More Kauai Photos

Greetings and salutations! Hello, even! Hi! How ya doin'? Oh yah? How's things? [Kauai says hello]:


Shave ice being consumed in mass quantities. Again. At -- where else? -- Shave Ice Paradise.

I believe this section of beach is called "Why you think they call it the 'Garden State', Goofy Mainlander?"

Finally! A shot of the beloved little pond with the precious lily pads! I see this pond in my dreams. [God bless Sue for getting the shot.]
Hey, Sexy Mainlander. Yo quiero poi.

Come Vacay With Me

Okay, it should be stated that I am a craptastic photographer, but it is difficult to make anything in Kauai look bad. There are quite a few photos here, but it was so hard to edit anything out besides the ones that showcase my beer belly. There is just so much beautalaciousness to be seen. I hope you enjoy.

This was our lovely condo. My dumb ass forgot to take photos of the adorable pond on the other side of the building where our patio was, which had lily pads (I mean! Could it BE more precious?)-- dolphin sculptures, and croaking frogs at night. But anyway, here is the front. Kewt, right?

Derek and Kimo enjoying their newfound occupation: Chillaxin'.

This was where our luau was. Tropical Paradise is right -- it was stunning:

There were peacocks running all over the place there. They make this really loud whooping mating call that could be heard throughout dinner. Here is one just hanging out. He's all "Hey, what up G's?"

Schwing!!!! And here he is when a chick walks by:


Prettiest. Smiliest. People. EVAR.

Prettiest. Smiliest-- No, just kidding. Here we are all fat and happy after the food-fest:

Like I said, they OWN your ass. And your stinking beach toys. Deal with it.

This guy was hanging around the waterfalls, and was giving me the ol' stinkeye after I commented on his poor parenting skills, but I mean . . .

His kids were hanging out by the cars unattended and stuff and he didn't even care! Absentee Dads . . .

Preeeetttyyyyy . . .

More pretty. See the rainbows? It is Kauai's way of saying Hi!

Someday, all of this could be mine.

This is the plant that goes "EW!" when you touch it. Apparently, it is not fond of children either.

Bro and Sis chillin'. You can't tell by this photo, but we could look down into this pool and see giant sea turtles swimming around. I'm not sure what Derek is saying in this photo, but I believe it is something along the lines of "This Totally Does Not Suck" (TTDNS Enterprises, LLC©)

Considering this was taken the eve before we had to leave, it's hard to believe we are smiling. But we donned our aloha wear and we put on our game face and tried to just pretend that this could go on forever.

I can't wait to go back.

Blossoming Lotus

As you are no doubt well aware by now after weeks of gloating and anticipating, and then reporting live just to rub it in a little more, I recently had the sublime opportunity to visit Kauai. Yes, I will be posting photos once I have the patience to sit down with the computer and download them, okay, settle. Settle! But for now, you will have to just deal with a super-duper restaurant shout-out, m’kay?

Before the trip, I was so graciously provided some hot tips by the ever-adorable Calivalleygirl on things to do and see in Kauai, and one of the things she highly recommended, even as a self-proclaimed meat-eater, was the Blossoming Lotus Restaurant. Assphincter boy says what? What? A meat-eater liking a vegan restaurant enough to visit twice and even recommend to others? I had to see this (and eat this) for myself. Especially since yours truly is trying to integrate more raw vegan food into her usual steady diet of chocolate, wine and snark.

Let me start by saying how beautiful this place is on the inside. It looks like what you would expect a super cool zen master who lives in a chic section of Bali’s living room to look like. And the servers are so sweet and caring and, unlike a lot of restaurant personnel I have encountered, they treated us like we were their best friends and they had all the time in the world for us, gently explaining what this or that strange term was, even though I’m sure they’ve had to do it a thousand times before. There was a certain, oh how do you say, a light? that came from within the staff there. They were glowy. And they played some kick-ass funk oldies like "Play That Funky Music White Boy" and "You Dropped a Bomb On Me. Baby." But I digress. Let’s talk food.

