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

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

Dear Shitbiscuit,

Fuck you. You fucking piece of shit asshole.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Douchebag asshole.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He has had an eye tuck.

And now he has his own chiropractor.

Taxi Driver Confessions

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How I Spent The Shoppingest Day Of The Year

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And for that, I am thankful.

Crunk Juice

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

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

The Icing On The Cake of My Little Purple Pill

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

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

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

The whole weekend goes by.

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

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

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

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

mashed potatoes
rice
mashed carrots
applesauce

Here is what I cannot eat:

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

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

Ulcifer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ugh, The Waiting

In just a little more than a week, I will be here:


Living La Gringa Vida Loca for Mook and Jen's wedding.

Why, oh why does it have to take so long to get here?

At Least I Didn't Get Dumped

So my FINAL night of deep tissue class last night actually turned out so nice. I will get to have a life again during the week. My Tuesdays and Thursdays will be free for me to squander as I choose. Yay! I got to have a lot of work done on my neck and head, which I love. I didn't get home too late and then slept all night (woo hoo!). John, my awesome teacher made us brownies and carrot cake and they were unbelieeeeeeevable. It was such a nice end to the whole experience of having to re-take that class.

And to cap off the night and make me so grateful I don't have to come back to that dump, I went to my car alone on the bottom level of the ghetto craptastic dungeon underground parking lot where there are always homeless people and weirdos about, and there was this totally shady guy standing right by the stairs with his back turned, looking like he might turn around and shank a cracker any second. I speed-stealthed to my car, thinking if he did attack me, I could pummel him in the head with my pillowcase full of sheets. Look man, I’m badass. I’ve got a case full of Ross discount special twin-size sateen sheets, man. You don’t wanna eff with me, man. I slammed the car door, locked it and squeeeeeee! burned rubber out of there, thankful I didn't have to open up a bag of smackdown, and realized as I drove past him that he was cracked out of his mind and was likely having a bad high or something and was trying not to be noticed.

This whole scene came fresh on the heels of my being told by one of the girls in my class that recently she got on the elevator and someone had actually taken a dump in it. Yeah. A dump. She doesn’t take the elevator anymore.

Has the westside always been this gross, or am I just spoiled now that I live in the valley?

Who Brought The Cat?

I'm posting this just because I can't stop laughing at it.

Life Is So Good

People, all my dreams are coming true. My heart is about to explode with joy and love. Let’s review:

1) I’m engaged to marry the greatest guy on the planet. Not only did he make and pack me breakfast, lunch and dinner the other morning because he knew I wouldn’t be home until late that night, but he included an “I Love You” note written on a piece of note paper that Bunnie gave me that features Stewie from Family Guy screaming his head off “Damn it to the bloody bowels of HELL!” There is just so much good stuff in that one little detail, where would I even begin?

2) I heard on the Kevin & Bean show this morning that ASIA IS BACK TOGETHER. ALL THE ORIGINAL MEMBERS. AND THEY ARE TOURING. I know, I’m sorry about the all-caps thing, but it’s freaking ASIA, BITCHES!!!! I know, I know -- dork, dork, dork. I’m a huge dork. But I love me some Asia. Even back in high school in ’87, when Asia was no longer cool, my big huge fantasy was one day getting to do a dance routine (I was on the dance team) for an assembly in front of the whole school where I would do a very performance art type jazz dance to the lesser known but still great Asia song “Time Again” where I would use those sticks-with-streamers thingies and angrily shake my hips from side to side on the drum parts, and the whole school would be amazed at my ferocity and see me for the hot babe that I was and henceforth, drama nerds like myself from all schools would be seen with more love and respect because of my Asia Dance of Extreme Bitchin’ness.

That never happened. And I hated high school. But that was my dream.

And they (Asia) were so cool in the interview this morning.

And they loved that they had a part in The 40-Year-Old Virgin.

And their show at the Canyon Club is sold out. How can a poor, Asia-loving cracker like myself get a hold of tickets? One can only dream.

3) Showgirls, the greatest god-awful movie of all time that we all know I love to bits, is coming out as a musical. Yes, it’s true. Can you handle the sheer joy of this? Can you believe how much God is smiling upon me? Can you just imagine being there, in Vegas, when such a miraculous spectacle unveils? I, for one, am stoked beyond all reason. Life is good. Oh, life is so good.

Foo Fighters Acoustic Show, Pantages Theater

Words to describe last night’s Foo Fighters acoustic show at the Pantages Theater:

magical
intimate
moving
hilarious
quiet
head-banging
inspiring
enlightening
personal
uproarious
decadent
romantic
spine-tingling

Where do I even begin? I’ve seen the Foos twice already, once in a large venue, once in a smaller one, but this was so up close and personal, it was like having Dave Grohl and his buds come over to your house and jam at your dinner party or something. As this article from the VH1 website so aptly put it, “For the first time, Grohl's surprisingly tender voice and intrepid lyrics are front and center for an entire two hours. Or, as he put it, ‘I'm not just screaming my balls off.’” That pretty much sums up what was so great about the show. Don’t get me wrong -- I love me some screaming Dave. But his talented songwriting and distinctive voice totally stole the show, and it was a beautiful thing.

