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.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Monday, February 26, 2007
Shoe Flatulence
So I got these flats from Old Navy, and I love love LOVE them. They are super comfy, super cute, and they go with friggin' everything.
But there is one problem. They fart when I walk. Yes, that's right -- the shoes fart. It is really annoying and distracting.
And I guess if I were the type to embarrass more easily, it would prohibit me from wearing the shoes. But the value of a shoe that checks off all three of the above criteria can never be overstated. And so I shall wear the farty shoes, oh yes! I shall wear the farty shoes. And funny looks by passersby be damned!
Friday, February 23, 2007
Weekend At Grammy's
So we made the schlep to Chico to visit Grammy over the long weekend, which is always an awesome way to spend the weekend. Aside from cramming mass amounts of food into our faces at high speeds, the Weekend at Grammy’s Experience is one that lends itself extensively to relaxation since one is not likely to take a 102-year-old woman out bar-hopping or, I don’t know, spelunking. This provided me ample time to mess with my new-new camera. Oh yes! Valley Mom very generously ponied up the dollars to replace the new camera that Shitbiscuit stole from our house (it was still in its box -- I mean!!!) This meant that every creature within a 500-foot radius was subject to my annoying shutterbugging.
To wit, the many faces of The Pug:
"What is that shiny little thing in your hand?"
"Not a biscuit? Eh! Who gives a crap?"
"Sigh. God! It's exhausting being this stunningly beautiful."
And here she is giving you the ol' stinkeye:
"Whatchoo talkin' 'bout, Willis?"
To wit, the many faces of The Pug:
"What is that shiny little thing in your hand?"
"Not a biscuit? Eh! Who gives a crap?"
"Sigh. God! It's exhausting being this stunningly beautiful."
And here she is giving you the ol' stinkeye:
And here's Grammy giving ME the ol' stinkeye:
There are always fun things to do at Grammy's, like roll around on the carpet and proclaim your undying love for said carpet:
"Love you, carpet. You don't mind that I photograph looking like Cujo."
Here we are, chillin' at Grammy's fave joint, the Outback Steakhouse:
"Whatchoo talkin' 'bout, Willis?"
"Heavens above, make the woman STOP already."
"Damn, I'm cute. Get my agent on the phone."
Holy crap, Rufus has groupies! Cute ones!
I recommend everyone have a weekend at their Grammy's (ours is taken though). It does wonders for the soul.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Fritto Misto
I am a genius.
Last year, Valentine’s Day was hell. Since The Man and I usually prefer to celebrate the pooky lovefest session over the weekend to allow adequate sleep-innage to recover, the actual eve of Valentines I had made plans with Bunnie to attend a movie screening. OMG, NEVER. A-friggin-GAIN. It took me OVER TWO HOURS to get from Santa Monica to Century City (yes, you read that right, TWO HOURS), by which time we had missed the screening entirely and I was nearly in tears from being stuck in the car barely moving for so long and crammed in on all sides by cars and the only thing to do was go to the Century Towers Hotel and drink wine at the bar and feel underdressed. Traffic is just so bloody heinously awful around here on Valentines Day! I love that there are that many romantic people in the world, but Jebus, do you all have to be OUT IN YOUR CAR between 6:00 and 8:30 p.m. for the love of Caltrans????
So this year, I decided, heyall naw, Homey won’t play that. I think I would rather throw myself under a bus than sit in that hellaciousness again. But since we will be in Chico visiting Grammy, doing our lovefest over the weekend wasn’t an option either. And we would still have to suffer with the eleventy bajillion other people on the road whilst trying in vain to get home.
So a week before V-Day, I called up Fritto Misto which is conveniently close to our offices, and made a reservation for 6:00. I told Derek we needed to brush up on our Italian cuisine in preparation for our trip to Italy. I don’t know if he was buying it, but it sounds good, right?
