The World According to EDW

How many total songs?
3118. I can't believe it's that low. I need to start ripping.

Sort by song title - first and last...
A, Barenaked Ladies
2000 Miles, The Pretenders (Same as Courtney!)

Sort by time - shortest and longest...
For straight-up song, not a movie clip, or other stuff it's:
Intro - Curtain Rises, Marah, 15 seconds
St. Robinson and His Cadillac Dream, Counting Crows, 15:40 minutes

Sort by Album - first and last...
Abbey Road, The Beatles (again, the same)
1984, Van Halen


Sort by Artist - first and last...
AC/DC
311

Top five played songs...
Fairytale of New York, The Pogues with Kirsty MacColl
Firecracker, Marah
Fever, Marah
New York is a Christmas Kind of Town, Marah
Better Days, Goo Goo Dolls


Find the following words. How many songs show up?
Sex: 4
Death: 1
Love: 172
You: 398
Home: 36
Boy: 44
Girl: 154

First five songs that come up on Party Shuffle...
Float Away, Marah
Shenandoah, Bruce Springsteen
Mystery, Indigo Girls
De Do Do Do, De Da Da Da, The Police
The Song is Over, The Who

So how does yours look?

Have I mentioned that some utility or other has been digging holes in my street all week long? On Tuesday morning I discovered a large hole directly in front of my house. A very large, very deep hole. A hole that wasn't going away for at least a day. So I drove across my front lawn.

When I got back, I had to park a street over and walk on the lawns of my neighbors, past the large holes, to finally reach my home. The guys digging these large holes for no apparent reason couldn't have been nicer, and I think they were slightly surprised by my whatever attitude. Like, who has time to get upset about big holes and not being able to drive on my street? I've got bigger fish to fry. Not literally.

You know that I love TV, but do you know that I'm suspect of people who don't watch TV? Well, I am. I think there's something weird about them, just like I don't trust people who don't have any friends. I guess some people have busy lives and no time for TV, but not to watch it because you're too good for TV, well, that's just wrong. I immediately think you're full of shit and don't trust a word you say, because we all know you are lying.

I have friends who will admit that they cannot watch TV, because they are addicts, and go through cycles of signing up and canceling their paid service. That's even more normal to me than those who claim they just never, ever watch it. I think even JP II liked a good crime drama.

Which brings me to Gary Sinise and CSI: NY. I have somehow found myself watching this show. How? Why? I do not know. I don't even find Gary Sinise attractive. I'm not sure if anyone else watches this show, in the whole of North America. I've never heard one person mention that they like it. How does it stay on the air? Are we all just sheep, blindly moving from ANTM to Gossip Girl to CSI: NY so as to avoid the crappy second-tier hour-too-early news? That's how it started for me.

But I find that I like it. I think I might even care about the characters. He squints far too often (and this is coming from the woman who loves Horatio Crane) and his partner is kind of annoying and Kerr Smith guest starred, but yet I like it.

In other news, I am coming off an emotional hangover and all my perky ambition from Monday has vanished and I want to hole up and eat pierogies and watch movies. So I've got a post about Christmas I'm going to sit on, and some popcorn I need to go eat. Thanks for sticking around.

I'd like to tell you that if the news about my mom had been really bad I would have gotten down on my knees on the kitchen floor and prayed to Jesus to thank Him for the gift of her life, for the last 33 years that I've had with her in my life.

I don't know, though. I do know that after I got off the phone I cried and then I got down on my knees on the kitchen floor and thanked Jesus for my mom and asked Him to take care of her and I thanked everyone for every prayer, ever, for her and for us.

If I've learned anything in adulthood it is that sometimes you take what you can get.

My mom's cancer is more advanced than it was three years ago, more advanced than we hoped and prayed for, and she will need chemo for three to four months. But, the doctor feels that this will put her in remission. Which would be fabulous.

So why am I crying? Because they've been sitting there, those tears, and because now we know. So for relief, mostly, I'm crying and listening to Lullaby by Shawn Mullins over and over again because that song makes me feel better and has no real connection to my life, so it doesn't hit my soul too hard, if you know what I mean.