We had this red-pepper hummus thing with pita slices that was really tasty and kinda spicy. Ooooh, and the lemonade with passionfruit was the bomb. I have never had it made that way, and I am quite the lemonade snob. I hate the pre-made sugary crap, it blows. This was real lemonade with real fruit, nice and tart and refreshing and nothing getting in the way.

Derek and I decided to get two things and do sharesies. Now, my fave sammich in the WORLD is a well-made Reuben. By well-made, I mean in a decent deli with quality meats and breads, ALWAYS turkey pastrami since I don’t eat pigs, and always on toasted sourdough. Well this place has their version of a Reuben. I was skeptical, I mean, pounded tempeh instead of pastrami, are they serious? But oh man it was so messy and delicious with lots of saurkraut and Russian dressing. I was so bummed when I got full and couldn’t finish it dudes, I wanted that thing in my belly so bad! We also shared the Rama's Red Curry, which is Okinawan purple sweet potato in a creamy red coconut curry sauce. It was unique, but not in a unique-ew! kinda way. It was tasty and different, like an exotic dish in a fancy Indian restaurant. And sometimes different is good. True flavor is good. It keeps you on your toes.

Most astounding was sitting across from a total meat-eater and not hearing one single complaint during the entire meal, but instead a steady chorus of mmmmm’s and aaaahhhh’s and chompin’ and sippin’ his hibiscus/lavender iced tea.

Oh, and the best part? Rather than feeling sluggish and full and tired afterward, you feel kinda bouncy and peppy and stuff, and ready to go off and do some more chillaxin’. Next time I visit Kauai, you will find my butt there, scarfing up whatever they give me.

Blossoming Lotus
4504 Kukui St.
Kapa'a, Kauai , HI 96746
Telephone: 808-822-7678

Roosterbitch: Reporting Live From The Most Freaking Beautiful Place On Earth

[This post is dedicated to Kimo: Rich called. He wants his person back. I told him to go eat some spam and shut the hell up and don't call this number again.]

Things you learn while hanging in the Most Freaking Beautiful Place On Earth:

1) Your hair is not going to do anything you want it to and you are just going to have to accept the fact that your lustrous locks are going to frizz and puff and pouf like a giant fro and you will look like a giant Q-tip head throughout much of your vacay, but it's so freaking beautiful here you really don't give a crap.

2) Poi kinda doesn't really taste that great, unless you put it on something else, like mahi mahi or chicken. Then it tastes pretty darn good.

3) Your toes develop confinement issues. They get so used to walking around nekkid or in flip-flops all the time, so if you put them in actual shoes (as I made the mistake of doing this morning for a walk), your toes are all "Bitch, WHAT? Exqueeze me? Oh no you di'int! WTF, over? Have you seen the super-festive paint job on these toenails that is going to waste in here? I mean!" Especially the last three toes on my left foot (which are known rabble-rousers) -- they did not let up their complaining all the way back to the condo.

4) Hawaiians are ridiculously beautiful people. I'm serious. Forget Czechoslovakia -- this place has the models. And they smile a lot. Being a life-long super smiley person, this is something I really appreciate. I go through life smiling like a damn fool everywhere I go (I can't help it!), and there is nothing worse than being met by a scowl in return. It just pisses my shit off. That is not the case here. You smile at someone, and they smile back at you. It rules.

5) The one exception to the smiley-happy rule came not in human, but plant form. There is this freaktastic plant that no one knows the name of, that if you touch it, it's like a reverse Venus Flytrap -- it bends away from you in a recoiling fashion as if to say "Ewwwww! Dirty mainlander, don't TOUCH me!!!! Gross! Ew, you did it again, STOP TOUCHING ME! I'M TELLING!"

