Pancake Day

Tomorrow, as some of you may know, is Fat Tuesday, or Mardi Gras. It is celebrated in many countries with feasting and drinking and general debauchery (though I understand this year in New Orleans has been a bit tamer than the past). The U.K. has a different set of traditions. Revel in the glory of Pancake Day. They have pancake races, pancake tossing, and best of all some pancake eating. Enjoy!

Oh, Savannah!

Savannah, you are one wacky gal. I’ll confess to a bit of pride whenever my adopted town gets national attention. Even better, when you hear anything about Savannah, it is usually something eccentric. The February 2006 issue of Jane magazine featured an interview with James Franco, who you might recognize from the Spiderman movies. Anyway, during the interview he discusses - well, just read this excerpt for yourself:

Q: “Do you have anything in the works?”
James Franco: “We just sold a film, The Ape, that I cowrote and directed. We took it to some festivals last year. I was in Savannah, Georgia, for one last Halloween, and some of the students took us to a bar where they had blood wrestling.”
Q: “What the hell is that?”
James Franco: “Some girls, like wrestling in fake blood.”
Q: “Shut up. Were they in bikinis?”
James Franco: “I guess so, kind of.”

Terrific. So that is the lasting impression Savannah has made not only on James Franco, but now readers of Jane magazine as well. Alert the frou-frou ladies. No doubt, they will pee themselves with delight.

Paging Mr. Herman

An interesting activity presented itself in Thursday’s newspaper. It was an open casting call for extras to appear in a television pilot for ABC. Curiosity, and wanting to avoid regret over an opportunity squandered, propelled me to email Victoria and start my campaign. Victoria was suspicious. “Do you really want to do this, or are you trying to throw me under a bus?”

The open call was on Saturday, and we needed to bring a recent photo. Friday night, we took our cameras out with us to get some snaps. We had a few drinks, including an “Irish Car Bomb” Bucky bought for me. (The Irish Car Bomb is a shot glass of Bailey’s plus whiskey, dropped into a Guinness. You have to chug it, and it is supposed to taste like chocolate milk.) We thought it would be hilarious to pull a classic Patsy from AB FAB and show up for the casting call wearing last night’s clothes, the same as in our photo.

Somehow, all I ended up with was the photo above left.

I am quite enamored of my purse. No one else is, but it has everything a girl could want: pom-poms, sequins, and embroidery.

Saturday morning, 8 AM. It’s raining, I’m feeling stiff and creaky from the previous night’s escapades, the blouse I want to wear needs a button, and I still have to pick out a photo. My options were either one that I don’t care for but have been complimented on (possibly because it has fuzzy lighting and doesn’t look like me); or, one where I’m standing next to an animatronic pirate and a cluster of coconut heads. I probably should have gone for the funny one, to be memorable, but I played it safe and chose the artistic pic.

We get to the Lucas Theatre, and I’m slightly nervous. I imagine that the hopefuls will take turns being filmed on stage while fielding questions. There will probably be hundreds of floosies lined around the block. I figure there will be show moms furiously grooming their offspring – rouging cheeks and combing hair. The scene from Pee Wee’s Big Adventure, where he is an extra in the movie about him and he pulls a self-conscious awkward face and can’t get his line out, loops through my mind. That is totally how I’m going to look!

The scene on hand is much more mellow. We are given an application to fill out. It says “Talent” at the top, and asks for our name, address, clothing size, etc. One section asks for “Special Skills”. Victoria teaches ballroom dance and is a divine dancer, so she has that to put down. And me? Well, I can bite into a sandwich and have the filling flop out and smack me on the chin. Are they looking for someone like that?

They call the first group in, and a Kate Hudson look-alike explains what the show is about and what the extras would be asked to do. She explains that they will call us if we are selected as extras. Then we are dismissed. The women were directed to one table, where guys taped our photos to our talent cards. The fact that it was men doing this certainly had nothing to do with us writing down our bra size, right?

Victoria and I had to wait for Sheila to finish her turn, so we did a bit of shopping. I almost approached a man in Hallmark to pet his dog, but luckily realized at the last moment that it was actually an umbrella. Okay then.

We meet up to dissect our big moment over lunch. We ate at a burger place where I was delighted to find a long lost love on the menu. Thus begins the glorious return of corn nuggets into my life. I never thought I’d see these fried, creamed-corn goodies outside of Auburn.