Now we can move on, in love and hope and joy, and have a Merry Christmas and be thankful and take one day at time, as it comes, as we always should. "Be happy for this moment. This moment is your life" is a quote on my fridge, and I'll try to live by Omar Khayyam's words today, as I do every day. That title up there, it was the title of the post no matter what news we got. Maybe I'm learning something on this journey called life, after all.

But right now there are still tears. I really do feel good about this; it's not the worst that could happen, but of course there is difficulty ahead for my mom. But that can and will be dealt with another day. For today I'm going to be thankful, and teary, and remember to breathe in and out. And maybe put up some Christmas decorations.

Thank you for every ounce of support you've shown me, from the bottom, middle, and top of my heart.

I am just like a Culinary Institute of America trained chef. I am! Want proof?

Here are my ingredients, all washed and chopped and measured, ready to go:

This is called mise en place, having everything ready before you cook. I do this because otherwise I get totally overwhelmed and start drinking wine at 9am. Little did I know it's exactly how they train you in chef school. I'm just a natural, what can I say?


And here's the finished product, in all its beauty:

It was yummy! We're keeping this recipe for next year, a true sign of success.

When you make a harvest fruit pie, with apples, pears, and cherries, and the recipe tells you to sprinkle regular or colored sugar do not pick green colored sugar. It will look weird. But taste delicious!



When cooking a big dinner, don't forget to add some people you love:


And never hesitate to be who you really are:



Here's the rest. Enjoy!

Coming up...keep you fingers crossed for good news on my mom and see how the living room turned out.

The turkey's been consumed, the dishes are in the sink, and hopefully you've gotten rid of your relatives. So let's get real. It's great to be grateful, and I am certainly working on an attitude of gratitude, but I'm not as nice in real life as I've been on this blog the last week or so. Nope, in real life I get annoyed by my friends and family and even strangers on a regular basis. Sometimes I want to kick people in the shins.

I find holidays bring out the very best and worst in all of us. You can sail along, have a great day, and then bang! something happens and you remember why you hate Uncle Fred. Or, really, why you hate the lot of them and just want to be home with a book and some wine and maybe Love Actually, because at least everything's not perfect in that movie. Last year we had the best Christmas Eve ever, in the history of Christmas Eve's, and the next day I was wondering why I even spoke to any family member in a 100 mile radius.

Some of you are probably still wrapped in the warm cocoon of happy-happy. I get that. I applaud that. I like the perfect warm fuzzies a lot, too, and I can usually manage that for a full or day or barring that, two hours in a theater watching, say, Enchanted. But one of my many charms is my unfailing sense of reality, and my mission, some might say, to call it as it is. A friend of mine, upon hearing of my live-in-the-hope movement on this latest mom-cancer thing, warned me not to be too la-la-la, as if that was even possible. Heck, at the end of Enchanted, I wanted to know how they were going to get off the roof. Come on, now! If you want me to believe that she's from a fairytale, fine. But at least get her down from the freaking roof.

I'm not a fan of those who like to live in denial or the Land of Everything's A-OK!. I like storytellers a lot; I just like when they know when to stop. The very same can be said for family gatherings. Why not space them out? A nice 4th of July bash and then Christmas. One day, not six weeks. Six months off. Wouldn't it be nice? We'd all be happy to see each other, and then we'd have a good six months to work it all out in therapy for the next time around. The way it is now, if you get annoyed on Thanksgiving, you're screwed come Christmas.

So, sure, Thanksgiving was lovely. My food turned out well. I love my family. But I'm done, people. D-O-N-E. I don't even feel like decorating for Christmas or wrapping presents or being merry. I want to hang out with Santa on his year off.

I'm going to take my grateful, well-fed, grumpy, realistic, funny, and brilliant self off to bed. Tomorrow I will post lots of pictures of the day; the painting project, the road we took to get to my mom's, the food, the centerpiece my kid made, and me with attitude. Bet you can't wait.

Beach Boys, from one of the undisputed greatest albums of all-time, Pet Sounds. Buy it now.

I'm not sure who wins for all-time most painful to watch on the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade, Meredith Viera or former host Katie Couric. Yet I watch every year. I love hanging out in my pj's and watching the parade. This year I have more food to cook than I ever have before. I'm making the mashed potatoes (my classic recipe, none of this messing about), the stuffing (apple and sausage), and the pie (apples, pears, and cherries). Nick made dinner rolls and will make spoonbread later.

