Mincemeat pie, did you say?

I have always been fascinated by mincemeat pie. I like to eat weird things that are no longer fashionable or discussed in high society. Like, say, pickled eggs. Cracklins. McDonald's McGriddles. Mayonnaise. Soooo the other weekend I discovered six jars of this stuff at my Grammy's. Yes, Grammy is a hoarder. Good to know that's genetic. So I've always wanted to get on this mincemeat train. I like meat. I like fruit. I like things filled with preservatives. Stuff that will outlast nuclear fallout. These jars could have been a day old or six years old. The mystery was what made it so fun!

It was all I could do not to open the jar and scoop out a spoonful to taste-test it. Unfortunately, I knew Grammy would notice. I held back, and was richly rewarded this Thanksgiving with a mincemeat pie. Just for me. No one else would eat it. The verdict: it didn't blow my mind. To be honest, I kind of wanted it to be meatier. It was a little too potpourri-ish. Yup, it tasted like spices and old fruit and perfume. I wanted a more savory experience. But I'm not giving up on this. I know mincemeat pie can be amazing. I'm gonna bring it back, so help me Lawd. Now it's off to the kitchen to experiment.

This can only end badly.

Thank yewww, Discovery Channel.

I just made this glorious chunk of man meat my desktop background, thanks to new Mike Rowe Wallpaper on the Discovery Channel's website. Yes, that's right, I visit the Dirty Jobs' website. To look for pictures of Mike. Often. I also play the "Meet Mike" sweepstakes game weekly. I WILL WIN. I WILL MEET MIKE, so help me Lord. If anyone can meet Mike with just the right combination of awe, fanaticism, and suaveness--it's me. This is getting pathetic and slightly stalker-ish, so I'm going to minimize this window and gaze adoringly into Mike's thoughtful, intelligent blue eyes. And delicious furrowed brow. Love that brow. So Cro-Magnon.

I need to learn this dance move by next weekend.

An awkward interaction.

You know when you're watching a live broadcast of a TV talk show and you're just like, ummm, okay, this is awkward! Such is this interaction between Bill Maher and Puff Daddy on Real Time with Bill Maher. Never call out a black rapper for his belief in God. It ain't none of yo bidness.

Sweatin' like a fat girl writing her first love letter.

I wish I could claim that line as my own, but alas, it is from the glossy lips of Miz Paula Deen herself. Paula and I go way back, at least we do in my imagination. I found her memoir It Ain't All About the Cookin' to be inspiring and honest and a pleasurable read all around.

Unfortunately, I just can't get into Paula's Party, her talk show-inspired thang on the Food Network. It's slightly uncomfortable to watch her flirt with all the male guests, including RuPaul. It's slightly awkward to watch excruciatingly thin actresses pretend like they are going to eat the mayonaise-laden potato salad, and then desperately hope the camera cuts away so they can discreetly spit it into the trash. Give me Paula in a beautiful country kitchen any day, by herself, with only some dogs and butter for company. Maybe the Cap'n can stop by for dessert. But I did learn one very important fact, and that is the grand opening of the Paula Deen Buffet at the Harrah's Casino in Tunica, MS!!! Slap my mama, this is exciting. And they have Paula Deen Getaway Packages. For like $98 a night. Mississippi is cheap, y'all. Mississippi casinos are even cheaper.

I have a new love affair with that state. My previous experience consisted of Biloxi (gross beach town) and just driving through it to get to Disney World. Well, my friends, the interior is just plain pretty. Oxford, MS (home of Ole Miss) is my idealized version of a quaint, idyllic town. The gently rolling hillsides, fall color, and roadside stands with Vidalia onions and boiled peanuts fill my heart with joy. I sometimes toy with the idea of going to law school there, just so I can have the Ole Miss experience. They have chandeliers and high heels and catered food at their tailgate parties in The Grove! The men wear Yale blue blazers, Harvard red ties, and white oxfords. Sure, these are people I have nothing in common with, and they would probably look down their Southern blue-blooded noses at me, but that's not the point. I'm speaking in idealized terms. I want my name to be Sue Ellen and my slightly abusive boyfriend's name to be Chip.

Why every fellow should keep their fridge well-stocked.

All I really want...

Is to drive to Jellyroll Pug Farm tomorrow and pick up THIS. And name her Hattie Mae. And make her wear sunbonnets. And buy her a yellow polka dot pram. And gently force her to wear bee costumes occasionally. And feed her chicken patties every day. And then get her a Brussels Griffon friend and name him Professor Laughypants. And then they can frolic together on my farm in West Virginia. The farm also has a Jersey dairy cow, two goats, a hive of bees, honeysuckle, a winding road, and a pond. That's all I really want. Is that so much to ask?

(yesterday was) the best day ever.

Thrift Town, USA

It's interesting what you can learn about yourself while pawing through leftovers in a somewhat seedy thrift store in the Oak Cliff neighborhood of Dallas, TX. The chain of Thrift Town stores is my newest obsession. I randomly discovered one in Arlington while driving to the DFW Pug Rescue's annual Pug-O-Ween event (another story for another time.) Went in and promptly snatched up a Nancy Sinatra record and gold anchor earrings. Yesterday I delved into the Oak Cliff location to find a gorgeous 1960s Pyrex gold-rimmed pitcher, vintage stationery, a vintage Neiman Marcus cardigan, a spoon rest, and a Le Creuset casserole dish. I had struck gold yet again.

And yet, as I wept with a joy over a set of Depression-era glassware, I realized what I really wanted to do with my life. I want to thrift. Non-stop. Every day. I want to rise at 5 am, throw my coffee in a thermos, climb in some hybrid pick-up truck, and hit every garage sale in a 25-mile radius before breakfast. Nothing makes me happier than combing through junk and finding treasure. Now, my idea of treasure is different than most people's. I realize not everyone wants to collect colorized portraits of no-longer-with-us relatives--actually, I use the term "relatives" loosely, as I know none of these people.

And not everyone shrieks with joy at old paint-by-number wilderness scenes, or black velvet Elvis paintings, or hideously tacky floral loveseats. But I do. I love all this junky stuff some grandmother in 1964 refused to let go of. I want to honor her memory and buy every single thing in her house. I want my home to be a shrine to an idealized time, the Eisenhower era, a place of manicured lawns and lipsticked housewives and well-behaved children named Chip and green Jell-O casseroles and four TV stations. Unfortunately, I can't buy every single amazing Pyrex houseware I find. Not only for monetary reasons, but because I'm simply running out room to put all this stuff. So what can I do? I can open my own store. I'll fill it to the brim with stuff I adore, stuff with no rhyme or reason, pink poodle lamps next to Lucite handbags next to fox-trimmed hats. If I can't buy it all for me, at least I can rescue it from Thrift Town and restore its dignity. These objects are all worthy of a museum exhibit, but if I can't provide that, I will offer them a place in my store--as yet untitled.