Every Christmas it seems as if I get the same response from people, “What? You get the entire week off between now and New Year’s?! You’re so lucky!”

The problem is, when you’re in a city with no friends or family nearby, it’s moot. Sure I can sleep in, but I’ve spent the past few days doing things that don’t exactly add up to a quality vacation.

1. Sweet Cream Almonds by Pretzelphoria - My mother is partial to giving me these as gifts. I wish she wouldn’t. Because I have to hide from The Wife the fact that I’ve consumed them in a few short hours. They’re CRACK. And now I have a sugar hangover…
2. This Ain’t A Scene It’s An Arms Race video - Again, Fall Out Boy. I’m going to end up sounding like a pre-teen fanboy. But for some reason I find this video quite interesting. The boys do a send-up of their past year, being fakish media whores who parody other bands/cliches in the pop emo movement. In the end they find themselves back at their roots. Awww…
3. Warm(er) weather to wash a car - When I was unmarried and living 100 miles away from The Pre-Wife, taking care of my car was a big part of my life. I found detailing a kind of zen thing. But since having a house, I’ve found no time whatsoever for this. Luckily, with no work this week I was able to take a slice of the high-50s weather and give it a respectable double bath.
4. Blurb.com - I took some time and designed/printed our wedding album for my parents Christmas gifts. After searching a few on-demand printers I settled with Blurb. And although the software is idiot-proof enough to give a designer wishing for more control a headache, the final product was prompt and professional. If my mother’s reaction was the scorecard, Blurb did a good job.
5. Everything about home - The friends, the homecooked food, the ‘rents. It’s always nice to go home if but just for a bit. I miss all of it, except the bed. Nothing can replace my current bed.

Next year I’ll get the same quick retorts from people as I have for the past five. Hopefully though I’ll have more planned than running, painting the basement and making dough. Because that just makes me seem like a depressed Martha Stewart.

What’s remarkable here is not the deeply discounted price, it’s the generous 90-day return policy.

What’s that? This edition is late, you say? Horsefeathers. You’re just early. And no one likes an earlybird. Except Red Lobster. Because their entire business model exists around the fact that old people like to eat at 4:00 in the afternoon.

I will tell you, however, that I thought a lot about this issue while I was stuck in traffic for two and a half hours. And as we all know, there are few things in life more awesome than sitting still, car turned off, at 6:45 in the AM, knowing that you could likely walk the 30 miles to work faster than it will take them to clean up that oil spill and those two resulting accidents.

1. John Hodgman’s Areas of My Expertise offered free on iTunes - After a year of owning an iPod I finally signed up for an iTunes account strictly to download this. And let me tell you that this Daily Show correspondent’s wit and humor kept me from road-raging someone this morning.
2. Adobe Photoshop CS3 beta - I live and die by Photoshop and have been an unabashed fanboy for 12 years. And although it’s only a beta, I’m loving the improvements already. I’m not so hot on the new icons, but that’s a stupid point to gravel over. Now if I could get this on a dual G5 with 4gb of RAM…
3. LCD TVs - Nope, don’t have one. But we got bored this week and decided to hook up a 46” to a co-worker’s G5. And lo-and-behold I can now surf denyingphoenix.com from the hallway! Actually we just watched high-def movie trailers all week.
4. Avalonstar XXIII - Bryan Veloso’s site has always had a place in my bookmarks under “beautiful sites.” However, his latest incarnation is truly breathtaking. The contrasty-ness takes some getting used to, but the restraint and control he has without color usage is stunning.
5. Justin Timberlake on SNL - No longer a fan of SNL, I don’t find much of what they do too terribly funny anymore. But Timberlake’s last appearance was humorous. He didn’t disappoint last weekend either. The Surprise digital short (explicit) is mildly crass but entirely entertaining, and the reprise of his Omeletteville skit was also great. The kid’s talented, that’s for sure.

Basically the only thing worse than hanging out on I-71 for the first two hours of my day was watching Dora the Explorer on the minivan TV in front of me. Lord that show b-l-o-w-s. Well, at least without sound it does.

