Wedding Photos

I know, I know, I am SO long overdue about getting these up here. Some of the photos had to be fixed (tiny spot on the lens) and our awesome photographer is re-sending them now. But here are a few of my favorites. You can see for yourself why it was depressing coming back home....

There Is Wisdom In Uncertainty

OMG you guys. This is so much harder that I thought it would be.

And because it is taking me so much tortuous time to to correct my spelling errors this time... I had better leave it at that.

Change Is Good

Well guys, today was it. Today was a few things, actually.

1) Today was the first day I posted a blog whilst under the influence.

2) Today was the last day of my legal career. I've been kinda keeping it a secret since I wanted things all nice and clean and done before I broadcast the news to the world, but guess what? After 13 long, long, LONG years in the legal business, I gave my notice two weeks ago, and today was my last day. I will be starting this Friday as a staff massage therapist working for a really great chiropractor in Northridge. And I'm really excited about it. Hence, see #1 above. The wine has been steadily consumed by your Valley Girl since about 5:00 today. And no sign of slowing down.

3) Today was the first time I walked away from a deliciously bad movie. I know!! What is happening to me? I'm sitting in bed, pillows propped all around me just so, rolling around on the tempurpedic in a nice shiraz-induced buzz when, to my total delight and serendipitous (I know, can you believe I can still spell in this condition?) glee, I happened upon a showing of Basic Instinct 2 on HBO. People, this has GOT to be the QUEEN OF BAD MOVIES, right? I mean, don't get me wrong -- I LOVED the first one. I watch it every chance I get, even more than Showgirls. I have it on DVD so it is at my disposal. I loved the character of Catherine Trammel. I loved how Michael Douglas was so her bitch. I loved how somebody actually had the balls to make a movie about a female sociopath who was also beautiful and smart and sexual. And I loved all the drama surrounding the writer of that movie (OMG people, if you ever get the chance, read Hollywood Animal by Joe Eszterhas. Can't. Put. Down. I'm just sayin'. And just because I can spell whilst a bit tipsy, doesn't mean I won't be abusing my usual parentheticals.) And though I was bitter that they actually went ahead and made the whole dumb sequel of one of my fave movies of all time (I have such a love/hate relationship with sequels: I believe they are the movie version of money-grubbing whores, with the exception of Aliens and a scant handful of others that managed to surpass the originals, but like, you idiot producers! Just let the original be the original and let it go for the love of film nerds! But I suppose if they did just let it go all the time, I would not have the supreme gorgeosity that is Aliens, so.... ), Basic Instinct 2. It got so skewered in the press, had a reportedly horrid script and even more horrid acting -- my God! In a shiraz-induced, change-of-career-little-crazy-let's-stay-up-late-and-par-TAY! wonkety-wonk, what's not to love with that mix?

But . . . I just couldn't get into it.

I tried. I tried so hard. I was all sitting up in my Heiress-On-Pills-So-Ready-To-Bash-You pose, wine in hand, sneer on face, nose in a wrinkle. And I just couldn't keep it up for the love of bad film. The story, so lame. The acting, so tired, so not-trashy-inspired. It was like ol' Sharon just went "People, I'm just killing time here until my next cabana boy massage, but sure, I'll text message in Catherine Trammel for you if it makes you randy, baby."

And so I found myself over Basic Instince 2 before it had even begun. I even walked out in the middle of one of the supremely choreographed sex scenes.

And sneaked off into the other room to tell you about it.

Oh, and guess what? We got the wedding photos. And since I am in NO STATE right now to download them, I thought I would give you this one teaser that I love so much:

The Million Dollar $16 Dress

Remember the dress I told you about that I wore all over Italy? The one from Charlotte Russe I bought for $16?

Dudes!!! I busted that dress out again today for the first time since the trip. It is the magic dress! I stopped counting the compliments after, oh, number 32 that I heard the phrase "Wow, LOVE your dress!" from co-workers, complete strangers, and the long, not-so-subtle stares of two random dudes on the street. [I felt like saying to one of them, "I know, can you believe they're real?" But thought better of it and went on my way.]

Who says quality has to be expensive? Some of the cutest jewelry I have ever owned has come from Target. I'm just sayin'.

Like, Oh My Gawd!

You absolutely MUST watch this video on YouTube of Moon Unit Zappa performing her hit single "Valley Girl" on Solid Gold, which I used to watch religiously for the Solid Gold Dancers. O. M. G. It is friggin' hilarious. Pay particular attention to the headbands and the leg warmers.

Italy Photos

Since Blogger kinda blows with the whole downloading photos thing, please go here to view my Italy photos as a slideshow, if you are interested. There are no wedding photos yet, but I promise I will get those up ASAP when I receive them.

