Diary of a 21st Century Spinster

Spring in my Step

2012-02-24T14:53:00.018-08:00

Yesterday it was warm when I left for work, so I donned a pair of heels to work. This means no socks people. Last time I went sans socks, it was Memorial Day. Imagine my joy. So in keeping with the pace, I busted out a pair of ballet flats today, again sans socks. Stepped outside, and of course, it was raining. Boo. However, to keep my spirits up, I began to think about heels again. Not any old work heels...bridal heels. Below is the non-traditional list of my finds, which are presented in almost the order of preference. I'm torn. If I give up a photographer, I can buy them all. Very tempting.

If I weighed 90 pounds and was 5'10, SOLD. Hand's down. But I'm not, and I'm fairly certain that even if I could fit my hoof in this shoe, I couldn't walk in it. It screams ugly step sister, doesn't it?

I love polka dots and bedazzles, and I LOVE this shoe. The only thing that prohibits a purchase is that I'm not sure how this color will look in person. It is almost the color of the bridesmaids dresses, but a little less blushy. But oh, how I love her.
This color looks identical, and I love the saucy leopard lining. Love the lacey piping and the bow. Decisions, decisions!
This is almost the same shoe as above minus the lacey piping. It's a simple and elegant shoe. It would go well with the overall bridal get up, but it lacks that little bit of unexpected excitement.
These are adorable! Love. love. LOVE. The pink is a little too pink, however, and a t-strap is the oil to a fat calf's water. But polka dots, y'all. Itsy bitsy teenie weenie.
These don't have any black on the outside, which is accenting my whole ensemble, but they're so bridal, I could scream. Hearts and sparkles! But when could I ever wear them again? Hmm. Never.
These are delicious, because they are simply black and white. The jewel is swell, but I'd prefer zebra to giraffe, methinks.

Oh, what's a girl to do?

Day Off Alone in NJ: Take One

2012-02-20T10:36:00.001-08:00

In my head, I had a great day planned...a long walk, lunch outdoors, shopping, gym. The problem is that my mind forgets where I live. 37 degrees sucks, no matter who tries to convince me how benign it is. I didn't even want to walk to the car, so strolling for a couple of miles around my house is out of the question. Eating outside? No thanks. No takers here.

Shopping? I gave it a try, but I don't know why I bother leaving the house to shop anymore. I can't ever find what I want, and I'm tired of unstocked shelves and driving in circles just to get to the store I want. The problem is that buying shoes online is a total PIA and I NEED shoes, and suitable bridal undergarments, which also would not make purchasing online ideal.

So much for big plans. It's only mid-day and I have already landed myself back on my couch beneath layers of fleece and a furry blanket shopping online, which is how I spend every waking hour I'm not at work or the gym these days. Fun, isn't it? I hope the sarcasm is palpable. Happy President's Day.

Updates

2012-02-18T12:24:00.000-08:00

Hello, long lost blog. Geez. I almost forgot how to work this thing.

I haven't had the mental energy to contribute random nonsense to this digital high school we call the Internets in several weeks for many reasons: 1) my brain has been eaten by a wedding (3 months to go. Hurray!), 2) new job with new people, new policies and procedures, and a whole new glossary of acronyms to memorize, 3) a trip to California for a super lovely bridal shower and well needed sniff of my security blankey of friends and family, 4) a trip to Le Carnaval de Quebec, 5) a cold that wiped it's ass with me for three weeks, and 6) too many minutes of the day spent calculating Weight Watchers points and planning meals. Two of these personal life distractions are now combined, since Weight Watchers meetings are now held at work. I love it when my to do list and my lunch break unite in holy matrimony. Now, onto today's order of business.

1) Happy New Year!
2) Happy Valentine's Day!
3) Happy St. Pat...nevermind. Let's not get ahead of ourselves.
4) If you were having a shabby chic Parisian wedding reception, would you pick *white or black candelabras? Decisions. Decisions.

*(Pictures courtesy of some place on Google, where all pictures come from.)

Christmas Eve Eve

2011-12-23T17:34:00.000-08:00

It's the night before the night before Christmas and the house is clean, presents are wrapped and occupying a metric ass-ton of space under the tree, and a boozy Christmas cake is in the oven. As I was making the batter, I heard sirens right outside my house, so I rushed outside to make sure everyone was merry and bright. To my delight, our local small-town fire department was pulling Santa Claus right through our neighborhood on the back of one of their fire engines! We exchanged waves and smiles, and just like that, they were gone. What an unexpected treat. Now if only we could have a white Christmas...

Happy Owl-idays!

2011-12-11T11:24:00.000-08:00

I'm creating a love affair with gift wrap. I can't help it. It's so pretty. Sure, I'm mixing it up under the Christmas tree this year...a couple varieties of snowmen, a good old-fashioned Santa here and there for the kids, some delicate damask-ish swirly foil and velvet papier, but no one can deny there's a definite theme unfolding...

Nostalgia and Nutmeg

2011-12-11T11:10:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was my beloved Nana's birthday. She would have been 85. She loved Christmas, and every year she turned her house inside out to create a winter wonderland. She threw a huge Christmas Eve party for which she spent the entire week before the fete baking and cooking and preparing to show her friends and family how much she loved them. She was the most loving and influential person to ever grace my life.

In honor of her birthday and her love of Christmas, we made her signature Lebanese anise flavored dessert pastry called ka'ak. It smells and tastes like love.

O' Christmas Tree

2011-12-11T10:52:00.000-08:00

We decided to cut our own tree down this year. In California, we didn't really have the option of perusing a tree farm until we found the perfect tree. Typically we just had to pick the least egregious of the dry, sparse, pre-cut, and over-priced trees available to us.

But this year...

...pine scented paradise...

...a free air show...

...a beautiful sunset...

...and this gorgeous girl. Welcome to the family!

1 year

2011-11-22T21:18:00.000-08:00

One year ago tonight, my sweetie asked me to marry him at the top of l'Arc de Triomphe. We weren't planning a long engagement, but here we are STILL deciding wedding plans. To celebrate the anniversary of our engagement, he sent me these...

...and this is what the card said...

Oui un million de fois.

Exciting news!

2011-11-22T12:45:00.000-08:00

Sunday morning my sister and I went to a local diner for pumpkin pancakes. It's a cute little box car turned restaurant that can only hold about 50 people. The waitresses carry on conversations using their outside voices, so for people who like to eavesdrop, it's a good time.

There are a few booths in the place and bar seating in front of the grill, reminiscent of a Waffle House. We happened to be seated behind the bar seating. In walks one of the "regulars." He's old, disheveled, and in need of a shave. He smokes so much that his white hair is really sort of the color of a Twinkie, and we've seen him before roaming the neighborhood at night in his reflective fireman's jacket.

He sits at the bar, and the waitress greets him. "Hello, Smitty," she says. Smitty. I live somewhere with 1) a local box car diner within walking distance of my home, and 2) a local box car diner within walking distance from my home with a regular named Smitty. My new life never ceases to surprise me.

The best part was when the waitress ordered him to go across the street and fetch her a pack of smokes and a diet coke. God bless New Jersey.

In other exciting news, I called a tax company yesterday with some questions, and the guy on the other end of the phone kept referring to me and my fiance as "yous." Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore.

If I had a tumor, I'd name it Flauta.

2011-11-09T17:47:00.000-08:00

Mexican food is hard to find here. Let me rephrase that. Good, nay decent, Mexican food is hard to find here. Southern California is probably the closest thing to taco perfection short of living IN Mexico, and we left it all behind to feel, after every meal, that we've just eaten something that came out of a box. A box it was in for a very, very long time.

My sister and I have been searching for a decent taco since we moved here in August. We've been eating our way through "tortilla" soup that was really more like chicken vegetable. You know, due to the lack of TORTILLAS in it. Or cheese. Or avocado. Or tomato.

We've eaten gross, crumbly tamales with weird sauces, sour cream that tastes like glue, salsa that tastes like tomato paste with cilantro in it, and cardboard chips. They're effing up CHIPS, folks. HOW?

Tonight's dining experience takes the cake, though. How can a flauta taste like nothing? Literally, nothing. We knew there was food in our mouths, because we were chewing, but aside from that, there was no indication. Lucky for us, the flautas came with a side of refried beans. Unlucky for us, the beans tasted nothing like beans. In fact, they were so odd that I couldn't even bring myself to take a second bite to help me decipher why they were odd. I just knew that I didn't want to eat any more of them. My sister described the flavor as "if melanoma had a taste." That's right, kids, we are eating Mexicancer.

To top it off, on the way out we noticed that the Health Department had given the place a rating of "satisfactory." The optimist in me is hoping that there are only two ratings, satisfactory and unsatisfactory, and that our health has not been compromised. The realist in me is thinking that there are probably a few ratings above satisfactory, and nothing below or between satisfactory and condemned. Lord knows what's in those terrifying "beans."

It doesn't help that most of the restaurants in our neck of the woods are BYOB, so we can't even fool ourselves into liking the food by drowning our sorrows in an overly sweetened Margarita with an aftertaste like rotten grapefruit juice and fish sauce. BYOB is the worst thing to happen to me since that bullshit ending of The Sopranos. The only thing better than going out to dinner and not having to wash dishes is going out to dinner, getting drunk, and not having to wash dishes. When I go home to visit, I am hooking myself up with a cancer-free Mexican smorgasbord and a baker's dozen of Margaritas. Ole!

Well that didn't take long.

2011-11-07T13:24:00.000-08:00

I recently found myself on an elliptical machine at the gym in the middle of a work day crying at a clip of The Rachael Ray Show. WHO am I? Really. And just like that, I'm that girl. The me from six months ago would totally kick the current me's ass. In fact, current me is thinking about kicking my own ass. That's all.

Happy Halloween from New Brrr-sey

2011-10-31T12:36:00.000-07:00

This Halloween season, we did all of the traditional fall activities that make the season fun: haunted hayride, spooky mini golf, pumpkin patch, and pumpkin carving...

...and then we did some non-traditional stuff, too, like drive through a blizzard to an eventually cancelled Halloween party with our never-to-be unveiled costumes in tow. My eyelashes held a combination of fluffy flurries and tears.

Eleven!

2011-10-27T12:47:00.000-07:00

Put another candle on his birthday burger...

Look at that tail go!

He's another year old and still having a pretty good time.

And it don't stop!

2011-10-14T13:44:00.000-07:00

My search for a wedding dress continues! After going to several bridal salons and asking them if they had anything "less bridal," I decided to just stop shopping for bridal gowns and start shopping for evening gowns. I typed in "evening gowns" into my cell phone navigation system, and off I went from store to store. Store #1, some gowns came close, but no cigar. Store #2 smelled like cigarettes, nursing home perfume, and spearmint gum. Definitely not.

I walked into the third store. Seemed nice enough. Chandelier. Fancy wallpaper. 2 points for store #3. The front desk guy asked if he could help me. 2 more points. I told him what I was looking for, and he said someone would be right with me. Another 2 points. He offered me his DJ services. Very nice. One-stop-shop. Another 2 points. All the while, he was awkwardly being wired up with some ankle device. I assumed he was on some sort of house arrest and continued to browse the racks. "My family has a reality show," he said, "Jersey Couture. It's on Oxygen. Oprah owns it." Sweet Jesus. Really? Minus 100 points.

"Ah, never heard of it," I replied, which gave me great pleasure. What had I gotten myself into? I reluctantly had a seat and waited my turn.

I finally got called into the back and saw that they were filming. Swell, I thought. This may take a while. I just wanted to breeze in and breeze out. When I shop, I'm kind of like a lioness stalking prey. My eyes are like Las Vegas surveillance cameras scanning for criminals, but unfortunately they weren't having any luck.

I showed the sales girl who was helping me a few pictures of something I'd be interested in, and it soon became apparent I had come to the wrong place. She brought back a few of the simplest gowns she could find, but nothing I would be interested in. Had I seen the show, I would have known that they're totally Jersey, and my dumb ass was in there asking for "something with no bedazzles!" Ha!

Defeated, my sales girl turns to another employee and says, "Do we have any simple white gowns?" She turns to me and says, "Simple? Since when do we do simple? Haventcha had ya cawfee taday?"

In California, a bitch would choke you for that, but since everyone in the service industry seems to speak to people that way here, I'm starting to get used to it. Water off a duck's back, as they say. If you're looking for cordiality, New Jersey is not the place. "Yeah. Wrong store," I said and walked out.

Later I told my MIL-to-be (a long time NJ resident) about the experience, and she filled me in on the dress shop and the show. Boy, had I happened upon the wrong place! Between this and my recent afternoon spent a la Brownstone, these reality TV adventures are keeping me busy. Maybe I shall venture to Carlo's Bake Shop in Hoboken to complete the holy trinity. When people ask me what my wedding theme is, clearly it's New Jersey reality television. Bada bing!

The Colors of October

2011-10-13T12:55:00.000-07:00

A Taste of Summer

2011-10-06T13:56:00.000-07:00

The temperature may have cooled down, but my taste for summer salads has not. This salad has been a staple for the past week. Here's how you make it:

watermelon slices
fresh basil leaves, torn or chopped
a drizzle of honey (I like hot honey flavored with chili peppers)
freshly ground pepper

Now that I'm settled in, I'm back on Weight Watchers. The best part about this salad is that it's less than 1 point. Feels pretty fancy for half of a point.