Last Friday I returned home from work both giddy for the weekend and a bit put-off by the fact that I still had a 35-minute run to complete before I could sit back and enjoy a dinner out with The Wife™. But as I keyed into my front door, everything fell by the wayside, including my stomach, my appetite and my sense of all things good and holy in the world. A bit of warning, before we proceed. Not that I’m going to tell you what you’re being warned of. Just a note of warning. So don’t say I didn’t tell you.

What hit me as I both pushed through the threshold and the emerging tears was a tidal wave of nastiness so completely heinous it could only bring one thought to my mind: DOG!

Apparently at some point over the 9 hours of being alone in his crate, Jonas had lost all control of his bowels. I found him lying in a lake of his own by-products with the most pathetic look of, “yea, so…while you were gone, I ran into some problems with this ‘can’t poop outside thing.’” Indeed.

Since I can’t be entirely sure of what happened, I have attempted to piece together the events as best I can. I think it’s safe to assume that sometime between the hours of 7 a.m. and 4:30 p.m., Jonas had a large-scale case of code-red colon blow. This, mind you, needs to be differentiated from the oft-confused and less severe “ass blow,” which is in a totally different league, folks.

I’m guessing after he looked around frantically for a diaper, a pail or some other receptacle other than that in which he was sitting, he succumbed to nature and painted everything in sight. Having witnessed an explosion of such depressingly epic proportions he then lost control of his gag reflex and compounded the mess by vomiting. To be fair, you would likely do the same if you had just let fly a tsunami of diarrhea all over yourself and knew you had to just chill for, oh, 8.5 more hours? The final, glorious product was what I like to call vomarrhea. Our dog vomarrheaed the sh*t out of our house. And it smelled just as good as you think it might.

Upon finding this gem, yours truly did the only logical thing he could think of: let the dog outside and call The Wife™ to ask permission to run instead of cleaning up Lake Lostalunch. And she agreed. Because she is the greatest person ever to walk this earth. True, if I was going to get my run in and shower before our reservation it had to be done. But without a doubt she took one for the team on Friday, even though 35 minutes of running with that smell wafting through the vent above me almost me ME lose it. The only thing worse that running is running while smelling vomit and/or diarrhea. You can just trust me on that one.

You would think that was the end of it, but no. By now I was showered and she was flustered (and a tad bit wet from the hose, I might add) and as we talked about how we were going to handle feeding Jonas dinner, we neglected to notice the 12.5 gallons of water that he was sucking down. We did, however, take notice when he trotted over to the hardwood floor, looked up and vomited enthusiastically like that moron kid who just took the “chug a gallon of milk” dare. And then an encore when he did it on the living room rug. And then the kitchen floor. And then the kitchen rug. He was like a programed robot seeking out all things textile. And let me tell you that I was THAT CLOSE to saving the last rug from desecration. I guess I was just too awestruck by the voluminous capacity of his stomach.

By the grace of God we made it to dinner (albeit a tad late and paranoid that we smelled) and spent the rest of the evening with a loudly protesting, starving dog. When we tried to satiate him with some plain white rice, he looked at us like, “This? This is supposed to cut it? I find no humor in this you peons. Now give me the real stuff!”

Luckily, within 24-hours everything had returned to normal and we did not have to live in fear of Mount Jonas erupting again. The only thing is that now when I even think about running I almost throw up. As if I needed more help with that.

In the years before you or I, they would sit hunched over the lights of aging candles. Hands steady and eyes intensely focused, all while visually tracing the outer edges where deep shadows rolled off onto soft specular highlights. Back and forth. The translation between model and sketch seemed natural. Unquestionable, even. But today, my old friend, the game has changed. No longer is real life the muse of the artist. The soft glow of oil lamps are gone and our eyes trace photographs and projected slides instead, not living specimens. The grade of who succeeded and who failed is based on the accuracy of the copy. Did you know they even teach this in the universities and colleges? Rubbish…

Truth be told, and strictly between you and I alone, I always took issue with both artistic approaches. To create a sketch, a beautiful, breathing entity, to produce something from nothing…it is a process wholly unparalleled elsewhere in our lives. But to trace or copy these lines from another source? To create something from something else? That transcends simple plagiarism. It violates the freedom and spirit of art to begin with.