6) Shave ice rules. No, not shaved ice. SHAVE ice. Most. Refreshing. Taste sensation. EVAR.

7) You start scheming with family members as to how you can move here and manage to scrape out a living. Kristi and I came up with the brilliant idea of serving beer in coconut shells to the tourists, while Derek and Kimo start a construction company and build us a compound to live in. We would name the beer/coconut stand Derek's Spleen. The parent company of our businesses would be called TTDNS Enterprises, LLC. Which stands for the mantra we have been repeating all week: "This TOTALLY Does Not Suck." Our brilliant logo that Kimo came up with would be the word SUCK with a slash through it. Brilliant, right? I think it could work...

8) The place is OWNED by roosters. Yeah, I'm totally serious. After Hurricane Iniki blasted all the chicken coops, the roosters got out and became wild, and they hang out everywhere you go in Kauai, sort of like wanna-be directors do in L.A. They're on the roadsides, the beaches, your patio. And they have no internal timing as to when they crow. They just do it whenever, even if it's the middle of the night, just to remind you that they OWN YOUR ASS AND YOU BETTER REMEMBER IT, BITCH AND WE WILL SING FEELINGS, NOTHING MORE THAN FEELINGS, AT 4:00 A.M. IF WE BLOODY WELL FEEL LIKE IT, MAINLANDER BITCHES! Which is fine, because the place is so freaking beautiful, you don't mind being a rooster's bitch. You sit there and you thank your lucky stars that you even managed to get here, and wonder what you did to deserve to be in a place so spectacular.

Encino Farmers Market

Let me just start this off by saying that I really am in a state of severe loathing over the state of most produce you get in the markets these days. Tasteless, textureless, underripe, waxy, pesticide-laden, no-nutrients-having, soulless crap.

I remember long ago when I was little, tomatoes were red, I mean DEEP ruby red, and tasted sweet and juicy and delicious. It was actually difficult to slice them because they were so soft and juicy. They actually added a special something to a salad besides just chunks of filler. You twenty-somethings reading this probably won't be able to relate since you may have never had one of these. You can't get those anymore these days unless you grow them yourself. Even my beloved Trader Joe's, who I love more than my luggage (you know I'm ripping off Steel Magnolias when I say that, and if you don't know, go see that movie, like, STAT so you will know what deep level of love that is) -- even my beloved Trader Joe's has fallen short of the mark when it comes to edible produce. Even their organic selections are prepackaged so you can't choose what you want, underripe and then going bad in a couple of days anyway. Just... crap. What has happened to produce in California? Aren't we like, a huge hub of agriculture in this country? Why are we given so much garbage to eat that is supposed to be "six or more servings a day" --?? I just don't understand it.

I had visited our Farmer's Market a year ago when we first moved into the house and Derek's parents came to visit. I took D's mom there, and we checked it out and had a nice time (remember that, Sue?) -- lots of lovely, local, organically grown gorgeousness EVERYWHERE. I'm ashamed to admit, I hadn't been back since. Until Sunday.

I hopped on my trusty super cute pink bike now outfitted with a super cute basket for schlepping things (courtesy of Kristi), cruised on over, and loaded up on delicious red strawberries, avocados, cabbage, leeks, radish sprouts, lemons, bagels for Derek, two kinds of dates, chirimollas (I didn't know what they were either, but that's the beautiful thing about the farmer's market -- they will let you taste anything before you buy. Chirimollas are this delicious fruit, not unlike a mango, that you slice open and just eat/suck out the contents. Not very graceful to execute, but really good. Kind of like a cross between a mango and a banana.)

Oh, and I also picked up a cute little Japanese hand-painted fabric fan for $3. Not too shabby.

The Farmer's Market has grown since I was last there. More booths with competing produce to choose from, a mariachi band playing and singing walking around, a bounce house for the kids. It was a carnival of wholesome goodness.

