Thank You

Thank you guys so much for the well wishes. So much love being thrown my way and it makes my heart swell up bigger than my person after a Buca di Beppo dinner. I love you guys. You compound my happiness.

Oh, and Derek got the ring back yesterday from the jewel place. They did a great job of reinforcing the prongs that were a little worn down after many years of wear, and reinforcing the band with more gold since it was worn so thin. It looks even more beautiful now if that's possible, and I don't have to worry about a prong giving up the fight and turning the diamond loose somewhere in my fro while I'm shampooing it.

It was a nice surprise to come home to late last night when I dragged my tired deep tissue-schooled butt home from a very long day and, amidst stealthily peeling off my clothes for a hasty bed-hop so as not to wake the sleeping Homeboy, saw my beautiful ring sitting there, back in its little box which he had left open on my vanity for full viewage. It made me gasp in delight all over again. Doesn’t he just rule?

J R's Diamonds & Jewelry
14522 Ventura Blvd. (just west of Van Nuys Blvd.)
Sherman Oaks, CA 91403
(818) 789-8303

Babe's First Slumber Party

Now most of you who know Babe know that she is the friendly, outgoing, attention-whore sort. But the arrival of the Big Brown Dog nearly three years ago forever changed the level of attention she gets because A) Rufus is an even BIGGER attention whore; B) Rufus is just plain bigger and will thwart her attempts at getting lovies every chance he gets; and C) Rufus is so damn freaking cute (still looks like a puppy, even though he is huge and beefy) and funny (still entertains us daily with the strategically-timed recital of the Super Happy Butt Wriggle Can You Feel My Jungle Heat? Dance, and smart (is currently completing his thesis on Deconstruction of the Suburban Compost Pile).

But let’s be clear: Babe is no freaking slouch either. Pugs were bred hundreds of years ago for the express purpose of being companions to Chinese royalty. When it comes to breeding, she is built for one thing only: to be as adorable and cuddly and charming as caninely possible. But at some point a year or so ago -- could be her older age, or just no longer giving a crap -- she just sort of threw in the towel and let the big guy get the lion’s share of attention and petting and squealing and cooing while she just loped off to her bed for another nap.

So I recently received an invitation to attend an intimate slumber party at my dear friend Milli’s house to check out her pad and sleep out in her little Shangri-La backyard, and that dogs would be welcome. So I packed up my blanket and pillow and Babe’s little leopard print faux fur bed (no, she’s not spoiled) and schlepped over to Milli’s house. Little did I know, I was about to make Babe’s millenium.

First of all, there was only one other dog there to compete with, Milli’s chihuahua mix Chela (aka “Scoops”). And she is WAY smaller than Babe. If Babe were so inclined, she could totally trounce Scoops. But Babe is about the love, so that wasn’t an option. Then, there was this yard full of all sorts of interesting plants and waterfalls and smaller-dog-butt to sniff. That alone is like Disneyland for Babe. She got to poop on a strange lawn -- always a treat. Then there were chicks, a bunch of them, passing out lovies for FREE and lavishing unrestricted praise upon Babealicious like it was freaking Christmas. Then she was given handouts of cauliflower, a new and exotic treat the likes of which had never before been savored! It was a magical evening for a neglected pug.

But the best part came early, very early the next morning whilst we slumbered in the tent, sleeping off the mojitos. Babe was in her bed at my feet (placed as far from earshot as possible to reduce at least some of the decibels from her deafening snoring).

It should be noted here that my dogs have always had their own beds since I don’t believe in having dogs in bed with you. It’s not only confusing for the dog, thinking they are on the same level with you and thus, not buying it when you try to train them, but also rather unsavory when you think of all the dog poo that gets mashed between a dog’s toes when he performs the post-poop hind leg scooting ritual. Yeeaaaah, not for me. I like my bed pristine and dog poop and dog hair-free, thanks. I give them plenty of cuddles and snuggles throughout the day -- they can live without being next to me for eight hours every night.

