WoolGatherer

Hand it to the hunk

I had a lovely afternoon on Saturday watching the Eurovision final with a fun group of Germans and my cousin and her family. I drank too much wine and spent the afternoon critiquing the performers' vocals and clothes in German. (Being queer and bitchy in German is such a delight!)

In addition to seeing my beloved Queen of Austria perform two new songs, I also quite enjoyed the performance of hunky Mans Zelmerlow, who ended up winning the world's gayest competition (with all due to respect to "Ru Paul's Drag Race").

He's a tasty Swedish treat, he is!

 

Only a dream...

A dream from the wee hours of Monday night: WG has made it to the final 4 of "Ru Paul's Drag Race." It came as a shock to me, as I didn't recall auditioning or even owning make-up and fabulous frocks, but there you have it.

I have to say that as a fellow big girl, I was hurt at how shady Ginger Minj was to me in the workroom. (Pearl was super nice, oddly enough.) Then, to my chagrin, Ru Paul shantayed in and told me all my scenes had been edited out due to voluminous viewer complaints. Well DAMN.

I woke up as I was sobbing in the arms of Conchita Wurst. (She just showed up, like magic. And she smelled so pretty.)

The cop of my dreams

Last night I had the quite pleasant dream that Chris Noth, who was in character as Mike Logan from "Law & Order," declared his undying love for me.

He told me that he had joined the NYC police force hoping he'd meet me someday (um, okay), and he couldn't believe that fortune had thrown us together in the same Vietnamese restaurant in Eagan. I agreed that the odds were long indeed, but there we were, in love.

In a nice bit of intertextuality, as we were smooching he said, "This is so much better than kissing that silly horse-face!" Clearly a reference to SJP from SATC, a program that I have never once watched.

I might also have have referred to him as "Mr. Big," but I'm disinclined to share further details in that regard.

The magic is gone

Passionate affairs often end in drama, tears and acrimony.

In many cases, however, the passage of time cools passion, and lovers gradually drift along divergent paths until a point is reached when the relationship has ended of its own accord. All that remains is to make a clean break and move on.

That's where I find myself today, as I contemplate the Food Network. 

Two plus years ago, when I started this blog, I labeled myself a Food Network junkie. I had watched it from its infancy in the mid-'90s, and for years the network was essentially the default station on my TV.

I didn't watch every show, not even back then, but over the last decade I could usually pop in and find something of interest. (Or at least something to mock, revile, and savage with my rapier wit.)

Now my feelings about their entire line-up can be summed up as "Eh."

Frankly, I just can't be bothered anymore.

Apart from Nigella Lawson's shows, there isn't a single thing I watch on Food Network these days. TiVo records Nigella for me, so it has been months since I deliberately tuned in.

Comcast added Food Network HD months ago, but crystal clear picture quality did no favors for the insipid, badly written shows and increasingly grating and moronic hosts who now choke each day's broadcast schedule.

As I'm annoyed by the pretentious, porcine Mario Bartoli, he's at leat a real chef, and I have to agree with his assertion that Food Network is increasingly targeting the Walmart shopper. I'm sure that makes good business sense, but it makes for terrible cooking and truly dreadful TV.

Nigella Lawson demonstrates each week that simple cooking can still be classy, but classy is definitely taking a back seat to "trashy" on Food Network these days.

Speaking of trashy, I'm sure some of your are asking, "But what of your arch-nemesis, WG? What about SANDRA LEE??"

True, for a couple magical years, she was the anti-muse who spurred me to ever greater heights of vicious prose (remember this classic?), but now her cotton candy hair and psychotic "tablescapes" elicit little more from me than a brief wince, much like the face one makes when passing roadkill skunks at highway speed. I honestly can't bear to watch her anymore.

And really, what would be the point? Sandy long ago reached such an extreme level of self-parody that further efforts at mockery would be redundant.

As anyone knows, if eventaking pleasure in mockery is impossible, there's no resuscitating a moribund relationship.