This year I am thankful for everything. The good and the bad. 2007 wasn't my favorite year ever, but I'm sending it out with gratitude because I've learned something in these least-favorite times.

I'm thankful for my family, especially my husband, my daughter, my mom and dad, and my cousin Lisa.

I'm thankful for my friends, all of them, old and new. I have nothing but love and gratitude for my core, the women who always call, always listen, always care. I love you all.

I'm thankful for my home. I'm thankful for my husband's job and the work I've been doing. I'm thankful for books and libraries and television and music. I'm thankful for two friends who can't keep a secret but instead share the happiness. I'm thankful for a new Bruce album and tour and seeing him and getting the CD early and just for him in general.

I'm thankful for good health and good friends and a good life. I'm thankful to live in this country and reap the benefits of access to safe water and clean air and good food. I'm thankful for my faith and for hope and for modern medical science. I'm thankful for my town, my state, my world.

I'm thankful for writing. I'm thankful for IMDB and laptops and wireless networks. I'm thankful for text messaging and websites and DVDs. I'm thankful for my kid's school. I'm thankful for sunshine, the beach, and the Stone Pony.

I'm thankful for this life, in all its imperfections. Happy Thanksgiving.

It's considered a lyric because they used to run these commercials for NY and that was the jingle.


I love this city. I love this area. Here's one small reason why.

There's a plan to redevelop Coney Island. The local residents are against this plan. Monday night there was supposed to be a meeting about it, but so many people showed up that they had to cancel the meeting because there wasn't nearly enough room. Originally 160 invitations were sent out to this invite-only meeting, but 400 people showed up. On the local news those who came were ranting and raving about the meeting being canceled, about the redevelopment, about the man sticking it to them.

I've traveled a bit around this country and never on the local news have I seen the spirit and the fire that even the very elderly have in NYC. Now maybe I'm wrong. God, I hope every city in this country has a thousand vocal, angry old people fighting for what they believe in. I don't support this particular viewpoint, but I love that they are out there, ranting and raving and showing up and making noise. It's so classic NY, the old lady from Brighton Beach with the super dyed red hair and bright teal coat telling off a reporter and anyone who'll listen on the 11pm news.

It makes me feel good. It makes me feel like in a big, cosmic way, things are going to be okay, because the earth keeps turning and people like that keep raging. We're survivors, us humans, from the oldest to the youngest. Our world can crash down again and again and we pick up and keep going. We fight the good fight, whatever that is to us.

I love this city.


For more information on the I Love NY campaign, here's a nice little video about the origin of the campaign:

The other day a friend of mine was asking for good vibes to be sent to her daughter, who's 15 and just had one of those horrid first-love breakups. I wrote her that I was signing that prayer with my heart. It felt right and she loved it. I feel good that my petition is out there, and even if you didn't respond by comment, email, text, or call, I know you support me and that's the same as signing your name to it.

My parents went away to Annapolis for a nice weekend away from the Big C and Nick and I went to Ikea. Because that's so obviously equivalent. When we returned home with the latest addition to our living room, he said, "Wow, it really looks like we have a set!" Like grown-ups. He also decided that maybe we should save $900 and paint the room ourselves. Now, we've never hired anyone to do anything in our home. Renovate the entire bottom floor? Sure! Gut and redo kitchen? No problem! Rerun electrical circuits? Piece of cake! However, the super high ceilings, cracks in the wall and ceiling, and the general annoyance of the previous owner's bad trim painting made us want to cry.

Money talks, though. I think we should jump in and do it this weekend. Why not? I can pack up books and CDs (I've been dying to reorganize all the CDs) this week, and we'll have two days to do it. Nick wants me to purge books. I don't think I need to. I purge books like I purge friends, organically and continuously. I only keep the ones I love, and it's not my fault I have more than the average person.

This weekend we also went to the Brooks Brothers outlet. I'm back to dressing my husband, which is very easy since he's become totally addicted to everything Brooks Brothers. He now looks like early 1981, but, hey, at least it's better than late 1994.

And we played video games. I admit, I like the Wii. Much more than I thought I would. You can go bowling without leaving your house! You can feel stupid with Big Brain Academy! You can lose and have people mock you, all in the comfort of your home. Isn't technology grand?