From Germany, With Love

I am finally back, people. Did you miss me and my rantings?

The short version is this: My God I had an incredible time. I am changed. I am inspired. I am rested but exhausted. And I am now officially married to the most wonderful man ever put into existence and that, my friends, makes me ecstaticly, ridiculously happy.

I figured the only way I would be able to cover all this with any sort of coherent meaning would be to do it in shifts, although you will have to wait a couple more weeks for wedding photos since our guy, Domenico, is on Italy time. So in the meantime, we will have to make due with all the rest. Let me start with Germany.

As many of you know, I have a "German Family". Many many years ago, when I was but a wee embryo, my parents, who were living in Germany, got into a car accident. Their Bug collided with another Bug on the train tracks, and thus a beautiful friendship was born. A year after I was born, Rose gave birth to a daughter, Ruth, who was to become my pen pal from the age of 5. Until the trip, we had actually only hung out twice -- once at my pad in Venice when I took her and her then-boyfriend to see the freaks, and once at her pad in Germany, when they took me all over that beautiful place. I haven't seen her in nine years. Derek and I flew into Frankfurt in order to pay them a special visit before the wedding, and I got to meet her super adorable little boy, Tobias. To say I became attached would be an understatement. I mean.... just look at him:

Such happiness! Such inquisitiveness! Such affectionateness! In spite of his parents constantly correcting him as to my name, he insisted on calling me "Frau"-- woman. He cracked my shit up.

This is Schweinfurt, where Ruth and her family live. It is beautiful and charming and you could eat it with a spoon. We bought some Belgian chocolates here, and let's just say I am now completely spoilt by the beauty that is Belgian. I poo-poo on your Ghirardelli's.

Here is Ruth's hub and my hub, discussing manly things as we walk through cobblestone streets.
I'm super fancy with my camera angles sometimes. This is Rothenberg (or if you are German, Rottenberg). It is a medieval town, full of lots of medieval things.

Lots of the buildings have really cool things like a little nekkid man, shouting obscenities down from above an archway. Oh look, here's one now:

This is in front of the Crime and Punishment Museum, where we saw all sorts of medieval torture devices and techniques. So don't eff with me, man. I have been schooled in the ways of putting the hurtin' on people, medieval style.

See this dress? I bought it at Charlotte Russe in the Topanga Mall for like, $16. Get used to looking at it. I wore it all over Italy. Of course it was covered up here because it was kinda cold at the time.

This would be looking down on the town, where you can see the prevalent use of the architectural style known as "Early Super Cute".

This is at a church in Wurzburg, the beautiful little town where I was born.

I. Love. This. Man. And the background? Yes, it is real.

It was hard to leave my friends and little Tobi, but we promised we would get together with them again in the next year or so, hopefully at the Grand Canyon. Meanwhile, we had a plane to catch to Venice.....

Grammy -- The Talk of Talk Shows

If you missed Grammy on Leno last Friday, be sure to catch her on the Ellen Degeneres Show this Wednesday. She was her adorable, feisty self on Ellen and boy, did they ever give her a surprise. Tune in to see it!

WTF, Over?

So this morning, at the oh-so-convenient hour of 2:30 a.m., our backyard was swarmed with ghetto birds. For at least an hour. Actually it could have been one ghetto bird, but when it’s in your OWN FRIGGIN’ BACKYARD it sounds more like TWENTY. As I’m lying there in a WTF stupor, I hear a voice over a megaphone hovering over our backyard: “PUT YOUR HANDS UP. PUT YOUR HANDS UP.” I thought they only said that in movies?

Does anybody know what kind of trashiness descended upon our humble neighborhood last night?

Best Quote I Have Seen In A Long, Long Time

"Religion is something that is mostly outward appearance. Faith is a different thing. Faith doesn't have a name. It doesn't have a category. It's oblique. So it's unspeakable. We degrade faith by talking about religion."

- Bob Dylan, from a recent interview in Rolling Stone

Bee Careful

So I decided to walk to the bank at lunch to deposit my massage money, and kept noticing this buzzing sound. What the hell is that? I kept stopping and checking my clothes for bugs, looking around to see if there was a Jackrabbit following me or something. I ambled into the Co-Op to get my fave sandwich there (turkey on toasted sourdough with avocado and no sprouts) and went to the ladies’ since I didn’t think I’d be able to hold it all the way back to the office when I looked into the mirror and beheld a bee, trying with all his might to hump the giant fake orange flower I have in my hair today. It was quite a sight. He was really going to town. I suppose my choice of hair accessory could indeed have been construed as bee porno, but I hadn’t thought of that this morning when I shoved my dirty hair into a bun and clipped the obnoxious thing onto it to hide said dirt. My bad hair day = huge bee tease.

