Spumoni

I haven’t done one of these in a long time, but I would be sorely remiss if I did not mention this adorable little gem in Sherman Oaks.

The man and I decided on a last-minute date night to go see the latest Bourne movie. We were starving and had to eat first, so on a whim, we popped into this cute little place on the boulevard and had us some Italian food.

Okay, let’s start with the ambience. This is like the great wine cellar room of some old fabulous Italian joint in Little Italy. The wines are lining the walls, and you can sit right next to the open kitchen and watch the action. The guy who took care of us was hands-down the smiliest person I have ever seen. It was like he was on cloud 9 just to bring us their delicious bread (baked on the premises, I saw them pull it out of the oven) and olive tapenade. As I have an ongoing love affair with all things olive-related, and all people who are super-smiley, this place was immediately earning huge points.

Then our food arrived – Salmon Farfalle and Quattro Formaggi pizza. So fresh, so flavorful, so Mama Mia, and huge portions. We ate leftovers for a couple of days after that. Locals started pouring in and seemed to know everyone who worked there, as they were greeted with warm smiles and handshakes. Sadly, we had a movie to catch and had to do the old “Eat and Run” maneuver, but Super Smiley Server Guy was not bitter in the least, and promptly produced our check and doggie bags, and gave us each a warm handshake on the way out.

Huge love for this place. Can’t wait to go back.

Oh, and the Bourne Ultimatum kicked major ass, too.

Spumoni
14533 Ventura Blvd. (at Van Nuys)
Sherman Oaks, CA 91403
(818) 981-7218

Career Change '07: Update

Here is the short version: There are good things and bad things. But the good things far outweigh the bad.

Good thing: The way I earn money now is something I truly enjoy and receive never-ending satisfaction out of performing day after day. I feel like I have made people’s lives better, less painful, less tense, less harried, and this sense of accomplishment is something I have never felt before in a job.

Bad thing: People who don’t tip. It’s not like money was the centrally motivating factor of me making the switch to this job, but the people who re-book me week after week and never tip are starting to become really annoying. And for the record, a tip could be one little dollar, it could be a coupon for Subway, it could be a flower, or it could be $20. One darling soul tipped me a Lindt chocolate bar the other day. I love the crap out of that! It really doesn’t matter what or how much it is as long as it is something that shows an appreciation for the heart and soul I am pouring into every massage. It is a service business, and should be treated as such. Rising above the feeling of being insulted by these people is something I am struggling with.

Good thing: A lot more time to spend at home with the hounds and a lot less time around lawyers.

Bad thing: Sometimes I feel lonely. I can feel the storm and the pulse around me of those commuting and cubicling, and I am no longer part of it. Which is fine, I did my time and feel like I am over that lifestyle, but at times it does feel a bit like being . . . left out. I remedy this by calling up The Hub or the girlfriends and listening to them bitch and moan about office life. This gives me comfort.

Good thing: Every day is different. My schedule changes constantly and new people, clients and referrals are constantly entering my life in interesting ways. I love this. This keeps boredom away and helps me to flex my organizing and time management muscles.

Bad thing: Sometimes I will have an appointment at 9:00 a.m. and then the next one at 2:00 p.m. Since I am not going to dangle around the Northridge Starbucks for four hours (though I am sure there is nothing wrong with that for those who do so), I end up driving home and coming back later. This ends up being a lot of driving back and forth on some days, not only being kind of annoying, but giving me serious enviro-guilt. I remedy this by reminding myself that I am not commuting over the hill every damn day and that my car is very itty-bitty and doesn’t use much gas. This helps somewhat.

Good thing: The nature of my job now is very physical so there is no slouching behind a desk for hours on end. You should see my biceps these days! Because of that physical nature of my work, some days I come home absolutely exhausted. The reason I am not listing this as a bad thing is because it is a good kind of exhausted – like you just went for a long, kick-ass hike and you know your ass will sleep beautifully tonight.

Good thing: Some days (like today), I don’t have any appointments until 6:00, which means I have lots of time to work on my and Bunnie’s brilliant script. Which is what I’m going to do now. Ta ta!

Go Shawtie, It's Ya Birthday

We gonna party like it's ya birthday
We gonna sip bacardi like it's ya birthday
And you know we don't give a f&*# cuz that's ya birthday!

Since I'm content to let this berfday slide under the radar this year (hence, my broadcasting it across the internet), I am keeping it melloooooooow this year. I'm heading off to Burke Williams to be scrubbed, stroked and caressed, and then having some good champagne with some bad movies.

It's good to be me.

I Am My Own Worst Nightmare

Don’t get me wrong: I have the ultimate respect for homemakers everywhere. There is no more noble or thankless profession. I just never thought it would be me.

As long as I can remember, it has been my worst nightmare: the image of the woman, in the house, in the house dress, barefoot, pregnant, cleaning, cooking, cleaning, doing laundry, cleaning, writing thank you notes, running boring-ass errands like getting water from the water store. Heyall naw, give me human interaction, give me Happy Hours, give me intellectual stimulation, give me LIFE. As long as I can remember, this has been my mantra.

