After recently overcoming somewhat of a lazy spell, I took it upon myself to take the large brown dog out for a jog last night. It was warm out, yes, but not stifling. And besides, sweating is cleansing, right? So I’m walking along in the park to warm up, feeling a little bit sassy and all like I’m hot stuff since I’ve lost an eensy bit of weight. There are wanna-be World Cuppers playing with their balls EVERYWHERE in the park these days, and last night was no exception. I had on my headphones for my MP3 player. I do this while jogging for several reasons, not the least of which are:
1) I seem to have tons more endurance when Nine Inch Nails and Rammstein are pounding in my ears.
2) It gives me an acceptable excuse for not acknowledging the douchebags who walk by me and insist, “SMILE!” like I’m supposed to be just walking down the street smiling continuously at nothing in particular. I am working out, Foolio. I am intensely imagining myself on a beach in Mexico sipping a Chi Chi rather than being here, exerting myself and sweating my ass off in my craptastic Target sweats and stained wife beater. Shut the hell up and leave me alone.
3) Hearing stripper music gives me the notion, however far-fetched, that I may one day have a stripper bod.
So anyhoo, since my stripper music was pounding away in my ears, I had no warning of what was about to be. A ball. Kicked at furiously high speeds. Aimed right at my head.
BAM!!!!!
My ear buds flew out and I almost fell, face-first, to the ground. It took me a second to figure out what happened, so I am sure the look on my face was something along the lines of WT-effing-F??????
This dude came up and frantically apologized in broken English and asked if I was okay. I glared at him.
“Okay? Huh. Okay. Okay? Hell no, I’m not okay!”
Again, more broken apologizing.
I hesitated, unsure of what to do. Normally, a genuine apology is plenty for me, but I still felt I might actually pass out from the blow, and this pissed me off.
“I almost just lost consciousness, dude. And stuff. You guys need to be careful. (more bitter scowling). Or something. Cuz. You know, people are walking. And stuff. Whatever.”
I’m sure I sounded like a total idiot and they had a good laugh at my expense over their Coronas later. Eh, what can you do? Sometimes it is dangerous providing entertainment to the public.
Friday, June 30, 2006
Monday, June 26, 2006
Bug Killah
One thing about the Valley that distinguishes it from the Wesssside: It is totally bugnacious. Especially in the heat.
Let’s just talk about the flies for a second. Something about the rising mercury is the equivalent of someone shouting like the town crier to all flies within a 10-mile radius: “FREE POOP! COME AND GET YOUR POOP HERE! LOTS OF TASTY MICROSCOPIC DOG FOOD LEFTOVERS ON SHINY BOWLS! COME GET SOME DELICIOUS LIVE FLAPPY DOG EARS FOR NIBBLING! VERY TASTY! SWIM IN OUR LOVELY DOG WATER BOWL POOL! FREE ACCESS TO RAPIDLY DECOMPOSING COMPOST PILE WHILE IT LASTS!"
Yes, it's true. I have totally Martha'd out. I started a compost pile. It's environmentally friendly, bitches! But now the entire insect world of the San Fernando Valley is very friendly with my environment if you know what I mean. It's an unpleasant side effect.
But enough about the flies, can we talk about the water bugs? For those of you who don't know what a water bug is, picture a cockroach. On 'roids. Without the accompanying aggressiveness and bad skin. A water bug is like the roach's bigger, dumber, slower counterpart. He's not after food. He lives mostly outside and won't really scatter when the porch lights come on. Come to think of it, what the hell ARE they after? They just sort of show up and hang around. Rufus, having the official occupation in the household of He Who Chaseth All Smaller Creatures That Moveth, is quite fond of water bugs because they allow him the rare opportunity of playing Water Bug Hockey. And the water bugs don't seem to mind at all. They're like Mongo from Blazing Saddles. "Water Bug only puck in game of dog hockey." They roll and somersault when he paws them about and make very half-assed attempts at a getaway. I think they enjoy the attention. Much like Mongo.
Occasionally, however, they do venture into the house through mysterious means. The other morning, I was unfortunately awake, and dragged my sorry ass into the shower to start the day. I pulled aside the shower curtain and was greeted by The Muthah of all water bugs. He could have used my loofah as a recliner. He could have used my razor as a scooter. He was using my jar of lavender scrub as a podium, and I swear you guys, he looked up at me with his giant antennae flailing around at me and I heard something that sounded like a big dumb ass-crack-bearing plumber's voice:
WB: "Uh yeah uh lady, uh, you might wantuh look inta dat der mildew sitchiation ya got goin' dere on dose tiles back dere by da faucet. I ain't sayin' you're in any dangers now, but ya know, I gotta tell you to play it safe dere. You don't wantuh get yerself any problems down da line dere."
Me: "What are you doing in my tub? Who let you in? There's no hole in the window screen. The tub is too tall for you to crawl in here. WTF?"
WB: "Uh lady, dere's really no reason ta be raisin' yer voice at me dere, I'm just doin' my job here and addressin' the sitchiation you's got goin' on here. Now you's just pay me my fee dere and we'll be square."
I paid him his fee. I flushed his ass down the toilet. It's full of water. He'll be perfectly happy there.
Another, more sinister side of our bug environs happens in the form of lots of big, scary spiders in the backyard. At first, my attitude toward them was eh, let 'em be -- they're building webs to catch and eat all these effing annoying flies. But then one day when I was winding up the hose after watering, there was this GI-FREAKING-NORMOUS black widow sitting right there on the hose, spinning around as I wound up the hose, sitting there looking at me like I was a giant, tasty bloodsicle and I thought oh heyall naw! I squirted her ass into oblivion. Then the other day, whilst winding up the same hose, there was a big giant brown spider hanging around on it.
Me: "Dude! There is a big brown spider on the hose!"
Derek (across the yard): "Really?"
Me: "Yeah. It's brown with white spots and it's big. I bet you it's a brown recluse. Those things will bore a hole right through your skin and kill a dog easily. It obviously must die." (stomps foot savagely on insectual beast)
Derek: "Do we even have the brown recluse in this part of the country?"
Me: (long pause) "Uhhhhhhh. I dunno. Do we? Oh shoot. Well. I guess better safe than ... you know. Uh. Oh. Well. Crap. Now I feel bad."
I would make a great thug.
Let’s just talk about the flies for a second. Something about the rising mercury is the equivalent of someone shouting like the town crier to all flies within a 10-mile radius: “FREE POOP! COME AND GET YOUR POOP HERE! LOTS OF TASTY MICROSCOPIC DOG FOOD LEFTOVERS ON SHINY BOWLS! COME GET SOME DELICIOUS LIVE FLAPPY DOG EARS FOR NIBBLING! VERY TASTY! SWIM IN OUR LOVELY DOG WATER BOWL POOL! FREE ACCESS TO RAPIDLY DECOMPOSING COMPOST PILE WHILE IT LASTS!"
Yes, it's true. I have totally Martha'd out. I started a compost pile. It's environmentally friendly, bitches! But now the entire insect world of the San Fernando Valley is very friendly with my environment if you know what I mean. It's an unpleasant side effect.
