Lately I've been far more obsessed with my new crock pot than inspired by this empty posting screen. Meat. Falling apart, tender and juicy. Better than new-parents-of-two sex . Speaking of sex... really what stole me away from my blogging for the past two afternoons is the Sex in the City Movie DVD that arrived 2 days ago from Netflix. What glorious diversion. Such complete abandon: two consecutive afternoon naptimes spent in Carrie Bradshaw's chick-flick-to-the-hilt world. This is the best excuse on record for being M.I.A. Their ridiculous opulence & mandatory midlife drama were the perfect escape for a thank-god-no-longer-single newly married and mommied 40-year-old. Needless to say, I've been intoxicated by their travails.
And also needless to say, I'm once again jealous of Carrie Bradshaw. Not her extreme wardrobe and not her retarded drama with "Big." Just jealous as hell that she has such a cool writing gig and I don't. My first jealousy of her occurred in the SITC episode detailing her book release gala. It was grand. It was artsy. It was chic. The day my book released, I sat at home alone staring quietly at my blank computer screen thinking, "Is this it?" (((sigh)))
But me and Carrie Bradshaw have a LOT in common. My wardrobe was always eccentric, although not label heavy. And my pursuit of love life in LA was retarded enough to warrant my own manuscript bi-lined: A comic travelogue of breeding misadventures in LA ~ which unfortunately was rejected by 10 quarried literary agents. (((sigh))) And I also ultimately got married to the love of my life at City Hall for 100 bucks.
On a brighter note, the Caribbean Pork Chops over beets, sweet potatoes and carrots I crock potted yesterday were super tasty. And the lime-roasted chicken I've got on deck this morning promises to be just as delicious. And I do have to admit that the pork chops made the man happy last night ~ happy enough to do the you-know-what in the 30-minute window of opportunity between G down and mommy down.
So Carrie Bradshaw, eat your heart out. At least I don't have to don 4 inch stiletto heels and faux furs to grab a decent bite to eat in NYC. I can simply pad into the kitchen of my suburban San Diegan apartment in my husband's Costco mid-calf white plush socks, nursing bra strap hanging out of my long underwear top, and scoop me out a scrumpdillyiscious plate of meat n' potatoes from my crock pot.