Fall Postcards from the East

2011-10-05T11:18:00.001-07:00

I'm posting these to remind myself in a few weeks why I agreed to move here...you know...in between crying and showering for warmth instead of hygiene. Maybe I can order one of those birthing pools for my living room and turn it into a hot tub. A very hot hot tub.

Quaint AND Metropolitan: Weekend Edition

2011-10-03T11:37:00.000-07:00

Like most of the towns in New Jersey I have come across, my new home town has a charming little Main Street. There are a few restaurants and consignment shops, an ice cream stand, and of course, City Hall and our neighborhood firehouse. It's adorable. They've even decorated each lamppost with a festive spray of corn stalks and ribbon for fall. I am looking forward to their Christmas decor.

We had a short-lived cold spell after Labor Day, but I think summer may actually be over this time. This means that I could finally enjoy the patio seating along Main Street without being devoured alive by insects. To celebrate, my sweetie and I enjoyed a date night Friday and took in the trees and crisp air over a few glasses of wine.

This weekend, we've enjoyed a high of 55 degrees, and the down comforter that visited us briefly in September made its way back to our bed last night. Saturday night, we braved the New York City wind and went here and saw her. What a lovely night.

LOVE!

2011-09-30T10:37:00.000-07:00

Everything about this makes my heart dance. If I were into that sort of thing, I would snatch up Adele and make her mine.

You are here.

2011-09-28T06:52:00.001-07:00

I am chronically lost. Sure, I can get around courtesy of the GPS, but if that thing poops out, I'm screwed. I don't know where our friends and family live in relation to us, or if the big city lights I see driving up the Turnpike are Manhattan lights or those of another city. We came up with this "Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader" solution. We eat in front of a map. Every time I travel someplace new, I stick a marker on the map. Every morning when I sit down to eat my Kashi waffle with crunchy pb and hot honey (Yes, honey with chilies in it. And it is divine.), I eyeball the distance from Cape May to Philly to Trenton to Newark to Manhattan to Suffern. What can I say? I'm a visual learner.

*My fall tablecloth and leaf bouquet are courtesy of Christmas Tree Shops and totaled about $10. We do not have Christmas Tree Shops in California, but it's one of my new favorite places. We picked up 2 esthetically pleasing bar stools for under $50. Why thank you, CTS, I DO love a bargain. If I ever find myself in need of holiday themed butter dishes and gravy boats, I know I can count on you.

Autumn Has Arrived

2011-09-27T16:42:00.000-07:00

I have been falling way behind on blogging duties during this never-ending adjustment to moving (and it has been quite an adjustment), except now instead of slacking due to stress, I'm slacking due to fun. Here are some of the things that have been keeping me busy.

The Feast of San Gennaro in NYC.

Sausage and Peppers.

Zeppoles anyone?

Double rainbow all the way? What does it mean? Apparently the pot of gold is in Bally's, Atlantic City. My wallet sternly disagrees.

Lucy the Margate Elephant

Apple picking...

...and the fruits of our labor.

How do you like those apples?

Limbo

2011-09-22T12:44:00.001-07:00

I have finished unpacking and am settling into normal life here in the Garden State. I have joined a gym, navigated to and fro a handful of places sans the GPS, and located an establishment that serves a decent fish taco up in here. I have worked through all the red tape of moving - address changes, insurance changes, house sales. When I am not currently wading through a 100 page stack of escrow papers, I find myself meditating about what's next. Wedding plans. Career changes (hopefully).

What do I want from the universe, and how can I accomplish it? How can I be useful, but still be happy? What can I offer? What can I reap?

This morning in Yoga class, we ended by laying in the quiet darkness, still for the length of just one song. A tiny gift to reward ourselves for enduring the endless maelstrom of information and stimulation we are bombarded with and or seek out. Now that I've have a moment to breathe, what to do? What to do? What path shall I take? Go to Spain, the voice said. No, Greece, it argued. Maybe, one day.

I haven't been allowed this luxury since high school. It's both wonderful and mildly terrifying. So much of one's identity is wrapped up in what they do, not who they are. This is a shift for me. The gift of choice versus necessity. What a lucky girl am I.

The New Adventures of Old Amberella

2011-09-11T08:24:00.000-07:00

I finally made it to New Jersey. Five days + a minivan + my sister + an ice chest + my dog = a super fly adventure + 7 mosquito bites + 2 years off my life. Here is a summary of my travels.

Day 1: Drove through California and Arizona to New Mexico. Desert, high gas prices, 100-degree temperatures. Nothing new or exciting, except some rain and a kick ass thunderstorm in Gallup, NM where we spent the night. Day 2: Drove through Texas. Huge bugs, more desert, cows everywhere. Here I had my first, last, and only peeing outdoors moment after driving miles upon miles before finding a roadside gas station only to be told that they had no plumbing. So I peed outside next to a dead cat and ironically staring over a field filled with tires and old commodes. Enough squat-copping experience for me. We went on to Oklahoma to spend the evening with my nephew’s family. Day 3: We drove through the rest of Oklahoma amid lots of dead armadillos to Fayetteville, Arkansas to stay with friends for the night. What a charming place! Loved the quaint charm and crunchiness of the downtown community garden and library. It made me want to stop shaving my armpits and do some Yoga. Day 4: Nashville, Tennessee. We stopped in Memphis to scale Graceland’s walls with our eyes and to get some Memphis BBQ, turnip greens, fried okra, and homemade sweet potato pie. We also stopped at a Waffle House in Nashville for breakfast, where I ate grits and at least seven sticks of butter. Day 5: This is where we mark the end of the peaceful journey. Day 5 was a bit ambitious and therefore exhausting. The GPS told us it would be 12 hours to New Jersey. Having driven two 12-hour days already, we were in. The problem was that the GPS was full of shit, and we ended up driving for about 16 hours, arriving at 3 am in New Jersey with a pretty penny paid to Maryland tolls and a serious case of sleep deprivation-induced delirium.

How did New Jersey greet us? With an earthquake and a hurricane. I spent the first week here fretting about flooded basements, power outages, tornadoes, and falling trees. We fared pretty well through the storm, so I spent the second week here fretting about West Nile virus, Lyme disease, and hitting deer. Deer. As in massive furry beasts that commit suicide with your car. Driving has just gotten increasingly frightening. Learning to drive here is quite an experience. I’m not just talking about the jug handles or traffic circles or deer. I’m mostly referring to other drivers.

I think because this state is a tiny wee-bitty shrinky dink of a thing, its residents have a sort of Napoleon complex. They always want to be the first, the best, the most, the fastest fill-in-the-blank. Because of this innate arrogance and impatience, east coast drivers honk for EVERYTHING. In California, we honk for danger or as a courtesy to alert someone that the light has turned green. Out here people honk as an extension of emotion. “My wife burned the meatloaf. HONK!” “I got my period! HONK HONK!!” “Look, a bird! HONK HONK HOOOOOONK!!!” Highly unnerving and annoying. Plus, since I don’t know where I’m going EVER, I have to drive with the GPS lady screaming, “RECALCULATING RECALCULATING,” in my ear every five seconds. Heaven help me.

When I called to obtain NJ car insurance, the agent asked me if I had taken a course called Defensive Driving. No, I said. She replied, “Well you’re gonna need it. Welcome to New Jersey.” My internal monologue was all like “Hey. Oh. Don’t worry bout what I’m doin, worry bout what yous are doin. Keep ya eyes awn ya own papa. Eh? I’m walkin ova hea! When the entire state takes a course on manners, I’ll take Defensive Driving. Bada bing!” My external voice just said OK.

The good news about my arrival is that I have unpacked 2 out of 3 floors. High five! My basement currently looks like a scene out of The Poseidon Adventure after the ship tips over and all the contents of the room are toppled into a corner. I haven’t gotten to it yet, because I’ve been too busy eating corn and tomatoes and hanging out at the DMV for days trying to get a license and NJ registration. Now I have to go back AGAIN for an inspection. Sweet Lawd, make it stop.

Also good, it was 65 degrees and raining for a while. Labor Day came and the very next day the summertime shop was shut the f down. Bananas. Speaking of bananas, Rachel Zoe has started again. This should also subtract from my time spent unpacking the basement, because I am addicted. She is a top contender for the most batshit crazy points of anyone on TV right now, since Kate Plus Eight and LA Ink are getting cancelled (Amen!). I think the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills are going to give Ms. Zoe a run for her money this season though. Poor basement. It may never get done.

More later…

Blinded by the Light

2011-08-03T14:58:00.000-07:00

I have lived in the same neighborhood for ten years, and for ten years I have walked what I have dubbed the "walk of doom" uphill through two neighborhoods and back. It's an hour long workout and a pretty good one at that. Yesterday I went on the usual walk of doom but noted two very unusual incidents in two separate neighborhoods.

In neighborhood one, I was making my way up the first hill and saw what appeared to be a big black crow digging around in some one's lawn. Upon closer inspection, I realized it was a chicken. In someone's front yard. Weird. (Zacky Farms commercials have ruined my perception of chickens, because I totally thought chickens were white. But no.) Alas, big black chicken. I thought it odd and carried on.

As I was winding down my walk in neighborhood two, I came across TWO chickens in someone's yard. In the front yard of my old house, even. Say what? Twice. What what? This is a sign, I thought! What were the odds that on the same day I saw chickens in a yard not once but twice? And in the yard of a house I used to live in? I busted out my cell phone from my sports bra and hurriedly looked up the symbolism of chickens.

My google search yielded a preliminary and scary result. Chickens symbolize fertility. Yikes! Not now. Oh, Lord. Please. Whoa. No.

I arrived home to find my sister and her (very, very pregnant) friend seated in the living room. Phew! Not it!

I settled in to look up an alternative meaning. Scrolling...scrolling. Ah.

"The chicken is a transitional creature, one poised on the liminal threshold of change. They must be aware in darkness, for they wake in that time and place and know to look for the light; they are the early worshippers of the enduring cycle of life."

That's more like it.

For the past few weeks, I've been camping in my house as it's up for sale, and my sweetie awaits me in New Jersey. It has not been fun. I have no cable, no Internet, and am at the beck and call of Realtors and goofy ass buyers calling me from my driveway at 0800 to see if they can view my home. If they do make an appointment, 50% of them are no shows, and one Realtor called today to confirm a time so he won't "bail on me." I swear he was a 15 year old surfer. What kind of professional says that?

It's been hard juggling home repairs, constant cleaning, missing my sweetie, and indescribable boredom. But there will be light! A new and wonderful life awaits. I just have to make it through this darkness.

Christmas in July

2011-07-16T21:39:00.000-07:00

In preparation for my move to New Jersey, I have begun to weed through the various and sundry items that have accumulated in my garage. These items include hand-me-down Christmas ornaments from my beloved Nana, some of which surprised me. Behold what I found in Nana's box of Christmas perversions.

Diddles the Elf

This little drummer boy appears to enjoy beating his stick. Who said Christmas was for kids?

Next, we have cute little Santa. He looks benign from the front.

Turn around, bright eyes...

But wait. What is tha...is that a...oh my. Either there's no time for potty breaks whilst delivering toys or Mrs. Claus is a wig. Maybe Diddles and Santa have some splaining to do.

Anus Claus is scary, but not as disturbing as Pedophile Santa and his sack full of...um...children?

"Ho Ho Ho. Merry Christmas to me."

Garden State

2011-07-16T21:16:00.000-07:00

Here is Zach Braff in Garden State.

Here I am in the Garden State, blending into the carpet at Caesar's in Atlantic City. Carpet carpet carpet carpet carpet chameleon. You come and go. You come and go.

Mover and Shaker

2011-06-23T21:05:00.000-07:00

I guess getting married isn't the only big change a comin'. I'm going to be a Jersey girl! Er, transplant anyway. One day in the very near future I'm going to wake up in a new home, in a new town, with a new name, and possibly find myself behind the wheel of a large automobile (with all weather tires). And I may ask myself, well, how did I get here? Like whoa. Thusly, I've compiled lists of things I will and will not miss and things I am and am not looking forward to because, well, I love lists, and because my sweetie left to pave the way last week and I have nothing to do in his absence except for things I am avoiding doing. So, here we go.

Things I will miss about California:

my sister
my family and friends
the weather
sunsets on the beach
the ubiquitous avocado (Yes! I WOULD like to add it for $.50 extra.)
Mexican restaurants on every corner
Los Angeles
the Hat
U-turns

Things I will not miss about California:

taxes
traffic
earthquakes
foxtails
neck tattoos
maternity booty shorts

Things I am looking forward to in New Jersey:

being with my sweetie again
my sweetie's family
full service gas stations
leopard print extravaganza
tomatoes and peaches
snowy Christmases
trips to NYC
colonial houses with black shutters
the possibility of running into Caroline Manzo

Things I am not looking forward to about New Jersey:

packing. moving. unpacking. ugh.
humidity
shoveling snow
6 months of cold
mosquitoes
long plane rides home to visit

East coast, hear I come! I'm watching Good Will Hunting to gear up. I know it's the wrong state, but gawd, I love this movie and its Elliott Smith-a-thon soundtrack! Shexshy!

