A Gazillion and One Things!

"The stucco guy is coming today," I said tapping my pencil and reading my to-do list.

"Yes," Mr. Wonderful said putting another coffee pod in the espresso machine.

"I have to buy Thanksgiving decorations for the house."

"Maybe."

"Walgreen's is selling Christmas merchandise already."

"No!" 

I loved my spouse but Mr. Wonderful's "shock" at the ever-encroaching Christmas shopping season was over the top. But that's because I knew his reaction was feigned and honestly? I'd already had my morning teapot of caffeine. He just didn't understand why I was so worked up about the retailers this year. I explained to him how everything had a season and the coo-coo crazy, rush-rush of Christmas shopping, office parties and buying/returning gifts would arrive soon enough. But since it was still November, we should enjoy this time for its autumn leaves, brown turkeys and red wines. Actually red wines were apropos all year long. I'm very accepting of red wines. And white wines, Champagnes, Amarettos, Calvados and hot toddys with rum. 

Don't get me wrong, I loved Christmas, St. Nick, reindeer, Tiny Tim and thinking of others but I didn't want to do all that until after the turkey was stuffed, cooked and eaten, which by my calendar, was still a week a way.

Plus, the truth of the matter was that since Mr. Wonderful and I were hosting Thanksgiving Dinner at our house this year, I had a gazillion and one things to do for Thanksgiving (don't forget that "one thing"!) before I could even get to Christmas. Hence my admonition to keep the Christmas season curtailed until after Thanksgiving Day. 

My Thanksgiving preparation plans included: 1) Writing up a food list that would be as long as Santa's Naughty and Nice list; 2) Writing up a list of drinks for the day including before dinner drinks, after dinner drinks and making-dinner drinks for the chef (make it a double!); 3) Driving to the respective food and drink stores to do reconnaissance; and 4) Finding decorations to put in my house to celebrate turkeys, cooking and Pilgrims when all that was available were Christmas wreaths, Christmas ornaments and Christmas Eggnog with hot toddys. Okay, that last one was fine in my book. 

I also had the stucco guy coming to the house to repair the gaping hole in the exterior of the house. I had to get that hole patched and painted before Thanksgiving dinner and with less than a week, I was running out of time.

"It's just another day," Mr. Wonderful shrugged.

"Thanksgiving is another day like a Tesla is 'just' a car," I said pouring more tea.

"You're acting frantic," Mr. Wonderful said as I downed a third pot of Gun Powder Chinese Green Tea.

"Don't you understand?" I said, my face twitching from all that Gun Powder Green Tea. "I have a gazillion and one things to do before Thanksgiving! And I can't forget that one thing!" Then I grabbed paper, pen and shopping bags and marched toward the door.

With the door wide open we both watched as another element of November happened outside: it started to rain. A lot. A monsoon-like downpour. This would not be a problem in the rest of the world but if you live in Los Angeles you either never learned or have completely forgotten how to drive in the rain, which meant that: 1) Driving to the grocery store for reconnaissance Thanksgiving shopping was impossible (unless I wanted to end up in a fender bender in the street); 2) Driving to the wine shop to buy the Turkey Day beverages was a no go (unless I wanted to end up in a ten car pile up in the parking lot); and 3) The stucco guy couldn't repair our gaping hole today. Argh! I had a gazillion and one things to do and now I couldn't do any of them!

"Want to go for a walk?" Mr. Wonderful said.

"In the rain?" He pulled his golf umbrella from the closet and we went out in the rain. We saw the brown leaves scattered on the ground like fairy dust, we saw bare-limbed trees reaching for the sky and directly over our heads we saw the garnet and gold colors of the umbrella. I squeezed Mr. Wonderful's arm. I had a gazillion and one things to do before Thanksgiving but right now I had remembered to do that "one thing": Enjoy this time.

She Did It!

"She did it," I said reading my computer screen.
"She who?" Mr Wonderful said looking up from his graphic novel.
"She made it."
"Made what?"
"It worked!"
"Worked what?!"

We married each other, bought a house together and were fixing up said house together yet Mr. Wonderful just couldn't get on the same page with me. It was totally clear what I meant and as my spouse and the man who promised to love, honor and read my mind, he should know exactly what I was referring when I looked at my computer screen.

"Are you watching a cat video," he said, a forefinger saving his page in the graphic novel.
I waved him over and showed him what had grabbed my attention: my friend Gayle Carline's blog post. When New Yorkers think of Southern Californians, they think of an air-head, surfer type, which is the polar opposite of who Gayle is. Like totally, Dude.

First off, Gayle is not a dude. Second, 3rd, 4th, 5th and 6th, she's smart, funny, a talented horsewoman and uber busy writer. She writes a weekly humor column for the newspaper as well as a light-hearted series of mysteries set in Orange County. Seventh, she's gutsy because after I posted a "miraculous" chicken and rice recipe on my blog, this blonde dame with moxie tried it. Gayle made my recipe!

"How'd she do?" my spouse asked patting his empty belly.
"You'll have to read here to find out!"

Congrats, Gayle! Thanks for making it and reporting back!

If anyone else makes either the chicken and rice or my shrimp and lemon pasta recipes, please let me know! I'd love to hear--and see a picture--of how they turned out!

Bon Appetit!

Wine Tasting & Book Signing!

If you love comedy, wine and books--or even if you just "like" them--and you'll be in Los Angeles next Tuesday, you are welcome to a special Wine Tasting and Book Signing event!

What: Wine Tasting of red wines AND a reading from my book Evolution of a Wine Drinker in one night!

Where: V Wine Room; a classy, fun wine room that is housed in Charlie Chaplin's former actor's studio. If you want more Little Tramp facts, ask V's owner, Mikey!

Address:
V Wine Room
903 Westbourne Drive
West Hollywood, CA 90069

When: November 19, at 7:30 PM.

Who: You and Me!

Just in case you need a little nosh, V Wine Bar also has food items on the wine menu!

This is going to be a fun night of comedy and wine!

I hope to see you there! PROST!

Chicken and Rice--Recipe

Food. We have to eat it three times a day; but that three times a day adds up to hours of slicing, dicing and preparing meals. My goal is to cook a healthy dinner as efficiently and quickly as possible so I don't feel put upon and Mr. Wonderful has something good to eat when he comes home. I made this recipe for him, his three colleagues and me. I also had a little interspecies help from Jackson.

INGREDIENTS: feeds 5

Rice; 2 dry cups (plain, not Jasmine or any other flavored rice)

Water; 4 wet/fluid cups for the rice (American measurements are so confusing) 

Chicken legs; 10 (they cook faster than chicken breasts and aren't too large so guests can eat one or two without feeling piggy. Or maybe I'm talking about me feeling piggy?) 