So, Food Network, I release you--with a heart full of love for the cable channel you once were. May you be happy in the path you have chosen.

Bite me

Last Sunday night I finally got around to watching the first two episodes of HBO's True Blood, a new series based on Charlaine Harris' Southern Vampire Mysteries books.

Ooh, children, WG has a new bloodsucker crush!

True Blood is produced by Alan Ball, the creator of Six Feet Under, and his latest project displays the same edgy writing and queer sensibility that I enjoyed watching the trials and tribulations of the Fisher family.

The nominal star of the series is Anna Paquin, who plays the telepathic waitress/heroine Sookie Stackhouse.

Naturally, I'm far more interested in Bill (Stephen Moyer), the vampire who becomes Sookie's undead beau.

There are a couple other toothy morsels in the show, including Sam Tramell, and Ryan Kwantan.

Generally, shows that I find intelligent and interesting don't fare well, but I'm hoping that True Blood will be around for a while.

Time to face The Hole

Okay, I'm a a grown man.

An Ivy League-educated professional.

But I have to admit that I find the ridiculous FOX gameshow Hole in the Wall perversely funny. Funnier than hell, actually. I shouldn't, but I do.

And the large black woman in the first clip--she's the niece of Rerun from What's Happening! You can't make that crap up! She even did the Rerun Dance! (Alas, she didn't fare well against The Hole.)


I've seen the show referred to as "Human Tetris." Watch and you'll see why.

The Sumo wrestlers didn't fare much better, but suprisingly, the beat the team of jockeys. Weird.

Can you imagine?

I can't even play Tetris on the computer--I get way too stressed out by those damn falling blocks. Human Tetris is beyond the pale. (And yes, it's clearly a Japanese import.)

Enjoy your weekend!

Heroes is cool

For the last few years, I've tended to avoid series television (I hate having to keep up all the episodes, even with TiVo to help), but lately Darren and I have started watching Heroes on DVD. It's another party I'm arrivimg at late.

And it totally rocks.

All my life I have fantasized about finding out that I have hidden powers that only need to be coaxed out and trained to turn me into some kind of super-being. You know--like Luke Skywalker, Harry Potter, or Will Stanton in The Dark is Rising series. All that ever awoke in me was a whole lotta gay, and last time I checked, that's not a super-power. (Well, at least not in my case.)

Heroes, if you haven't watched it, is like a lower-budget, better written version of The X-Men. A group of misfit mutants with powers they don't fully understand band together to help each other fight another mutant who is trying to slay them, one by one.

It's smart, and it's fun, and it's creepy. That's a rare combo on TV these post-Buffy days.

And, best of of all, my girls Wendy & Lisa do the music for show. Oh, and there's a lot of cute guys in the show. So check it out, if you haven't already.

Happy Friday to you all. Rest up, be naughty, and I'll have more for you next week.

A ripping good laugh

In the last couple months, I've become completely enamored with the BBC show That Mitchel and Webb Look. It's truly edgy humor with that special brand of utter silliness that one only really finds in British comedy.

In may ways, the show is very reminiscent of French & Saunders, and God knows they make me laugh until I pee myself. (Yes, that's why I keep that box of Depends near the DVDs.)

Here, for your viewing pleasure, are a few sample clips.

The Good Samaritan

Heroin Addict Christmas

Extreme Negative Feedback Interview

Now scurry off and make sure you have BBC America on your cable or satellite channel line-up.

Saturday morning. Check it out.  You won't be sorry.

~WG

A near-brush with pseudo-celebrity

Those of you of a certain age may actually remember the first season of MTV's The Real World. 

Long before reality television shows were the stupefying institution they have become in recent years, in 1992, The Real World was actually kind of interesting.

Of course, we've subsequently learned that things in the beautiful Manhattan loft these seven strangers shared weren't quite as "real" as MTV purported, but that doesn't matter much to me.

For one thing, the show introduced us to Eric Nies, who, though now sadly faded, was once stunningly beautiful (if dumb as a box of hair).