I would have picked up flowers, but I thought that would be WAY too over-the-top Suzy Sunshine action going on -- me on my cute pink bike, fresh produce and flowers spilling out of the basket, me grinning like a total spaz in a tampon commercial or something. No way, man. I have to keep my hardcore street edge intact.

The Encino Farmers Market: Go get your produce on!

Encino Farmers Market
17400 Victory Blvd. (at Louise)
Encino (818) 708-6611
8 a.m. to 1 p.m. Sundays

Countdown, Part Deux

In only five more days, I will be here:

Yeah. Longest. Week. EVAR.

Rats -- The Epic Saga Continues

So last night, as the huge raindrops began to fall, I happened to be in our bedroom near the closet when I heard it -- the scurryings and scamperings of a hundred little rodent feet coming in out of the rain and settling in for a nice game of cribbage and some old scotch. Without paying any rent. I decided to raise the roof on their little party by taking a hanger and poking the little attic hatch thing upward from whence the scamperings were emanating, so that they would know that the owners of the house in which they are squatting are displeased and thus, a damper would be put on their little party, if you will. The hatch thingy went up and came back down, and as it did so, a rat turd fell out and right into my eye.

Yes, you read that right. I got a turd in the eye. Oh yes. It’s ON, bitches.

Nobody drops turd in MY eye, dammit. NOBODY.

Derek went out in the yard this morning to discover another carcass of yet another offender who met an unfortunate end. The carnage has only just begun.

Countdown to Kauai

Only ten more days, and I will be here:


Yeaaaaaah. That sound you hear is me doing the Super Happy Butt-Wriggling Dance of Joyous Ass-Shaking. It is a very ancient cultural dance, reserved for occasions such as these. Can you feel, feel, feel, feel my heat?

Aw, Rats!

So Derek left at 6 a.m. for an early meeting, so I got to sleep in and drive alone to work. I roll out of bed around 8:00 after hitting the snooze button about 16 times, let the dogs out to go pee with my eyes half closed, get showered and dressed and looking all cute in my new Old Navy pink shirt and my cute pink heels with the butterfly design on them and my hair all freshly did and everything and proceed out to the garage to feed the hounds when I am stopped short by the sight of a GIANT DEAD RAT WITH A GIANT RUBBERY TAIL LYING THERE WITH ITS HEAD STILL IN A RAT TRAP. Which was thankfully face-down. And folks, I did the super lame cliché girl thing to do.

I screamed.

It was just so shocking, I mean, I almost stepped on the thing. Here, in my cute little shangri-la paradiso springtime beautiful yard on this beautiful sunny day, this poor dead nasty-ass creature stood out in bold and gross juxtaposition. And the dogs are all looking at me like, “Bitch, GET MY CHICKEN, ARE YOU NEW? Daddy always feeds us by 7:15! What do we have to do, suck in our cheeks and show some ribs? We are not Nicole Richie!!! This delay is un-freaking-acceptable! Step over the thing and get your ass into the garage and snap to it!”

But, I digress. See, up until recently we had been kind of in pleasant denial about any rodent problem. Sure, I had seen them last summer in our peach tree, greedily devouring every last morsel of fruit before it had even ripened enough to be picked. We had nary a bite of peach from that tree because of those little bastards. I even took the super high-pressure nozzle hose to those mo-fo’s while they sat in said peach tree, all fat and loaded up on sugar and giving me the rat-finger since they were too high up to reach them and kick their rat-asses. Yeah, I took that sprayer hose and was all Bruce Willis from Die Hard on their asses: “YIPPEE-KAI-AY, MOTHER F---ERS!!!!” whilst spraying my water uzi with glee. That was kind of fun, actually. But I always assumed they went off and lived in some other place like Ratville or Rattamonica or maybe Rat Hills and then commuted to our apricot tree during the day. Sadly, this is not the case.

Around wintertime, we started hearing strange noises coming from up in the attic and from the roof space over our bedroom. Very busy, scraping, organizing, plotting-type sounds. Derek and I would look at each other.