Soup stock; 2 cubes (Use to flavor the rice. I use the low salt or sea salt stock varieties)

Bread crumbs; 1/2 cup (In advance, I grate hardened rice flour bread or rye flour bread and store the crumbs for just this type of impromptu dinner. Plus I like knowing all the spices used in the bread crumbs--in this case zero)

Onions; 2 diced 

Celery; 6 stalks diced
Carrots; 5 peeled and diced

Ground coriander; 2 teaspoons

Cumin; 2 teaspoons

Saffron; 1/2 teaspoon. (This will color the rice yellow and is purely used for cosmetic purposes and therefore not necessary since Saffron is expen$ive)

Salt; a couple shakes.

Parsley; chopped (I like the curly variety)

Red wine; 3/4 cup for the pot. The rest for you and your guests. 

DIRECTIONS:

1) Bring a pot of the water to boil on the stove top with the soup stock cubes and saffron. Once water boils, add rice. Bring rice to a boil then turn to simmer. 

2) Heat olive oil in Dutch oven over medium high heat. 

3) Open a bottle of red wine and pour yourself a glass.

4) Pour bread crumbs into mixing bowl and coat drumsticks. Put drumsticks into Dutch oven. Chicken needs time to cook, but once both sides of drumsticks are browned, add salt, onions, carrots, celery, coriander and cumin. Cover.

5) Add wine. Cover. The moisture will help imbue the chicken with these flavors and help cook it. 

6) When the meat is falling off the bone, dish into shallow bowls, garnish with fresh parsley, stir rice and dish up.

7) Serve. Voila!

I hope you enjoy this recipe as much as I do. If you make this meal, let me know how it goes!

Bon Appetit!

Working a Miracle, Again

"Perfect timing," I said answering the phone wearing my suit and heels. "I just walked in the door." 

"I'm leaving the studio now," Mr. Wonderful's voice sounded over the phone. "And I've got some friends with me."

"What if I meet you halfway and we all eat at a restaurant?"

"These guys miss home cooked meals."

"Invite them over next weekend and I'll make them something fabulous."

"They heard you can make dinner in 20 minutes and want to see it."

It's true. I had made a delicious shrimp and lemon pasta dinner in a mere 20 minutes for my spouse and his two work colleagues--Brian and Chad. Which to be honest, was a heaven-sent miracle. Evidently, the news of this miracle and its lemony flavor-fulness spread from those two men to all my spouse's contacts at the studio. Miracles are amazing but they do have a downside: after you do one, people start to expect them. All the time. And clearly tonight was no exception in the miracle expectation department.

Miracles also have an upside: after performing one, it's easy to perform it again. After making that shrimp and lemon pasta dish, I could now do it with my eyes closed, which--hey!--would be either another miracle, divine intervention or a serious kitchen fire hazard. Then I got the bad news.

"I'm bringing Brian and Chad," Mr. Wonderful said.

"Oh," my smile faded.

"Frank's coming, too. And he doesn't eat seafood or gluten."

"Oh," my heart sank.

"See you in 20, no, 19 minutes." Then my spouse hung up.

Here's the thing. I'd already served the miraculous shrimp and lemon pasta dish to Brian and Chad so I couldn't make that for them again because what kind of miracle would that be? In the New Testament, Jesus performed 37 miracles such as 1) Healing the sick, 2) Making the deaf speak, and 3) Turning water into wine. In other words, they were all different. Which to be fair, is part of the definition of a miracle: you do something amazing once and that's amazing but then it's a done deal. If you do the same miracle a second time, it's no longer a miracle, instead it's just well-rehearsed like a Shakespeare play, a Penn and Teller performance or a "reality" show. 

Besides, even if I had wanted to repeat that shrimpy miracle, I couldn't because of Frank's dietary limitations. Nope, it had to be a new miracle and I should have started it a minute ago.

Miracle #2 happened in steps:

1) Scanned the pantry for gluten-free (GF) items. Discovered I had lots of GF food like: peanut butter, Jell-O, a stick of butter and some rice. 

2) Jackson the cat heard me open the pantry--where his food is kept--and sauntered into the kitchen to meow for some food. 

3) Grabbed the rice, put a pot of water on the burner.

4) Needed to add some fat to the rice and my options included said peanut butter, Jell-O and butter. Played Rock, Paper, Scissors to decide which to use. Butter won.

5) Jackson sniffed the butter and meowed for some food.

6) Scanned the refrigerator for something to go with the rice. I nixed the salmon filets, the halibut steaks and the tin of salted anchovies. Cursed all fish for being so tasty that I bought and stocked a lot of them in my kitchen to the detriment of other proteins. Cursed self for not having more options. Looked at clock and saw I had 11 minutes. Cursed the clock, time and miracles! Asked for some help pulling off this second miracle.

6) Jackson joined me at the refrigerator, sniffed its contents, and stretched up to the second shelf where he noticed a package of chicken legs and meowed for some food.

7) Of course! I praised my brilliant feline for having the best nose west of the Atlantic Ocean and grabbed the chicken legs. Rolled the chicken legs in rice flour bread crumbs, put them in a Dutch Oven with sliced onions, celery and carrots and more butter on the stove top.

8) Set out a bowl of Lucques olives, another bowl for the pits, and toothpicks. Set the table for five, grabbed a bottle of wine and uncorked it. 

9) Raced to bedroom to change out of my suit and heels. Scanned closet and discovered I had more GF foods in my pantry than I did clothes in my closet to wear for a second miracle. Looked in the mirror and debated changing said clothes. Then decided… nah.

10) Returned to the pantry and opened a tin of cat food for Jackson who meowed and rubbed against my leg. 

Just then, Mr. Wonderful entered with three famished pals. They commented on how good things smelled, how good the wine was and when they actually ate the food, how good the home cooked meal was. The three guests congratulated me on another miracle. Brian and Chad were especially appreciative since they had now witnessed a second miracle in my kitchen. They all deemed the meal delicious. 

I accepted their praise with a gracious smile. Knowing all along, I couldn't have managed it without serious interspecies teamwork from my little, furry helper, Jackson. The cat jumped on my lap and licked his chops. All around it was a solid second miracle. 

Wine Country Style

One of the things I enjoy about visiting Wine Country is its style. I love the organic produce, beautiful architecture, luxury cars and of course all that delicious wine.

Since buying a limo or a château is outside my budget, I thought of some more affordable ways to bring home that Wine Country style.

