I Am Goddess, Watch Me Shimmy

So I started a six-week course of Middle Eastern Dance three weeks ago. Here are my observations at my halfway point in the course, which was last night:

1) There are certain ways to move your body (as in yoga) that literally feel ancient. You can almost feel the ghost of a woman doing the same motions alongside you from a thousand years ago. It’s kinda hot in a psychic kind of way. Like walking into a cathedral in Europe that has been there for 800 years. The oldness of it is a feeling in your stomach that you can’t quite describe to someone else.

2) You can make the smallest motion with a single part of your body that is more flat-out sexy and enticing than a world of gyrating and pole-humping.

3) The belly of a woman is perhaps the sexiest part of the body, regardless of its size or shape. It is where life is created and where the sex organs are located. The implications of that are inescapable in terms of its appeal.

4) The sound of finger cymbals is lovely and musical. Until you are in a room with 40 other women who are learning to use them and who can’t seem to stop clapping them together at every given second, even when not dancing.

5) Women in their 60s without any sort of surgical or cosmetic enhancements (as my instructor is), can still look and act younger and more lively than a lot of women in their 20s, and hold an aura of sex appeal that is at once smoldering and dignified. Proving to me once again that a woman’s attractiveness and power come from within. It is an intense power that must be harnessed and pointed in the right direction. It is a gift, not to be trifled with.

6) What a woman does with her hands conveys volumes about what is going on inside of her.

7) Belly dancing requires a great deal of rhythm, though it may not at first seem so. But to keep a constant ¾ tempo going with finger cymbals, while your feet and arms are doing completely unrelated motions, is quite taxing as far as coordination goes. I imagine it must be what it’s like playing the drums.

Color Me Right

Yanno, I hate when I'm right when it's something like this.

I have this theory, see, and many of you as my friends are well aware of this theory due to my past pontifications on this subject. You know how it seems bad drivers on the road are becoming worse and more plentiful? My theory is that the rate of bad drivers out there is directly proportional to the common use of prescription drugs these days. EVERYBODY is taking some shit or other for some ailment or other (even sweaty palms! Hello!!!) Every drug produces a bevvy of unwanted side effects, but I believe the majority of them should come with a warning label that says, in bold neon spazziness: WARNING: TAKING THIS MEDICATION WILL MAKE YOU A CRAP-ASS DRIVER, AND LIKELY TO ANNOY, INFURIATE, POSSIBLY INJURE OR EVEN KILL INNOCENT DRIVERS AROUND YOU. PLEASE HIDE YOUR CAR KEYS FROM YOURSELF BEFORE OPENING THE LID TO THIS MEDICATION.

Turns out I am right, right, right, according to this article from msnbc. You've heard of sleepwalking? That's old news. Nowadays, it's all about sleepDRIVING for Ambien users. What the hell is wrong with people?

Skin So Soft

People, listen to your Mama Valley Girl. Go get yourself a shower filter. I can't believe the difference it has made in how my skin feels after just two uses. I got mine at the Co-Op in Santa Monica for $40, but I'm sure they can be procured more inexpensively somewhere else with a little hunting around. No matter -- I would have paid double for the results: nice, soft, non-itchy skin (without lotion!) without that slick, unrinsed feeling you get from a water softener. It's like taking a shower in rain water. I couldn't have possibly known what a difference it makes until trying it myself. Toni says after using it for awhile, she no longer loses any hair whatsoever when washing and conditioning her hair. And this girl has a ton of beautiful, long hair. And it fits on any shower, even a handheld one, which is what mine is (no girl should EVER be without a handheld shower, m'kay?), and was super easy to install, even for a domestitard like me. You change the filter once a year. Big whoop.

To read more on the evils of chlorine and its effects, see below. And remember that the skin is the largest organ of the body and absorbs everything you put on it. You'll want to kiss me later.

RETHINKING CHLORINATED TAP WATER
Article by Dr. Zoltan P. Rona MD MSc

Most people never give it a thought. After all, our elected public officials keep assuring us that chlorinated city tap water is completely safe for human consumption. Numerous scientific studies, however, report that chlorinated tap water is a skin irritant and can be associated with rashes like eczema. Chlorinated water can destroy polyunsaturated fatty acids and vitamin E in the body while generating toxins capable of free radical damage (oxidation). This might explain why supplementation of the diet with essential fatty acids like flax seed oil, evening primrose oil, borage oil and antioxidants like vitamin E, selenium and others helps so many cases of eczema and dry skin.

Chlorinated water destroys much of the intestinal flora, the friendly bacteria that help in the digestion of food and which protect the body from harmful pathogens. These bacteria are also responsible for the manufacture of several important vitamins like vitamin B12 and vitamin K. It is not uncommon for chronic digestive disorders as well as chronic skin conditions like acne, psoriasis, seborrhea and eczema to clear up or be significantly improved by switching to unchlorinated drinking water and supplementing the diet with lactobacillus acidophilus and bifidus.

Chlorinated water contains chemical compounds called trihalomethanes which are carcinogens resulting from the combination of chlorine with organic compounds in water. These chemicals, also known as organochlorides, do not degrade very well and are generally stored in the fatty tissues of the body (breast, other fatty areas, mothers' milk, blood and semen). Organochlorides can cause mutations by altering DNA, suppress immune system function and interfere with the natural controls of cell growth.

Chlorine has been documented to aggravate asthma, especially in those children who make frequent use of chlorinated swimming pools. Several studies also link chlorine and chlorinated by-products to a greater incidence of bladder, breast and bowel cancer as well as malignant melanoma. One study even links the use of chlorinated tap water to congenital cardiac anomalies.

Anything you can do to filter tap and shower water that eliminates or even minimizes chlorine would certainly be helpful and possibly curative for some immune system problems. The use of at source water filtration devices is increasingly popular and affordable. Discuss their use with your health care practitioner.

REFERENCES
Fackelmann, K.A., Hints of a chlorine-cancer connection. Science News, July 11, 1992;142:23.
Flaten, Trond Peter. Chlorination of drinking water and cancer incidence in Norway. International Journal of Epidemiology, 1992;21(1):6-15.
Messina, Virginia. Chlorine and cancer. Good Medicine, Winter 1994;8-9.
Morris, Robert D. Chlorination, Chlorination by-products and cancer. American Journal of Public Health, July 1992;82(7):955-963.
Rothery, S.P., et al. Hazards of chlorine to asthmatic patients. British Journal of General Practice, Jan, 1991;39.
Shaw, Gary M., et al. Chlorinated water exposures and congenital cardiac anomalies. Epidemiology, November 1991;2(6):459-460.

You Know It’s Hard Out Here For A Pimp

So I’m not a critic or a predictor by any stretch of the imadge, but I am known to be a rather opinionated beotch, and since the Oscars is my equivalent of Superbowl, and there are some really good nominees this year, I have to spout out about some of the movies that are up for awards since I have been cramming this week like it’s finals to see as many as I can and sufficiently root for my teams, as it were.

Yes, that was a helluva run-on sentence. Shut it.

Let me commence with my spouting:

Brokeback Mountain

Lord, where do I begin? The other day I had a conversation with a woman at work that I barely know about this movie. She was complaining about how she really wants to see it, but everyone in her conservative religious family was giving her shit about wanting to go see a gay cowboy movie, and hence, she had no one to go see it with. This is what I told her: It’s a shame that people in your life would dismiss this movie out of hand as merely a “gay cowboy movie”. The movie is about two souls who truly love each other, and the uplifting and destructive power of that love. The fact that they share the same gender is incidental to their relationship, but is also the conflict of the story. Wasn’t Jesus about love? Wasn’t Jesus about tolerance and understanding? Hello McFly? Anybody home? It kills me when so-called “righteous” people cast stones and judge before they let themselves feel and understand something in their hearts. I told her I would gladly go see the movie with her a second time, and here is why: I can’t get this movie out of my head or my heart. I saw it a week ago, and it haunts me daily and nightly. The two main characters are astounding on their own, but when in the same proximity in a scene, the resulting chemistry was such that I was anxious and breathless and tearful and turned on all at once. And the director of the picture was kind enough to take many steps back and just let the viewer experience this without getting into any stylized bullshit. This made it all the more beautiful and stark, and something you would want to see again and again. That, to me, is a great, great movie. It is timeless.

I don’t hold any idealistic hope that the Academy won’t wuss out and get homophobalicious over this movie and not give it the credit it deserves, but I am hoping. This one is my favorite. Can you tell? It can’t possibly come out on DVD soon enough.

Crash

This one affected me very deeply and made me think. I love movies that take place in L.A. mainly to see the locations and go “Oh! I just had lunch there the other day!” But this was the first I’ve seen in a long time where the tone actually captured what life is really like here; how diverse people really are; how contrasting lifestyles can be. As an ensemble piece, it flowed very well, and I really loved the message. It didn’t fall into any stereotypes of good guy/bad guy. The beauty of this movie was in its grey areas: sometimes the bad guy does something really good, and it makes you cry.

Capote

As a character study, absolutely flawless. I read on IMDB that they shot this movie in 32 days. Incredible, given the scope of its subtle greatness. I am so happy Philip Seymour Hoffman finally has a starring role truly worthy of his immense talent. I also personally love stories about writers and how quirky, weird and misfitting they can sometimes be. I find it comforting somehow. There is a scene where he is pouring scotch into a jar of baby food, and then eating it. This is something I would do in secret and never tell anybody. I loved that about the movie. It also really made me want to read In Cold Blood. I am really surprised that Clifton Collins Jr. is not up for Best Supporting. I thought he was completely spellbinding.

Hustle and Flow


Poor Derek is going to wish I never saw this movie since I can’t stop walking around the house singing “You know it’s hard out here for a pimp.” I just think it’s hilarious that a goofy cracka like me would walk around saying that. Anyway, Jillie raved about this movie months ago, and now I see what all the hub-bub is about. What I loved about the movie the most was that in the depressing world of pimps and ho’s and drugs and gangstas, there was a message of “follow your dream” that never once came across as cheesy or contrived. This guy was NOT a good guy. But you root for him anyway and want him to win. I also really loved getting to watch how the whole musical creative process takes place. I am in total awe of people who can create music, and it was riveting getting to see that happen. And hello! Isaac “It’s All About The Love, Chil’ren” Hayes and Ludacris are in the movie! And while Terrence Howard is getting all the spotlight for his nomination, I really thought Taryn Manning and Taraji Henson were awesome and made the movie work. There was also one of the hottest kissing scenes I have seen in eons.