Wedding plans, I hope to see you again soon, but I've bigger fish to fry right now, such as finding a home and practicing giving the finger.

I know there's bird flu and swine flu, but is there a bunny flu?

2011-04-25T15:20:00.000-07:00

I am home sick today, and because I feel like yuck, I will take advantage of the thirty pounds of candy sitting in the kitchen, because cooking involves standing and standing is no good. Thus, chocolate for breakfast! Weeeeeee! And breakfast at 3pm! Double weeeeeee!

I must say that any candy is infinitely improved when it is manufactured in the shape of an egg. Nestle Crunch, meh. Nestle Crunch shaped like an egg = awesome! When I'm well, I plan on starting a year-round egg shaped candy revolution.

Also, I'd like to toast (a chocolate macadamia nut cluster) to an Easter free from earthquakes and doggy ER visits. Hip hippity hoppity hooray!

Charo and the Elephant Man

2011-04-05T21:54:00.000-07:00

I just made the mistake of watching the Real Housewives of Miami reunion on Bravo, which is like reading the cliff notes to La Concubina del Diablo. Pure trash. This is the first time I have watched these bitches, and sweet Jesus, what a mess. They make the Real Housewives of Orange County look like neurosurgeons. Has anyone watched this show? ANYONE? I'm hoping from Andy's look of disgust that this will be the first, last, and only season of this abortion to see air time. I'd rather watch Andy take a steamer on the camera lens than watch this crap, and I have a shamefully low bar for reality TV. It's not without a few take-aways, however.

1) Nothing good comes from or resides in Miami.
2) A crucifix and hoop earrings are just as ghetto now as they were twenty years ago.
3) Face fillers are bad and will make you look like a luck dragon.
4) Asking a "psychic" for a reading at a dinner party will only end badly. Didn't that moron watch RHOBH?

A-salad-I-make-mmm

2011-04-04T17:35:00.000-07:00

Yeah, I know. Why don't you come up with a clever salad blog title.

This month marks my one year anniversary on Weight Watchers, and what have I to show for it? A mere twenty pound weight loss. Boy, did I have something else in mind. I have no choice but to keep on keepin' on, which is less than alluring, but this appears to be my life. Needless to say, vegetables have gotten BORING. Here are my current favorite salads that don't make me want to drive into the center divider.

Side Note: Although Trader Joe's does not pay me for my perpetual TJ endorsements, um, they should.

Asian Broccoli Slaw

pre-slawed and bagged broccoli slaw from TJ's
chopped honey roasted peanuts (used sparingly)
cilantro
TJ's low-fat Asian Spicy Peanut Vinaigrette

Italian Celery Mushroom Salad

thinly sliced bunch of celery (including tops)
thinly sliced onion of any color
sliced mushrooms of any sort (I like Portobello)
TJ's shaved parmesan curls
olive oil
lemon juice
TJ's Everyday Seasoning

Kale and Seaweed Salad

chopped bunch of kale - mildly blanched or steamed (a bag of ready to go kale is worth the $!)
julienned carrots
finely shredded red cabbage
rice wine vinegar
sesame oil
toasted sesame seeds
top with torn sheets of TJ's Roasted Seaweed Snack

Angry Salad

Go to Souplantation
Build an 8 inch high plate of every vegetable they have
Dress with fat free Italian
Chew angrily while you watch everyone else eat bowls full of creamy soups and ice cream after consuming pounds of pizza, baked potatoes, and corn bread
Repeat

Some Whine With My Cheese

2011-04-01T17:18:00.000-07:00

My cheese, by the way, is a fine aged cheddar.

Proof?

1) I sat down at a bar the other night, and the twenty-something behind the bar offered me a glass of Chardonnay.

2) I considered accepting her offer until rebelliously ordering a vodka and cranberry - the official drink of young sluts - girls who would order a Cosmopolitan if it weren't totally cliche. Thanks, SJP.

3) I am purchasing tickets for a Don McLean concert. Bye bye, Miss American Pie. Hello, Miss Hometown Buffet Bread Pudding.

4) I just saw that Air Supply is also playing a show, to which I excitedly responded out loud, "Ahhh, get outta town!"

5) I would totally buy tickets, except it's at 8pm on a Wednesday, and I don't think I can stay out that late.

6) I recently discovered that I like anchovies.

7) And dry sherry.

8) I made a reference to the Epilady at a party recently, and none of the other guests knew what I was talking about.

9) I found myself listening to K-EARTH 101 on my way to work this morning, because I'm apparently now their demographic.

10) Yesterday, I turned down a diet soda because of its sodium content.

I guess I should cut my hair like Sandy Duncan's, throw away my heels, and sew up my vagina. I have become my mother. Not my cool 1978 mother. My very uncool 1998 mother.

P.S. If you had to Google who Sandy Duncan is, fuck you.

Signs, Signs, Everywhere a Sign

2011-03-12T21:03:00.000-08:00

A few days ago, I was at my wit's end trying to figure out a suitable wedding solution. I was so tired of calling and emailing venues just to be disappointed about their ridiculous wedding package prices that I has almost decided to just not have a wedding. Then I asked God for a sign that I should have a wedding. I asked for the specific sign to be that I would hear "Maneater" by Hall and Oates on the way home from work that day. My plan was to put the car stereo on scan and see if I received the sign, and that is what I did.

I did not hear the song, but I did hear a reference to getting married on a talk radio station. I walked in the house, turned on the news and heard yet another reference to a bride-to-be. I quickly tired of the news and flipped to a re-run of Gilmore Girls. The particular episode was the one where Lorelai was having trouble planning her wedding, and then one day she just happened upon the perfect dress and the wedding plans all fell into place in one day. I'm not lying.

Next, I flipped to an episode of Sex and the City. It just so happened to be the episode where Carrie moved to Paris with that nasty shriveled old Russian artist, and Big came to fetch her to tell her she's the one. Paris + the one = a sign.

As if this weren't enough, I went online this morning to find this blog post from my MIL-to-be. She didn't even know of my penchant for Hall and Oates at the time of its posting. Imagine that! It's like God's way of saying, "You silly little bitch, you don't make the rules, I do. You want signs, fine, but it's not going to be whoa-oh here she comes." Duly noted. You call the shots, dude. (I say dude with the utmost respect.)

As if these signs could possibly be topped, God may not only have told me that, yes, I should have a wedding, but He may have hooked us up with a feasible way to do so. My FIL-to-be has some rather exceptional connections. Things are looking up. Now all I need is a sign about where to get a suitable dress. I'm listening, God. You have my full attention.

Optional Modesty Piece

2011-03-10T20:11:00.000-08:00

Toro!

I have several complaints about the wedding industry, but today's post is about the despair of the torture du jour known as bridal dress shopping. It allows for no modesty whatsoever. Let me start by complaining about the strapless revolution that has taken the last decade by storm. It's no one's friend, least of all anyone with bigger than a B cup and a modicum of back fat. And armpits. Ugh. Armpits are the taints of the upper body. I am more comfortable watching women breastfeed than I am accidentally gazing into an armgina.

Not for me, thanks. But there's no other option. David forbid anyone should want to cover their shoulders, flabby triceps, or unfortunate back tattoo; the only choice we have is to look like an MOB, a matador, or Princess Diana circa 1981. No es bueno para una modern bride. One has quite the varied choice in "optional modesty pieces:" 1) stiff boa constrictor-like taffeta bolero, 2) chiffon shrug (which is the same as being naked, just tinted a different color), or 3) some bedazzled arm nylons left over from the making of the Material Girl video.

As if that weren't painful enough, bridal boutiques are like a miserable mix between a used car lot and the gynecologist. In many places, one cannot browse, try on, or assess dresses without Desiree, Rose, or Bonita (No joke. Are these names for real or do they make them up like strippers do?) totally up one's ass trying to upsell some ugly dress so they can get the comish. I'm a grown woman. I can dress myself. I do it everyday. I do not want the help of a stranger. I'm sure there are chicks who would love the undivided attention whilst they stand on the dressing room pedestal in a see-through slip pulling dresses on and off and oohing and ahhing at themselves in the mirror, but I am not one of them. They only eyes I want on me, while I'm half naked in a dress that doesn't fit and is clipped to my bra, are mine, and I'm not even 100% comfortable with that. It's like getting a pap-smear of the soul without the luxury of the paper dress.

It's cheaper than LSD

2011-03-10T19:44:00.000-08:00

I have a silly compulsion where I try to make a faces out of random shapes, objects, and negative space. I guess this is a left over survival technique from infancy where I needed to recognize my mother's face so I wouldn't starve to death...or something. I've seen my Uncle Frank's likeness in linoleum, dog faces made out of glow in the dark stars stuck to my window, and the Virgin Mary in my friend's doggy door. Cars have faces, wood grain has faces, and drywall has faces.

This skill has come quite in handy the last two days as I stare tiredly into my computer screen at work. There's a huge window just to the left of my computer, outside of which there is a giant tree that sways in the breeze and casts shadow faces on the blinds. I can sit for hours watching Michael Meyers turn to Jason Vorhees and then to Alfred Hitchcock. The Scream mask, the Easter Bunny, Mr. Ed. Benjamin Franklin, Blinky, the Leprachaun. Mickey Mouse, Snoopy, Omar Sharif. Andre the Giant, Che Guevara, Betty Boop. The faces melt quickly into each other and overwhelm my senses into believing that I've just undergone some freaky form of time travel. It's sort of awesome. Also, totally better when I'm getting paid to do it. Holla!

Fortune Coochie

2011-03-01T17:53:00.000-08:00

I'm happy to report that I'd still be having a humdrum menstrual cycle if not for the marketing geniuses at Playtex printing motivational phrases on my tampon wrappers. Thanks Playtex! Next time I'm too crampy to dance, I'll just pull out my trusty femmy hygiene products instructing me to move my feet and grab my partner, do-si-do. I'll take the plunge! Live my dream!

Side Note: Dear Marketers, I've been buying these tampons for years. Today is the first day I noticed that they said something. I hope you didn't devote too many hours sitting around a conference table on this.

V-Day: T & A Style

2011-02-14T19:35:00.001-08:00

Guess which bear came from whom?

The thing about favorite songs...

2011-01-16T19:43:00.000-08:00

is that they get replaced as frequently as rolls of toilet paper. Here's my new one.

I'm Really Not a Stalker

2011-01-16T10:17:00.000-08:00

Before October, I had a 2 to 3 hour daily commute since the beginning of time. During those years I became well acquainted with morning talk radio. One of my all time favs was The Adam Carolla Show. I enjoyed Adam's pessimistic humor, but mostly I enjoyed his sidekick, Teresa Strasser. She's way more subtle and not an asshole. I followed her on the radio for years, and when she left radio briefly, I followed her podcasts online. Teresa is also the author of this blog, and subsequently this book by the same name, both of which I love. So when I found out she was doing a book signing, I decided I had to go. I'd never been to a book signing before, and she's kind of a hero of mine, so off I went. Alone.

On the car ride to the book store, alone, I had lots of time to obsess over how I thought the the evening might go down, because this is what I do. One of the reasons I love Teresa is because, like me, she is totally neurotic and therefore makes me feel like less of a freakshow. If she can be successful, there's hope that I can be, too.

I considered just stopping in to buy the book and then spying for a minute through the window at the signing, but skipping the personal exchange part, because wtf would I say? Hi, I think you're the shit, and she'd be all yeah, I know, that's why you dragged your ass down here on a school night to meet me, and I'd be all like I suck and you rock and...(whistling)...

Then I thought what if no one shows up but me? It IS a school night and this IS Laguna Beach and her fan base is probably mostly in LA. What if I get there and she's like thanks for coming, you wanna grab a pizza? Then I imagined a whole hour long dinner during which we drank shots of Jameson, ate fatty carbs, and said fuck a lot. I hope the fact that I know this is completely delusional precludes me from having mental illness, but this is what I do. This is what I have ALWAYS done.

When I was six years old, I would lay on my top bunk bed surrounded by stuffed animals, and while all the other neighborhood children were riding their bikes up and down the block, I was thinking about what the universe would be like if life was never created. No plants, no water, no people, no God, no sun. Just a white canvas of nothingness. My ears would start ringing from the silence of the room and the bleakness of my thoughts, and I'd get so totally freaked out that I'd leap off the bunk bed and run outside shaking my head looking for a normal kid to play with. That's a fucking weird 6 year old, but this is who I am. Believe me, it hurts/annoys/bores me more than it does you.

I finally arrived at the book signing. It was at a charming bookstore that oozed artistic wit and estrogen, like a carton of Soy Yummy. I was one of the first to arrive, which gave me extra time to fixate on whether or not I'd be staying or leaving. I purchased the book from a stoic sales girl in bright red lipstick and decided I'd stay. I took a seat on an outer chair in one of the six or so rows of seats. KABC talk radio banners (promoting Teresa's current gig) lined almost every inch of the white walls in the long, rectangular industrial chic event room adjacent to the book store. I thumbed through the book, recognizing stories from the blog, and watched as the room filled, totally squelching my dream of a spontaneous dinner date.