Here they are.

Enjoy!

Daylight Savings

Daylight Savings happened in California last Sunday--we fell back one hour and finally joined the rest of the world. But Jackson is not a fan of this early morning sunshine.

I hope he gets used to it before March when we change back!

Halloween Throwback

"Happy Halloween, Harold!" I said carrying bags of candy from my car.
"Is that today?" my 86 year-old neighbor said taking down his flag.
"What candy are you handing out?"
"None. I won't be home."
"You're going to a party?"
"No, I'll be home."
"But--"
"I hate Halloween."

Since moving to this suburban neighborhood in Southern California, I'd seen and heard a lot of unusual things but I could honestly say this was the first time I'd ever heard any human being say that they didn't like Halloween. How? Why? When I  was a kid I distinctly remembered one house on the block that handed out huge Hershey bars. Throughout the year I had no contact with that house or its residents but on Halloween, the lady of the house kindly asked what I was dressed as for Halloween.

"A pum'kin."
"And what a fine pumpkin you are," she said smiling and dropped the biggest chocolate bar I'd ever received into my bag.  Suddenly that house became the "chocolate bar house" and every year I went back to get another huge chocolate bar and share some nice words with the lady. That house, that lady, those chocolate bars made me love the 31st of October. Halloween was a holiday of costumes, practical jokes and free candy. How could anyone not like it?

"Harold, what's not to like about Halloween?"
"I hate the costumes, the practical jokes and handing out free candy," Harold said. Ahhh, just when I thought I knew my neighbor, he went off and surprised me. "The kids know to avoid our house."
"You can't avoid Halloween."
"Yes, I can," he said rolling up his flag and pulling down the blinds inside his house.

Harold may be a Halloween bah-humbug but his wasn't the only house on the block.

I saw Jerry sweeping his front steps.
"Getting ready for Halloween, Jerry?" I hollered.
"We've already had several groups of trick or treaters," he said adjusting his San Francisco baseball cap.
"It's still light out."
"The kids know we've got candy for them."

Which is how it should be on the 31st of October.

Inside The House I opened a bottle of wine and poured the candy I'd bought into a bowl. The candy bars stuck out of the bowl because I'd bought the biggest chocolate bars I could find in honor of the lady I knew from the Halloweens of my youth. I can't wait to ask kids what they're dressed as and give them free candy. For me, Halloween is about paying it back.

Happy Halloween!

Pumpkins!

"I got the pumpkins," I said lugging two orange gourds to the table.
"Okay," Mr Wonderful said looking up from his book.
"We're going to a carving party."
"Okay?"
"It's going to be fun!"
Silence.

As a kid, the best things about Halloween are dressing up and eating free candy. As an adult, the best things are: 1) Dressing up; 2) Eating free candy; and 3) Carving pumpkins!

Unfortunately, I was the only one in The House that thought so, which wasn't saying much since the only other person in the household was Mr. Wonderful.

"Remind me why people carve pumpkins," he said looking at the gourds as if they were foul-smelling skunks.
"It's tradition."
"Which doesn't make it right."
"Traditions are good."
"What about dressing in blackface?"

He did have a point. Some things that happened in the past should be left in the past. And people today should be smart enough to know what offensive things from the past should be forgotten and what good things from the past should be kept. Here's my short list: pumpkin carving should be remembered and celebrated.

Never having carved a pumpkin, Mr. Wonderful was not convinced. However through the power of promises of wine and free candy, I lured him to the carving party.

Our hostess provided homemade chili, carving tools and even patterns. She really outdid herself! While sipping wine and munching on candy, chips and salsa and that tasty chili, we hobnobbed with the other guests and learned that I had the most experience carving pumpkins. The reason was that my father had encouraged me to be good with a knife. Apparently he hoped I'd grow up to be a doctor, a surgeon or a ninja. Although I didn't choose a medical career, becoming a ninja is still a possibility.

Since I'd carved so many pumpkins in my day, I could carve the pumpkin of every person present in 6.6 seconds and bake the pumpkin seeds. I drew an outline on my orange globe and went to town on the carving. Meanwhile Mr. Wonderful cautiously picked up a pen and began to outline his pumpkin's face. While I cut delicate eyelashes into my pretty pumpkin's visage, he charged ahead carving his gourd with bold, Zorro-like strokes.

SWISH, SWISH, SWASH. I watched his face as he worked and it was covered in a broad smile.

"Let's see," I said before he spun his pumpkin toward us.
"Ooh!"
"Ahh!" Its fierce eyes, its toothy grin, everyone loved his carved pumpkin. In fact, his first try at carving was better than all the pumpkins I'd carved in my entire life--combined.  He was a natural with a knife.

As we left the party carrying our carved pumpkins I asked my spouse what he'd thought of the evening.
"It was fun," he said.
"Because it's a tradition worth keeping or you're actually a ninja in disguise?" He showed me the long blade of his knife and smiled.

My father would have been proud of him.

It's Over

I tried to make it work.

I failed.

It's finito.

Southern California is world famous for growing oranges, lemons and the budgets of blockbuster Hollywood movies but this summer it failed in the tomato department. I know what you're thinking: "Are my tax dollars paying for the Tomato Department," let me assure you that they most definitely are not. And even if they were--which they most assuredly are not--it would not have helped the pathetic red fruits in my backyard's garden patch. In fact, the entire bajillion-dollar budget of the federal government could not have helped any of my tomatoes. And that was before the government shut down.

This year was the worst six months of tomato growing on record--that is, on my record. There are some years that produce superior quality products, like: 1) Chevrolet's 1955 Bel Air; 2) Bordeaux's 1982 grapes; 3) Last year's tomatoes. But this year was horrible for tomatoes, or as the experts call it, "An icky, stinker year".

My summer tomatoes were small in size and smaller in number. For months, going out to the veggie patch to pick sun-ripened tomatoes was depressing. So I'd made a decision: I would rip out the tomatoes and not replant them or any other veggie or fruit. I was done with fruits and veggies. In the future, I would just plant perennials and natives. I cleared the garden bed in 6.1 seconds dumping the dead tomato plants in the greens bin. Jackson, my trusty helping cat, sat near me looking on with disinterest.

Staring at the empty garden bed the mystery of why the tomato plants failed fired my mind. Much like how a murder mystery would tickle the brain of the brilliant Sherlock Holmes. A thought came to me. Perhaps the cause for the paltry pasta-sauce making produce was due to global warming? Yes, Watson! The planet's warmer temperatures had caused 1) Fires in Colorado; 2) The Super Storms of Sandy; and 3) Iceland's entire population to have golden, full-body tans. So perhaps global warming had prohibited tomato growth in my backyard? It was elementary! Although… tomatoes do love the sun, which is why they grow so well in SoCal, Italy and at the beach.

