I enjoy Lifetime, Television for Women. During the four years I lived in my apartment, I managed to catch at least four episodes of The Golden Girls a day, five times a week.

When I wasn't on one of my many, many dates.

Now I still have the channel memorized—252!—because it plays reruns of the sitcoms (Will & Grace, Frasier) I use for white noise with comforting consistency. When one lives alone, it's hard to sit in the silence. Especially if one is me, and finds oneself suddenly without the pleasant soundtrack of her own prattling voice. I try to talk to J, but he's all, "leavemealoneI'msleepin.'" So having a laugh track on in the background, keeping you company while you fold laundry or stare forlornly into the still-empty refrigerator, is a comfort.

Thank you, Lifetime, Television for Women.

However, if you keep playing this promo for your "spirited new comedic drama series," Drop Dead Diva, I am going to throw my uterus at the screen.



The synops, according to the Web site for Lifetime, Television for Women:

The show tells the story of a beautiful-but-vapid model wannabe, Deb, who has a fatal car accident and suddenly finds herself in front of Heaven's gatekeeper, Fred ... Deb ... is accidentally relegated to the body of the recently deceased Jane Bingum ... Jane has always lived in the shadow of her more comely colleagues, whereas Deb has always relied on her external beauty. Now, by a twist of fate and a bolt of divine intervention, Deb must come to terms with inhabiting Jane’s plus-size frame in the ultimate showdown between brains and beauty.

Hooooooooooooooooooooo.

A sampling from the trailer:

Voiceover: "Deb Dawkins was a beautiful model. Who was a little self-absorbed. Jane Bingam was a brilliant attorney with low self-esteem."

What Lifetime, Television for Women wants you to think: We all have our crosses to bear.

What they're really saying: Women pretty much only come in two speeds. If you're hot, you're probably going to be stupid. If you're fat, you might be smart, but that doesn't really account for much.

Deb [now in Jane's body]: "Make me skinny and hot."
Fred: "I'm an angel, not a wizard."

What Lifetime, Television for Women wants you to think: Deb thinks her problems can be solved in a snap, but ohhoho does Fred have other ideas!

What they're really saying: No way can someone who is a size 16 be hot. Nice try, Deb. You are so screwed!

What I think: Fred? Really? No one in this show has a name that's not monosyllabic? There's a Flinstone guarding the gates of heaven? Are there more fries in the freezer?

Voiceover: "The only thing Deb can do now is balance the life she knew before and the life she's forced to deal with."

What Lifetime, Television for Women wants you to think: These struggles are going to make her a well-rounded and lovable person!

What they're really saying: Poor Deb! She's been played a miserable hand. Fat is a fate worse than death! Being a successful, smart, capable, passionate attorney is worth squat. You're just big, sweetheart.



Dick Boss: "I thought you'd understand her fears and insecurities. You and Vicki are cut from the same cloth."

What Lifetime, Television for Women wants you to think: Low self-esteem is a terrible thing!

What they're really saying: Remember? Two speeds. You can't be fat and have healthy self-esteem, no you can not. We created this show for the very purpose of reminding you of that. Don't all you fat people go getting any ideas.

Deb [referring to herself, for unknown reasons, in the third person]: "Deb may not have been the best person in the world. But I still miss her. Does that make me self-absorbed and selfish?"
Fred: "No. It makes you human."

What Lifetime, Television for Women wants you to think: Aw, Deb has a heart of gold! Put her back in that hot body where she belongs!

What they're really saying: Hot, skinny, vapid people can be human inside any trappings. Even fat ones. Fat people do not get a second chance to learn any lessons of any kind. They had an opportunity to be real life people, but they ate it.



I have a visceral reaction to the whole setup. I reject the creators' (all men, for what it's worth) assertion that they're breaking any new ground here. Women have always been subjected to the notion that they exist on a spectrum from hot to not.

Yes, Deb is handed the eternal hardship of size-16-ness, but she also gets Jane's smarts. (Jane gets ... what? A heavenly respite from her hugeness?) So I fail to see how it's at all "the ultimate showdown between brains and beauty."

Nor why those two things were at odds in the first place.

Lifetime. Television for Women. Who are hot. Also for those who are not, but only if they feel really, really bad about it. Or die so that skinny people can learn some valuable lessons. Sundays at 9!

Today has had a certain je ne sais quoi, a mixture of serendipity and surrender that is unmistakably French.

In short, this Mardi is gras.

It started with an unexpected "Lunch?" text from JLB. Sacrebleu! One of my three favorite meals! We decided to hit up Chez Fonfon, where we discovered that today is, in fact, a holiday for les Français, a day when the population commemorates some sort of deadly battle, and also the forgiveness of traffic tickets.

And who should be there, sidled up to the long wood counter, crackin' wise with his lady sidekick? Mon père!