“Do you hear that?” (wide-eyed)

“Yeah. I do.” (eyes darting around)

“You know, I bet somebody died here years ago and they didn’t tell us when we bought the house.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Somebody totally died here and now they live in our attic. And they’re angry that we’ve taken over the house because they don’t like our decorating scheme, they preferred the L.L. Bean country look, and here we are being all nouveau French / Asian Chic on their ass and they’re pissed. I’m going to check public records or something and find out who died here so we know who is quite obviously haunting us.”

“Okay. Good idea.”

End of story. And Denial is a river in Egypt.

Then one day recently, right after the time change, when it was still light enough to go outside after work and water the plants, I saw them in the faint glimmer of twilight. An entire FREAKING METROPOLIS of rats crawling around in the giant tree in our backyard. It looked like the tree itself was wriggling, there were so many rats crawling around in it. And they were busy doing stuff and things like crazy. I called Derek outside and made him look, and we watched as, one by one, they schlepped from the tree, to our roof, to the Ratville they have been erecting somewhere in our house. Holy crap, Houston, we have a problem.

I told my dad about it, and that I was thinking of calling an exterminator. “Oh good grief, just go get some rat traps and put them on the roof and call it a day, for crying out loud,” he muttered, and dads know about this kind of thing. So Derek got the traps and set them up on the roof the other day. And here, this morning, in front of my face, in all its carcassy glory, was the first fruit of his labors. I guess the trap snapped so hard, it went flying right off the roof and onto the patio and in front of my adorable pink shoes. And with no mens around (come on, I am a feminist and all but that shit is some men's work), I had to go get some plastic bags and pick up the wretched thing so that the dogs don’t get bored today and start thinking it’s some cool new and stinky chew toy for them to toss about the yard. Yeah. It was pretty awful.

I can only imagine the rat graveyard that must be on the roof by now. But my question is, after they’re dead, will they come back to the attic to haunt us and disapprove of our decorating scheme? God, that would just really suck.

Self-Made Man by Norah Vincent

This is going to be a book review. No, shut up, this is not a book review blog, but as most of you know by now, this blog is about everything and nothing, and I loved this book so very much that I simply had to say something about it.

Norah Vincent is a woman with balls.

Wait, that sounds really loaded, but in this case, it’s true on a number of levels.

Norah Vincent is a woman who lived as a man for a year and a half. She hired a makeup artist to teach her how to apply a five o’clock shadow every day. She trained with a voice coach to sound like a dude. She bound up her boobies. She wore a crew cut. She joined a men’s bowling league. She lived in a monastery. She joined a men’s movement group. All of the usual titillating details you would expect a cross-gender adventure to have are, of course, present in the book. And I love me some titillating. Even just the word is so fun to say, right? Go ahead, say it with me: Titillating. Uh-huh-huh-huh. Doesn’t it make you feel like Beavis and Butthead? But I digress. None of the people she was around as “Ned” ever knew she was a woman unless and until she told them. And you find yourself getting nervous for her and her charade. It’s hard to root for a hero who is being so deceitful, but you want her to find out what she finds out.

Anyhoo, titillating details aside, what I took away from the book was so much more profound and thought-provoking. Mars and Venus? Eh, whatevs. Norah’s observations of men when there are no women around, and the way she articulates them to the reader, left me gasping for air at times. I would have to set the book down, look away, and really absorb the magnitude of “Oh my God!!! I get it now!” that I kept feeling as I was reading. Anyone who is in a relationship with a man, or works with men, or is a parent to a little man-in-training, and even men themselves, will gain to understand volumes about the current male condition and sociology that no psycho-babble book could ever teach you. I was riveted. And I think you will be, too.