So there we were in the tent, and as the morning light began to permeate the tent, Babe awoke and realized, holy shit! -- she was in bed with three chicks! Dear lord, what have I done to deserve such unadulterated bliss?!!! This sort of thing only happens in a pug’s wildest dreams!!! She went from one warm snuggly body to the next and was cuddled and pet and cuddled some more, and she squealed and looked around at the scene before her and I swear, the look on her face was something I have never seen before. It was like when a Buddhist master reaches the highest level of enlightenment: This was the Holy Grail of Pug Existence. Where could she possibly go from here? What on earth could ever top this? Then the tent was unzipped and wheeeeee! -- more smelling to be had out in the beautiful yard!

Later that morning as I arrived home, I noticed what a pig sty my own house had become. After being gone for five days last week, then starting back to massage school, I haven’t been home much to clean or pay attention, but the squalor was becoming more unavoidable, and it stood out in sharp contrast after being in Milli’s beautiful, clean zen-like pad overnight. So I did what any girl would do. I put on the soundtrack to Flashdance (amidst Derek’s “Oh Dear Lord” looks) and started to clean my ass off, while Babe, my little party girl, slumbered happily back home in her little bed, having had the time of her portly little life.

White Trash A-Go-Go

In all the hoopla that has been my engagement, I neglected to tell the story of the white-trashiest house I have ever seen. Allow me to dispense with said story now.

Kristi and I were out walking the hounds in beautiful, cozy, diverse Chico. When I say diverse, I mean all over the map: You’ve got your college kids, your old-timers who have lived in Chico longer than God (i.e., Grammy), hippies, slackers, sportos, motorheads, geeks, sluts, pinheads, dweebies, wonkers, richies, they all think Chico is a righteous place (okay, sorry, had to go with the Ferris Bueller moment there).

Anyway, as newly soon-to-be-sisters-in-law, we were chatting away about all things deep and meaningful and pertinent when I was stopped dead in my tracks by the sight of this:

Holy crap! Now, don't get me wrong. I love me some mudflap girl. I have one on a wife beater that I wear out on nights I am feeling particularly sassy. I also have a very interesting pair of clear shoes that have the iconic symbol embedded right in the platform part of the shoe, courtesy of my adorable fiancé (man, that was fun to say -- fiancé, fiancé, fiancé) who has a wee bit of a shoe fetish. So those shoes don't see the light of day much. Okay, ever. But tell me, who actually has these anymore on anything other than an item that bespeaks some sense of irony or maybe costume jewelry? This is so old school trashy, I was struck speechless for a moment.

But then my eye took in the trashtastic glory of the rest of the yard. Somebody had taken it upon themselves to actually plant, in the ground, a big huge long row of SILK FLOWERS. Of all colors and varieties, but all silk, and all covered in a layer of dust. Planted. In the ground. Like we wouldn’t notice they weren’t real.

As we moved further along this display of tacky splendor, we noticed the backyard, which was in full view, had a garden gnome and a smattering of auto parts strewn about.

I half-expected Britney Spears to come trotting out and offer us some Cheetos. But alas, nobody came out. And we walked on, inspired and awed by what we had seen.

And speaking of inspired and awed, yesterday Kristi said the funniest thing to me that I have heard in perhaps a fortnight. She was complaining about her boss who has been, shall we say, mildly frustrating to deal with lately. "He's driving me to drink Arbor Mist every night," she lamented.

Oh. dear. God. How can you not love a girl who hits the Arbor Mist when the times are tough?

Something tells me I'm going to fit in just fine with this family.

I’m Engaged! I’m Engaged! I’m Engaged!

Yes, you read it right: Derek popped the question and (big surprise) -- I said yes. Actually it was more like YES! YES! YES! YES! YES! Want the full story? I’ll tell you how it went down just in case the Enquirer gets it wrong.

So we went to Chico this past Thursday to visit Derek’s Grammy. I know I’ve told you about her before -- sweet, feisty lady, nearing 102 years old, golfs like it’s going out of style, can whip up a mean peach cobbler, I could go on and on. I love the woman something fierce. Anyhoo, Derek and I went to lunch at his fave cheesesteak place which has now opened up a location in Chico. We stuffed our faces and decided to go for a walk in Bidwell Park to work off the stuffage. Bidwell Park is one of the largest municipal parks in the country and quite beautiful. We were meandering around on a trail that looked quite like this:
The park was deserted since it was a Friday, and we found ourselves wandering deeper into the foliage. It got deathly quiet. The squeals from the nearby swimming hole were now long gone.

