The Morrisons Visit!

The entire Morrison clan spent the weekend in H-town, and of course myriad adorable doggie pictures resulted.


I am trying to breastfeed Barnaby here. He didn't take very well to the nipple.



By far, the funniest part of the weekend was Zoe flipping her shit at my Mexican ceramic chihuahua.

Fort Collins, CO - Day 1

Yes, you read correctly. I am in Fort Collins, Colorado, population 118,652. That's smaller than The Woodlands!! Sit down before I tell you why I'm here. Fort Collins is home to The Center for Loss, an institution "dedicated to 'companioning' grieving people as they mourn transitions and losses that transform their lives." The Center also "[serves] as an educational resource and professional forum" for people involved in industries where bereavement training is necessary.

Since I decided to forego the whole "lawyer" thing, I am committing wholeheartedly to hospice, a philosophy and a business model that I strongly believe in and feel in my heart is a worthwhile profession. Hospice is a service, not a place, and we provide home health care services to terminally ill patients in the last months of their lives. In addition to providing nursing care, home health aide services, medications, and medical equipment, our team is also comprised of a social worker and a chaplain who help patients and families deal with the emotional sides of terminal illnesses.

And, for one year after our patients pass away, we continue to follow the families and make our services available to them through our bereavement program. So a kinder, gentler version of the Bitch is here in Fort Collins to attend The Center's Comprehensive Bereavement Skills Training. This is the only such program in the country, and training sessions are held for four days at a time thrice a year.

Despite being a short plane ride from H-town, I went through a grueling day of travel to arrive in Fort Collins. I had to leave DFW at 8:30 a.m. this morning (after a late night) to drive to IAH for my 2:15 p.m. flight. Once in Denver, I had a 60 mile drive to Fort Collins. Daniel made me take a toll road, and having zero cash, I stopped at the booth. In H-town, you can get an IOU envelope at the booth so you don't get fined for skipping out on the toll. Not so in Denver. The bitchy old lady told me not to worry about it because the rental car company would just bill me for the tolls, and oh yeah, of course they're going to fine you $30 for each violation! Denver and it's $2.50 tolls can suck it.

After driving through an hour and a half of ABSOLUTELY NOTHING, I arrived uneventfully at the Fort Collins Marriott, which is really quite lovely as it has recently been remodeled. I spent an extended period of time unpacking, then headed out on the town for Fort Collins' Sunday night hangout spot -- Super Target. It's actually a really nice Super Target because it's new and clean and has those really cool buggies. Then I had dinner at Zquila, a local Mexican restaurant. It was pretty decent Mexican food for Colorado, but the chips were really thick and hard (that's what she said), and everything was gratuitiously spicy, even for this Texan.

I'm not back in the hotel room watching the local news and waiting for this torturous cold front to come through. It was in the 70's all week, and starting tomorrow, the highs for the week will be in the upper 30's to low 40's. I'm going to try really hard to not let the cold make me bitter and cranky, and I'm going to try extra hard to not make fun of the touchy feely shit I'm about to experience for the next four days. I can't make promises on either goal.

The Future Mrs. Morrison

The day after I got back from Las Vegas, I drove to Dallas for Barchy's bridal shower and bachelorette party. Look at how lovely we are in this Amanda sandwich.

Even Zoe put on her sexy bikini for the lingerie shower pre-bachelorette party.


And of course I had to get in plenty of Zoe molestation.


Some of us are still trying to pursue careers as attorneys, so I won't go into details about our evening out. Here's the hungover aftermath.


Stay tuned for updates from the Barchison wedding on April 18. The perfect couple had a serious lapse of judgment one day and asked me to officiate.

I Hate Cleveland

I have never been to Cleveland. Nor will I ever go because now I blame my misfortune and boredom on the entire city. Our flight has been delayed five hours because some jackass in Cleveland broke the airplane. Or something to that effect. So I'm sitting in the airport with Nice Granny and trying not to kill her when she alerts me every time the word Houston is mentioned that our flight is ready for boarding. The other passengers seem a little more annoyed than I am. The lady next to me just complained to her friend that "we're just sittin' here like bumps on a pickle!" Supposedly they are bringing out a snack cart soon. At least McCarran airport has free wireless!

Yesterday we had two items on the schedule, and we managed to do both and squeeze in lunch at the Mirage buffet especially for Barchy. Believe me, these things are a true accomplishment. Nice Granny is worse than Karen when it comes to getting ready to leave the room. I can take a shower, get dressed, and blow dry my hair in the time that it takes her to put on a pair of pants! And don't even get me started on the Senna.

