Not A Dollarshort

Friend in a box.

1985 was the year of Teddy Ruxpin, and I, like almost every other child in America, became mesmerized by this small-scale animatronic world of wonder.

Teddy Ruxpin was the ultimate baby-sitter in a box. To a parent, he was a battery-operated storyteller -- complete with 40 taped adventures that illustrated the value of friendship and the benefits of sharing.

To a child, he was an instant friend -- one who shared his fanciful stories, blinked his plastic eyes and moved his mouth as if he was real.

This, at least, is what I think having Teddy Ruxpin as my friend would have been like. I really can't say since my parents never bought me one.

No, that doesn't sound too bitter.

While I wasn't the quintessential spoiled, only child, I'd have to say that Santa was usually very generous at Christmas. Living with two sets of "parents" (my grandparents and my parents) usually meant a boatload of gifts that guaranteed an obscenely gleeful Christmas morning.

However, there were some toys that I was destined never to own. The rock tumbler (you already have one). The Easy-Bake Oven (too dangerous). The Ouija Board (toy of the devil). The ventriloquist's dummy (also the toy of the devil).

To my parents, Teddy Ruxpin fell into the devil's spawn category -- and, to a certain extent I would have to agree that he was a bit creepy.

He was evil in a Snuggle sort of way. You know, cute and innocent to mask his sinister plans.

Well, that's at least how my family viewed Snuggle.

In spite of his seemingly evil ulterior motives, Teddy Ruxpin was really quite a neat toy and he remained in the top spot on my Christmas list.

Heavily Saturated fun.

After checking out a good number of online lomo galleries, I've decided that I'm interested in purchasing a lomographic camera.

Any recommendations or suggestions?

Too good for words.

Yesterday, I brought you a French tart. Today, it's French toast.

Not just any French toast, mind you -- but the best French toast ever.

I haven't had time to make the recipe myself so I'm relying on a reader or two to make it and tell me how it turns out. Hopefully, it won't be the sort of dish that only one person in the world (the owner of the Turtleback Farm Inn) can master.

And, if you like it, make sure to buy the cookbook. You can also order the book from their website.

And where do you Winter?

Miss Hoopla's advent calendar.

It's a good thing -- but not in that Martha Stewart "if isn't perfect, it isn't worth it" sort of way. Leslie's calendar is beautiful and full of warmth and nostalgia.

Looking forward to 17 more days of stories and links.

Ms. Stewart, on the other hand, scares me to no end during the holiday season. This is usually the time when she marches out her creepily perfect nieces and nephews in countless television appearances.

There is that one nephew in the Harvard (or some other ivy league) Men's Choir -- yeah, we get it -- he can sing and he's smart. And then, there is that older niece who never really looks like she enjoys bejeweling festive ornaments or stirring the hot apple cider.

It's Christmas at the pod people's house.

You'll notice that her own daughter is rarely seen. My favorite Martha Stewart story came from the pages of one of her own issues of Weddings.

Martha, who was once a party planner/caterer, spent years dreaming of her own daughter's wedding and in true Martha style, envisioned her "daughter's" day as the culmination of her life's crafty work.

She started planning early: when her daughter was still a child, Martha planted two rows of trees in front of their house. These, she figured would accentuate the majestic lane that would lead her daughter to the altar.

It would be a good thing to the thousandth power.

When it eventually came time for her daughter to marry, Martha's dreams deflated as fast as a souffle on Mount Everest. (Is that right? Do high altitudes make souffles deflate? I haven't a clue.)

You see, her daughter decided to skip the big wedding and was married in city hall.

To make matters worse for her dear mother, she wore a pantsuit!

Payback time, I guess.

And that's a good thing.

Look out Kevin Aucoin.

I have a dear husband. Most who really know us as a couple know this to be true.

So, the other night when I was bummed out from the pain of having two fillings removed and then refilled, it was only natural for Ben to be very attentive to my needs.

He made me pastina (little star pasta in a egg soup), blended me a cookies-n-cream milkshake and allowed me to dress him up like a woman.

I know what you're thinking: Egg soup? Is that any good? It's quite delicious -- an italian version of the sort of egg-drop soup you'll find at Chinese restaurants. Because my grandmother used to make it for me as a child, it's an instant remedy to any pain or sickness.

Oh, the dressing Ben as a woman part -- that sounds a bit odd as well.

