I am in Phoenix, Arizona right now, in charge of three dogs and a mound of reading and writing. Russ and his parents went to go visit friends and lounge around their timeshare. My feet are propped up on a balance ball while Tanya has somehow managed to wedge herself into the crevice beside me. On the floor in front of me is a 17-year-old arthritic Irish Setter mix named Brittany, who can no longer feel when she has to poop. So there've been some accidents. Green, gelatinous accidents. To the left is Elka, a 70-pound German Shepherd who is sweet, yet has almost knocked me to the ground a few times and pawed a mole off Brittany's forehead today. The funny thing is, Elka idolizes 10-pound Tanya and follows her around everywhere. If Tanya jumps up on the bed, Elka follows. Elka will only drink out of Tanya's extra-small water dish and only eat out of Tanya's extra-small food bowl. I image that if she could, Elka would snuggle into Tanya like a puppy.
I like staying here. There's a great patio and lots of comfy study chairs. There's always the good creamer and the Wightman's make sure their orthopedic spa is fired up when I come to town. It's also nice to be in a temperature-regulated house, where you can walk barefoot without frostbite, unlike Oakfordshire (our Monrovian-British estate). Russ and I decided we needed to change Oakfordshire now that King Oak is gone and Queen Oak is sort of awkward and patchy. But Oakfordshire just might stick, like the name of Russ' car that he hates but will forever stick because I can never help laughing when I think of it, Brownie the Flying Turd.
I'm listening to the jazz station on the Wightman's cable cornucopia. My favorite jazz guy is Monk. Gene Kruppa just finished, and that was good, but a lot of the music sounds more like smooth jazz. I'm not a fan of smooth jazz. I wasn't a fan of jazz, nor knew anything about it, until I absorbed Ken Burns' jazz 11-disc series this past summer. I think this summer, time permitting, it will be KB's Civil War, which I used to watch at least once a year with my grandpa as a young nerd. I used to dream of marrying a southern man in the mold of Shelby Foote. And I always thought Mary Chestnut was annoying. But I'm thinking that this time around, I'll understand her more, a woman sitting around in her parlor, writing about the war going on around her. She'd totally be a blogger, had she lived in more digital times.
I just finished Thom Jones and enjoyed it. I'm pretty sure that he's from my old stomping grounds of Aurora, even though he's reclusive and there's nothing biographical about him to be found, on the internet or elsewhere. He not only mentioned Lake Street (sort of a hub), but Garfield Goose and the Fox Valley Shopping Center -- you have to be a real Auroran to remember Garfield Goose and shopping at Fox Valley. He won the National Book Award, but there's no mention of him on the “Welcome to Aurora, City of Lights” signs, no honorary street named after him downtown. Yet another reason that I no longer live in Aurora.
I am now reading the Selected Letters of John Fante, which is like permissible voyuerism. Fante was a bit of an egomaniac and kept carbon copies of all the letters he sent out, which is largely why this book exists. In classic egomanic fashion, he didn’t keep any of the letters that many others, including his wife, sent to him. That Fante.
Last night, we went to a pratice game between the Oakland A’s and the San Diego Padres. We tried to get tickets to the Giants vs. the Cubs (Russ=San Francisco, Sarah=Chicago, yet Dodgers trump both), but it was sold out. We sat in the fifth row, behind home plate and the giant net, which was comforting. I don’t like sitting anywhere there’s a fair-to-excellent chance that an errant foul or pop-up will come spinning. Like Drew Barrymore in Fever Pitch, I have also been a victim of ball-smack-in-the-middle-of-the-head action. Unlike her, I was standing in right field during gym class, daydreaming, and didn’t see the ball coming straight at me. By the time I did, I put my glove up and I completely missed. The ball hit me in the forehead-eye-nose bridge. That was the beginning of the end of my softball career.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
They Don't Make 'Em Like They Used To
I am a nice person. At least, that's what people tell me. Apparently, it's one of my enduring characteristics -- curly hair, smile, niceness. I, myself, don't think I'm all that nice, but I know myself a lot better. For instance, at this moment, I am contemplating how to start a letter to an old friend that I probably hurt a while back. It was one of those situations that I always flash to when people tell me that I'm the nicest person that they know. The other situation that I think of is when I told my then-and-now friend Rebekah that she wasn't "cool" enough to be friends with me after freshman year of high school. I tell people that and they can't believe it -- "You said that?" they ask. When I nod and shrug, as in, I was stupid and young and petrified about my reputation, they say, "Man -- that's so mean! You were a mean girl!"