Of course, there are nominees I haven’t mentioned here that I liked, but I felt these most deserved my personal shout-out. And I thank you for your time.

Zest

That would be my word for the day. I was told last night by a good friend that I have it. Probably sometime after I got off the stage dancing with the band that was playing. And I take it as a very serious compliment. Zest. Mainly because it has been on my mind a lot lately. A sense of adventure. Lust for life. Don’t you just want to scream and bounce up and down whenever that Iggy Pop song comes on? That crazy drumbeat intro? It reminds me that we are never fully in control. When you leave yourself open to wherever the day takes you, it will take you to some very interesting places, and mostly to some very interesting people. And that is such a good thing in getting the most out of life. I love my zest. Zest is where it’s at.

By the way, The Port in Studio City is a very fun and groovy place. Our bartendress had a heavy hand and a very sweet and attentive way about her, and the bouncer, this huge Native American dude named Black Bear, had the coolest tattoos all over his head. And the band, Dirty Pictures -- awesome. You can’t help but get up and shake your ass.

The Port
12430 Riverside Drive (at Whitsett)
Studio City, CA 91607

Let's Talk About The Weather

Let’s just say I’m not one for small talk. I absolutely LOATHE small talk. If someone starts in with the small talk with me, my eyes totally glaze over and I start running a mental grocery list in my head of things I need to get on my next trip to Trader Joe’s. I friggin’ hate it. Tell me about your DAY. Tell me about your drama. Give me your dirt, your fears, your latest conquest, whatever. And I will happily divulge you mine. Small talk, ew.

But I must begin today’s post with the cliché, worst stereotype of small talk EVAR, which is: “So how about this weather we’ve been having?”

I’m not going to lie. I like it warm and springy and sunshiney. After living in L.A. my whole life, I realize I am quite spoiled. When people come here from other states and they complain that it’s oh-so-predictably boring and nice and sunny here all the time, I want to punch them in the throat. Say what? Exqueeze me??? Are your frigid freezing temperatures you’re accustomed to really something you would like to go back to? No? Then shut the hell up! Boring and sunny, my ass. Sunny rules. I'm so sure.

And we all know that lately it has been unseasonably warm and nice. Just this past weekend, I was delighting not only in being able to eat breakfast on the back patio, but mostly in the return of my little chubby bird friends that I feed, and watch them merrily kick dirt and dead leaves out of our patio awning and set up house. I love waking in the morning (well, I hate waking in the morning, but since I have to WAKE, this is what I love) -- to the sound of my little bird friends in the trees and bushes all around our backyard, singing my praises (they call me She Who Fills Our Bird Feeder With Heavy Hand) and just getting that sweet happy feeling like old friends have returned. Sitting on the patio, I could watch a whole tree-full of birds, twittering at one another about all things bird-centric, and I felt… happy. Every morning, there is a regular occurrence in this one tree that I like to call “Chirp O’Clock”. Sometime around 7:00, completely out of freakin’ NOWHERE, every bird in that tree chirps its head off like it’s going for a world record, like they are trying to totally out-chirp each other, like they’re going for the gold in the Chirp Olympics. I love it! Chirp O’Clock is becoming my favorite time of day!

And then. The e-mails start coming from Mountain High. We’re going to get new snow! Yay! Then the rumblings are heard around the office and at home: Our warm weather front is coming to an end and it’s going to get wintry-ugly. Oh. Ew. Even the birds know something is up. They are pensive, restless, agitated. I woke up this morning and it was fah-reeeeezing. And strangely quiet. I looked outside. The dialogue went something like this:

EXT. VALLEY GIRL’S BACKYARD -- MORNING

A harsh, wintry landscape. Grey skies, clouds gathering, a chilling wind blows through the air. Chubby little birds sit in a mushroom-shaped tree.

BIRD
(bitterly)
Cheep.

BIRD
Cheep?

BIRD
(turns up his beak)
Eh, cheep.

BIRD
(sighs)
Cheeeeeeep. Eh. Yeah. I got nothin'.

CUT TO:

Valley Girl looks out the window. Turns to Derek.

VALLEY GIRL
I speak Bird quite fluently. I think they’re saying they came back from Down South for this shit? Hell naw!

THE END

Curves Effin' Rules!

I had my second real Curves workout last night. I was supposed to have my second workout this past Friday, but came in there after a stressful, psychotic work day with such a violent rotten headache, thinking that working out would help make it go away. No. The throbbing just became more intent on splitting my head in two, and after only my first circuit, the poor trainer there, viewing my pathetic watery-eyed head rubbing was like “Bitch, please. Please, you’re killing me. Please. Go home. Lie down.” She gave me some plain wrap pain reliever, and halfway home, the pain finally went away and I was able to enjoy a nice girl's night out.

But anyway! Since I was snowboarding all day Sunday which is its own gnarly workout, I gave Curves a rest until last night. And it was so awesome. How do I explain why it’s awesome? Now that I know what I’m doing, I jammed through the workout, kept my heart rate up, asked questions of the trainers only when I needed a little clarification on my form, and was otherwise just not bothered. I kinda got into this zone of realizing that I’m only going to be here a half-hour, so keep the form good, don’t get lazy, and let’s do this kind of mentality. I love me some Curves!

Cops: Mountain High

So let’s say you decide to schlep up to Mountain High with your buddy Craig to go snowboarding whilst the rest of the natural world judges Super Bowl commercials and eats chips and beer all day. You’re up on the mountain in the AM, it’s sunny, and the conditions, for having been no new local snow lately, are pretty darn good. You’re warming up, getting your groove back. It’s your first day out this season, so you don’t want to kill yourself, but you hit a bunch of tasty runs. You and Craig decide to take a break for lunch, and sit on the picnic benches by the outdoor BBQ pit and take large chunkfuls of your cheeseburgers between mumblings about this or that knucklehead on the hill, listen to Craig discuss proper jump form, chastise Craig for not putting sunscreen on his neck and tell him that his neck will end up looking like a cancer-ridden wrinkly argyle sock if he doesn’t take care of things. All is peaceful and right with the world. M’kay? When suddenly there is a loud and vicious scream, and not 5 feet from you and Craig, a woman, deranged and irate beyond all human logic, is screaming her head off like a victim of Tourette’s Syndrome. Two unfortunate security guards (yeah, who knew Mountain High had security guards? -- when we first arrived and saw someone outfitted with “security” boldly emblazoned on his shirt as we were parking the truck, Craig turned and remarked that he felt much more secure now. He had been feeling rather insecure, but now all was secure and so he felt better and I laughed and thought this was funny and this was kind of our little joke for awhile was all like “oooooh. Mountain High Security: now we are secure.” Little did we know what was to be….)

So where was I before the Parenthetical From Hell? Oh yeah -- two unfortunate security guards were attempting to wrestle this spaz-attack under control whilst she quite vehemently attempted to snap their shins in half with her vicious kicks, eye-poking-out flailing arms, and her trucker-esque language. All while some other poor (let’s call him unfortunate too) some poor unfortunate dude who I can only assume was her love interest is standing in front of her, pleading with her “Heather, PLEASE CALM DOWN. Heather, PLEASE. Heather, THEY WILL ARREST YOU” all of which pissed off Psycho Heather even more and sent her fury into a total tailspin. A third unfortunate security guard arrived and helped the other two security guards finally wrestle her freaky ass to the ground and somehow, by some defiance of the laws of physics, manage to get handcuffs on her. How they did this, I have no clue -- it was like watching someone try to diaper a lubed, epileptic pig. It was scary. Very scary.

It harshed our mellow for a minute, I have to be honest. But then we got back up on the mountain, and everything was okay. But I can’t help but wonder what has become of poor Heather. Where are you, Heather? And why were you so steamed, Heather? Geez. Inquiring minds wanna know.

Minibar

It’s not often a stay-at-home mom can book time for girls night out. But there was Debbie, super cute with a little flower in her hair, saying goodbye to the kids and the sitter on Friday. She took my smokey-eye-made-up, big-hair-havin’ butt out to this awesome place she knows called Minibar. I came in with an open mind, and was so pleasantly surprised and impressed with this place.

It’s like tapas, only not really Spanish tapas. Just several little tasty dishes and holy crap, the best mojitos EVAR. We had pomegranate flavored ones and ordered a few dishes. But the best part of the experience was our adorable server, Lola. This woman could not have been any more warm, hospitable and charming. I wanted to fold her up, put her in my purse and take her home with us. She was pretty like Sonia Braga, and told us that when she put in our drink order with the bartender, she barked at him "AND THROW SOME ALCOHOL IN THERE, BE-OTCH!" How can you not love that?

It’s considered to be on the border of Studio City and Hollywood. I will def be making the trip back there just to see Lola.

After dinner, we danced our asses off at Coda until it was time to go relieve the babysitter at 1:30. Aaaahhhh, I love Fridays. And I love me some girl's night. And I love Lola at the Minibar.

Minibar
3413 Cahuenga W. (at Barham)
Los Angeles, CA 90068
(323) 882-6965

Goin' Curvin'

So I had my first Curves workout last night. I can tell already that this is going to be something I can stick with.

I was measured and weighed, and since they are kind souls, they offer you the option of not knowing what your stats are. I am a firm believer in the "Ignorance is Bliss" mentality, and so my numbers are still a mystery to me, but they will be able to re-weigh and measure and give me an idea of my progress down the line.