But enough about the flies, can we talk about the water bugs? For those of you who don't know what a water bug is, picture a cockroach. On 'roids. Without the accompanying aggressiveness and bad skin. A water bug is like the roach's bigger, dumber, slower counterpart. He's not after food. He lives mostly outside and won't really scatter when the porch lights come on. Come to think of it, what the hell ARE they after? They just sort of show up and hang around. Rufus, having the official occupation in the household of He Who Chaseth All Smaller Creatures That Moveth, is quite fond of water bugs because they allow him the rare opportunity of playing Water Bug Hockey. And the water bugs don't seem to mind at all. They're like Mongo from Blazing Saddles. "Water Bug only puck in game of dog hockey." They roll and somersault when he paws them about and make very half-assed attempts at a getaway. I think they enjoy the attention. Much like Mongo.
Occasionally, however, they do venture into the house through mysterious means. The other morning, I was unfortunately awake, and dragged my sorry ass into the shower to start the day. I pulled aside the shower curtain and was greeted by The Muthah of all water bugs. He could have used my loofah as a recliner. He could have used my razor as a scooter. He was using my jar of lavender scrub as a podium, and I swear you guys, he looked up at me with his giant antennae flailing around at me and I heard something that sounded like a big dumb ass-crack-bearing plumber's voice:
WB: "Uh yeah uh lady, uh, you might wantuh look inta dat der mildew sitchiation ya got goin' dere on dose tiles back dere by da faucet. I ain't sayin' you're in any dangers now, but ya know, I gotta tell you to play it safe dere. You don't wantuh get yerself any problems down da line dere."
Me: "What are you doing in my tub? Who let you in? There's no hole in the window screen. The tub is too tall for you to crawl in here. WTF?"
WB: "Uh lady, dere's really no reason ta be raisin' yer voice at me dere, I'm just doin' my job here and addressin' the sitchiation you's got goin' on here. Now you's just pay me my fee dere and we'll be square."
I paid him his fee. I flushed his ass down the toilet. It's full of water. He'll be perfectly happy there.
Another, more sinister side of our bug environs happens in the form of lots of big, scary spiders in the backyard. At first, my attitude toward them was eh, let 'em be -- they're building webs to catch and eat all these effing annoying flies. But then one day when I was winding up the hose after watering, there was this GI-FREAKING-NORMOUS black widow sitting right there on the hose, spinning around as I wound up the hose, sitting there looking at me like I was a giant, tasty bloodsicle and I thought oh heyall naw! I squirted her ass into oblivion. Then the other day, whilst winding up the same hose, there was a big giant brown spider hanging around on it.
Me: "Dude! There is a big brown spider on the hose!"
Derek (across the yard): "Really?"
Me: "Yeah. It's brown with white spots and it's big. I bet you it's a brown recluse. Those things will bore a hole right through your skin and kill a dog easily. It obviously must die." (stomps foot savagely on insectual beast)
Derek: "Do we even have the brown recluse in this part of the country?"
Me: (long pause) "Uhhhhhhh. I dunno. Do we? Oh shoot. Well. I guess better safe than ... you know. Uh. Oh. Well. Crap. Now I feel bad."
I would make a great thug.
Friday, June 16, 2006
I Love Encino In The Spring
Do you see why I'm such a homebody lately and don't want to join the land of the living? Why go anywhere when your pad and its surrounding flora looks like this:
My favorite Big Brown Dog taking time to smell the flowers:
"What? It's not as good as eight-hour butt, but it's okay I guess." 
My favorite Pugnacious taking the time to give you the ol' hairy eyeball:
I stained and finished these teak chairs and table myself. Pretty cute, yes? You have to twist your body into all sorts of positions to adequately stain something. Who knew I was a contortionist? Anyway, this is now my fave place to sit and chill. This was once a carport when the house was built in 1949, but now is a section of yard we refer to as "The Slab". I think it looks like some cute little Italian villa now. I'll take this over Skybar any day:
Me and my forehead, kickin' it and being happy:
My favorite Big Brown Dog taking time to smell the flowers:
"What? It's not as good as eight-hour butt, but it's okay I guess." 
My favorite Pugnacious taking the time to give you the ol' hairy eyeball:
I stained and finished these teak chairs and table myself. Pretty cute, yes? You have to twist your body into all sorts of positions to adequately stain something. Who knew I was a contortionist? Anyway, this is now my fave place to sit and chill. This was once a carport when the house was built in 1949, but now is a section of yard we refer to as "The Slab". I think it looks like some cute little Italian villa now. I'll take this over Skybar any day:
Me and my forehead, kickin' it and being happy:
Monday, June 12, 2006
Horton Hatches A Psycho
What is it with me and the psychos? Do I have a secret Psycho Attracting Device lodged somewhere in my person that the aliens have implanted in me? Don’t you ever wake up in the morning sometimes with a strange mark on your body and realize they have kidnapped you again, and wonder what the hell they implanted in your person while you were under their alien hypnosis thingy during the night? Well guess what? They implanted the Psycho Attractor 3000XGL with turbo boost into my person at some point a few years back.
We go out with Deb and Darren Saturday night. We have a lovely dinner at Primitivo on Abbot Kinney. Love the crap out of that place, man. Some tapas, some wine, some nice conversation. And we were only with, like, the greatest neighbors ever in the history of neighborhood. We head over to the Buffalo Club to meet up with Bethy and her peeps. Deb and I sit at the bar, and immediately, my Psycho Radar starts beeping. Bip bip bip bip bip bip bip beeeeeeeeap! In the words of the Great Eddie Murphy in Beverly Hills Cop when he sees the angry-looking dude walk into the strip club with the leather trench coat on (in June), “Something’s getting ready to go down.”
WHAM!!! A Body slams to the ground at our feet (I had on my super cute white Bebe pumps, always a great prop for a psycho drama) -- there was much yelling and general spazzing out of people around and atop the Body. The Body screamed and squirmed like a stuck pig, and the security dude sitting atop the Body yelled at what I presumed were the Psycho Body’s drunk friends, who were trying in vain to calm the Psycho Body down. Security Dude remained perched on top of the Psycho Body and everything quieted down within a few moments, even the Psycho Body. The cops were en route. So Security Dude had to remain perched atop Psycho Body, lest the Psycho Body squirm and flail and spin like a combination whirling dervish/tanked tasmanian devil and destroy everything in its path. An eerie calm settled over the place as Security Dude sat calmly atop the Psycho Body, awaiting handing him over to the arriving Po-Po.
I turned to Deb and remarked, “Remember that book, Horton Hatches The Egg?”
I didn’t tell her that I have the Psycho Attractor 3000XGL with turbo boost embedded in my person since I am afraid she wouldn’t want to go out with me anymore.