I have to tell you what we had since I still kinda can’t even believe how good it was and I want to remember it always. It was one of those set Valentine’s Day Menu thingies, but it was very reasonable for all the food included, and you could still choose from a selection of salads and entrees. And I have eaten here before and knew it was good, but dang, that night it was sooooooo good, I’m getting into a lather over it as I type. Here is what we had:
Bottle of sparkling wine
Salad (Lovemuffin got the ceasar, I got the misto)
Bruschetta (loved it, though I have to say, the one I make at home is better)
Lobster ravioli with chardonnay lemon sauce (I know, it’s like I’m talking dirty to you, right?)
Lamb loin marinated 5-7 days in cabernet pesto sauce (sweet heavens above, so tender and full of flavor) served over a bed of spinach linguini
Muscat served with chocolate-dipped biscotti
Crème brulee (wasn’t on the V-day menu, but our gracious host was kind enough to accommodate my begging and whining and threw it in to shut me up)
So we sat and savored every bite while the rest of the world sat in their cars fuming and honking at each other and Derek patiently listened to me repeat over and over again what a friggin’ genius I am but I mean really, people. That was some serious geniosity going on there, right? It doesn’t take that much yoga savvy to pull off the ol’ Pat Oneself On The Back For Ruling Valentine’s Day pose.
Fritto Misto
601 Colorado Avenue
Santa Monica, CA 90401
(310) 458-2829
Last year, Valentine’s Day was hell. Since The Man and I usually prefer to celebrate the pooky lovefest session over the weekend to allow adequate sleep-innage to recover, the actual eve of Valentines I had made plans with Bunnie to attend a movie screening. OMG, NEVER. A-friggin-GAIN. It took me OVER TWO HOURS to get from Santa Monica to Century City (yes, you read that right, TWO HOURS), by which time we had missed the screening entirely and I was nearly in tears from being stuck in the car barely moving for so long and crammed in on all sides by cars and the only thing to do was go to the Century Towers Hotel and drink wine at the bar and feel underdressed. Traffic is just so bloody heinously awful around here on Valentines Day! I love that there are that many romantic people in the world, but Jebus, do you all have to be OUT IN YOUR CAR between 6:00 and 8:30 p.m. for the love of Caltrans????
So this year, I decided, heyall naw, Homey won’t play that. I think I would rather throw myself under a bus than sit in that hellaciousness again. But since we will be in Chico visiting Grammy, doing our lovefest over the weekend wasn’t an option either. And we would still have to suffer with the eleventy bajillion other people on the road whilst trying in vain to get home.
So a week before V-Day, I called up Fritto Misto which is conveniently close to our offices, and made a reservation for 6:00. I told Derek we needed to brush up on our Italian cuisine in preparation for our trip to Italy. I don’t know if he was buying it, but it sounds good, right?
I have to tell you what we had since I still kinda can’t even believe how good it was and I want to remember it always. It was one of those set Valentine’s Day Menu thingies, but it was very reasonable for all the food included, and you could still choose from a selection of salads and entrees. And I have eaten here before and knew it was good, but dang, that night it was sooooooo good, I’m getting into a lather over it as I type. Here is what we had:
Bottle of sparkling wine
Salad (Lovemuffin got the ceasar, I got the misto)
Bruschetta (loved it, though I have to say, the one I make at home is better)
Lobster ravioli with chardonnay lemon sauce (I know, it’s like I’m talking dirty to you, right?)
Lamb loin marinated 5-7 days in cabernet pesto sauce (sweet heavens above, so tender and full of flavor) served over a bed of spinach linguini
Muscat served with chocolate-dipped biscotti
Crème brulee (wasn’t on the V-day menu, but our gracious host was kind enough to accommodate my begging and whining and threw it in to shut me up)
So we sat and savored every bite while the rest of the world sat in their cars fuming and honking at each other and Derek patiently listened to me repeat over and over again what a friggin’ genius I am but I mean really, people. That was some serious geniosity going on there, right? It doesn’t take that much yoga savvy to pull off the ol’ Pat Oneself On The Back For Ruling Valentine’s Day pose.