But thank heavens that mystery was solved.

Update

The latest news from Derek's mom: Grammy's in two magazines that we know about: Sports Illustrated, page 17 and Golf World, pages 24 (Briefly column) and 26 (Front Nine column). How about that?

I Knew It All Along

I know, I know. I am SUCH a slacker. I just feel so in limbo and everything with the trip coming up, I have not been motivated to write at all. Things that happen that are funny that I usually would be like “I can’t wait to pimp this story out!” I’m more like “Eh, pass the chips and let me shift positions on the couch.” Working six days a week makes for a very tired and pathetic Valley Girl, but as of this week I will be getting my Saturdays back, so that’s good.

But I felt I would be remiss if I did not tell you about the huge news in our family lately. You know Derek’s Grammy that I am always blabbing about? The same Grammy we go to visit in Chico who plays a mean game of cards and makes an even meaner peach cobbler? Well, she’s famous now. Unless you have been living under a rock, you’ve heard about the 102-year-old woman who recently made a hole-in-one, making her the oldest person on record to do so on a regulation golf course. Here is one of the many articles (be sure to watch her in the video, she is so cute), or just google "Elsie McLean" and you will see articles about her from all over the world. Now everybody wants her: Leno, Ellen, hordes of fans sending her requests for autographs. Not only did they book her on the above shows, but they moved her to sweeps week -- she is that hot! I don’t know squat about golf, but I do know that this "little old lady" has managed to unwittingly steal the show from the oh-so-elitist frou-frou Master’s Tournament and trumped the record previously held by a man in a male-dominated sport. Can you say "YOU GO, GIRL!" -- ??

But personally, all fanfare aside, the deeper meaning I have taken from the whole thing is this: You are never too old to achieve your dream. That is a lame cliché, of course, but hello? As an avid golfer, that being her dream, and still being out there three days a week swinging away, not giving a rat’s ass that she is 102, how can you not see the obviousness of the universal law at work there?

And a secondary, but also very relevant moral to this story would be knowing that me, you, anybody, can exist and thrive without the daily use of prescription drugs and crappy processed foods and a whole host of other items the big corporate monsters would have us believe we would die without. The secret is to just live positively and seek out your joys. Grammy’s had her share of physical ailments over the years, sure, but doesn’t rely on meds as a way of life and doesn’t complain about whatever aches and pains come up. It should also be noted that I’ve looked through countless photo albums and scrapbooks of hers, and can’t remember a single photo of her where she wasn’t smiling. This is what has kept her young and beautiful all these many years, and I hope in her now high-profile existence, people look beneath the accomplishment of her having managed this incredible feat, and see where it came from: That she has made an ace out of her life.

I am still crazy about her as a person and still ecstatic that I will soon legally be considered a part of her family, though I have felt a kinship with her since I met her. But with all the attention swirling around her, I have to admit I have a smug little voice inside me that amusedly says, “You gapers, I knew she was awesome all along.”

I'm Like, Sew Sewper Hot!

Here is what you do when you come home from stripper class: Take off the clear shoes, eat a quesadilla, then do two shots of whiskey.

You decide that your Good Hair Day just didn't get enough exposure for the day (thank you, Conair ceramic hot rollers!), and you start taking pictures of yourself.

I am Le Hot, and need not even look into the camera's eye:

"Looking for a man who will be generou$$$. I love to have a good time and am up for anything. Am equally at home in jeans or in cocktail dress and heels."

I call this one Man With Mom Tattoo Sipping From Flask I Gave Him For Valentine's Day:

I totally do my own eyebrows.

My Dumb Ass

I had been doing SO GOOD. Nary a drop of Jesus Juice since returning from Grammy’s, and loving the effects: Feeling better upon the usual hellishness of waking in the morning, more energy, less bloating, less red-eye, clearer skin, actual motivation to pick up after myself around the house, actual motivation to be productive, etc. It had been a week and a half and I had that cleaned-out, super-happy, I-so-have-my-shizzle-together! feeling.

And then it happened.

The raging baby shower.

Yeah, that sound you hear is the collective laughter of Valley Girl readers from all over the globe laughing their asses off that I would be so weakened to imbibe at a friggin’ BABY SHOWER. ON A SCHOOL NIGHT, EVEN.

But let me explain. Shut up, stop laughing! I’m sure!

