Salute Your Solution

I know this is old news, but I’m a little bit peeved with HBO over their decision to move Big Love to the fall. I realize it was the writer’s strike and everything, but COME ON. Big Love is not a fall show. It is a steamy summer show with multiple wives and creepy old men and lots of sex that is anything but sexy, and yet somehow it remains completely appealing, but again, not in a sexy way. It’s horribly unsexy in the way that ’70s-style pubic hair is unsexy. Which is to say, vaguely familiar and yet slightly parental and no one knows why. Does that make sense? It doesn’t. But it does remind me of a the classic 1970s female sexuality self-help book by Lonnie Barbach, “For Yourself: The Fulfillment of Female Sexuality” in which she recommends GETTING HIGH AND/OR DRUNK as a means to sexual fulfillment. And she’s so EARNEST about it, too.

“Some couples find a joint puts them in the mood!” Yes, Lonnie, I’ll bet they do. She goes on to say that booze (and she calls it booze) is also useful. No word on whether these two recommendations are in the most current edition.

By way of explanation, not that anyone asked: I collect social hygiene, self-help and cook books from the ’50s, ’60s and ’70s, hence the Lonnie Barbach. Am desperately seeking a first edition of Hints from Heloise — not the Heloise you all know, but her MOTHER. The one who explains the best way to clean a crinoline skirt and mentions that you should clean the ashtrays before your husband comes home. And for the love of God, don’t forget to put on lipstick.

Now I have to wait until AT LEAST September, which means I won’t even bother with Entourage, because, my friends, I AM OVER IT. Over Vince Chase, over Turtle, over E. Over Drama, even. I never thought this would happen, but last season sort of did it for me. Medellin indeed.

Speaking vaguely of cookbooks, I remain confused by the never-ending “summer recipe” lists that say that they don’t use the oven and keep you COOL, and yet advocate standing over a white-hot skillet sweating into your potatoes for 25 minutes. Yes, yes, an oven heats a house, but a skillet heats your FOREHEAD. That being said, might I recommend roasting carrots in the oven at 425 for 25 minutes with salt, pepper and olive oil? Doing tomato slices in similar fashion at 350 for 15 minutes is also delightful, and if you do them both in the cool of the nighttime, you can have a lovely, filling salad the next day for dinner without breaking a sweat.

Not that I’m usually one to dispense advice about sensitive matters, but if you’re infertile or a suspected infertile, not only do I recommend avoiding TTC message boards (Babydust! ~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*) (GDIAF, Babyduster!), but holy lord, the dark underbelly of infertile blogs — not most of them, mind you, but SOME — is also a minefield that you should run, not walk, away from. In some of them, you’ll find people’s lives who have been utterly destroyed by their infertility, which is sort of understandable, but not something I’m aiming to aspire to, and worse, there are too many spouses whose lack of support will do nothing but break your heart. And while I generally stray from judging others, I will say that there is a special place in hell for husbands who leave their wives for no other reason other than that they can’t produce a biological heir. Dude, I’m sorry, get over yourself. If you’re that massive of a douchebag, it’s unlikely that your legacy was worth preserving in the first place.

Mercy me, this day is over! Almost over! I had a cup of coffee last evening at 6:30 p.m. and as a result stayed AWAKE! and also ALERT! until 4 a.m., which was the last time I checked the clock, no shit. Aaand, I rose at 7:30. This, when combined with a spot of hormones, had me actually warning Adam at 3:30 this afternoon that coming home was entirely optional, and that staying at work late may be recommended. Or hey, had he considered staying at a hotel for fun? The Marriott has rooms! Yes, yes, GO TO THE MARRIOTT! Instead, I opted for creme brulee, which is available in delightful single servings at our local health food store (ha ha HAAA) and waited until 8 for the wine. And while it was too late for the obligatory whimper of “I TOLD YOU I WAS NOT RIGHT TODAY,” both salvaged the evening quite nicely. No matter the order, I’m feeling nothing short of awesome, but I’m having a hard time imagining who wouldn’t after a hefty serving of wine and heavy cream.

And suddenly, I’m craving fish sticks. Crispy ones, from the freezer section, possibly made by Mrs. Paul. With TARTAR SAUCE.

I told you I was not right today.

Hey, happy Thursday! And thank you — THANK YOU — for all of the book recommendations. Am overwhelmed, but also madly in love with you. Our vacation, PS, is now the first week of August, rather than July, which is both disappointing and thrilling, as I love looking forward to things and PLANNING things. And I now have a wonderful reading list of fluff.

*The Raconteurs

19 comments June 25th, 2008