After one such session, in which Jodi and I played Greg and Nick and lost, horribly, I said to Jodi, "You know what I really regret?" and without missing a beat, she replied, "Getting married?"

That's been cracking me up all weekend.

Actually, what I am really regretting is watching all my shows on Tivo. Soon there will no new shows and I will be stuck watching bad reality shows, the ones that couldn't make it the first time around. Stuff like "Who Wants to Marry My Dad?".

On the other hand, I can always watch Katharine Hepburn in The Philadelphia Story. Have you seen this movie? Of course you have; who hasn't it? It's wonderful. Really, really wonderful. Jimmy Stewart and Cary Grant are the male leads and the supporting cast is fabulous. Or I could have an Imitation of Life marathon, comparing the 1934 version to the 1959 version. Sounds like a fun time, doesn't it?

Well, that's all my randomness for now. Tune in later this week for "Things I'm Grateful For, Redux" and "The Latest Cancer News". Happy Monday!

Special thanks to Brooks Brothers for stopping by my site today. We're not above shilling for a 25% off discount.

I'm going to publicly share something that I wouldn't ordinarily share. Here's the background on this: my mom was diagnosed with Stage 3 breast cancer in 1996. Seven years later, she was diagnosed a second time. After two major mastectomies, she was diagnosed a third time. With no breasts left to attack, the cancer had moved to her lungs. For three years she has taken a drug that prevents the cancer from growing. It appears this drug is no longer working. Without going into every detail, let me tell you the best and worst case scenarios. She has some scans next week. The best case is that the cancer has not spread and that a new drug controls it and she lives a long and happy life The worst case is that the cancer has spread. I'm simplifying all this, for brevity. Feel free to email me if you like.

This has been going on for a week or so, and concurrently I've have been reading a book by Elizabeth Gilbert called Eat, Love, Pray. In it she petitions the Universe, who she refers to as God, for something she needs help with. She decides who would sign this petition and considers it signed by them. This has inspired me to do the same. I'm posting my petition here. You don't have to believe in a higher power to support this prayer of mine. In fact, you don't have to do anything at all. You may leave a comment, you may sign it, you may send me an email, you may sign it in your heart, silently. You can ignore it or you can send it to everyone you know. Whatever you choose is fine with me. I believe that this might help someone else down the line, and that's why I'm making this very private thing public. I think the petition pretty much says it all.


Dear God and the Universe,

Please intervene in my mom’s health. My wish is that the cancer has not spread, that she will respond well to a new drug to control the cancer she has, and that she will continue to live a long and happy life untroubled by any further cancer scares.

I know that this is a lot to ask. I know that there are many things in the world that command your attention. I know that this disease in particular has claimed many lives. It is my understanding that hope is essential to the world. My mother’s life gives others hope. Her existence on this planet gives others comfort. The love she has for others is multiplied and spreads. The world is a better place because of this hope, comfort, and love.

Thank you for every day I have with my mom, and especially for the last 11 years. I am so grateful for this time and the lessons we learned, the strength we acquired, and the closeness and communication in our family.

I am, in this petition, honoring my commitment to the Universe and to You to be the joyful person I am. I honor my commitment to live as a woman surrounded by love and grace, with hope, comfort, love and joy my constant companions. I humbly ask you to consider this petition so that there will be a little more hope in the world.

With respect and love,

Me

I have a story to tell you, and a favor to ask. But not today. Today I'm going to say thanks. And post a picture.

Things I am thankful for, a partial list:

Every day with my mom, especially the last 11 years, and today and every day after today.

Friends, who when I confess to losing weight, express concern about positive (eating better) versus negative (being too upset to eat) weight loss.

My daughter's absolute love for a little girl she's known since she was six months old.

My hairdresser, who never fails to make me look beautiful and feel good.

Pedicures.

Modern medicine.

Books, especially Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love.

Old friends who know me.

This blog and the people who read it.

Getting past fear.

Music, and my parents for making it part of my life.

Joy. Even when things are bad, there's still joy in my life. There's just so much to be happy about.

Writing.

Strangers who aren't afraid to share their stories with me.

Friends who keep promises and who make sure I keep mine.

All the people on this planet who love me and who I love in return.

Every kindred spirit I've met and the ones I haven't yet.

A life full of love, grace, and blessings.

Celebrating birthdays with good friends.


