Posts Tagged ‘humor blog’

Julie & Julia & Judith

September 2, 2009

Cook in kitchen

Talk about depressing. I just saw the movie Julie & Julia. It made me miserable. It made me realize I am no Julia Child. I am no Julie Powell, either. I am Judith Millar, culinary catastrophe.

Ah, you say, don’t compare yourself to a culinary icon. Does a gnat compare itself to Mount Olympus? The incomparable Julia Child – played by the incomparable Meryl Streep – how could a mere mortal ever measure up to this double dose of DEEVA?  Yet mere mortal Julie Powell steps up to the (dinner) plate, and manages to both outCOOK and outBLOG me! (Julie cooks her way through all Julia’s recipes AND manages to post about it, 365 days a year!  I am lucky to get a post up every Wednesday.) Like I said, depressing.

Yet I am handicapped in this cooking contest by my admitted klutizness (see Kayaking for Klutzes). Cooking utensils may not be as large as kayaks or box horses, but they are still inanimate objects – and, as kind reader Joanna noted in her comment on my kayaking post, inanimate objects can be evil.  Malevolent graters can leave slivers of “Fingertips Fromage” on one’s Monday Macaroni. Mashers can malfunction, mutilating more than potatoes. Spastic spatulas can – well, take it from me, they can, and they will! – in my ham-fisted grip.

After witnessing a few culinary catastrophes (picture a food-based episode of CSI) and ingesting a few helpings of my Mashed Potatoes Elmer (recall that white glue you used in Grade Two?), Kayak Guy (then known as Fiancé Guy) suggested he become the culinary half of our combo. It was the kindest thing. I am best left slaving over a hot keyboard, where the most damage I can do is the odd tasteless typo.

However, seeing this movie reminded me that, like Julie and Julia, I have (once, briefly) held a lobster. And even flung the poor thing into a pot. The result was no Lobster Thermidor, but there is one lobster in Maine who is sorry he met me. Our kids wanted to call him Larry. To me, he looked more like a Lawrence. I insisted he on naming him Lawrence. Here he is, with a younger (redder-headed) me.

Judy_with_LobsterA cooking tip: If you must shortly cast a live lobster into a pot of boiling water, DO NOT adopt the writerly habit of naming the poor soul first. Lawrence met his maker in a pot in Prospect Harbor, Maine … and when I meet mine, I shall freely confess, he’s been on my conscience ever since. RIP Lawrence. I’ve committed my last arthropodic atrocity. None of your crustacean cousins have a thing to fear from me.

© 2009 Judith Millar. All rights reserved.

Is there a Lawrence in your past? Another kind of culinary catastrophe? Or can you compete with Julie & Julia?


Tweet, Tweet, my Sweet

July 29, 2009

Twitter birdPoet and spoken-word artist Sheri-D Wilson jokes that when a young “whippernsnapper” mocked something she said with a dismissive: “Now you’re dating yourself!” she shot back, “No, actually I’m dating someone younger than you.”

Ah, for the quick and witty comeback to this aging thing. I can’t keep up with Sheri-D in wit or energy (just the thought of dating a young guy exhausts me). But I am doing what I can to keep current. I’m Twittering. I’m Facebooking. I’m YouTubing.

OK, I’m learning how to Twitter. And how to Facebook. And if I’m still standing after that, I plan to ask someone to record me for YouTube. I want the whole nine yards. Or is it the whole 8.2296 metres? Much to my daughter’s amusement, I never caught on to the metric thing – and didn’t Trudeau bring that in back in the 70s?  How do I imagine I’ll ever get the hang of all this technological social networking stuff?

But I’m checking it out. And already I’m making my mark. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing. I’ve been bashing around in cyberspace, posting here and there. One I left on my daughter’s Facebook site prompted her to threaten: “Mom, don’t make me block you.” She knows I’m listening in. That’ll teach her to “friend” me.

I’m not the only baby boomer out there. A post I saw on Twitter the other day read: “Crap. My parents are on Twitter.” That kid’s right to be worried. Twitter’s like eavesdropping on the world, with the world’s permission. Frankly, most of what the world is talking about seems pretty boring. But I’m out here on the cutting edge, listening in, or blurting out – whenever I can find the time, that is. And whenever I can remember my username and password. Which is a whole other thing …

© 2009 Judith Millar. All rights reserved.

The Birthday Suit Blues

July 22, 2009

Eve with fig leavesYou may recall from last week’s post (“You Got Me WHAT?“) that some of my past birthday gifts have been, shall we say, underwhelming. I promised to share what my dear husband (sometimes known as “Kayak Guy”), got me for this birthday. As it turns out, he got me GOOD.

Kayak Guy was working all day. He’d announced the night before that he’d made dinner reservations at a restaurant overlooking the ocean. “Reservations for 8:00 p.m., so we can watch the sun set!” he’d announced proudly. Romantic! He’d redeemed himself – and then some.

