My Weekend Was Bigger Than Yours, Part Two-nyas

Right now, as I write this, I have a chihuahua next to me, curled into a comma, with her furry head resting in the nook between my thigh and tummy. I just realized, tonight, as I walked her to the library park and back, that she is less of a dog and more of a friend. I realize, yes, that my last statement is popular with the crazy population. Also those people packing stuffed animals in the back windows of their cars. So I would love to deny this, thereby making myself more cool and less crazy, but the dog is less canine and more of a I-swear-she-understands-English dog-body, human-brain hybrid.

I find myself, more and more often, talking to Tanya like she's a person who can respond. More and more often, on our walks, I'll ask her questions -- for instance, when we pass a heap of poop that someone neglected to pick up, I'll ask her what she thinks. She usually takes the widest route around other dogs' poop as possible, which, to me, seems like a sort-of answer. As in, "Dog poop is gross." And the section in my heart (that deals with love alloted to canines) beats with a little faster, because, darn it, I feel the same way.

She licks my face way too much, obsessively and for long minutes, and she takes the high jump to new heights when I walk through the door after even a minute of being parted. She wags her tail so hard, her body ends up changing directions. Sometimes, when she goes to Pet-Smart and I pick her up, the workers are unwilling to let her go, giving her kisses and mounds of gobbledy-goo-goo and tell me that she's their dog now. She's a likeable dog, and it's a bonus that she can doggy-beg for chicken strips.

So it kills me just a little when her quirkiness, manifested in a hatred of cats, other people who aren't Russ and I when Russ and I are around, bikes, skateboards, black (murderer) gloves, loud noises, children younger than 4, senior citizens with canes, men with dreds, men with large piercings, Golden Retrievers, and questionable hand gestures, is what my best friends mostly see when they're around her. I know they understand and I know they are caring, patient people who have nothing against a rogueish chihuahua, but I always feel just a little embarassed that she's my dog. And I start to think, if only I'd had her as a puppy, she wouldn't be this way, if only she was the shiny, happy R.E.M.-like model instead of the scary indie band. Which, of course, she would bark incessantly at, were they in her presence. Probably the shiny, happy models, too. And most likely, Jesus (long hair/sandals) and Buddha (shapely figure) and Barack Obama (big smile).

In spite of this, she's still my dog and I feel the need to defend her honor constantly. It's insanity, this canine-caring stuff, and I partially understand why the mothers of petty criminals maintain, despite all the evidence, that their children are good-hearted people who wouldn't do a thing like this. When you get so many licks to the face, so many waggy smiles, it's hard to accept otherwise.

My Weekend Was Bigger Than Yours, Part One-sers

About 90 feet bigger. Maybe even 120.
I am lucky enough to know Emilio (happy birthday!), who totally hooked us (Christina, Josh, Russ, myself) up with an all-access pass to the Owens Valley Radio Observatory this weekend. It's not for mere mortals, but for Carl Sagan, Mike Brown (not FEMA, but Pluto), and Jodie Foster. And now, us. I am lucky enough to be counted among the ranks of the world's most elite scientists (Emilio included) as one of their pluckiest hangers-on. Because let's face it, a writer such as myself can only spell words having to do with science and is crippled by the simplest ventures, such as starting fire in a BBQ. Luckily, I didn't have to do that this weekend. My most scientific duty involved stirring soup. And there was an automatic burner, so there was no burning of my digits involved.


I got to ride with Josh, which was fun because I got to learn a lot of things about him that I didn't know, like why he loves Mitch Hedberg so much (I now count myself a fan), what the experience of getting hit by a car is like (not cozy), as well as a few other things that are a matter of global security and must be kept in-kog-nito. It's too bad I can't write about it, though, because it was epic and changed my life and maybe it would've changed yours, too. Ah, well.


Behind the house that we stayed in this weekend was a river that Christina remarked was just the right speed for an intertube and fruity drink with a pineapple chunk and umbrella sticking out of it. That last part was all me, not Christina (although she may be game). I think it would also be appropriate to be in a sprawling woman-hat with oversized sunglasses while immersed in said intertube with said fruity drink. These daydreams were sadly out of season, seeing as it was about 40 degrees on land and even colder in the water. A dead cow sprawled on the bank was also somewhat of a tubekill, but suprising and beautiful in its mortisy rigor.