Then I heard a voice from the back of the room that I recognized from years of listening to it. It was Teresa. She looked beautiful. Like objectively Hollywood beautiful. I mean I knew she was pretty, but I was wowed. She'd just had a baby, and there she was, tall, thin, wearing an orange silk minidress with a blue belt, lush eyelashes, lip gloss poppin' and looking gorgeous. Orange and blue! I know! Awesome! Right?!

She was introduced to the crowd and walked to the front of the room, confident and graceful. When she started speaking, I got a little verklempt, like a mother watching her child's first preschool performance. In a way, I felt I had been on a journey with Teresa from a first time radio try out to millions of people's favorite radio news girl, from a single woman to a wife and mother of a sweet little boy. I was proud of her. I was inspired by her. She began reading a chapter I recognized from her blog entitled "My Mother, the Rabbi and a Bag of Crap" about her son's circumcision, the first time she had seen her mother after more than a year of being estranged from her, and a post C-section dump that almost ruined the whole day. It was poignant and witty, at times making my eyes well up even more, and then interrupting my tears with laughter. It's the kind of stuff I live to read.

Teresa describes her mother's parenting style as a cocktail of "ambivalence and benign neglect." I think her mother and my mother may have been separated at birth, like some sort of bastardized version of the Bobbsey Twins...the Crappsey Twins. My mom was less Carol Brady and more Roseanne. Although I can thank her for a number of trial by fire lessons in survival skills, my cutesy, nurturing glass is empty. She wasn't very maternal, to say the least. Before she died, I know she loved me and was proud of my achievements in her own special way, but I have no Hallmark cards or scrapbooks to prove it. No birthday cupcakes baked for my school classes, no Sunday morning pancake breakfasts, no help preparing for prom, no advice on love, on marriage, or on how to balance a checkbook.

Even though I have no mother, I have Mother Teresa. She's like the cool, wise big sister I never had. She's done everything first: gone on bad dates, had terrible boyfriends, got married, had a baby, and despite her fears, turned out to be a wonderful mother. Until recently, I had given up on the idea of having a baby, because, like Teresa, I was terrified that I wouldn't know how to love it right, that somehow I'm missing a necessary mommy gene. Her story gives me hope that one day I'll surprise myself by rockin' the booties off of motherhood. She's the Grand Marshal of motherless daughters, and I look up to her for her career success, her strength as a daughter and a mother, and her kick ass style.

After she read the chapter and answered some questions from the audience, it was time to sign books. I made my way to the front part of the line, because I didn't want to lose my nerve. I was nervous. Legs shaking, heart racing. Not because she's a radio celeb or an Emmy Award winner, but because I really admire her. I also knew she was a total stranger and our meeting would probably be totally inconsequential , so I checked myself and marched on to meet her.

I chatted with the girl in front of me in line for a few minutes. She asked me to take pictures of her and Teresa, so I took her camera and started shooting away, but totally failed to get a shot of Teresa hugging her, because I was all OMG Teresa just hugged her and forgot I was supposed to be taking pictures. (Sorry, Sara from Dana Point!)

Then it was my turn, and I was all of a sudden painfully aware that I had just come from work (AKA Frumpytown) and was wearing a boring knit sweater, business casual pants, and sensible flats, like a middle-aged model for Coldwater Creek. To top it off, I had my dirty hair in a ponytail, no make-up on, and was wearing a scarf in 75 degree weather at the beach like a lunatic to hide this. But I couldn't focus on this, I was on in 4, 3, 2, 1.

It started out OK. "Hi, my name is Amberella. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Then my inner dork busted out like freakin' Kool Aid and I totally lost my shit.

"I heard you on the Parent Experiment hinting at plastic surgery, and please don't touch your nose, you have a beautiful nose, I mean really, you're a gorgeous lady and I totally love you, and OMG I feel like I'm on a first date..."

WHAT?! What have I done? I couldn't help it, it just came out. I sounded like a crazy lesbian stalker. Crazy, sure. Lesbian stalker, no. The last time I was this star struck was when I ran into Katherine Moennig from The L Word at the Abbey in West Hollywood (true story), which totally makes me sound like an even bigger crazier lesbian stalker, but I assure you, I'm just a girl who watches too much TV and listens to too much radio.

Even after I creeped her out with my Patchouli scented hair and psychotic jabbering, Teresa agreed to take a picture with me, which I'd totally love to post, but can't because she looks like a glamorous cover girl and I look like a four foot tall troll. Damn, that picture is so bittersweet! Also, I noticed Teresa's beautiful yellow diamond ring while I was talking to her but couldn't be all let me see your ring, so I came home and Googled "Teresa Strasser wedding ring" and do you know what I found? A picture of my own damn hand wearing a ring my sister bought me from the San Gennaro Festival in New York City that I posted on this very blog, so be careful what you post kids (especially you, Miley Cyrus!). The Internet is a very small place. Post wisely.

She signed my book, and I floated off half gleeful, half completely mortified. I didn't stay to see what happens after the books are signed. Maybe people with more balls than me stayed to chat with Teresa about more meaningful things, or to walk her to her car, I don't know. But like Teresa's long time friend, facilitator of the evening's Q&A session, and author of this blog pointed out that night, writers write so they won't have to talk to people, so here I am.

I walked back to my car recounting the events of the evening over and over in my head, obsessing about what I should have said, what I should have worn, and whether or not I should have stayed longer. I flipped through the pictures on my phone, back and forth and back and forth. Then I called my sweetie and began, "OMG she was so pretty and so funny and you're never gonna believe what I said to her, I mean it started out OK, but tell me if you think this sounds creepy..." BECAUSE THIS IS WHAT I DO!

Whooooooo is it?

2011-01-14T19:11:00.001-08:00

I've got nothing to say about this other than Awwwwwwww! I can't wait to wipe my feet on his face.

Stay away from the light, Carol Anne!

2011-01-14T18:59:00.000-08:00

I've been late to work every day for the last week. Why, you may ask? Every time I look into this 10x magnifying illuminated mirror = 15 minutes of squeezing, plucking, and picking. It's like the fuzzy TV screen in Poltergeist. I just can't look away. It's mesmerizing. It's so powerful that when I glance into it, I can see my sweetie's pores...when he's in the other room. My eyebrows have never looked so good, but this isn't exactly the boost a thirty-something woman needs to feel good about herself. I'm having a serious love-hate relationship with this mirror. It looks so inviting with its antique bronze finish, then BAM! it shows me my mustache. It fools you with trickery and then strikes you in the throat. Stupid razzle-dazzle, flimflam mirror.

Good Guiley Miss Miley

2011-01-14T18:40:00.001-08:00

Have you ever had a seemingly well meaning sweetheart lovingly pin you against the kitchen cabinet and then turn into a vicious vampire who purposely gnaws a big red mark on your neck because he (mistakenly) thinks it's funny? Because I have. A lot. If I was trying out for a gang or interested in breaking into the lucrative field of street walking, I would let that classy shit fly, but I'm not. So I have had to cover my neck for a week. The beginning of the week, I busted out the turtleneck sweaters. No big. But it's been 75 degrees for the past two days and the only choice I had was to wear a scarf. Luckily in California people don't look twice even if you're wearing a damn scarf in the summer. They just assume you're another Buddhist vegan hippie and keep on walking. Thank Hollywood for Boho chic.

P.S. This is not a promotional Miley post, but I assume as someone with so many lame self-taken pics of herself in her underwear pulling her shirt up posted on the Internet, she has to be a pro at hiding red marks. I wouldn't be surprised if she had a collection of vagina scarves. They sound a lot prettier than band-aids.

Anyone up for a game of Jenga and a beer?

2011-01-11T17:55:00.000-08:00

Today I forgot to wear my engagement ring for the first time. I looked down at my hand at work this morning and gasped. I was very sad but was soon comforted by the ease with which I can again obsessively and compulsively wash and lotion my hands. I suspect this lapse in memory was a subconscious F U to the wedding industry.

Sunday, I attended my first Bridal Expo. Yikes! I should have left when I saw the Spanish radio station booth outside. Against my better judgement, I went inside where it looked like a quinceanera exploded and scores of brides-to-be in pink bedazzled sweatsuits and tiaras were trying to pick up the pieces like some fucked up version of Humpty Dumpty and his sad, desperate King's men. Note to brides everywhere: you are not a princess. Ask Kate Middleton if she's ever been to the Long Beach Bridal Bazaar. I'm sure the answer starts with an "n" and ends with a hearty chuckle. Even if you are fooling yourselves, you are not fooling the rest of us.

The vendor for Khloe Kardashian's wedding kake was present, but it didn't look too tasty, so I called my favorite baker when we got home to schedule a tasting. Turns out I can't schedule a tasting until I book my venue, but I can't book my venue until I have a guest list, but I can't confirm my guest list until I find a venue that makes my heart sing. Wedding planning is like a constant sword fight between chicken and egg. A sober game of Jenga that leaves you frustrated and annoyed.

Like Jenga, weddings aren't fun unless you're drunk, but it would be remiss for a girl with a chronically illuminated check engine light in her car's dashboard to spend hundreds of dollars on a mass champagne bender. Shit is ridiculously overpriced. Cakes, liquor, 25 yards of well manicured lawn with a gazebo plopped on top. Why is 4 hours of overt narcissism so expensive? It has become blatantly obvious why many (much smarter) people just take a trip to the court house and chase it with an economical and frosty pitcher of beer.

Lemonade

2011-01-06T20:23:00.000-08:00

This week is generally slow passing and torturous as are all post-festivity weeks in which you begin staring a 5 month holiday-less streak right in the boring nostrils. Lucky for me, I can make a fantastic batch of lemonade. Allow me to highlight my good fortune.

1. Although I did not win the lottery this week (but thousands of couch potatoes with bad taste in television did), I discovered that my Sponge Bob Loser Pants neighbors are moving and taking their petulant brat child with them. It's about eviction time of the month, no? Hip hip hooray!!!

2. Malibu Barbie, a majorly annoying type 1 gym instructor, has been out this week, so I have gotten to hate being fat for one less hour a day.

3. I have been using leftover Christmas napkins at lunchtime. It makes me feel environmentally friendly, frugal, and keeps me feeling young by exercising my sense of make-believe.

4. I am grateful for Kleenex changing the tissue color from white to beige at the end of the box to alert you to buy a new box. Sure, I could save a few dimes by buying cheep Target brand tissues, but when I buy Kleenex, I'm buying a built-in warning system. It's magic. What if I get sick or start crying and then BAM! pluck the last freakin' tissue from the box without warning? Why don't they market this? They advertise stupid ass lotion in their tissue, but not this? It boggles the mind. Lucky for me, I already know the wonders of Kleenex.

Bucket List Items #1 and #2

2011-01-05T21:34:00.000-08:00

1. Make or receive a video this awesome.

2. Dance my socks off in a cow costume.

No News is Good News

2011-01-04T17:36:00.000-08:00

Today...

The air outside my office smelled mysteriously like toast. This was an alarming yet welcomed change from the usual lemon-grass aroma of the nasty trees.

I remembered a sweatshirt I had as a teenager that said, "Don't know. Don't care." That pretty much sums me up. I'm amazed at how well my 16 year old self was in touch with my true essence.

I spent a small fortune on lottery tickets. I justify this weekly expenditure by convincing myself that I'm helping the public school system immensely. Yes, I've convinced myself that gambling = less stupid people = charity. Who's stupid now? Anyway, if I win, I won't care because I'll build my stupid self a big stupid wall around a big stupid house to keep all the other big stupid people out and then be stupidly happy.

All I Need is a Little Asshole

2011-01-03T20:33:00.000-08:00

I'm finally home after errands and the gym, and I'm enjoying a little leisurely blog reading. I'm very grateful, because I came across a simple sentence that has given me a well needed chuckle for the past five minutes. Allow me to share.

"Meanwhile, we're quickly realizing that a down Internet, though lovely for the first week, has become a giant pain in our household's asshole."

Yes, that's it. Asshole. I don't care how old I get, asshole makes me laugh. As does butthole. I'm embarrassed to say so, but it's true. If someone gets pissed at me and calls me an asshole, all I can do is laugh in their face, even if I totally was an asshole, and especially if I totally deserved to be called out on it.

Similarly, when someone is venting their frustrations and uses the word, I find it hysterical. On the surface, I do not delight in others' suffering, but deep down, I think I find frustration funny. Not serious, life- threatening frustration mind you, but a down Internet is not that serious (even though it totally sucks, sucks, sucks).

Sometimes, when I'm having a bad day, my sweetie will purposefully call me a butthole because he knows I love it. What the hell is wrong with me? I'm about to turn 33. Although this is a moderately shameful and immature quality, I hope it never ends.

Disney Strikes Again

2011-01-01T12:59:00.000-08:00

Last year, I had a Disney experience I chalked up to a case of the Mondays, but after having two equally disappointing experiences last week, it appears this is just the new Disney. Cue the bagpipes and the 21 gun salute. The day after Christmas, my sweetie, my sister, and I went to Disneyland, because she and I love Disneyland and hadn't been in a year, and my sweetie is a benevolent man. The day was fine except that early in the day, the power went out at the Pirates of the Caribbean and Haunted Mansion, two of the best rides, and it stayed off for the rest of the day. At $70 a head, these fools can't figure out a generator or something? They have their own air space for the the love of God. 5, 7, 10 hours went by, still no power. Big time bummer.