This day, this hour, this minute.

I spent the first half of my sophomore year in college at Seton Hall University. It was supposed to be a grand experiment. I could tell you what went wrong very easily, but I'm not sure what the best part of it was. One thing is certain, though. I dated quite a bit in those few short months.

I've spent almost equal time being the break-upper as I have being the broken hearted. Or maybe that's just how I remember it. Friends might disagree, and let them. I know, in this story, that it was me all the way.

His name was Jason and I'd be lying if I told you I could remember much else. I have no idea how we met. I don't know what his major was. All I know is he loved Bruce Springsteen and had been waiting his whole life for his very own red-haired Jersey girl. He thought that girl was me.

This is what I remember: he could play guitar and the harmonica, and in true Springsteen fashion, played both at once. It was an open mike night, those things aptly suited to campus entertainment. I went with my friends at the time, people whose names I also can't remember. Brian and Wendy? The other Brian and Mike and Joe? Whatever. I went to see him, at their urging, and he sang for me. He sang "Jersey Girl".

He wasn't bad. It was kind of romantic, but also kind of weird. I mean, I didn't know him. I met him, I was introduced, I revealed that I was indeed from NJ, like nearly everyone else on that campus (he was from New York State) and I must have asked him what kind of music he liked. That's a pretty standard question I've asked for the last, oh, 17 or 18 years. He said he loved Springsteen. I know myself. I'm sure I was all ohmyGodIlovehimandhaveallmylife, he's the greatest, ever! But I don't remember. All I know is there I was, at the open mike night, with this rather tall and fairly handsome man, singing, to me. His eyes were on me almost the whole time; I found it hard to look away.

To make matters even more intense, our group of mutual friends was pushing the match. Everyone except Brian, who liked me himself. He told me Jason and I had nothing in common, and he seemed annoyed that Jason kept turning up at his dorm room, where I liked to hang out and play SimCity on Nintendo. I especially enjoyed building complicated cities and then watching them get ravaged by fire. Jason took to watching me destroy the Sim lives of thousands, while Brian silently disapproved from the corner.

Of course Jason asked me out. And of course I said yes, because it was obvious he was smitten with me. We went to dinner and a movie, possibly the most awkward night I have ever endured, eclipsed only by my Worst Date Ever.

The restaurant was one of those fancy Chinese places, with the huge tanks of fish and shiny gold on the walls. The movie was Malice, with Nicole Kidman and Alec Baldwin. The conversation was nearly non-existent. We simply had nothing to say to each other. I'm not sure I've ever felt less chemistry in my life. We kissed and it was devoid of any sparks. Before that kiss I thought all kisses were passionate; that kiss taught me that I had been lucky before.

Jason asked me out again, asked me to date him. To be his girlfriend. So in the hallway of my friend's dorm, near the end of the hall by the windows, I ended it. I said that he was very nice and that I liked him as a friend, but that I didn't think we had anything between us. He tried to be gracious while at the same time trying to give me a reason to try. More time, perhaps? Another date or two? Another week? I didn't have to be his girlfriend, if that was too much. But as handsome and tall and kind as he was, there was nothing to do to change my mind.

For weeks I didn't see him, or rather I saw him ducking out of the way when I'd approach, leaving the room as I'd walk in. He was heartbroken, they said. He was such a good guy, they said. He was crying over me, they admonished. Crying? Over me? I was a heart breaker, they said. I should give him another chance, they said. Everyone said it. Everyone except Brian. He stayed in the corner, silently approving.

I am the best mother ever. That's what I thought when I read this. Sunday, in the car, Emily identified maracas in a Cake song (as in, Do you hear that? Those are maracas) and then a trumpet. I can't identify a trumpet! Then we were passing a drycleaners that she's never seen (we were in PA) and she said, Look, there's a new drycleaners. How did she know? I asked. She recognized that a sign with a shirt hanger was for a drycleaner. And then she saw a truck with the logo from the company my father-in-law worked for and said, There's Pop-Pop's truck! Seriously, the kid is 3. I was all, how did she get so smart? And Nick said, oh, we are smart and I said, I'm not that smart but now I know! I have big hips! So the moral of the story is, I am automatically a wonderful mother because of my wide hips. Rock on, genetics.