Even more important to me, however, was the presence of Norman, whom MTV labeled "the lone gay cast member."

Back in '92, there just weren't many real gay people on TV, so I was extremely interested in watching Norman try to find love in the Big Apple. 

The closest he came to having a boyfriend during the run of the show was a brief fling with a handsome fellow named Charles Dabney.  In one episode, Norman and Charles were even shown smooching while attending the NYC Gay Pride rally.  Pretty hot stuff for basic cable in those days.

Skip ahead a couple years, and Charles Perez, who had appended his mother's maiden name to is own, had a short-lived daytime talk-show.  It wasn't very good (he was like a male Ricki Lake), but I used to watch it with my my housemate Irma.  We watched a lot of bad TV together.

Check out this promo for his show, and note the diva-based queer club music.

Eventually I took to calling myself "Sean Seany Perez," claiming I was giving props to my (non-existent) Latino heritage.  Irma, who is Puerto Rican, found this hilarious, so I kept the joke going for several years.

Now Irma is a big-shot writer at Telemundo, and recently she managed to get Charles Perez, now a weekend anchorman on WPLG in Miami, to autograph a headshot of himself and dedicate it to my old ethnic pseudonym. 

That was right sporting of him, I'd say, since my silly name was pretty clearly mocking him. 

Hmmm, I guess this post might be considered something of a long run for a short slide, but, um, I don't care. 

This picture is now one of my prized possessions.  I think I'll get it framed.

~WG
(a.k.a. Sean "Seany" Perez)

The truth is under there

I was a great fan of The X-Files for more than five years (until David Duchovny left and it turned completely sucky.)  Here's a scene that some of you may recall fondly.

Ah, The Red Speedo episode...

~WG

Okay, this has to stop

So, did anyone else catch Semi Home-Made Cooking With Sandra Lee this past Saturday?  If not, you missed an instant classic of pure, unadulterated trash. 

I don't really remember what she "cooked."  That's really beside the point here.  It's the "Tablescape" that was a true crime against humanity. 

Allow me to share a brief bit of footage...

No, your eyes don't deceive you. 

She actually hot glued some "ratty old fringe" (damned by her own words!) onto a garage-sale reject chair, spray-painted it gold, wrapped the chair in fake flowers, and used it as the freakin' centerpiece on her "fabulous tablescape"! 

(And did you notice that she even fished for a compliment on the atrocious dinner jacket that she chose to match her table?  Sandy, this is TV, not a video phone!  You can't hear it when we shriek curses at you!  If only you could!)

Let me state my position clearly: A chair centerpiece is NOT the work of a balanced mind.

Imagine that through some unimaginable set of unfortunate circumstances, you are sentenced to a dinner at "Aunt Sandy's" house.  Thankfully, you're greeted at the door with very strong fruit cocktail-based "-tini" of some sort, so some of the horror of the evening will be obscured by a gauzy haze of alcohol. 

You manage to hide during the appetizer course, spending half an hour rummaging through Sandy's bedroom in search of the "art photos" she posed for in college.  But there's no getting out of dinner.

Nope, not with those hand-made, hot-glued butterfly-adorned place cards placed at every seat.  Sandy would know if any of her guests were to go missing...

So, grudgingly, fearfully, you take a seat at your absolutely darling place setting. 

But lo and behold, a miracle transpires!  You're seated directly across from none other than Jake Gyllenhaal!

At least you've been told it's Jake sitting opposite you.  (Shirtless, they say, and with a new nipple piercing.)

Of course, for all you know, that could be Santa Claus on the other side of the table.

BECAUSE THERE'S A GODDAMN SPRAY-PAINTED, PLASTIC WEED-WRAPPED CHAIR PROPPED IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FREAKIN' DINING ROOM TABLE, AND YOU CAN'T SEE SHIT.

I don't even think that's good feng shui.

~WG

Gagging as I type

As I write this, the wretched, cirrhotic Sandra Lee is showing me how to make what she says will be THE BEST BUTTERNUT SQUASH SOUP I HAVE EVER TASTED.