While I have no aptitude for performing science, I like looking at it. So I probably annoyed the whole crew by loudly suggesting that we visit the geothermal pools up the street (like 50 miles), but they really are the sort of sight that you can appreciate with a barely-passing grade in high school chemistry. Hiking down, I always feel as if I'm descending into a kind of hell, if you imagine hell like a Spinal Tap concert without the funnies, while Josh and Russ both imagined it as the primordial soup of life.

I always chafe at the warnings, the flimsy gates and barriers that stand between the trail and the magma pools. It's not the sweet smell of sulfur that draws me to the edge, but the need to touch and connect with the earth. I do this all the time, to my own detriment. Two summers ago, I decided that I needed to pinch a cactus, just to see what it felt like, and spent the next two days plucking invisible hairs out of my thumb, index, and middle finger. And there was the day in third grade when I decided that all that tongue-sticking-to-metal in cold weather was merely an urban legend. I stood out in the freezing cold for an hour because I couldn't pull it off the metal banister on the back porch stairs and no one could hear me hollering, minus tongue. If there were no barriers at the zoo, many friends would attest to the fact that I'd be dead by now. Some are surprised I've lasted this long with my innate need to touch and my college-like invincibility complex.

I really wanted to jump through the barriers and head down to the pool that was bubbling like the witches' caldron in MacBeth, but Russ talked me out of it by reciting his process of guilt when torn between interacting with nature and following the designated path. Since he functions as my conscience half the time, I try not to call him a wuss. He also mentioned that the citation that I would receive - because I always, always get caught - would come out of my monthly clothing budget and that sealed the obeying-the-law deal. But I didn't like it and I never will. What made me feel better about not being able to touch the 93 degree Celsius water was that some college students with a magnified invincibility complex, heavily aided by the beer they were openly drinking, bragged about their plan to cross the barriers and go down to the water's edge, or, as I think he called it, "the motherfucking hot tub." I watched them crawl through the fence and stand on the water's edge and felt glad that I was not an asshole, at least not outloud.

It's Just A Pool of Mushy Goo, Like Spaghetti-O's

Over my break, between working on a novel and working on a syllabus, I've had occassion to snack. Just a little. That's also why I haven't been posting much later. My brain, by the end of most days, is drained of words and expanding like a nebulae. It's like the face-scraper that Elisabeth Shue's character in Adventures in Babysitting describes as a making his victims into a "pool of mushy goo." My brain is often pool-like, mushy, and gooey.

That is not to complain. It's so fun to work on a novel and I love how the one I'm working on is turning out. And working on a syllabus is, um, fun. A different kind of fun. Like reading wikipedia-fun, or checking the friends section on Netflix-fun.

Anyway, all this fun requires some sort of brain food. And, contrary to what the title might have you believe, it's not spaghetti-O's. Although I do have some very happy memories involving spaghetti-O's, my sister, and table wars. But my perfect brain food these last few weeks has been Salsa Especial and Tortillas Salsa, both from Trader Joes. The tortillas are organic white corn, dusted with some sort of perfect spice (think Doritos), and in a bag that lasts for multiple weeks of snacking pleasure. You have to have a strong constitution for spicy and a non-aversion to cruddy fingertips, but if you can hack it, you have hours of snacking fun ahead of you.

I like the salsa so much that I talk to people at Trader Joe's about it, recommending that they try it. I usually have a policy of non-engagement with others at Trader Joe's, but really, when a combination of tomatoes, garlic, salts, and chiles is so good, there's nothing to do except act like a slightly crazy person in public.

Just Call Me Cyber-Sleuther

After a little online sleuthing today, I found a photo of Tanya's puppy, Penny. I did this merely with two facts: 1.) The name of the rescue Tanya came from and 2.) That Penny was adopted by a family who lived in Arizona.
This, plus the fact that it's immediately apparent that they're family. The ears have it.
Penny:
Tanya:

My Kind of Girl

Last Saturday, I met up with my aunt for lunch, shopping, and a gift exchange. We sat out on the patio in Brea, a place ripe with collegesque memories and my best hair ever (because Stev lives and works there), and while I gave her a bunch of items for her upcoming trip to Italy and France (a trip I will perhaps be joining her on), she gave me the first season of Veronica Mars.

"I saw it on your wishlist, but I've never heard of it," she said.

"I've never seen it, either," I said.

I could see the confusion crinkle in the middle of her forehead.

"It's about a high school girl detective, whose alienated from the rich kids in school, and who solves mysteries," I said. "Plus, she's spunky."

"My kind of girl," my aunt said.