Models move. Poses shift. Sure, you can approximate it, fake it. You can extrapolate between where the shoulder was yesterday and where it lies today. You can scrutinize every inch of that photograph in your attempt to recreate it on paper. But when you step back, you put down the charcoal and things still don’t feel right. And while you ponder why, all frustrated and vexed, the answer is simple: you were trying to copy something that cannot be duplicated. What washed up on the other side is a pale mimeograph of the original, with no life or personality injected. You were so focused on copying the lines of the master in order to have that masterpiece of your own that not a single second was spent trying to make it yours. You were aiming at forgery. Not creating.

Life is not a snapshot. It is not a model sitting unnaturally still. It is not meant to be frozen or paused for our study and analysis. That’s the tragic beauty of it. And ultimately it is unfair of either of us to expect that life should imitate the ideal simply because we have that singular picture in our head that we’re striving to quickly copy down.

I know, they teach us this when we’re in elementary school. With questions of dream jobs and future plans, it sometimes seems as if every adult is merely trying to get us to lock down our destiny before we even hit puberty. They want us to have that picture, that snapshot, that Poloroid of The Life™ that we’re aiming for. And you know what? We go for the ride. Part nature and part nurture, we mature thinking that The Life™ we have pictured in our heads is what we’re aiming for. Two kids. Two cars. $50k in the bank by 25 for retirement. Each choice is labored over, not for what feels right but rather for what gets us closer to The Life™. Missed turns even become death sentences as we watch our view of The Life™ move further away.

Please know that I point no fingers, because I am just as culpable as you. But do promise me that we won’t let each other slip back into that. We can’t go back to thinking that this life is some static, unchanging picture that can be simply copied in the ideal in order to create the ideal. Remind me tomorrow, remind me next month that this is about the process, the journey, the act of sketching that picture and not the picture itself. To hell with the model and the photograph. If we come out on the other side with dead and lifeless final renderings it’s because we forgot to put ourselves in it. And I don’t want that, for either of us.

So put down the photo. Turn away from the model and switch off the projector. From now on, no more copying for you or I. They can’t tell us what’s right. This is life in free-form.

Ah Christmas. It’s that time of year when offices have parties that unfortunately reflect just how much (or little) your company cares about you. My brother-in-law is being flown to Vegas in a few weeks. I, on the other hand, wouldn’t have even known it was Christmas last year if that one guy down the hall hadn’t brought in the peppermint coffee creamer. And yes, we have to supply our own coffee.

The Wife™ mentioned last night that the AP department at her company had one of those white elephant exchange. The highlight, however, was the loud chatty lady who’s contribution to the party was a sweet package consisting of 1 can of beans, a pair of socks, a sticker and a Tumbleweed gift card with $0.49 on it. BEST. GIFT. EVER.

1. Charlie Brown’s Christmas, as performed by the cast of Scrubs - This hit the ‘sphere way earlier in the week but it was such a shiny gem I had to save it for FTILFF. Irreverent and nostalgic. It’s kinda neat to know that the cast would do something off the radar like that.
2. New flavors of whey protein - Huzzah! I’ve been incorporating whey protein as a supplement to my diet for four years now, and the folks at All The Whey are great. Their business has really taken off. Recently they added peanut butter as a flavor, as well as cinnamon bun. Both of which are unreal. I look forward to breakfast every morning!
3. Latte art - I always assumed that this type of effect was done in Photoshop for magazines, or with a toothpick after the fact. After seeing a video over at Dethroner on how it’s achieved, I was blown away at the beauty of this Flickr gallery. That’s crazy milk pour ability right there.
4. Tiny Drum Machine - Stupidly simple yet infinitely amusing music game. I spent the better portion of my lunch break yesterday playing. You need no music skills. Just a child-like sense of fascination.
5. Unbelievable finger-work guitar playing - I’m spoiled having lived with an virtuoso guitarist for 7 years (hi Raymond!). This hit Digg this morning and while the style of composition leans a bit too much towards new-agey for me, there’s no denying Andy McKee’s talent. Wow.