Hmm.  Let's examine that claim, shall we?

Sandy started with prepared butternut squash soup (how deliciously recursive!) and TO that she added the following "brilliant" ingredients: applesauce, pumpkin pie spice, curry, sour cream, and for that "extra special touch", ketchup.

Mmmm, I can taste my own bile just thinking about it!

Lord, this woman is just pure trash, isn't she?  I haven't had much to say about Sandy lately, but you must never think I've stopped wishing her ill.  She's just so terribly, horribly, irredeemably stupid.

Take the episode I watched last weekend.  The mendacious premise of her Southwest Smorgasboard show was that her teenage nephew, Scottie (one assumes he just loves being called Scottie on national television) is about to pay a visit to "Aunt Sandy."

A picture of the aforementioned nephew is flashed on the screen.  He is wearing a football uniform, and is probably sixteen years old.  He must not know Sandy's cosmetic surgeon, for he's remarkably homely.  We're also asked to believe that Scottie will soon be arriving with some of his "little friends."

Little friends?  Oh Aunt Sandy, you wonderful, sloppy drunk, you say the cutest things!  Well, since there is actually no nephew coming to visit, and therefore no tag-along football player friends, I guess we might as well call them "munchkin-babies" or something equally asinine.

Naturally, Aunt Sandy (as she insists on calling herself throughout the entire episode) knows just what these kids will LOVE.  Yup, these lucky fictitious adolescents will be served mouth-watering, adulterated canned chili, washed down with Kiddie Cocktails!

The drink is officially called a "Desert Cooler," but Sandy refers to it repeatedly as a kiddie cocktail.  I mean, WHAT THE HELL? If you had a houseful of teen boys (and again, Sandy doesn't, and probably never will have, but bear with me), do you think they would appreciate being served a nasty-ass kiddie cocktail, even if Aunt Sandy makes it "super special" by adding sparkling cider "which all kids LOVE"?

Sandy, let me explain something to you.  Teenage boys don't like being called "little friends."  They don't like to be served "kiddie cocktails."  What they would like is for you to order them some Papa John's pizza, shut the hell up, drink your eight highballs, and pass out on the couch (no doubt with one of your nipples exposed), leaving them free to raid your vast walk-in liquor cabinet at their leisure. 

The sparkling cider, Aunt Sandy, will never be opened.  Not even for use as a mixer.

The nadir of the Southwest Smorgasboard episode involves the obligatory sports-themed "tablescape," which is simply PERFECT for the occasion.  If, that is, the occasion is a five-year-old girl's birthday party.  "If this tablescape doesn't get these boys to exclaim 'Aunt Sandy ROCKS!!' I don't know what will," the pathetic, vacuous trollop gushes.

Because that would actually happen.  Because that's how teens are.  They LOVE great tablescapes.  Can't get enough of them, really.

Oh Sandy.  I sure wish I could quit you. 

Or, failing that, hit you with a car!

~WG

Ick.

I think eHarmony commercials are really icky.  Watching sappy couples chastely paw at each other while waxing syrupy about how their souls connected online just makes me want to puke. 

I can't be the only one who feels this way.

I don't remember exactly when I first saw one of these oddly exhibitionist commercials, but I was instantly uncomfortable with the earnestly giddy, loving, glassy-eyed couples featured in the ads.  "Oooh the first time we kissed--it was WOW, like fireworks going off!" 

Um, how about shutting up now?  Because we don't care about you or your love-life. 

Things only get worse when eHarmony's cheesy animatronic founder appears in the ads to tout his company's use of "29 proven dimensions of compatibility."  Why not 30 dimensions while you're at it?  Or 73? 

And what method was used to "prove" these dimensions?  One wonders.  Were any electrodes attached to men's weenies to measure arousal?  I suspect not.  Because we're not talking about sex here, we're talking about Hallmark card level expressions of LOVE. 

I mean honestly.  Just look at the vapid joy on the gleaming faces of these lovie-dovies.  Yuck.