I'm not sure what was my motivations -- perhaps there may be something wired in a girl's mind that either wants to have the ultimate Barbie/Ken. Either that or I just wanted to play dress-up with the only best friend that lives in my house.

After much protest, Ben, who I must add is very comfortable with his heterosexuality (he didn't make me say that), allowed me to dress him up.

Eyes, hair, mouth, figure, magic -- in the form of someone who looks like they absolutely loathe and detest their wife with all the will in their warm and loving heart. For the most part, this "rage" comes out in most all of the photographs.

I did manage to take one good photo -- one where there is an actual glimpse of a smile and his stance and posture are perfect.

A little photoshop work and voila -- a young Kirstie Alley.

I'm not sure what that says about Kirstie Alley, however.

My Danza is cooler than your Danza!

Suddenly, this photo makes sense.

Seriously, have you ever really looked at Tony Danza's face? I mean, really really looked. I had one of those moments tonight when you see someone's face and an automatic recognition trigger doesn't occur right away.

Oh, the joys of defamiliarization.

Bloggers do it remotely.

The Morning News holds its first roundtable discussion. The topic: Writing on the web.

Speaking of writing on the web, Daniel has been running a special series of sex stories over at The Tinyblog.

While I've got to admit I'm one of those people he wrote his disclaimer for, I did agree to contribute my own little piece to the sex pie.

Of course, in dollarshort fashion, it's completely G-Rated and doesn't reveal any steamy details about any boudoir action.

What can I say? I live a G-Rated existence.

No Whammies...Stop!

Press Your Luck, the movie. Starring Bill Murray.

Remember Press Your Luck -- that great gameshow with those sadistic little "whammies" who would wipe away your earnings with glee? Well, this movie is based on the true story of Michael Larsen, an unemployed ice cream truck driver who memorized the board's light patterns and walked away with $110,000.

Bill Murray and whammies -- a truly wonderful combination.

Link via Jerry Kindall.

Let a pixel be your umbrella.

Announcing yet another chance to relive your childhood!

Yes, it's coloring contest time again. If you're so willing, that is.

"Didn't you just have a coloring contest?"

Yes, I did. Thanks for noting that. But being that I just went to the dentist to have two fillings removed and painfully re-filled, I'm thinking that I need the distraction.

Besides, coloring is way more fun than self-pity -- and I've made a secret pact with myself to lighten the mood of dollarshort.org. Those last couple of posts were particularly down-beat.

So, the rules:

There will be a nice prize (prizes, perhaps) and, of course, the usual spoils of entering a coloring contest.

You know, blatant adoration, groupies, liquor and fame.

I'm going to give you three weeks (the actual date to be announced) and I'm probably going to have voting this time around.

A coloring tip: Multiple layers and "multiply" mode is your friend.

And now, here's your challenge -- it's a tough one.

When you're finished coloring, send your entry (in .jpg form) here.

Have fun!

It could be worse.

Despite evidence to the contrary, I made this mug because I think sweeping generalizations are funny.

Get it? I hate an entire century based on one year!

Yeah, I know -- good, sophisticated stuff.

The "I hate the 21st Century shirt" is my method of coping with what has been a very difficult year for my family and I -- for the country, for that matter.

Out of fear of being given something to really be upset about, I try hard not to complain about we've been dealt. I guess it's the God-fearing Catholic in me.

Although I remember to count my blessings and take note that "people are worse-off than us," sometimes there are things that just really get you down.

I found out rather matter-of-factly from my father that my grandparents have placed their house on the market and are going to have to auction off their furniture to pay for their medical bills and prescription drugs.

It just makes me so angry.

Not only because I grew up in that house and was hoping that the furniture would be in our family for years (they're antiques), but also because Operation Enduring Infinite Justice has served to distract all attention from domestic issues like prescription drug price-gouging.

Fat cat is getting fatter, I guess.

Like most depression-era children, my grandparents learned to be very frugal with their money. They saved and saved and, evidentally, that just wasn't enough.

This sort of thing makes me want to stop paying my social security tax.

You know, if we had jobs and all.

These are the times I really wish I was a robust Judy Garland.

She and Mickey Rooney would know what to do -- that's for sure.

They'd wrangle up some neighborhood kids, decorate a barn, stage a Busby Berkeley-caliber musical production and golly, gee -- they'd save my grandparents house.

But alas, I'm no Joots and Ben, thankfully, is no Mick.

We don't even have a barn.

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Note: Don't mind me. I'm just in one of those moods that would make even Eliza not want to talk to me.