The Neighborhood Douche

Can somebody please explain something to me? Why, in the name of all that is sweet and holy and good, do some guys feel the overwhelming need to take a perfectly good, nice car and strip it of all its muffling apparatus in order to purposely sound like a herd of Hell’s Angels driving over bubble wrap, erupting with fury from the bowels of hell? Why? Why, bitches, why?

Take this guy who squats on a couch a few doors down from us. I know he squats because of the nature of his doucheness and the fact that he does not get driveway parking privileges. We’ll call him Neighborhood Douche. This is not to be confused with the DBV driver with whom we are all well-acquainted through driving the highways and by-ways of L.A., or by being semi-close to a high school. No, the Neighborhood Douche is a far more sinister creature. He drives a nice, reasonably new Mustang that is kept in good condition. But for some unfathomable reason, he finds it necessary to warn anyone within a five-mile radius of his impending arrival by breaking the sound barrier whenever he is close. And as if that isn’t enough, he also finds it necessary to accelerate up to 60 MPH through the residential streets and squeal around corners, I suppose to highlight his “2 Fast, 2 Furious” prowess.

I say “he” because I know it is a “he” for a couple of reasons. In my lesser inebriated moments, I have had to hear the impending douchousness and suffer the resulting douche annoyance shudders that always accompany the sound, followed by which I am compelled to glare out the window at said Douche and shoot imaginary bubonic plague-dipped darts with my eyes. In my more sauced up moments, however, it goes more something like this: I stick my head out an open window and shout at the top of my lungs, “Shut the hell UP, DOUCHEBAG!!!”

I also know it is a “he” because in my extensive travels of these mean streets, whenever I encounter the Sound of the Douche and whip my head in the direction of the offending party to express my disdain, there is never, ever, ever a female behind the wheel. Well, actually there was one once. But I am convinced that her Civic was in the shop and she was forced to borrow her boyfriend’s car as she was hunched low in the seat and seemed to be fairly mortified.

I guess the real problem I have with the ND is that he brings back bad feelings of a bygone era when we lived in Crackville, Venice. There was a person there whom I referred to as “Ghetto Honking Bitch”. And when I say the “bitch” part of her name, I don’t use it affectionately like I do with you all. Oh no, it was meant to represent all the vilest, meanest, nastiest attributes of the word. She would pull up in front of the house across the street, sometimes at 7 a.m. on a Sunday, sometimes at 3 a.m. on a weekday, but always at the worst, most inappropriate time, and always daily, and honk the horn of her ridiculous SUV like her ass was on fire. Talking to her nicely about it, screaming “SHUT UUUUUUUP” out the window, all had the same effect: It made her do it more. She was one loud, obnoxious voice in a sea of loud, obnoxious voices in that area – people who are noisy and don’t give a shit that there are people living nearby. They want you to hear them and your peaceful enjoyment of your home be damned.

So I have these awful flashbacks of previous unsavory living conditions and I run this imaginary dialogue in my head with the ND. It usually goes something like this:

ME: Hey… Douchenferry McDouchealot? Hey, can I just call you Douche for short? Great. Hey, listen, I was just wondering…. See all these cute little post-WWII houses? The ones with the lawns and flowers and stuff in front? See the kids’ bikes and toys lying around? See the cars parked in the driveways and on the street? Yeah, um…. I know this might sound crazy but um…. People like, live here and stuff. I know, who knew, right? People live here and watch movies here and have children who might be napping here and people talk on the phone here and see, every time you drive by, which is often, you are the equivalent of bad cell phone coverage that causes people to LOSE THE SIGNAL OF THEIR LIFE for a few moments because of you and your douchey ass. The douche shudders of annoyance are seriously cutting into my and everyone around here’s living time and you know what, D-bag? I can’t hang anymore! So you need to take your little douchemobile into the shop, get the standard factory-issued mufflers put back on the shit, and find some other way to scream for attention that doesn’t involve your neighbors, m’kay? Perhaps with loud clothing.

NB: Gosh, ma’am. Thank you for pointing that out to me. I had no idea my douchosity was causing such inconvenience, but now I see the err of my ways. I will get the problem handled immediately. And I thank you for your candor and your feather-light touch.

ME: It is my pleasure, Douchenstein. Have a nice day!

Don’t You Forget About Me

I so didn’t want to go. I just loathed the thought. There are twenty blissful years separating me from high school – why in the name of all that is holy would I want to return? The reunion people tracked me down with the stealth and tenacity of a bloodhound on crack. Not only have I moved around a lot, I moved FIVE TIMES IN ONE YEAR, PEOPLE. How on earth did they find me?