The only thing that tops that last portion of the story is the fact that the poor soul who received the bag’o’crap was also the second-to-last person to pick. And the last person just happened to be the woman who brought in the odd assortment to begin with. I’ll leave it up to your very intelligent minds to figure out how that gift exchange ended. No Encyclopedia Brown needed here!

Children can be evil. And that particular sardonic comment was not born of a coffeeless mind, either. I mean it.

The Wife™ and I have a standing engagement to babysit her two nieces each Tuesday. At the onset, I saw it as a great opportunity to play XBox on a 90” projection screen interact with kids on a limited basis, where we could simply leave when we were done, handing them back with a gleeful, “here you go…have fun with that!” How else would you get to play with babies and then leave the dirty diapers, temper tantrums and spilled chocolate milk behind? That’s just like parenthood, right? No?

Anyway, we’ve been doing this for six months or so and the one thing that has changed is that attitude of the four year old. And by “changed” I simply mean that I’ve gone from looking forward to Tuesday with optimistic anticipation to more of a level like “maybe we could stay home, do our taxes and I can put some more bleach in my eye?!” That’s about where I’m at with it now.

Last night we had a very, very special time. Very. Special. The Princess’ new phrase de jour is apparently “yea riiight…” in which plants a hand on her hip and rolls her eyes so dramatically I’m convinced the next time they’ll get stuck, at which point I’ll point and laugh harder than I have in a long time. Because that’s what uncles do.

I’m not sure where this little twerp learned such staginess, but judging by both the severity and flair in which it is delivered, I’m guessing her theatrical influences could range from the self-rigteous indignation of Delta Burke in Designing Women to the hollowed-out emotional delivery of Paris Hilton in…well, whatever it is that Paris Hilton does. Hand flailing, bossing, directing, mimicking. She does it all. A veritable da Vinci of sass. List night, when she sidestepped one of my mildly authoritative requests with yet another “yea riiiight,” I calmly asked her to be polite, at which point she looked me dead in the eye and began chattermumbling in the most mocking tone I’ve ever heard escape from a kid’s mouth. When I told her to knock THAT off, she merely shrugged and walked away. OH NO YOU DIDN’T. I’VE GOT AT LEAST TWO FEET ON YOU SISTER.

Perhaps my problem is that I refuse to bow to the will of someone shorter than me. And seeing as it takes a very special person to play that role, children are not excluded. I should probably be more understanding, but I don’t care what your parents do or don’t do for discipline. I don’t care if they fail to call you on your rudeness. The next time you stand in your living room and DIRECT ME to leave the room, taking your alternately hysterically wailing and farting five-month-old sister with me, just so that you can watch your movie in peace…forget it Jack. This is how those hobags on MTV’s My Super Sweet 16 start off. And I ain’t going out like that.

I understand that four is an age where it’s likely common to test boundaries and push buttons to see where authority lies. BUT YOU’RE FOUR. The beauty of that age to us adults is that you don’t get to decide when The Wife™ has had enough popcorn. You aren’t the one to dictate what magazine I read and you sure as hell are not in a position to negotiate your bedtime. Next week I’m showing up wearing a shirt that says, “I waited a long time for this. You’ll get your turn in 25 years.” Apparently, though, this is shot-calling is standard practice for the midget.

And as I hear my sister-in-law tell me other horror stories about The Princess and her behavior, I find myself not laughing or chuckling in amusement. Sure it must be hard to discipline your child, to turn that developmental train around and risk having your child hate you. I haven’t been there. But I cannot imagine what this little diva is going to be like at age 13, let alone age five. And I guess I’d rather risk a power class now, knowing that later she just could run away because she no longer needs someone to make that chocolate milk for her.

