blehhhhhhhh.

I love grading!

[IT'S OPPOSITE DAY ]

If only everything in the piles of projects and even final exams looked like this,

I'd be a happier camper.

(just needed to add a little something in here to cheer me up)

I have met the enemy, and its name is Buttercream.

According to the news around here, Southern California is UNDER SIEGE. By the weather.

Really, reporters, REALLY? "Under siege"?? Oh my.  Draaaaama. Yeah, SoCal goes into mass hysteria and declares itself a State of Emergency whenever it rains, true that it hasn't rained this much since 4990 BC (depending on who's doing the chronology), and sure a small cypress-type tree might have uprooted itself in my backyard already, but we are not being attacked.

Then again, one of the local tv weathermen around here is named Dallas Raines, so by virtue of his incredibly apropos (and allegedly real) name alone, you'd think I'd believe everything he says, but... oh I just can't. Dallas Raines? --REALLY? It's simultaneously genius and prophetic. And always makes me giggle a little.

But the five consecutive days of rain we're getting is not my personal enemy. I love it and welcome it with wide open arms, and shed a little tear every time it wanes even just a moment. No... I, on the other and gravely more serious hand, am being attacked by a much more formidable adversary, and it's finding and wooing (and then destroying) my vulnerable stronghold. Curse you, fickle Willpower.

You are no match for Buttercream. 

photo courtesy of marthastewart.com. I was too lazy to photograph the actual cupcakes I made.

First of all-- WHY DID NO ONE TELL ME ABOUT BUTTERCREAM?? How have I gone all these years, baking and eating and baking (and eating), and yet been under such a gross misconception about this, the Robert Pattinson of frostings? I always thought buttercream was that disgusting thick grainy shortening-butter-sugar blend you find on grocery store cupcakes, and when Diane Keaton pleads with Mandy Moore that they should reconcile because "I made you the orange buttercream... I know how you love buttercream" in the horrific movie "Because I Said So" (yeah, I've seen it twice... I like the baking/catering bits), it gets me all confused because, GROSS. Who would want to lick a finger-full off of a cake of that, and why would anyone want to reconcile with Diane Keaton anyway, in any feature film besides Baby Boom?

So imagine my surprise (and joy) when I made my first buttercream last December, for a Red Velvet cake, simply because the recipe called for it.  I trusted the recipe, because it came from this awesome book called Baked given to me by a trusted friend. (Great name, Baked-- no Dallas Raines, of course, but great nonetheless.)

It was a cinnamon buttercream frosting, and the recipe called for sugar, and flour, and milk, and heavy cream, and butter and vanilla and cinnamon... and you have to cook it first and then beat until cool, and add the butter etc... and it's a much longer process than just whipping up some butter and sugar together but OH MY GOODNESS, yum yum YUM. Plus cinnamon buttercream combined with red velvet is HEA-VEN-LY.  Buttercream #1. I've made it twice now.

Last night I made Buttercream #2, this time per a Martha Stewart recipe for white cupcakes with monogrammed fondant hearts for a bridal shower (like the picture above, except my cakes were whiter, and the tines on my french star pastry tip, tighter) and a Swiss Meringue Buttercream. This buttercream heated egg whites and sugar and salt, whipped 'til cool, then blended in a heart-clogging amount of unsalted butter and a nominal amount of vanilla, but OH MY GOODNESS, I think I licked an extra two inches on my thighs' worth of buttercream off my fingers after frosting the cupcakes. Aaaand... might have downed an entire (test) cupcake, too.

It's a love-hate relationship, me and Buttercream. Hate to love it. But I do... oh how I do. Please let me bake for you.

Champion!! Eat your heart out, Todd.

I am a girl of many talents. 

I like to say "girl", not woman, because it makes me sound younger. Kinda like I hate being called a lady, as in "that lady over there sure is buying a lot of ugly clothes at Target from her decade of origin", gross,  when it should be "man, that hottie is so young, it must be weird for her to be trying on retro 70's clothes".

(Though if it's the mid-60's and you're a dapper young man calling me a lady and standing up from the table when I enter and exit the room etc., that's cool.)

But still, many talents. And the most recently realized has also been major-ly recognized. For...

...last night, I was crowned (-slash-Trophied) 

2010* DISCO ROLLER SKATE LIMBO

 CHAMPION  !!

(*of Jan. 16th, more specifically of Leslie's 40th Disco Skate Party, but no matter, still reigning champ)

Where: The Moonlight Rollerway, Glendale, California

What: Leslie Ragland's 40th Birthday Party, in which she pulled out ALL the stops-- first the Rollerway (rented out just to us!), then a raging-fun disco-themed party with karaoke at an awesome house in the Valley.  Best party I've been to in a LONG time, probably because Leslie's a recent convert and hasn't learned yet that we are generally and notoriously cheap with our parties. And, she's awesome.