Me: Are you taking me somewhere to kill me?

Derek: Heh heh.

(silence)

Me: No, seriously.

Derek: Actually, quite the opposite. I have something for you.

Me (confused, thinking): Is it a shank? Or is it that Tastycake thingy he saw me eyeballing at the cheesesteak place by the cash register?

Just about then we arrived at this beautiful little pond, all green and mossy with stones in it -- the sun glinting through the tree overhead just so. It was quite a sight.

Derek: Here, I want to give you something. (turning his back)

Me: Here it comes, he’s gonna cut me, or he’s gonna give me a tasty treat for being such a nice girlfriend. Either way, I better be prepared. Let’s see, how does that go? Over the teeth and past the gums, look out stomach here it---

Derek turned around and handed me a little box. Every girl knows what that little box is. It is THE box. My heart started pounding and my hands started to shake. Holy crap, that is THE box! I opened the box slowly and sitting in its little cushion was the most beautiful ring I’ve ever seen in my life, swear to God and Jesus and all the saints. Like it was made for me. Just perfect.

Derek: It was Grammy’s engagement ring.

Me: (choking up)

He got down on one knee. In the dirt. And it was scruffy dirt too, not nice hard-packed dirt. Seriously dirty dirt. Normally a thing that Derek would avoid at all costs. He and dirt are not friends.

Derek: Punkin, will you marry me?

Me: YES, YES, YES, YES, YES, YES, YES, YES, YES, YES!

He slid the ring on my finger. And it fit perfectly. Then the real crying started. Was this really happening to me? I couldn't believe it.

I’ve never been much of a jewelry person, but I couldn’t believe how much sentimental feeling was wrapped up in this little ring. I couldn’t stop staring at it. So many loved ones had been touched by this ring -- an adored husband, children, grandchildren, great grandchildren, friends. And now the man who will be my husband was giving it to me. And the more I looked at it, the more it made me cry. Tears of joy. Tears of gratitude.

We hurried home to tell Grammy. She said she hopes we will have as many happy years as she had with her beloved husband. And I believe we definitely will.

Surge Returns!

I am beyond super-duper pleased to report that a new and improved Surge arrived on our naked doorstep yesterday. And much glorious rejoicing was had by all. The new Surge does not spew, sputter or spank in any way and is even brighter and shinier and cuter than the former Surge. I guess they upgraded us a model. I had my green lemonade this morning, and it was perfection.

And now all is right in my world.

Shoegasm, Part Deux

So the darling new pinupgirl pumps made their debut the other day. I hadn’t expected the rave reviews to come so soon, but there I was, 8:30 a.m. in the dentist’s chair, about to get a filling. As my dentist gently withdrew the J.Lo’s Ass-sized novocaine needle out of my piehole and moved to place it on the counter, she finally noticed my shoes and squealed with delight (this, BTW, is a huge advantage of having a girly-girl dentist).

Dentist: “Ohmygod! Your shoes! They are so cute! They’re absolutely darling! Where on earth did you get those?”

Me: (novocaine kicking in) Awen’t they shew adaramable? I knew eshhheewwwn as I saw mem dat ah musht ha mem like, immidianetery!

Dentist: “My daughters would love those, where can I find them?”

Me: Ewe cn geff um offfff beeeenoffkoffinghoff-dot-nam.

Dentist: “pinupgirlclothing-dot-com huh? Great, thanks for the tip!”

Later, whilst having lunch with Toni and gabbing away as girls do, she stopped mid-sentence, pointed down and exclaimed “ARE THOSE THE SHOES??? I knew I recognized those shoes!”

See, so I have made the shoes famous. Now all I need to do is smack them around and get them in dirty movies where they will feel exploited and used and develop a drug/wine cooler problem and write a tell-all book denouncing me and my abusiveness and joining a religious group that provides support and understanding for other exploited shoes. I can see it all now.