I don’t know. The entire thing has made me question wanting to have children. Ever. Perhaps The Wife™ and I will just take that that supposed $400,000 that it takes to raise a kid and buy a bigass TV and the box set of Designing Women, sit on the beach somewhere and relax. I know my blood pressure would benefit.

As I inched out further onto the board, it became painfully clear that I was in quite significantly over over my head. And the fact that I hated painting. That was obvious too.

As yet another weekend was spent painting, there was more than just wall colors that changed ‘round our house. The Wife™ and I got into a bit of a row, and not over who hates painting more, but rather because of the fact that I have turned into my father. Or maybe I always have been in this particular regard and just never realized it. Nonetheless, it’s annoying and it’s annoyingness annoys her.

It turns out that I’m obnoxiously task driven. Perhaps psychopathically so. I’m completely focused at all times on accomplishing the task at hand for the expressed purpose of moving on to the next. Free time (in my mind) should be spent enjoying the ability to cross more things off a to-do list. Weekends are just a conglomeration of this free time. Fun time happens after free time and never before. Perhaps in a previous life I was a to-do list wheeling Puritan.

I tried to explain to The Wife™ that it’s not just that I feel the need to work before I relax. I simply don’t have the circle of friends that she does. Or the family. In fact, I have no one besides her (and His Highness™, the Prince of All Dogdom) within a several hundred mile radius. I don’t really watch movies or TV, and I get to listen to music and bemuse myself online during the work week. Therefore all my down-time by default ends up being spent working on the house. I enjoy it. It gives me satisfaction, not only to get things done that need it, but also to make the house better. It’s a simple pleasure that watching neither VH1 or hanging out people who only tolerate me because I married their friend can render.

I will not bemoan my lonliness. I have a wonderful life. I will complain however, to myself and myself alone, that I need to be a tad less relentless with my focus. As it appears that none of my friends are moving to The Ville™ anytime soon, I have to learn to find enjoyment in what I am surrounded with. Tasks and to-do items will forever be around, but some people in my life may not be. So while I try to realax a bit, there’s still a part of me that enjoys annoying The Wife with my superpowerful, superenhanced Annoyingness.

I just wish sometimes she would join me in my quest to conquer our listsmy lists. We could get so much more done.

When you’re single and it rolls around to winter time, you’re likely to get sick. If you’re like me, a premie-baby with a lowered immune system, you get sick a lot. I’ve gotten used to it over the years, and now just expect to catch a cold every 2-3 weeks and be OK with getting the flu 3 times per year.

1. Wire and Twine - New goods from Chris Glass. Chris was a former classmate of someone with whom I used to work along side in Cincinnati. I began following his site a few years back (as well as his contributions to Coudal and work with Woxy). A great designer and photographer, this newest venture for Chris looks oh-so-promising. And as soon as I can save up $20, that “Flourish” shirt is mine!
2. Clearification - The Wife is a stand-up comedy freak, so it’s no surprise that I had seen some of Dimitri Martin’s work prior to his appearances on The Daily Show. This site perfectly captures the spirit of his comedy, and has some pretty great short movies to waste some time with. He’s the anti-Dane Cook.
3. Scarves - That word looks funny pluralized. I always thought wearing a scarf made me look pretentious and nerdy, which is why I resisted wearing them for so long. But now that my parking spot is a healthy pace from my office, I’m learning just how invaluable these things really are.
4. Interview with a Hanna Barbara artist on color theory - Though it sounds dry and boring, a lot of what Art Lozzi has to say is absolutely invaluable (and applies to most anything that utilizes color). Old(er) people are so damn smart.
5. Flavored creamer for your coffee - I try and drink my coffee black. If the coffee is good enough, I prefer it that way. But some days when I’m craving an extra cup of joe at work (and what I’ve made at home is gone), I have to suck it up and drink the sh*t coffee. It’s free, but it tastes like sawdust soaked in motor oil. But whomever left that Vanilla Carmel Sugar-Free Creamer in the break room, you are my savior this week. I didn’t choke on a single sip of java this week thanks to you.