We go out with Deb and Darren Saturday night. We have a lovely dinner at Primitivo on Abbot Kinney. Love the crap out of that place, man. Some tapas, some wine, some nice conversation. And we were only with, like, the greatest neighbors ever in the history of neighborhood. We head over to the Buffalo Club to meet up with Bethy and her peeps. Deb and I sit at the bar, and immediately, my Psycho Radar starts beeping. Bip bip bip bip bip bip bip beeeeeeeeap! In the words of the Great Eddie Murphy in Beverly Hills Cop when he sees the angry-looking dude walk into the strip club with the leather trench coat on (in June), “Something’s getting ready to go down.”
WHAM!!! A Body slams to the ground at our feet (I had on my super cute white Bebe pumps, always a great prop for a psycho drama) -- there was much yelling and general spazzing out of people around and atop the Body. The Body screamed and squirmed like a stuck pig, and the security dude sitting atop the Body yelled at what I presumed were the Psycho Body’s drunk friends, who were trying in vain to calm the Psycho Body down. Security Dude remained perched on top of the Psycho Body and everything quieted down within a few moments, even the Psycho Body. The cops were en route. So Security Dude had to remain perched atop Psycho Body, lest the Psycho Body squirm and flail and spin like a combination whirling dervish/tanked tasmanian devil and destroy everything in its path. An eerie calm settled over the place as Security Dude sat calmly atop the Psycho Body, awaiting handing him over to the arriving Po-Po.
I turned to Deb and remarked, “Remember that book, Horton Hatches The Egg?”
I didn’t tell her that I have the Psycho Attractor 3000XGL with turbo boost embedded in my person since I am afraid she wouldn’t want to go out with me anymore.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
More Kauai Photos
Greetings and salutations! Hello, even! Hi! How ya doin'? Oh yah? How's things? [Kauai says hello]:
Shave ice being consumed in mass quantities. Again. At -- where else? -- Shave Ice Paradise.
I believe this section of beach is called "Why you think they call it the 'Garden State', Goofy Mainlander?"
Finally! A shot of the beloved little pond with the precious lily pads! I see this pond in my dreams. [God bless Sue for getting the shot.]
Hey, Sexy Mainlander. Yo quiero poi.
Shave ice being consumed in mass quantities. Again. At -- where else? -- Shave Ice Paradise.
I believe this section of beach is called "Why you think they call it the 'Garden State', Goofy Mainlander?"
Finally! A shot of the beloved little pond with the precious lily pads! I see this pond in my dreams. [God bless Sue for getting the shot.]
Hey, Sexy Mainlander. Yo quiero poi.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Come Vacay With Me
Okay, it should be stated that I am a craptastic photographer, but it is difficult to make anything in Kauai look bad. There are quite a few photos here, but it was so hard to edit anything out besides the ones that showcase my beer belly. There is just so much beautalaciousness to be seen. I hope you enjoy.
This was our lovely condo. My dumb ass forgot to take photos of the adorable pond on the other side of the building where our patio was, which had lily pads (I mean! Could it BE more precious?)-- dolphin sculptures, and croaking frogs at night. But anyway, here is the front. Kewt, right?
This was our lovely condo. My dumb ass forgot to take photos of the adorable pond on the other side of the building where our patio was, which had lily pads (I mean! Could it BE more precious?)-- dolphin sculptures, and croaking frogs at night. But anyway, here is the front. Kewt, right?
Derek and Kimo enjoying their newfound occupation: Chillaxin'.
This was where our luau was. Tropical Paradise is right -- it was stunning:
There were peacocks running all over the place there. They make this really loud whooping mating call that could be heard throughout dinner. Here is one just hanging out. He's all "Hey, what up G's?"
Schwing!!!! And here he is when a chick walks by:
Prettiest. Smiliest. People. EVAR.
Prettiest. Smiliest-- No, just kidding. Here we are all fat and happy after the food-fest:
Like I said, they OWN your ass. And your stinking beach toys. Deal with it.
This guy was hanging around the waterfalls, and was giving me the ol' stinkeye after I commented on his poor parenting skills, but I mean . . .
His kids were hanging out by the cars unattended and stuff and he didn't even care! Absentee Dads . . .
Preeeetttyyyyy . . .
More pretty. See the rainbows? It is Kauai's way of saying Hi!
Someday, all of this could be mine.
This is the plant that goes "EW!" when you touch it. Apparently, it is not fond of children either.
Bro and Sis chillin'. You can't tell by this photo, but we could look down into this pool and see giant sea turtles swimming around. I'm not sure what Derek is saying in this photo, but I believe it is something along the lines of "This Totally Does Not Suck" (TTDNS Enterprises, LLC©)
Considering this was taken the eve before we had to leave, it's hard to believe we are smiling. But we donned our aloha wear and we put on our game face and tried to just pretend that this could go on forever.
I can't wait to go back.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Blossoming Lotus
As you are no doubt well aware by now after weeks of gloating and anticipating, and then reporting live just to rub it in a little more, I recently had the sublime opportunity to visit Kauai. Yes, I will be posting photos once I have the patience to sit down with the computer and download them, okay, settle. Settle! But for now, you will have to just deal with a super-duper restaurant shout-out, m’kay?
Before the trip, I was so graciously provided some hot tips by the ever-adorable Calivalleygirl on things to do and see in Kauai, and one of the things she highly recommended, even as a self-proclaimed meat-eater, was the Blossoming Lotus Restaurant. Assphincter boy says what? What? A meat-eater liking a vegan restaurant enough to visit twice and even recommend to others? I had to see this (and eat this) for myself. Especially since yours truly is trying to integrate more raw vegan food into her usual steady diet of chocolate, wine and snark.
Let me start by saying how beautiful this place is on the inside. It looks like what you would expect a super cool zen master who lives in a chic section of Bali’s living room to look like. And the servers are so sweet and caring and, unlike a lot of restaurant personnel I have encountered, they treated us like we were their best friends and they had all the time in the world for us, gently explaining what this or that strange term was, even though I’m sure they’ve had to do it a thousand times before. There was a certain, oh how do you say, a light? that came from within the staff there. They were glowy. And they played some kick-ass funk oldies like "Play That Funky Music White Boy" and "You Dropped a Bomb On Me. Baby." But I digress. Let’s talk food.
We had this red-pepper hummus thing with pita slices that was really tasty and kinda spicy. Ooooh, and the lemonade with passionfruit was the bomb. I have never had it made that way, and I am quite the lemonade snob. I hate the pre-made sugary crap, it blows. This was real lemonade with real fruit, nice and tart and refreshing and nothing getting in the way.
Derek and I decided to get two things and do sharesies. Now, my fave sammich in the WORLD is a well-made Reuben. By well-made, I mean in a decent deli with quality meats and breads, ALWAYS turkey pastrami since I don’t eat pigs, and always on toasted sourdough. Well this place has their version of a Reuben. I was skeptical, I mean, pounded tempeh instead of pastrami, are they serious? But oh man it was so messy and delicious with lots of saurkraut and Russian dressing. I was so bummed when I got full and couldn’t finish it dudes, I wanted that thing in my belly so bad! We also shared the Rama's Red Curry, which is Okinawan purple sweet potato in a creamy red coconut curry sauce. It was unique, but not in a unique-ew! kinda way. It was tasty and different, like an exotic dish in a fancy Indian restaurant. And sometimes different is good. True flavor is good. It keeps you on your toes.
