When I was a realtor I tapped my painted fingernails on the steering wheel to the tune on the radio because I wasn’t actually listening to the idiot governor giving an interview in which he managed to sound both imperious and like an ignoramus at once on NPR.  No, instead I listened to music from my college days, music that my clients would read as both hip and non-threatening should they get in the car and I’d accidentally left the radio on.

I was wearing clicky heels and looked generally very put together.  My outfit was clearly thought through, as opposed to…not.  My hair looked blown out, but I do it myself, and my roots didn’t show.  I was wearing makeup and actually took the time to do eyeliner, because in my realtor life, that’s what I do.  And I like it.

I had lunch with friends because my realtor schedule was flexible today, and I only showed one house this afternoon.  I eat only salad for lunch.  Ever.  I am a mediocre tipper.

I am never late for appointments.  My car is spotless.   I, personally, do not care for this house I am showing because it lacks character and is not especially well built (although my heels made a spectacular sound on the kitchen tile), but I will sell the shit out of it anyway.   The people who are most interested in this house are moving here “because of the schools,” which is what everybody who moves here says.  I gave them 1,001 other reasons to move here.  They aren’t going to buy this house.  They are going to buy another house, a bigger one, they just don’t know it yet.

In my realtor life I drink a martini every evening before dinner and sneak cigarettes on the back porch after my kids have gone to bed.

For the record:  I know lots of people who sell houses and not one of them is anything like this.  Except for maybe the martini and cigarettes.  Yeah, I’m looking at you.

1.  I miss that.

2.  I miss the emptying out of thought and emotion from my busy head onto the blank page.

3.  I miss inflicting my opinion and voice on whomever might be listening.

4.  I don’t regret changing my job.

5.  Not at all.

6.  So.  Most of the time, it seems like a fair trade.

7.  I love lists.

8.  It’s an election season.

9.  Politics, not politics in general but political candidates and which way the election wind is blowing in specific is one of those things I’m not writing about because of my job.

10. Very frustrating.

11. Understatement of the year.

12.  I am irked by the fact that I can’t find a news station that just reports the news.  Not even CNN, which used to, at least, be more bearable than others.  And, yes, I know, there’s always PBS, but YAWN.

13.  P.S. That hopey-changey thing is working out very nicely for me, indeed, thank you very much.

Finally, I believe I was dared, so…

Go ahead, give it a shot.  How do you think I’m going to fill this in today?

This year, 3/21 & 3/22

because anybody who can muster this level of wackadoo is a girl after my own heart. True love.

It might be on PBS, it might be produced by the BBC, it might be written by Julian Fellowes, its widespread appeal is not its fancy pedigree or clever wordsmithery or gorgeous scenery or cinemetography, its appeal is its soapiness.  The Crawleys might as well be the Hortons or the Bradys or the Lords. 

Oh, come on, now!  We’d like to think we’re not the soap opera type, but you can’t really deny it.  Intrigue, messed up family trees with branches that cross where they shouldn’t, evil plots, bastard children, rich people with too much time on their hands worrying about what to wear to dinner, poor people who suffer injustice after injustice, freak medical tragedies, people dying in flagrante delicto, cliffhangers…it’s all there!

And that’s why we love it.  We just have to make sure everyone knows it’s Masterpiece Theater so we can admit it.

p.s.  don’t say a word about Season 2, I’m behind.

Henning Mankell’s Kurt Wallander mysteries are nothing new to the readers of serial crime novels.  And these days it seems almost trendy, or worse – trendy but slow, to read something Swedish.  Nevertheless, I’m walking out onto this limb fully aware.

Mark Lawson wrote about why he loves Henning Mankell’s Wallander series in The Guardian in 2003, you can read what he had to say HERE, but his review is a bit on the short side and somewhat unsatisfying.  There is so much more to say about what there is to love about both the novels and the unbloodyrelentlessly miserable but nonethless endearing Detective Wallander than Lawson gave up.  The mysteries are tight, the police work is fascinating, the characters are realistic and full of the itchy oddities that real people are made up of, and the grey, grey, grey Scandinavianness of it all, punctuated by the fleeting rarity of color – but not flashy red or kelly green or royal blue that Stieg Larsson gave us, but maybe, just maybe if you’re very lucky you might glimpse a sliver of teal or lavender. 