Fritto Misto
601 Colorado Avenue
Santa Monica, CA 90401
(310) 458-2829
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
L'Artiste Patisserie
We have driven past this place every freaking day on our way to work as long as we have lived in our humble home, and it is one of those adorable-looking, relaxing, patio-having, delicious-tasty-treat-making type places that always makes me give a wistful glance out the passenger window as we pass by and go “Sigh! How do I sign up to get a gig where I can go to some great yoga class in the morning, have a facial, then go hang and drink coffee and eat delicate French pastries until the afternoon at this adorable little French place whilst reading some swanky publication like W or French Vogue or something like that? What do these people do for money who get to do this on a weekday morning like they have nothing to do and all day to do it? Besides hooking? Could somebody please let me in on it, ‘cause I would really like to sign up.”
Depending on the day of the week, this kvetching could continue all the way past Mulholland.
Anyhoo, Mom and I had plans to go to breakfast on Saturday, so we decided to walk The Big Brown Dog and the Portly Pug to this adorable little place and give it a try. It does have an outdoor patio area, so dog situating is easy to do.
Right away, we were struck by how friendly and helpful everybody there is. You order your food at the counter and they bring it out to you when it’s ready. The coffee (choice of medium or dark roast, in addition to the usual cappuccinos, lattes, espressos, etc.) was served in those giant cup and saucer rigs and was serious quality joe, grown locally in North Hollywood, I was told by our server.
Breakfast is served all day, and includes things like baked-on-the-premises croissant sandwiches, prosciutto and havarti omelettes, and orange-vanilla brioche french toast, hello? Are you drooling yet? Geez! I opted for the scrambled egg and cheese croissant, while Mom had an omelette. Both were absolutely fresh and delicious and large (had to take half my croissant home and it supplied a very easy and tasty breakfast en route to Big Bear the next day). Our giant coffee cups were never empty and there was never a shortage of smiley-happy people coming by to give some lovies to the attention whores-- I mean four-legged furry creatures--who live with me. Mom and I shared a blueberry tart thingy, which wasn’t too sweet, but was not sweet enough for Mom’s taste. I ordered a genoa, basil, mozzarella sammich to go for Homeslice and he raved about it later.
Let me be blunt: this place rules. I will be spending every Saturday morning there, if at all humanly possible, eating French goddess food and caffeinating and dreaming.
And if anybody figures out a gig as per my specifications above, you know where to reach me.
L'Artiste Patisserie
17312 Ventura Blvd. (at Louise)
Encino, CA 91316
(818) 386-0061
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.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
There's No Therapy Like Snow Therapy
I really can’t stand victimhood. Some people can wallow in it, roll around in it and bake cookies with it, but I personally think it’s lame and it sucks and that there are far more interesting things to be had in life. No trauma ever gets me down for long. I just prefer it that way.
Which is why, after all my bitching and crying and relaying the story at length to everybody and questioning the neighbors ad nauseum, it was still so very frustrating not to have my usual, coma-like, sleep-of-the-dead eight hours per night. And I had no choice in the matter -- for more than a week, the deal was I would fall asleep for two or three hours, then wake up out of nowhere and obsess for about 6 hours, vainly attempting to return to my beloved Slumberland, a place I know and love and normally visit with admittedly luxurious regularity. But instead, my brain had to be going over all possible ins and outs of our house. What could we have done differently? Is our stuff being currently auctioned on ebay? Are the police even bothering to check the pawn shops for our piece-of-shit laptop? I want the photos that were on that thing, dammit! My jewelry box had been obviously rifled through, but nothing taken. Does this mean all the craptastic rings and necklaces I’ve bought at Claire’s for about $4.99 each that I love so much were considered in poor taste by our thieves and not even worthy of taking? If so, what does that say about my taste in accessories? What if it was somebody in our neighborhood who did this? Will I know it if I see them on the street, kind of like a sixth sense thing? Like a dog, will I smell my house on them and then try to whizz on their leg?
And then Super Bowl Sunday happened.
As many of you know, I adore Super Bowl. Not because of any slight interest in football or the traditional trans fat and alcohol consumption and TV-yelling and peanut gallerying that accompanies the day, but because it is the perfect day to go snowboarding. And this past Sunday, well! After what seems like centuries of bitterly cold weather around here, it was sunny, beautiful, spring-like, even up on the mountain! I couldn’t even wear a jacket! And the lift lines -- so short! And the people -- so happy! No attitude anywhere! And the man-made snow -- just manly enough and perfect for our purposes! To make matters even more blissful, my buddy Craig drove us in his sweet pimpin’ van, allowing me some nice and desperately needed nappage en route. It couldn’t have been a more perfect day.