What no one warned me of was what happens to your immune system when you get married. All of a sudden, not only am I sporting my own deficient defense systems, but I am now taking on attacks from the woman who sleeps next to me. And though she’s been banished to the far reaches of the other side of the bed, it’s innevitable. I’m now getting sick. Again. Because of her.

I might as well just start licking everything I see so that I can get sick first and then pass it onward like a twisted gift. Just to spite her.

Dear People Who Think Inflatables Are “Good Looking” Christmas Decorations,

Happy holidays! If that seemed like a suspiciously chipper way to start this snarky letter, you’re right! I’m simply trying my darndest to suppress that growing tidal wave of rage inside me. Wouldn’t want a trip to the county jail to spoil the yuletide festivities now would we? But we can be civil. We’re neighbors, right? OK, well not technically. But you do live down the street, and I DO have to pass your house every day and be reminded of your terrible, God-forsaken taste in seasonal decorations. So let’s talk this out.

I don’t know where you went wrong, really. I don’t know you from Jack. But I have a burning desire to find out if when were growing up your parents gathered up the family to hoist a 10-foot tall inflatable and interiorly-lit snowman high into the air? No? Probably because plastic was still relatively new at the time. So you have no excuse for doing it? Rest assured then that if your dear ma and pa were here today they’d slap you senseless for that crap you just put on your front lawn. Apparently the law says that I can’t.

Look, I’m not trying to be a prick. It’s just that…well…it looks tacky as hell. If I wanted to see some lit-up plastic candy canes or life-sized white wicker deer I’d rather turn on COPS, not turn down my street. The light netting is fine, but can’t you take the time to tuck each individual strand? Please God cover the ENTIRE BUSH, not just the front half. Did you get drunk and pass out half way through? Was it just too rough? And please don’t get any ideas for next year, either. I know your neighbor has that huge PROJECTION WHEEL WITH GRAPHICS that displays spinning pictures on his garage door, but it’s not nearly as awesome as you or he think it is. Trust me.

I don’t see why we can’t be reasonable. Sure, I think the plastic Frosty you put on your roof looks L-A-M-E, and those giant lighted snow flakes that look like mutated Stars of David are confusing (unless of course, you’re Jewish, then I mean no offense). But I’m not asking you to forgo ALL decorations! Just use some judgment. Things that blink? Off limits. If your decorations involve motors or blowers, forget about it. If the scale of the decoration in proportion to your lawn exceeds 20% and/or might be able to be clearly identified from a satellite via Google Earth, I would kindly ask you to reconsider.

We’re all here to celebrate the Christmas holiday, each in our own little way. So lets say we make this year a little less, “Walmart sharted on my house” and a little more, “I exercised adult-like restraint!” How ‘bout it? Thanks. I can’t wait for Easter.

Yours in moderation,
Brian

PS - Oh, and please don’t resort to putting a wreath on the front grill of your truck. I’ll cut that sh*t off if you do.

I don’t know what happened to me. Along the way, somewhere, I lost the ability to appreciate and enjoy the Christmas season. It’s as if I magically transformed into a grumpy 87 year old man who calls wreaths “poppycock” and harrumphs at anything made with forest green felt.

We went choppin’ for Christmas trees this past weekend, an annual family event for The Wife™. The entire time I was Old Man Cranky. Not because it was cold. Not because I soaked my entire ass and left leg in freezing water by laying on the ground to cut down a tree for my sister-in-law, but because I was losing valuable time for painting. My insanity knows no bounds, for when I start getting peeved about not having sufficient time to paint, you know I have one foot in the door of the asylum already.