I scoffed at the invitation. They wanted $106 out of me to revisit some old insecure feelings and eat some crap-ass dinner. Well they weren’t going to get it.

See, I spent junior high and part of high school at a very small private school. It was more like a family than school. It was easy to be involved in everything because there were so few of us. I was a cheerleader (shut up, bitches! Like it’s that hard to imagine!), I was in drama, I was in the glee club, and with the exception of the dreaded math or algebra class, I was pretty much a straight-A student.

Then, a few months into tenth grade, I decided I needed to get away from the tiny incestuous private school environment and explore the big bad world of public school. To spread my wings, as it were. I left my comfy little nest and all my friends and went to this huge public school where not only did I not know a soul, but I was starting when the school year had already started.

It was traumatic to say the least.

I was completely unaware of, and thus, completely unprepared for, the clique system. The way high school politics work. Who was popular and why. It was all very baffling to me, more than a little disconcerting, and I never really got the hang of it. Also frightening was being a kid with no money in a wealthy town who had previously worn a uniform to school every day. I didn’t know how to dress and didn’t have the money to buy the clothes even if I did. I couldn’t be a cheerleader at this school – the uniforms alone were way too expensive. But I didn’t have the confidence to even try out in the first place. It was like being in a foreign country and not speaking the language. I didn’t speak the language of High School.

I turned to the activities that had brought me joy at my old school – being involved in dance and drama. Fortunately these things were free and allowed me to express myself somewhat, but they didn’t do anything for my social status. I was a geek.

My grades began to slide since the private school I had attended did not teach a college-credited curriculum. We were not made to read Lord of the Flies or The Great Gatsby before tenth grade – we had Bible class. I was woefully behind and constantly struggling to catch up, while struggling to fit in somewhere. Even my beloved English class, that I had always aced and adored, became a chore of trying to keep my head above water since all the other kids knew what was going on and I didn’t. I hadn’t even read Hemingway. And forget about the math classes – I had to re-take both Algebra AND Geometry in summer school since my right brain just could not grasp the concept of either. I ran out of Chemistry with tears streaming down my face – it was all based in math and I knew I would fail. I dropped the class after only one day.

Then Terrie called me. We had Spanish II together in eleventh grade and now we live only a few blocks apart. Was I going to the reunion? Heyall naw, was my response.

Then I was contacted by another friend. Her name is Yolanda. She and I were BFFs in eighth grade and she later came to the big bad public high school where we later lost touch. She wanted to go to the reunion. I started to raise my eyebrows and pooch my lips out slightly in a “hmmmmm” expression at the thought.

Then I was contacted by another friend, Michelle. She was coming out from Boston for the reunion and was I going? I told her no. Then she offered to buy my ticket. Hmm. More pooched-out lips. I called Terrie and asked if she would agree to drive me there and give me beer money and let me take a cab home if it sucked (workin’ it, people). She agreed. And so I agreed to go.

So I washed my hair and put on a cute dress and filled my cute leopard print flask with vodka (because I am a bad girl like that), stashed it in my purse and headed to my 20-year friggin’ reunion.

And had the best time.

There were no weird social constructs this time. It was like a giant cocktail party where you vaguely know everyone, but it is a level playing field. I started to remember that there had been really good times in high school. There had been sweet, interesting people that had reached out a hand of friendship to me and I had forgotten them. Not everybody was shallow and concerned with being popular – some people had incredible talents and dreams that they later explored in life and it showed on their faces. There had been boys that liked me for me, not for my status, and I had liked them. I was a different girl back then, but I felt like I got to reconnect with that girl and heal some of her old hurts. And it felt good.

It was also some of the best people watching, like, EVER. It is interesting to see how people behave in such a strange context as a reunion. I had kinda been looking forward to cattily trashing my mental image of the cheerleader who had grown old and fat and had six kids, but it was not to be that night: all the women in my class looked incredible. Stunning, really. Michelle pointed out one woman to me in a beautiful floor length backless cocktail gown with jewels around the edges. I didn’t remember her from high school, but according to Michelle, this same woman had a kid about to go into college. WTF??? Truly beautiful girls were in my class, and they were even more beautiful now.

To add to my enjoyment, I happened to know the DJ from acting class long ago, and got to choose some songs. Lookout Weekend by Debbie Deb, Panama by Van Halen. Oh yeah, it was ON and the dance floor got packed.