The Return of Surge Is Imminent

About a month ago, I bought a juicer. Specifically, this juicer. Now I know you all think I’m mental to begin with, but now you’re really going to think my porch light’s not on.

I named the juicer. Seriously. I named it Surge. I did this for a few reasons:

1) Surge sounded so much nicer than JE95;

2) I used to have this really bitchin’ awesome cat named Serge, and just saying the name brings back warm fuzzy memories of a warm fuzzy kitty who was the spawn of a cat I adopted when I was 19 and moved into this shithole house in Simi Valley with five other girls and the girl who lived in my room before me abandoned this cat who it turns out was pregs, and then during the week of the summer solstice shortly after she gave birth to her kittens, she was abducted by Satan worshippers along with all the other dogs and cats on our block so I had to painstakingly bottle-feed four screaming-clawing-with-razor-sharp-claws-on-bare-legs-in-summer kittens six times a day and kept the little baby long-haired grey and white girl who later it turned out was really a boy whose little gonads hadn’t yet dropped but I was already treating him like a girl and using my high-pitched girly-pet voice and imagined he must have been gay because of how I treated him all girly, so the only name that seemed to fit was that of the dude from Beverly Hills Cop (“Vould you like a little lemon tvist?..... Nah, it's no trouble, dun’t be stewpit.”) and later in his adult life when I lived in Redondo Beach, Serge would go up and down the driveways of all my neighbors’ homes and chat with them individually each day, and they all knew Serge (by his name tag), but didn’t even know me, that’s how cool of a cat he was -- I would be in front of my house and people I didn't even know would walk past and go "Hey Serge" and Serge would go "Hey, 'sup dawg?". He lived to a very ripe old age. And nobody could ever replace Serge. That’s why I spell the juicer’s name Surge. But it still makes me happy to say Surge. Or Serge.

3) Surge got me off coffee. I swear. And we’re talking about a serious coffeehound since the age of ninth grade when cramming for finals became a part of my adolescent repertoire. I love me some coffee, man. But with the green lemonade that Surge gives me in the morning, coffee, eh! Sniff! It has no appeal for me. I am so jazzed up and stoked with vitamins that there is no need for caffeine. Even for a non-morning-person! This I consider the act of a friend. A friend helps you say goodbye to unhealthy habits and embrace healthy new ones. A friend would not be named Model JE95, or “the juicer” (sounds waaaaaay too OJ Simpson for me), or just “that there appliance gizmo thingy there”. No, a friend has a name. And my friend’s name is Surge.

Well, a couple of blissful weeks after getting Surge, and having fresh green lemonade daily or fresh carrot/apple juice (shut up and try it!) or whatever combinations we came up with, there were sunshine and unicorns and flowers in my world, but it became apparent that Surge had a problem. Surge would spit juice out the sides whenever the produce went down the chute. I don’t just mean the “Say it, don’t spray it” kind of juice that comes out when you’re talking to an over-enthusiastic close-face-talker, I’m talking more like the kind of spray that comes out of a broken sprinkler.

This sucks rotten eggs.

I called the company and they said there must be a defect. Surge shouldn’t be doing that. I would have to pack up Surge and gingerly place him in a box with wadded up Old Navy shopping bags and send him back. In other words, I would have to part with Surge for an indefinite period of time. Ooooooh this made me very, very bitter and cold. But I did it with the hopes that soon, there would be a new Surge in his place that didn’t spew out juice in my face in the wee early morning hours.

Days turned into a week. A week turned into a week and a half. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I called the company again, tense and shaking, and inquired about the whereabouts of my new and improved Surge.

I think I stated my issue quite calmly. In my mind’s version, it went something like this:

Me: “Well hello, jolly good sir, I wonder if you might give me the latest status on the arrival of my new juicer. An ETA, perhaps?”

Juicer Company Guy: “Why yes ma’am, that juicer is en route to you and should arrive tomorrow.”

Me: “Jolly good of you, kind old chap. Cheerio!”