The baby shower was held at this totally swank place -- the type of place that hires a team of lighting stylists to get the interior lighting just so perfect that every diner looks perfectly glowy, tan and fabulous. Each course offered a beautifully presented chi-chi serving of delight that melted in your mouth. So when the sommelier recommended and poured a delicate, but jovial syrah for our sipping pleasure, who the hell was I to say no to a sip? And when our server, with the quiet stealthiness of a ninja treading on 500-thread count pillows kept my glass bottomless, how on earth was I supposed to know how much I was consuming?

Until this morning, when I felt how much I had consumed. Even though it was expensive, apparently I consumed a lot, and am not feeling so swift today. And so, Valley Girl hangs her head in dumbassery, and hops back on the wagon. Lesson learned.

Shoe Flatulence

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

But there is one problem. They fart when I walk. Yes, that's right -- the shoes fart. It is really annoying and distracting.

And I guess if I were the type to embarrass more easily, it would prohibit me from wearing the shoes. But the value of a shoe that checks off all three of the above criteria can never be overstated. And so I shall wear the farty shoes, oh yes! I shall wear the farty shoes. And funny looks by passersby be damned!

Weekend At Grammy's

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

To wit, the many faces of The Pug:

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



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


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

And here she is giving you the ol' stinkeye:

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

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

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

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

"Whatchoo talkin' 'bout, Willis?"

"Heavens above, make the woman STOP already."

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

Holy crap, Rufus has groupies! Cute ones!

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

Fritto Misto

I am a genius.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

L'Artiste Patisserie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vote!

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

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

There's No Therapy Like Snow Therapy

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

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

And then Super Bowl Sunday happened.

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

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

An Open Letter To The Asshole Who Burglarized Our House On Friday

[Editor’s Note: My next post was supposed to be all about our upcoming trip to Italy where we will be getting married, and the planning of said trip. Life had other plans for us, and this post had to come next instead. This post contains the F-word -- the first, and likely the last time you will see its use on this blog. If you are offended by coarse language, it is recommended you skip this post and go directly to www.cuteoverload.com. Thank you.]

Dear Shitbiscuit,

Fuck you. You fucking piece of shit asshole.

Congratulations. You are now the proud owner of a laptop that is 3 years old (practically a dinosaur in today’s fast-paced technology world) that gave us nothing but problems from the minute we had it. It crashes frequently, has a broken disk drive, and no longer even recognizes the external disk drive we bought for it, much to the dismay of the computer and disk drive manufacturers we contacted to try to make it work properly. We were trying to figure out how much of our life savings we were going to have to shell out to the Geek Squad or Dork Squad or whoever to get the darn thing to work correctly after nobody else could. So I hope whatever knucklehead you sell it to for your pathetic drug money comes back after realizing you sold them a huge paper weight, and pulverizes your pathetic bitch-ass into dust. All those family photos, love letters, story ideas, scripts I had written, etc. They can’t be replaced, but perhaps you will get some amusement from them while you are recovering in the hospital from a disk drive being shoved up your ass.

The checkbook you took is useless to you as well, since we had our accounts switched right away. Sorry! Maybe you can use the checks to write notes to yourself like, “Hey Assmunch! You’re out of TP! Oh, and you SUCK ASS! Love, Dickweed.”

The digital camera I had just purchased was a low blow. I put a lot of research and money into getting just the exact right one. I had taken a few cute pictures of the dogs on it to test it out, but was, alas, unable to download them on the laptop yet since, you guessed it, the disk with the camera software couldn’t be downloaded on the piece of shit laptop! Oh, and since you took the camera right out of its box, we were able to give the serial number in the police report, so if you sell it, the po-po will find you! Sorry!

The other expensive stuff you took here and there hurt too, but since the dogs were stuck in the backyard, all they could do was bark at you while you picked and chose amongst our hard-earned belongings what to take. We got a doggie door, so that will never happen again. The next time you or your dickface ilk ever get the wild hair up your ass to rob us again, you will be met with a big, muscular, pissed off, slobbering-like-Hooch Big Brown Dog who is still anxious and bitter even three days later that he wasn’t able to tear your piece of shit head off your body when he had the chance. Trust me when I say, you won’t get a warning next time, Dickwad. He took down a burglar when we lived in The 'Hood, don't think he can't take your ass too.

But all of this I can take. It’s really just material things when it comes down to it. The dogs were unharmed and my engagement ring was safely on my finger and everything else can be replaced. It wasn’t until later, after the police had left, after my mom had left, after an eerie calm had settled over me (with the help of a Corona). I had already screamed and cried and raged and was exhausted. It was what you did to Derek. He was furious. He was full of rage, disappointment, angry at himself for not being able to protect his castle, angry at you, our unknown, unseen enemy. He was hurt and shaken to the core, but unlike me, the chick who can cry like it’s an Olympic sport, had nowhere to put it. Being a decent man, he had nothing to hit, no conduit to release these feelings. The look in his eyes is something I will never forget. That is what makes me want to kill you, you fucking piece of shit, for making the man I love feel that way for even an instant. God help you if we ever cross paths, and I discover it was you who did this. You are in harm’s way.