There are 11 Wallander novels, and now…behold, what joyous discovery I have made:

It’s almost enough to get me through my period of mourning after finishing The Wire (R.I.P. Omar).

I’m not a huge fan of New Year’s Resolutions, but this year I started out with a general theme of simplification.  My goal was to pare down most aspects of my life.  Clear my schedule, my house, my mind, my focus, my body, all of it.  Get rid of the excess that cluttered my literal, emotional, mental pathways and concentrate on the things I really care about and that ultimately feel the most rewarding: the dinners around the table, the time to think about some idea that has grabbed me, the comfortable and informal gatherings of friends and community.

So, you know, I decided to paint the hallways, redecorate the basement, plow through the extensive “must read” list I created, start cooking the kinds of meals I used to cook, ebay a bunch of crap in the attic, clean out my closets, refinance the mortgage, plan two vacations, train for a half-marathon, dive into a jump-start-the-creative-mind project…and then break a thumb, throw out my back, have a kid with strep, a kid with a stomach virus, and catch the Cold of the Century.

Oops.

I dusted of my “No, thanks,” and “Sorry, can’t do it” and put them back into regular rotation this past week.  I’m sticking with the reading and some of the cooking, and I have to finish painting the hallway because it’s almost finished except for one wall and that would just look weird.  Otherwise, no, thanks, and sorry, can’t do it.

But I’d love to talk to you about the books I’m reading, and you are always welcome for spaghetti.

My son eats anything.  Sushi?  Why not!  Indian food – sure.  Hey, want to try some octopus?  Abso-lutely.

My daughter.  Not so much.  Food can’t be touching and must be being in color. Possibly yellow.  Occasionally orange.  If it’s a month with a “Y” in it.

So I made fondue.  Modified.  No wine, I made a roux, added a lot of milk, stirred in Gruyere and cheddar.  Weird consistency, so I whisked it a lot.  It needed a ton of salt and pepper not to be bland.  Frankly, regular cheese fondue with wine and kirsch is a ton better, but I knew that would never sell.  We ate it with crusty bread, tomatoes, cauliflower, and green peppers. And by “we” I mean three of us.  One of us ate a lot of bread and melty cheese.

Good times were had by all.  So much, in fact, that I forgot to take a picture.

Until…dessert.

Then I remembered.

Melt chocolate – mostly semi-sweet, some milk, over a double boiler, add half and half or light cream until it’s a pourable consistency.  Serve with fruit, cut up pound cake, and marshmallows.  Give children Benadryl so they sleep.

Yes.  I just said “saucy.”

We saw We Bought A Zoo over the weekend.  Worst title for a movie I think I’ve ever heard.  It wasn’t a movie I really cared much about seeing.  I’m not a big animal-story fan.  It’s not about animals, as it turns out.  It’s about people – and I cried seventeen times.  Every so often my son would look over at my and announce, “Oh look, there goes mom again!”  I was like the freaking Trevi Fountain, minus the filthy tourist-maimed coins.  I don’t even know if I liked it;  I know I wasn’t manipulated.  I just know it worked.

Animal print hair extensions:

Nope.

Temporary lip tattoos:

Oh, yes.  I rather think so.

Yesterday, whilst dodging reminders that it was someone else’s VERY SPECIAL DAY, I got a present.  This book:

Not only is the book completely spectacular – more on that later, but the giftiness of it just took my breath away.  You know how you’re just living your life, minding your own business, when these perfect people wander through your door? Out of the ordinary but sane, funky but brilliant, uplifting but grounded? And then they become your friends and your life is so much the better for having them in it – there is laughter and community and did I mention the laughter? Well…that.  Sometimes fate has other plans and when you are too good at what you do, you have to follow where your star leads – even if your star leads to New Haven, or thereabouts. So they moved, but not without taking the spirit of Wednesday Spaghetti with them.  They’ve had two of their own Wednesday Spaghetti dinners now in their new home.

This cookbook begins with an introduction written by the author that captures the absolute spirit of Wednesday Spaghetti – don’t freak out, just invite people over.  Of course, then she gives some gorgeous recipes so that the food is somewhat more impressive than boxed noodles and jarred sauce.  Maybe if I can, one week, get the numbers down under 50, I’ll rustle up a Wednesday Pork Roast (but don’t count on it).