But I’m sure it went more something like this:

Me: (crackhead edgy stuttering) “Look, man. WTF is my new juicer, man???? What’s the holdup, man????? I once had solid hope for like, the concept of like, having to get up and exist in the mornings, man. That hope is gone, man! Gone! Gone daddy gone! Love is gone! You took it away from me, you, you, you, you dickface! Gimme back my juicer, man! Even if it’s still broken! Alrighty??!!!! Then I won’t have to cut you!”

Juicer Company Guy: “Why yes ma’am, that juicer is en route to you and should arrive tomorrow.”

Me: (grateful sobs) Click.

Thank God. Thank you for Surge. I never knew I needed him so bad.

P.S. -- Recipe for Green Lemonade. One try, and you will understand how it can get you off coffee and make you happy to be alive and stuff. (All ingredients organic, of course.)

1 whole head of celery
1 whole lemon (unpeeled)
1 whole apple (Fuji rocks the best in this)
5-6 pieces of kale

Put all in juicer and drink. The lemon cuts out that greenie taste that nobody likes and makes it taste like -surprise!- lemonade. This recipe is from the book The Raw Food Detox Diet by Natalia Rose.

Quote of the Day

When someone shows you who they are, believe them...the first time.

-Maya Angelou

Shoegasm

Because I am a show-offy sort, I just had to boast and brag and generally be obnoxiously self-serving and shallow about my most recent shoe acquisition from my beloved pinupgirlclothing.com. Behold:

Could you just die? Can you believe how flippin' cute? Couldn't you just eat it with a spoon? Damn I loves me some shoes! DAMN!!!

I haven't quite figured out what to wear with them yet, so they have remained cloistered within the uncomfortable confines of my closet, suffering the jealous glares and snipings of my other shoes:

Pink Satin Ballet Flats: "Oh. My. God. Becky, look at the attention whore. Just look at the size of that heel. It is so big. Slut."

Brown Hippie Chunky Pumps: "Hey, what's with Snow White over there? Looks like someone could use a little chilling out, man, talk about uptight. She's harshing my mellow. Hey, who took my bong, man? That's a straight-up party foul, man."

Black Patent Leather Pumps: "Oh please, the ruffle is SO impractical. REAL classic shoes don't have to try so hard. She is obviously insecure and has daddy issues. We should feel sorry for her. She's just going to end up on the shoe repair man's couch."

White Pointy Pumps: "I don't see why we're even having this discussion. I'm the light-colored sexy shoe that gets taken out everywhere. I'm the one who invokes scandal and drama with every click of my stiletto heel. Even psychos bow before me. I have this power--"

Purple Glittery Stripper Shoes: "Bitch, don't even make me come down there and smack the white off your cracker-ass again! We all know who the favorite is and if that new bitch even thinks about going near my baby daddy (Derek's Steve Maddens), I'ma knock the lace off dat face, shooooooo."

Pinky, Aqua and Blackie (Stripper Shoes' illegitimate Old Navy $3.95 flip-flops): "Mama, why you mad, mama? We get taken out more den anybody! Tee hee!!!"


But the shoes will come out soon and be flaunted, oh yes, they will come out soon. It is written.

I Got Beaned

After recently overcoming somewhat of a lazy spell, I took it upon myself to take the large brown dog out for a jog last night. It was warm out, yes, but not stifling. And besides, sweating is cleansing, right? So I’m walking along in the park to warm up, feeling a little bit sassy and all like I’m hot stuff since I’ve lost an eensy bit of weight. There are wanna-be World Cuppers playing with their balls EVERYWHERE in the park these days, and last night was no exception. I had on my headphones for my MP3 player. I do this while jogging for several reasons, not the least of which are:

1) I seem to have tons more endurance when Nine Inch Nails and Rammstein are pounding in my ears.

2) It gives me an acceptable excuse for not acknowledging the douchebags who walk by me and insist, “SMILE!” like I’m supposed to be just walking down the street smiling continuously at nothing in particular. I am working out, Foolio. I am intensely imagining myself on a beach in Mexico sipping a Chi Chi rather than being here, exerting myself and sweating my ass off in my craptastic Target sweats and stained wife beater. Shut the hell up and leave me alone.