Quelle surprise!

He politely informed me that all the menu items were delicious, but that if I did not order the prix fixe Bastille Day offerings, he'd deny my existence for the rest of my days.

Either that, or I started to glaze over at the prospect of five courses (at LUNCH. INSANE.) and stopped being able to understand him through the foggy chorus of angels in my head, and he decided to pretend he didn't know me.

Also there was drool.

Apéritif!



Kir royale, a pretty pink blushing thing with a dainty garnish of orange peel. Just right for a dainty Southern girl who knows better than to indulge in heavy boozing in an afternoon hour. Or, in the absence of dainty Southern girls who have any sort of moral compass regarding liquor, for me.

Course 1!



Ah, yes, that's just right. Itty bitty tastes, perfect for my delicate constitution and fragile nature. A pretty fan of charcuterie; tiny tartine corners with olive tapenade and goat cheese/melty tomatoes, respectively, garnished with ribbony herbs; and a rotund little fig hugged by delectably thinly sliced prosciutto, cooked to salty heaven.

No wonder French women don't get fat.

Course 2!



Sainte mère! I'm supposed to eat that entire thing? Shrimp, mussels, tuna, snapper, and buttery toast with rouille floating in a warm, complex broth that tastes perfectly briny without a hint of fishiness?

OK.

It is here that I should note the most horrible of circumstances: Surrounded by tremendous food and kind service in a room full of hushed conversation, I pulled out my camera to capture every morsel. Battery? Dead. How do you say ggooddaammiitt!! in French? The iPhone tried to keep up, but it was no match for the texture and color on these plates. A vast frog-leg conspiracy, I fear.

Utterly sated, I leaned against the banquette and ...

Course 3!



Ooooouch. Thank heavens for yielding fabrics. This was cheese. I don't know what kind. I ate it. It was benignly ridiculous at this point in the meal, and for that I give it great kudos.

Photo? Hideous.

Course 4!



Seriously, uncle. I don't really do dessert. I didn't need to hoover this with any great speed.

But ... there are bright berries (not rendered by heinous photography). There is a flaky, buttery crust (not rendered by heinous photography). There is a perfect row of soft, creamy white rosettes (not rendered by heinous photography).

I was going to bring home the leftovers, but the waitress didn't think they had a box small enough for the remaining three bites.

And now, I am a cochon, full to my eyeballs, which are left to mourn the terrible images it has been left with.

But it is a holiday. I feel a responsibility to you, dear reader, to leave you with something that is both French and beautiful.



Ah, there. That's better.

Re-entry from vacation is a sucker punch.

Here, have a gelatinous cocktail!



Slog on, people. There are plenty more work hours to bank, unhappy lessons to learn, and yards to mow this week.

But there are also Popsicles in my freezer and coupons in my mailbox, so I figure it all balances out.

Suck on it, Monday!

No wonder a certain segment of the population doesn't believe in evolution.

"How many girls can do that?" you ask, Jillian Barberie?

Well, if you mean how many girls can manage to simultaneously pull off imperious and shallow, reading every line as though it's interrogatory while wearing lingerie you're trying to pass as a shirt, I'd say not very many.

If you mean how many girls can catch a football someone lobs at them from just off camera, I'd say all of the ones with arms.

Today's recipe is brought to you by tequila.

Ingredients:

1 to 2 heads broccoli
8 hours work frustration
1 pound orzo, cooked according to package directions
3 minutes vending-machine lunch
1.5 cups shredded mozzarella cheese
Pinch of attention deficit
1.5 cups shredded cheddar cheese
2 teaspoons dangerous recipe hunting on iPhone whilst driving
1 (10.75-ounce) can cream of mushroom soup

Step 1: Chop broccoli.



Step 2: Examine broccoli more closely. Wonder why something that tastes so good smells so bad.



Step 3: Stack cheeses, preferably in a transparent container for easy admiration. Smack own hand to deter snacking.



Step 4: Stop to gawk at the cognitive dissonance that is Michael Jackson's memorial service. Ponder the crazy/touching, baffling/fitting, manic/sad spectacle. Pour more wine.

Step 5: Open can of cream of mushroom soup. Pat self on back for culinary prowess.



Step 6: Stir together soup, broccoli, cheeses, and pasta in a far-too-large casserole dish. Have passing thought that inappropriate size might affect outcome, but get distracted stopping dog from terrorizing cat.



Step 7: Cover (casserole dish, not cat) and bake at 350. For ... some ... time. NOTE: Do not place dish in oven if oven has had time to preheat. Do not use timer, or in any other way attempt to control how long dish will be in oven.



Step 8: Eat. Wonder why it's too dry. Assume the only way to find answer to said question is to consume three servings.

Fin.