And you couldn’t take Italy from us, so again, fuck you.

Douchebag asshole.

I'm Not L.A., But My Dog Sure Is

There are a lot of preconceived notions about people who live in L.A. -- that we are all in the entertainment business, that we all have plastic surgery, that we all eat pink tofu and rollerblade to work. I do none of the above; shoot, I don’t even eat at The Ivy or shop at Kitson. But let me tell you about the most L.A. member of our little family: The Big Brown Dog.

Back when I lived in Venice, Rufus was found by my neighbor Anita, wandering the streets of Koreatown. She said he looked like he could be mean in a street-pit-bull-don’t-eff-with-me kind of way, but had such a sweet face, she took a chance, slapped a cheapie leash around his neck and took him home. He had apparently never been inside a car before as he seemed a bit perplexed as to what to do once inside. So he decided it would be a good idea to lick the entire interior of her car on the drive from Koreatown to Venice.

He was a mess -- no collar, skinny, strange growths on his hips and elbows, and forehead skin so saggy that it weighed down upon his eyes so that his eyelashes constantly curved inward and scratched his eyeballs, leading to eye infections. He seemed to be smiling all the time, but couldn’t keep his poor little eyes open since they were so irritated. He always had tears running down his brown furry cheeks and snot running out of his nose from the kennel cough he had picked up.

A different neighbor took him in and fostered him, and I would frequently bring Babe over to play with him since I recently had to put my other pug down and didn’t want her to get depressed. Derek and I fell in love with him. It wasn’t hard to do and didn’t take long. We took him in and every day since, have wondered how we ever managed to live without him before.

There were pills and special ointments and eye drops and salves in his daily care. We didn’t mind -- he would sit so still and stoic and let you put whatever crap you wanted on his beat-up body or in his eyes. He never once lifted his leg in the house. He didn’t chew anything he wasn’t supposed to, except for once, the very corner of the coffee table. He gave it a little nibble like “hmm, wonder what this tastes like?” and I gave him a little look, said “No, that’s not okay” and that was the last time he ever did that.

The eye infections became worse and he would cry and paw at his face. Derek and I looked at each other and decided we had to say goodbye to a bunch of money so we could get his eyes fixed. The surgery involved cutting the skin around his eyes and sewing it up to tighten it. He had to be put under for it -- always a scary proposition for animal or human -- but his quality of life was suffering and we had to do something.

Afterward, it was like Christmas every day -- I can see! I can see! I can see! He had stitches big enough to make him look like he was reprising a role from A Clockwork Orange, and had to wear one of those big giant awful conehead things to keep him from tearing the stitches out. He was so big, and our apartment so small, he would bash that conehead thing into everything. But he could see, and oh, the joy that ensued! It was around this time that The Super Happy Ass On Fire Can You Feel My Jungle Heat? Dance was born. It was the only way he could fully express his glee. It was the best money we ever spent.

Then he started throwing his back out. The vet couldn’t figure out what was wrong with him. We would give him painkillers and muscle relaxants, he would take to his bed for a day or two and then be fine. Then when we moved to Encino, the back problems stopped completely. We figured the stress of living in The ‘Hood and defending the house from constant attack by gangbangers, crackheads and burglars (oh yes, caught a burglar in our backyard, people!) was what was causing his back problems since they never resurfaced after the move to suburban bliss Encino. Until recently. His back started hurting him again, only this time not going away after rest. He would bend down to pick up a morsel off the floor and cry out in pain. He would get up from his bed a certain way and cry out in pain. Our new Encino vet took x-rays and couldn’t find anything wrong with him, gave him more muscle relaxants, which he hates taking. He is subdued. I go for my run and can’t take him with me, which causes him to look at me with such defeated disappointment, it's just too heartbreaking for words. He has become depressed, afraid to move.

I became desperate, calling alternative healers all over town the Friday before New Year’s, trying to find somebody, anybody who can help my poor dog. Not only is it difficult to find alternative animal healers, but nobody was working, everyone was out of town for the holiday. But one man called me back. He only makes house calls since the health department will not let him bring animals into his human practice (which he has done for 12 years). He agreed to come over the very next day and adjust Rufus, which he did in only a half-hour. Rufus enjoyed most of it and was his usual “Oh poke me and prod me if you must, just keep loving me” kind of way. The doctor zeroed in on the problem area and surmised that he may have a slipped disc. He prescribed light rest and light massage after the adjustment, and another adjustment in a few days. Rufus slept a lot that day, and then the next day -- WHAMMO! -- new dog!!! He raced up and down the hallway first thing in the morning, did a couple of new versions of The Super Happy Ass On Fire Can You Feel My Jungle Heat? Dance. Gave me a big huge waggy smile. Thank you, God, our puppy is back.