3) Hearing stripper music gives me the notion, however far-fetched, that I may one day have a stripper bod.

So anyhoo, since my stripper music was pounding away in my ears, I had no warning of what was about to be. A ball. Kicked at furiously high speeds. Aimed right at my head.

BAM!!!!!

My ear buds flew out and I almost fell, face-first, to the ground. It took me a second to figure out what happened, so I am sure the look on my face was something along the lines of WT-effing-F??????

This dude came up and frantically apologized in broken English and asked if I was okay. I glared at him.

“Okay? Huh. Okay. Okay? Hell no, I’m not okay!”

Again, more broken apologizing.

I hesitated, unsure of what to do. Normally, a genuine apology is plenty for me, but I still felt I might actually pass out from the blow, and this pissed me off.

“I almost just lost consciousness, dude. And stuff. You guys need to be careful. (more bitter scowling). Or something. Cuz. You know, people are walking. And stuff. Whatever.”

I’m sure I sounded like a total idiot and they had a good laugh at my expense over their Coronas later. Eh, what can you do? Sometimes it is dangerous providing entertainment to the public.

Bug Killah

One thing about the Valley that distinguishes it from the Wesssside: It is totally bugnacious. Especially in the heat.

Let’s just talk about the flies for a second. Something about the rising mercury is the equivalent of someone shouting like the town crier to all flies within a 10-mile radius: “FREE POOP! COME AND GET YOUR POOP HERE! LOTS OF TASTY MICROSCOPIC DOG FOOD LEFTOVERS ON SHINY BOWLS! COME GET SOME DELICIOUS LIVE FLAPPY DOG EARS FOR NIBBLING! VERY TASTY! SWIM IN OUR LOVELY DOG WATER BOWL POOL! FREE ACCESS TO RAPIDLY DECOMPOSING COMPOST PILE WHILE IT LASTS!"

Yes, it's true. I have totally Martha'd out. I started a compost pile. It's environmentally friendly, bitches! But now the entire insect world of the San Fernando Valley is very friendly with my environment if you know what I mean. It's an unpleasant side effect.

But enough about the flies, can we talk about the water bugs? For those of you who don't know what a water bug is, picture a cockroach. On 'roids. Without the accompanying aggressiveness and bad skin. A water bug is like the roach's bigger, dumber, slower counterpart. He's not after food. He lives mostly outside and won't really scatter when the porch lights come on. Come to think of it, what the hell ARE they after? They just sort of show up and hang around. Rufus, having the official occupation in the household of He Who Chaseth All Smaller Creatures That Moveth, is quite fond of water bugs because they allow him the rare opportunity of playing Water Bug Hockey. And the water bugs don't seem to mind at all. They're like Mongo from Blazing Saddles. "Water Bug only puck in game of dog hockey." They roll and somersault when he paws them about and make very half-assed attempts at a getaway. I think they enjoy the attention. Much like Mongo.

Occasionally, however, they do venture into the house through mysterious means. The other morning, I was unfortunately awake, and dragged my sorry ass into the shower to start the day. I pulled aside the shower curtain and was greeted by The Muthah of all water bugs. He could have used my loofah as a recliner. He could have used my razor as a scooter. He was using my jar of lavender scrub as a podium, and I swear you guys, he looked up at me with his giant antennae flailing around at me and I heard something that sounded like a big dumb ass-crack-bearing plumber's voice:

WB: "Uh yeah uh lady, uh, you might wantuh look inta dat der mildew sitchiation ya got goin' dere on dose tiles back dere by da faucet. I ain't sayin' you're in any dangers now, but ya know, I gotta tell you to play it safe dere. You don't wantuh get yerself any problems down da line dere."

Me: "What are you doing in my tub? Who let you in? There's no hole in the window screen. The tub is too tall for you to crawl in here. WTF?"

WB: "Uh lady, dere's really no reason ta be raisin' yer voice at me dere, I'm just doin' my job here and addressin' the sitchiation you's got goin' on here. Now you's just pay me my fee dere and we'll be square."

I paid him his fee. I flushed his ass down the toilet. It's full of water. He'll be perfectly happy there.