Every night, Nice Granny takes a senna tablet at around 8:00. I don't have a problem with this. I have a problem with having to find a bathroom the next day two or three times for thirty minutes at a time to reap the benefits of the senna. If you are taking senna every day and using the bathroom thrice a day, skipping a few days will not hurt you, and you'll probably still have to go on your own anyway. Granny does not eat enough to warrant three visits to the loo daily. And moreover, if you are going that much, you're supposed to start taking them every other day or every two days so you're not sitting on a toilet for half your life! But God forbid we deregulate our bowels whilst on vacation.

Anway, so it took from 9:00 a.m. to 2:00 p.m. to get dressed, walk across the street to the Mirage, eat lunch, and get a cab to Paris. Walking with Nice Granny consists of me taking one step and stopping for a few seconds to wait for Granny to take the same step. She keeps asking me if I'm tired, and I want to say, yeah, I'm mentally exhausted from trying so hard not to strangle you!!!

We had tickets to "O" at 7:30 p.m., so I made reservations at the Bellagio's Jasmine restaurant at 5:30. Jasmine is a very fancy Chinese restaurant with delicious food and breathtaking decorating. The entire restaurant is wall-papered in this really pretty yellow flowery print with butterflies on it. They use Versace's Butterfly Garden china, and we had a really good view of the Bellagio fountain show.

I tried to find a few good reviews to link here, but I was shocked by the abundance of bad user reviews on websites like City Search and Trip Advisor. Most people complain that the food is too expensive for the portion size, which is what uneducated people always say about fine dining. The other problem is that Jasmine serves authentic Chinese food, so it doesn't taste like your local $6 Chinese buffet. A few commenters even said that the food at Panda Express is better!!! Heathens!!!

We ordered the Peking duck, which was beautifully presented and perfectly cooked. The skin was caramelized and crispy, and there was a perfect thin, layer of fat on the meat that made it moist and tasty. First, they bring out the entire duck and carve the breasts off to eat like moo shu with pancakes, sliced cucumbers and green onions, and plum sauce. Then they take the duck back to the kitchen where they finish carving it and add some crunchy vegetables and rice noodles and subsequently serve it in lettuce cups.

I didn't get a picture of my crazy food face at the buffet earlier today as per Barchy's request, but I did get the photographer at Jasmine to take a picture of me doing the face with the Peking duck. The guy (whose name is also Guy) was very nice, and I knew that my granny would really appreciate a picture of us together, so I let him do his professional photos with us and told him that I would buy a few. I should have asked what I was signing up for because I ended up paying $125 for three 5X7's and four wallets.

After Jasmine we had great tickets to "O," a Cirque de Soleil show at the Bellagio. I won't even attempt to review the show because my vocabulary is not large enough to come up with enough synomyms for beautiful and amazing. Most of the show is performed in and around a huge pool that is constructed under the stage. I could see this show every day for the rest of my life and never tire of it. I also highly recommend Cirque de Soleil's "Mystere" at Treasure Island, which is equally entertaining in a completely different way.

And that leaves us where we are now, sitting at gate D-20 waiting for this goddamn flight from Cleveland to show up. Despite my complaints, I can't really say that this was an awful trip because in the end, I still got to spend four days in this badass city. Although I really long to come back with someone who is able and willing to walk a lot and see everything.

P.S. For the money, Vegas is FAR superior to NYC. As an example, a dusty room with a weird glass-enclosed bathroom at the W in Times Square was over $300 a night while a suite with a bedroom, living room, and bathroom the size of my kitchen at the Venetian was only $230 a night. The people are nicer, the food is better, and the shows are just as good and more varied here than in NYC. I hate Cleveland, but I hate New York more. And don't even mention Austin to me.

Thomas Keller's Bouchon Bistro, Las Vegas

As soon as I booked our tickets to Vegas, I made reservations at Thomas Keller's Bouchon Bistro in the Venetian Hotel. Keller is most well-known for his legendary French Laundry restaurant in Napa Valley. Bouchon is supposed to be a more casual restaurant epitomizing the traditional French bistro. (Do I sound like I actually know things about fancy restaurants?)

In short, Bouchon is the dumbest-ass restaurant in which I have ever wasted a hundred bucks. The food is highly over-rated (and of course, over-priced) and the servers have zero knowledge of French food. My meal was only saved by the overly-friendly New Yorker to my right who kept me entertained by eating my food and telling me stories of his gambling losses.