So that is the short story about our L.A. Dog. He gets chilly and whines to come in when it is cold out, i.e., when the temperature drops below 70.

He has had an eye tuck.

And now he has his own chiropractor.

Taxi Driver Confessions

Have you ever had one of those surreal experiences that you look back on and go “WTF?” Well, I had one of those recently and I’m still kinda titillated by it.

It was the night of the company party. Free food and free booze, whilst surrounded by the same darn people you see day in and day out. Only everybody is frisky and festive. So this party -- how do I explain it? It’s not like anything was wrong with the party, per se. It’s that it never really seemed to get going. People seemed to be frisky and festive, but the party somehow didn’t lend itself to accommodating that feeling. Leaving everyone with a kind of “Okay, what do we do now?” feeling.

Derek left early since he had been working like crazy, leaving me with Jodi, my sometime partner in crime. Check us out. Doesn’t Jodi look like a total movie star babe?

Since the party was just not worthy of our cuteness, we split and went to Lola’s to consume what was to become my new favorite drink: The Pumpkin Martini. I’m not even that much into pumpkin pie, but OMG!!! These things go down WAY too easy. We hung out with a couple of nice gentlemen who were kind enough to let us cheese in on their table, had some laughs and good conversation, and as the night wore on into the wee hours, I decided to call the cab company on my taxi voucher that our company had provided me and let them know Cinderella was ready to come home from The Ball.

Some time later, the four of us were out in front, waiting for my chariot when a black Lincoln Towncar with black tinted windows pulled up. We all looked at each other and wondered where Tony Soprano was. Then my phone rang -- this was my ride! The window of the car rolled down, and behind the wheel --I shit you not-- sat a living breathing specimen that could only be named Schlomo: big giant bushy beard, likely with small creatures hiding inside it, short conservative haircut, spectacles. He had a very interesting accent, and turns out he was South African. I wanted to hop in the front seat with him, but Jodi, being more pragmatic, insisted I sit in back and be a queen, so that’s what I did.

Getting lonely in the backseat and a tiny bit tipsy after two big Pumpkintinis, I asked Schlomo to tell me about the craziest fares he had ever seen in his car. Having to drive me from WeHo to Encino, I figured this would kill some time. And writers love to hear this kind of thing.

People. Schlomo spilled it ALL. I can't tell you the stories he told me because, come on, this is not a porno site. But he did not hold back any detail. People do some CRAZY. ASS. THINGS. in a cab. We’ve all seen the show, Taxicab Confessions. People, that shit is REAL. I don’t shock that easily, having spent my entire life in L.A. and its vicinity. I think I’ve done and seen a lot of crazy shizz. But my ears were turning red and I was stunned by his stories, stunned I tell you! And his soft, matter-of-fact voice and unassuming appearance just added to the shock value. Schlomo had seen it all and he was quite the divulgent one. Although he didn't mention any names, to protect the not-so-innocent, I suppose.

Well, needless to say, the ride flew by, and I was sad when we finally pulled up in front of my house and I had to bid Schlomo adieu. I pray for the day I am able to have another such interesting cab ride. But until then, Schlomo, if you’re out there, thank you for your supreme candor. Your stories and your style of telling them most certainly made my evening.

How I Spent The Shoppingest Day Of The Year

I have gone to the hills behind Serrania Park (off De Soto) for about thirty years now. I have gone there since before there even existed a Serrania Park. Back when all those fancy homes back there were nothing but a ginormous dirt lot (where my 8-year-old self once spent a terrifying spell on a spooked, spastic runaway Arabian horse who was the offspring of a very famous racehorse, so the blinding speed had the effect of being raced off to one’s untimely death, but that’s a story for another day).

We used to go horseback riding back there, but in later years after the horses were long gone, it became my ultimate hiking destination. The majority of the hike is a fairly steep, butt-blasting climb, providing breathtaking views of the aforementioned fancy homes, the Santa Monica Mountains, the golf course, and on a clear day, the entire valley. I have gone to this hike over the years for many reasons:

1) To mend a broken heart. You’ve heard of chicken soup being Jewish penicillin? Well this hike is the Sad Sack’s valium. Not only does the exertion get your endorphins going and thus, actually incites a mild drug reaction that bumps you out of depression, but the views and the smell of sage and the gorgeous silence distract you from your pain and make you realize that all this beauty is larger than your petty little problems and hurts.