I spent the day happily shopping with friends. Kayak Guy arrived home from work tired, and headed to bed for a nap. A while later, I too decided a nap made sense before a late night. I headed for the single bed in my office, so as not to disturb my slumbering kayaker. Not wanting to crush my clothes, I slipped them off, climbed under the covers and slept like a rock. 

Until the doorbell rang. I heard K.G. open the door (he maintains he thought I was in the back yard) … and with that, in came the PARTYGOERS, into my living room, to wish me a surprise “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!”  There I was, trapped in my office – which is RIGHT off the living room, so no escape route!  – AND  my office has only a sliding pocket door made out of GLASS!!   Yes, we are talking BUTT NAKED – and an aging butt, at that. I huddled there under the covers, with partygoers hollering for me to come out!  AAAGGHH. 

K.G. hustled the guests onto the patio, where they all laughed themselves silly over the fact that I attended my birthday party in my BIRTHDAY SUIT ! – well, the first few minutes of the party, anyway.

If last year was underwhelming, this year sure wasn’t. I’ve always secretly wanted a surprise party, so K.G. scored a direct hit. A good time was had by all – including the blushing birthday girl.  That’s my TRUE birthday story. Got one to beat it?

© 2009 Judith Millar. All rights reserved.

You got me WHAT?

July 15, 2009

Husband bearing giftsI’ve got a birthday coming up. Which has got me thinking: What will he buy me this year?

Because, frankly, last year was a bust. Money was tight, so I may have casually mentioned, “Don’t get me anything for my birthday this year.” Which, as any reader in possession of a couple of X chromosomes will understand, does NOT mean: “Don’t get me ANYTHING for my birthday.” It simply means: “Don’t splurge. Money’s tight – don’t go all crazy.”

The day came. The day went by. Rien. Nada. Zip. Someone’s nose – could it have been mine?? – was severely out of joint.  There was a lump in that someone’s throat as, with bedtime approaching, she managed to choke out a weak: “You didn’t get me anything?

“Oh, I almost forgot,” he said, retrieving a small, wrapped package from his pocket. I ripped off the paper, and felt my jaw go slack. “You got me – batteries??!”

“They’re rechargeables!” he said. 

Rechargeables? Oh, alrighty then. 

He persisted: “Remember when you were upset because you could have gotten that great shot, but your camera batteries let you down?” I did remember. He looked genuinely thrilled to have pulled off a hat-trick:  He had found a gift I couldn’t deny needing; he had not blown the budget doing so; and he had, sure enough, surprised me.

I may be a writer – a supposed-communicator – but I haven’t mastered this cross-gender communication thing yet.  This year, as my big day approaches, I am keeping very quiet. I’ll let you know how things go.  And, in case they don’t, I’d LOVE to hear about the worst gift you ever got!  Misery loves company!

© 2009 Judith Millar. All rights reserved.

To blog or not to blog . . .

July 8, 2009
to blog or not to blog

to blog or not to blog

A blog? A “LITE”-hearted look at what’s going on in my life – or my mind – on any given Wednesday? Well, why not? It’s been on my “bucket list” of things I want to try for a while now. Just because it’s been on my mind, doesn’t mean it’s stayed there long.

That’s what happens once you’ve joined the 50+ club. Your short term memory snorts and snickers at your cheery little list of “must do” projects, and suddenly you see you’ve set off merrily in some other direction. You’ve sidetracked. The moment you realize that and try to execute your U-turn, you’re sideswiped by one of life’s little calamities. Somehow you twist an ankle doing your U-ee. Now where the heck did you put your tensor bandage?  And so it goes. 

If this all sounds familiar, you may be like me. In which case, this may be the blog for you. (If I can remember to write it, that is.)

My plan is to capture whatever’s on my mind – to nail it to the page (ok, to the internet ether, which is trickier) – before it slips down one of those rabbit holes in my cranium and vanishes forever. (Or pops back up next week while I’m in the shower without a waterproof pen, so it’s off again.)

I’m a writer. I love words. Humorous words, especially. I write to make myself laugh. If my readers laugh too, that’s even better. If you like to laugh, stop by occasionally (or subscribe to my RSS feed, if your memory also sucks).

I’ll be talking about anything that catches my fleeting attention – from my perspective as a baby boomer writer who reads voraciously, and loves performing spoken-word here on Vancouver Island. I might be talking about real life (mostly mine) or the writing life. Or books I like. Or gender differences. (Aren’t they fascinating? “Does this skirt make me look fat?” I ask my husband. “Define fat,” he says. Wrong answer.)

If any of this resonates with what’s on YOUR mind, wander by on Wednesdays for some Millar LITE.

© 2009 Judith Millar. All rights reserved.