Inherited from my father, I have internal time tables, strict plans that MUST BE ADHERED TO AT ALL COSTS. The problem is, that I never seem to externalize these plans to others, nor are they ever all that reasonable. The fact that I expected to travel to southern Indiana, cut down six trees and return in the span of 45 minutes (budgeted in my head, rather fairly I’d say), turned out to be ridiculous. In reality, we were gone from about 8 a.m. until about 4 p.m. This made me steam. Steam for painting? Hello doctors with the pretty white coats! What the hell is wrong with me?

I am trying to curb this, though. While the inner dialog in my retardo-brain barks about the idiocy of lights on bushes or how terrible that ceramic wreath looks, I actually am holding back (I’m sure The Wife™ doesn’t think so). And I’m afraid my miserliness brings her down . But last night after dinner I started a fire, put on some Christmas music and we spent an hour or so decorating the tree and drinking hot chocolate out of little mugs shaped like snowmen.
It was quite nice. I couldn’t even help but laugh at Jonas’ contribution to the entire effort:

I hope The Wife™ realizes that I’m trying to undo whatever caused this Grinch-y-ness in me.

But I am drawing the line at the ceramic choo-choo train with LED lighting. I thought you had taste, woman. And dignity…

All week my office has smelled like dog crap. Consequently, all week I’ve been walking around trying to figure out where the hell it’s coming from. You know that passive thinking that you do while actually busy doing something else, like “*type type type* Man what the F is that smell?! Oh crap another email *type type type* Is that dog crap?”. The entire first day and a half I was convinced it was me. Secretly I was stealing glances at my shoes, pant legs, bags, etc. to check. I confess to even having considered that I somehow shat myself and didn’t know it.

Next I became convinced it was the student worker across the way. “Hey, I know she just got a puppy, ergo it must be her! Be gone, student worker with foul smelling dog!” But it was still there even with her gone.

My final conclusion was that someone had rather unfortunately crapped in a trashcan and been so ashamed that they had hidden it. What’s worse is that no one else was complaining (as everyone usually does when anything in an office is slightly off-norm). That is precisely why I was scared it was coming from me. No one wanted to tell me.

1. Connoiseur - This little app for Mac users is great! It combines the functionality and ease of the iTunes interface with the cumbersome task of organizing recipes. There’s a display mode (for when you cook), it will create shopping lists for you automatically and it will even read you the directions! Pure genius.
2. Dewalt’s 18v Angled Finishing Nailer - What I would give to own this thing. No, it’s not a pneumatic, but as someone who already has a ton of 18v cordless tools, the portability of this little guy would be outstanding. I could finally be able to do the crown molding, new baseboards and doorways in the house. But it’s $300. Le sigh…
3. Martians Descend on Sesame Street - Ah childhood memories. This is one of the stronger memories of SS I have from being younger. And I’m not sure if I appreciated it as much then, but the cow part of this video clip (and the final reveal) are just hilarious. Yip yip yip.
4. Pumpkin pie - A week late on this one, but I realized over the past 7 days that I *really* love pumpkin pie. As in “I could eat it every day” love. My mom makes a killer double layer pumpkin pie (that I dearly missed this Thanksgiving), but even the regular ol’ stuff will do just fine, thank you. Damn it, now I’m hungry…
5. Nintendo’s Wii - OK, taking the final spot this week is something that I never thought I’d say after the age of nine: I want a video game console. Specifically a Wii. There are tons of video clips out there of people using the wireless, motion-sensing controllers for bowling, boxing, tennis, etc. But the fact that Nintendo specifically let Microsoft (XBOX360) and Sony (PS3) go for the graphics gusto, while quietly taking the cake for putting enjoyment back in gaming…that makes me smile. The New York Times has a decent review.

As it turns out, the secretary had put a cheese wheel out for everyone on her desk around the corner. And as I attempted to ask her a question Thursday afternoon, my eyes (and nose) began to burn with the choking stench of dog crap again. I must have been terribly rude, asking her about courier services while staring mouth agape at her cheese.

I love me some cheese, but that stuff stank to high hell. But at least I didn’t crap myself and not realize it, eh?