I was taken around and shown the proper way to use every piece of equipment in the circuit by Jody, my adorable trainer. [It should be noted that she is a state-certified trainer, and also certified in the Curves system of circuit training.] Jody, while very nice and lovely and pleasant, with a VERY enviable figure, is a total stickler for proper form, and I was constantly, endlessly reminded to breathe, relax my shoulders, pull in my gut. Mildly annoying, but you realize how quickly bad habits can creep up on a workout since you’re doing the bad habits every 2 seconds, and this will cause you to take two steps forward, one step back. The constant reminders are necessary. The chicks at Curves want you to take THREE steps forward, zero steps back. This is their hallmark, and they are bent on helping you achieve success. You periodically monitor your heart rate to be sure you are working hard, but not too hard. They want to keep you in the fat-burning, gut-busting zone.

It took longer than it usually would since I was learning everything, but once you get going, the workout takes a half hour and you’re outta there. This is what I like. I have never understood these gym rats that come to the gym, wait in line to get on equipment, dangle around and chit-chat with people, spend a monotonous hour on a treadmill staring at the TV while their muscles get used to the same motions over time and so it loses its effectiveness. Heyall naw! I have better things to be doing, and that is just not for me. Get me in, get me out. The only workout in which I will lolly-gag about is if I am hiking (I’m in nature and me and God are having our little talks) or rollerblading. And even then, I usually have to pee, so I have to cut it short anyway. But dangling around in the gym? Forget it.

I'll keep you abreast (chick pun intended) of my progress...

I Love This

In the spirit of the approaching Valentine's Day:

"Love yourself first and everything else falls into line. You really have to love yourself to get anything done in this world." -Lucille Ball

Curveaceousness

In my ongoing quest to lose the No-Baby-Weight caused by the STUPID MO-FO pill, I have done the ultimate chick thing. I joined Curves Gym last night. It’s the rage that’s sweeping the nation in women’s fitness. Yes, that’s right. Can you feel the estrogen? That's right! It’s like The View meets Hans and Franz. They want to pump (clap!) you up, while being sensitive to your needs as a woman. There are locations all over the world that members may utilize, but I was particularly pleased to discover a location exactly 1.7 miles from my house. There are no mens allowed. No sweaty lunkheads hogging the equipment. Personal training is included. The vibe in there was totally unpretentious and nice. So what’s not to love? There was no hard sell, and none was required since I couldn’t see anything wrong with this arrangement. I go in Wednesday night for my first session. I’ll keep you posted on the status of my curves. And my efforts to keep them pumped (clap) the hell down.

Curves For Women
17627 Ventura Blvd. (just east of White Oak)
Encino, CA 91316
(818) 986-7212

Other Crappy Movies I Simply Have To Watch Whenever They Come On (The Patrick Swayze Edition)

1) Roadhouse. I adore this movie, 95% because of the blonde ho-bag in it. She is repulsive, yet you cannot look away from her and her slutty antics. At least I can’t. She was Anna Nicole before there was Anna Nicole. And 5% because Patrick Swayze totally busts some sweet Chuck Norris-style roundhouse kicks to the bad guys' faces. And I just love that.

2) Dirty Dancing. “Nobody puts Baby in a corner.” ‘Nuff said.

3) Ghost. In fond memory of the days when starlets vehemently denied they had boob jobs, despite the very plain and obvious proof (on film!) that they somehow very recently had fried eggs for boobies and flaunted them braless whilst tearing up over a penny climbing up a door and floating toward you in a ghostly, yet touching, fashion. [Future "duh" post: Other Crappy Movies I Simply Have To Watch Whenever They Come On (The Demi Moore Edition). On second thought, that may take up too much of my time.]

Yeah. I’m bored today.

Los Crapos

So I wish I could say we had a great trip to Rosarito, but honestly, I have to say it was just pretty good. The desired effect of spending three days chillaxin’ was definitely achieved, but at the cost of discovering the hard way that my fave place to stay down there has gone downhill. It has become dumpy. Schlumpy. Frumpy. I started visiting this particular hotel about 13 years ago, so obviously it was a place that was nice to visit and kept me coming back for more. Not so anymore. Sure, the fabulous ocean view from the room and the pool is still fabulous. Sure, it is still a place of which not a lot of energy needs to be expended and one is free to loll about and read, drink, chit-chat with others, drink, and eat. And drink. And I’m not a neat freak or germophobe by any stretch of the imadge, but a jacuzzi so murky you couldn’t see to the bottom? Lounge chairs by the pool completely covered with layers of dirt? “Authentic” food in the hotel restaurant that I wouldn’t spend $1.50 on at El Pollo Loco? Being provided with only half a roll of TP in our suite and no spare so we were forced to call down for it and then wait five minutes in MST (Mexican Standard Time) which roughly translates to FIVE HOURS to receive the TP? WTF?

Thank God for the little hidden places where I knew there would be great food. The eyes-rolling-back-in-your-head-foodgasm at these places made up for a lot of our lodgings’ shortcomings. And thank God for Oscar at the El Nido bar, who made the best margaritas I have ever tasted. And thank God for the recently-erected Big Giant Jesus atop the hill behind the hotel (a la Rio de Janeiro) that greeted us every time we left the hotel and would send Derek into yet another fit of giggles over the fact that hey, there was a Big Giant Jesus hovering above our hotel and that's just funny.

Next time, we’ll be staying somewhere else. I don’t think even Big Giant Jesus could save this place from its downward spiral.

Tic. Toc. Tic....... Toc.......

Today in Rosarito, sunny with a high of 71 degrees. Whilst I freeze my ass off here.

Why does time have to go by so slow when you're about to have a groovy long weekend? In the sun? Visions of shrimp tacos and Puerto Nuevo lobsters dancing in my head? Yeah. It's a long day.

I'm having my niece and neph over tonight. I can't wait. They're spending the night. We're going to build a fort. And make cookies. And torture Babe and Rufus by making them wear stupid outfits. Should be a good time.

Consequences Teach Better Than Concepts

Moral concepts are personal; consequences are universal.

What one culture, religion, or nation prohibits, another accepts as moral behavior.

What may be wrong in one situation or circumstance may be right in another.

Unchanging, unquestioned rules of right and wrong relieve us of thinking.

But life is not so simple.

Prisons are full of people who understood the concepts, but didn’t grasp the consequences.

~Unknown

Day Five

You guys, I know, I am in shock myself. I have made it to Day Five of The Cleanse. No food, no alcohol, no coffee, no nothing. Just large amounts of water, water, water, organic lemon juice, pure organic maple syrup and cayenne pepper. Oh, and more water. Here are my observations thus far:

1. It's not as hard as I thought it would be. I have had no major hunger pangs or moments of caving in. This has been the biggest surprise of all.

2. In the absence of food, alcohol, or even a nice cup of joe, one becomes bored easily. This boredom is remedied by looking around the house and noticing all the crap you were too lazy to do because you were cooking/chowing down/hungover/too tired. You start doing it.

3. When all that stuff is done, you start noticing the things that were an ugly beige color and really should be jazzed up with some paint. I painted the kitchen step-stool. Yes, I actually painted a step-stool, but it has sentimental value. It belonged to my grandparents, whom I dearly miss, but it was this ugly-ass barf-beige color. It is now a jazzy green color with metallic blue sponge shapes. I got really into it. I also took this stark white little table that we put our keys and junk on, and transformed it into a nice, distressed denim blue. Now it’s purty. I like that.

4. You really do have energy to do stuff once the initial detox mild headaches and blah feelings go away (for me it was two days, and again, not that bad). I hiked Runyon on Sunday and Caballero on Monday, and felt awesome the whole time.

5. There was a point in one of my hikes where I caught a whiff of something sweet in the vegetation that reminded me of Mrs. Fields chocolate chip cookies for some reason. At that moment, I would have cut off a limb in exchange for 50 of those particular cookies, an item that I don’t seek out or consume with any sort of regularity. Of course I was prepared for this from the material I had read about The Cleanse -- while you’re doing it, certain toxins will be running around and causing intense cravings of sweets or salty things or whatever you normally crave. INTENSE?! I now understand the severity of the word. This INTENSE craving lasted about 15 minutes, and I was able to talk myself through it, and it was over. Of course, I was out in the middle of freakin’ nature. There was no Mrs. Fields to be had. So I was kinda screwed anyway.

6. You really notice how many food commercials are on TV. Almost every other commercial has savory some such thing, or luscious decadent item that you absolutely must eat, IN YOUR FACE in all its glistening, buttery-looking, perfectly cooked glory. Every other commercial, I swear! Thank God for TiVo and the ability to fast-fo through that crap. It was my saving grace.

7. Your sense of smell becomes very acute. On my way to one of my hikes, I caught a whiff of someone cooking. They were making carne asada with a side of refried beans and what I thought to be a tomatillo sauce in there somewhere. I knew all this by driving past. Is this what it’s like to be a dog? They have total bionic smellers of food they never get to eat? No wonder they beg all the time. I considered banging on these people’s door and begging, but resisted the urge.

8. You can breathe better. Seriously. You can take in more oxygen because nothing is sitting around in your insides getting in the way. And that feels very satisfying.

9. Sometimes, when I just needed to be a little bit “bad”, while measuring out the maple syrup, I would lick the spoon afterward. This made me feel very dirty and sly, but I kinda liked it. Tee hee!

10. Whenever I felt the slightest bit icky or headachey in the first couple of days, I could just go to bed and it would go away. This was a fabulous excuse to get oodles of sleep that I wouldn’t ordinarily get to indulge in. And I like that, too.

11. My dogs know something is up. A couple of times, Rufus has come up and sniffed my breath like he often does (he is snoopy, he likes to know what I’ve eaten). Then he will give me this quizzical look as if to say “Bitch, what? You have total access to all this food, of which we are denied. WTF?”

12. I consider The Cleanse the lesser of two evils. It was either this, or do the Hollywood Starlet Diet of Throw-Up With a Side of Cocaine. So far this one is working for me, so I’ll keep it, thanks.

Ms. Clean

You know how you get that feeling after the New Year of wanting to clean? I don’t necessarily mean houseclean, but really feng shui hong kong fuey your house -- cleaning old clothes out of your closet, reorganizing your filing, dumping out all your old pornos that you never watch anymore. You know -- clean. Well, I have that feeling. But I want to clean my insides.