Do I hope to get called in as an extra? Yes, because I might meet some fabulous people and get a good story out of it. And no, because... Paging Mr. Herman!

Fit and Sporty

During Olympics coverage, each time I hear the name Sasha Cohen, my mind inserts the name "Baron". So I quickly glance up, for some reason expecting to catch some Ali G action. But oh, I just got faked out again.

Clever Uses For...Leftover Liquor

The “Problem”:
Stuck with a variety of nearly empty bottles after a party? Receive a gift of syrupy rum that triggers unpleasant spring break flashbacks? Or perhaps you merely wish to conceal a slight drinking problem. In any case, there are occasions when you need to clear out some liquor. Luckily you have stumbled to the right place.

The Solution:
For leftover vodka, try making a nice Vodka Penne. This dish is so tasty, you’ll find yourself hoarding vodka after the judge says you can drive yourself to the liquor store again. Be prepared for some pleasantly puckered taste buds.

For a spiced rum surplus, acquire some fresh fruit. Oranges, kiwi, pineapple, and star fruit will do quite nicely. Slice the fruit, pour the rum over the juicy segments, and marinate in the fridge. Sprinkle brown sugar and cinnamon on top (finesse the amounts) and heat. Pour over vanilla ice cream. The perfect complement to a nice curry.

Finally, advanced practitioners may wish to try the Double Chocolate Rum Cake. Extra points are awarded if you have the moxie to serve it at your office.

Clever Uses For...Crap Gifts

We’ve all received them – a gift that leaves us wondering, “Is that who you think I am?” The first step is to evaluate the risks involved in simply returning the item to the store. Will you hurt someone’s feel-goods? Is it in acceptable condition? Will they give me store credit, or can I turn this into some actual currency?

Assuming returning the item is not an option, there are several alternatives at your disposal. Even when you don’t fancy a gift, you still deserve some entertainment. After waiting an appropriate amount of time, where you are reasonably certain the gift-giver won’t be asking after that ceramic figurine or toaster cozy, you might try one of the following routes:

-Save the crap item for a future gag gift/white elephant party. Be certain the person who gave the unsavory gift isn’t at the party. Don’t let anyone see you add it to the pile. Hope no one notices you shaking with silent laughter over the confusion aroused when opened.

-Hide it at work. The potential here is unlimited, depending the particulars of your office. The most desirable location is in the cubicle or office of an untidy co-worker. The kitchen or break room is also a prime target, as your item may actually make it into regular rotation and make itself useful. Keep a discrete eye out to see how long it takes (or if) anyone notices. If you are the office slob, I suggest you take a moment and have a serious look at your surroundings (after reading this, of course).

-Hide under your sibling’s bed. The closet is fine too. This technique works especially well when she has received the exact same crap gift. Since she probably won’t have put hers under the bed, when it is discovered she will just think it is hers. It could be some time before she figures out she has two Veggie Tales ornaments.

-Leave it on the floor and hope your dog or cat takes a liking to it. If it gets destroyed or soiled, why you’ll just have to chuck it out. Sheesh – pets are so darn crazy!

-Haul it with you when you fly to see a friend. Preferably an overseas or opposite coast kind of friend. Then, “accidentally” forget to pack it. Still recovering from hosting their recent houseguest, they’ll be in no mood to rush you a favor and mail it back. Then, you can rely on the Principle of Material Assimilation* to take over.

-For non-perishable food, leave in a neatly stacked pyramid on the porch of the nearest college dorm or frat house. The students will either:
a.) Happily eat the food
b.) Proclaim, “That is flippin’ hilarious, man! We were so wasted last night, I don’t even remember doing that!”
c.) Both a and b

-Place inside a cardboard box with some other stuff you’re trying to get rid of. In black marker, write “Garage Sale” on the box. Deposit in your parents’ garage, attic, or basement.

-For the rare occasion when you need to unload a book, follow the Book Crossing instructions. Enjoy feeling like a mysterious benefactor.

The solutions discussed here are also approved to eliminate useless or unwanted junk that you were responsible for bringing into your orbit in the first place. So what happens if, during these escapades, you are caught or questioned? Simply exclaim, with a look of utter bewilderment, “So that’s where it has been hiding! I’ve looked everywhere!” Reattempt at a future date, trying one of the other strategies.