2) To lose weight. I have been known to dump a good 10 pounds or so just by doing that hike two or three times a week for a few weeks. With zero dietary restrictions. It is a caloric Hoover From Hell. Srsly.

3) To bring friends and make them tell me their secrets. There is something about hiking that makes people an open book. They will start yapping about what is really eating them, sometimes even crying, hyperventilating, laughing hysterically, confessing. It is the strangest phenomenon. Something about that hike is like truth serum. It’s cleansing.

4) To be alone. Hardly anybody ever goes there when there is the much more famous Runyon Canyon where you can go and spot celebs and such. But that isn’t really my speed and I prefer to not have a million other people’s energies swirling around me when I am trying to settle down my own, thankyouverymuch.

Only one time in all the years of going on the Serrania hike, have I ever had an episode that made me not feel so safe being there alone. This icky pervy man wearing nothing but a speedo appeared out of nowhere, out in the middle of the trail, and tried to convince me that there were snakes about and that I needed to go with him to this area behind the bushes to find a stick (you think I’m making this up, but I swear it’s all true!) to scare off the snakes. When I said “not so much, thanks” he said I could also go back there and meet his girlfriend. Yeeeeaaaah, you have a girlfriend back there. And I’m the Queen of Sheba, you friggin’ tool. As I was in Heartbreak Recovery Mode as mentioned in #1 above, I was too lost in my own sorry thoughts to be afraid that Pervy Speedo Man was following behind me at a brisk pace until it dawned on me -- he may have a friend lurking about waiting to do an ambush on my sorry ass. Oh shit! So I started running. You know, so that if somebody darted out from the bushes, they would at least have to hit a moving target. I turned to check behind me and Pervy Speedo Man was running too! He and his floppy dingle-dangle were chasing my ass! WTF?! As I rounded the next corner, my mind was racing. What the hell was he planning on doing? It’s not like the speedo left a lot of room for weapons. Then a feeling started spreading throughout me and it spread like a virus: Extreme pissedoffedness. Extreme, people. Similar to what I felt years later when that wanker messed with the wrong Valley Girl in Encino. I’ve been hiking up this damn hill for YEARS! These are MY hills, asshat! I have had no fewer than THREE pervs try to pick me up during my childhood in the valley, and now this dude was seriously wanting to have his ass kicked by me. Who the FARFEGNUGEN does he think he’s dealing with???

I turned and looked behind me again. Nobody. Gone. Poof, like a puff of perv vanished into thin air.

As I got to the bottom of the hill, another woman was going up. I told her about Pervy Speedo Man and she turned right around and went back to her car. And I reported him to the police. Never found out what happened to him, but after that I was determined not to let his pervy ass turn me off of going back there alone, I am SO SURE. Of course nowadays, it’s not an issue since I bring The Big Giant Snarling Vicious Brown Dog with me whenever I go, and he has that charming effect of conveying the sentiment “YOU’LL GO THE FART AWAY IF YOU KNOW WHAT’S GOOD FOR YOU, SHITHEEL” to any passersby with less than honorable intentions.

Anyhoo, new to the list of reasons to do the Serrania hike is the following: to kill your post-Thanksgiving-too-much-food-and-drink-hangover. See, we were supposed to go see Derek’s family up north for Turkey Day, but as it turned out, Homeboy got sick and we couldn’t run the risk of exposing his Grammy (who just turned 102) and the kidlets to his germies, so we had to stay home and I, in a fit of stunted family visit sadness, saw fit to kill my sadness with a bottle of champagne, half a bottle of wine, and I am told, a few shotgunned beers. Yeah. Have yourself a very Lushy Thanksgiving, Valley Girl. But the hike fixed me up, and there was nary a perv in sight.

And for that, I am thankful.

Crunk Juice

Ulcifer let up long enough for me to get into the Halloween spirit again this year. And boy, did I ever. I even dragged another innocent soul into my depraved masquerade: the adorable and innocent Jodi. We were quite a pair, lemme tell ya:

Lil’ Jon and Lil’ Kim, wreaking havoc on our poor officemates. If you look real close at my mouth, you can see my grillz. Seriously. I don't know where the idea came from, but I would be remiss if I didn't share my main inspiration for this costume since it is so damn funny and I can't stop watching it. Of course I won the office contest again (swear, people are going to start thinking it’s fixed -- I ALWAYS win) and me, Jodi and Bunnie did the whole West Hollywood freak-fest that night. Everywhere we went, it was "OOOOKAAAAAYYY!!!" and "SKEET SKEET SKEET!!" It was pretty awesome. More photos to come as they arrive since my camera was not cooperating that day.