This recipe courtesy of an on-the-road Google search that led to Working Girl Cooks! All apologies to Working Girl, as I'm sure her dish was properly cooked and delicious, as opposed to Dinner As Mental Defect.

I'm off work for the next two days (WOO!), so posting may be spotty. Don't let your missing-me muscles start to atrophy.

Summer came in this year not like a lion or a lamb but like Satan, all blistering and angry and contemptuous. Grass died, sidewalks steamed, and the world was subjected to far more of my white flesh than it ever deserved.

But we all mustered our courage and remembered that we are Alabamians. We know how to do this. We simply have to shuffle resignedly from air-conditioned space to air-conditioned space for the next three months. We have to strip our babies down to their diapers and gulp our cocktails before the ice melts and stand over vents and wish for rain. We are the people who coined prettier words for "perspiration."

Fall cannot come fast enough. A local news anchor reminded me last night that it's "only one month before school starts again" and I almost burst into tears. Still, there are some consolation prizes.



tomato salads.



sparkler girls.



family fun.



light lunches.



cool drinks.



twilight parties.



fresh fruit.



toothy grins.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go hug a box fan.

The company I work for periodically publishes an employee directory, a sort of staff yearbook—photographic evidence of one's sanctioned presence in the building. It's useful for putting names with faces should you need to keep an eye out to welcome a visitor from another magazine, or determine who to derisively reference in the story of The Girl Who Won't Say "Thanks" When You Hold The Door Open Because Apparently She Is The Queen And The World Is Her Court.

However, my camera aversion has a well-documented history (or not, as the case may be), and I occupy space all to myself in Directory '08. A single blank page with small print: Not Pictured, KF.

Class rebel.

Sure, there are people like my gorgeous friends, whose photos look like glamorous headshots. But I endured years of school pictures, and that just isn't in the cards for me. I tend to stare into the lens with a mixture of revulsion and nausea, and that isn't the face I want seared onto my professional reputation (which is beyond reproach, natch). So I apologize, corporate e-mail sender, but your cheery-tinged-with-threat REMINDERS! that there are make-up photos to be had have gone unheeded. For seven years. (You can stop sending them now.)

All of which is to say that when LSis alerted me to this Web site, I was enthralled.



That's fine lawyerly stock, there. Stalwart, responsible, trustworthy, and at least one bow-tie-in-residence.

Which is what makes this all the more amazing. Click on "Attorneys" to see a list of the decorated men and women who make up the firm. (I've only included men here because ... well, they're more awesome in this context.) See their suit-clad seriousness, their laundry lists of awards and accomplishments.



Take Mr. Long, for example. Numerous bar admissions, extensive work history, and patents to his name. The man is an inventor. Then click "Meet Army."



Well, that's ... kicky? I'm not sure what "Last Place Visited" is all about, except as a starting point for potential stalkers, but I'm not too worried about ole Armistead, here. He carries a firearm.

His counterpoint? Young Jeff.



Sure, Jeff is a little green, "the newest member" of the team, but he has renegade potential. (He "limited plaintiff's recovery to one dollar." TAKE THAT, greedy litigious types.) Also he manages to carry off a youthful smirk without looking like he's wearing his grandfather's suit. And on the weekends?



Jeff is a fan of "outlaw country," a vision in double denim. Sorry ladies, he's married. To a piano teacher. I bet he tells people they make beautiful music together. THUD.

I suspect he has a lot to learn from O.E.



A stunning resume. He protected the entire city's water supply! He's only now working part-time after a 45-year career! Why are you doing this to him?



Oh, O.E. You look tremendous. I hope you wrote this bio yourself, wherein you cheekily admit that you "[have] been known to liven many a dull gathering with [your] ever-present harmonica or by tickling the ivories with familiar tunes." Society for the Preservation and Encouragement of Barber Shop Quartet Singing in America, Inc.? Incredible. I hope the SFTPAEOBSQSIN knows how lucky it is.

Also, nice gams.

And what of your buddy Brian?



He seems like a gentle soul. An estate planner, the man who is there during your last precious days. Someone who counsels disenfranchised taxpayers, the disabled, minors, and, apparently, the "irresponsible."



Someone who ... cuts meat. And has a passion for trains. He also counts "the beach" as his guilty pleasure, adding him to a growing list of these lawyers for whom guilt = not being at work. Nice job, Van Winkle! Way to crack the whip.

And let us not forget baby-faced David.



He has a nice smile, and a relaxed stance, and an enormous tie. What's his behind-the-suit persona?



He's Kayaking Guy! In the smallest possible shorts. Favorite music? "Anything playing locally." Meaning within paddling distance, I presume.


Dale looks like a nice man.



Fluent in Spanish, with successful jury verdicts, dismissed cases, and state Supreme Court appearances. What could he possibly have to show us?