She's mine, too. I'd been watching Joss Whedon's Firefly, but was in between Netflix discs and so, last Saturday night, popped it in V.M. for a preview. Russ rolled his eyes. He thinks my fascination of high school noir with a side of overblown, soapy drama is weird. Actually, when I just wrote that, it does sound weird. Downright creepy. But I don't mean fascination in an oogly way. I just mean, I love watching high school dramas writted by a group of 30-something writers with a kickin' grip on the subtleties of the English language. I love how raw and surfaced all the emotions of high school are. I love that the Mars Investigations office liberally invokes shades of Sam Spade and the Maltese Falcon. I love that Veronica is Nancy Drew with a better wardrobe, better technology, and better comebacks, and that the writers make no bones about that fact:

Kelvin (bully-jock who's just been kicked off the basketball team for testing positive for drugs): "If you won't help me, who else am I supposed to go to?"

Veronica: "Encyclopedia Brown? I hear he's good."

I love that within an episode, Russ was even more hooked than I was. That's what you get for rolling your eyes.

Russ and I finished Season 1 in a blaze of glory on Thursday night. I actually stayed up until 3:00 a.m.; he fell asleep at 12:00 and I held the cliffhanger-outcome over his head the whole next day. I don't know that I've stayed up until 3:00 a.m. for a TV series, not even for Buffy or Lost or Freaks and Geeks. It's really that good. Not only was I completely wrapped up in the mystery of the show, but I was emotionally tangled over the love triangles and broken relationships. It's the kind of show that makes you feel as if you're the one being broken up with, being lied to, having to watch your parents tighten their own noose, and even falling in love. It's a replay of high school, but since I never broke up with or fell in love with anyone - though I did get tricked into kissing a certain guy - it's like catching up on the residual drama of high school. Except I don't have to go back the next day and no geometry.

If you have a spare week and want nothing more than to be caught up in some detectivey high school rollercoaster, I suggest renting this series. If you have faith in how much you love high school and dramatic mysteries, throw it down and buy the series. Don't roll your eyes. It's really that good.

A Rosey New Year To You

As I've said before, New Years Eve seems to be the most overhyped semi-holiday of the year. You get all excited about being dressed up, excited about thinking over the significant moments of the year. Then it begins to dawn on you that maybe you didn't grow all that much and you didn't get to those pesky resolutions, or at least, not as well as you wanted. You begin to ponder how totally fubar the state of the world is, how much of the year you spent sleeping (approx. 47 days), and by the time you get to March, it all begins to feel a little futile. I think that's why the whole drinking yourself into oblivion thing is so tempting.

But I love New Years Eve and no, it's not just because it's the one night of the year when Russ often drinks too much and gets excruciatingly funny. I love it because I get to spend it with good friends - who just happen to live a block from Colorado Blvd., the Rose Parade route - who like to talk and eat good food and play silly trivia games with me. Last year, it was a game turning real titles (of movies, books, etc.) into porno titles, an idea inspired by my friend Josh and an avenue for endless fun, especially if you're not averse to words like member. This year, I was going for a more sentimental, remember-the-year-that-was. Here, for example, are a few of my trivia questions:

What date did James Brown die in 2006?
For a bonus point: What year did Beat Dominator come out with their song “James Brown is Dead”?

Who is Kim Jong-Il?
For bonus points, draw him in his favorite outfit of 2006.

What month was Al Queda leader Abu Musab al-Zarkowi killed?
For double bonus points, if you were to induct the word “zarkowi” into the English language, what would your definition be?

The next morning, the Rose Parade started with the roar of the jets flying what sounded like inches above the house. The bright sun was a treat, since we stood to watch in the rain last year and there's no downer like watching dancers with mascara streaming down their cheeks. I love picking a grassy knoll along Madison and Colorado, munching on Christina's cardamom bread, waking up with a strong mug of coffee, and waving to all the marchers like they're old friends. Madison is usually ripe with non-Californians, who come to cheer on Michigan or Texas or Nebraska, and so, it's always entertaining when USC marches by. This year, the float with their cheerleaders and yellleaders (as I was instructed to call male leaders in my youth) stopped right in front of us and you could see on the USC leaders' faces that they were just a little nervous about all that navy blue and gold surrounding them. Russ kicked it up a notch by yelling for Cal Poly Pomona, to which a short blonde woman in a beret yelled Cal Poly SLO back and shook her fist a little. Luckily, it didn't escalate further.

Our whole crowd agreed on one thing, besides the deliciousness of the cardamom bread: The Star Wars floats, Star Wars band, and the Star Wars dancers were the coolest part of the whole parade. Lucas wins again.