The Icing On The Cake of My Little Purple Pill

Some of you (ahem, Dani) may have noticed a lack of postage lately by moi. Well, there’s a reason. At first I was dallying because I wanted to get some photos from our trip to Cabo on here and tell you all about it, got super busy with work upon my return to said work, then my health took a nosedive. Being the ever-divulgent one that I am about all things me-centric, I will tell you what happened so you know I am not neglecting you, Dear Reader.

I awoke last Friday morning at 3:00 a.m. to a pain in my stomach and then barfed my guts out for awhile. Oh great, I thought. That spinach I ate last night was maybe NOT so restockable on the shelves of Trader Joe’s after all. I lay on the couch so as not to wake the slumbering Derek should another attack of The Hurlies come my way and watched what I always watch when I feel like crap and it happens to be on at 4:00 a.m.: So I Married An Axe Murderer (besides, of course, Aliens, Showgirls, Flashdance, Roadhouse and Blazing Saddles -- all comfort food movies). I just so freaking love Mike Meyers playing his own father, singing Rod Stewart songs and mangling the words. I love the best friend cop who whines at his boss that he doesn’t yell at him enough and he wanted to be Serpico and his boss is all “Sounds like somebody needs a hug!” But I REALLY love Phil Hartman playing Vicki, the Alcatraz tour guide (RIP, Phil -- we miss you, dude).

So then I start to feel that familiar old achey feeling in my bones. Neat. I have the flu. I call in sick and proceed to watch every single movie on HBO, Movie Channel, IFC and Sundance, and read every single Real Simple and In Style mag in the house that I have been neglecting. Twice. I can’t eat anything because the pain in my stomach will not allow anything but the stray saltine cracker to pass my lips.

The whole weekend goes by.

Still sick. Still pain in my stomach. Still can’t do anything. Don’t have even the faintest desire to try to look cute. Feel sorry for Derek, people. He had to live with this.

So by Monday, nothing having gotten better with my stomach, I start to panic. Something is really wrong. So between bouts of crying like a big wuss and then being angry that my body is not fixing itself, I manage to drag my sorry ass into my local urgent care clinic.

Guess what? I have an ulcer. Apparently they can be brought on by a stomach virus. Oh, how marvelous for me! I was prescribed Nexium, which stops the production of the stomach acid to allow the stomach to heal itself. I have to take it for a month. I was also prescribed “bland foods”.

Derek and I sat and discussed it later. We went over diet options. Here is what I can eat:

mashed potatoes
rice
mashed carrots
applesauce

Here is what I cannot eat:

Everything in the universe that is good and delicious and tasty and satisfying and fun.

In the ensuing feeling-sorry-for-myselfness, it was decided that I should name my evil nemesis that is residing in my person in order for me to best conquer said demon and resume a normal, fulfilling life free of prescription drugs and bland foods. What name could possibly befit such a beast?

Ulcifer.

Here is a typical dialogue between myself and the loathsome fiend who has taken up residence in my poor, meek duodenum. Because I was watching So I Married An Axe Murderer when Ulcifer first came on the scene, he has a Scottish accent.

ME: Wow, I haven’t eaten anything but saltines in three days. I need some vegetables. I wonder if I should make some broccoli tonight?

ULCIFER: What, are you new? Yew will eat the bloody saltine and lyke it!

ME: Oooooh, everybody at my table in the sushi place is getting the tastiest spicy tuna rolls and tempura. I bet I could just have one little bitty tuna roll . . .

ULCIFER: Waitress? Yes, we’ll have the wee cup of miso and a wee side of white rice. AND STEP ON IT, YA WEE BITCH!

ME: Mmmmmmm, lots of cookies leftover from today’s meeting. Hmmm, which one do I want: chocolate chip, white chocolate macadamia, ooooooh, the oatmeal looks good too. God, it’s been so long since I had some sugary goodness.

ULCIFER: AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!! You’re veddy funny. And stewpit! Read mah lips: Neeeeeeoooooo.

ME: Driving past Tacos Por Favor. Sigh. Oh man, I would love one of their breakfast burritos right about now. Mmmmmmmmsanchezburrito.......

ULCIFER: Bitch, are you high? NO FARKING BRECKFUST BURRITEW FOR YOU AGAIN, EVAR! YOU WEE NUMBSKULL OF AN ARTICLE!

ME: (dissolving into defeated tears, popping Nexium like it was candy)

So yes, my dears, that has been my plight. I’m feeling a little better now and hoping to be back to my old sassy self again soon.