Costumes weren't REQUIRED, but definitely encouraged, and there were some GREAT ones there, including gold lame (insert accent mark over the 'e') jumpsuits and terrycloth short-shorts with sweatbands and knee socks (for the men), and some pretty sweet 'staches.

KJ's disco threads were convincingly authentic, and I'm pretty sure the size of those sleeves had something to do with the oil crisis of 1973. It takes a lot of petroleum to create that much synthetic fiber.

Todd P. wore a sweet Disco Skate belt buckle (as seen above), and didn't need much else in the way of a costume, his roller-moves created enough of THAT picture. Any of you who know him know what I'm talking about. For those of you who don't... well, he takes his shirt off a lot, and this time he did it while doing graceful roller-arabesques. Pretty impressive.

As for me, my mom couldn't remember where her incredible zebra-print tie-waist bell-bottomed jumpsuit was stashed (SO sad), so I was forced to raid Target for viable 70's costume options. Horrifyingly, there were many to choose from (as well as a gross resurgence of 80's-style neon-color-paint-splash-illusion fabrics), so I came up with this somewhat-lame early-70's frock over flared-leg jeans. Yes, I know it's decade-borderline, but we were celebrating 1970 in specific, so it can look kinda late-60's. And also explains why I couldn't remember to point my hand in a disco move like KJ's pose, and instead am asserting my independence as a New 70's Woman of Equality.

But really it didn't matter what I was wearing (though the stretchy jeans helped my flexibility), because it was my incredible skills that skated me into becoming

THE LIMBO CHAMPION OF THE WORLD!

I'd like to say it was easy. It wasn't. I had a lot of things working against me, from the surplus of competing bendy little ladies in the limbo lineup, to the intangible lack of support from the sidelines, both friend and stranger (which I'll get to in a sec), to the fact that my organs/muscles got caught in my ribcage when I'd bend so drastically at the waist to scrunch my body down to a one-foot height. (Seriously. That last time, when I stood-rolled back up, I felt something flip back into place.)

And yet... I WON! I was surprised when no one beat me, but not as surprised as the rest of the crowd. As I took my victory lap around the rink, precious trophy raised in triumph, I think they were still waiting for the ACTUAL winner to be announced.

KJ: "Congrats!!! ...I'll be honest... my money wasn't on you."

Friend of Leslie's: "Hey, you're the Limbo Champ! ...Yeah... didn't see that one coming."

Roller Derby Employee Limbo Specialist: (no words, just a look of disbelief as he double-checked the height bar for malfunction)

No one was as upset as Todd, though. He was so jealous that he made a very inappropriate jealousy-gesture, much too jealous to be published on this blog.

You be the judge, though-- here's a re-enactment of my winning roller-crouch (trophy added, since the eyes-squeezed-shut-in-hope as I zoomed under the bar can't be seen in this photo). No, in Roller Limbo, you don't lean backwards (too many potential concussions, also impossible).

I kinda feel like I got even lower, maybe the velocity/speed really did streamline my body into the height of a large cat during the winning pass. But no matter, still pretty BREATHTAKING. It was, as KJ later conceded, "...like watching Michael Phelps win all that gold".

Seriously. 2010 is off to a great start. 

Oh and by the way, this is the real reason why I won:

Indian squatters. Best training in the world!

(You'll never get my trophy, Todd Petersen!)

Russia's Got Talent

If we were still engaged in the Cold War, such tactical weapons as these would SURELY cause us to lose.

But I don't know... after watching this video clip, I'm thinking the Soviet Union wouldn't be/wasn't such a bad thing after all. It produced hardworking premature world-class gymnasts and acrobats and figure skaters, never mind that they were often forced into it against their will for the glory of Mother Russia, and they in turn grew up and wanted the SAME work ethic for THEIR children! Nothing wrong with that!

And think about all that special intelligence and science they have ... I don't know what's in the borscht over there (I really don't-- never ate it during my time in Mother Russia, was too busy trying to find yummy blinis with caviar), but there's got to be something fishy (not caviar) added to it to give these kids such FREAKISH strength. Steroids, I'm thinking? Kryptonite? Cold fusion? The Secret, in liquid form?

Watch, and learn. And I dare you to try and not have a "Whhaaaahh--?" look on your face as you do so.




SEE??? Phenomenal. My only criticism is that I would have preferred it performed to Scorpion's "Winds of Change."

So... watching this has kind of shaken up my identity. As much as I love other countries, I've always been grateful that I was born in America... but now I'm not so sure. Did I miss out on reaching my own full potential of being able to balance my body parallel to the ground on one hand while supporting an additional body weight on the edge of my calves at the ripe age of three? I'm thinking YES, and I'm a little pissed. "Land of Opportunity", whatever.  Big deal. That could have been MY proud mother watching in the wings, only slightly nervous that the KGB would rush us off if I dared falter on one of my moves. AND I could have had amazing cheekbones.

Dang.

(*oh hey! I just noticed! Upper left-hand corner of my blog banner... there I am, in 

Red Square, Moscow. It's like I just barely missed my destiny...)