But since the “career change” that is no longer the case. The “career change” has given me ample time to embrace my inner Martha since my massage appointments are sporadic and on some days, non-existent. The house maven duties naturally fall on me. And guess what? It’s not so bad. Turns out I am a pretty good and creative cook, and can organize a household and tend to furry children quite well and with enthusiasm.

I have to admit though, it gave me total glee to go out last night. The walls of the house were starting to close in on me and I needed to get the hell outta Dodge and put my hands on the steering wheel rather than on a person’s back. I put on some make-up and a cute outfit, shit, I even blow-dried my hair, people! I met up with Trish and Shannon for a screening in the Hollywood Cemetery of a new upcoming show called “Pushing Daisies”. Shannon’s friend is the creator of the show. People, O. M. G. It was so good. I can’t wait to see more episodes. It will be airing on ABC soon, so watch for it. I am not a TV show person, but I will make time for this one, it’s that unique and delicious.

Just like my casserole.

To Bang Or Not To Bang

That was the question.



As you can see, I chose to bang.

I felt like a six-year-old girl for a day, but now I'm kinda diggin' it.

Shake, Rattle and Roll Over

Earthquakes are just not fun anymore.

There was a time when they used to be. To this day, I love making Valley Mom tell the story about how, during the ’71 San Fernando earthquake, she stumbled into my room in a panic to fetch me from my crib, and in her confusion and haste, grabbed her baby by the ankles and ran to the doorway to wait out the rest of the quake. I slept through the entire episode. It was a 6.6. And it was 6:01 in the dreaded A.M. – no wonder I couldn’t be bothered to wake up.

Later, growing up in the valley, there would be other quakes here and there, but they were fun. I was about eight or so and in the living room when a little one started rolling the house to and fro, and I distinctly remember it felt like ocean waves and so I started to ride them on the hardwood floors. How cool is that? Some stuff fell over, but it was never any big whoop.

Until 1994. The big Northridge quake. 6.7 Every valley person has their story about The Big One. Here is the short version of mine: It scared the shit out of me. It remains to this day, one of the single most frightening experiences of my 37 years on this earth.

There was nothing fun or rolling or nice about it. It was not a little “hello!” handshake from God. It was like God picked up the entire house and shook it angrily like He was losing in Vegas and here was the last of His cosmic pension on the table and all the hot angels had moved on to other tables and he was shaking those dice with the fury of a thousand angry Jesuses in the temple. Whoa! I guess I get Biblical when I’m upset. But seriously…

I have always had a kind of loving respect for nature. I get white-hot angry when someone litters, especially in a nature environment like a park or Lake Tahoe. To me, it is the equivalent of pissing on God’s front lawn or treading on Superman's cape or pulling on the mask of the Lone Ranger: You just don’t do it. I have always loved swimming in the ocean and been repeatedly swallowed whole by waves before and felt the power and known I could be taken out like that in an instant if nature so chose. But I have never felt nature so violently pissed off as I did that day, and I guess that is what was so scary. We were no longer friends. Mother Nature had become a hit man.

It took a long time for me to find my little dog Sophie that morning. She was a yappy dog with a lot of sass and believed she could kick anyone’s ass (I made a rhyme!). She slept upstairs next to the bed, but she wouldn’t come when I called her and I believed she must be dead since she worshipped me and always came when I called. After wading through the detritus and broken glass, I finally found her under the kitchen table, surrounded by her own pee and poo. She was shaking violently and quietly fixed her beady little black eyes on me with a look of utter fear, like I had caused the quake and she didn’t trust me now. Eventually I got her to come out and it strangely gave me comfort to comfort her. Every aftershock, she would look to me anxiously to see how to react, and I had to make myself be calm, make my heart rate go down, or she wouldn’t believe me that it really was okay. I kept holding her and comforting her through those long hours of darkness with no power, no street lights, when it seemed like the sun was never going to come up – what had happened was too terrible and maybe it would just call in sick today. The loneliness and fear in those hours is something that is part of me now. It’s in my blood. I still respect Mother Nature, but trust is something that is not so easy to reclaim.

So as you know, last night, not long after I had gone to sleep, the house was jolted by a 4.5 and I woke up, panicked, ready for action. This mother-effer was not going to take me, dammit! But it was over as soon as it had begun. My heart kept pounding. Would there be aftershocks? Would it set off a larger quake? Nothing. I checked on the dogs. Maybe I could comfort them and that would comfort me. But they were already back to sleep. Apparently they are so L.A., they don’t get out of bed for less than a 5.5.

One day I might shake hands with Mother Nature again and we’ll do lunch or something. But for now, her PMS-y nature is something that still frightens me and I have to just keep her as an acquaintance. You just don’t know what’s going to set her off.

The Neighborhood Douche

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don’t You Forget About Me

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

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

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

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

It was traumatic to say the least.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And had the best time.

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

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

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

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

It just wasn’t my thing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hey, it could happen.

Bitch Totally Stole My Look

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nail, Meet Head

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

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

Wedding Photos

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

There Is Wisdom In Uncertainty

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

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

Change Is Good

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Million Dollar $16 Dress

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

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

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

Like, Oh My Gawd!

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

Italy Photos

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

From Germany, With Love

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grammy -- The Talk of Talk Shows

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