The Daily Procrastinator

Dear John Edwards,

It’s me again. Remember me? I kind of ripped you a new one back in September. Well, today the New York Times reports that you’ve admitted that little Frances Quinn Hunter is yours.

From the Times report: ”To all those I have disappointed and hurt, these words will never be enough, but I am truly sorry,” Edwards said in his statement on Thursday.

You’re right, John. It won’t ever be enough. Because even if you’re there for her for the next 40 years of her life, it won’t ever make up for the fact that trying to salvage your political career was more important to you than your own child. But I suppose that on the bright side, you’ve got plenty of time to spend with all of your kids now that you don’t have a political future.

Oh, and as for the reports that you and Elizabeth have split? Good for her. It’s just a pity that she didn’t take a cue from the Elin Woods playbook as she sent you packing.

There is a used bookstore near my home, within walking distance. Today, while walking past it, I decided to backtrack and go in. Note that “walked” is the important word in this story.

Just outside the front door was a library cart full of books, the kind that looks like it’s on its way to a reshelving project. And on that cart was the most magical sign: $1 hardcover, $0.50 paperback.

Eleven books later, I had a stack that was a foot and a half tall, and I hadn’t even walked through the door. I had Barbara Kingsolver, Margaret Atwood, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Ernest Hemingway. I even found two book club selections, The Bookseller of Kabul and A Long Way Gone: Memoirs of a Boy Soldier. The price: $9.33 including tax. I was giddy. This sort of thing is a bookworm’s dream come true.

Now, how was I going to get them home?

Fortunately for me, the owner was there and offered to let me stash the books in her bottom desk drawer until I returned with the car. Now they stand on my “To Read” shelf, beckoning me every time I pass. I’m only 30 pages from completing my current read, Swimming to Antarctica (a bargain books 2-for-1 steal from Borders), and then I have to make the tough decision about which book I should read next.

It is with no small amount of fanfare that I would like to make an announcement: I, TallGirl, am a runner.

You’re probably shrugging your shoulders.  People run all the time, right?  And even I have run a couple of half marathons in the past.  But here’s the thing: even in the middle of training for 13.1-mile runs, I never felt like a runner.  It was hard.  It was grueling.  It was about as pleasant as listening to my in-laws rant about how my best friend is singlehandedly going to ruin the world because she is… a registered Democrat. (Insert your shocked, audible gasp here.)  I would come home from a run completely demoralized, with my joints aching.  My back would be so tight that I couldn’t even bend over to touch my toes.  It hurt.  Running sucked.

I’ve never been much of an athlete.  That doesn’t mean that I don’t like sports.  It simply means that I’ve lacked the coordination and skill to be good at them.  But it’s one thing to not be good at basketball or baseball, and another thing to not be good at running.  It’s running.  I’ve been doing it since I was a toddler.  Why did the enjoyment elude me?

People told me that it wasn’t fun because of my height.  My body simply wasn’t designed for this, they’d say.  But I just couldn’t believe that this was true.  Sure, I’m a six-footer, but I’m carrying around less weight than most 5′6″ women that I know, and physics seems to indicate that weight, not height, should be more of a factor.  So after my last injury, I started doing what a research geek does best: I read.  A lot.  And while there are dozens of sources and studies that I read online, it was all largely encapsulated in Born to Run, a book so chock-full of “a-ha!” moments that I wanted to immediately go out for a run.

I ditched my orthotics.  I changed my shoes.  I changed my stride.  I practiced and concentrated and focused on what I was doing, rather than just pounding the pavement.  And by god, it worked.  Not only have I not re-injured that tendon that sidelined me for the first eight months of the year, but I’ve increased my speed by 25%.  I come home happy, relaxed and limber enough that I can not only touch my toes, I can reach beyond them.  And every morning, I look forward to going out for my run.  YMMV.

It’s not to late to become a runner.  Really.  I’m proof.

For most of my life, I hated hot sauce.  It’s not that I don’t like the heat — I’ll eat nearly any kind of chicken that’s drenched in wing sauce, and that’s little more than hot sauce and butter — so there was really no plausible explanation for my aversion to the stuff.  And then, in the waning days of my 20s, a coworker shared a secret: I didn’t hate hot sauce.  What I hated was Tabasco.

Drop your regular hot sauce and give this a try.

With all due respect to the McIlhenny family, there isn’t a drop of flavor in the classic Tabasco hot sauce.  Heat, yes; I learned the hard way from cleaning up a shattered bottle that the stuff burns like hell if it gets into a cut or hangnail.  But flavor?  No.