Self-Made Man by Norah Vincent

Girl.... You'll Be A Woman Soon

I love a girly-girl party. I love seeing girlfriends and spending time with them and getting caught up with them when it's so hard for a bunch of busy chicks to congregate at the same place at the same time. This is at Karin's place, and crapola, there is no photo of us. But this is Shannon, my At-Work Mom's daughter. People have asked us before if we're sisters, which is kind of ironic, I suppose. But mainly I just take it as a huge compliment since hi, Shannon is totally foxy. M'kay?

I love a girly-girl party. Because it affords me the opportunity to show off my cute shoes to the delighted squeals of friends. And that gives me joy. I know -- shallow much? At least I'm honest.

Bitter, Party of One

This is going to be Bitchfest ’06.

Well, maybe not that bad. But come on. We had the time change over the weekend, accompanied by some nice weather. This is the best time of year for me. I’m all super stoked that it will still be light out when I am coming home from Curves at night. Super stoked about the coming spring blooms that explode around the neighborhood and on the hiking trails. Super stoked I can now manage hikes in daylight after work! I bought some new plants for the backyard and even some new super-cool teak chaise lounges for, you know, lounging in the lovely extended daylight hours.

And just look at it outside. It is pouring. Dumping. Raining like it’s going out of style and then being dropped off at the Goodwill. Talk about a buzz-kill. I woke up this morning (which is a world of suck unto itself for us non-morning people) to pounding rain and darkness. I had all these grand plans for this evening of walking the dogs, arranging the new plants in the yard, then reading some Whitman to the twilight sky above. But I guess I’ll just stay inside and listen to Morrissey, organize my sock basket and sigh a lot instead.

Bitter.

Jinky's

Oh. My. Goodness. This is a breakfast shout-out of the highest order. You know how important a good breakfast place is? Especially if you have gone out and pickled your liver the night before? Well here you go, people -- I’m about to go large with this one. Jinky’s in Sherman Oaks. Absolutely, unbelievably, ridiculously good. I showed up at this place for the first time on Saturday to meet Bunnie before a hike in Fryman, and I was nursing the most gawd-awful hangover. I would say it was in the Top 10 Worst Hangovers of My Life. I had taken Bec out to celebrate her birthday the night before, and well, yeaaaaaahhh. Kinda overdid it on the sake and the champagne, but damn it was fun! The only worse hangovers I have had than sake involved an unfortunate tequila episode over one fateful Memorial Day when I was 22 (my ass got SCHOOLED on the ways of tequila because of that), and the suffering that was wrought on my person the morning after a night out with my brother in Tahoe wherein we drank just about every cocktail known to mankind in a sort of casino-club-bar crawl that we did. That night was super-disastrous for my liver. Oh, my poor liver. Pity my liver. Tell your children that if they are bad, they will come back in the next life as my liver.

Anyway! Jinky’s. Bunnie and I shared …. oh my god, are you ready? ‘cause I have dreams about these now that I am in the know …. Banana Macadamia Nut Pancakes (ginormous, with heaps of syrup and, get this -- room temperature butter that is actually spreadable) and Huevos Con Pollo, which was sort of like Huevos Rancheros with a nice chunk of grilled chicken on top and avocado and cilantro and stuff. Absolutely delicious all the way around. You try not to get full because it is so damn tasty, you don’t want to stop eating. Add to this the fact that they know caffeinehounds when they see us, and are kind enough to leave a mini-pot of coffee on the table with you so you can refill at your own pace. Add to this the fact that they serve this very quality green tea, iced, and will provide you a nice refill in a to-go cup to take said tea with you so that you can cram all the antioxidants possible into your toxic waste dump person so that you might have the hope of vaguely resembling something human at some point in the day.

That was Jinky’s. You so want to go there now, right? I know. Me too.