When we arrived, we were told that it would be just a minute to get a table. Once I found out that the table at which we were to be seated hadn't paid yet, I asked if we could sit down. This inconsideration isn't such a big deal, but I think that a restaurant that thinks so highly of itself should at least know enough to offer an old lady a seat.

Anyway. The atmosphere was friendly and not at all pretentious. The menus are printed on very thin, paper bag style sheets that are folded up around the napkin, and the specials are written on small chalkboards throughout the dining room. I get what they're going for, but I don't appreciate form at the sacrifice of function. The menus were printed in tiny font and difficult to keep open and read.

For an appetizer, I ordered the terrine de foie gras de canard, or fatty duck liver paté. I was convinced that the dish would be worth its $48.50 price tag, and I was excited about feeding my paté obsession. You can probably guess by the general tone of this entry that I was abundantly disappointed. The dish was beautifully presented; the very generous 5 oz. terrine was served in a small canning jar that was opened tableside. Also in accompaniment were two plates of very nicely toasted brioche crusts and a small crock of sea salt. But it's a sad day in the restaurant universe when I can say that the bread was the only good part of the meal.

Here I have to make an aside to mention that this is one of those restaurants where there are like fourteen different waiters serving you. There's the guy whose only job is to fill your water glasses, the waitress who takes your order, and the imbecile who brings the food out. Before the terrine came out, a plate with some odd-looking utensils was set on our table. When the dumbass brought the little jar of terrine, he used the utensils to remove the "layer of fat" on top of the terrine, which he prompty took away.

First of all, it is NOT a layer of fat! It's called aspic, and it's made from stock and gelatin. Moreover, it is an integral part of the terrine and should NOT have been swept away by dumbass. (No, I'm not crazy enough to eat what is essentially meat jello, but he doesn't know that!) The terrine itself was very hard and difficult to spread, as it was kept refrigerated before serving. I assumed that the terrine would soften up after sitting for a while, but I certainly did not expect it to melt.

Look, liver paté is not difficult to make. Basically you cook the liver with some vegetables and herbs then throw it in the food processor and add butter until you reach the right consistency. I would say that a good paté is about two parts butter to three parts liver. Bouchon's terrine was probably 95% butter and 5% foie gras. I put a little bit on my plate, and within a minute it melted away into liquid, which explains why the terrine was so hard at first; it was as thick as cold butter.

Now I am not one of those annoyingly picky eaters who refuse to eat foods that have the "wrong" texture. I would eat foie gras frozen, barbecued, or whatever as long as it tasted good. Bouchon's foie gras did not taste good, nor did it even taste like foie gras! It was bitter and bland at the same time, the latter obviously because of the lack of actual foie gras in the terrine. And worst of all, it tasted like blood half the time! You know how when you cut your finger you immediately bring it to your mouth to stop the bleeding? Yeah, that's what the terrine tasted like. For shame, Thomas Keller, for shame.

However, my entree had not yet arrived, so Bouchon had another chance to redeem itself. I ordered the moules au safron, steamed mussels in a broth of white wine, saffron, and mustard, another very French dish. I've eaten this dish in Paris, and I am sorry to say that Mr. Keller's mussels were an abyssmal, cheap imitation. Steamed mussels are normally served in a cast iron pot with lots of garlicky broth and french fries or bread to sop up the extra sauce. Bouchon's mussels were served in black Staub pot, but they were lacking in both broth and flavor.

I will concede that I am not a fan of saffron, so I can't blame the mussels' bland taste on the recipe. (And what the hell is saffron anyway? It doesn't taste like anything, and it costs like $30 for a vial of 20 or so strands, and the only thing it does is turn everything in sight yellow.) Anyway, there was no garlic in this broth, which I find very lamentable and a slap in the face to true French steamed mussels. And there was hardly any broth in the pot. The bottom layer of mussels was moist, but the ones on top were dry, and it was a real fishing expedition to get them into the broth and back out because the pot had a weird grate at one end for God only knows what reason.

Ok, so Bouchon had one final chance to impress me with what are highy regarded as the world's best french fries. They are served in a big paper cone, which is one French detail that they got right. So were they the best french fries in the world? Of course they were! If I stole the McDonald's recipe, my french fries would also be indescribably delicious. Seriously. They taste exactly like McDonald's fries. My impressions were also confirmed by the noisy New Yorker's friend. And when given the choice between Bouchon's $7 pomme frites and Mickey D's extra value meal, I will supersize it any day of the week.