I might not be a genius, but I am very good at noticing Coach outlet stores. Very, very good. In celebration of Jodi's birthday, she and I went up to Lahaska, PA, on Saturday to shop at the nice outlets, with a special pilgrimage to the Coach outlet. It was very fun. First we caressed every piece of merchandise in the Coach store, lovingly. Then we looked at bags for Jodi and narrowed down choices and matching accessories. And for the first time ever, I didn't want anything there, because I had my Matt and Nat bag that I am totally in love with. I petted it and told it not to worry, those not-vegan-friendly bags were no competition, even with their classic American good looks and pedigree. You think I'm kidding? I'm not.

After the prayerful reflection at our Mecca, we had some very yummy garlic pizza and hit the rest of the stores, shoes featuring heavily. Again, nothing. I am so happy with my current shoes I could dance. Jodi did buy a gorgeous leather jacket in deep brown that was super duper marked down and is the very thing she has been looking for the past 5 years. All in all, it was a happy success, and I did pick up some pretty fab Christmas presents and Jodi got herself her birthday and Christmas presents.

On Sunday it was a another trip into Pennsylvania, Where America Starts. We went to see the Drexel Dragons take on Navy in their men's basketball home opener. It made me want a proper camera, as I mentioned to Nick a few times. Santa? Are you reading? Because I'm a wonderful mother and my kid is brilliant! Does that get me points? Also, I promise to use it to take pictures of Dave Bielanko in a Santa hat. As a homage to you, Santa.

Today is Jodi's actual birthday, so happy birthday to my dear and beloved friend, my partner in crime, my confidante, and a loving aunt to my (brilliant) daughter.

May drunk men in bars always tell you how amazing you are and how lucky your husband is, may clients always buy ad space from you, may your girlfriends always be available for drinks or the movies and most especially may you know how much you are loved and valued by all of us. Happy Birthday, girlfriend. Here's to our vow!

Fall is absolutely my favorite time of year. I love summer, and every year I forget that fall is just better because my summer-love hits me over the head and drags me away. Like an ex that sweeps back into town bringing promises of forever, summer carries me away for a few months until I return, at first begrudgingly and then joyfully, to my one true love.

Fall keeps surprising me. It brings me little gifts every year that I don't even properly notice. My birthday, the first sunny but cold day, a football tailgate, Halloween, the first day squash is on sale, pumpkin seeds, crockpot meals, homemade bread, Jodi's beer party, popcorn when it's cold, cozy sweatshirts, pretty leaves.

I was thinking about last year at this time, which, by the way, is one of the wonderful things about being an adult, the ability to remember year to year. Or horrible, as the case may be. But I digress. I was thinking about how happy I was last year at this time. I was thinking about the good times I had with Jodi on her birthday, how I drank my very first Ten Thyme Smash a year ago, how I partied with my returning friend Moira. I was thinking about the buildup to the Marah Christmas shows and how alternately wonderful and crazy that was. This is the year anniversary of the last days of Stephanie in Brooklyn, of the first days of Moira moving back, of the very last class I'd take for my old job.

I'd like to think I'm happier now than I was a year ago, but who's to say? I felt very me then, and I feel very me right now, but maybe it's just the color of the leaves on the trees before they fall to the ground, and the way the wind whips around you as you walk up the city blocks. Maybe it's the feeling of coming in from the cold night and the song in my CD player. There are things to look forward to, and this much I know.

I might be turning into a foodie.

Seriously, I got my going-out self back this weekend, and we also went to Ikea and bought shit, which is Classic Liz and I'm super happy about that. And I put away nearly every item of clothing I own and lined up all my shoes, which I know sounds OCD but is a good sign of Me-dom.

But this cooking thing? It's a whole new world.

I have a tried and true method for mashed potatoes, which are, as Nick points out, technically whipped potatoes. Peel, cut up, and boil potatoes. Drain. Throw in butter, milk, salt, and pepper and go to town with the hand blender. Use Yukon Gold for the best flavor. I'm a pro at this.

Lately, though, I've been trying new recipes that don't involve 5,000 calories a serving, delicious as that is. And I am meeting with little to no success.

Here's pictures of my latest one, which looked so hopeful:

The Yukon Golds, cut up, with garlic cloves


With low-fat sour cream added, for creaminess


And all mashed and pretty-like


They look good, right?