This is certainly not my biggest beef. There may have been a huge problem with the electrical system, and I don't want to ride something unsafe, so this, although disappointing, was not the end of the world (although I will point out that every time we go, something is broken, and it's usually one of the big ones). This next complaint, however, is totally unacceptable and proves my point that young people suck at customer service. As a young-ish person, even I think that 20 somethings get four thumbs down for their service skills. Disneyland should raise the pay at Disneyland and hire older, more literate people, instead of the pubescent douchetards who currently run their parking lots, restaurants, etc.

Look, I see this statement is ageist and potentially offensive, but I consider it a simple case of ripening. Sure, some people like green bananas and some people like brown bananas, but most of us are right in the center of the bell curve and like our bananas yellow. I've heard many people say things like, "Man, my mom was awesome when I was a kid," or "My dad was really something in his prime." That's because, unless your parents were like Bristol Palin or Elton John, they were yellow flippin' bananas. But I digress. Back to Disneyland having shitty service.

New Year's eve, my sweetie and I met my aunt and uncle at Downtown Disney for dinner and fireworks. We wanted to sit outside, so we could sip champagne and enjoy the fireworks at midnight. All was splendid, until the propane in the space heater ran out. Laugh if you may, but 45 degrees to Californians is arctic, and it was darn cold. My aunt asked if we could move inside, and this is where the evening soured.

The manager, in all of his quarter century charm and so-Cal ego, snarkily informed us that we deserved to be cold because we chose to sit outside. "But your space heater is broken," we replied. After arguing back and forth, he finally said he would accommodate us by letting us move indoors, but we had to carry our own plates, because we were moving to a new waiter's section and who would we tip if staff carried our plates? Who would we tip? That was his concern?

My uncle then informed Captain Schmuckface that he'd been in the restaurant business since before that little manajerk was born, and FYI customers don't carry plates through a restaurant unless they are coming back from a buffet line, and especially not if they're paying three digits for meal service. The manajerk said he was accommodating us enough by letting us move in the first place, so my uncle handed our waiter a tip and we walked out, leaving the manager to pick up our plates and our tab.

Disneyland is lucky that it has movies and 55 years of nostalgia to bring in guests, because if people based their opinions on their park visits, Disney would be broke. Everyone I know has at least one story about how they've called or written corporate with a complaint about bad service and rudeness, but all we ever get is some lame apology letter. I'd love to know just how many apology letters get sent each day. Postage is probably the reason for the insane ticket price these days, because it's certainly not ride maintenance or staff training.

Gingerbread Induced Diabetes

2010-12-29T20:32:00.000-08:00

My sweetie and I were busy, busy, busy preparing for Christmas, but in the days that followed, I was so worn out from holiday festivities that all I cared to do was lay in bed and eat shards of our gorgeous gingerbread house and watch re-runs of RHOBH. Real Housewives of Buttholes. While I was pasted to my sheets and my blood was turning to a balanced mixture of eggnog and royal frosting, all I could do was wonder what the eff I was doing watching that damn show again (interrupted occasionally only by that shark documentary on Nat Geo during commercial breaks), but I didn't care to stop watching, or get up to pee for that matter. Then I realized it's because there's nothing else on television. All I can do these days for evening entertainment is lay in bed thinking about how much I hate Oprah or wondering if I'm the only person in America who periodically walks into her bathroom and violently rips open the shower curtain expecting to find someone or something in there. Shower curtains are creepy. I don't care what anybody says.

I am declaring a television state of emergency, America, and I am suffering a deep post advent depression because of it. I'm well over Bravo, and I want to break up with Andy, but I feel like he owes me money and still hasn't returned my CD collection. Thank God I'm conspiring to have an affair with Tom Hanks when Big Love starts in two weeks, or I might just grow into my bed the way a contact lens grows into your eyeball if you don't take it out.

Two, Two, Two Birthdays in One

2010-12-15T17:49:00.001-08:00

Today is my sweetie's birthday. Check out this awesome wrapping paper I found!

Giddyup, Yo! It's like it has been trapped in someone's attic for 35 years and donated to Big Lots, where I purchased the roll for $1. ONE. DOLLAR. I liked it so much, I bought two Howdy Pardners (it took one whole roll to wrap my sweetie's gift) and two of these fancy numbers for the price of a roll of Hallmark wrap. AND it's the good kind of paper with the grid on the back.

Looks like scraps from my mother's bridal shower. I love it.

I also got this bonus $2 ribbon wheel. It's like it's my birthday, too! The wrap is not the only reason, of course. It's because my sweetie has been my greatest gift. Happy, happy birthday, bebe! I'm so glad you were born.

I'm Raising the Bar for Christmas

2010-12-13T20:43:00.001-08:00

This year, I'm going to limit myself to only one store bought dessert and bake a cake. (Yes, me! Gulp.) This seems like the perfect beginner's recipe from David Lebovitz. 2010 will mark the year I progressed from a lazy, thoughtless idiot to just a plain old thoughtless idiot.

Chocolate Idiot Cake
One 9-inch (23 cm) cake

Adapted from Ready for Dessert (Ten Speed Press)

This cake is extremely rich, and tastes like the most delicious, silkiest, most supremely-chocolate ganache you’ve ever had. As mentioned, it’s equally good a few days later, and only an idiot could possibly mess it up. You don’t need to use ScharffenBerger chocolate for this cake, but use a good one—you’ll appreciate it when you taste your first melt-in-your-mouth bite.

10 ounces (290 g) bittersweet or semisweet chocolate, coarsely chopped
7 ounces (200 g) butter, salted or unsalted, cut into pieces
5 large eggs, at room temperature
1 cup (200 g) sugar

Preheat the oven to 350F (175C).

1. Butter a 9-inch (23 cm) springform pan* and dust it with cocoa powder, tapping out any excess. If you suspect your springform pan isn’t 100% water-tight, wrap the outside with aluminum foil, making sure it goes all the way up to the outer rim.

2. Melt the chocolate and butter in a double boiler (or microwave), stirring occasionally, until smooth. Remove from heat.

3. In a large bowl, whisk together the eggs and sugar, then whisk in the melted chocolate mixture until smooth.

4. Pour the batter into the prepared springform pan and cover the top of the pan snugly with a sheet of foil. Put the springform pan into a larger baking pan, such as a roasting pan, and add enough hot water to the baking pan to come about halfway up to the outside of the cake pan.

Bake for 1 hour and 15 minutes.

You’ll know the cake is done when it feels just set, like quivering chocolate pudding. If you gently touch the center, your finger should come away clean.

5. Lift the cake pan from the water bath and remove the foil. Let cake cool completely on a cooling rack.

Serve thin wedges of this very rich cake at room temperature, with creme anglaise, ice cream, or whipped cream.

Storage: This Chocolate Idiot Cake can be wrapped and chilled in the refrigerator for 3-5 days.

Wanted Ad

2010-12-13T20:07:00.000-08:00

Here Ellen rubs Mariah's "burgeoning baby bump." My eyes took off like pinwheels when I read that phrase AGAIN. There's nothing I hate more than that stupid expression. Can we puhlease get some new alliteration for gossip rags to use to describe pregnant women that makes them feel clever and cutesy? This phrase is hackneyed, and it doesn't even apply here. The only part of Mariah that doesn't look pregnant is her uterus. Even her back up singer is staring at her ass like whoa. How about calling it her flourishing fetus fat? Pregnancy is all joyous and everything, but I'm high on spicy mangos, and I needed something to bitch about. And, hey, it's Mariah Carey. Who cares?

The Nutcracker

2010-12-12T13:50:00.000-08:00

This photo gives new meaning to the name Nutcracker. I don't think Michael Kors would approve of that diaper panty. Wait until Tim Gunn gets a hold of Mrs. Brand's costume designer. There's going to be blood. If a contestant designed those drawers on Project Runway, that person would surely have received Heidi's kiss of death for it. How did these make it to the public eye?

Wedding Lessons

2010-12-12T13:19:00.000-08:00

When we were prepping for France, my sweetie and I took a refresher French class. Every day on my lunch break, I would review my notes and study vocabulary. I kept my French books in the car, so they were always on hand if I wanted to look something up. I played French CDs in the car, we watched French movies. It was pseudo-immersion. We only did this for about eight weeks, but we were able to communicate pretty decently in Paris, and our teacher was impressed. Because of this tiny success, I have decided to take the same approach to wedding planning.

I took the bull by the horns last week and bought The Knot Complete Guide to Weddings in the Real World: The Ultimate Source of Ideas, Advice, and Relief for the Bride and Groom and Those Who Love Them. Sounds promising, right? Right? My pre-wedding planning plan: to read this book on my lunch break every day, and to plan some extracurricular wedding associated outings. Next weekend, potential site viewing. January, bridal expo. Look Geppetto, I'm a real bride! Santa is not the only one making a list. Look at me go!

Disclaimer: The other night on Watch What Happens Live, Rocco DiSpirito was talking about his time on Dancing with the Stars and said that he came to the realization after days and days of dancing for hours and hours that no matter how much he practiced, he'd never be a dancer. This is how I felt in Paris, when I couldn't decipher every single word people were saying. I got the gist of what they were taking about, but the nuances were lost on me. I sense this may be the same for weddings, but I'm giving it a whirl.

Crock Pot Fever

2010-12-11T00:15:00.000-08:00

Ever since I took a new job 11 minutes from home, I have rediscovered my love of the Crock-Pot since I no longer fear setting my home aflame from a heat source that has been unsupervised for 12 to 15 hours. Now I can cook chili and stews at ease and not have to worry about false arson charges or meat that has been cooked to a crisp.

I will be hosting Christmas dinner at my place this year, and just as I was lamenting my need to design a plan in which I can cook a turkey, yams, green beans, and stuffing in one tiny oven and not have to microwave anything to serve it hot, I came across a variety of recipes for Crock-Pot stuffing. Say what? It's like Christmas in Dec...em...well, early Christmas. I am visualizing a house full of Crock-Pots in my future, and I like what I see.

Week Three as a Bride-to-Be

2010-12-09T18:56:00.001-08:00

Life has been a bit...unusual lately. Not wanting to give up my first of only two major Facebook status changes in the name of maturity and modesty, I took the click before the plunge and changed my status to engaged. What happened next was very unexpected. People I haven't spoken to in ages came out of the woodwork to wish me well and congratulate me.

At first, I was very surprised. I was, after all, the exact same girl I was two seconds before when my status said...whatever it said, if it wasn't in fact a totally ignored data field altogether. Was I now someone different after a man had validated my worth with a beautiful diamond? Had I all of a sudden been accepted into some kind of clandestine club where the secret hand shake ends in a ring bump? The first rule of Bride Club is, you do not talk about Bride Club. Even store clerks noticed my ring and congratulated me with a sort of "welcome to the other side" wink. I received hugs from co-workers, who had previously barely spoken to me. It was like a crazy experiment...a sprinkle of fairy dust. Bibbidi-bobbidi-boo.

Don't get me wrong. It has been truly special. I have never felt so loved in my whole life. Every girl likes to be noticed and congratulated on her husband to be. I guess I was just totally surprised by all of the attention. I don't know why I was so surprised; people LOVE love. I love love, and a good love story have I.

I do not, however, love wedding planning. I don't know what to do, and I can't decide what I like. I know this much: 95% of my wardrobe is black, and 90% of all of the garments in my closet intended to cover my lower extremities are pants. How the hell am I supposed to pick out a white dress? Just looking at these dresses makes me feel like a fish out of water...like a nightmare in which I've forgotten to put on my clothes, only I am awake and fully aware that eventually people will definitely be staring at me in a dress that makes me feel naked. It's near horrifying.

And then the guilt zaps me. My sweetie is a traditional man. I am absolutely certain that each time he has visualized his wedding day (and I'm SURE he has based on the fact that he is in the kitchen baking cookies with sprinkles as I write this post), it involved a girl in a white dress, who probably wasn't such a spaz tard about tying bows and hot-gluing shit to shit. I need to snap out of it and RuPaul the fuck out of this wedding. Desperate times call for desperate measures and right now, this desperate bitch needs Dwight from RHOA. I'd at least settle for that neurotic little gay man Bethenny let her dog use as a kong during her wedding planning. He did pick a kick ass cake, and that is my biggest concern. That and not feeling naked.

I am also desperately lacking that girl gene that makes women flip out with glee at the mere mention of a wedding. I am excited, but my excitement stems more from being married, not from getting married. Thank God everyone I know has done this before me, so I can suck on to them like an ass leach from Stand by Me. I need help. The details are making my head spin and I seem to be fresh out of opinions. Extending. Suckers. Now. Look. Out.

Rich Persimmons

2010-12-09T18:31:00.000-08:00

In Paris, one of the things I marveled at was the size of the persimmons. I had to buy a few to sample, and they were delicious. When I came home from France, I looked online for an authentic French vinaigrette (my taste buds already missed it) and happened upon David Lebovitz's blog about living and eating in Paris. It just so happens that today's post boasts a Chocolate Persimmon Muffin recipe that makes me want to break my no-bake streak. If some lovely person out there more skilled than I with measuring cups ever makes these, please mail me one.