All that gushy yet boring emoting felt creepily Christian to me, quite honestly, so it was no surprise when I learned that Neil Clark Warren has strong ties to the execrable James Dobson and his legions of bigoted followers.  That, of course, explains why gay singles aren't welcome at eHarmony.  (Just "ex-gays", one assumes--or maybe even not them, because everyone knows how well de-gaying works...) 

It's all so gaggingly wholesome.  It makes me crave a commercial where two burly biker men stop tongue-kissing just long enough to tell us how they first met through a glory-hole in the bathroom of an interstate rest-stop.  Ah, that would cleanse the sickly eHarmony sweetness off my palate...

Oh one more thing--there also seems to be some element of time travel involved in the eHarmony system.  Take a look at the picture at the top of this post.  Don't those dates suggest that this couple met each other six months after they married? 

All things are possible in Christ, I guess.

~WG

One last shot...

Some of you have written to me to say that, lacking cable TV, you haven't had the pleasure of meeting Sandra Lee.  Please, allow me to share the joy.  (Note--the ice is "semi-homemade."  What the hell does that mean?)

And Michael, I promise this is the last Sandra-bashing for a good month.  There are many other things to talk about besides that sick, debauched, drunken floozy.  Horrible, horrible woman.

So glad the weekend is in sight,

~WG

Oh what the hell--one more.  This one's a true delight...

Some of these things are not like the others

The following is a list of statements about the disgusting and deplorable Sandra Lee, of Semi-Homemade Cooking with Sandra Lee. 

Three of these statements are complete fabrications of my own invention.  The remaining items, tragically, are all too true.

Can you spot the fakes? 

 

~ Sandra Lee, a woman with an unquenchable thirst for alcohol, decorated her Christmas tree this year with the glassware from her bar and subsequently gushed that the resulting monstrous insult to the very notion of temperance was her "favorite Christmas tree EVER!"

 

~ Sandra Lee, a woman of highly questionable intellect, often tells her viewers that she is "literally" going to add an ingredient to a dish, as though there were some metaphorical cooking that she might instead contemplate.

 

~ Sandra Lee, a woman who in 1984 was blinded in her left eye during a drinking-related mishap in the Bahamas, has never actually cooked any sort of food for any member of her immediate family.

 

~ Sandra Lee, a woman who can boast only the most tenuous attachment to the truth, often claims to have house-guests arriving imminently as she cooks in a television studio at the Food Network.

 

~ Sandra Lee, a woman who earned a fortune by inventing and patenting a type of window blind before she decided to trash the culinary arts on basic cable, owns 6-foot tall German nutcracker.

 

~ Sandra Lee, a woman who owns 6-foot tall German nutcracker, was known to football players at her alma mater, the University of Wisconsin, La Crosse, as "The Nutcracker."

 

~ Sandra Lee, a woman whose lust for spirituous drink truly cannot be sated, suggests how much alcohol to put into one of her insipidly named "-tinis" by asking "How much FUN do you want to have?"

 
~ Sandra Lee, a woman with the design sense of a malnourished harbor seal, once used a rusty chandelier as the centerpiece of one her ghastly "tablescapes."

~ Sandra Lee, a woman with a severely limited vocabulary and incipient alcoholic dementia, can think of no higher praise for a five-star restaurant than the expression "fancy-dancy."
 

~ Sandra Lee, a woman who once consumed an entire bottle of Cointreau during the taping of the episode entitled "Fancy Dancy Romancy Recipes," has spoken of feeding her "hubby" bratwurst in bed.

 

~ Sandra Lee, a horrifying, nauseating shrew of a woman with pallid, spindly arms and a suspiciously ample bosom, makes margaritas out of beer and calls them "Beer-ritas."

 

~ Sandra Lee, a woman who has lived her entire life as a citizen of the United States of America, speaks nonetheless with an oddly inflected, overly crisp L-sound that she apparently thinks is LLively and cute, but in fact makes even newborn infants want to gouge her eyes out with a Tinker-Toy stick.