Well, except for the face-plant I managed to procure. First day out of the season, it’s bound to happen. The ol’ muscle memory has to snap back into action, the brain is a little slow on the uptake, and post-lunch carelessness had set in. I was flying, thinking I was all The Shit and everything, and caught an edge, and flew head over board, twisting my neck during the somersault and planting a gnarly bruise on my right butt-cheek. With snow all in my face and down my back, Craiggie said I looked like I had taken a swing from Mike Tyson. Neat. I’ve been limping around like an old lady ever since then and can’t really turn my head to the right, but have slept solidly, blissfully ever since. And that is such a beautiful thing. I love you, Super Bowl.
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.
Monday, January 29, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, December 15, 2006
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?
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.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, November 03, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Ugh, The Waiting
In just a little more than a week, I will be here:
Living La Gringa Vida Loca for Mook and Jen's wedding.
Why, oh why does it have to take so long to get here?
Living La Gringa Vida Loca for Mook and Jen's wedding.
Why, oh why does it have to take so long to get here?
Friday, September 22, 2006
At Least I Didn't Get Dumped
So my FINAL night of deep tissue class last night actually turned out so nice. I will get to have a life again during the week. My Tuesdays and Thursdays will be free for me to squander as I choose. Yay! I got to have a lot of work done on my neck and head, which I love. I didn't get home too late and then slept all night (woo hoo!). John, my awesome teacher made us brownies and carrot cake and they were unbelieeeeeeevable. It was such a nice end to the whole experience of having to re-take that class.
And to cap off the night and make me so grateful I don't have to come back to that dump, I went to my car alone on the bottom level of the ghetto craptastic dungeon underground parking lot where there are always homeless people and weirdos about, and there was this totally shady guy standing right by the stairs with his back turned, looking like he might turn around and shank a cracker any second. I speed-stealthed to my car, thinking if he did attack me, I could pummel him in the head with my pillowcase full of sheets. Look man, I’m badass. I’ve got a case full of Ross discount special twin-size sateen sheets, man. You don’t wanna eff with me, man. I slammed the car door, locked it and squeeeeeee! burned rubber out of there, thankful I didn't have to open up a bag of smackdown, and realized as I drove past him that he was cracked out of his mind and was likely having a bad high or something and was trying not to be noticed.
This whole scene came fresh on the heels of my being told by one of the girls in my class that recently she got on the elevator and someone had actually taken a dump in it. Yeah. A dump. She doesn’t take the elevator anymore.
Has the westside always been this gross, or am I just spoiled now that I live in the valley?
And to cap off the night and make me so grateful I don't have to come back to that dump, I went to my car alone on the bottom level of the ghetto craptastic dungeon underground parking lot where there are always homeless people and weirdos about, and there was this totally shady guy standing right by the stairs with his back turned, looking like he might turn around and shank a cracker any second. I speed-stealthed to my car, thinking if he did attack me, I could pummel him in the head with my pillowcase full of sheets. Look man, I’m badass. I’ve got a case full of Ross discount special twin-size sateen sheets, man. You don’t wanna eff with me, man. I slammed the car door, locked it and squeeeeeee! burned rubber out of there, thankful I didn't have to open up a bag of smackdown, and realized as I drove past him that he was cracked out of his mind and was likely having a bad high or something and was trying not to be noticed.
This whole scene came fresh on the heels of my being told by one of the girls in my class that recently she got on the elevator and someone had actually taken a dump in it. Yeah. A dump. She doesn’t take the elevator anymore.
Has the westside always been this gross, or am I just spoiled now that I live in the valley?
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Life Is So Good
People, all my dreams are coming true. My heart is about to explode with joy and love. Let’s review:
1) I’m engaged to marry the greatest guy on the planet. Not only did he make and pack me breakfast, lunch and dinner the other morning because he knew I wouldn’t be home until late that night, but he included an “I Love You” note written on a piece of note paper that Bunnie gave me that features Stewie from Family Guy screaming his head off “Damn it to the bloody bowels of HELL!” There is just so much good stuff in that one little detail, where would I even begin?