See, I’ve been on the pill for the last six months or so. And though it evened out my female problems quite nicely as was its intended purpose, it has wreaked havoc on my body in other ways -- namely, by dumping an extra 10 lbs. or so on my person. Of course I am guessing at the number because I am scared poo-less to step on the scale for fear that it will send me downward spiraling into a Krispy Kreme bender just to numb my chub-pain. It feels like I am carrying an innertube full of Jello around my waist at all times. Try cramming that into your jeans sometime! As it is, I consumed enough nog and rum over the holidays to feed and inebriate a small country for a year. I kind of had the pounds coming to me anyway. But the pill -- blast that stupid pill! -- has effed with my hormones in such a way that I don’t feel like myself anymore. I have been off the pill for over three weeks now. I want my regular girly cycle back, problems and all. I will work them out, but those fake hormones ain’t for me.

So! I have decided to do a cleanse (hereafter referred to as "The Cleanse"). A Master Cleanse, if you will. This comes at the recommendation of a couple of friends and actually myself. I did one some years ago and had great results. You dump all the synthetic hormones from the pill that would otherwise stay hanging around rent-free in your person, and detox your bod. This gives a nice, fresh start to starting a new eating plan or whatevs. And that’s what I need right now.

Of course, in a couple of days, I may be willing to sell my soul to Paris Hilton in exchange for a nice, fat burger. I’m ready for that. But I am told that after the first couple of days, it gets really easy and you start to feel really good. I plan on doing it for nine days before we go to Rosarito. Then I will re-tox when I get there. Just kidding. But I will, in all seriousness, have to have a few margs. It’s illegal in Mexico not to, right? That is the image I will keep in my head to keep me going: mmmmmmmmmmargs and tacos......

Tonight for my big send-off before the start of The Cleanse, I’ll be making some meatloaf, homemade mac and cheese, and asparagus. After that, it’s lemon/maple/cayenne country for a long-ass time. I’ll let you know how it goes. Lord, help me.

Non-Morning Person Getting Up In The Morning and Other Awful Things

So I was supposed to get up early (horrors!!!!) and go running with Bec this morning, but she flaked as she is on deadline and pulling a lot of late nights. Whatevs. So in a fit of complete insanity, I decided to go by myself. The Thai food we had last night was most certainly loaded with MSG I am now convinced, since I woke up with one of those obnoxious MSG headaches that dry out your throat and make you feel like someone shoveled fiberglass insulation-wrapped sawdust into your cranium. It always feels better to get up and walk around rather than lie in bed and wallow in it, so this prompted my lazy non-morning-person ass out of bed to do the run on my own. It was also the guilt over consuming so damn much pineapple fried rice last night.

I got my clothes on and proceeded with the big giant dog out the door. Dudes, I am being honest when I say it was pure, unadulterated HELL. Torture. Sheer shitdom. For starters, it was like, ten zillion below zero outside (yeah, New Year’s Resolution to not exaggerate going really well, but I mean! The grass in Balboa Park was completely frosty! Where the hell are we, the Arctic???) And not only that, but my legs kept up a steady protest of the following: "Bitch, WHAT???? Are you completely and totally INSANE? What in the mother-EFF are we doing out of bed, for the love of all that is holy? Excuse me, Brain? Is that your name? Brain? Get our Leg Agent on the phone, this is total bullshit! Go ahead, we’ll wait. God! This sucks!"

But I persisted in spite of the protests and was very happy I did, because not only did it warm me up and get the blood going, and I got to witness the sheer joy of watching Rufus haul-ass completely balls-out (if he had balls) after a squirrel, but I feel super chipper-perky-bubbly-happy today. And that is a good feeling.

But we’ll just have to see about doing it again tomorrow.

Less is More

Continuing in the vein of crappy-ass movies that one has to watch, I have a confession to make. I'm turning into a Bush Bitch. Here is my story.

Recently I was paging through the cable channels on a weekend evening, drinking cocktails, being thankful for the fact that in America, it is a perfectly acceptable pastime to watch crap-TV whilst imbibing for the sole purpose of poking fun at said crap-TV. It's very relaxing. I couldn’t find Showgirls anywhere, so I was looking for other crap to watch, and saw something very intriguing called "Busty Cops". I know, it sounds awesome, right? It was, however, on the Cinemax channel, which we didn't get. I was super bummed. I imagined all sorts of taglines of badness in my head: They’re busty. They’re cops. They will bust you if you’re bad, because they are the Busty Cops. Whatever Busty Cops was, I wanted in on it. So Derek heard my cries of despair over being denied what was most certainly a gloriously crappy chunk of time wastage, and on the sly the next day, he ordered Cinemax. Though I believe he secretly wanted to know the joy that was Busty Cops as well. So we're watching Cinemax the other night over the weekend. No Busty Cops to be found, but one of those cheesy soft-core pornos was on, called "Emmanuelle In Space". This fine piece of cinematic gold was crafted circa '89 or '90, and is so bad, I can’t even find it on IMDB in order to confirm its ancient date of creation. So of course, Derek and I were ripping on the hairdos and clothes and lame plotline and stuff. After one of the 27 or so sex scenes, the guy rolls off the girl after their simultaneous fake orgasms to reveal her super-bushy crotchal area. Derek and I erupted into peals of laughter -- "Hi, Tufty!" "Oh my god, hi Brillo Crotch!" “What’s up with the Chia Pet, Pseudo-Ho?” Still giggling, I went to the bathroom and happened to examine my own special area and jumped back from myself in horror. I hadn't realized how out of control it had become. The holidays haven’t exactly afforded a lot of time to do maintenance. I felt bad for poking fun at the Skinemax actress. It's not her fault. She's not alone. But she had the jabs coming, if only for the distracting gap in her teeth.

I called up my friendly neighborhood waxer (aka my sis-in-law, who always does an outstanding job of nether-region maintenance) and told her she may need a machete for this one. Thank the Pube Gods she had a spot available this weekend. But in the meantime, I’m thinking of buzzing it into the shape of some busty cops. What do we think? Hot, right? Awwwwwyeaaaaah.

Mom! Quit it, you're embarrassing meeeeeee!

Yeah. Some of us are super stoked the holidays are over. Rufus won't even acknowledge my presence in this shot. He is Super-Aloof-Teenage-Bad-Ass-Dog.

And behold the following, in which it appears that Babe wants to suck the very blood of the person taking the photo. Oh yeah. That would be me.

It Was The Best of Times, It Was The Worst of Times

After doing all the fun Christmas stuff at our new home for Christmas this year, we schlepped over to southern Utah to do Christmas and New Years with Derek’s family for four days. I love me some Derek’s family, so I was ready to rock. We did Christmas on New Year’s Eve morning, and I got to ring in the New Year drinking champagne and playing cards with Derek’s 101-year-old Grammy. She stayed up with us until at least 1:00 a.m.! Have I ever mentioned how much she rules? Well…. she rules. There was nowhere on earth I would rather have been. The only bummer to the whole affair was that I am violently (and I mean mafia-revenge-violently) allergic to their cat. Which is weird, because I have never been allergic to any cats, but there I was, wheezing and barely able to breathe, with nowhere to go since it was butt-cold outside. Then the real fun started when my whole head clogged up and I started sneezing every 2 seconds. I took some Benadryl and that was really special. I was still sneezy and stuffy, but now I was dopey and drowsy on top of it! Neat!

When not doing the celebratory stuff, we took in some of the sights of southern Utah, and more specifically, Zion National Park. This was also a nice break for me from the Snotfest that had become my existence throughout our stay. Anyway, I had no idea this place even existed, but I sure do now. It was absolutely stunningly beautiful, everywhere you look. Really cool plateaus and rock formations, gorgeous desert landscape, interesting wildlife. I can’t wait to go back in the spring to spend more quality time with D’s parents and check out the hiking around there.



Driving home, we had to pass through Las Vegas along with every single other person on the entire planet (New Year’s Resolution: Ease up on the exaggerating) AND deal with the rain. But all in all it was a really fun trip, and the valley welcomed us back home with open arms and rain-soaked dreams.

The next day I took down all the Christmas crap, put away presents, and swept up the pine needles. I am SO ready for 2006. Bring it on, bitches!!

Get Your Bad On

Sigh. Christmas won’t officially be over for us until we visit Derek’s fam in Utah this week. But I already feel so full and happy from Christmas joy. It has been a really wonderful, peaceful, sweet holiday season for me this year, even with a minor sickly curve ball thrown at me before Christmas Day. Bam! I knocked it out in a day and a half and was done. But now I’m just tired and want to lie down. For about three days.

Which brings me to my latest blog confession, dear readers. You know when it’s before bedtime and you’re tired, but not tired enough to sleep, but too tired to read or do anything semi-productive or even focus on a movie you haven’t yet seen? You know what I like to do? Besides that, you pervs.



I will hunt around the tube until I find the movie Showgirls. I know! I know. It’s almost always on some channel or another, and it is quite possibly the worst movie ever made, but dammit, that’s what makes it so good. Especially watching the edited for TV version of it, where you can make fun of the dubbing where there should have been overly-passionate, righteously indignant cusswords, and make extra special fun of the skin-colored bra thingies that they digitally add over any exposed boobies. It rules! I swear, I never get tired of watching that stupid-ass movie! What is my problem? Is there a 12-step program for this? I love listening to Elizabeth Berkley grunt and gasp during her dance solos, and violently whip her head around when she is pissed off (which is practically every scene). I love making fun of Kyle McLachlan’s super-sissy hairdo. I love the cliched, over-the-top, cocaine-induced Star Is Born type story line that even a 3-year-old could navigate and find cheesy. God! It’s just so good!

