is a heart,
  • Who is "more agile than a turtle and stronger than a mouse,"
  • Whose "Antenitas de Vinil" (vinyl antennae) detect the enemy's presence,
  • Who saves the day despite his lack of physical strength, wit, etc.,
  • And  who has delightfully ridiculous secret weapons such as his Chipote Chillon (the " Squeaky Mallet"), his Chicharra Paralizadora (the "Paralyzing Horn") and his "Pastillas de Chiquitolina" ("IttyBittyfication" Pills)
  • But whose good heart and true heroism came through in the end, facing the problems head-on and saving the day.

When I was very little, I would go around saying El Chapulín's main catchphrase, which went like this:

Person in distress: ¡Oh!  Y ahora, ¿quién podrá ayudarme?
Chapulín: ¡YO!  El Chapulín Colorado!

I'm pretty sure there is even a tape of me repeating it.  I wish I knew where it is.
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People usually rejoiced when Chapulín first appeared, only to shortly be put off by his milquetoast manner or sheer clumsiness.  They would interrupt him and ridicule him and his attempts to assess the situation.

They would clamor for a better superhero.  They would roll their eyes.  They would put him down some.

But then Chapulín would do something.
And somehow that doing, that action, would get the ball rolling.  Chapulín, through perseverance and a little elbow grease --along with one of his secret weapons-- would get the job done.

And sometimes he'd even get a kiss from the girl.
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I guess part of the reason why Chapulín is such a beloved figure (specifically in Latin America, but in other places as well) is because he is an Everyman.  He has to get things done with little more than his valor and his wits --and a few makeshift toys here and there-- but he has to put up with failure and rejection in his face, like many of us do.

But in the end, he can always be counted on.  In the end, he comes through for even the most obnoxious and insulting victim.  And that is life, everyday: having to do what you must even if you're stuck with a bunch of thankless people who put you down along the way.
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And of course, he was funny.

¡Que viva el Chapulín!

Because Everyone Is Entitled To MY Opinion

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