There was a time “when men were kind, and their voices were soft, and their words inviting.”
Sorry, that wasn’t exactly where that sentence was supposed to go; just gearing up for my Les Mis audition.
Actually, what I was going to say was, there was a time when I believed Julia Roberts to be the best thing since the value menu at Burger King, but then I realized trouty lips don’t age well.
It’s been awhile since I posted, and there is really no good excuse for that, other than I was busy sleeping and reading The Help. I’m so sorry, my lovely followers who depend on me for their daily Special S, for I have let you down and not in the last weeks given you the fodder necessary to lose pounds from laughing your asses off. I shall do better, this I swear.
Anyhoo, back to Julia and her amazing platypus lips.
When I first saw Pretty Woman, I didn’t see a hooker in safety-pinned boots. I saw a tall slender woman with amazing red hair who was everything I would never be. At the time, I was not who I am now, mainly because I was a self-deprecating anorexic with bad hair. In the end, my point is that for a couple years, in my eyes, Julia Roberts could do no wrong. (Except for that movie Mary Reilly; it’s true not everyone can do period pieces.)
I had the entire VHS filmography of Julia up until the time DVDs became popular, when I then decided her best movies were My Best Friend’s Wedding and Runaway Bride. (The latter mainly because any glimpse of Chris Meloni still gives me chills in my drawers.) I opted to not replace all my Julia tapes with DVDs, and as they say in the Bible, I put away childish things, and never thought much about Julia again. (Partially because ever since she won an Oscar, she’s starred in nothing really worth seeing.)
This morning, I decided to watch Larry Crowne, and was again reminded why I fell in love with Julia all those years ago. Whether she is playing a dolled up hooker living a fantasy or a disenchanted community college professor in a failed marriage, she is absolutely believable. I must admit it was a bit disturbing to not see her trademark mile-wide grin until almost the end of the movie, but as she wallowed through her margaritas while mourning the lack of boobage her husband so desired, I could not help but identify with her.
It was then that I decided I was going to make carrot cake cupcakes.
I do not proclaim to be a domestic goddess, but in the past year I have felt the urge to bake cupcakes. Perhaps this is due to the fact that I watch Two Broke Girls on Monday nights. Whatever the reason, I thought that carrot cake cupcakes would be perfect for a post-Easter Monday.
I set about dirtying ever dish and measuring spoon I could lay my hands on, only to find right before I mixed that I hadn’t as many carrot shreds as my recipe called for. Not to be phased, I turned the dial on my hand-held mixer anyway, and produced extra-moist (I hate that word moist, blech) carrot cake cupcakeys that taste a bit more like pineapple than carrots. Ah, well. This is what comes of having my Rockstar pick up ingredients at the store.
P.S. I know you are wondering, “Rockstar? I thought she got rid of him?” Let us just say relationships are complicated. Welcome to my simple life.