Injustices

2010-12-07T19:18:00.000-08:00

Look at me. A daily vitamin taking, avid hand washing, 8 glass of water drinking, health food eating, regular exercising, non-smoker. I came back from Paris weighing exactly the same (despite walking 12 hours a day) with every upper-respiratory infection known to man. Damn subway. Now day 12 of mystery illness(es) and no hope in sight of ever breathing through my nose again.

Look at my sweetie. A daily Monster drinking, avid meat and cheese loving, Taco Bell eating, two-pack a day smoking, exercise is the devil chanting, sleep deprived couch potato . He came back from Paris twelve pounds lighter and strong like bull.

Why, I ask? WHY?

Don't Know Much About History

2010-12-02T20:16:00.000-08:00

There are certain things one does not retain after one's 11th grade World History final. Sure, I once knew about the importance of the ports of Benelux or that Napoleon was Corsican, but that information has since been replaced with practical information, like remembering the gazillionty usernames and passwords I need to survive in this friggin' society. I wish I would have cared about the Treaty of Versailles sixteen years ago, but guess what. I didn't. I cared about boys and getting a drivers license and going to prom. Sorry, French Revolution, I just didn't have time for you. I didn't know how important you were. I've been foolish. Please forgive me. Is it OK to get my GED after I've earned my Master's degree? Of course there are those who remember this kind of trivia, but I don't know any of them...except for one.

Lucky for me my sweetie, nay, fiance, is one of these people. In preparation for Paris, I researched things like current Parisian fashion, places to eat, and how not to get my purse stolen. He memorized French history. Well, he read French history, which for him is the bloody same as memorizing. There's nothing he loves more than to push up the sleeves on his corduroy jacket, straighten his tie, and school me on how many Louises there were and which one was the bitch that built the hide-away suite at the back of Versailles because he needed a break. Yes, I went to Paris with my very own tour guide, which made sightseeing a far richer experience than simply being amazed by how old and opulent shit was. For this I am grateful. I'll remember to feed the dog and water the plants, and he'll remember the generals' names on the Arc de Triomphe. This is how we compliment each other. Clearly, I got the better end of the bargain.

And now for some old, opulent shit. Voila!

Bon Appetit Part Deux: You Eat With Your Eyes First

2010-11-30T19:15:00.001-08:00

Looking at treats in Paris was almost as delightful as eating them. I was like a kid in a candy/meat/cheese/produce/oyster/bread/pastry shop.

Bon Appetit!

2010-11-29T18:16:00.000-08:00

One of the highlights of our Parisian getaway was the food. Quelle surprise! My sweetie and I were like two polar bears in Paris, eating a diet of pure fat 1) so we wouldn't die of hypothermia walking 8 miles a day, 2) because it's delicious, and 3) because we could. Duh. Let me clear up a fallacy for you first, however. The portion sizes in France are not small. (Just like the people are not rude. I don't know who is making up all of these lies, but it's rubbish I tell you. Rubbish.) Also, I have three words for you: eggs, ham, and cheese. The French can make a billionty things with those three simple ingredients. God bless those little French chickens, pigs, and cows. Now without further adieu, I will spare you my words and let your eyes feast on this photo diary of bon eats. Enjoy!

Salad with lardons and hot goat cheese toasts and cheese platter. These were appetizers, by the way. I forgot to photograph the gorgeous moules Provencale we ate first (the famine overtook me), but they were gorg! Best mussels I've ever had.
Macaron a la pistache.
Crepes! One filled with creme de marrons (chestnut cream) and the other...yes, the way to a woman's heart is through the size of a man's Nutella jar.
Yes, they are. In addition to escargot, I tried foie gras, pate, and souffle. Not bad, if I do say so myself.
Espresso and chocolate.
Lemon meringue tart. The French do everything with pride in the details.
Grand Marnier and strawberry souffles.
Heavenly creme brulee.
Boeuf Bourguignon.
Fromage et cornichons sandwich and a grog au rhum, which translates loosely to a glass of hot rum, which translates literally to I can't feel my face.
Tiramisu and tarte tatin with creme fraiche.
Kir and sausage.
Cafe au lait and a strawberry meringue cookie.
Chocolate, pistachio, and walnut gelato.
Croque Madame.
Steak tartare and steak frites.

Bonus edition: Behold these totally bizzaro treats.
Curly. Balls. I have no other words.
I would totally eat these. What's up with America hatin' on the meat flavored chips?
I vote for pork chop chips. Do you hear me Lay's Gods. Pork. Chops. Make it so.

Public Apology

2010-11-29T17:54:00.001-08:00

Last year, I posted this and would like to take this moment to issue a public apology. Over the weekend, while recovering from the Parisian Jambon Flu slash German Throat Measles, we mulled some wine and did this to take my mind off of feeling like merde. (Please avert your eyes from our tree's naked undercarriage. A skirt is in the near future.)

Then this morning, I did this to perk myself up for my dreaded return to work after a tres magnifique vacation.

Who's the premature ejaculator now? To you, my brother in antlers, fellow lover of festivities, champion of Christmas, my deepest apologies. We are but turtle doves of a feather.

The City of Romance

2010-11-27T09:38:00.000-08:00

A friend of mine once told me she loved her husband because of a few moments in which he melted her heart. Others fall in love because of the essence of someone's spirit, or because they like a certain quality about someone. I love my sweetie for all of the above.

21 months ago, I sat on his bed googling some ailment on my Blackberry, convincing myself that I was dying of something or another. After 20 or 30 minutes, I set the phone down. My sweetie looked at me and asked, "Are you done freaking yourself out now?"

"Yes," I said.

"Good," he replied calmly. "Now, would you like some tea?"

And from then on, I knew he was the man for me. Instead of offering me advice, he offered me tea. Instead of telling me that I should change, he accepted me for the neurotic messterpiece that I am, which can sometimes be a tremendous task.

It's not just for these moments that I love him, it's also because he is the sweetest man I have ever known. He's smart, funny, generous, and is really good at reading subway maps. He helps me carry in the groceries, keeps me from getting hit by cars when I'm too busy being a tourist to mind the traffic, and everyday he snuggles with me before I go to sleep, even when he's not tired and even when he has something else he wants to do. He makes me feel happy and safe and okay to be me. He also has a wonderful family, and soon after meeting them, I quickly realized that I loved four new people instead of one.

A couple of months ago, he told me to pick somewhere I wanted to go for a vacation. Since my first French class my freshman year of high school, I've wanted to go to Paris, so we planned a trip for the week preceding Thanksgiving. It was the most beautiful place I've ever seen and being there was like a dream.

The fourth day we were there, we walked down the Champs-Elysees, which had been illuminated for the Christmas holiday. When we arrived at the the Arc de Triomphe, he said he wanted to go to the top, which surprised me both because he doesn't like heights or stairs. Up we went. Almost 300 steps. At the top, we saw the most breathtaking view of the Paris skyline. My sweetie waited for me to stop snapping away with my camera, took the glove of my left hand, and after some very romantic words, asked me to marry him.

"Will you mah-rry me?" he said, with his adorable New Jersey accent that I love.

"Of course I will!" I exclaimed. After that, I don't remember much except for asking a nice midwestern couple to take our picture. Mostly I remember feeling like I was inside a snow globe that someone had just shaken up. My thoughts were storming all around me...I'm getting married. I have to tell my dad. How will I ever plan a wedding? I'm no longer going to have the same last name as my family. I cannot lose this ring. OMG, I just got engaged in Paris. IN PARIS!

For the next hour all I could do was say, "We're getting married." Even still, sometimes I'll call my sweetie from the shower or the other room and he'll come running in concerned asking what I need. "Nothing," I'll say. "We're getting married!"

Afterwards, he told me about how much planning he did and how much care he took with the details and how much he worried about it being just right. I wondered how many girls get to marry someone like this. It was perfect. But that's the kind of person he is. He always tells me that I make him feel special, but it's the other way around. I love him for all of these things and so much more.

When we got on the plane to come home, he actually thanked ME for a wonderful trip. Me? Yes, this is the man I am marrying, and I can't wait to love his face off forever and ever.

So I guess I'll have to change the title of this blog, since I just sorta lost my spinster street cred. I'll add it to my lengthy to do list. More to come on Paris...

Les Deux Miracles

2010-11-17T18:52:00.000-08:00

Today, two miraculous things happened. First, I woke up with no acne. Hells yes. Secondly, I met my first weight loss goal. I have officially lost 15 pounds. It took me 7 months to do it, but I did it, and now I have to do it twice more. Go me.

The glory of this timing is that I leave for Paris in the morning, and I now have a clean slate to mar with croissants, souffles, pain au chocolat, gateau, et beaucoup de vin. I've never been so excited to ruin something I have worked so hard for. Dear Paris, I know we haven't even met yet, but I love you, and I'm going to eat all of your food.

Au revoir!

I know I'm late, but...

2010-11-11T20:10:00.000-08:00

I've been much too busy to blog lately. New job. International travel plans. 5pm darkness induced comas. However, I can't pass up the opportunity (two weeks later) to implore Heidi Klum to stop dressing like Siegfried and/or Roy. Long ago, I posted this with the same complaint. It has fallen on deaf ears. Look at her at New York FASHION week. She looks like a male figure skater in that effin outfit. How? how? HOW is she judging a fashion competition when she would wear that? It's like my nana is whispering sweet nothings in her ear from heaven about the beauty of monochromatic outfits. Please stop it, Heidi. You are not a senior citizen.

Also, Michael Kors looks like a blind mouse. Perhaps his two buddies dressed Heidi.

Leave It To Amberella

2010-10-27T20:01:00.000-07:00

There are three indications that I am channeling Barbara Billingsley and have gotten my 50s housewife on:

1. I bought this dress. I'm a sucker for anything houndstooth or herringbone, and I needed something I could wear if I ever got invited to a Mad Men party.

2. I made meatloaf. I wasn't even entirely sure I'd like to eat meatloaf, but I made it anyway. Luckily, it was not accompanied by vegetables from a can. I hope this does not discredit my endeavors.

3. I made chili in a crock-pot. Yes, I am aware that the crock-pot wasn't invented until the 70s, but my point is that I made a meal that took longer than 1 hour to make, like a real domesticated broad. Although I was wearing neither a dress nor an apron, I still feel like this qualifies me for a cover shoot for Better Homes and Gardens.

Likes and Dislikes

2010-10-20T17:23:00.000-07:00

Likes:

sliding my shoe down the side of my desk to make a dolphin noise
pulling up to work to find a line of 12 silver cars in a row
adding phrases like "speedballing" to my Spell Check
thunderstorms
earl grey tea
watching the rain fall to the earth in front of headlights like thousands of asynchronous camera flashes
making lists

Dislikes:

coming across two separate Rick Astley references in one day, or frankly, any Rick Astley reference ever
when a certain someone, who is known to dip his bread in yogurt, leaves visible breadaggits in the container rendering the yogurt inedible by my standards
the smell of wet wool
the word "gastrointestinal"
$15 drycleaning bills
the way Giada De Laurentiis says "Curreamy"
sock bandits, especially those with 72 ignored pairs of their own dirty socks in a hamper right next to my sock drawer

Frosted Fakes

2010-10-20T16:51:00.000-07:00

Finally, women looking for breast implants have a new option. These are safe, FDA approved, and inexpensive. You can even buy a pair to match each outfit. Try tucking them into a bra for a sophisticated look, or you can wear them Mardi Gras style for a more natural feel. Keep a few extra pairs around the house. These breasts are very versatile. Toss them into your baby's crib for added comfort. Store a pair under your husband's pillow for a night of peaceful sleep. Tie a pair in a knot to give your panties a break from bunching. If you buy now, we'll throw in a free pair of nipple rings. Just when you thought your aversion to pain would forever stifle your rebel yell, now you can pierce your nips risk free. Now that's something no mother could scoff at.

Can't. Get. Enough.

2010-10-18T21:02:00.001-07:00

Maybe it's the PMS...

2010-10-13T16:39:00.000-07:00

but this video makes me sob. It's so delicate, yet so powerful. It's overwhelming. My, how time passes.

Men at Work

2010-10-08T17:48:00.000-07:00

Today, I took a break from work to walk around the block and break up the monotony of sitting at a computer for eight hours. On my walk, which was only ten minutes long and therefore not very far, I saw the following: three men in a parking lot behind their place of business blasting the Scorpions and shooting the breeze; two men, who appeared to be landscapers, napping in the grass under a tree; and another group of three moving men sitting around the back of a Mayflower practicing their drum skills on the drawers of someone else's dresser. Not a lot getting done at their places of employment. Gawd, I wish I had a penis.