I tried several other brands of sauce, but the classic pepper sauce that I settled on as my personal favorite was Cholula.  Try it on an omelette someday.  Trust me, it’s a whole new flavor experience.

But then, one day at Chipotle, I noticed that Tabasco had two other flavors: milder jalapeno and, appropriately, chipotle.  I tried both and while the jalapeno isn’t bad, I find the green color to be a total turnoff.  But the deep red, smoky flavor of the chipotle won me over.  I love this stuff.  If I didn’t already have too much crap in my bag, I’d carry a bottle around with me to salvage mediocre burritos and tacos (and possibly breakfasts).

Do yourself a favor: if you enjoy flavor more than just heat, give this stuff a try.  Better yet, invite me along for a burrito.

You know what we’re talking about: you can’t resist them, yet part of you cringes at the badness of it all. I want your Top 5, kids.

Mine include:

• Pepperoni pizza. Unlike my general high standards for pizza, I will eat any crappy pizza if it’s topped with pepperoni. It makes no sense at all.
• Rice Krispy treats. I suppose they’re probably not so bad in moderation, but I’ve never eaten them in moderation.
• Milkshakes, but only if they’re the massive black-and-white shakes from Nifty Fifty’s in Philly.
• Tastykakes. Yes, I’m from Philly, what do you expect?
• Funnel cakes. My favorite part of any fair or festival is the funnel cake cart. Dough cooked in oil and covered with powdered sugar? Pure genius for the carb obsessed.

Flashcap here. I’ve got plenty of guilty pleasure foods, but my top five are:

• McDonald’s Double Quarter Pounder w/cheese. Yeah, yeah, Super Size Me and all that, but I can’t help it. The greasy burger beckons me every time I pull into the drive-thru. I swear I hear my arteries cursing me when I’m swallowing it down. Luckily I run long distances.
• Cheetos. Bags of the crunchy orange temptations don’t stay in the house long at all.
• Chili dogs. Even more than those Royales w/cheese, I’ll eat the hell out of chili dogs. Sadly, there’s no Wienerschnitzel close to where I live or work, so Sonic chili dogs are the quickest ones available, but not quite the same thing.
• Pepperoni rolls. We have a pizza place here in Texas called DoubleDave’s where they roll pepperoni and cheese up in twists of dough and bake them. Add either ranch or marinara dipping sauce and I’m bound to eat 10 of them in one sitting. Beware of any imitations.
• Peanut M&Ms. I’m like a vacuum when it comes to those things. I can’t stop eating them when they’re in front of me. Hey, the peanuts are lowering my cholesterol, right?

So…you want to know about BigRedPoet’s top 5 guilty pleasure foods, huh? I’m going to need a minute to whittle down my preliminary list of 462…

• Ultimate Bacon Cheeseburger from Jack In The Box. There’s no two ways about it; this is the best (worst?) hamburger available in the fast food world. Sure, you can FEEL yourself getting fatter while you eat it, but sometimes a ration of fat is worth a ration of awesome.
• Crunchwrap Supreme from Taco Bell. Oh my God. Who invented this? I want to give him/her a big sloppy kiss. This thing consists of a huge tortilla, beans, taco meat, a crispy tostada chip, lettuce, tomato, shredded cheese, melted nacho cheese, and sour cream, all wrapped up and cooked in a quesadilla press. Wow.
• Summer Sausage, Cheese, and Crackers. My inability to resist this particular snack is a vestige of being raised in the midwest, I think. Sure, my fellow southerners like summer sausage, but I don’t believe they understand my deep and abiding love for this fatty snack.
• Peanut Butter Kisses from the Mary Jane Company. I love these things. I can literally sit and eat them until my abdomen aches and my noggin rings with a sugar headache. At that point, I begin to think, “Maybe I should only eat 11 or 12 more.”
• Golden Corral. Go ahead. Click the link, then read the menu. I’ll wait… Now, tell me this: Who wouldn’t want to eat about three great big plates off that buffet? I only allow myself to go to Golden Corral once or twice a year, but when I do, it’s serious business.