2) I heard on the Kevin & Bean show this morning that ASIA IS BACK TOGETHER. ALL THE ORIGINAL MEMBERS. AND THEY ARE TOURING. I know, I’m sorry about the all-caps thing, but it’s freaking ASIA, BITCHES!!!! I know, I know -- dork, dork, dork. I’m a huge dork. But I love me some Asia. Even back in high school in ’87, when Asia was no longer cool, my big huge fantasy was one day getting to do a dance routine (I was on the dance team) for an assembly in front of the whole school where I would do a very performance art type jazz dance to the lesser known but still great Asia song “Time Again” where I would use those sticks-with-streamers thingies and angrily shake my hips from side to side on the drum parts, and the whole school would be amazed at my ferocity and see me for the hot babe that I was and henceforth, drama nerds like myself from all schools would be seen with more love and respect because of my Asia Dance of Extreme Bitchin’ness.
That never happened. And I hated high school. But that was my dream.
And they (Asia) were so cool in the interview this morning.
And they loved that they had a part in The 40-Year-Old Virgin.
And their show at the Canyon Club is sold out. How can a poor, Asia-loving cracker like myself get a hold of tickets? One can only dream.
3) Showgirls, the greatest god-awful movie of all time that we all know I love to bits, is coming out as a musical. Yes, it’s true. Can you handle the sheer joy of this? Can you believe how much God is smiling upon me? Can you just imagine being there, in Vegas, when such a miraculous spectacle unveils? I, for one, am stoked beyond all reason. Life is good. Oh, life is so good.
1) I’m engaged to marry the greatest guy on the planet. Not only did he make and pack me breakfast, lunch and dinner the other morning because he knew I wouldn’t be home until late that night, but he included an “I Love You” note written on a piece of note paper that Bunnie gave me that features Stewie from Family Guy screaming his head off “Damn it to the bloody bowels of HELL!” There is just so much good stuff in that one little detail, where would I even begin?
2) I heard on the Kevin & Bean show this morning that ASIA IS BACK TOGETHER. ALL THE ORIGINAL MEMBERS. AND THEY ARE TOURING. I know, I’m sorry about the all-caps thing, but it’s freaking ASIA, BITCHES!!!! I know, I know -- dork, dork, dork. I’m a huge dork. But I love me some Asia. Even back in high school in ’87, when Asia was no longer cool, my big huge fantasy was one day getting to do a dance routine (I was on the dance team) for an assembly in front of the whole school where I would do a very performance art type jazz dance to the lesser known but still great Asia song “Time Again” where I would use those sticks-with-streamers thingies and angrily shake my hips from side to side on the drum parts, and the whole school would be amazed at my ferocity and see me for the hot babe that I was and henceforth, drama nerds like myself from all schools would be seen with more love and respect because of my Asia Dance of Extreme Bitchin’ness.
That never happened. And I hated high school. But that was my dream.
And they (Asia) were so cool in the interview this morning.
And they loved that they had a part in The 40-Year-Old Virgin.
And their show at the Canyon Club is sold out. How can a poor, Asia-loving cracker like myself get a hold of tickets? One can only dream.
3) Showgirls, the greatest god-awful movie of all time that we all know I love to bits, is coming out as a musical. Yes, it’s true. Can you handle the sheer joy of this? Can you believe how much God is smiling upon me? Can you just imagine being there, in Vegas, when such a miraculous spectacle unveils? I, for one, am stoked beyond all reason. Life is good. Oh, life is so good.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Foo Fighters Acoustic Show, Pantages Theater
Words to describe last night’s Foo Fighters acoustic show at the Pantages Theater:
magical
intimate
moving
hilarious
quiet
head-banging
inspiring
enlightening
personal
uproarious
decadent
romantic
spine-tingling
Where do I even begin? I’ve seen the Foos twice already, once in a large venue, once in a smaller one, but this was so up close and personal, it was like having Dave Grohl and his buds come over to your house and jam at your dinner party or something. As this article from the VH1 website so aptly put it, “For the first time, Grohl's surprisingly tender voice and intrepid lyrics are front and center for an entire two hours. Or, as he put it, ‘I'm not just screaming my balls off.’” That pretty much sums up what was so great about the show. Don’t get me wrong -- I love me some screaming Dave. But his talented songwriting and distinctive voice totally stole the show, and it was a beautiful thing.