Most astounding was sitting across from a total meat-eater and not hearing one single complaint during the entire meal, but instead a steady chorus of mmmmm’s and aaaahhhh’s and chompin’ and sippin’ his hibiscus/lavender iced tea.
Oh, and the best part? Rather than feeling sluggish and full and tired afterward, you feel kinda bouncy and peppy and stuff, and ready to go off and do some more chillaxin’. Next time I visit Kauai, you will find my butt there, scarfing up whatever they give me.
Blossoming Lotus
4504 Kukui St.
Kapa'a, Kauai , HI 96746
Telephone: 808-822-7678
Before the trip, I was so graciously provided some hot tips by the ever-adorable Calivalleygirl on things to do and see in Kauai, and one of the things she highly recommended, even as a self-proclaimed meat-eater, was the Blossoming Lotus Restaurant. Assphincter boy says what? What? A meat-eater liking a vegan restaurant enough to visit twice and even recommend to others? I had to see this (and eat this) for myself. Especially since yours truly is trying to integrate more raw vegan food into her usual steady diet of chocolate, wine and snark.
Let me start by saying how beautiful this place is on the inside. It looks like what you would expect a super cool zen master who lives in a chic section of Bali’s living room to look like. And the servers are so sweet and caring and, unlike a lot of restaurant personnel I have encountered, they treated us like we were their best friends and they had all the time in the world for us, gently explaining what this or that strange term was, even though I’m sure they’ve had to do it a thousand times before. There was a certain, oh how do you say, a light? that came from within the staff there. They were glowy. And they played some kick-ass funk oldies like "Play That Funky Music White Boy" and "You Dropped a Bomb On Me. Baby." But I digress. Let’s talk food.We had this red-pepper hummus thing with pita slices that was really tasty and kinda spicy. Ooooh, and the lemonade with passionfruit was the bomb. I have never had it made that way, and I am quite the lemonade snob. I hate the pre-made sugary crap, it blows. This was real lemonade with real fruit, nice and tart and refreshing and nothing getting in the way.
Derek and I decided to get two things and do sharesies. Now, my fave sammich in the WORLD is a well-made Reuben. By well-made, I mean in a decent deli with quality meats and breads, ALWAYS turkey pastrami since I don’t eat pigs, and always on toasted sourdough. Well this place has their version of a Reuben. I was skeptical, I mean, pounded tempeh instead of pastrami, are they serious? But oh man it was so messy and delicious with lots of saurkraut and Russian dressing. I was so bummed when I got full and couldn’t finish it dudes, I wanted that thing in my belly so bad! We also shared the Rama's Red Curry, which is Okinawan purple sweet potato in a creamy red coconut curry sauce. It was unique, but not in a unique-ew! kinda way. It was tasty and different, like an exotic dish in a fancy Indian restaurant. And sometimes different is good. True flavor is good. It keeps you on your toes.
Most astounding was sitting across from a total meat-eater and not hearing one single complaint during the entire meal, but instead a steady chorus of mmmmm’s and aaaahhhh’s and chompin’ and sippin’ his hibiscus/lavender iced tea.
Oh, and the best part? Rather than feeling sluggish and full and tired afterward, you feel kinda bouncy and peppy and stuff, and ready to go off and do some more chillaxin’. Next time I visit Kauai, you will find my butt there, scarfing up whatever they give me.
Blossoming Lotus
4504 Kukui St.
Kapa'a, Kauai , HI 96746
Telephone: 808-822-7678
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Roosterbitch: Reporting Live From The Most Freaking Beautiful Place On Earth
[This post is dedicated to Kimo: Rich called. He wants his person back. I told him to go eat some spam and shut the hell up and don't call this number again.]
Things you learn while hanging in the Most Freaking Beautiful Place On Earth:
1) Your hair is not going to do anything you want it to and you are just going to have to accept the fact that your lustrous locks are going to frizz and puff and pouf like a giant fro and you will look like a giant Q-tip head throughout much of your vacay, but it's so freaking beautiful here you really don't give a crap.
2) Poi kinda doesn't really taste that great, unless you put it on something else, like mahi mahi or chicken. Then it tastes pretty darn good.
3) Your toes develop confinement issues. They get so used to walking around nekkid or in flip-flops all the time, so if you put them in actual shoes (as I made the mistake of doing this morning for a walk), your toes are all "Bitch, WHAT? Exqueeze me? Oh no you di'int! WTF, over? Have you seen the super-festive paint job on these toenails that is going to waste in here? I mean!" Especially the last three toes on my left foot (which are known rabble-rousers) -- they did not let up their complaining all the way back to the condo.
4) Hawaiians are ridiculously beautiful people. I'm serious. Forget Czechoslovakia -- this place has the models. And they smile a lot. Being a life-long super smiley person, this is something I really appreciate. I go through life smiling like a damn fool everywhere I go (I can't help it!), and there is nothing worse than being met by a scowl in return. It just pisses my shit off. That is not the case here. You smile at someone, and they smile back at you. It rules.
5) The one exception to the smiley-happy rule came not in human, but plant form. There is this freaktastic plant that no one knows the name of, that if you touch it, it's like a reverse Venus Flytrap -- it bends away from you in a recoiling fashion as if to say "Ewwwww! Dirty mainlander, don't TOUCH me!!!! Gross! Ew, you did it again, STOP TOUCHING ME! I'M TELLING!"
6) Shave ice rules. No, not shaved ice. SHAVE ice. Most. Refreshing. Taste sensation. EVAR.
7) You start scheming with family members as to how you can move here and manage to scrape out a living. Kristi and I came up with the brilliant idea of serving beer in coconut shells to the tourists, while Derek and Kimo start a construction company and build us a compound to live in. We would name the beer/coconut stand Derek's Spleen. The parent company of our businesses would be called TTDNS Enterprises, LLC. Which stands for the mantra we have been repeating all week: "This TOTALLY Does Not Suck." Our brilliant logo that Kimo came up with would be the word SUCK with a slash through it. Brilliant, right? I think it could work...
8) The place is OWNED by roosters. Yeah, I'm totally serious. After Hurricane Iniki blasted all the chicken coops, the roosters got out and became wild, and they hang out everywhere you go in Kauai, sort of like wanna-be directors do in L.A. They're on the roadsides, the beaches, your patio. And they have no internal timing as to when they crow. They just do it whenever, even if it's the middle of the night, just to remind you that they OWN YOUR ASS AND YOU BETTER REMEMBER IT, BITCH AND WE WILL SING FEELINGS, NOTHING MORE THAN FEELINGS, AT 4:00 A.M. IF WE BLOODY WELL FEEL LIKE IT, MAINLANDER BITCHES! Which is fine, because the place is so freaking beautiful, you don't mind being a rooster's bitch. You sit there and you thank your lucky stars that you even managed to get here, and wonder what you did to deserve to be in a place so spectacular.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Encino Farmers Market
Let me just start this off by saying that I really am in a state of severe loathing over the state of most produce you get in the markets these days. Tasteless, textureless, underripe, waxy, pesticide-laden, no-nutrients-having, soulless crap.