"Global warming was not to blame for my lack of tomatoes," I told my trusty helper. Jackson licked his paw.

Perhaps it was the lack of bees? Bees are pollinators who play a crucial role in fertilizing plants to produce the fruit, which ripens to feed every pasta lover on the planet. However an epidemic was sweeping farm country--and my backyard--where whole bee colonies were dying. Ah-ha, Watson! Fewer bees translated to fewer tomatoes. It was so elementary! However after significant research, it seemed that the bees have been dying off because of pesticide use. I didn't use any pesticides in my backyard, which meant:

"The lack of bees did not cause my lack of tomatoes," I announced to my trusty sidekick. Jackson rolled in the sun.

What other reason could explain the slim pickings in my tomato patch this summer?

"TCH, TCH!" A sharp sound echoed across the yard. I looked to the fence and there, perched on it like he owned the place was my ultimate nemesis: The Squirrel. And he looked very plump. Of course, Watson! That sneaky, no good rodent was the cause of my puny tomato pickings. His thicker body and serious weight gain was all thanks to the tomatoes he'd stolen and eaten since May! It's very elementary! I knew just what to do!

"Attack, Jackson!" I said willing my lazy kitty to action. But he didn't need my encouragement, he'd heard The Squirrel and was staring right at the portly rodent.

"TCH, TCH!" The Squirrel flicked its bushy tail, which only spurned Jackson on. Jackson bent his legs then slunk across the yard to the fence where our supreme nemesis perched. Jackson leaped into the rosemary bed. I saw the panic in The Squirrel's beady eyes. Jackson extended his forelegs up the fence with an audible "Ping, Ping, PING!" as his claws sprung out like Samurai swords. His sharp claws were just two feet from The Squirrel. As the rodent's eyes popped out of its head, he turned and scampered into the neighbor's tree far away from my trusty, clawed assistant. And what a trusty assistant! He was my Watson and I was his Holmes. He would keep The Squirrel at bay!

This year is over and it will go down as the worst year for tomatoes. But this fall I'm planting again: spinach, lettuce, broccoli, kale, onions, and chives to be ready for tomato planting next summer.

It's beginning.

The Accident

"A driver just hit my car," I said into the phone, my arm shaking.

"Tell me about your accident," the insurance agent said flatly as if she were asking for directions.

"It's not 'my' accident."

"Whose is it then?"

"She hit me."

"But it happened to you."

Here's what I know about car accidents: 1) Every accident is unique; 2) Every accident costs money; and 3) Every accident is a pain in the rear-end, posterior, derriere, seat and tuchis. And if you get rear-ended like I did, you can add "pain in the neck" to the list of ailments. Here are some new things I've learned about accidents: 1) Whip lash is no fun; 2) Talking to insurance companies, mechanics and doctors takes time; and 3) Women drivers. There, I said it.

The accident happened when I was stopped at a traffic light. I looked in the rear view mirror and saw a white car approaching from behind. The white car didn't stop. Boom! It hit me. The other driver said she'd pay for the damages out of pocket. I believed her. Stupid me.

I went to the doctor for the pain in my neck. I took my car to body shops. I got estimates for the repairs. I called the woman who hit me and gave her the estimates because she said she'd pay. She refused to pay. Stupid me.

Luckily I'd called my insurance company who were great and handled things. I felt less stupid.

At work I told two female friends about the accident and the woman driver who refused to pay.

"Accidents are the worst," Monica said shaking her head. "When I hit that guy two years ago he was a jerk about it."

"You hit him?" 

"Yeah, he was foreign and cursed me out in Italian."

"Accidents bite the big one," Susan nodded. "Last year I backed into a guy in the parking garage."

"You hit him?"

"Yeah, and he went ballistic."

"Mercedes ballistic or BMW ballistic?"

"Porsche ballistic."

I didn't press my friends any further on their accidents because they did the right thing. They caused the accident and they paid for it.

Causing an accident is like being pregnant: you either are or you aren't. There's no middle ground. So it doesn't matter if you hit a Jaguar, a Ford or a dune buggy, if you caused an accident, you need to pay for it. 

So women--and men--drivers, when you're behind the wheel, do everyone a favor and don't text or talk on the phone. Just focus on driving. I bet then there would be fewer accidents on the road. 

And if not, I'll just curse in Italian.

Wine and Halloween!

If wine isn't part of your Halloween, then you need to make some new traditions! And if you need some suggestions, I have some here for wine and Halloween traditions!

Enjoy!

Waiting for Godot

"Where is he?" the plumber hollered at the fence.

"Not here," I said letting Michael into the backyard.

"I bet he won't come."

"We'll find out soon enough."

"Nothing to be done."

"Except… wait."

Ahhh, Waiting. It's an exercise in patience whether you're waiting for a pot to boil, a pay raise to happen or Santa Claus to bring you Barbie's Malibu Beach House, the Exclusive Pinktastic version.  But all that pales in comparison to waiting for the City Inspector to approve the work on your house.

It took several months of back-breaking work but after digging a trench, hiring plumbers and electricians to do the work, the day had now arrived when we'd learn if everything had been done correctly. I thought Michael's plumbing work was professional and Jeffrey's electrical work was stellar, but my opinions didn't matter if the City Inspector didn't think so. In home improvement the City Inspector is the judge, jury and king. And it's very good to be king.

Hoping to impress the Inspector, our plumber arrived first thing in the morning wearing a clean t-shirt and jeans to answer any questions the City Inspector might have about Michael's work. Only the plumber--not the electrician--was required to be present for the inspection. When I asked why this was Michael said there was a pecking order in home improvement inspections: The Inspector is the Emperor, the Electrician is the Empress and the Plumber is the Court Jester.

"That means you're funny," I said before Michael gave me a dirty look and retreated to his car to make phone calls, proving that Court Jesters don't necessarily have a sense of humor. After waiting three hours in his air-conditioned but still hot car, Michael marched up to The House.

"He's not coming."
"He'll be here."
"I'm tired of waiting. I'm leaving."
"No!" I said thinking fast. "Can I get you something?"
"You have a phone charger?" Michael had made so many calls that his phone was dead. I handed him a battery charger and he stomped off to his car. Two hours later he reappeared.