Rhonda hooked a cracka UP and our seats were in the second row, to the right of the stage. I could practically count Dave’s nostril hairs, we were so close. The show started refreshingly on time with one of their new songs that began with just Dave playing guitar in his chair, and reached a feverish crescendo as the rest of his band came out, along with a keyboardist, a violinist, and an extra guitarist. Taylor’s drum bass was so intense, I could feel it pounding in my throat as Dave banged his head, a look of pure ecstasy on his face. I got the chills and knew this was going to be a kick-ass show. Acoustic or no, they just rock.
magical
intimate
moving
hilarious
quiet
head-banging
inspiring
enlightening
personal
uproarious
decadent
romantic
spine-tingling
Where do I even begin? I’ve seen the Foos twice already, once in a large venue, once in a smaller one, but this was so up close and personal, it was like having Dave Grohl and his buds come over to your house and jam at your dinner party or something. As this article from the VH1 website so aptly put it, “For the first time, Grohl's surprisingly tender voice and intrepid lyrics are front and center for an entire two hours. Or, as he put it, ‘I'm not just screaming my balls off.’” That pretty much sums up what was so great about the show. Don’t get me wrong -- I love me some screaming Dave. But his talented songwriting and distinctive voice totally stole the show, and it was a beautiful thing.
Rhonda hooked a cracka UP and our seats were in the second row, to the right of the stage. I could practically count Dave’s nostril hairs, we were so close. The show started refreshingly on time with one of their new songs that began with just Dave playing guitar in his chair, and reached a feverish crescendo as the rest of his band came out, along with a keyboardist, a violinist, and an extra guitarist. Taylor’s drum bass was so intense, I could feel it pounding in my throat as Dave banged his head, a look of pure ecstasy on his face. I got the chills and knew this was going to be a kick-ass show. Acoustic or no, they just rock.
Some of the songs had accordion mixed in, one had a dude (I think it was one of their roadies) playing harmonica. Dave told stories between songs and just generally interacted with the very appreciative audience a lot. And guess what, valley peeps? He talked about the valley a BUNCH. He lives in Encino (tra la la!) and loves it. I knew this already from one of their performances last year on one of the MTV award shows where a camera followed Dave backstage, and he pointed at his shirt that he was wearing:
with the word “Encino” in block letters on the front and declared “That’s right, because I’m strictly valley, motherf***ers!” as he flashed the double-bird at the camera. I thought that was hilarious and I turned to Derek and said “I need me one of those shirts.” It took some searching around, and I wasn’t able to find one as cool as his, but one day on a trip to Rite-Aid of all places, to my surprise, there were Encino t-shirts being sold that had very similar lettering, so I snatched that puppy up! It’s frog green, but what are you gonna do?
But I digress. So he was telling the crowd how much he loves the valley, that his house is "huge and cheap" and proclaimed Silverlake as “total bullshit, dude.” It was hilarious. I felt more bonded with him than ever.
The show ended with two encores and more stories about his younger days with Nirvana, and much to my amazement and delight, the very last song was my favorite Foo Fighters song: Everlong. I did what I always do when I hear that song: I cried. And as he sang the last notes of the chorus, I swear he was looking right into my eyes. It was possibly the most emotionally satisfying concert I have ever seen.
After the show, since we were VIPs and all, we got to stay for the after-show soiree, which featured huge buffets of food, open bar, and burlesque dancers. We went ahead and partook in a bit of the bubbly, but had to call it a night after that -- we were both just wiped. I got home and did the super-fast-makeup-swipe-off-clothes-shedding-fall-into-bed dance and drifted off to sleep with a huge smile on my face.
Rhonda, I love you, girl. What an awesome birthday present.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Berfday and Godbaby Extravaganza
Oh man, I love me some godbaby. She is just flat-out and hands-down the most adorable, happy, smiley, radiant little creature on the planet. But I'm not biased.