I remember long ago when I was little, tomatoes were red, I mean DEEP ruby red, and tasted sweet and juicy and delicious. It was actually difficult to slice them because they were so soft and juicy. They actually added a special something to a salad besides just chunks of filler. You twenty-somethings reading this probably won't be able to relate since you may have never had one of these. You can't get those anymore these days unless you grow them yourself. Even my beloved Trader Joe's, who I love more than my luggage (you know I'm ripping off Steel Magnolias when I say that, and if you don't know, go see that movie, like, STAT so you will know what deep level of love that is) -- even my beloved Trader Joe's has fallen short of the mark when it comes to edible produce. Even their organic selections are prepackaged so you can't choose what you want, underripe and then going bad in a couple of days anyway. Just... crap. What has happened to produce in California? Aren't we like, a huge hub of agriculture in this country? Why are we given so much garbage to eat that is supposed to be "six or more servings a day" --?? I just don't understand it.
I had visited our Farmer's Market a year ago when we first moved into the house and Derek's parents came to visit. I took D's mom there, and we checked it out and had a nice time (remember that, Sue?) -- lots of lovely, local, organically grown gorgeousness EVERYWHERE. I'm ashamed to admit, I hadn't been back since. Until Sunday.
I hopped on my trusty super cute pink bike now outfitted with a super cute basket for schlepping things (courtesy of Kristi), cruised on over, and loaded up on delicious red strawberries, avocados, cabbage, leeks, radish sprouts, lemons, bagels for Derek, two kinds of dates, chirimollas (I didn't know what they were either, but that's the beautiful thing about the farmer's market -- they will let you taste anything before you buy. Chirimollas are this delicious fruit, not unlike a mango, that you slice open and just eat/suck out the contents. Not very graceful to execute, but really good. Kind of like a cross between a mango and a banana.)
Oh, and I also picked up a cute little Japanese hand-painted fabric fan for $3. Not too shabby.
The Farmer's Market has grown since I was last there. More booths with competing produce to choose from, a mariachi band playing and singing walking around, a bounce house for the kids. It was a carnival of wholesome goodness.
I would have picked up flowers, but I thought that would be WAY too over-the-top Suzy Sunshine action going on -- me on my cute pink bike, fresh produce and flowers spilling out of the basket, me grinning like a total spaz in a tampon commercial or something. No way, man. I have to keep my hardcore street edge intact.
The Encino Farmers Market: Go get your produce on!
Encino Farmers Market
17400 Victory Blvd. (at Louise)
Encino (818) 708-6611
8 a.m. to 1 p.m. Sundays
I remember long ago when I was little, tomatoes were red, I mean DEEP ruby red, and tasted sweet and juicy and delicious. It was actually difficult to slice them because they were so soft and juicy. They actually added a special something to a salad besides just chunks of filler. You twenty-somethings reading this probably won't be able to relate since you may have never had one of these. You can't get those anymore these days unless you grow them yourself. Even my beloved Trader Joe's, who I love more than my luggage (you know I'm ripping off Steel Magnolias when I say that, and if you don't know, go see that movie, like, STAT so you will know what deep level of love that is) -- even my beloved Trader Joe's has fallen short of the mark when it comes to edible produce. Even their organic selections are prepackaged so you can't choose what you want, underripe and then going bad in a couple of days anyway. Just... crap. What has happened to produce in California? Aren't we like, a huge hub of agriculture in this country? Why are we given so much garbage to eat that is supposed to be "six or more servings a day" --?? I just don't understand it.
I had visited our Farmer's Market a year ago when we first moved into the house and Derek's parents came to visit. I took D's mom there, and we checked it out and had a nice time (remember that, Sue?) -- lots of lovely, local, organically grown gorgeousness EVERYWHERE. I'm ashamed to admit, I hadn't been back since. Until Sunday.
I hopped on my trusty super cute pink bike now outfitted with a super cute basket for schlepping things (courtesy of Kristi), cruised on over, and loaded up on delicious red strawberries, avocados, cabbage, leeks, radish sprouts, lemons, bagels for Derek, two kinds of dates, chirimollas (I didn't know what they were either, but that's the beautiful thing about the farmer's market -- they will let you taste anything before you buy. Chirimollas are this delicious fruit, not unlike a mango, that you slice open and just eat/suck out the contents. Not very graceful to execute, but really good. Kind of like a cross between a mango and a banana.)
Oh, and I also picked up a cute little Japanese hand-painted fabric fan for $3. Not too shabby.
The Farmer's Market has grown since I was last there. More booths with competing produce to choose from, a mariachi band playing and singing walking around, a bounce house for the kids. It was a carnival of wholesome goodness.
I would have picked up flowers, but I thought that would be WAY too over-the-top Suzy Sunshine action going on -- me on my cute pink bike, fresh produce and flowers spilling out of the basket, me grinning like a total spaz in a tampon commercial or something. No way, man. I have to keep my hardcore street edge intact.
The Encino Farmers Market: Go get your produce on!
Encino Farmers Market
17400 Victory Blvd. (at Louise)
Encino (818) 708-6611
8 a.m. to 1 p.m. Sundays
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Rats -- The Epic Saga Continues
So last night, as the huge raindrops began to fall, I happened to be in our bedroom near the closet when I heard it -- the scurryings and scamperings of a hundred little rodent feet coming in out of the rain and settling in for a nice game of cribbage and some old scotch. Without paying any rent. I decided to raise the roof on their little party by taking a hanger and poking the little attic hatch thing upward from whence the scamperings were emanating, so that they would know that the owners of the house in which they are squatting are displeased and thus, a damper would be put on their little party, if you will. The hatch thingy went up and came back down, and as it did so, a rat turd fell out and right into my eye.
Yes, you read that right. I got a turd in the eye. Oh yes. It’s ON, bitches.
Nobody drops turd in MY eye, dammit. NOBODY.
Derek went out in the yard this morning to discover another carcass of yet another offender who met an unfortunate end. The carnage has only just begun.
Yes, you read that right. I got a turd in the eye. Oh yes. It’s ON, bitches.
Nobody drops turd in MY eye, dammit. NOBODY.
Derek went out in the yard this morning to discover another carcass of yet another offender who met an unfortunate end. The carnage has only just begun.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Countdown to Kauai
Only ten more days, and I will be here:
Yeaaaaaah. That sound you hear is me doing the Super Happy Butt-Wriggling Dance of Joyous Ass-Shaking. It is a very ancient cultural dance, reserved for occasions such as these. Can you feel, feel, feel, feel my heat?
Yeaaaaaah. That sound you hear is me doing the Super Happy Butt-Wriggling Dance of Joyous Ass-Shaking. It is a very ancient cultural dance, reserved for occasions such as these. Can you feel, feel, feel, feel my heat?
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Aw, Rats!