Rhonda hooked a cracka UP and our seats were in the second row, to the right of the stage. I could practically count Dave’s nostril hairs, we were so close. The show started refreshingly on time with one of their new songs that began with just Dave playing guitar in his chair, and reached a feverish crescendo as the rest of his band came out, along with a keyboardist, a violinist, and an extra guitarist. Taylor’s drum bass was so intense, I could feel it pounding in my throat as Dave banged his head, a look of pure ecstasy on his face. I got the chills and knew this was going to be a kick-ass show. Acoustic or no, they just rock.

Some of the songs had accordion mixed in, one had a dude (I think it was one of their roadies) playing harmonica. Dave told stories between songs and just generally interacted with the very appreciative audience a lot. And guess what, valley peeps? He talked about the valley a BUNCH. He lives in Encino (tra la la!) and loves it. I knew this already from one of their performances last year on one of the MTV award shows where a camera followed Dave backstage, and he pointed at his shirt that he was wearing:

with the word “Encino” in block letters on the front and declared “That’s right, because I’m strictly valley, motherf***ers!” as he flashed the double-bird at the camera. I thought that was hilarious and I turned to Derek and said “I need me one of those shirts.” It took some searching around, and I wasn’t able to find one as cool as his, but one day on a trip to Rite-Aid of all places, to my surprise, there were Encino t-shirts being sold that had very similar lettering, so I snatched that puppy up! It’s frog green, but what are you gonna do?

But I digress. So he was telling the crowd how much he loves the valley, that his house is "huge and cheap" and proclaimed Silverlake as “total bullshit, dude.” It was hilarious. I felt more bonded with him than ever.

The show ended with two encores and more stories about his younger days with Nirvana, and much to my amazement and delight, the very last song was my favorite Foo Fighters song: Everlong. I did what I always do when I hear that song: I cried. And as he sang the last notes of the chorus, I swear he was looking right into my eyes. It was possibly the most emotionally satisfying concert I have ever seen.

After the show, since we were VIPs and all, we got to stay for the after-show soiree, which featured huge buffets of food, open bar, and burlesque dancers. We went ahead and partook in a bit of the bubbly, but had to call it a night after that -- we were both just wiped. I got home and did the super-fast-makeup-swipe-off-clothes-shedding-fall-into-bed dance and drifted off to sleep with a huge smile on my face.

Rhonda, I love you, girl. What an awesome birthday present.

Berfday and Godbaby Extravaganza

Oh man, I love me some godbaby. She is just flat-out and hands-down the most adorable, happy, smiley, radiant little creature on the planet. But I'm not biased.

I held her, I played with her, I read to her, I listened to her views on Little Brown Nut Hare vs. Little Rabbit. I was hoping to read her the all-time children's classic Everybody Poops, but alas, it was not amongst her extensive collection. [Note to Godbaby-Mama: This is a must-read. So is Captain Underpants And The Perilous Plot of Professor Poopypants.]

I watched in awe as she sat on the floor and giggled in response to The Big Brown Dog constantly sniffing her, licking her head, nibbling at her diaper. She just simply was not fazed by him one bit, but he was sure fazed by her. I've never seen him so nervous before, and I realized he hadn't yet really been around someone that young, and a 9-month-old baby is quite akin to a very drunk person: they wobble, they teeter, they fall unexpectedly, they make strange noises. I think he was afraid her little drunk ass was going to fall over all the time, not to mention all the great smells coming out of her diaper. Forget butts -- diaper smell is THE SHIT, people!

Here he is, all like "Awwwwwwyeah, diaper booty gettin' in mah bed!":

The below photo is mildly deceiving since Babe also took quite a shine to the Young Juliette. She doesn't ordinarily display a particular fondness for persons under the age of 21 now that she is older and just can't be bothered. But she wanted to sit next to Juliette at all times. Not lick her, not sniff her, just sit beside her and look proud. It was so cute.

But in this photo, she seems to be saying "Oh heyall naw bitch, you ain't getting in this bed! You're cutting into naptime, punk!" And it's not even her bed -- it's actually Rufus' bed that he graciously shares with her when her own bed is just not deemed as being sufficient for Her Royal Pugness:


And here she is again, giving you the ol' stinkeye:

So I got sick the day before my berfday (WTF???) which really blew, but I still managed to have a great one anyway. Several adoring fans came over to oooh and aahhh the Darling Godbaby, but here are a couple of preliminary photos from Jillie until I get mine out of jail in the camera:

Here's me and MY FIANCÉ (squeeeeeeee! love saying that!) -- pigging out for a little pre-berfday celebration at Buca di Beppo in Encino. Man, I love that place. You walk in hungry, and you leave full for a week. And Bonus: it's within stumbling distance of our house.
But the real treat was having my precious friend in the house for four days, and remembering all over again how great she is, and how God was smiling on me the day I was placed next to her at that shark tank-- I mean law firm-- all those years ago. I love you, Jillie-pew:

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The Waiting Is The Hardest Part

Only five more days until I get to see Jillie-pew and my Godbaby.

Cripes, could they BE any more freaking adorable???

Thank You

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

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

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

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

Babe's First Slumber Party

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

White Trash A-Go-Go

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me: Are you taking me somewhere to kill me?

Derek: Heh heh.

(silence)

Me: No, seriously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Derek: It was Grammy’s engagement ring.

Me: (choking up)

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

Derek: Punkin, will you marry me?

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

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

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

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

Surge Returns!

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

And now all is right in my world.

Shoegasm, Part Deux

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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