There are other movies that are also terrible, but when they come on, it is a moral imperative: I simply have to watch them. In a lot of ways, I think they make me a better writer because the writing is bad, but obviously there is something compelling about it that makes you watch, right? There is something to be learned from this, though I’m not sure what that is. Does anybody else do this? Here is my list:

The Cutting Edge (Rich girl skater meets bad boy hockey player and they must learn to skate together. Sparks fly and bitchy jabs ensue.)
Center Stage (Bitchy bitches at the New York Ballet Academy. Backstabbing dancers, eating disorders, male ballet lotharios. Oh, it’s all SO serious.)
Flashdance (Duh. Every little girl on the planet wanted to be Jen Beals with that white-hot off-the-shoulder sweatshirt. Finding out that she didn’t actually do any of the dancing was like finding out there was no Santa Klaus.)
Striptease (Demi Moore takes it off, but only for a noble cause people! And she rips those clothes off with righteous, fierce anger because she has to keep custody of her daughter away from her mean, mean, drinking, asshole ex-husband! Featuring Burt Reynolds, in perhaps the most embarrassing role of his entire career.)

So what are your guilty movies? Come on. Confess. Confess. You know you want to tell me.

It's the MOST wonderful time... of the year....

This time of year always gets me thinking a lot about traditions. What I mean by that is, a few years ago, I realized that with all my protracted family members and the consumerism frenzy that is foisted upon our psyches every year, my holidays were becoming WAY too convoluted, stressful (most stress being entirely self-imposed) and commerce-oriented. This is not good. This is not what the holidays are all about. So in the last few years, I have made more of an effort with each year to remember the good, in-the-spirit-of-celebrating, meaningful traditions that fly in the face of crazy-making and depressing attitudes that accompany this time of year. I would like to share them with you now, and hope you will share your traditions with me as well so we can make this a great holiday season, people. I'm always up for new ones.

1) Go be with your God in your own way. You don’t have to be “religious” to get into the spirit. Most of my friends aren’t remotely religious, but are definitely highly spiritual, and find meaning in the season by climbing a hill and admiring the view, or finding God through riding a snowboard down a sweet run, or in the selfless giving of donating one’s time to help those less fortunate. It’s all very individual. If you’re bored out of your mind and feel nothing at church service, for God sake (literally!) don’t go to church. Why on earth would God want you there? Find a special place where you feel your spirit connect with God and the season. That is the way to go, and don’t EVAR let anyone tell you different. That’s someone foisting their own issues on you, and that’s not allowed.

2) Make stuff. My past personal favorites are homemade soap, cookies, Christmas ornaments, wreaths, and girly crap like aromatherapy body scrubs and the like. You can get pretty much all the stuff at Michael’s and/or a good health food store. (For really good aromatherapy and soap-making supplies and all the pretty stuff to wrap up your homemade stuff in, go to Soothe Your Soul in Redondo Beach. That place rules.) It doesn’t matter what you make or how 3rd grade it looks, so long as you sit your butt down, hang with some girlfriends, drink a little nog (I like mine with spiced rum and nutmeg), and focus on letting your creative self be free for awhile. Laugh, talk, be dorky. Don't fret if you have dried toothpaste crust in the bathroom -- your friends won't care. They will just be happy to be there with you. I couldn’t have the holidays without making stuff. It just wouldn’t work.

3) Get a tree (or Hannukah bush, Kwanzaa harvest stuff, whatever your thing is) and have a few close friends and Mom over to decorate it. I like to heat some spicy cider (from Trader Joe’s, of course), serve nog, and have a few munchies, and let everyone help you put on the lights, hang the ornaments, and decorate the house, all whilst playing some groovy Christmas tunes. It’s so relaxing and fun, and spreads around a LOT of warm fuzzies.

4) Go for a walk or drive specifically for the sole purpose of checking out everybody’s lights and lawn decorations. (Bonus points: bringing kids along for this)

5) Just enjoy the season for all its unexpected (non-material) gifts. That is a tradition worth keeping.

Olé!

OMG people, serious, serious rave reviews coming. My dad and I did the ol’ “Let’s Drive Down Ventura Blvd. on a Saturday Night And Just Spontaneously Pick A Place” routine. Did we want Italian? Did we want Seafood? Did we want something ethnic and exotic? We just didn’t know, so we flew by the seat of our pants, poo-pooing the French places, eschewing the franchise-type eateries. As you know, this approach to eating out could be met with disastrous results, but Dad and I got super lucky. We happened upon Olé! From the outside, it looked warm and inviting, and I saw that it was a tapas place, which is always fun, so we pulled in and gave it a shot.

We sat on the patio under their patio heater thingies and were greeted by a totally sweet server who took great care of us the whole evening. Though I love doing the thing of ordering several tapas and sharing, we were so starving that we opted to get one tapa, then share two entrees. I should mention here that, like any Spanish place worth its salt, they have sangria options, but the cocktail choices caught my eye and I settled on a Midnight Kiss. Our server recommended the Filet a la Plancha to start (grilled rosemary flatiron steak w/ anchovy butter). Who would think that starting off a meal with steak would be so inviting, but it set the tone for the rest of the meal, it was just so delicious and savory (no, you don’t taste the anchovy fishy thing). I got the salmon and Dad got the Fideos Vascos (angel hair pasta, shrimp and chicken in beer reduction sauce). We shared each and man, they were awesome.

It’s too early for lunch, and I’m getting hungry already just thinking about that place. So yeah, total thumbs-up. Oh, and since we got there early, there wasn’t much of a crowd, but by the time we left, the place was jumpin’. Reservations recommended.

Olé!
13251 Ventura Blvd
Studio City, CA 91604
(between Coldwater and Woodman)
Tel: (818) 986 3190

The Goose Whisperer

One thing I love about living in the valley at this time of year: Geese. You will hear this distant sort of funny little honking sound, like one goose told a joke and they all kind of share a chuckle. Then you’ll see them, gracefully flying overhead in formation, their long necks stretched out and bobbing as they fly, softly honking into the breeze.

First thing this morning as I let the dogs out back for their morning business, I heard that gentle honking sound and looked skyward. A flock of geese (oh wait, I think it’s gaggle)… a gaggle of geese flew overhead and I was filled with this warm, fuzzy kind of feeling.

When I was little, my grandparents had a house on the lake in Tahoe where they would live several months out of the year, and then head back to Van Nuys during the cold months. My bro and I would go visit and spend weeks at a time with them. We would be playing in the backyard or on the dock, checking Grandpa’s bait trap for minnows, and we would hear the geese coming from a few houses away. We would scram at high speeds to the house and up the stairs to the kitchen, where Grammy would give us day-old bread to feed the geese and ducks. She would usually come out with us to feed them, as she had a special relationship with a certain goose named Oscar. Geese mate for life, and Oscar would make an appearance every day with his beautiful snow-white wife, Carmelita. But his loyalty to Carmelita didn’t stop him from having a very deep, albeit platonic, relationship with my Grammy. Oscar would run after you and hiss and try to bite your toes if you came anywhere near my Grammy. Seriously, he was like a pit bull on 'roids. But when he sat next to Grammy, he was suddenly Mr. Charming Sensitive Guy. She would ask him about his day, to which he would softly coo his replies. I am convinced my Grammy was able to interpret Geese as she always replied to his mumblings and they carried on a conversation like this for several minutes with equal amount of give and take. He would gently take chunks of bread from her hand. He would quietly give his take on current events, discuss the weather, gossip about the neighbors. After they were all caught up on their niceties, Oscar would stand up, wriggle his bushy, feathery butt, round up his bitch, and head to the next house that would give him carbs. To this day, it is among my very fondest of childhood memories. My Grammy is no longer with us, but she remains the only Goose Whisperer I have ever known.

What a nice way to start the day, seeing the geese through my sleepy eyes and thinking of her.

Halloweenie

People, I ain’t gonna lie. I love me some Halloween. I love dressing up and being someone else for a day. This year, I decided that since I didn’t get to dress up last year, I would be TWO different people for a day this Halloween. One costume would be work appropriate:

I won the costume contest at work for this one. $50 gift certificate is mine. Wheeeee! I have to say, I have a newfound respect for pregnant women everywhere after lugging around this pillow over my belly all day. I was like a human incubator! And I had a nice white-trash accent to go along with it. I cruised the office in character asking everyone for beer and cigs. And doesn’t Miata look cute? She reminded me of a sexy muppet.

. . . And one costume I would wear later for attending the West Hollywood Costume Carnival wherein it would be appropriate to be boobylicious and scandalous:



This was our little pre-party. Doesn’t Bunnie look just like Kim Catrall from SITC only with a pink wig? She looked hawt! The girl with us who looks semi-possessed by Satan is an opera singer, and sang a few bars for us which was made super-creepy by her Corpse Bride costume. But it was so cool.

We had too much fun at the carnival. Bunnie nor I had ever been (I know, the shame, being a native Los Angeleno and all), and it did NOT disappoint. The only bummer: my dogs were seriously barkin’ by the end of the evening after walking around in my big huge black boots. I could barely walk by midnight. And then it’s impossible to find a cab to get back home. I practically crawled into my front door at nearly 2 a.m., totally exhausted and filthy with sweat from dancing to the Spazmatics, but other than that, dang it was a blast! It totally sucked that I had to work the next day. I tell ya, I just can’t rage like I used to on school nights.

Encino Deli and Restaurant

One of the things I love the most about discovering great new places in our new ‘hood is sharing them with you guys. You will LOVE this one. It is such a find. I can’t believe the place wasn’t mobbed with hordes of people.

Derek and I found ourselves in need of breakfast Saturday morning when I discovered we were out of eggs and pretty much any other reasonable facsimile of breakfast-like food. So we meandered to our local Jewish deli around the corner, and boy, were we pleasantly surprised by how good it was. How good EVERYTHING was. For starters, we walked in and though we were dressed like chores-around-the-house folk with no discernable hairstyle of note on either of us, we were greeted like celebs and immediately ushered to a nice, fat booth where our drink order was taken. The menu is extensive and has all the traditional Jewish fare: gefilte fish, whitefish, matzo brie, etc. Even sturgeon. Who eats sturgeon? Isn’t that like a giant, seamonster-looking kinda thing? I mean seriously, what is that whole sturgeon thing about? But I digress.