I held her, I played with her, I read to her, I listened to her views on Little Brown Nut Hare vs. Little Rabbit. I was hoping to read her the all-time children's classic Everybody Poops, but alas, it was not amongst her extensive collection. [Note to Godbaby-Mama: This is a must-read. So is Captain Underpants And The Perilous Plot of Professor Poopypants.]
I watched in awe as she sat on the floor and giggled in response to The Big Brown Dog constantly sniffing her, licking her head, nibbling at her diaper. She just simply was not fazed by him one bit, but he was sure fazed by her. I've never seen him so nervous before, and I realized he hadn't yet really been around someone that young, and a 9-month-old baby is quite akin to a very drunk person: they wobble, they teeter, they fall unexpectedly, they make strange noises. I think he was afraid her little drunk ass was going to fall over all the time, not to mention all the great smells coming out of her diaper. Forget butts -- diaper smell is THE SHIT, people!
Here he is, all like "Awwwwwwyeah, diaper booty gettin' in mah bed!":
I held her, I played with her, I read to her, I listened to her views on Little Brown Nut Hare vs. Little Rabbit. I was hoping to read her the all-time children's classic Everybody Poops, but alas, it was not amongst her extensive collection. [Note to Godbaby-Mama: This is a must-read. So is Captain Underpants And The Perilous Plot of Professor Poopypants.]
I watched in awe as she sat on the floor and giggled in response to The Big Brown Dog constantly sniffing her, licking her head, nibbling at her diaper. She just simply was not fazed by him one bit, but he was sure fazed by her. I've never seen him so nervous before, and I realized he hadn't yet really been around someone that young, and a 9-month-old baby is quite akin to a very drunk person: they wobble, they teeter, they fall unexpectedly, they make strange noises. I think he was afraid her little drunk ass was going to fall over all the time, not to mention all the great smells coming out of her diaper. Forget butts -- diaper smell is THE SHIT, people!
Here he is, all like "Awwwwwwyeah, diaper booty gettin' in mah bed!":
The below photo is mildly deceiving since Babe also took quite a shine to the Young Juliette. She doesn't ordinarily display a particular fondness for persons under the age of 21 now that she is older and just can't be bothered. But she wanted to sit next to Juliette at all times. Not lick her, not sniff her, just sit beside her and look proud. It was so cute.
But in this photo, she seems to be saying "Oh heyall naw bitch, you ain't getting in this bed! You're cutting into naptime, punk!" And it's not even her bed -- it's actually Rufus' bed that he graciously shares with her when her own bed is just not deemed as being sufficient for Her Royal Pugness:
And here she is again, giving you the ol' stinkeye:
So I got sick the day before my berfday (WTF???) which really blew, but I still managed to have a great one anyway. Several adoring fans came over to oooh and aahhh the Darling Godbaby, but here are a couple of preliminary photos from Jillie until I get mine out of jail in the camera:
Here's me and MY FIANCÉ (squeeeeeeee! love saying that!) -- pigging out for a little pre-berfday celebration at Buca di Beppo in Encino. Man, I love that place. You walk in hungry, and you leave full for a week. And Bonus: it's within stumbling distance of our house.
But the real treat was having my precious friend in the house for four days, and remembering all over again how great she is, and how God was smiling on me the day I was placed next to her at that shark tank-- I mean law firm-- all those years ago. I love you, Jillie-pew:
Friday, August 18, 2006
Need An Engagement Ring?
Looking for a ring for that special Valley Girl in your life?
Check these guys out. They have a money-back guarantee and offer free shipping. So no risk, and no hassling with going downtown to the jewelry district and getting screamed at by homeless victims of Tourette's Syndrome all in the name of getting a good deal.
And peep this: Some very nice engagement rings.
Blog post sponsored by Blog for Pay
Check these guys out. They have a money-back guarantee and offer free shipping. So no risk, and no hassling with going downtown to the jewelry district and getting screamed at by homeless victims of Tourette's Syndrome all in the name of getting a good deal.
And peep this: Some very nice engagement rings.
Blog post sponsored by Blog for Pay
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