"He's not coming."
"He'll be here."
"I'm leaving."
"No! Uh, how about a drink?" I said filling a glass with ice water and handing it to him.
"I'm not thirsty" Michael sniffed. He'd been sitting in his car for five hours and it was 102 degrees Fahrenheit in my kitchen freezer, of course he was thirsty. And hard-headed and the antithesis of Court Jester funny.
"Drink it," I pushed the glass at him. Michael accepted the beverage and gulped its contents in 2.6 seconds. I refilled his glass then watched as he proceeded to drink enough water to fill Hoover Dam. Twice. But still, the Inspector did not come.

"Where is he?" Michael stamped his foot then retreated to his car to listen to music.

An hour later Michael pounded on the door.

"He's not coming."
"He'll be here."
"I'm leaving now."
"No! Uh, how about lunch?"
"I'm not hungry," Michael growled. He'd been at our house for six hours waiting for the City Inspector, of course he was hungry. And stubborn and the dictionary definition of "not funny".
"I'll make smoothies," I said pouring fresh strawberries, yoghurt and juice into the blender. I whirred its contents at the exact moment Michael was shaking his head and protesting. I popped a straw into the glass and handed it to him. "Drink it."
He sipped some then stopped.
"This is good."
"I used Greek yoghurt."
"You went to Greece to buy this?" Michael asked with a slight upward tilt to his mouth.
"Specifically, Athens. There's a joint next to the Parthenon that sells yoghurt two for one."
"Ha-ha!" Michael said sporting a full smile. Maybe the Court Jester did have a funny bone after all?

In the shady backyard we sat at the table and cracked jokes. We devoured our smoothies and the refills. Michael said my avocado tree looked lame because good avocados can't be grown in Los Angeles. I protested. He said Mexico had the world's best avocados. For the honor of our countries' produce, I challenged him to an arm wrestling match. We were laughing, our forearms locked in battle, when a voice over us sounded:

"I don't want to interrupt you and your friend but I'm the Inspector." The 50-something man said peering down at us.
"We've been waiting for you all day!" Michael and I said in unison.

The City Inspector came! He approved all the work! The Court Jester was free to go!

"And I was having so much fun," Michael said kicking the dirt with his shoe. "So, I guess this is... good-bye." He lingered at the gate, reluctant to go. I thought about future jobs in The House.
"Do you do bathroom repairs?"
"All the time."
"I'll call you."
"You better," Michael said leaving with a smile.

Sometimes the waiting is the worst part, and sometimes, it's the part that makes everything worthwhile.

"Wine Changed My Life"

Wine smells good, tastes good and can change your life.

If you don't believe me about the changing-your-life part, check out this story about wine changing a guy's life.

Cheers!

The Electrical Princess

"The plumber's work is done," I said buttering my toast. 

"Yes," Mr. Wonderful said reaching for the ringing telephone. 

"And tomorrow the electrician comes to do his work."

"Yes?" he said into the phone.

"So by Monday night everything will be done!" 

"No," Mr Wonderful said handing me the phone.

The phone call brought bad news. But phone calls with good news never happen first thing in the morning unless you're 1) The grandmother-to-be of a new born baby (which I wasn't); 2) The winner of the Nobel Peace Prize (which I wasn't) or 3) Meryl Streep (which I wasn't... yet). 

The voice on the other end of the line belonged to the electrician who informed me he was canceling. Canceling the day before a scheduled work day! UGH.

"Why," I said choking on my toast. 

"My third-grade daughter is playing a princess in the school play tomorrow."

"But why," I said brushing crumbs from my face. 

"She's loves princesses?" the electrician said questioning his own excuse.

"But why now?"

"She had a great audition?"

His daughter's school play? What kind of excuse was that? Please. It wasn't like she'd never be in another school play again. These days kids have school plays every week in third grade. But the electrician didn't care that he was leaving me in the trench-laden lurch while he skipped off to the elementary school's cafeteria to see his princess play a princess. I wished he hadn't told me why he had to cancel. UGH.

So it was back to the drawing board for me in finding an electrician. Whoever said Sunday was a day of rest did not have to deal with finding an electrician. I searched Angie's list, the neighbors' lists and all the lists of my 6,000 Facebook friends. I dialed, emailed, texted, tweeted, Pinterested and Instagramed for an electrician. Finally, lo and behold, I found one!

Jeffrey came, saw the situation, gave me an estimate and left. On Tuesday, Jeffrey's men came, saw the work and left… to get more parts. Soon both electricians returned to the house and while the young one worked on the wiring, the older one left… to get more parts. Again.

I chatted with the young one who was so amiable and pleasant. When the older one came back to work on the job I chatted to him and he was even more amiable and more pleasant then… he left to get more parts. The older one spent more time "going to get more parts" than there were parts required to do all the work on our house. Into perpetuity.

The whole day was an endless stream of electricians coming and going. But by the close of business on Monday, the electrical work was done, it was professional and it looked stellar. I thanked both men profusely. They smiled and nodded.

That evening I called Jeffrey.

"Your men did a fabulous job on my House. Thank you," I said smiling into the phone.

"On your job," Jeffrey said "I miscalculated the parts, the labor and the work. It was the job from hell. Serious hell."  UGH. I wished he hadn't told me how hard the job was. My House is my joy. No one wants to think that the thing they love dearly--their House--is anything less than perfect. Suddenly I understood how the first electrician felt about his third-grade daughter performing in the school play. Whatever or whomever we love is our princess and others should respect our loved ones.

I called the first electrician and asked how his daughter did in the play.

"She was the perfect princess," he said beaming.

"Of course she was," I said. "Because she's yours."

Being the Bad Guy

"The plumber's back," Mr Wonderful said peering out the window and setting down his coffee cup.

"Good," I said emptying my tea cup.

"I'll be the bad guy."

"I'll be the bad guy."

"I said it first."

"I'm more diplomatic!" I said elbowing past Mr. Wonderful.

The hardest thing for DIY fixer uppers like Mr. Wonderful and I was letting someone else do the work on The House while we sat idly by. The short--and long--reason was: We didn't trust anyone to do the work as well as we knew we could. But the plumbing and electrical projects we needed had to be done by licensed, bonded professionals. So after we dug a formidable trench, we contracted a plumber who came, installed pipes and left. The only problem was said plumber did the work while leaving said pipes sticking out of our house like the bolts poking out of Frankenstein's neck. The short--and long--of it was: It wasn't pretty. So now Mr. Wonderful and I were debating who would to talk to the plumber about this Franken-house problem.

"Morning, Michael," I said waving to the plumber.

"Hi--" Michael said smiling.

"My wife wants to talk to you," Mr Wonderful said deferring to me. Ahhh, I married a wise man.