We all left that place with smiles on our faces. I’m so glad I went. But still really happy high school is over.

It just wasn’t my thing.

It's Official: I'm Not A Morning Person

I thought since leaving the office job and becoming a massage therapist, I would test out my natural rhythm to see what it really wants to do. Having grown up as a teenager with small chil’ren in the house who are noisy at all times, and then working the office job from the age of 18 on, I have never known what it is like to sleep until you’re done sleeping except on weekends (when I might be recovering from a particularly stressful week or from partying) and most vacations (when I might be screwed up by jet leg or following a schedule of sight-seeing or on a trip with MPs who get my ass up in the morning). I have always conformed to the schedules of the dreaded MPs who seem to set the clock for the rest of the world.

Until now. See, most massages happen later in the day. Who wants a massage in the morning? It’s just . . . wrong. You want to roll off the table and go take a nap or have some wine or have someone brush your hair while you talk about astrology or whatever. You don’t want to bounce off the table and be a productive spaz. So this leaves my schedule open in the early part of the day to get up whenever my body wakes me, do some yoga, go for a walk, have my coffee, (so spoiled by Italian coffee now), and do things like create shite for this blog. So I don’t set an alarm.

Some nights I am enthralled with a book and won’t get to sleep until 1:00 or later. Some nights, especially if I have had several appointments that day, I am conked out by 10:30. Guess what I found out? For the past three weeks, I will sleep until 9:00 every morning if allowed to do so. No matter what time I went to bed. It’s almost comical. And it’s so precise. It is always between 9:00 and 9:15, no later, no earlier. One recent morning I awoke on my own, turned and looked at the clock which read 8:55, and was like, WTF??? That ain’t right! I went back to sleep for a minute and then got up to start the day.

What I have learned from having this knowledge is the following:

1) Some people are just naturally productive and better able to absorb information in the later part of the day. That’s just me. And that’s fine. It is no reason to feel guilty and doesn’t make me a slacker.

2) Sleeping until your body wants to wake up is goooooood. It automatically builds energy into your day because you are truly rested. I love the crap out of that feeling.

3) I better enjoy it NOW. Since Valley Girl and her hub are already looking to add Valley Baby to the mix, my days of natural slumbering bliss are numbered. Unless of course, Valley Baby gets my late-ass genes and is happier to stay up with me doing breast milk shots and watching Big Love while Daddy goes to bed at 10:00. Then we could get up at 9:00 the next day and get busy eating and pooping and sleeping some more.

Hey, it could happen.

Bitch Totally Stole My Look

Sad Sack, Party of One? Your Table Is Ready.

Okay you guys, here it is. I know I have been a bad neglectful parent to this baby blog lately and I want you to know why.

Your girl has been stricken with the worst depression since Sex And The City went off the air. And yes! I am aware of the movie in the works and yes! You better believe my ass will be throwing a huge party for that occasion, complete with cosmopolitans, high heels, and lots of chicks. In fact, ONLY chicks. But that’s down the line, and that is IF this dream miracle of a movie ever actually does come to fruition. You know how Hollywood is.

What’s been happening with me is far more sinister and unexpected. And I think I have it figured out after much parsing out of emotions, dissecting, analyzing and actualizing by some key friends the likes of which would turn a codebreaker for the CIA green with envy. To put it in brief terms, my world has been turned upside down. And I am just now figuring out how to put back in their place the fragments of my psyche that have shaken loose.

See, for nearly twenty years of my life, all I have known is the comfort and predictability of office life. Sitting behind a desk. Though it has gone radically against my natural biological grain, my daily life has involved, as long as I can remember being an adult, getting up early (ick!), hosing off and getting cute fast, jumping in the car, fighting traffic to the office, getting to the office, getting caffeinated and then following instructions all day, interfacing with a large variety of people (some friends, some annoying gossip-mongers, mostly butthole lawyers) – LUNCH BREAK – trudging through the rest of the day until 5:30 when I get to fight traffic for an hour or more, get home, then have a life with my relationship, dogs, family, friends, etc., anticipate Fridays, vacations and holidays and there you have it.