Another, more sinister side of our bug environs happens in the form of lots of big, scary spiders in the backyard. At first, my attitude toward them was eh, let 'em be -- they're building webs to catch and eat all these effing annoying flies. But then one day when I was winding up the hose after watering, there was this GI-FREAKING-NORMOUS black widow sitting right there on the hose, spinning around as I wound up the hose, sitting there looking at me like I was a giant, tasty bloodsicle and I thought oh heyall naw! I squirted her ass into oblivion. Then the other day, whilst winding up the same hose, there was a big giant brown spider hanging around on it.

Me: "Dude! There is a big brown spider on the hose!"

Derek (across the yard): "Really?"

Me: "Yeah. It's brown with white spots and it's big. I bet you it's a brown recluse. Those things will bore a hole right through your skin and kill a dog easily. It obviously must die." (stomps foot savagely on insectual beast)

Derek: "Do we even have the brown recluse in this part of the country?"

Me: (long pause) "Uhhhhhhh. I dunno. Do we? Oh shoot. Well. I guess better safe than ... you know. Uh. Oh. Well. Crap. Now I feel bad."

I would make a great thug.

I Love Encino In The Spring

Do you see why I'm such a homebody lately and don't want to join the land of the living? Why go anywhere when your pad and its surrounding flora looks like this:

My favorite Big Brown Dog taking time to smell the flowers:
"What? It's not as good as eight-hour butt, but it's okay I guess." My favorite Pugnacious taking the time to give you the ol' hairy eyeball:I stained and finished these teak chairs and table myself. Pretty cute, yes? You have to twist your body into all sorts of positions to adequately stain something. Who knew I was a contortionist? Anyway, this is now my fave place to sit and chill. This was once a carport when the house was built in 1949, but now is a section of yard we refer to as "The Slab". I think it looks like some cute little Italian villa now. I'll take this over Skybar any day: Me and my forehead, kickin' it and being happy:

Horton Hatches A Psycho

What is it with me and the psychos? Do I have a secret Psycho Attracting Device lodged somewhere in my person that the aliens have implanted in me? Don’t you ever wake up in the morning sometimes with a strange mark on your body and realize they have kidnapped you again, and wonder what the hell they implanted in your person while you were under their alien hypnosis thingy during the night? Well guess what? They implanted the Psycho Attractor 3000XGL with turbo boost into my person at some point a few years back.

We go out with Deb and Darren Saturday night. We have a lovely dinner at Primitivo on Abbot Kinney. Love the crap out of that place, man. Some tapas, some wine, some nice conversation. And we were only with, like, the greatest neighbors ever in the history of neighborhood. We head over to the Buffalo Club to meet up with Bethy and her peeps. Deb and I sit at the bar, and immediately, my Psycho Radar starts beeping. Bip bip bip bip bip bip bip beeeeeeeeap! In the words of the Great Eddie Murphy in Beverly Hills Cop when he sees the angry-looking dude walk into the strip club with the leather trench coat on (in June), “Something’s getting ready to go down.”

WHAM!!! A Body slams to the ground at our feet (I had on my super cute white Bebe pumps, always a great prop for a psycho drama) -- there was much yelling and general spazzing out of people around and atop the Body. The Body screamed and squirmed like a stuck pig, and the security dude sitting atop the Body yelled at what I presumed were the Psycho Body’s drunk friends, who were trying in vain to calm the Psycho Body down. Security Dude remained perched on top of the Psycho Body and everything quieted down within a few moments, even the Psycho Body. The cops were en route. So Security Dude had to remain perched atop Psycho Body, lest the Psycho Body squirm and flail and spin like a combination whirling dervish/tanked tasmanian devil and destroy everything in its path. An eerie calm settled over the place as Security Dude sat calmly atop the Psycho Body, awaiting handing him over to the arriving Po-Po.

I turned to Deb and remarked, “Remember that book, Horton Hatches The Egg?”

I didn’t tell her that I have the Psycho Attractor 3000XGL with turbo boost embedded in my person since I am afraid she wouldn’t want to go out with me anymore.

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