After much perusal, I went with the Lox Benedict. Now, I love me some lox yo, so I was not disappointed with this dish of nicely poached eggs on a fresh bagel with tasty lox and hollandaise from scratch, not from a powdery packet. Derek opted for the standard pancake sandwich situation, which was also very good with big giant fluffy cakes. Service throughout was very friendly and accommodating, but not overly attentive or intrusive. I discovered a great tip from our server. If you are served with cold, hard butter that you want to spread some time this year, set your hot plate on top of it for about a half a minute. Instant softened butter.

We stuffed ourselves and then cruised the deli counter in the front, where we discovered (with little surprise because they were so good) -- holy crap! -- this place bakes their own bagels! There’s even a window to the bakery where you can watch them being made and check out stacks and stacks of freshly made bagels of all varieties about to be baked. In the deli case are all sorts of slabs of pastrami and huge sides of salmon and delicious-looking side dishes. We didn’t get anything, but it was so fun to look and know this place is there for us. Yeeeeeeah. Best breakfast EVAR. Would have to give it two big thumbs up, baby!

Encino Deli & Restaurant
17271 Ventura Blvd. (at Louise)
Encino, CA 91316
Phone: (818) 995-4545

You Got Served

So I visited my new friend CaliValleyGirl’s blog and got tagged. Here are my answers. You can also consider yourself tagged by reading this, or not. Whatevs.

Seven Things I Want To Do Before I Die:
1. Accept an Oscar for Best Original Screenplay (shut up bitches, don’t laugh!)
2. Drive across the country in a convertible with Derek and see all the great states I’ve missed so far, taking only a few clothes, a toothbrush, and a video camera.
3. Adopt a child.
4. Go snowboarding in Whistler, Canada.
5. Check out the rest of Europe that I haven't seen.
6. Buy a cabin in Lake Tahoe.
7. Be a good person.

Seven Things I Can Do:
1. Throw a party.
2. Give a good massage.
3. Type 115 words per minute.
4. Sing I’m Tired by Lily Von Schtupp of Blazing Saddles in its entirety.
5. Cook.
6. Cut men’s hair.
7. Rollerblade like the wind.

Seven Things That I Cannot Do:
1. Math. Or anything math- or logic-related.
2. Write anything with my right hand.
3. Eat mushrooms.
4. Be on time.
5. Draw.
6. Understand why Paris Hilton is famous.
7. Resist hugging my dog when he does his daily spazz-out “My ass is on fire, can you feel my jungle heat?” dance.

Seven Things That I Say A Lot:
1. Dude!
2. Shut up!
3. I mean!
4. Whatevs.
5. I am so sure!
6. M’kay? (a la Mr. Mackey from South Park)
7. Yeah, bite me.

Seven Things I Find Attractive In A Male:
1. Sense of humor
2. Intelligence
3. Street smarts
4. Integrity
5. Good relationships with his family and friends
6. A positive attitude
7. An interest in his health and appearance

Seven Celebrity Crushes:
1. Angelina Jolie (duh)
2. Dave Grohl
3. Marlon Brando in Streetcar
4. Gary Oldman in Dracula and The Professional
5. Dr. Drew from Loveline
6. Michael Biehn from Aliens and Terminator
7. Shane on The L Word

Ballantines

I love me a little weekend getaway. It’s got to be fairly easy and close, not ungodly expensive, and has got to pack a good three days’ worth of relaxation into each weekend day. Which is why when I was planning a little getaway for Derek’s birthday, there was really only one place that came to mind: Ballantines in Palm Springs.

I had been there once before with Rhonda and we had such a great time, and I knew the man would love it. Ballantines is an intimate, sweet, authentic time period little baby-hotel “with an emphasis on vintage 50s kitsch.” It is located conveniently close to downtown Palm Springs, but not in downtown, so it’s quieter and feels more like a vacation. You won't want to leave the hotel anyway. They play soothing 50s ballad type music by the pool all day, where there is a beautiful view of the mountain range; they do free happy hour with wine and beer and free breakfast (with good coffee!) every morning; there are no screaming kids at the pool; and I would be terribly remiss if I did not mention that the ladies who work at the front desk are just as kind and hospitable as can be while still allowing you to just get your chill on. Betty was there when we checked in and saw me by the pool wearing this bathing suit, with my red lips and nails, and exclaimed, “My, but you look like you belong here!” Flattery like that gets you everywhere in my book. Basically, this is where you want to go to hang by the pool in the 90-degree-sun-even-though-it's October, read smut magazines and drink beers.

The coolest thing is the various theme rooms, though, all with little kitchenettes with retro appliances. For this trip, I opted for the Palm Springs Suite, which is adorable. Private patio, bathrobes in the dressing room, happy cheery décor. But one of these times when we go, I definitely need to stay in the Pretty In Pink Suite, which is outfitted (of course) entirely in pink, with Marilyn Monroe photos and memorabilia all over the place. The photos on the website do not do justice to the major, whoop-ass, flaming pinkness of that room. When Rhonda and I went, we stayed in the 50s Musical Suite, and the girls who were staying in the Pretty In Pink Suite were nice enough to give us a tour. That’s the other thing about Ballantines – the guests. There is a nice, laid-back vibe amongst the guests and it’s hard not to end up friends with them.

So, go there. Get away. And make some friends. You will love it!

Ballantines Hotel in Palm Springs
1420 North Indian Canyon Drive
Palm Springs, California 92262
Toll free reservations: 1-800-485-2808

No Wankers

After sitting in traffic for about a jillion hours last night due to George W's visit to our fine city (pretty sure I saw the Air Force One chopper zoom over the 10 to land at SM Airport -- I flipped it off), I swigged a glass of badly-needed pinot and then Tirza came over for a good hound-walking for the first time since that last fateful time we walked the dogs together and encountered a public wanker who had creepily followed us so we could watch him wank. Though I came up short on poo bags twice due to Babe being uncharacteristically pooptastic (I hate when that happens and I have to do the stealthy I'm-A-Crappy-Ass-Neighbor Walk of Shame afterward, but geez, she had already crapped once and used up the poo bag I had on hand), I am happy to report that there was nary a wanker in sight. Just a lovely Encino night with a giant, caramel-colored, low-slung moon in the sky and lots of good kvetching with a good friend.

Life is good.

Yippeeee!

The sun is back out! The sun is back out! Woot! Woot!

OMG we are spoiled. ROTTEN.

What Is It With People These Days?

I saw this in today’s news, and I have to say, it perfectly encapsulates my feelings about people’s behavior lately. Why is rudeness so commonly accepted these days? Are politeness and common courtesy things of a bygone era? Why do people not teach their children this vital concept of civilized living?

I was pondering this question with great earnest on the drive home last night, but was interrupted by my life flashing before my eyes as someone in an SUV attempted to dart into my lane space with my Cabrio still unfortunately in it. Now, understand that as the driver of a smallish car in a dark blue color, I am well aware that it renders my car virtually invisible to most, especially to SUVs. I have to make a point of driving defensively around these types, and especially to not lurk in someone’s blind spot. My very survival depends on it. But people, this happened no fewer than THREE TIMES on the drive home. Someone would be pissed off that their lane wasn’t moving, and decide that they had to be in my lane, like, stat, immediately, NOW, and wouldn’t even do a cursory over-the-shoulder glance to see if anyone or anything was there. My poor little factory-issued horn got a serious workout last night trying to save my and Derek’s precious asses from being crushed by some idiot who couldn’t be bothered to care or notice that hi, in rush hour traffic, there ARE other cars on the road. All over the place, in fact. It is just a hard, cold fact of existence in the big city. And after bitterly swerving back into their chosen lane, I don’t even get the “Whoops, sorry!” wave for scaring the crap out of me? WTF?

And don’t even get me started on the cell phone thing. I have a cell phone. I have had a cell phone that has existed as my sole telephone (i.e., no land line at home) for many years now. But it is pretty much a known fact amongst my friends that if we are hanging out, and you find it necessary to be chatty with someone who is not with us in person about something of little import (and what could be more important than quality time with moi?), you will find our visit abruptly over and I will, in the future, opt to instead hang out with a friend who is actually interested in being present during our time together. Managing to coordinate two or more people to congregate for social purposes is no mean feat these days with everyone’s busy schedules, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to spend any of that precious time sitting around with my thumb up my butt whilst someone chats on the phone about some inane nonsense. Don’t waste my time, and I promise I won’t waste yours.

And of course there are exceptions to this – geez, I’m not a total hardcore cruster. One night when Bunnie and I were about to have dinner, I noticed I was getting a call from Jillie-pew who was fresh out of the hospital after pumping out a wee bairn. She hadn’t yet been able to talk to me since the travails of birthing, and lives in Okla-freakin-homa so it's not like I can go to the hospital and visit, and so of course I explained same to Bunnie who was very understanding, and I promptly skulked off into the corner to talk to my god-baby-mama. There are always special circumstances. That’s what cell phones are for. Duh.

What they are NOT for is to talk to people while you are in a movie theater surrounded by several other movie-goers, in the middle of a movie. What the hell is that about? Since Derek and I usually frequent the ArcLight for our theater-going needs, I was totally unprepared for what displeasures they suffer at theaters in the valley on a recent movie venture to see The Exorcism of Emily Rose. Not exactly a light-hearted comedy if you know what I mean. There, in the middle of the theater, during a crucial moment in the film, an obnoxious ringtone could be heard several rows ahead of us. But rather than being turned off, the person actually picked up the phone and started talking! I know, I couldn’t believe it either. This is where the higher cost of the ArcLight is worth its weight in gold. People actually go to view the movie with some respect for others that are there for a similar purpose, and are not there to chat on the phone. “Hello? What? No, nothin’, just chillin’. I’m at the Promenade. Yeah some stupid movie about some chick who’s trippin’ on the devil or some shit. Ooooh, scary. What? Where you all at? Oh yeah? What you gonna do later?” etc., etc., ad nauseum. Yeah, even though he was nowhere near us, everyone could hear everything this dipshit was saying. Okay, not only is it not that difficult to turn the dumb phone off BEFORE the movie starts dumbass, but dude, if you are absolutely DYING to chit-chat, save the cost of the ticket and go hang outside and chat all you want in the lobby, you rude FREAK! I don’t get it. I really don’t get it.