Jinky’s Café
14120 Ventura Boulevard
Sherman Oaks, CA 91423
Phone: (818) 981-2250

It Rules To Be Me

If I sat and tried to conjure up the perfect day, I don’t know if I could do better than yesterday. It was like everything was aligned in sheer perfection. Derek, Jodi and I went up to Snow Summit to take advantage of the recent snow. We thought everybody else and their mother would be doing the same thing, but alas, there was hardly anybody there and we whizzed through every single lift line. The weather was warm and beautiful. We cracked jokes on the chair lifts and made each other laugh all day. Snow was fresh and fluffy and wonderful. We spied some weird little creature repeatedly that we couldn’t quite identify -- like a squirrel mixed with a rat, mixed with about 16 Red Bulls. One spazzy little rodent-like animal. What the heck was that thing? Anyway… I digress. Continuing on with the goodness: There were no major falls or injuries. Lunch was tasty. There were no rude punks on the slopes like at Scrub High. Traffic coming home didn’t even suck that bad. What did I do to deserve such a great day? I have no idea, but I am grateful.

Curvaceous Update

Since I’ve had a total of three friends tell me they have joined Curves since I joined a month ago, I felt it prudent to give a status update for those of you still on the fence. So let me state unequivocally that it does, in fact, still rule. And here is why:

I manage to fit in at least three workouts a week, even if I am swamped as all get-out. It’s just easy to fit it in and “git ‘er done,” as Jillie says. I still really like the vibe of the place and find it is comforting to set foot in there after a hard day of work because I know there will be peace, time for myself and doing something good for my bod, and above all else, nobody bugging me.

I also have to say, they are good about being on top of things. The other night when I was about five minutes into my workout, this lady came in wearing that horrid Stinky Old Lady perfume. Actually, “wearing” is a rather conservative term. It would be more accurate to say that she had lain in a covered glass dish in the fridge and marinated in it. And keep in mind, Curves are not big places -- the entire gym is a very modest sized storefront, the equipment is arranged in a tight circle and you are breathing heavily throughout to keep your cardio up. Thusly, if you are breathing in somebody’s stank perfume, you can taste it in the back of your throat. This is SO not good. This is a one-way ticket to Bitterville, USA. And it's not like you can just walk up to the offender with your coffee cup and be all like Bill Lumberg from Office Space: "Um hi, yeeaaaaah. Just wanted to let you know that um.... yeaaah, you're kinda like um, how should I put this, totally polluting everybody's lungs and making their hair smell like stank and stuff. So... yeah, if you could just sort of like go ahead and like, leave the premises, or the zip code entirely, that would be greeeeaaaat. M'kay?"

I absolutely LOATHE complaining to the management about anything (i.e., stankness in the office, neighbors with barking dogs, whatevs) but sometimes you just have to or you will spontaneously implode from frustration. The management was on the phone as I was leaving, so I held my tongue about it, but to my pleasant surprise, the very next day when I came in, there were signs right there in the front where you check in, and in the restrooms, saying “NO PERFUME, NO PERFUMED LOTIONS”. Well alright! I didn’t even have to open up my can of bitch-ass!

Oh, and as for results, here is what I have noticed with my hyper-critical eye: I now have muscle definition in my arms, my butt is noticeably cheekier, my thighs are a lot stronger, and --check it out!-- I have oblique muscles! Holy crap! Oh, and a marked decrease in the dreaded C-word. Cellulite is no match for Curves.

So yes, as I was saying, Curves does still rule.

Some People's Dogs

I was just at the dumb car wash on my lunch (yeah, THAT’S how you want to spend your lunch break) where I spied the most adorable pair of standard poodles. They were twins in every way except their color -- one was greyish and one was tannish. But all of their motions and expressions were fluid and identical and so cute that I just had to get up and say hello. I asked their mistress if I might pet them and she said sure! to which the dogs enthusiastically gave me lots of lovies and brightened my day. They were so funny -- they kind of swirled around one another in vying for best petting position and were just like yin and yang -- they kind of took turns with me in a respectful synchronicity that was totally fueled by their silent doggie language. They both smiled at me. It made my day.

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.