Juggernaut’s turn, although I take issue with this whole “guilt” thing. I don’t feel guilty about what I eat. As a matter of fact, I don’t feel guilty about much of anything. Must be part and parcel of doing no wrong. [insert retching sounds from the others here at the DP] Anyway, here’s my list of foods that will likely kill me:

• Like BRP, I’m going with JITB’s Ultimate Bacon Cheeseburger. If at the time of my order I feel like adding a few more minutes on the end of my life, I’ll drop the bacon.
• I can honestly say that I have never had pizza that I didn’t like. Chuck E. Cheese’s version comes the closest, but I’ll eat it if I’m dragged to some 6-year-old’s birthday party. But my favorite pizza (at least chain-wise) is Pizza Hut’s Deep Dish Meat Lovers. Pepperoni, Italian sausage, ham, bacon and beef. God, I want some pizza. Whose bright idea was it to ask me for this at lunch? I’m blaming TallGirl.
• Twizzlers. Anytime I go to a movie, I have a large Mr. Pibb and a big bag of Twizzlers. It’s my routine. There are those out there who do not like licorice. I say they have no taste and should not bother expressing opinions on candy.
• Blue Bell Peppermint ice cream. I love any peppermint ice cream, but Blue Bell wins out because 1) it’s Blue Bell and 2) Blue Bell is made in Texas. Unfortunately, peppermint is considered a “seasonal” flavor and is only out around Christmas time. Damn Blue Bell.
• Last but not least, easy-made nachos at home. I take a big pile of Tostitos and dump an obscene amount of shredded cheddar on them, then nuke it for 40 seconds (yes, I have the time down). Pour a cup of salsa over the top and you have a great late night snack.

Magnus here. Nothing like peer pressure to make me actually write instead of maintaining my site and WORK. You know, to pay the bills? But here we go.

• Taco Bell #3. With mild sauce. (And two soft steak tacos. But don’t tell.)
• Swedish Chocolate. Mmm . . . Marabou.
• Herring. Pickled. With mustard sauce.
• Caviar. Kalle’s. On a sandwich. Oh wait, that’s actually good for me. Nevermind.
• Meatballs. With lots of sauce and lingon berries and mashed potatoes. Preferably made by my mom. (Hey Mom? I’m hungry, please send some, huh?)
• Bacon. How we got this far down the list without bacon, I don’t understand. It’s a major food group, people!

Dear John Edwards,

There was a time when I liked you as a person. You seemed like a good-natured guy, and you and Elizabeth seemed like a good couple. But I have to tell you how much I think you suck.

Now I know that many people jumped off the John Edwards bandwagon when it was revealed that you had the affair. Politicians survive those sorts of things all the time, though. More people were angry because of Elizabeth’s cancer and the way you betrayed her, but honestly, that wasn’t it for me. I’d imagine that when your wife is terminally ill and your life is turned upside-down, that’s probably the time when you’re most likely to do something stupid. Weird shit happens in times of crisis.

But the time of crisis has passed and here’s what gets me: even though it’s been pretty obvious from the start that the kid is yours, you’ve denied it. More importantly, you’ve denied her. And I have to tell you, John, that’s unforgivable. I don’t care if you’ve been secretly sending her money on the side. Being a father isn’t about money. It’s about being there, giving that child the love that she deserves.

Do you think that by denying her you’re being a better father to the kids from your marriage? Because honestly, John, while it would be upsetting to realize that I had a half-sister from my father’s affair, it would be devastating to learn that my father was such a callous jerk as to pretend that the kid didn’t exist.

That little girl is as much yours as the four kids you’ve had with Elizabeth. One day she will be old enough to understand that her father publicly disavowed any connection with her. And I hope that on that day she shows up at your door and kicks you in the nuts.

On Thanksgiving weekend of 1969, Betsy Aardsma was murdered in the library at Penn State.  Nearly 40 years later, the crime remains unsolved.  It’s a fascinating story, well worth reading.

I have, in the past, admitted to a girl crush on Felicia Day (you should, too, especially since the release of Do You Want to Date My Avatar?). But she’s not the only actor from the Whedon world that I have a particular interest in, although she might be the only one who smells like fresh laundry and a cupcake.

I should probably say upfront that I don’t know what it is about Joss, but he attracts actors who seem so… normal. I’m not one of those deranged people who thinks that Sarah Michelle Gellar is really Buffy, or Neil Patrick Harris is actually Dr. Horrible. But if the Twitterings of Whedonites are any indication of their off-screen personalities, he has an amazing ability to attract cool and interesting people. I’d love to go to a Red Sox game with Eliza Dushku. I’d gladly have dinner with Jewel Staite. I’d have Alyson Hannigan and her family over for a low-key cookout (after all, it’s tough to make it through a restaurant meal with an infant). But the person who would leave me jabbering like an idiot is Nathan Fillion.