The Ludicrous Channel

2010-10-06T20:49:00.000-07:00

Dear TLC,

Go fuck yourself. As if your show "Say Yes to the Dress" wasn't lame enough, you've now outdone yourselves by being total assholes. Yes, I am referring to your new abomination, "Say Yes to the Dress: Big Bliss." Apparently, fat people require a subtitle? And to this notion, I present my fat foot in your ass. Had you previously called the show "Say Yes to the Dress: Skinny Fat with No Breasts and Flabby Arms Bliss" or "Spent-all-your-plastic-surgery-money-in -the-wrong-place Bliss" or "Spoiled Annoying Average American Bitch Bliss," I may not be so angry, but you didn't. How long before you come out with "Amputee Bliss" or "Cerebral Palsy Bliss" or are those off limits? Was it beyond the network to simply have all types of women on the show? Guess that wouldn't allow you to ride the current wave in television, which is to have a slew of special fat shows, such as "Dance Your Ass Off," "Drop Dead Diva," and "Huge." But this should not be surprising given that you are the network that keeps Kate Gosselin and Kat Von Dumbass employed. I am insulted. Screw you and screw fat TV. It's like having a separate water fountain, and that's not cool. Please make a note of it.

Sincerely,
Bliss-ter in the Sun, California

French Bulldog

2010-10-06T20:31:00.000-07:00

Last night, my sweetie and I began intensive French courses to prepare for our vacation to Paris, countdown 7 weeks. After our first class, total panic ensued because we realized how much we have forgotten and just how difficult it is to communicate in a language one has not used in ten years. Our solution? Total immersion. We try to do everything in French, including texting, which my phone's autofill feature is absolutely not having. Oh, EVO, go screw yourself. French movies, French music, French conversation CDs in the car, French kisses, French fries...

We even speak to the dog in French, which has led me to the discovery that as long as I am speaking to him in the designated dog voice, he's just as happy with French as he is with English. Personally, I thought perhaps he was happy because I was calling him mon beau chien (which is really the only dog related thing I could come up with). However, my sweetie just communicates with him in sounds rather than words, and the dog is just as thoroughly delighted, so I guess my original theory was incorrect.

Lost in Translation

2010-10-03T20:46:00.001-07:00

Perusing Asian menus for funny translations is kind of a hobby of mine. This beverage shrine to the cherry takes third place. Did Shirley change her name? My favorite runner up is "haribut", and "imitated crab" wins the gold.

Free and Flowing in Grand Canyon

2010-10-03T19:39:00.000-07:00

After reading Eat Pray Love, I felt inspired to partake in a little journey of pleasure, learning, and the restoration of the me I used to know. I used to be the kind of girl who just dove into life face first. Due to some unpleasant outcomes, or perhaps just due to the kind of caution that comes with age, I have lost that girl. Instead, I have found myself overly risk averse, analytical, and in need of some fun. With that, I present a daily dairy of the new adventures of old Amberella.

Day 1:

I ate at McDonalds, a place I typically loathe, except for my semi-annual indulgence in a sausage McMuffin with egg. It was delicious. I had hash browns, too. Scrumpsh!

I drove a hybrid for the first time, which has resulted in my profound desire to trade in my paid off car for one that accelerates.

I tried dry shampoo after abandoning my usual “two days only” hair washing rule and opting for a third day of dirty hair. Clean hair is a sign of an unlived life. Well, maybe not, but it sounded good at the time.

I drove to the Grand Canyon and stood on the edge of the south rim staring into the rocky abyss without the safety of a guardrail. Until the moment I was there, I assumed I would never do this, but I found myself suddenly brave.

I observed a fence decorated with hundreds of pairs of shoes. I sat pondering whether or not I would ever freely abandon shoes that I had to work to pay for. Maybe one day, IF they are an especially shitty pair perhaps.

I accepted a drink from an old drunk man who said I should smile more and that I looked "too pensive and studerious.” Yes, studerious. Coming up with that word alone called for a cocktail.

Day 2:

I rode a bus and had to stand so closely to one man that I could feel his breath on my neck the whole ride. I haven’t felt another man’s breath on my neck since I started dating my sweetie. I wanted to flee, but I didn’t. I figured a little hot air never killed anyone. Gave them the flu, yes, but I decided to take my chances in exchange for not having to walk.

I went horseback riding. Six Gun was a noble steed that reminded me of myself. He was stubborn and chronically hungry, and he couldn’t pass up an opportunity to snatch a mouthful of the forbidden vegetation along the trail, even though he knew he wasn’t supposed to. When I reminded him he wasn’t supposed to, he gave me a run for my money, but I admired that about him. I also admired that despite quite a few of the other horses allowing a mule to gnaw off their tails in the night, mine gallantly defended his tail, and it blew beautifully in the breeze.

I observed elk in the wild, albeit from a far. I was told that this is not the time of year to get noticed staring at them, and if I irritated one enough, it’d kill me. This was not a risk I was willing to take, so I kept my eyes on my own paper.

I tried turnip greens and discovered that I love them.

I mustered enough courage to pass slow moving trucks on a two-lane highway.

I traded smiles with a pre-op transsexual. He was a hefty, masculine specimen with very large breasts and a full beard. There’s really nothing to note here, other than perhaps this was the first time I’d noticed a man and thought it very likely he didn’t start out that way. I wish you much happiness, brave soul.

Day 3:

I ate a violet flavored mint. It tasted just as you’d think it would, like a bowl of potpourri.

I bought a new age jade charm symbolizing new beginnings. I bought my sister one for an empowering life, and I bought one for a friend that symbolized wealth. Why not? Can’t hurt.

Along the same homeopathic aromatheraputic vein, I purchased a water infused with cinnamon, cardamom, and cloves. It tasted like nothing, but smelled just like a mincemeat pie.

I tried blue popcorn. It was tasty, although not unlike regular popcorn. I guess my inner child just couldn’t resist the charm of a blue food.

We had pizza for dinner that we ordered from a restaurant but cooked ourselves. In exchange for a modicum of extra effort, we got piping hot pizza on our plates.

I finally utilized my new Google Sky Map application and noticed that the two brightest stars in the sky that night were not stars at all. Rather, they were Jupiter and Neptune.

Day 4:

I bird watched and took some beautiful pictures of blue birds while listening to some genuine Indian chanting from some loner in the surrounding arroyo.

I enjoyed an authentic Southwestern dinner, complete with sopaipillas and posole.

I heard a remake of Katy Perry’s “California Girls” called “Southwest Girls.” Whatever you’re imagining, you’re probably right.

I tried red chili peanut brittle. I am 100% in support of spicy candy.

I won 32 bucks at an Indian casino.

Day 5:

I drove through a desert thunderstorm and marveled at the lightning.

I decided that my stomach reminds me of the Hamburglar and responded by getting a dipped cone from Dairy Queen.

It was nice to have the time to pay attention to all of the stimulating things going on around me, to actively participate in life without being governed by a clock and arbitrary deadlines. What a gift the last week has been!

Now for real life…and new beginnings.

Stay Classy, San Diego

2010-09-14T20:34:00.000-07:00

The other night my sweetie and I had dinner on the pier. Romantic sunset, delicious food, and this. Yes, America. It's wine in a plastic cup. Why, you may ask? Because the idiots of California can't be trusted with glass like grown-ups. Children can have children, but I can't have my cheap house wine in the appropriate stemware.

You can take the girl out of the 80's, but you can't take the 80's out of the girl

2010-09-14T20:19:00.000-07:00

In my recent attempt to keep up with the Kardashians, I purchased a new high tech smart phone that can do way more things than I care to learn. Ironically, my favorite thing about my new PDA is feeding the fish on my new Koi pond screen saver. Some people just can't embrace technology to its fullest capacity. I am one of these people, and I accept it.

This may be because my former favorite phone activity, texting, has been foiled by the fucking autofill (or the "ducking dutifully", as the phone likes to call it). It's the equivalent of paying $200 for a robot slave who constantly talks back. When you tell the slave to water the lawn, it responds by salting the prawns. Unacceptable.

Today I Found Out

2010-08-23T12:19:00.000-07:00

Today I found out that the blogger for Today I Found Out has the palette of a prison inmate and is at risk for exploding from high blood pressure at any moment. His "Nacho Surprise" concoction was reminiscent of those Top Chef vending machine amuse bouche quickfires, except, well, repulsive and infinitely less chef-like. In more horrific news, I was also informed today that my sister's boyfriend's dinner last night consisted of a hot dog salad. Hot. Dog. Salad. Chew on that.

Cackle-berries

2010-08-18T19:54:00.000-07:00

My eggs are tainted. Not my biological eggs, although those are probably close to going bad, too. I mean my chicken eggs. In summertime, one of my favorite dinners is sunny side up eggs on a slice of whole grain toast atop a bed of arugula dressed in balsamic vinaigrette. I was looking forward to that until I saw this. As luck would have it, the carton of eggs I purchased on Sunday came from one of the plants with recalled eggs. So let me break this down for you glass-half-empty-style; I did not win the lottery this week AND my eggs were recalled. I guess the silver lining is that I found out the eggs were bad BEFORE I ate them. Then I'd really have something to bitch and moan about.

If I weren't on a diet, I'd be an alcoholic

2010-08-17T21:48:00.000-07:00

This I proclaim and it's only Tuesday. Also, I'm up to 5 lottery tickets a week now. Something's gotta give, and I'm hoping it's Mega Millions.

Secrets Revealed

2010-08-16T20:20:00.000-07:00

1) For first dates and interviews, I do not shave my legs. I do this for no other reason than confidence. If afterward I don't like them or they don't like me, I can say, "well, at least I didn't bother shaving my legs for them," and this makes me feel powerful. People who know me well know that this is a huge deal. I hate not having shaved legs, but having this personal faux pas on a date or for an interview is to my self-esteem what spinach is to Popeye. Sometimes I simply do not have time to shave, but this is different than CHOOSING not to shave. The choice is empowering.

2) If you've ever asked your boyfriend or husband what he and his friends talk about on their man-dates and he says nothing, he's not lying. Yesterday was the second time I played golf with a group of guys. They really talk about nothing. Except golf, which may as well be nothing because it's only interesting as a topic of conversation for 15 minutes max. It boggles the mind, really.

True Love

2010-08-14T22:02:00.000-07:00

This evening my sweetie and I discovered the true meaning of love. When your dog vomits in the living room and begins to contemplate the, ahem, edible allure of his own emesis immediately following a fantastic feast a la Taco Bell, true love is running around the house in a state of panic, laughing and screaming in between dry heaves, insisting to your significant other that "I'll clean it, honey. Ughhhhhhh!"

"No, no. You just enjoyed a burrito. Are you sure you won't toss it? Hulchhh! I'll get it."

Once the cleaner upper is identified and braves the storm, true love is the other one inquiring from the bedroom, where they are hiding, "Are you OK? Do you need help? Uckkkk! I'm sorry. I really want to be able to help you, but I can't stop gagging."

And that was the highlight of our Saturday night. Now for a movie...

Inspiration

2010-08-05T13:32:00.000-07:00

I want to sing and dance all night long under twinkle lights strewn from tree to tree. I want to wear a fancy dress with pockets and bare feet. I want to sip on an Old Fashioned and laugh so hard at my sweetie's jokes that it comes out of my nose. I want to hug and kiss and cry tears of joy. Oh, and I want to eat cake. Lots of cake.

Zoetry

2010-08-04T21:38:00.001-07:00

Who ever said Rachel Zoe was a trifling twat? I have proof…PROOF I say…that she is a literary genius. Behold.

She uses metaphor: “It’s bananas!”

Sometimes, she even uses simile: “It’s, like, bananas!”

She has mastered the elimination of passive voice: “I die!”

She is an expert in hyperbole: “This dress is A-MAZ-ING!”

She has some mad foreshadowing skills: “She’s gonna shut it down.”

Even Taylor is in on the brilliance with some awesome personification: “This conversation wants to make me slit my wrists.” That’s one angry fucking conversation. And as Taylor likes to say, “It’s him or I!” so when a conversation wishes you harm, it’s time to bid that bitch adieu!

Adult Swim

2010-08-03T21:40:00.000-07:00

Over the weekend, I attended a family event that, like many summer events tend to do, involved swimming. Having hated my body since the age of 6, I naturally refrained from entering the pool, since it requires a bathing suit, and instead I sat at a covered table on the sidelines munching red bell pepper strips and hummus. I watched my cousin splash around with his 22-month-old son in the cool, refreshing aqua water while we chatted.

“It’s funny,” he remarked, “last year he screamed when we took him out of the water. This year he screams when we put him in the water. I think he realizes now that he can drown.”

Aside from the obvious “ignorance is bliss” moral of the story, there was another analogy I was more interested in. I thought about people’s natural inclinations toward certain situations and how those proclivities are respected when we are children. My cousin didn’t make excuses for his son not liking the water. He didn’t try to change his mind. He didn’t force him to swim. He didn’t even ask him to stop whining when he brought him into the deeper water. He just accepted that his son now dislikes the pool and let him spend the afternoon hours enjoying the safety and support of the pool’s steps.

Wouldn’t most of us just like to hang out on the pool steps? Sure, there are those who enjoy or even require a challenge or a risk, but for the most part, I suspect that when most of us become aware that we could drown, we’d much rather put our floaties on and chill out in the shallowness of the stairs.