*The Principle of Material Assimilation is the tendency for borrowed (or forgotten) items to become mixed in with someone’s stuff. After a period of time, they no longer recognize the item as something foreign that belongs to someone else. This also explains what happens to loaned books that are never returned.

The Sure Thing

So I just happened to be watching The Sure Thing yesterday, when I noticed that John Cusack was wearing sweatpants. In a bar, of all places. In fact, they were the same as the ones I was wearing at that precise moment, while lolling about on the couch. Thinking back, I remembered that famous scene in Say Anything where Lloyd Dobler is holding the boom box outside Diane’s window: sweatpants! So we have at least two documented sweatpants wearing situations in John Cusack’s movie history. Did I miss something in the 80’s? Was it okay back then for dudes to wear sweatpants in front of girls and out on the town? Maybe it was the masculine counterpart to those nasty stirrup pants that girls wore. (You know you had some too.)

These days, tracksuits are cute and acceptable. I feel okay wearing them on road trips or a dash to the grocery store, and certainly while out walking with Lady Buttercup. I thank Madonna for making the track suit a presentable option. But I still have old school sweatpants for when I think no one will catch me.

Clothes have been on my mind a lot lately. The conviction that one needs an entire new wardrobe is, of course, the first symptom of spring fever. Even though I despise hot weather, I still want to go shopping. I swear, I spend all 8 months of summer in Savannah dreaming about winter, and I spend the cooler months dreading the summer. That, my friend, is a sure thing for me.

Pants, You Are Disqualified!

What is it between us? I’m blaming you because eventually, you will let me down. Certainly it can’t be my fault. I put in the time and effort to treat you well. Why can I never seem to have more than two agreeable pairs at any one time, while the rest of you are ne’er-do-wells? Last month, one of you dropped your hem. Today you are scooting down and forming a hula-hoop waist. Hush down Corduroy, people are staring. Where the hell, Cream Trousers, did you pick up that stain? Are all of you determined to embarrass and disappoint me? I hate most of you, you must realize by now. Perhaps I’ll become a skirt girl. Skirts look quite fetching with a nice pair of tall boots. If only it wasn’t so cold at work, Pants, I’d have sold you out long ago. When do you think you’ll get around to doing something about my flat ass? I know achieving a Beyonce booty is unrealistic, but you could try a bit more. So you didn’t think I’d lose any weight, eh? Then why else would there be three different sizes of you around? Look at how you’ve affected the way I walk! Discreetly hitching you up, or wiggling into a presentable version of you. I’m trying to compensate for your weak character. When we go out to pick up cute boys, it’s like you’re not even trying. You are completely schizophrenic. In the winter, you’re hanging out with the boots, and it’s all, “Hello High Waters!” Then, during the summer, you’re kickin’ it with some flats, and you slouch around in baggy scruffiness at my ankles. It makes me sick to see you like this. Oh, it always seems perfect in the beginning. "Darling, those tuxedo style stripes down each leg are so charming. That mysterious tiny hook – how exotic! How fascinating!" I guess some part of me will always love you - for your pockets and your free livin’ ways. But if you’re not going to change, then I will. I can shave my legs more often. I can get a blanket to cover my lap at work. So I guess this is it – things are going to change. But not you, jeans, you can stay. I still have feelings for you.

The Gift of Grits

Southerners understand the allure and necessity of grits. Served in homes both posh and poor, grits are the equalizer of the South. Grits can play the star or the supporting role for any meal or snack. We eat them as a side dish, salted, at breakfast. They are added to casseroles and are the famous sidekick of shrimp. When visitors say they don’t like grits, we secretly know that they just haven’t tried them the way we make them at home. Grits are a pantry staple – known to nurse people back from dental surgery and prop us up during those lean, between paycheck times. They are sensational after a night of drinking. Grits will treat you right, baby. There is even a restaurant in Athens, Georgia called The Grit. Southerners worry that our friends and family living abroad (or up north) are being deprived of grits. My grandma used to ship grits to my uncle while he lived in Scotland, and my parents carried grits to him on a visit. I like to think of all the grits furtively being smuggled to Southerners in need. It’s perfectly legal, but we want to avoid interception by pests when we have a mission to deliver grits. As preparation for any visit to Natasha up in Maine, I always ask, “Do you need any grits?” Southerners are patient – we can wait for grits to cook, and we can take the time to persuade you that they are delicious. My favorite way to eat grits? Thick, not runny, with cheddar cheese and a generous dose of salt. Yum Yum!

