Monday, February 26, 2007

Shoe Flatulence

So I got these flats from Old Navy, and I love love LOVE them. They are super comfy, super cute, and they go with friggin' everything.

But there is one problem. They fart when I walk. Yes, that's right -- the shoes fart. It is really annoying and distracting.
And I guess if I were the type to embarrass more easily, it would prohibit me from wearing the shoes. But the value of a shoe that checks off all three of the above criteria can never be overstated. And so I shall wear the farty shoes, oh yes! I shall wear the farty shoes. And funny looks by passersby be damned!

Friday, February 23, 2007

Weekend At Grammy's

So we made the schlep to Chico to visit Grammy over the long weekend, which is always an awesome way to spend the weekend. Aside from cramming mass amounts of food into our faces at high speeds, the Weekend at Grammy’s Experience is one that lends itself extensively to relaxation since one is not likely to take a 102-year-old woman out bar-hopping or, I don’t know, spelunking. This provided me ample time to mess with my new-new camera. Oh yes! Valley Mom very generously ponied up the dollars to replace the new camera that Shitbiscuit stole from our house (it was still in its box -- I mean!!!) This meant that every creature within a 500-foot radius was subject to my annoying shutterbugging.

To wit, the many faces of The Pug:

"What is that shiny little thing in your hand?"

"Not a biscuit? Eh! Who gives a crap?"

"Sigh. God! It's exhausting being this stunningly beautiful."

And here she is giving you the ol' stinkeye:

And here's Grammy giving ME the ol' stinkeye:

There are always fun things to do at Grammy's, like roll around on the carpet and proclaim your undying love for said carpet:

"Love you, carpet. You don't mind that I photograph looking like Cujo."

Here we are, chillin' at Grammy's fave joint, the Outback Steakhouse:

"Whatchoo talkin' 'bout, Willis?"

"Heavens above, make the woman STOP already."

"Damn, I'm cute. Get my agent on the phone."

Holy crap, Rufus has groupies! Cute ones!

I recommend everyone have a weekend at their Grammy's (ours is taken though). It does wonders for the soul.

Friday, February 16, 2007

Fritto Misto

I am a genius.

Last year, Valentine’s Day was hell. Since The Man and I usually prefer to celebrate the pooky lovefest session over the weekend to allow adequate sleep-innage to recover, the actual eve of Valentines I had made plans with Bunnie to attend a movie screening. OMG, NEVER. A-friggin-GAIN. It took me OVER TWO HOURS to get from Santa Monica to Century City (yes, you read that right, TWO HOURS), by which time we had missed the screening entirely and I was nearly in tears from being stuck in the car barely moving for so long and crammed in on all sides by cars and the only thing to do was go to the Century Towers Hotel and drink wine at the bar and feel underdressed. Traffic is just so bloody heinously awful around here on Valentines Day! I love that there are that many romantic people in the world, but Jebus, do you all have to be OUT IN YOUR CAR between 6:00 and 8:30 p.m. for the love of Caltrans????

So this year, I decided, heyall naw, Homey won’t play that. I think I would rather throw myself under a bus than sit in that hellaciousness again. But since we will be in Chico visiting Grammy, doing our lovefest over the weekend wasn’t an option either. And we would still have to suffer with the eleventy bajillion other people on the road whilst trying in vain to get home.

So a week before V-Day, I called up Fritto Misto which is conveniently close to our offices, and made a reservation for 6:00. I told Derek we needed to brush up on our Italian cuisine in preparation for our trip to Italy. I don’t know if he was buying it, but it sounds good, right?

I have to tell you what we had since I still kinda can’t even believe how good it was and I want to remember it always. It was one of those set Valentine’s Day Menu thingies, but it was very reasonable for all the food included, and you could still choose from a selection of salads and entrees. And I have eaten here before and knew it was good, but dang, that night it was sooooooo good, I’m getting into a lather over it as I type. Here is what we had:

Bottle of sparkling wine
Salad (Lovemuffin got the ceasar, I got the misto)
Bruschetta (loved it, though I have to say, the one I make at home is better)
Lobster ravioli with chardonnay lemon sauce (I know, it’s like I’m talking dirty to you, right?)
Lamb loin marinated 5-7 days in cabernet pesto sauce (sweet heavens above, so tender and full of flavor) served over a bed of spinach linguini
Muscat served with chocolate-dipped biscotti
Crème brulee (wasn’t on the V-day menu, but our gracious host was kind enough to accommodate my begging and whining and threw it in to shut me up)

So we sat and savored every bite while the rest of the world sat in their cars fuming and honking at each other and Derek patiently listened to me repeat over and over again what a friggin’ genius I am but I mean really, people. That was some serious geniosity going on there, right? It doesn’t take that much yoga savvy to pull off the ol’ Pat Oneself On The Back For Ruling Valentine’s Day pose.

Fritto Misto
601 Colorado Avenue
Santa Monica, CA 90401
(310) 458-2829

Tuesday, February 13, 2007

L'Artiste Patisserie

We have driven past this place every freaking day on our way to work as long as we have lived in our humble home, and it is one of those adorable-looking, relaxing, patio-having, delicious-tasty-treat-making type places that always makes me give a wistful glance out the passenger window as we pass by and go “Sigh! How do I sign up to get a gig where I can go to some great yoga class in the morning, have a facial, then go hang and drink coffee and eat delicate French pastries until the afternoon at this adorable little French place whilst reading some swanky publication like W or French Vogue or something like that? What do these people do for money who get to do this on a weekday morning like they have nothing to do and all day to do it? Besides hooking? Could somebody please let me in on it, ‘cause I would really like to sign up.”