There’s no other arena in which this is truer than in our professional lives. We are not typically rewarded for being ourselves at work, unless we LOVE the pool. In the likelihood that we don’t, we better look like we do by getting ourselves a bikini body and the most expensive swim suit we can find…a modest, flattering cut, however. Nothing too risqué. Maybe go to lifeguard school and post some photos of ourselves on the internet soaking wet, wearing nose plugs, and holding a swimming trophy no matter how miserable it makes us. We have to be willing to do a high dive, but not a cliff dive. A cliff dive is too cocky, too dicey. We have to be willing to be submerged for a long time, but not dangerously long. Responsibly, acceptably long.

We have to sell ourselves as fucking Michael Phelps, but we must realize that even if we are gold medal Olympians, our image is faaaaaaar more important than our skills so remember not to get caught smoking pot or Kellogg’s will give you the old boot.

Oh, to be young again, when all we had to worry about was lugging an eleventy pound sopping diaper off of the steps of the pool.

30 Year Old Sweet Tooth

2010-07-29T20:54:00.000-07:00

Last night, I heard this song pop on the radio and it reminded me of one of my earliest memories. Sometime around 1980, I lived in Studio City next door to my Nana, who was really like my second mother. In her parlor, she had a record player credenza like thing that was the size of a double decker coffin, and I was OBSESSED with it. I would try to open the lid, which I could never do, but Nana (who was not much taller than my two year old self) would open it for me so I could jump onto the front ledge and teeter on my belly while I tried to put the needle on the record (when the song beats go like this).

She had a collection of 45 rpm records in a tweed covered box with a leather top. My favorite? THIS SONG! I remember begging Nana to put this song on...over and over and over again. I'd dance around the parlor like a whirling dervish, pretending to snap my fingers, twirling in circles until the Earth was spinning around me. The sofas seemed to zip around my head like the playground does when you ride a merry-go-round. I'd collapse on the floor, eyes crossed, giggles on full blast. In hindsight, this song was a little PG-13 for me, but ooh, it made life so sweet...yeah, yeah, yeah...

I liked you better diabetic!

2010-07-29T12:46:00.000-07:00

Apparently my favorite pork chop, Drew Carey, just lost 80 lbs. because he was diabetic and hated being fat. Now I have to check him off my list of sexy fat guys, which disheartens me because he's been on the Top 10 list for so long. I guess I'll just have to find another piping hot meatball to join Kevin James, Kevin Smith, Seth Rogen, Jonah Hill, Alec Baldwin, John Travolta (periodically), Val Kilmer, Jimmy Kimmel, and Brendan Frasier. I've got my eyes peeled.

Dinner Conversation

2010-07-27T09:07:00.000-07:00

Amberella: Would you like some of my bok choy?

Sweetie: No, thanks. I have some of my own.

Amberella: Where? I don’t see any.

Sweetie: It’s in there. (Digging around). See. It really exists.

Amberella: Like the Bok Ness Monster?

Sweetie: Yes. Just like that. You know, if I ran a Chinese gang, I’d call it Glock Choy.

Amberella: Yes. Good one. I'm glad you don't, though.

iFace

2010-07-26T21:06:00.000-07:00

Ever since my sweetie obtained his new iPhone, his head has become a PDA with hair. Come back, my love. I miss your face.

Salt In My Wounds

2010-07-22T09:11:00.000-07:00

I am a glutton for punishment. Just like the other night when I couldn’t keep myself from watching another episode of RHONJ, I’m not sure I can keep myself from seeing Salt. I’ve never known why Angelina Jolie has an acting career. I’m not impressed by her skillz. She plays the same Tomb Raider chick in every movie, except on the few occasions she doesn’t, which are totally unbelievable roles. She can play an angry, over sexualized freak with suppressed emotions, but that’s not much of a stretch from reality. It’s one of life’s great mysteries. I see her movies because she has the body of a wet spider and I enjoy seeing it try to move around gracefully while attached to her giant Muppet head. It’s more of a curiosity and less of an admiration really. Plus, I crack up every time she makes her acting face. You know, the face of a child whose sibling has just eaten the last Pop-Tart. I imagine it’s the same face she makes when she bursts in through her bedroom door in new lingerie fixing to mate with Brad before biting off his head. Tres Joile.

Riddle Me This

2010-07-20T15:32:00.001-07:00

What's that thing between the dick and the asshole called?

Danielle. Ba bum bum!

Last night, I broke my promise to myself and watched RHONJ even though I know it's bad. It was followed by the same feeling of self loathing that results from eating an entire tube of Pringles whilst on a diet, because I had no self control and was out of healthy options. I hate Danielle. Hate. I quite possibly hate her more than I've ever hated anyone before, and I've never even met her. Yet still I watch. WHY? It needs to stop now, Bravo. Why does Andy Cohen keep putting this beast on TV? Is it in her contract to be on a certain number of WWHL episodes? No one likes her, he doesn't even seem to want her on the show, and now no one likes him either for prolonging our agony...and for thinking he's the best thing since sliced Challah, but that's another blog post. I did manage to turn the television off right before Danielle was about to sing again. I'd had enough of her. I'd had enough yelling at the television. I'd had enough cursing of the Bravo gods. Quit while you have some semblance of pride people. The time is now.

Why Blog?

2010-07-19T11:01:00.001-07:00

The other night, as I was blogging my innermost feelings, I thought to myself, “Why am I doing this?” I thought of a long list of answers, the first of which being that blogging is a modern day “message in the bottle,” except to send it, I don’t need to leave the comfort of my couch. Simply by clicking the “post” button, I can say “Hi! My name is Amberella, and I live in Southern California, mecca of breast implants and body glitter, avocados, motocross racing, and ultimate fighting. As my sweetie would say, it smells like Axe body spray and failure (two key components of false bravado). What’s it like in your world?” and wait for someone to respond. Maybe someone in Tokyo will answer back, except unlike the traditional note in an old Coke jug, I can get a response instantly, satisfying my desire to see if there’s anybody out there.

Blogging can be used as a platform for Public Service Announcements, such as calling folks out for bad flying etiquette. Speaking of…hey dude from John Wayne Airport who thought it was cool to hold up our plane until 10 minutes before curfew because you felt entitled to use an entire overhead storage compartment on a crowded plane for your stupid guitar, the whole plane thought you were a jackass. Don’t do that again.

Some of us use our blogs as a Dear Diary of sorts in which we can work out our feelings and exercise our inner dialogues. Free internet therapy, if you will. Some of us use it as an historical account of our feelings and experiences, a personal yearbook. It’s also a place to practice our writing skills, to play author, critic, counselor, and judge.

Blogging also provides a venue for passive aggression (my favorite!), a public extension of our opinionated minds. A place where we can express the thoughts we would ordinarily keep to ourselves. In other cases, it’s yet another avenue in which we can openly complain about that which annoys us. It’s cathartic, although sometimes embarrassing to re-read a past rant later and think, “I can’t believe I said (or wrote) that out loud!”

But who hasn’t said something they’ve later wished they hadn’t? In this case, blogs can also be used to comfort someone who feels like they’ve put their foot in their mouth, or maybe left it in there long enough for their toes to shrivel up like little raisins. It’s a place to get a glimpse of private human experiences, a place to discuss the types of things people don’t usually talk about…fears, embarrassments, regrets, ailments, and the politically incorrect. It’s a place to commiserate, share, debate, learn, or just observe.

Sometimes, it’s none of the above and serves only to be silly or laugh about the absurd or poke fun at life, public figures, or stupid inventions. A place to share a joke, a laugh, a smile, or some really kick-ass Photoshop skills.

I Don’t Know What I Want, But I Know What I Don’t Want

2010-07-18T22:03:00.000-07:00

While I was growing up, my father had a special phrase. “Take what you get and like it.” This parenting style hasn’t really done me (or him for that matter) any favors. With the exception of my sweetie, my friends and family, and my health, I don’t like what I got, and there are certainly things I may never like, no matter how many times I get them. I still don’t care for dinners that came out of a box (Geez, Dad, OK?!).

Although I chose my path, I can't help but wonder that maybe I should have done something else, like gone to art school or culinary school or Europe, or become a therapist or a teacher or an author. I feel like I no longer have the luxury of time, money, and energy to find out what I want. I’m still taking what I get and not liking it. It's probably time to get something else.

I need an Intervention intervention

2010-07-12T21:00:00.000-07:00

Whenever I flip past Intervention on television, I experience the same sequence of emotions. First, I am nauseated by the people I see, all id and selfish pleasure. Then somehow I am sucked into watching the intervention and it grabs a hold of my heart strings and hogties me with them. By the end of the show, I am a weepy mess cheering on the same dirt bag I was cursing out just 30 minutes before. And THAT is the genius of the show. It gets me every time. Damn them!

Dino Crisis

2010-07-08T08:17:00.000-07:00

Over the weekend, I visited a dear friend for her birthday. Her two-year old son knows EVERYTHING about dinosaurs. When she asked him if Auntie Amberella has a favorite dino, he replied in his sweet voice, "I guess she does. Hmmmm...Velociraptor!"

He was absolutely right! His pure intuition led him to the correct answer. After seeing that masterpiece Jurassic Park, who's favorite dino wouldn't be Velociraptor?

If we asked my little friend today what my favorite dinobeast was, he'd likely have a different answer, because THIS has burst my Veloci-bubble in a major way. Now I know that my favorite dino was nothing more than a turkey. Another Hollywood lie! First, E.T. and Gizmo are not real and now this!

Dream Come True

2010-07-06T21:05:00.000-07:00

I am a person who loves either giant things or itty bitty things. Regular sized stuff is for suckerchumps. Things I like in macho and mini sizes: cupcakes, gummy anything, pretzels, and now marshmallows. As a girl who is known to eat fluff out of the jar with a spoon, I almost lost my shit when I saw these ginormous marshmallows at the grocery store. A 90 calorie marshmallow? Thank you, Jesus!

Post-Vacation Update

2010-07-02T16:18:00.000-07:00

1) Physical: My body feels like I never left. My neck, back, and shoulder tension have not only returned, but seem to have amplified over the past week. Headaches and jaw clenching are 100%. My nervous system is amped up on its usual blend of angst and adrenaline. Coffee: my brain says yes, but my body says hell to the no.

2) Mental: Still maintaining some residual stimulation from my trip. New people, new places, new things, oh my! But I suspect one more week of the norm will send my brain back to Mushville, a suburb of Boredomtown.

3) Emotional: Still adjusting to my return, but trying to sustain resiliency in the face of adversity. That, and a cocktail each night for the past 5 nights. Thank God for booze and three day weekends.

Last Chance

2010-06-17T20:40:00.000-07:00

13 minutes left until the third and final RHONY reunion show. I can hardly wait. Rejoice! After 10pm, we will no longer have to see Jill in her 1980's spandex dress with shoulder cut outs, electric bangles and pumps, and Debbie Gibson hair. Phew!

Questions I want answered: Will Kelly finally brush her hair? Will we ever find out what the eff "satchels of gold" means?" Will the proper definition of "banter" ever be explained to Kelly? How many times will someone walk off the show? Will anyone ever tell Ramona that her daughter is a bitch? What bore picked out Andy Cohen's atrocious tie?

Remember to drink every time Kelly the tweaker says "systematic bullying." Break!

PEOPLE's Most Amazing Bodies?

2010-06-16T11:46:00.000-07:00

Welcome home, Boxie Carmichael! What is Cameron Diaz doing on this list with that pre-obese Val Kilmer abdomen? She looks like Jim Carrey in that bikini... with Regan's face...right before she spews green chunks all over that priest. Can't she be replaced by an actual woman... with breasts and hips and...dare I say...a waist?

What about Christina Hendricks? If there is a man on the planet who would prefer Cameron's man hips over Christina's apple bottom and ample bosom, someone better question his sexuality ASAP!

Regal Beagle

2010-06-11T11:01:00.000-07:00

Ok. I have been OBSESSED with regal color schemes for the past week or so. It began with Ramona’s vow renewal at The Pierre Hotel in NYC on RHONY. The décor was a tad gaudy for my taste, but the color scheme was fantastic, and was carried throughout the event, even the cake! Gorgeous!

I must admit, I watch wedding shows, like Say Yes to the Dress, not because I particularly care about weddings, but because I can’t believe people get that excited about them. A dress that makes you cry? Get the fuck outta here! Wedding shows simply cater to my voyeuristic fascination. That being said, when Ramona walked into that ballroom scoping a vow renewal destination, I got tears in my eyes. I loved it!

Now, imagine my serendipitous glee when I saw Sex in the City 2 a few days later and Carrie and Big’s apartment had the exact same color scheme. Those New Yorkers are some seriously regal bitches.

Ever since then, I can’t get my hands on enough yellow or royal blue items; two colors I’ve never particularly cared for. I just bought a yellow purse, and yellow nail polish. Do you hear me, people? Yellow NAIL POLISH! What?! I’m in love. I can't help it. It makes you do silly things.

Now, one more hit of the good stuff…

Ahhhhh!

Killing Me Softly with Dog Hair

2010-06-11T10:37:00.000-07:00

Every couple of days, my sweetie and I have to sweep THIS up from the floor. Have you ever seen anything like it? I haven’t. My dog is a mutant. If only Locks of Love existed for doggies. This would make a fine beast wig.