These are not the hammer.

I’ve been watching Nathan for a while, ever since he appeared on Buffy. I was a fan of Firefly (please tell me that you’ve already watched the series once or twice or more) and I was delighted to see him appear as Captain Hammer in Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog. I was thrilled to hear that Castle was renewed for a second season. I’m a huge fan of anything that means that I get to watch more Nathan Fillion.

This topic came up recently with a friend who wanted to know who my Free Pass Five were. Hers had Brad Pitt and Derek Jeter. Mine had Nathan Fillion. Much to my surprise, when I mentioned his name, she swooned. “Ooh! Captain Tightpants!” To think, I didn’t even know that she watched Firefly….

So Nathan, if you ever happen to meet a 6-foot-tall woman who babbles incoherently in your presence, say hello. And then maybe invite me out for coffee. I promise that given enough time, I’ll be able to form proper sentences and have a great conversation.

If you’re a creative type, and you haven’t yet discovered this, I highly recommend that you spend some time over at Accidental Creative. The Manifesto alone is excellent. Todd Henry spoke at a recent conference, and had a quote that really stuck with me: “Are you making the music, or are you a cover band?”

Here’s to making the music, kids.

Munich is awesome. Or, perhaps, Munich is killing me by slowly destroying my liver. I haven’t decided which yet.

For the sake of brevity, my stay in Munich will be broken into two parts, each encompassing three days of my trip.

I should probably explain that beer is so prevalent here that even in convenience stores a simple bottle of lukewarm water can cost upwards of €1, Coke costs about the same, and a cold beer can be had for €0,69. Is it any wonder why I’m drinking beer by the half-liter? Also, please understand that all of these beers put even my favorite American microbrews to shame, and even if I tell you that they’re not the best of the best, they’re all pretty darned good.

My long-held ideal of beer perfection.

I arrived in Munich on Wednesday night, and immediately returned to a cafe where I’d had dinner about five years earlier, not far from Marienplatz. The beer of choice: half a liter of Franziskaner Hefe-Weisse. Now, I consider a fresh Franziskaner to be pretty much the top of the line in the Munich hefeweizen department. For the uninitiated, hefeweizens tend to be light in color, sweet with no bitterness, and with distinct undertones of banana, clove, vanilla and sometimes even a vaguely bubblegum flavor. This one was just as good as I remembered.

On Thursday, I opted to branch out. At lunch at Viktualienmarkt, the Munich farmer’s market, I had bratwurst and Hochzeits Weisse. These people have been brewing beer since Columbus was wandering around the Caribbean looking for India. Good beer, crisp and clean, but without the fruitiness and depth that I get from the Franziskaner. I also had the most interesting sauerkraut at this little cafe, made with caraway seeds, juniper berries and bay leaves, but that’s another story for another time, when and if I ever find a recipe for it.

Thursday night’s dinner was Krombacher Weisen. This was a good beer, excellent flavor and that hint of clove that I’ve come to expect. But it also had a bit of a bite to it, and not the characteristic smoothness that I tend to expect from a hefeweizen.

Friday brought with it a side trip to Salzburg, Austria. I had lunch while sitting at an outdoor cafe that’s built into Hohensalzburg Castle, high above the city and overlooking the stark Austrian mountains. It was there that I had the Stiegl Weizen Gold Dunkel. Stiegl has been brewing beer since 1492, and they know their stuff. Similar to a hefeweizen, the dunkelweizen gets its color from roasted or caramelized malts, giving it a deeper, roasted flavor.

Friday dinner was a two-part event: I began with the Hacker-Pschorr Hefe-Weisse, which may actually rival my beloved Franziskaner for top spot on my Bavarian beer list. These folks have been brewing beer since the early 1400s, and the effort is nothing short of spectacular. If I could get away with it, I’d dump the contents of my suitcase and fill it with nothing but this. Smooth, drinkable, refreshing and flavorful, it’s everything you could want in a beer.

Part two was a mistake. At a colleague’s recommendation, I tried a Monschof Kellerbier. It’s really well-reviewed, which just goes to show why there are a billion different kinds of beer out there. Personally, I hated it and didn’t even finish it. Too malty and bitter for my liking, or perhaps it was just the fact that it was coming on the heels of one of my favorite beers, and couldn’t live up to it.

Stay tuned for part 4, the continuation and conclusion of my Munich adventure.