At this point, I knew that we had spent at least $100, so I really didn't feel like wasting any more money on this restaurant to try to incite a comeback with dessert. So if I haven't made it excruciatingly clear, Thomas Keller's Bouchon is a disappointing knock-off of a true French bistro. I can only imagine that the people who find this food delicious have never been to France and have no sense of what it's actually supposed to taste like. Although I wouldn't be surprised if nobody likes it and is just too embarrassed to say so because Keller's fame precedes him.

(The best foie gras I've ever had was in the Lobby Lounge at the Portman Ritz-Carlton in Shanghai. It is served as three small lollipops with each ball coated in a different crunchy exterior. See, I have nice things to say sometimes.)

Las Vegas with Nice Granny

I've been pretty stressed out for the last couple of weeks. For the first time in history, all three of my Romanian grandparents are in this country at the same time. My dad's parents arrived in November, but he had been holding them hostage in Sour Lake, Texas until I found out from my other grandmother that they were here. So I made the two and a half hour trek out to Bumblefuck a few weeks ago and brought Nice Granny to stay with me in H-town. My mom's mom got wind of the fact that I was having fun with Nice Granny, so she booked a plane ticket and showed up a week later. She is very bitter and depressed, so we'll call her Crabby Granny.

Nice Granny was ready to go back to Sour Lake when my mom came up with the brilliant idea of me taking her to Vegas. I love Vegas. Some people think the city is too kitsch and a cheap imitation of the original (Venice, the Eiffel Tower, Grecian architecture, etc.), but I appreciate Vegas for what it is. I would never go to Vegas in lieu of seeing the real Eiffel Tower, but I love the energy in the casinos and the opulence ever present.

So again, I love Las Vegas. I do not love Las Vegas whilst babysitting an 84-year-old. Even Nice Granny can grate on my nerves when she does things like ask if we can go back to the hotel at 3:00 PM (like, go back and stay there until tomorrow) or jump at every tiny sound, making it impossible to enjoy any sort of performance with her.

Needless to say, Blue Man Group was stressful instead of being weird and fun like it should have been. First of all, I didn't even really understand the performance. It's this three blue alien-type people who don't speak but do really bizarre things like catching 50 gumballs in their mouth at once or showering the audience with twelve tons of toilet paper. It reminds me of something that my weird friend Sarah would like, bizarro performance "art" with no real purpose.

I thought this would be a fun show for my granny because there's not really that much talking, so I figured that she would enjoy the silent comedy. Yeah, I figured wrong. Nice Granny hated the loud music and thought that the humor and crowd interactions were boring and stupid. Sometimes I try really hard to translate things so my grannies can appreciate them, but other times I just have to give up.

You cannot teach someone from the third world humor, culture, etiquette, and food in a few short weeks. And I have very little patience for the uneducated, even when it is through no fault of their own. So since I can't explain things enough to make them enjoyable, I spend all my time feeling nervous and guilty and dreading hearing a reaction because I know it will just make me angry.

Moreover, I am cranky because Nice Granny sleeps about four to six hours a night. So she wakes up at 6:00 AM and putters around thinking that I can't hear her. Nothing makes me as livid as when someone is trying to be quiet because the other person is still sleeping. Once someone wakes me up, I am awake, and I can hear everything. No amount of tiptoeing can cover up the sounds of crossword puzzles or the light coming from peeking out of the curtains. All this coupled with the fact that I am constantly being asked to turn on the heat (it's 80 degrees here), and I am left very agitated.

All this aside, Nice Granny is still a wonderful person and the ultimate kind grandmother. And contrary to Mean Granny, she actually appreciates beautiful things and is impressed by new sights. We've been here for a day and a night so far, and we have at least managed to eat three times and visit three hotels (including the one we're staying in).

As much as my mother drives me nuts, I miss going on vacation with her. At least with her I didn't trip over myself from walking at a snail's pace.

New York City, February 2009

Karen and I had long planned to go to NYC to meet up with our friends from Egypt, and we finally decided to go at the end of February. We only had a weekend to spare, so we didn't make any sight-seeing plans and decided to just do whatever we could. For my birthday, Karen gave me tickets to "Wicked," so that was our one planned event.

Most notably, we met up with our great friend, Bob Diehl, who made time to visit with us in between Barbri sessions.


Karen and I were very excited to wear matching hats and scarves, mine knit for me by my good friend Barbara, and Karen's knit by her future mother-in-law (ok, *I* was excited to match; I don't understand people who refuse to wear the same thing at the same time).


We ended our trip with a stop at the Carnegie Deli, where we made friends with a crabby German girl and her friend the veterinarian. And, as always, I can never miss an opportunity to make my food face.