Not me!  At Powell’s this week.  Bore-oh-rama. 

I just saw that one of my links — I was linking to song lyrics – has porn pictures on it.  Naked chicks.  Sorry about that.  Don’t sue me when you get fired.  Give me your boss’ number, I’ll explain. 

Those are the towns I drove through this morning, not in that order, to get my soup. (Say “Gaston” the French way, nasal “ohn”).  The soup was in Forest Grove. I know they have soup other places, but I go to Forest Grove.

I like Julie Blackmon, I like her work. A lot. Just saying. If I haven’t added it to the list of things you can get me, I’m telling you now. Get me a Julie Blackmon.  Anything.  I’m not picky.

I found a song today that’s been in my head for five years.  Maybe seven.  Found it found it, yay!  Found it here.  Duh. 

Also.  Ahem.  Many of you are finding this site by googling my name, according to the site stats.  MANY, many.  You’re googling me like crazy, in fact.  So I thought, “of course they google me, I’m fascinating!”, until I saw some of the search strings had “Rockland County”.  Rockland County is the home of another Theresa DiFalco, not me.  That one is my sister-in-law, who has a very respectable career in law and is not obsessed with her dog’s boners.  If you are looking for her, you have the wrong place, and please note she does not condone or encourage any of the drivel on this site. 

Plus she spells her name with an “H”.  Jeez.  Get it right already.

Neil Strauss has a good book list today at Powell’s.

Scruffy won’t stay in the yard.

Bobby Fischer’s dead.

A. hasn’t called or acknowledged me in any way today, I could be on the floor bleeding to death for all he knows. (But I’m not.)

Also, I got licensed to serve you alcohol this morning. Did you know you can take your own bottle of liquor into any establishment that serves it? Corkage fees run steep and the bottle doesn’t go back out, the bar keeps it. Not so with wine. You can carry your unfinished, corked wine out to the car as long as it was served with a meal and the cork is flush with the top of the bottle.

That, folks. Is all.

The most exciting email I have today is “10 Chicken Dinners for the Busy Cook” from MyRecipes.com.  If you think you can beat that, give it a whirl. 

I also see on my recipes, there’s a slideshow of “Fountain of Youth Foods”.  I looked everywhere for “cold, rubber hamburger patty” which is what I’m having for lunch today (January menu for some reason is not up) with G. at G.’s school.  Didn’t see it.  Guess I’ll get old. 

I feel guilty, I have to come clean.  I spent time this morning (you do not need to know how much) reading this, and this.  When I meant to be re-reading this. 

Yesterday, though, I started the late psychoanalyst Allen Wheelis’ very-hard-to-find memoir, “The Listener”.  (For the record, A., I didn’t pay anywhere near the $100 they’re hawking it for on Amazon.  I’m savvy.  I found it new and cheap.)  This opening passage inspired me to rewrite one particular book’s beginning.

“When I pick up a novel, I look first for the sexual passages.  I want to know what this author thinks can happen between a man and a woman.  I discover the girl undressing, examine her undergarments, see her twisting and moaning under her lover … Before learning whether it’s safe for her even to have coffee with this guy or to go for a walk, I have her skirt up, her legs spread wide.”

So now, one particular book, I might as well make it two, will not require you to waste valuable time thumbing the pages; the girl’s got her skirt up in the very first scene.  Someone just called me.  I ignored it because the phone’s in another room.  Was it you?  Next time call when the phone’s closer.  Thanks. 

Ted Rall had a good piece today, I sent it to A.  Then thought you might like it, too.  You, the hundreds of millions of faithful Teresa DiFalco dot Com readers who tune in here each day, who make me possible.  This link’s for you!

In short, Ted can’t understand why the kids who want to be President can’t seem to tell us what they’re going to do.  Ted knows what he’d do, he writes it all out.  So then A. pointed out that Dennis Kucinich, who Rall doesn’t mention, has in fact repeatedly said, in very clear language, exactly what he’ll do (almost all the same things as Rall.) 

Every Democrat I talk to likes Kucinich but is resigned to accept O. or H.  Why can’t he make it?  Everyone who takes this quiz, ends up with him, try it.  Really.

Okay, more later.

A. doesn’t think I cry, but I did cry, just now.  I cried reading this dumb thing on the internet.  I’m not even going to link to it it’s so embarrassing, the height of sap.  A mother died, daughter wrote down questions, blah blah.  Anyway, I cried A., see?  I cry.  This on the heels of prying my sobbing six-year-old daughter’s tiny fingers off my arm this morning at drop-off, turning my mean, cold, mothering back on her and walking away.  I probably meant to cry in the car, after that, but forgot to because Scruffy was waiting to be dropped off for his neuter, and then the treadmill and coffee, a little work … and then I cried.

Might also have something to do with the kitchen.  And the TV room and the living room floor.  And the kids’ floor upstairs and the bunkhouse and the study.  Plus Eva Peron and spilt milk.

So much to cry for, so little time. 

Buzz Bissinger (Friday Night Lights, Three Nights in August, others) says the internet costs him about two hours of productivity a day.  Also cops to frequently googling himself and obsessively checking his book placement in stores, in this short but very charming Q&A. 

I found the Q&A during the two hours of productivity I’m losing myself.

That said.  I had a really good week.  Work-wise. 

And I want to read Buzz Bissinger’s books.