"What a beautiful morning," Michael said flashing his pearly whites. Note to self: everyone in L.A. has gorgeous teeth, including the plumbers.

"That's right, I want to talk to you," I said leaping between my spouse and the plumber.

"Your house is so beautiful," Michael said looking around. "When I was here yesterday I spent all day in the trench and attic that I didn't get to experience how nice it is here. It's really nice."

My anger faded. My heart melted. The plumber liked my House? I loved this plumber!

"Thank you," I said blushing as if he'd complimented me on my hair, eyes or stellar sense of humor. "You did excellent work," I added. Behind me I heard Mr. Wonderful roll his eyes. Without a doubt, he is the loudest roller of eyes I've ever known. 

"Okay, I'll be going then," Michael said turning on his heel and heading back to his truck.

"Wait," Mr Wonderful said in a slow, deep voice. My spouse's vocal chords were well suited for a radio announcer, a story-book reader or a hard-baller giving someone a big-time reprimand. Now I thought--now!--Michael's going to hear how unhappy we are with his work, see how it looked like a Frankenstein plumbing job, and know that it had to be redone like, yesterday. 

Unfortunately Michael was either a rebel or terribly hard of hearing because he kept walking. He walked away from Mr. Wonderful, away from me and toward the back gate which would give him total freedom from our wrath. Once he passed through that gate, we'd never get him back to fix this horrible pipe job. 

When suddenly, a miracle happened.

"Meow," Jackson said rubbing up against the offending pipes sticking out of the house wall. "Meow."

"Hello, pussy cat," Michael said bending down to pet our tuxedo feline. Jackson plopped down on his belly right in the plumber's path causing the workman to freeze. He looked at the pipes, coughed then said, "Why didn't you tell me I did a bad job right here?" 

"Ahhh. Well?" Mr. Wonderful and I said in unison and shrugged. Michael tsk-tsked us.

The short--and long--story is: Michael removed the pipes from sticking out of the facade of our House and relaid them so they were hidden and flush with the wall, just like we wanted. And they looked great.

Ahhh, Jackson. He had freed Mr. Wonderful and me from being the bad guy. Next time we need a hard-hitting complainer to talk to the contractors, we're going to the ultimate baddie: Jackson our tuxedo-wearing cat.

Good News x 3!

Life is hard.
Disappointments happen.
Plumbers cancel.

So when good news happens, we need to celebrate it! And today is a day of celebration times 3!

1) The paperback version of my book, Evolution of a Wine Drinker, is now available at Amazon! Feeling the book's 3D heft in my hands, turning its paper pages and seeing its glossy cover have made this writing experience all the more wonderful. It's real now. Yippee!

2) A screenplay that I wrote made the Quarter-Finals of the Final Draft Big Break Screenplay Writing Competition! Who knows what will happen next but I'm pretty happy about the Quarter-Final results! Yippee x 2!

3) I found a plumber who will do the work in our backyard! Actually Mr. Wonderful talked to a friend who recommended this plumber, but no matter! After scouring the entire state for an available, affordable, reliable plumber, we've got one! Yippee x 3!

Good news is worth celebrating and I intend to celebrate all day long. HOORAY!

Have you got any good news you want to share?

Shrimp and Lemon Pasta--Recipe

You spoke and I heard you!

My readers either love shrimp and lemon pasta dinners a lot, or they have spouses who spring hungry mongrels on them with 20 minutes to cook. Either way, I'm happy to share this recipe of Shrimp and Lemon Pasta with you.

INGREDIENTS: feeds 4

Pasta; 16 ounces / or 450 grams (I like brown rice pasta but you can use traditional wheat pasta) 

Shrimp, peeled, tail off; 32 ounces/ or 900 grams (I like a healthy dose of shrimp in my dishes)

1/2 cup white white (Pinot Grigio, Sauvignon Blanc or whatever white wine you're drinking while cooking)

1/4 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice (Meyer lemons are delicious)

Parsley, chopped (I like the curly variety)

Cheese Parmigiano-Reggiano or Mozzarella, grated (for topping)

DIRECTIONS:

1) Bring a large pot of water to a boil on the stove top. Salt the pot (I use 2-3 shakes of my salt shaker). The salted water adds flavor to the pasta. When the water boils, pour dry pasta into pot and stir occasionally to ensure pasta cooks thoroughly.

2) I keep two bags of shrimp in my freezer at all times for last minute dinner occasions like this. Defrost shrimp in bowl of warm water. When room temperature, put shrimp into a frying pan with white white and cook over medium high heat. The shrimp will shrink absorbing some of the wine's flavors. That's a good thing.

3) Drain pasta. Add pasta directly to the shrimp in frying pan.

4) Add lemon juice to shrimp and pasta. Toss so shrimp and pasta are coated in lemon juice.

5) Dish into pasta bowls, cereal bowl or ice cream bowls, garnish with fresh parsley and grated cheese.

6) Serve. Voila!

I hope you enjoy this recipe as much as I do. If you make this recipe, let me know how it goes!

Bon Appetit!

Dinner on the Fly

"Hello?" I said holding the phone to my ear while juggling four bags of groceries. 

"Let's do dinner at home tonight," the deep voice of Mr. Wonderful said. 

"Sounds great."

"Brian and Chad will be joining us."

"Sounds busy--"

"We'll be there in 20 minutes."

Sounds crazy!

After a long week of work, meetings and extra phone calls to plumbers who could--then could not--do the job in our backyard trench, I was looking forward to a quiet, stress-free Friday night. Clearly Mr. Wonderful had other plans and they included his ravenous 30-something friends, Brian and Chad eating, and yours truly cooking. 

In Los Angeles everyone says "I'll be there in 20 minutes" but everyone knows they're lying. Going from point A in the city to Point B in 20 minutes is--to be blunt--impossible. In fact, getting from the Santa Monica Pier to the adjacent Santa Monica Beach takes 45 minutes, give or take an hour for parking. 

The only exception to this 20-minute rule was Mr. Wonderful driving from the work studio back home. For that one journey, the man had a knack for doing it in 20 minutes. Which meant I had exactly 20 minutes to prepare a meal for the hungry hordes. 

I acted in steps:

1) First, I put the groceries away, aka I dumped the bags into the fridge.

2) Then I counted the mouths to feed. We would be just four adults but three men's mouths equals nine women's mouths. Suddenly I was cooking for 10.

3) What fed a lot of people? Pasta, of course! Luckily I keep a stash of pasta on hand at all times. Tonight was no exception. Congratulated myself on being so organized.

4) Put pot of water on stove top to boil said pasta.