So Derek left at 6 a.m. for an early meeting, so I got to sleep in and drive alone to work. I roll out of bed around 8:00 after hitting the snooze button about 16 times, let the dogs out to go pee with my eyes half closed, get showered and dressed and looking all cute in my new Old Navy pink shirt and my cute pink heels with the butterfly design on them and my hair all freshly did and everything and proceed out to the garage to feed the hounds when I am stopped short by the sight of a GIANT DEAD RAT WITH A GIANT RUBBERY TAIL LYING THERE WITH ITS HEAD STILL IN A RAT TRAP. Which was thankfully face-down. And folks, I did the super lame cliché girl thing to do.
I screamed.
It was just so shocking, I mean, I almost stepped on the thing. Here, in my cute little shangri-la paradiso springtime beautiful yard on this beautiful sunny day, this poor dead nasty-ass creature stood out in bold and gross juxtaposition. And the dogs are all looking at me like, “Bitch, GET MY CHICKEN, ARE YOU NEW? Daddy always feeds us by 7:15! What do we have to do, suck in our cheeks and show some ribs? We are not Nicole Richie!!! This delay is un-freaking-acceptable! Step over the thing and get your ass into the garage and snap to it!”
But, I digress. See, up until recently we had been kind of in pleasant denial about any rodent problem. Sure, I had seen them last summer in our peach tree, greedily devouring every last morsel of fruit before it had even ripened enough to be picked. We had nary a bite of peach from that tree because of those little bastards. I even took the super high-pressure nozzle hose to those mo-fo’s while they sat in said peach tree, all fat and loaded up on sugar and giving me the rat-finger since they were too high up to reach them and kick their rat-asses. Yeah, I took that sprayer hose and was all Bruce Willis from Die Hard on their asses: “YIPPEE-KAI-AY, MOTHER F---ERS!!!!” whilst spraying my water uzi with glee. That was kind of fun, actually. But I always assumed they went off and lived in some other place like Ratville or Rattamonica or maybe Rat Hills and then commuted to our apricot tree during the day. Sadly, this is not the case.
Around wintertime, we started hearing strange noises coming from up in the attic and from the roof space over our bedroom. Very busy, scraping, organizing, plotting-type sounds. Derek and I would look at each other.
“Do you hear that?” (wide-eyed)
“Yeah. I do.” (eyes darting around)
“You know, I bet somebody died here years ago and they didn’t tell us when we bought the house.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Somebody totally died here and now they live in our attic. And they’re angry that we’ve taken over the house because they don’t like our decorating scheme, they preferred the L.L. Bean country look, and here we are being all nouveau French / Asian Chic on their ass and they’re pissed. I’m going to check public records or something and find out who died here so we know who is quite obviously haunting us.”
“Okay. Good idea.”
End of story. And Denial is a river in Egypt.
Then one day recently, right after the time change, when it was still light enough to go outside after work and water the plants, I saw them in the faint glimmer of twilight. An entire FREAKING METROPOLIS of rats crawling around in the giant tree in our backyard. It looked like the tree itself was wriggling, there were so many rats crawling around in it. And they were busy doing stuff and things like crazy. I called Derek outside and made him look, and we watched as, one by one, they schlepped from the tree, to our roof, to the Ratville they have been erecting somewhere in our house. Holy crap, Houston, we have a problem.
I told my dad about it, and that I was thinking of calling an exterminator. “Oh good grief, just go get some rat traps and put them on the roof and call it a day, for crying out loud,” he muttered, and dads know about this kind of thing. So Derek got the traps and set them up on the roof the other day. And here, this morning, in front of my face, in all its carcassy glory, was the first fruit of his labors. I guess the trap snapped so hard, it went flying right off the roof and onto the patio and in front of my adorable pink shoes. And with no mens around (come on, I am a feminist and all but that shit is some men's work), I had to go get some plastic bags and pick up the wretched thing so that the dogs don’t get bored today and start thinking it’s some cool new and stinky chew toy for them to toss about the yard. Yeah. It was pretty awful.
I can only imagine the rat graveyard that must be on the roof by now. But my question is, after they’re dead, will they come back to the attic to haunt us and disapprove of our decorating scheme? God, that would just really suck.
I screamed.
It was just so shocking, I mean, I almost stepped on the thing. Here, in my cute little shangri-la paradiso springtime beautiful yard on this beautiful sunny day, this poor dead nasty-ass creature stood out in bold and gross juxtaposition. And the dogs are all looking at me like, “Bitch, GET MY CHICKEN, ARE YOU NEW? Daddy always feeds us by 7:15! What do we have to do, suck in our cheeks and show some ribs? We are not Nicole Richie!!! This delay is un-freaking-acceptable! Step over the thing and get your ass into the garage and snap to it!”
But, I digress. See, up until recently we had been kind of in pleasant denial about any rodent problem. Sure, I had seen them last summer in our peach tree, greedily devouring every last morsel of fruit before it had even ripened enough to be picked. We had nary a bite of peach from that tree because of those little bastards. I even took the super high-pressure nozzle hose to those mo-fo’s while they sat in said peach tree, all fat and loaded up on sugar and giving me the rat-finger since they were too high up to reach them and kick their rat-asses. Yeah, I took that sprayer hose and was all Bruce Willis from Die Hard on their asses: “YIPPEE-KAI-AY, MOTHER F---ERS!!!!” whilst spraying my water uzi with glee. That was kind of fun, actually. But I always assumed they went off and lived in some other place like Ratville or Rattamonica or maybe Rat Hills and then commuted to our apricot tree during the day. Sadly, this is not the case.
Around wintertime, we started hearing strange noises coming from up in the attic and from the roof space over our bedroom. Very busy, scraping, organizing, plotting-type sounds. Derek and I would look at each other.
“Do you hear that?” (wide-eyed)
“Yeah. I do.” (eyes darting around)
“You know, I bet somebody died here years ago and they didn’t tell us when we bought the house.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Somebody totally died here and now they live in our attic. And they’re angry that we’ve taken over the house because they don’t like our decorating scheme, they preferred the L.L. Bean country look, and here we are being all nouveau French / Asian Chic on their ass and they’re pissed. I’m going to check public records or something and find out who died here so we know who is quite obviously haunting us.”
“Okay. Good idea.”
End of story. And Denial is a river in Egypt.
Then one day recently, right after the time change, when it was still light enough to go outside after work and water the plants, I saw them in the faint glimmer of twilight. An entire FREAKING METROPOLIS of rats crawling around in the giant tree in our backyard. It looked like the tree itself was wriggling, there were so many rats crawling around in it. And they were busy doing stuff and things like crazy. I called Derek outside and made him look, and we watched as, one by one, they schlepped from the tree, to our roof, to the Ratville they have been erecting somewhere in our house. Holy crap, Houston, we have a problem.
I told my dad about it, and that I was thinking of calling an exterminator. “Oh good grief, just go get some rat traps and put them on the roof and call it a day, for crying out loud,” he muttered, and dads know about this kind of thing. So Derek got the traps and set them up on the roof the other day. And here, this morning, in front of my face, in all its carcassy glory, was the first fruit of his labors. I guess the trap snapped so hard, it went flying right off the roof and onto the patio and in front of my adorable pink shoes. And with no mens around (come on, I am a feminist and all but that shit is some men's work), I had to go get some plastic bags and pick up the wretched thing so that the dogs don’t get bored today and start thinking it’s some cool new and stinky chew toy for them to toss about the yard. Yeah. It was pretty awful.