Now, things are different. Leaving the legal business to become a full-time massage therapist is something I have dreamt about doing for a long time. And things aligned in my life just so to allow me the opportunity to do that. But the ensuing feelings of being lost and starting over kind of swallowed me whole and I was so not ready for that. I had anticipated cartwheels and sunshine and unicorns at this point, not feelings of sadness and loss, sleeping too much but not very well, drinking too much, lack of interest in the usual things that bring me joy, lack of energy to even be around people. It’s been rough. And frustrating. It is in my nature to be happy and joyful, and every morning I would wake up and go “WTF? This shitty feeling is STILL HERE????”

Now don’t get me wrong: the nature of my job now is everything I thought it would be. It is rewarding in a profound way that I have never before known by pushing paper around behind a desk all day. I am helping to relieve people’s pain and suffering and stress, and I have a unique perspective on it since I, like many of them, sat behind a desk for so long and know where that particular brand of stress slithers into the body and sets up residence. But guess what? I am still new at this. Not only are my appointments sporadic and the nature of my job now very physical and tiring, making it difficult to plan my time with any kind of efficiency, but I am no longer the best at what I do. Can you say ego blow?

At my previous jobs, I am used to being the girl who works circles around everybody else and still has room left in my multi-tasking repertoire to solve my girlfriends’ problems, plan dinner for tonight, write a few blog posts, research some obsessive health issue of concern that I must get to the bottom of, make plans for the weekend and then still have time leftover to read Go Fug Yourself.

Now, I am the newbie. I am not the most experienced, efficient therapist in the house. You can’t multi-task while doing a massage – it is a solid hour of pure focus and quiet. Add to this the fact that I am starting at the bottom as far as earnings, which is also a huge blow to the ego. I’m used to being a major contributor to the household, dammit! Not so anymore. It’s like being in my early 20s all over again, that feeling of insecurity, of constantly worrying what other people think of you, if you’re DOING it right. I hated that shit then – I have to re-live it now?

I think there is also some post-wedding-honeymoon-time-of-my-life letdown going on too. You’ve seen the pictures – it really WAS that awesome. But now the anticipation of the whole thing is over and it will never happen again. I will never get married in Italy again, that was IT. And it was so great. What could possibly top that?

And then one recent Saturday night, sometime after my 12th beer or so (I’m exaggerating, but it was up in the high numbers I’m sure), it dawned on my drunk self that I was drinking to get away from feeling like shit. And that is the WRONG reason to drink, my friends. You drink to have fun, to celebrate something, to be with friends, to have a delicious wine with dinner or a funky cocktail in a fun bar. You don’t drink to escape. So I gave myself a break from the alcohol. It’s been eight days, and will likely last awhile since people keep telling me my skin looks fabulous. I can’t help but think it’s because of being off the sauce.

And then the other day whilst facing a mountain of dishes in the kitchen, I blasted “99 Problems” by Jay-Z and started to dance around the kitchen. And like a little kid peeking into a room where he sees Mommy and Daddy are kissing, I giggled sheepishly at myself and realized this is something the normal me would do. Am I coming back? Every day since that moment has told me “yes”.

I wanted to share this with you because I didn’t want you to think I have forgotten about you – I have been wallowing and unsure of how to even tell you this stuff. But I also wanted to share this with you because I want the nature of this blog to be more personal. I love that you are with me on this journey. Now that I have the time and space to focus more, you will be seeing more postings from me, I promise. And I hope you will keep reading. Dealing with problems, especially the ones we can’t see, is part of life, and I do still have a lust for it, even when it’s difficult to feel that lust.

Speaking of lust, The Husband has been so supportive and understanding through all of this and I know my ass has NOT been easy to live with. And for that, I am supremely grateful. To quote Jay-Z, “I got 99 problems but a bitch ain’t one.”

Nail, Meet Head

My acupuncturist rules. He periodically sends out little newsletters giving free health advice if he sees a pattern of inquiry about a specific subject coming up in his practice. But his most recent newsletter was more introspective and personal, and he had this to say, which basically sums up my viewpoint exactly. Next time you are in Encino or West L.A., give Dr. Randy Martin a shout-out.

"Of course I share with all of you, my prayers for a safer world, where we won't have the constant reminders of war and terrorism, which we have even today. And I pray for less divisiveness among our politicians, rather than the huge polarization we see among Americans who happen to identify more as conservative or liberal. I really feel these artificial labels merely work to isolate and overly dramatize our common issues. In reality, we all have a mixture of values, since we, as human beings are very complex. Wouldn’t it be nice if our talk show hosts, our political commentators and politicians spent as much energy on drawing us closer together, by pointing out commonalities, rather than further polarizing us by overly dramatizing our differences and making the "other" seem wrong or evil."

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.