They sucked. There was potential, but it didn't happen. Last week I made Parmesan mashed potatoes, and it was the same thing. I need help, Internets. I need an awesome low-fat mashed potato (or whipped potato) recipe.

In other news, I am still rocking to the new Marah EP and enjoying some Sinatra, and wondering why Cake is playing in NJ the same night as Marah's Christmas show, which I would not miss for the birth of my second child, not that I'm pregnant. Oh, no. Let me go have a glass of wine right now just to prove that. Also, I'm swamped with work and a bit delirious, which may explain taking pictures of mashed potatoes. Help.

Last year I did this post and frankly, I'm happy enough with it that I'm republishing it here. Calling it in? Maybe. Whatever. Read it. And don't phone in your civic duty, please. Get your butt to the polls!

Today is Election Day. I don't want to know your politics. I don't want to hear how jaded you are, how politicians suck, how everyone's a liar, how the country is going to hell in a handbasket. I want you to do something about it. Say your piece. Make your voice heard. Vote.

If on the other hand, you think the United States of America is the best place in the world to live, that we should be proud of our country no matter what those Frenchies say, if you love Lee Greenwood's songs, then show it in the most American way possible. Vote.

Close down this blog, get up off your chair, and get to the polls. Not registered, you say? Well, that's a very sad situation, but cruise on over to The League of Women Voters, who can tell you how to register for next November, and give you information on voting, the issues, and the candidates.

Your opinions don't have to be my opinions. Your politics don't have to be my politics. We don't have to agree on much of anything, really. But just as you share your opinions on your blogs and mine, so should you share your opinions with your town, state, and nation.

Besides, don't you know voting is soo rock and roll?

It was close, but I made it.

Saturday night was the Rutgers-UConn game (ssshhh, let's not talk about it) and Nick hosted a Homegate which meant a handful of his 25 tailgating buddies came over to watch the game. It looked like fun. I had the anti-party with my godson Andrew. That was fun. While anti-Homegating it, I took the steps necessary to going out with Kara, my 25 year old sweetheart. Makeup, step one. Hair curling, step two. Outfit picking, step three. At 10:15, while watching a movie with Andrew and Carol, I got the text message. They were pulling up in front of the popular bar/nightclub 5 minutes away. I threw off my sweats and threw on my fancy clothes and heels and headed out.

You never know with things like this. It could be great, it could be awful. I have never had a bad time with Kara, so I was betting on okay.

It was a big group, a friend of Kara's friend's birthday. Lord. The things that get you out the door at 25 are not the same as at 33. First we went to red, the place to be in Red Bank. I don't like it there, although the owners are super nice and send their kid to school with Emily. (See what I mean about rich?) This place is set up like a Manhattan hotspot. You have to wait to go upstairs to the bar with a DJ. There's a VIP area. Bouncers enforce everything. There's so much plastic surgery it's mind boggling. The nicest people there are the bouncers or the coat check girls; everyone else is kind of an asshole.

By midnight we were abruptly heading for Ashes, the only place to smoke in town. It bills itself as a private club with nightly and yearly membership, but since we were a gaggle of girls we got in free. At first, I admit, I didn't want to go. It smells like a humidor on fire and it's packed. But the people are much, much nicer and it's the kind of place where people dance and talk and are just generally not total assholes. And of course, we got hit on.

There were about 12 of us ladies, and there was a birthday party of about 12 guys. The guys did what guys do; said hi and tried to make small talk when all 24 of us were crammed into the same small space. There was a bit of a freeze going on, but a few of the girls let down their guards enough to dance. For a large group, the guys were surprisingly sober and rather polite. Of course, I ended up chatting by default, managing the mini-dramas of my darling girl and her BFFs.

On the way home, I reflected on how awesome it is to be 33. At 25 I never would have gone alone and returned alone on a night out with a group. I would have needed a buddy. I would have felt insecure. I wouldn't have been able to talk to strangers and have a drink and I would have felt silly dancing by myself, without a big group. But at 33, it felt great. I danced, I drank, I talked. I had a good time. And still, I was only five minutes from home. Bliss!

I love 33.



Anyone get the song without Googling the lyrics?

On the playlist: The new Marah EP, Can't Take it With You. Get it on iTunes today!