I can only imagine the rat graveyard that must be on the roof by now. But my question is, after they’re dead, will they come back to the attic to haunt us and disapprove of our decorating scheme? God, that would just really suck.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Self-Made Man by Norah Vincent
This is going to be a book review. No, shut up, this is not a book review blog, but as most of you know by now, this blog is about everything and nothing, and I loved this book so very much that I simply had to say something about it.
Norah Vincent is a woman with balls.
Norah Vincent is a woman with balls.
Wait, that sounds really loaded, but in this case, it’s true on a number of levels.
Norah Vincent is a woman who lived as a man for a year and a half. She hired a makeup artist to teach her how to apply a five o’clock shadow every day. She trained with a voice coach to sound like a dude. She bound up her boobies. She wore a crew cut. She joined a men’s bowling league. She lived in a monastery. She joined a men’s movement group. All of the usual titillating details you would expect a cross-gender adventure to have are, of course, present in the book. And I love me some titillating. Even just the word is so fun to say, right? Go ahead, say it with me: Titillating. Uh-huh-huh-huh. Doesn’t it make you feel like Beavis and Butthead? But I digress. None of the people she was around as “Ned” ever knew she was a woman unless and until she told them. And you find yourself getting nervous for her and her charade. It’s hard to root for a hero who is being so deceitful, but you want her to find out what she finds out.
Anyhoo, titillating details aside, what I took away from the book was so much more profound and thought-provoking. Mars and Venus? Eh, whatevs. Norah’s observations of men when there are no women around, and the way she articulates them to the reader, left me gasping for air at times. I would have to set the book down, look away, and really absorb the magnitude of “Oh my God!!! I get it now!” that I kept feeling as I was reading. Anyone who is in a relationship with a man, or works with men, or is a parent to a little man-in-training, and even men themselves, will gain to understand volumes about the current male condition and sociology that no psycho-babble book could ever teach you. I was riveted. And I think you will be, too.
Self-Made Man by Norah Vincent
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Girl.... You'll Be A Woman Soon
I love a girly-girl party. I love seeing girlfriends and spending time with them and getting caught up with them when it's so hard for a bunch of busy chicks to congregate at the same place at the same time. This is at Karin's place, and crapola, there is no photo of us. But this is Shannon, my At-Work Mom's daughter. People have asked us before if we're sisters, which is kind of ironic, I suppose. But mainly I just take it as a huge compliment since hi, Shannon is totally foxy. M'kay?
I love a girly-girl party. Because it affords me the opportunity to show off my cute shoes to the delighted squeals of friends. And that gives me joy. I know -- shallow much? At least I'm honest.
Bitter, Party of One
This is going to be Bitchfest ’06.
Well, maybe not that bad. But come on. We had the time change over the weekend, accompanied by some nice weather. This is the best time of year for me. I’m all super stoked that it will still be light out when I am coming home from Curves at night. Super stoked about the coming spring blooms that explode around the neighborhood and on the hiking trails. Super stoked I can now manage hikes in daylight after work! I bought some new plants for the backyard and even some new super-cool teak chaise lounges for, you know, lounging in the lovely extended daylight hours.
And just look at it outside. It is pouring. Dumping. Raining like it’s going out of style and then being dropped off at the Goodwill. Talk about a buzz-kill. I woke up this morning (which is a world of suck unto itself for us non-morning people) to pounding rain and darkness. I had all these grand plans for this evening of walking the dogs, arranging the new plants in the yard, then reading some Whitman to the twilight sky above. But I guess I’ll just stay inside and listen to Morrissey, organize my sock basket and sigh a lot instead.
Bitter.
Well, maybe not that bad. But come on. We had the time change over the weekend, accompanied by some nice weather. This is the best time of year for me. I’m all super stoked that it will still be light out when I am coming home from Curves at night. Super stoked about the coming spring blooms that explode around the neighborhood and on the hiking trails. Super stoked I can now manage hikes in daylight after work! I bought some new plants for the backyard and even some new super-cool teak chaise lounges for, you know, lounging in the lovely extended daylight hours.
And just look at it outside. It is pouring. Dumping. Raining like it’s going out of style and then being dropped off at the Goodwill. Talk about a buzz-kill. I woke up this morning (which is a world of suck unto itself for us non-morning people) to pounding rain and darkness. I had all these grand plans for this evening of walking the dogs, arranging the new plants in the yard, then reading some Whitman to the twilight sky above. But I guess I’ll just stay inside and listen to Morrissey, organize my sock basket and sigh a lot instead.
Bitter.
Monday, March 27, 2006
Jinky's
Oh. My. Goodness. This is a breakfast shout-out of the highest order. You know how important a good breakfast place is? Especially if you have gone out and pickled your liver the night before? Well here you go, people -- I’m about to go large with this one. Jinky’s in Sherman Oaks. Absolutely, unbelievably, ridiculously good. I showed up at this place for the first time on Saturday to meet Bunnie before a hike in Fryman, and I was nursing the most gawd-awful hangover. I would say it was in the Top 10 Worst Hangovers of My Life. I had taken Bec out to celebrate her birthday the night before, and well, yeaaaaaahhh. Kinda overdid it on the sake and the champagne, but damn it was fun! The only worse hangovers I have had than sake involved an unfortunate tequila episode over one fateful Memorial Day when I was 22 (my ass got SCHOOLED on the ways of tequila because of that), and the suffering that was wrought on my person the morning after a night out with my brother in Tahoe wherein we drank just about every cocktail known to mankind in a sort of casino-club-bar crawl that we did. That night was super-disastrous for my liver. Oh, my poor liver. Pity my liver. Tell your children that if they are bad, they will come back in the next life as my liver.
Anyway! Jinky’s. Bunnie and I shared …. oh my god, are you ready? ‘cause I have dreams about these now that I am in the know …. Banana Macadamia Nut Pancakes (ginormous, with heaps of syrup and, get this -- room temperature butter that is actually spreadable) and Huevos Con Pollo, which was sort of like Huevos Rancheros with a nice chunk of grilled chicken on top and avocado and cilantro and stuff. Absolutely delicious all the way around. You try not to get full because it is so damn tasty, you don’t want to stop eating. Add to this the fact that they know caffeinehounds when they see us, and are kind enough to leave a mini-pot of coffee on the table with you so you can refill at your own pace. Add to this the fact that they serve this very quality green tea, iced, and will provide you a nice refill in a to-go cup to take said tea with you so that you can cram all the antioxidants possible into your toxic waste dump person so that you might have the hope of vaguely resembling something human at some point in the day.
That was Jinky’s. You so want to go there now, right? I know. Me too.