5) Searched pantry for pasta sauce. Found none. Cursed pasta sauce hoping it would magically appear in pantry if I cursed enough. (It didn't.) Cursed myself for being so unorganized. Remembered seeing eight tomatoes growing in the backyard that morning. Ran to veggie patch only to discover The Squirrel had eaten all eight of my tomatoes. Cursed The Squirrel for making my life harder and for eating enough tomatoes for 20!

6) Remembered I had a lemon shrimp pasta recipe. 

7) Defrosted shrimp, cut parsley, squeezed lemons. Cut finger. Cursed The Squirrel because all this was his fault.

8) Checked clock. I had five minutes until their arrival! Set table, uncorked wine, set out two bowls of nuts to nibble on.

9) Sprinted to closet, changed clothes--six times.

10) Dumped everything into pots and pans while using my left left foot to put on lipstick.

11) Mr. Wonderful walked through the front door with two famished friends in tow.

12) I dished up the food and the 10, I mean four, of us sat down at the table outside, under the stars.

Watching the men eat and hearing them marvel over the flavor of the food, warmed my heart. They raised their glasses and toasted to the cook. I smiled and thanked them before adding:

"Twenty minutes ago when my husband said he was bringing two friends home for dinner, I told him: 'that sounds… perfect'."

And it was.

Thursday Throwback

"Guess who this is?" I said pointing to the computer screen.
"Your friend Peggy--" Mr. Wonderful said looking at the picture.
"Anything else?"
"Kennedy, Peggy Kennedy."
"That was her name, yes, but what's she holding?"
"... Jackson?"

There it was in black, white, yellow, cyan and magenta: a picture of my dear friend with her little kitten that grew into our huge cat. Peggy had found him as a wee one on the "24" stages, adopted him and named him in honor of Jack Bauer.

How fun to have a picture of our eight year-old cat when he was so itty-bitty. Since our feline was now hitting middle age in cat years, we could look back at his early, youthful days in this picture and smile, mostly because this is one of the few photos I have where Jackson is not sleeping. But all that sleeping he did made sense. He was an old cat. Ahhh, yes, this kitten picture is perfect for Throwback Thursdays.

Then I looked closer. The picture was taken in October of 2007, which meant Jackson wasn't eight years-old, but was just now turning... six. Six! He was still so young, which meant all that sleeping he did was because he was still growing, like a hungry teenager with attitude!

When is Jackson going to college?

Trench Warfare

"How's it going down there?” I said standing on the edge of the pit. 

"Slowly," Mr. Wonderful said tossing soil with his shovel.

"The Army's best work is done slowly." 

"This is glacially slow."

"And you're doing a fine job, soldier."

Silence.

Wartime is loud but also, it is surprisingly full of silences: like those moments when soldiers get lost in their thoughts to contemplate life, death and when will all this interminable digging be finished?!

I knew something about war. As the general leading the work on this corner of the Western Front of California, I especially knew it was hard leading an army of one. Here I was on the edge of the empire trying to inspire a lone Doughboy to dig a trench. I tried various techniques. I told him the trenches would: 1) Be our defensive weapon; 2) Keep the enemy at bay and; 3) Serve as an electrical conduit for my clothes dryer, because every general needs a clothes dryer. Governments have toppled for much less. Ask the Romans.

The digging had started to remove concrete, graduated to deleting a sarcophagus and now had progressed to digging trenches to run from the main house to the guesthouse. The trenches had to be two feet deep and two feet wide in order to allow for new water pipes, gas pipes and electrical conduits. As we say in the Army, it wasn't KP duty.

"I can’t dig anymore,” Mr. Wonderful said tossing his shovel out of the pit. 

“You can’t or you won’t?” I said standing over him, firm in my boots.

“Both.”

“Winning the war means digging, soldier.”

Private First Class Wonderful crawled out of the pit and plopped on the ground. The soldier was exhausted. I jumped into the trench and seized the shovel. Enough talking about leading. I should just lead, by which I meant shovel.

The whole day I dug, burrowed, dredged, exhumed, hoed, mined, quarried, scooped, tilled and forked out, over and under until I had dirt in my ears, nose and throat. I flung the shovel out of the pit and climbed out.

"Looks good," Pfc. Wonderful said brushing the dirt from my uniform.

"Son," I said "That's how a general digs."

"Like a gerbil?" he said pointing to the dirt under my fingernails.

"Quiet or I'll demote you for insubordination!" Private Wonderful rolled his eyes. I would have demoted him, but the glass of water he handed me made me reconsider it.

With the trench finished the next step was up to me. I had to contact and secure a plumber to install the new gas and water pipes and delete the old ones. Compared to digging trenches, using a crank phone to dial a few workmen would be a breeze. Or as we say in the Army, it's totally KP duty, dude.

First, I dialed the plumber who'd done the inspection on The House when Pfc. Wonderful and I had moved ourselves into this farmhouse property among the countryside's fields, orchards and BMWs. The plumber said he didn't have time to get involved in the warzone.

Next, I checked Yelp.com where I learned by reading the consumer reviews that one plumber could be the best thing since sliced bread and the worst things since stale bread. It was as if every plumber was Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde; both an angel and a devil. War was hell enough without hiring a potential satan.

Then I went to Angie's List because that brigadier general knows how to organize an army of reviewers and keep them honest. The reviews were good, there were plenty of plumbers to choose from but they didn't call me back, not because they were rude but because they were so busy working for other generals up and down the Western Front.

I asked advice of a neighboring general, Gen. Harold Haroldus. He'd earned his stripes in the War of 1812 so, he'd seen his share of war zones, trenches and plumbers.
"Angie's list always worked for me," he said shuffling back to his barracks.

Drat! I already tried that! I looked around the campground and noticed Gen. Jerry Jeroldus. He'd tricked out his trenches with barbed wire, or were they rose bushes? No matter, the man was very clever, he must have an answer.

"I have a great plumber," he said adjusting his general's hat. "He replumbed my entire house."
"Tell me who," I said with pen, paper and ink pot in hand.
"He moved to Florida and bought a yacht. Evidently he made his huge fortune replumbing my house."

Drat! Were there no good plumbers left on the Western Front? I noticed General Charles Charleson surveying his camp. I marched over and asked him.

"I've got one. The best," Gen. Charleson said. I made note of the plumber's name, rank and serial number and called him up. The plumber came out to the property and agreed to to do the work for a fair price. Yes!

"See, soldier," I said to Pfc. Wonderful. "That's how we do things in the Army." Wonderful didn't hear me because he was on KP duty.

Book Teaser

Do you like teasers?
Do you like books?
Do you like wine?