Depending on the day of the week, this kvetching could continue all the way past Mulholland.

Anyhoo, Mom and I had plans to go to breakfast on Saturday, so we decided to walk The Big Brown Dog and the Portly Pug to this adorable little place and give it a try. It does have an outdoor patio area, so dog situating is easy to do.

Right away, we were struck by how friendly and helpful everybody there is. You order your food at the counter and they bring it out to you when it’s ready. The coffee (choice of medium or dark roast, in addition to the usual cappuccinos, lattes, espressos, etc.) was served in those giant cup and saucer rigs and was serious quality joe, grown locally in North Hollywood, I was told by our server.

Breakfast is served all day, and includes things like baked-on-the-premises croissant sandwiches, prosciutto and havarti omelettes, and orange-vanilla brioche french toast, hello? Are you drooling yet? Geez! I opted for the scrambled egg and cheese croissant, while Mom had an omelette. Both were absolutely fresh and delicious and large (had to take half my croissant home and it supplied a very easy and tasty breakfast en route to Big Bear the next day). Our giant coffee cups were never empty and there was never a shortage of smiley-happy people coming by to give some lovies to the attention whores-- I mean four-legged furry creatures--who live with me. Mom and I shared a blueberry tart thingy, which wasn’t too sweet, but was not sweet enough for Mom’s taste. I ordered a genoa, basil, mozzarella sammich to go for Homeslice and he raved about it later.

Let me be blunt: this place rules. I will be spending every Saturday morning there, if at all humanly possible, eating French goddess food and caffeinating and dreaming.

And if anybody figures out a gig as per my specifications above, you know where to reach me.

L'Artiste Patisserie
17312 Ventura Blvd. (at Louise)
Encino, CA 91316
(818) 386-0061


Rhonda's friend is a semi-finalist in The L Word t-shirt contest. Vote for her design (above) here. I think hers is the best, totally.

And if you're not already watching the show, OMG you are missing the eff out!!! I recommend you netflix it from season 1 and just do marathons of the show. It is so very addictive and a total girly, guilty pleasure.

Tuesday, February 06, 2007

There's No Therapy Like Snow Therapy

I really can’t stand victimhood. Some people can wallow in it, roll around in it and bake cookies with it, but I personally think it’s lame and it sucks and that there are far more interesting things to be had in life. No trauma ever gets me down for long. I just prefer it that way.

Which is why, after all my bitching and crying and relaying the story at length to everybody and questioning the neighbors ad nauseum, it was still so very frustrating not to have my usual, coma-like, sleep-of-the-dead eight hours per night. And I had no choice in the matter -- for more than a week, the deal was I would fall asleep for two or three hours, then wake up out of nowhere and obsess for about 6 hours, vainly attempting to return to my beloved Slumberland, a place I know and love and normally visit with admittedly luxurious regularity. But instead, my brain had to be going over all possible ins and outs of our house. What could we have done differently? Is our stuff being currently auctioned on ebay? Are the police even bothering to check the pawn shops for our piece-of-shit laptop? I want the photos that were on that thing, dammit! My jewelry box had been obviously rifled through, but nothing taken. Does this mean all the craptastic rings and necklaces I’ve bought at Claire’s for about $4.99 each that I love so much were considered in poor taste by our thieves and not even worthy of taking? If so, what does that say about my taste in accessories? What if it was somebody in our neighborhood who did this? Will I know it if I see them on the street, kind of like a sixth sense thing? Like a dog, will I smell my house on them and then try to whizz on their leg?

And then Super Bowl Sunday happened.

As many of you know, I adore Super Bowl. Not because of any slight interest in football or the traditional trans fat and alcohol consumption and TV-yelling and peanut gallerying that accompanies the day, but because it is the perfect day to go snowboarding. And this past Sunday, well! After what seems like centuries of bitterly cold weather around here, it was sunny, beautiful, spring-like, even up on the mountain! I couldn’t even wear a jacket! And the lift lines -- so short! And the people -- so happy! No attitude anywhere! And the man-made snow -- just manly enough and perfect for our purposes! To make matters even more blissful, my buddy Craig drove us in his sweet pimpin’ van, allowing me some nice and desperately needed nappage en route. It couldn’t have been a more perfect day.

Well, except for the face-plant I managed to procure. First day out of the season, it’s bound to happen. The ol’ muscle memory has to snap back into action, the brain is a little slow on the uptake, and post-lunch carelessness had set in. I was flying, thinking I was all The Shit and everything, and caught an edge, and flew head over board, twisting my neck during the somersault and planting a gnarly bruise on my right butt-cheek. With snow all in my face and down my back, Craiggie said I looked like I had taken a swing from Mike Tyson. Neat. I’ve been limping around like an old lady ever since then and can’t really turn my head to the right, but have slept solidly, blissfully ever since. And that is such a beautiful thing. I love you, Super Bowl.