 

~ Sandra Lee, a woman who reeks of elderberry, stale cigarettes, and amaretto-laden vomit, is the single most disgraceful trainwreck of a human being every given the green light to helm a series on The Food Network.

Really not so very fond of Sandy,

~WG

Why am I such misfit?

Well gee, Hermey, maybe it's because YOU'RE A TOTAL HOMO.

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer first appeared on network television in 1964, and I have watched it with delight nearly every year since 1969.  It has always been my favorite of the yearly
children's Christmas specials.  Somehow, the program really resonated with me.

Hmm, why might that be?

We know what makes Rudolph different.  He has a magical, glowing nose.  Sure, maybe there is something slightly phallic about that glowing red knob he tries so hard to conceal, but basically Rudolph is just differently abled than the other reindeer.  It is disturbing that his "non-conformity," as the snowman narrator labels it, makes him the subject of such overt ridicule, but we've all been on playgrounds.  We know what horrid little brutes kids are.

Hermey, the misfit elf, on the other hand, appears to have several strikes against him.  Only one is ever clearly stated in the course of the program: Hermey doesn't find making toys to be particularly satisfying.  He wants to be a dentist, you see.

"I'm just not happy in my work, I guess" he says, when the portly toy factory manager upbraids him for his lackluster toy output.  This honest comment from Hermey is met with derision and tittering scorn by the other elves.  (Believe me, Hermey, I've been there.)

What no one ever mentions, however, it that Hermey is apparently of a different race then the elves.  He appears to be a human of remarkably diminutive stature, much like Prince.  As we all know, short stature alone does not make one an elf.  Even when I was a child, I wondered what the deal was with Hermey.  I noted that he does not sport pointed pointy ears.  He also has a more svelte physique that his more rotund coworkers.

The viewer is left to wonder--is Hermey's work really not up to snuff, or is he perhaps a victim of institutionalized racism?  Hmm.

But then, there's something else about Hermey, isn't there? 

You know what I mean.  He speaks in a subtly lisping, high-pitched voice that even school age children understand as the mark of a sissy.  And what about the lovingly styled blond tresses?  I wore my bangs like that for year in graduate school, and I know how hard it is to keep that rakish flip in place.  (Granted, the humidity at the North Pole is much lower than in New Jersey, so Hermey had advantages that were denied me.)  Hermey is also the only "elf" who has livened up his jaunty cap with a splash of hot pink. We know what it means when precious blond boys wear pink don't we?

Hermey isn't the only likely invert we encounter in Rudolph.  On the "(Fire?) Island of Misfit Toys", for example, we meet a rouged-up jack-in-the-box named, of all things, Charlie.  Rather than just stop at the courthouse to have his name legally changed, Charlie (who speaks like a mincing Charles Nelson Riley on helium) has enough internalized self-hatred to consign himself to snowy exile along with the choo-choo with square wheels, the pistol that shoots jam, a polka-dot elephant, and a cowboy that rides an ostrich.  (Don't worry pardner, sometimes cowboys ride a whole lot of things they're not supposed to.)

So this year, when you sit down with a triple-strength gin and tonic to watch Rudolph triumph over adversity and body fascism, keep an eye on Hermey.  Maybe this is the Christmas that he and Charlie-in-the-box hook up in the broom closet while the elves are loading the sleigh.

Thinking deep thoughts so you won't have to,

~WG

Five More Things

Five More Things I Hate About Food Network's Semi-Homemade Cooking with Sandra Lee

~ Her spindly, bare arms.  Okay, Sandy, we get it, you're THIN.  (Frankly, I don't trust a TV cook who isn't at least a tiny bit chunky.)  But do you even own a shirt that has sleeves?  If you do, I beg you to put it on.  Those scrawny, pallid pipes of yours are not in the least attractive, dear.  All they do is make me even more sure that your suspiciously large breasts are semi-homemade, too.