Well, today's your lucky day because you can read a Teaser excerpt from a Book about Wine. Mine!

My book, Evolution of a Wine Drinker, is being featured on this Writing about Writing website hosted by the lovely and talented Damyanti.

So grab a glass of wine and check it out!

Thanks and CHEERS!
--Alicia

The Big Dig

“I’ve got your shovel,” I said hoisting the tool.

“Okay,” Mr. Wonderful said lacing his boots.

“I’ve got my hammer and chisel.”

“Okay.”

“I’ve got our pith helmets.”

Silence.

It was a new day on our expedition and I was thrilled because I love beginnings. Actually today’s project was not so much a new beginning as a continuation of what we’d been doing for several weeks. But that’s how it goes on archeological digs. Each expedition is composed of smaller expeditions, each “Big Dig” is comprised of smaller digs, and—as my esteemed fellow archeologists say—each clump of earth is made up of beaucoup muddy dirt balls. 

Luckily I was not digging alone. My trusty assistant, a bloke by the name of “Wonderful”, was working this dig with me. Actually he’d been working for me since I’d found him on a gig some years back and I kept him around because—as my esteemed fellow archeologists say—if you find a man who likes to work, make sure he never leaves you.  

Our Big Dig was located in the hinterlands of California, specifically, the Valley, specifically, the plot next to an ancient watering hole, in other words, my swimming pool. On this Big Dig we’d already discovered a sarcophagus, near impenetrable concrete and endless back pain. But it was a new day and I was thrilled to see what today’s digging would reveal!

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Mr. Wonderful said grabbing a shovel. I hired the bloke for his brute strength but it didn’t stop him from having opinions. But as my esteemed fellow archeologists say about their assistants—opinions, shaminions.

Indeed all that mattered to me was history, ancient cultures and discovering the truth. So I grabbed my tools and got to work. While the Wonderful bloke did the digging I, armed with hammer and chisel, chipped away at the bricks to remove them and get to more dirt for us to dig more, which was more than exciting! Since the bricks had covered a significant portion of the dig site since ancient times, specifically, the 1950s, who knew what we’d discover!

“We won’t find anything,” Mr. Wonderful said tossing earth over his shoulder. 

“Don’t be so pessimistic,” I said just before I heard a clank. He stopped shoveling. We exchanged looks. “Keep digging!” I said diving into the hole he was excavating. His shovel pushed deeper. Perhaps it was an ancient relic? A piece of Native American pottery? A moneyball lottery jackpot?

Mr. Wonderful held up a shard. 

“A-Ha! Glass from an earlier tribe,” I said rubbing it clean of dirt.

“It’s broken glass.” 

“But look at its pattern,” I said lifting it to my eyes.

“It’s from a Coke bottle,” my assistant said with a shrug. I looked closer and recognized the distinctive Coca-Cola lettering, its cursive font, its 3D relief. It’s unfortunate when the assistant’s opinion is correct. I tossed the glass in the recycling bin.

But there was more digging to do as well as hammering and chiseling, and major back-paining so Mr. Wonderful and I pushed on. That’s the thing about archeology, you never know what the earth is hiding. You just have to keep working. So we did, only stopping when we heard a scrape.

“What’s that?” I said racing over to Mr. Wonderful’s hole. I thrust my arm into the soil and revealed a white shard of glass. “Look!” I said blowing the dirt off it. “A piece of pottery of an ancient Indian tribe!”

“It’s a shard of a jar.”

“Ancient peoples needed pottery—”

“It says ‘Pond’s’.” I looked carefully and noticed the distinctive white glass of the ancient cold cream container as well as the brand’s name. It’s horrible when the assistant’s opinion becomes fact. I tossed the junk into the recycling bin. 

Perhaps we weren’t finding significant archeological treasures because or our respective jobs? I convinced Mr. Wonderful to wield the hammer and chisel while I shoveled earth. While I knew discovering a Roman relic or a second King Tut’s tomb was out of the question in our California soil, I was confident we’d find something Indian. After all, Los Angeles had been home to indigenous people for centuries before Hollywood starlets showed up. In order to find their relics I just needed more time, more digging and a full bottle of Advil.

As I inserted the shovel in the soil I felt something firm. It wasn’t rock hard but it wasn’t pliable like the soil. I dropped to my knees and dug with my hands—like a ravenous gopher—pushing the earth left, right and out of the way. Then I saw it in the sunshine—lying before me—a brown Indian relic! 

“I knew an Indian element was here!” I said leaping to my feet.

“It’s ‘Indian’ alright,” my assistant said. “A toy Indian.” My digging had unearthed a plastic figurine of an Indian warrior. It stood two inches high and resembled the toy kids in the 1950s played Cowboys and Indians with. I didn’t like it, but my trusty assistant’s opinion was correct again. 

Today’s Big Dig revealed the truth about the ancient peoples of the 1950s alright: 1) They liked soda pop; 2) They cared for their skin; 3) They threw everything into holes they dug in the backyard. Which is exactly how we are today, except the latter feature has changed, I thought setting the toy Indian on the table. 

Pepe & Lucas

"What vibrant colors," I said watching the computer screen.

"Hmm," Mr. Wonderful said standing behind me with arms crossed.

"Super music."

"Hmm."

"I love the characters."

"Hmm."

"This is great!"

"Hmmmmmm."

I knew Mr. Wonderful was talented in the Home Improvement Department, the Drinking Wine Department and the Making Life Interesting for Me Department. But the animated short he co-directed about a mime and a clown, Pepe & Lucas, proved he had even more talents. Specifically directing, animating and storytelling. Somehow he didn't see things the same way. Perhaps this was due to the curse of the talented director, or the scourge of the clever animator, or the regular doubts every working artist on the planet suffers from. Luckily I was present to remind him of some important facts.

"This animated short film of yours made the long list for the Academy Awards this year," I said.

"Hmm.

"And it won the best animated CG short at the Houston Film Festival this year."

"Hmm."

"And it makes me laugh." 

He dropped his arms to look at me. "Now that's good to hear." Then he smiled.

Don't take my word for it. Here's a trailer for the short of Pepe & Lucas. 

Does it make you laugh?

P.S. I don't know when the full seven-minute animated short will be shown in theaters but at least we have the trailer to watch now!

Happy Labor Day!

It's Labor Day, which means it's a day for contemplating work, workers' rights and having a good old time!

Mr. Wonderful and I are celebrating all these things while attending a barbecue, driving the convertible in the sunshine and NOT working on The House! GLORIOUS!

Wishing you a labor-free Labor Day!