Jinky’s Café
14120 Ventura Boulevard
Sherman Oaks, CA 91423
Phone: (818) 981-2250
Anyway! Jinky’s. Bunnie and I shared …. oh my god, are you ready? ‘cause I have dreams about these now that I am in the know …. Banana Macadamia Nut Pancakes (ginormous, with heaps of syrup and, get this -- room temperature butter that is actually spreadable) and Huevos Con Pollo, which was sort of like Huevos Rancheros with a nice chunk of grilled chicken on top and avocado and cilantro and stuff. Absolutely delicious all the way around. You try not to get full because it is so damn tasty, you don’t want to stop eating. Add to this the fact that they know caffeinehounds when they see us, and are kind enough to leave a mini-pot of coffee on the table with you so you can refill at your own pace. Add to this the fact that they serve this very quality green tea, iced, and will provide you a nice refill in a to-go cup to take said tea with you so that you can cram all the antioxidants possible into your toxic waste dump person so that you might have the hope of vaguely resembling something human at some point in the day.
That was Jinky’s. You so want to go there now, right? I know. Me too.
Jinky’s Café
14120 Ventura Boulevard
Sherman Oaks, CA 91423
Phone: (818) 981-2250
It Rules To Be Me
If I sat and tried to conjure up the perfect day, I don’t know if I could do better than yesterday. It was like everything was aligned in sheer perfection. Derek, Jodi and I went up to Snow Summit to take advantage of the recent snow. We thought everybody else and their mother would be doing the same thing, but alas, there was hardly anybody there and we whizzed through every single lift line. The weather was warm and beautiful. We cracked jokes on the chair lifts and made each other laugh all day. Snow was fresh and fluffy and wonderful. We spied some weird little creature repeatedly that we couldn’t quite identify -- like a squirrel mixed with a rat, mixed with about 16 Red Bulls. One spazzy little rodent-like animal. What the heck was that thing? Anyway… I digress. Continuing on with the goodness: There were no major falls or injuries. Lunch was tasty. There were no rude punks on the slopes like at Scrub High. Traffic coming home didn’t even suck that bad. What did I do to deserve such a great day? I have no idea, but I am grateful.
Friday, March 24, 2006
Curvaceous Update
Since I’ve had a total of three friends tell me they have joined Curves since I joined a month ago, I felt it prudent to give a status update for those of you still on the fence. So let me state unequivocally that it does, in fact, still rule. And here is why:
I manage to fit in at least three workouts a week, even if I am swamped as all get-out. It’s just easy to fit it in and “git ‘er done,” as Jillie says. I still really like the vibe of the place and find it is comforting to set foot in there after a hard day of work because I know there will be peace, time for myself and doing something good for my bod, and above all else, nobody bugging me.
I also have to say, they are good about being on top of things. The other night when I was about five minutes into my workout, this lady came in wearing that horrid Stinky Old Lady perfume. Actually, “wearing” is a rather conservative term. It would be more accurate to say that she had lain in a covered glass dish in the fridge and marinated in it. And keep in mind, Curves are not big places -- the entire gym is a very modest sized storefront, the equipment is arranged in a tight circle and you are breathing heavily throughout to keep your cardio up. Thusly, if you are breathing in somebody’s stank perfume, you can taste it in the back of your throat. This is SO not good. This is a one-way ticket to Bitterville, USA. And it's not like you can just walk up to the offender with your coffee cup and be all like Bill Lumberg from Office Space: "Um hi, yeeaaaaah. Just wanted to let you know that um.... yeaaah, you're kinda like um, how should I put this, totally polluting everybody's lungs and making their hair smell like stank and stuff. So... yeah, if you could just sort of like go ahead and like, leave the premises, or the zip code entirely, that would be greeeeaaaat. M'kay?"
I absolutely LOATHE complaining to the management about anything (i.e., stankness in the office, neighbors with barking dogs, whatevs) but sometimes you just have to or you will spontaneously implode from frustration. The management was on the phone as I was leaving, so I held my tongue about it, but to my pleasant surprise, the very next day when I came in, there were signs right there in the front where you check in, and in the restrooms, saying “NO PERFUME, NO PERFUMED LOTIONS”. Well alright! I didn’t even have to open up my can of bitch-ass!
Oh, and as for results, here is what I have noticed with my hyper-critical eye: I now have muscle definition in my arms, my butt is noticeably cheekier, my thighs are a lot stronger, and --check it out!-- I have oblique muscles! Holy crap! Oh, and a marked decrease in the dreaded C-word. Cellulite is no match for Curves.
So yes, as I was saying, Curves does still rule.
I manage to fit in at least three workouts a week, even if I am swamped as all get-out. It’s just easy to fit it in and “git ‘er done,” as Jillie says. I still really like the vibe of the place and find it is comforting to set foot in there after a hard day of work because I know there will be peace, time for myself and doing something good for my bod, and above all else, nobody bugging me.
I also have to say, they are good about being on top of things. The other night when I was about five minutes into my workout, this lady came in wearing that horrid Stinky Old Lady perfume. Actually, “wearing” is a rather conservative term. It would be more accurate to say that she had lain in a covered glass dish in the fridge and marinated in it. And keep in mind, Curves are not big places -- the entire gym is a very modest sized storefront, the equipment is arranged in a tight circle and you are breathing heavily throughout to keep your cardio up. Thusly, if you are breathing in somebody’s stank perfume, you can taste it in the back of your throat. This is SO not good. This is a one-way ticket to Bitterville, USA. And it's not like you can just walk up to the offender with your coffee cup and be all like Bill Lumberg from Office Space: "Um hi, yeeaaaaah. Just wanted to let you know that um.... yeaaah, you're kinda like um, how should I put this, totally polluting everybody's lungs and making their hair smell like stank and stuff. So... yeah, if you could just sort of like go ahead and like, leave the premises, or the zip code entirely, that would be greeeeaaaat. M'kay?"
I absolutely LOATHE complaining to the management about anything (i.e., stankness in the office, neighbors with barking dogs, whatevs) but sometimes you just have to or you will spontaneously implode from frustration. The management was on the phone as I was leaving, so I held my tongue about it, but to my pleasant surprise, the very next day when I came in, there were signs right there in the front where you check in, and in the restrooms, saying “NO PERFUME, NO PERFUMED LOTIONS”. Well alright! I didn’t even have to open up my can of bitch-ass!
Oh, and as for results, here is what I have noticed with my hyper-critical eye: I now have muscle definition in my arms, my butt is noticeably cheekier, my thighs are a lot stronger, and --check it out!-- I have oblique muscles! Holy crap! Oh, and a marked decrease in the dreaded C-word. Cellulite is no match for Curves.
So yes, as I was saying, Curves does still rule.
Some People's Dogs
I was just at the dumb car wash on my lunch (yeah, THAT’S how you want to spend your lunch break) where I spied the most adorable pair of standard poodles. They were twins in every way except their color -- one was greyish and one was tannish. But all of their motions and expressions were fluid and identical and so cute that I just had to get up and say hello. I asked their mistress if I might pet them and she said sure! to which the dogs enthusiastically gave me lots of lovies and brightened my day. They were so funny -- they kind of swirled around one another in vying for best petting position and were just like yin and yang -- they kind of took turns with me in a respectful synchronicity that was totally fueled by their silent doggie language. They both smiled at me. It made my day.
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