Am I missing something? Can somebody please give me a clue if you have one. Please?

Dont'cha Wish Your Girlfriend Was Hot Like Her?

I am posting this photo because hi, my friend Shannon is ridiculously freakin’ hot. Her friend took these photos as kind of an homage to the Madonna/Ray of Light album cover. I think they are so beautiful, and really come close to the original. Can you believe her luminous skin? Her lustrous locks? Her perfect straight white teeth? She makes me want to go drink 100 glasses of water and do a bunch of yoga. What a fox. This one is definitely my fave of the bunch – it makes me happy just looking at it. But you can see more of his work here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/whipflash/

Thought I Heard Your Voice Yesterday...

So I had a dream last night that I went over to Miranda’s house to visit and play with little Brady (you know, from Sex In The City). He was so cute with his red hair, getting into everything, full of energy. When I picked him up, he would cling to me like a koala bear. Miranda was busy talking on the phone and dealing with Magda while I played with Brady. It was a nice visit and I was happy to see all three of them.

What does this dream mean, you may ask? For me, it’s not difficult to interpret at all. It is really quite simple. I MISS THAT DAMN SHOW. So much. God, so very much. I miss it so much, I have to visit the characters in my dreams like they are my friends in life that I would go visit. Geez, I miss that show! And keep in mind, dear people, that I am most definitely NOT a TV show person. At all. I can barely sit through any of them, especially quote-unquote “comedy” shows. Whilst watching them, I am thinking of about ten jillion things I would rather be doing. I always find them so formulaic and boring that I can never get into them, despite the best intentions of my friends who swear I will absolutely LOVE this or that show. I almost never do. Sex In The City was the one true exception. I relished every single episode and its ability to make me laugh, cry and cheer. Sometimes I’ll be talking to a girlfriend and a quote will come up from that show that we both know by heart. We’ll laugh. And then there will be a wistful silence for a minute, followed by one of us saying almost tearfully, “God, I miss that show.” “God, me too,” the other will say. It is still just so sad that it’s over.

And don’t get me wrong, I’m not bitter at any of the stars or producers of the show for ending it when they did. I totally understood their reasons for doing so, and I always feel that it’s better to end something on a high note rather than let it get so played out that people lose interest. But damn, there is just no equal to fill the void since our loss of our generation’s most beloved women’s show, a clever and witty and adorable piece of art that revealed for the first time how real women talk to one another, and how deeply their bonds with each other really go. I feel an emptiness, and the emptiness hurts. So I visit my dearly missed friends in my dreams.

Sigh.

Le Petit Cafe

I have a confession to make. I often like to dine alone. The perks are many: no waiting on someone else’s indecisiveness, no having to make polite conversation whilst trying to concentrate on savoring my meal, being able to sit and read neglected magazines that I never seem to find the time for, etc.

But that’s not what I need to confess. What I need to confess is my unabashed dumbshit-ness. See, I have extremely close access to this adorable little French bistro. And unlike the stereotype about French people, when you walk in there, you are greeted like a VIP, even if you are just a lonely little scrappy valley beotch table-o’-one like me. They have fabulous things on the menu like duck confit, sandabs, trout almandine, lobster bisque -- some of which I have sampled in the past and loved. So what does Yours-Dumbshit-Truly order every time she patronizes this establishment of such delicately flavored, authentic, sensitive-palate-catering cuisine?

A turkey burger with fries.

Wait, wait, wait, you guys, lemme explain. Hold on a sec. Please don’t hit the little x-marked close window button. Seriously. I’m really not THAT lame. There’s a good reason. See, I’m not much of a meat eater, and actually prefer the flavor of ground turkey over greasy hamburger meat, so as you can imagine, my quest for the perfect turkey burger has run far and wide. And this place has it: Slightly smokey-tasting, juicy, perfectly grilled turkey patty, topped with just-so, perfectly melted, quality cheese, topped with the perfect amount of perfectly thin-sliced produce, topped with some kind of sauce that is akin to Thousand Island, but no, it tastes far, far better than mere Thousand Island, and all of this is surrounded by a perfectly toasted bun. Basically, the thing is a perfect, perfect work of art. Every time. Did I mention it’s perfect? And the fries?

Oh. My. Lanta.

I try to avoid fried food whenever possible, but geez, a woman can only be so strong. These are perfectly thin-cut and crispy little devils that just beg and cry out to be eaten. The whole meal is close to what I imagine it would be like in a perfect world if In-N-Out would make a turkey burger, but then again, at In-In-Out you can’t order a nice glass of cabernet to go with your meal, and you can’t have the luxury of sitting in this cute little place, alone in your own world, eyes rolling back in your head with every bite while a sweet, adorable server checks on you periodically with a smile and respectfully lets you have your foodgasm. You think I’m exaggerating? Try it. I dare you.

Afterward, while walking down the street back to my place of business, I find myself looking at the ground, grinning and giggling to myself like I have a secret, running my fingers through my hair, walking with a swing to my hips. It is just like after a good shag. Remember that song by Joan Osborne, “My Right-Hand Man”? This is my Right-Hand Burger. That’s the power of Le Petit Café’s Turkey Burger with Fries.

When you go, ask for Danielle. She is adorable. Tell her Stupeet American Girl sent you.

Le Petit Cafe
2842 Colorado Ave.
Santa Monica, CA 90404
Phone: (310) 829-6792

Spot The DBV

Sitting in traffic? Bored on your regular commute and sick of all the same crap they play on the radio all the time? Do what Derek and I do when we’re bored on our drive home: Play Spot-the-DBV.

It’s really very easy. Douche Bag Vehicles come in many shapes and colors, but the fundamental requirements are the same:
1) Must be a Mitsubishi or Honda Civic or some non-descript cheapie Nissan-esque car (Bonus points: Stolen BMW logo on the back).
2) Must be lowered to within one inch off the ground.
3) Must be stripped of mufflers to produce unnecessarily and obnoxiously loud engine sound.
4) Must have tinted windows (Bonus points: Advertising on the windows for the tinting company).
5) Must have huge drag racer-style spoiler on the back.
6) Must have huge, super-shiny rims that cost more than the car (Bonus points: spinning rims)
7) Must be painted an appropriate DBV color. Acceptable colors include Complete Tool Teal, Dipshit-sparkle Blue, Shit-for-brains Sunburst Orange, and Small Penis Purple. Of course, other colors are acceptable so long as they scream “LOOK AT ME – I’M A DOUCHEBAG!”

Now, try to catch up to the DBV and get a load of the Douche Bag behind the wheel. Does he have spiky hair so sharp and shiny that it looks like it could cut your hand if you accidentally touched it? Does he slouch way low in his seat? Extra points.

Try playing Spot-The-DBV for endless hours of entertaining distraction. If your commute is on the 405, you’ll be especially in luck spotting these special creatures. Happy Hunting!

Am I Missing Something?

I don’t know about you other Vals, but it was super creepy driving home last night. Unlike the night before, there was hardly anyone on the roads for my commute home, and by the time I got off at Burbank to head home, the smoke in the air was so thick, it was like a scene from a post-apocalyptic war movie. The sun, hanging low in the sky, was an unhappy shade of reddish-pink. When I got out of my car, ash was flying everywhere like snow and the smell was chokingly acrid.

Okay, here’s my thing. And forgive me if you’re sick of hearing about this issue in the media, but it is a question on my mind that keeps nagging me. We, as Southern Californians, and particularly San Fernando Valley peeps, anticipate the Santa Ana Winds and their ensuing fires every year, along with the accompanying floods that later result from the rains tearing a destructive path through the burned out brush plains. With this particular fire, as with others in the past, our firefighters and emergency workers have it down to a system. Evacuees have a place to go, evacuated neighborhoods are cordoned off and you must provide ID to re-enter them, presumably to prevent any looting or vandalism, and to protect the safety of the citizens. At press time, over 16,000 acres have burned, but only one house and five structures have actually burnt down, no lives have been lost, and the fire is 35% contained. When the floods happen later this year or the beginning of next year when we get our first major storms, people will have sandbagged known problem areas, evacuees will again have a pre-ordained place in which to gather to wait out the disaster. Here’s my thing: We don’t get a three-day warning when a fire is started – we just have to put the usual response into play of what we know is coming. Okay. They get hurricanes down south all the time, right? They usually have a warning ahead of time that they’re coming, right? Like at least three days or so? They knew they were going to get an especially colossally damaging hurricane in the near future, right? So what the eff happened there? Why was it still such a huge, unprepared for disaster? Of course I realize fires and hurricanes are completely different in their scope of damage and that this is a different ecosystem we are talking about. But you can’t help but note the similarities. Or at least I can’t. And this bothers me. It bothers me a lot.

Hello, Gorgeous!

I have to give a big huge shout-out to the fabulous, beautiful, chic, just-arrived-in-time-for-fall, my lovely goddaughter, Juliette. Behold, and gasp in awe:

Isn’t she gorgeous? Doesn’t she have magnificent bone structure? Isn’t she positively fraught with benevolence? The little towel/hoodie thingy was a gift from her Auntie Valley Girl.

Her expression seems to be saying, “Don’t you wish YOUR self-tanner made you this beautiful color?” or “Is that a boobie I see against the far wall over there? Is it? Dang, isn’t it time for my mid-morning snack yet? Don’t you know it takes nourishment to look this good?” or maybe “Bitch, get me OUT of this dumb frock and into a Galliano, dammit!”

In this photo, we see that she popped out of the womb a true patriot just like her mother, and is pledging allegiance to the flag. I know it’s the wrong hand, but cut her a slackburger with cheese bitches, she’s a newborn! This probably means she will be left-handed, and thus, a gifted genius like myself. And modest, too. Like mysel... never mind.

Welcome to the world, you precious little bundle. I can’t wait to meet you in November when I visit!