Halloween is over. The stores have started to throw up their Christmas stuff, which is maddening to me. On Halloween day itself we went to Target to buy some little on-sale goodies for the girls and the freaking wreaths were hanging. On Halloween day! Pushing the season a bit, oh red store of happiness?

So in case you were wondering why I'm not really smiling in the costume picture, and why there are no super silly shots of me smiling like a idiot, let me tell you. Head cold. The kind that makes you not want food. Yep, one of those. I didn't eat a piece of candy on the day itself. Not a piece! But I'm happy to report that I recovered well enough to eat some the next day.

I can't live without chocolate. I wonder at people who can. I'm sure there are simple explanations for why some of us need a piece a week and some of us can hold off for months. I'm not terribly interested in those; I prefer to think my way is normal and you're the weird one.

Oh, yes. We're punchy today. And referring to ourself in the third person plural.

Emily's school is closed today, again, so we are heading down to my mom's for some amusement. I don't know anyone who goes to school less than my daughter. This school is always closed. Why did I not notice this before? Also, why didn't I notice that everyone else was loaded? That the other moms all had rings the size of golf balls and worth the gross product of a small nation? I was blinded by the adorable art displays and hygienic hand-washing station. I do love it there, because the not-crazy-rich teachers are excellent and the crazy-rich moms have nice kids and are pretty nice themselves, even if it is hard for them to hold up their left hands. And drive those massive Lexus SUVs.

Today Christmas shopping begins in earnest, and you can safely argue that it's me rushing the season. I will be done by Thanksgiving, come hell or high water. Or house fire or electricity problems or whatever else seems to befall us. Today my mom and I are going to discuss the Thanksgiving Day menu, an idea of mine based on a magazine spread I want to emulate. My mother is thrilled. She has waited my whole life for me to be interested in glossy food magazine spreads and menus and star fruit salad and harvest pies and homemade cranberry sauce. I have spent the last 33 years ignoring this, eating her Bon Appetit food with nary a second thought, but today I make her dreams come true. A foodie daughter to cook with!

I've lost my mind, haven't I? Ah, well, I'm going to the movies tonight and out drinking with my darling 25 year old friend on Saturday, so rest assured the real EDW is here somewhere. And she doesn't talk about herself in third person plural.

About two weeks ago Emily started asking me what I was going to be for Halloween. Mommy, I would reply. No, she'd say, exasperated. You are Mommy. What are you going to be? It's kind of sad when a 3 yr old feels she needs to explain the concept of Halloween to me. What do you think I should be?, I asked after several of these conversations. A witch, she decided. A scary witch.

And thus I was.


It's not a great picture, I know. It's all we've got. But here's some scary pumpkins!


Emily had a parade at school. It was really very cute, in that totally random way anything involving 2-4 year olds is.


After the parade, we picked up Carol from school (half day for Catholic school) and went home for some lunch and downtime. Emily pretended to nap, but didn't destroy anymore beloved animals, mostly because I removed all of them from her room, leaving her only books to read while she fakes sleeping. Carol and I watched Meet the Robinsons. (Now out on DVD and Blue Ray disc!) Then, finally, it was time for trick or treating.

I like a sure thing, so we went to my inlaws' neighborhood first. There was a bunch of kids there, going from house to house. It's the perfect place to trick or treat, houses close together and sidewalks, a nicely planned little track development that matured well. There's something to be said for them. We like our house because of the location and the non-planning of our street, but it would be awfully nice to have sidewalks and a bunch of kids in every house. So we hit a few houses there and then I sat and gave out candy with my MIL while my FIL took the girls around a bit more.

After that it was time for Jackie's neighborhood. (Carol is Jackie's daughter, in case you haven't memorized everyone in my life yet. No worries. I can provide charts for you.) Their neighborhood is great because houses are close together and the people who do answer the door are friendly, have cool decorations, and push candy on the kids and adults alike. However, there are quite a few people who have convictions against Halloween, so that's a bit of a bummer for us Halloween-celebrators. Have you seen this Christian trend in your town?

Funny tombstones:


We finished off with pizza, NJ-style (pepperoni, it's the default topping) and pumpkin spice cake and of course candy for the kids. It was a good day.

A year ago today, I was recounting our time with Stephanie and Jacob. We miss you and we wish you were here, always.