Um, did he buy these people from a catalog? This reads like a list of Stuff White People Like: Mormons, Alaska, the White House, golf, Springsteen, and chocolate chip cookies. Ah, the Latter-Day Saints. You tickle me.

Come on! We need someone hardcore. Someone willing to shake things up a bit. Jones, surely it can't be you.



Look at ya, all innocent and slouchy. You can't possibly be the quiet rock star.



I STAND CORRECTED. Carry on with your bad self, Jonesy.

Mark seems like a tall drink of water.



He was in the Legal Elite. He looks confidently at the camera, like a man with a lot to be proud of.



Hey, Mark? Your bio says you have five children, but you have appeared to wrangle only two of them. And a goat. Maybe spend more time at home, 'k?

Hi Roy! Oh you are definitely someone's grandpa, aren't you?



You look like you have a twinkle in your eye and candy in your pockets.



ACK! HOLY HOO HAH!

Jesus, Roy. A little warning, please?

I don't know anything about the collective work of this firm, but I see some pretty admirable community service and legal do-goodery (judgments for victims of clergy abuse, legal wrangling for the elderly and those with special needs). So I can't decide whether this exercise was the product of coercion, or whether this particular group of attorneys just has a really fantastic sense of humor. I prefer to think of it as the latter, which makes Albert an absolute standout.



Weekday Albert.



Weekend Albert. They are the same! He was all, fuck you I refuse to wear my windsurfing ensemble on the Internet.

Marry me, Albert.

It is the Thursday before a holiday, and I am the sole occupier of office space at le job.

I am bolstered by the creeping approach of The Long Weekend, and also by staring a hole through the cork in this bottle of Pinot Noir that our food editor paid forward (because she's nice, and because I have a you-really-should-throw-some-alcohol-at-her look about me).

There's a rumor floating around that I am working on galleys while drowning out the silence with Daily Show video clips, but I can neither confirm nor deny this bit of hearsay.

I hope that there are safe travels, wacky families, and lots of stuffing of face coming your way this Independence Day.

I'll be here, rolling with my homie. He is so. jazzed.

I watched Milk this weekend, and afterward my brain felt ... stuffed. I had that geius feeling of having an infinite number of things to say on the subject, not one of them coherent.

In other words, this post is going to be terrific.

The thing that attracted me most to Harvey Milk is that he's just a guy. Not a superhero, not a rocket scientist, not a paragon—just a guy.



(See? There he is, sittin' in City Hall, changing the landscape for all gay people in the country, all, "Feh. I'm just a guy.")

But he was the best kind of guy, one of those quietly spectacular people who keep their magnetism at a low-level hum. Harvey's (can I call you Harvey?) basic theory was that all people have value, that our humanity is the part of us most worth saving—and it was in a great deal of peril—and that it is essential that we embrace our choices



without ever taking ourselves too seriously.



OK, so it's not a novel concept. After all, the Bible people stand on to give their persecution a better vantage point does have that Golden Rule business in it. But like I said, Harvey wasn't a rocket scientist. He was just a guy with a message that gay rights are human rights.

And the reason that stuck, trapped in my swirling thoughts ("I'm hungry. Why is Britney Spears still wearing denim shorts? I'm hungry. Huh. Is this shirt clean? Who's going to win So You Think You Can Dance? Does that show have a question mark at the end? If I'm asking a question about it, do I have to render it So You Think You Can Dance?? Is there a statute of limitations on accidental shoplifting? I'm hungry.") is that it hit me in the Sad Space.

You know the one. It's the helplessness corner of your emotional sphere, the place you put all your most poisonous realities, like the fact that some of the people you love hardest in all the world haven't lived in the same world that you have. Called names, denied jobs, baselessly accused of heinous crimes against children, and murdered on public sidewalks? That all happened to gay people in my lifetime.

Even as I approach the corner of crotchety and old, isn't that stunning? And sobering? And maddening? And desperate-making?

I was speechless and shaking by the end of the movie, flooded with the desire to find my very own soap box, to clamber on to it and tell an ignorant world to GET USED TO IT already.

I don't have anything new to say on this subject. It's been said better here. And certainly here:



But I feel the point is worth making. Over and over and over and over again. Until it's no longer acceptable to deny other human beings the considerations we lavish on our entitled selves. Harvey Milk fought for that. He made San Francisco a safer place, and he made California a more humane population, and he helped sculpt a future for gay people that wasn't all fear and shame and suicide.

But what did he know?



He's just a guy.

---

Photos from the San Francisco Public Library Historical Photos Flickr stream

Today was a strange day (or what passes for strange in my life, which has a base level of very odd). There was lots of occupational rumor and some low-grade fear and the kind of roiling stomach acid that makes for short tempers and sour pusses.

Ergo I could use the following, in no particular order.







As you can see, potatoes feature prominently.

Two more days and then it's time for a long weekend, bitches!