Love,
Auntie

The Hills Are Alive... With the Flames of Fall

I knew it when I woke up yesterday morning. I smelled it. The Santa Anas are here already. The hot air, the whiplash winds, that smell of fall and leaves, only without the cold. The combination means murder to people with allergies, or who live in brushy areas. I knew it was only a matter of time before shit would be on fire, and sure enough, by yesterday midday, the reports were coming in – 118 was closed, Moorpark was on fire, Chatsworth was on fire. Crap. My drive home is screwed. It took me an hour and a half to get from Santa Monica to Encino. From the cliffs of Mulholland overlooking the valley, it was a pretty horrifying sight. Thank God I had sushi with Mom to look forward to, or I probably would have done a nosedive into Depressedville, Population 1. We walked to Enshino (you know by now it is my fave) and had a rockin’ good meal, then stopped on the way home to stare in horror at the fires from the Louise overpass. They seem so much scarier at night when you can actually see the flames. They seem so much closer. When I arrived home, it felt like my house was 100 degrees. The dogs were anxious, pacing around. They can smell it and they don’t like it. I kept my calm demeanor so they wouldn’t feel scared. But leaving them today to go to work was hard. Their doggie-senses are telling them something is wrong and that it ain't that far away.

I hope these fires are out soon and this is the extent of our disaster for the year. The country has suffered so much already, and to be honest, I feel sort of numb from all the gut-wrenching trauma of watching the hurricanes happen. I want to feel for my peeps in the valley, but I feel like I have nothing left right now. Isn’t that terrible? It almost seems like it's not even happening. My thoughts and prayers are with you evacuees. I know this must be a heinously difficult time. Hang in there, folks.

I wish they could use some of my excess water retention from last night’s insane sodium intake to put out the fires.

The Scarlet Tea Room

Have you ever actually done a tea? I never had either, until yesterday for Beth’s bridal shower. I have to admit, I had many preconceived notions. Bridal and baby showers are generally NOT my idea of a rockin’ good time. And the idea of doing a tea always conjured up images of stuffy, highfalutin’ people in uncomfortable, straight-backed chairs, sipping from dainty little china cups and nibbling from itty-bitty little tea biscuits or whatever those people eat, and talking about how Muffy and Bitsy will be attending Westpoint and how Thurston and Annabelle-Suzette will be summering in Nantucket, all whilst wishing you were either A) In a dingy bar by the beach somewhere with your new best friend Bubba, downing shots with beer chasers; or B) Dead. But the angelic and beautiful women who were throwing this shower right off the bat got up and announced first and foremost that there would be no goofy bridal shower games here today. I stood up and applauded. Probably a little too enthusiastically. I think I also high-fived my mom. And decided I could endure doing a stuffy “tea”.

But this was nothing of the sort. Yes, there are straight-backed chairs, but they are quite comfy. Yes, the surroundings are uber-over-the-top girly frou-frou, complete with the chandelier overhead that makes you feel underdressed even if you are wearing your best Donna-Karan-you-got-on-sale-at-Ross. But there is this very personable and sweet woman there, walking around offering you a choice of different teas, iced or hot. They all sounded fantastic, but I decided on the green tea infused with fruit, and was happy I did. They start you with a course of just-freshly-picked strawberry sorbet that is really yummy, and served in a cute, teensy little bowl with a cute, teensy little spoon. Yes, you could eat 16 times the amount they give you, but there are many courses to come, so you can live with just the little bit.

Next, they bring out a giant, 4-tiered platter with fresh scones, and every type of cute little sandwich you can think of – salmon and dill, mozzarella and tomato, red pepper and prosciutto, etc. There are probably ten different kinds. The scones are served with fresh preserves and fresh whipping cream. I’m not even normally a big scones fan, but this was my favorite part. Then comes the first of TWO dessert courses. Yeah, hearing this news was when I really started to dig this place. They bring a platter full of adorable little desserts, some chocolatey, some fruity, all different flavors, each decorated so cute that it is almost a shame to eat them, ALMOST. They refresh your tea constantly and then….just when you think they couldn’t possibly understand chicks any better, they whip out the CHOCOLATE COURSE. No, I ain’t kidding. I thought stuff like this only existed in my wildest, wettest dreams. Each of us was served with a bowl made entirely of chocolate. Did you allow that to sink in just now? A freakin’ bowl made entirely of chocolate. It is filled with some kind of strawberries, creamy, liquer-type goodness that you can either eat first, or just start eating the bowl and leaving the strawberry goodness on it as you eat said bowl. I swear the memory of it now is making me a little…. frisky.

And the thing I noticed about doing tea, socially speaking, is that it does induce a sort of contemplative, easygoing, sharing environment where you can just be yourself. You have nowhere to go mingle since you’re fixed at a table, nothing to do but drink tea and nibble things, and so conversation becomes relaxed and a bit uninhibited, even without the presence of alcohol. I felt like the women at my table had become old childhood chums by the time the event was over.

I officially LOVE doing tea now. What’s not to love?

The Scarlet Tea Room
18 W Green Street
Pasadena, CA 91105
(626) 577-0051

Reunited And It Feels So Good

I'm posting this photo just because it kills me.



You've probably already seen this on the news, but in case you haven't, these are a husband and wife who had to leave their dogs behind during the hurricane because the husband has a liver problem, and had to be flown out for special care. Their dogs weren't allowed to come along and these poor people were forced to leave them behind. I couldn't imagine the agony of having to do something like that. I'm so thrilled there was a happy ending here when animal rescue workers reinuted them with their precious family members. Much love for animal rescuers!!!

Willow Spa

I have to give a shout out about this beautiful, serene place. Terrie and I had an appointment for their 2-for-1 Japanese Enzyme Bath with half-hour Thai massage. Neither of us really knew what to expect, but we were very pleasantly surprised. The place itself is beautiful, calming, soothing, zen-like. A cute little converted beach bungalow. You wish you could live there, it’s so peaceful. Everyone speaks in hushed tones and everyone is nice. It’s quite an escape from the hustle and bustle of everyday life.

After changing into the “loungewear” the adorable Hugo provides you with, he gives you a little shot of this enzyme drink, then leads you to the bath area. The bath is a deep heating treatment that was originally developed in Japan for the athletes in the Olympics. It is a dry bath that consists of a combination of finely cut Juniper shavings, rice bran, and fruit and vegetable enzymes. Its purifying properties can assist the body up to five times its natural ability in detoxifying. And we all need to detox, right? Shoot, I know I do. You lie in this stuff and it ferments and heats up naturally. It has the consistency of potting soil, though not the smell, thankfully. It smells herby and woodsy. You are completely covered in it and it feels like being in the womb since every part of you (except your head) is covered and warm and soft. You lie there completely still for 20 minutes and sweat, but the adorable Hugo comes to you like an angel every 5 minutes or so to wipe down your face with a lavender-scented washcloth and give you a cup of water through a straw. I have to say here that I normally am not the type to tolerate a sauna or steam room since I just get too overheated and claustrophobic. It doesn’t feel good to me. But this was easy to tolerate and was actually very meditative and quite nice.

After rinsing off and donning the loungewear, Hugo led us to a separate room to lie on a mat with an eye mask on and earphones playing soft, Japanese type music in your ears. Then he starts the Thai massage. Now, being a massage therapist myself, I’m ashamed to admit I have never had Thai massage, but am a total believer now. He used his body weight to apply pressure to certain muscle groups in the thighs, while placing your legs in specific poses that offered a great stretch. Along with this comes an outrageous foot massage. I asked Terrie if it would be inappropriate for me to ask Hugo for his hand in marriage. But she reminded me that I am, of course, partnered with a perfectly good man. But can’t I have two? I asked. No, she replied. Well, a girl can dream.

We sat out in the garden sipping green tea afterward and reading smut mags. Like I said, you wish you lived there and don’t really want to leave. But we eventually did, with soft, smooth, glowing skin and a relaxed and serene disposition for the rest of the day. I highly recommend this place. It’s a little zen vacation, conveniently close in Santa Monica.

Willow Spa
3127 Santa Monica Blvd.
Santa Monica, CA 90404
Phone: (310) 453-9004
www.willowspa.com

It's All Going To Be Okay

Sometimes it’s just too much. You try and shield yourself as much as possible from reliving the catastrophe over and over in the media, but still you are drawn to it. I remember when 9/11 happened and we were told not to come into work. We sat glued to the TV screen, horrified by what was happening to our people, in our own country. At some point, I had to leave the house and just take the dogs for a walk. I was dazed. I felt like I had been amidst the wreckage myself. I walked up and down the streets, sobbing uncontrollably, not caring who was around that might see me. No one was around. It was like a ghost town. I realized everyone else was inside, glued to their TV sets, watching the planes crash into the buildings countless times.

Compassion is what makes us human and alive. We connect with the pain of our fellow human beings at times with such acuity that it feels like our own pain. First and foremost, we have to do what we can to help. While hearing about the violence, looting, rapes, and general chaos that has descended on the survivors of the disaster, I am particularly distraught over the plight of the animals that have been left behind, who likely have no one coming to rescue them, who don’t understand what is happening and therefore suffer all the more. We will be donating to both the Red Cross, and to the Louisiana Humane Society. You can access donation centers for both charities, and other legitimate charity organizations that you have a particular passion for, by going to the following website: http://www.networkforgood.org/ --- This website is also particularly helpful since you can donate to the Red Cross even if the Red Cross website is overloaded. Many donations are pouring in, but this tragedy is going to take years and much funding to recover from, so donating any way you can is best.

The next step is to do what you can to ease your pain. For me, that was having a good cry, hugging my dogs and taking them for a walk, writing a few weepy pages in my journal, then drinking a couple glasses of red wine while watching Honolulu Transvestite Hookers on HBO. Your thing may be something else. In fact, I’m guessing it probably will be. Try to limit your exposure to the media. If that means switching to specials on she-males, then why not? We know what the facts are in this tragedy, right? Do what you can to take yourself out of it all for a bit so you are able to go to bed and start fresh in the morning.

Yes, this is our Tsunami. But somehow, it’s all going to be okay. We'll get through it.