Bone In The Fan Tears Archuleta A New.....

This post is written by my husband, Brad. You can read it on his blog Bone In The Fan, here.

American Idol Finals Magic: David Archuleta Makes Me Throw Up In My Mouth

December 8, 1980, New York City: Mark David Chapman murders John Lennon on a street in front of his home. The world mourns.

May 20, 2008, Los Angeles: David Archuleta murders "Imagine" on national television. I puke in my mouth.

I almost didn't watch it. My 11 year old daughter wanted to watch the Idol finals (she's a David Cook fan thank goodness, given the other option), so I put it on and bailed for coffee, a pathetic and insipid version of Don't Let The Sun Go Down On Me reaching my ears as I ran from the house. I suppose the name American Idol is apt (which is horribly sad when you think about it), but somehow I stupidly hope it will be about and originality and depth, not the search for America's next Pasteurized Prepared Cheese Product. So yes, I'll confess to having been sucked into the show in the past. Last night though, as I drove off in my Jeep listening to Joe Jackson's "Night Music" CD, I was asking myself quite earnestly what had become of me that I had actually watched more than zero episodes this year. The audition process can be amusing in a pathetic schadenfreude way, and it's certainly always fun to wonder which Paula Abdul will show up (Will she be high? Will she behave like an over-affectionate alcoholic? The kind that wraps her arm over your shoulder at the bar and tells you how much she loves you, man. Will she drool over the teenaged contestants like a deranged cougar?) but I'm disgusted with myself all the same. So as I say, I left the house and went for coffee.

I got home shortly after the show ended. My wife Joanna had not shut off the DVR. Which meant that I could, if I wanted, rewind to the show and watch some of it. Here's the thing about me: a few weeks ago I had the opportunity, while I was speaking with a police accident investigator, to either look or not look at photographs of a particularly bad motorcycle accident. Faced with the choice of more information versus less information, I always have to choose more (frankly, I'm an information slut) so I looked at the photos. And last night I rewound the DVR.

(to read the full article go here to Bone In The Fan )

....A Gunk Dilemma

My mother's account of last Sunday....

On Sunday I invited a bunch of friends over for a barbeque.  This is my favorite way to entertain, bringing friends together and not spending too much unnecessary time with the cooking deal.  Anyway, before anyone arrived, I decided to tackle a fixit job that has been bothering me for at least two years.  I must say that the only reason I decided to tackle this job one half hour before everyone arrived is because I am very shallow and wanted to impress my oldest grade school friend's husband who had never been to my house before.  My regular buddies could care less about the dysfunctional wood floor trim in my living room, as it is far less annoying than some of the other dysfunctional fixit jobs that I've put off, but I'm kind of tired of the dog charging around the living room, dining room and kitchen at 65 mph using the trim as his personal skate board.  Between the dog, the grandkids and an overzealous cleaning crew, the wood trim was becoming a priority or a lawsuit.

 

So back to the barbeque.  I got on my hands and knees scraping glue from the floor and the underside of the trim.  The vacuuming scares  the dog who thinks it's the enemy launching an attack on him.  More running, barking and chaos.  When I was ready to put the "liquid glue" onto the trim,  I used my fingers and was very pleased at the beauty of my work.  The job was done, and not too shabbily,  but now I had about half an hour to clean myself up before my friends arrived.  I read the label on the tube and there were no instructions about cleaning up the gunk from the hands, so I went into the bathroom, grabbed some soap and began scrubbing.  Nothing took the stuff off.  I got a brush, scrubbed my hands and fingers. The skin on my fingers were scraping off and bleeding, but the stuff wasn't.  

Since my daughter who is the founder of her own beauty products  business (Product Body, I'm proud to announce), she has in her lovely and quiet way, filled my bathrooms with all of her wonderful products (4 bathrooms all told).  I looked on the vanity and saw Crush On You pumpkin cinnamon scrub. I am a gal from the 60's.  We used oils, creams, but never scrubs.  I don't think there were any scrubs.  So, although these lovely products surround me in the bathrooms, I have failed to grab the scrubs and use them (my husband likes them, he reports).  Now I was pretty desperate so I dipped into the scrub (ummmm, smells good enough to eat) and washed my hands with it.  Not only did it remove all the black gunk on my fingers and hands (these lovelies were clean), but they felt softer than they ever had.  What a kick.

 

Now I know my sweet daughter will believe me because I am too depressed over Dan Fogelberg's death to lie.  Thank you, Crush on You.   

Mom

The picture of Natalie Wood looks like my mom when she was 20.

Nice to know she finally tried the stuff after THREE YEARS!  :)  

Thanks, Mom....I love you!

......Dan Fogelberg??