The Opposite of a Valentine

Back in college, as Valentine’s Day was approaching, my roommate and I found ourselves without a date. We got the inspired idea to throw a rebellious party for all of the single people in the same situation: the Anti-Valentine’s Day Riot. We figured the best antidote to feeling like a love outcast was to bring our friends together and listen to Rage Against the Machine and The Cure. Everyone would be required to wear black, and we’d gorge ourselves on beer and chocolate and have a grand time. Now, both Natasha and Lady Buttercup would like me to point out that they were in no way involved in this event, and that they predicted all along it was going to be a bad scene. On the night of the Anti-Valentine’s Day Riot, only 3 or 4 people showed up. And once they arrived, it quickly dawned on them (judging by the looks on their faces) that they felt outed for being dateless. I will never forget how pissed one of my male friends looked, slumped up against a wall and glowering. Our intentions were good. After all, who could dispute the fact that Valentine’s Day is commercialized and exclusionary? It is one of those pressure cooker “holidays” that tends to isolate single people and create disappointment in even solid relationships. The experimental Anti-Valentine’s Day Riot only served to enhance our reputation as Throwers of the World’s Worst Parties. In lieu of a party, this year I would simply like to remind people that there is more than one kind of love. So send your grandparents a card, or buy yourself a treat (perhaps a new cd). Or completely ignore it – whatever works for you. Remember: it will be over with tomorrow.

He grew that mustache just for you, ladies!

When you go to a firemen’s fashion show, there are certain expectations. Hot guys (in abundance) and women all aflutter. As it turns out, not all firemen are created equal. Should you really be calling yourself “sweet meat” if you have a nipple ring? When the DJ is listing your attributes, should one of them have to be “He grew that mustache just for you, ladies”? I mean, mustaches are for porn guys from the 70’s, right? I don’t mean to pick on these gentlemen or seem unappreciative. They are, after all, brave enough to get up on stage and work what they have for a good cause. The issue is, we were looking for something above the ordinary. In other circumstances, the usual protocol when confronted with a strutting, topless stocky dude is to avert one’s eyes. In this case, cash donations were solicitated. Perhaps what this points out is that when men go to see women dance,it is in a pervy, sleazy hideaway. When women go, it’s for a good cause and they are expected to be more accepting. Okay, maybe I didn't check out the show for philanthropic reasons, but it doesn't mean I didn't enjoy the spectacle. I do happen to believe it’s the quirks that make people attractive and interesting. Nipple rings and moustaches are not the quirks I’m looking for, but that may butter other women's biscuits. The anticipation I'd had for watching some sexy men had to, in the end, be satisfied with free food and buying myself a big fake ring. Again.

Fresh Live Music

We here at The Frisky Biscuit love those epic weekends where fun happens - and lots of it! Every now and then, things just slide into place so that the weekend can be all it should be. Take for example last weekend. It starts off with a really cute outfit and Friday night drinks with the girls. On Saturday, there is shopping and walks with Lady Buttercup in the park, and the preparation (and devouring) of homemade soup and brownies. Now, pay attention, because here comes the best part. I had the chance to see live music, by a band I'd never heard of, but was described in the local freebie paper as having a Beatles/Flaming Lips/The Shins sound. The band is from Atlanta, they are called A Fir-Ju Well, and they ROCKED MY SHORTS! Seriously, do not even think about it, just go see them if you get the chance. They had an amazing sound that instantly got my attention and turned me into a devoted, swooning admirer. Each member of the band reminded me of a celebrity: we had Jack White, Jared Leto, Beck and Aqualung. While they were playing, they switched instruments in a well-choreographed bonus display of talent. Girls, can you blame me for finding their curly, floppy hair irresistible? Also, I was sure I spotted Wolverine in the crowd. Rounding out my perfect weekend, I saw Match Point, which I quite enjoyed. Then on Sunday I attended a Super Bowl party that didn't suck.

Welcome to The Frisky Biscuit

Hey y'all! I hope to start posting soon. Though the thought of obligations and commitments makes me feel all squirmy inside. In the meantime, you'll have to butter your own biscuit.