~ The bizarre and infuriating way she puts so much emphasis ON each preposition she says.  Sandy, I'm not sure what speech classes you took at UW La Crosse, but I'm almost certain none of them suggested that you should say things like "I'm going to put the chicken INTO the oven at 350;"  "I'm going to take some ice cream OUT OF the freezer;" or "All of these ingredients come FROM your very own pantry."  What the bloody hell is wrong with you, woman?  Have you never heard human speech before?

~ "Fantastic." Seriously, just watch one show and tell me I'm wrong.  She uses the word forty times an episode to describe everything from the cutting board she's using to her flour tortilla-based "breakfast crepes."  One might consider starting a drinking game based on "fantastic"--take a swig each time she says the word--but it's only a half hour show, so alcohol poisoning is a huge risk.  Someone, anyone, please send this moron a thesaurus!

~ The ridiculously inappropriate clothes. When the series first started a few years ago, Sandy, you wore jeans and normal shirts or sweaters that were in keeping with your no-fuss cooking philosophy.  Why then do you now find it necessary to don ever more elaborate fashion ensembles prior to cooking your cut-corner pseudo-food?  My personal favorite was the lacy, diaphanous blouse (with long, finger-length cuffs, no less) that you wore to DEEP FRY mozzarella sticks.  You really deserved to spend a month in the burn ward for that fashion choice, but somehow you got away with it.  (I guess I should count my blessings--at least you were wearing sleeves.)

~ I honestly believe she never even bothers to taste the food she cooks.  How else can one explain a muffin recipe that calls for 2-3 TEASPOONS of ground cloves.  Sandy, have you ever actually tasted cloves?  That's a pretty strong flavor, you see.  Why not try, oh, say a quarter-teaspoon for 12 muffins?   See how that works and get back to me. 

Okay, I better run to Sherwin Williams for some orange paint.  I'm baking a butternut squash tonight, and if the kitchen is going to look FANTASTIC, I need to get some paint ONTO the walls to match the colors OF my food.  Then it's a quick stop at the fabric store to get material for matching orange drapes, tablecloths, and a fantastic sleeveless frock for me.

So until next time, keep it inane, keep it trashy, and remember, always keep it Semi Half-assed.

WG

Five Things

Five Things I Hate About Food Network's Semi-Homemade Cooking with Sandra Lee

1. Sandra Lee is a big fat liar.  Why tell us that you're wearing a fancy party dress as you cook because you're "so short of time before my guests arrive"?  We know this is a cooking show, and you're just on a set in a television studio.  Don't you know that?
2. Sandra Lee is a big fat liar.  The whole premise of your lame-ass show is that you cut corners by using 70% store-bought, prepared food and adding 30% fresh ingredients.  We get it.  But don't pee on my leg and tell me it's raining; when you make "a kicky fruit salsa" out of chopped FRUIT COCKTAIL FROM A CAN, please do not insult my intelligence by telling me that this will be "the best salsa you have EVER tasted!"
3. Sandra Lee is a big fat liar.  When every can you open has had its label removed, we know it's because you don't have a promotional deal with the company whose product you're using.  Don't blame your little niece "Miss Stephanie" for tearing off all the labels.  That's just wrong.  You're an adult for God's sake--take responsibility for your actions!
4. Sandra Lee is a big fat liar. My guests will NOT think it's "extra fun" if my tablecloth has an unhemmed edge with frayed thread dangling off it.  They just won't.  And you know it damn well.
5. Sandra Lee is a big fat liar.  Don't tell me that your "brilliant" ideas will save me oodles of time, when after I make your gag-worthy "fruit salsa" I am then expected to craft a "table-scape" by hot gluing beads to cheap-looking napkin rings from Target, repainting my dining room to match the the ketchup you glugged all over your meatloaf, and making personalized place cards using old family photos, glitter, and gold leaf from the craft store.

I know I said Five Things, but here's one to grow on:

It's pronounced ESpresso, you addlepated dolt, not EXpresso!  The X, in addition to being invisible, is SILENT.

Harboring grudges,

WG