So I'm admitting it. I was a mean girl. And believe me, I am still capable.
Today, I spent the last half of the morning running errands so that I could write during the afternoon. I'm very excited about the direction that my novel is taking -- a sort of meaningless side character that I wasn't sure why I was including turned out to be very important and the pivotal figure in leading the main character back to a painful memory. I love when that happens -- you're not expecting success, you're actually expecting total and utter failure, and then, all the sudden, a moment comes together and although it's not toally clear, it's clear enough that you can get down the outlines of the image. Then the outlines become clearer and clearer and you revise once, twice, seven times, and afterwards, you have a moment in focus. Having a moment in focus, just as I know it ought to be, is probably the most rewarding part of writing fiction for me. It's why I crave to be in my writer's chair, tapping away and staring into space all afternoon.
But before I get to that, I have the real world to worry about. Money. Bills. Food. Netflix envelopes. So, I hop around town, from one destination to another, trying to get it all done as fast as I can so that I can get to the part of my day that matters. I ended up at Rubio's for lunch today, which is not unusual. In fact, all the lunch time workers know who I am and probably roll their eyes at each other when they see me coming because of my very complicated, Sally-in-When-Harry-Met-Sally order. I always get a fish burrito, but without onions, cilantro, salsa, sour cream, and black beans. And I get the white sauce, but I get it on the side. There's a method to my madness -- I get containers of the salsa at the salsa bar and then, mix the white sauce and salsa together so that I can both pour it over my burrito and dip my chips into it. Much of the time, I later walk back up to the counter to ask for a take-home box because I only eat half of the burrito. I always bring a book, get a 3/4 Diet Coke-1/4 Coca-Cola, and relax among people that I hear, but don't have to talk to.
Today, though, there was no relaxation to be had, neither at Rubio's or Kinko's or Von's. And it was because of children...curs-ed children.
Many of the people who know that I'm nice also know that I'm not a child person. I'm not kid-friendly. I'm a sharp edge. I like a few kids, ones that I've warmed up to over time, like my niece and some kids at church, but as a rule, I dislike merging with kids in public. It's partly because I'm uncomfortable talking to kids in any voice that is higher than my natural one. I find that kids and parents of kids enjoy falsetto cooing and squeaky exclamations. One thing I like about my niece is that she looks at me weird if I pull a voice like that. The other part I dislike about kids in general is the constant activity. Enough with the bouncing off the walls already. Just sit down and read a book. Or draw pictures and imagine stories to go along with them. That's what I did when I was kid. That, and played in Illinois mud puddles after thunderstorms. If any one ever wants to blackmail me, they'll have to look no further than my sister.
So imagine me, with my burrito and my Thom Jones at Rubio's, and as I start to eat, some cutesy music starts to blare from the table next to me and the falsettoest of falsettos shrieks, "Hola!" That would be the one and only Dora the Explorer. On a portable DVD player. Two kids with their mom and grandma were watching this DVD with no consideration for anyone around them who might want to eat without having to listen to Dora shrilly say, "Look at what Diego found -- un perro!" The real kicker is that once Dora was over, the kids whined and complained until the moms put in a Strawberry Shortcake DVD and let it play just as loudly. I don't know who I was more annoyed at, the adults or the kids. In any case, my annoyance happens often at this particular Rubio's, since there is a Gymboree in the same shopping center and from overheard (loud) conversations, I've gathered that the moms have some sort of post-play pow-wow.
I have often thought about what would happen if I wasn't so nice. If I turned to parents of the Dora-DVDers and said, "Hey, don't you remember how annoying it was when people's kids were making a racket before you had any?" If I said, "How would you like it if I picked a fight with someone on my cell phone and you had to listen to all the details?" Or how about, "Can we keep DVDs out of food joints and just in houses and cars? Because some of us are trying to enjoy our food without a side of Dora."
But maybe I am a nice person. Because I would never, ever say any of that outloud. I may think it, chew my specialized burrito a bit resentfully, but when it all comes down, I would never sass a mama.
So I'm admitting it. I was a mean girl. And believe me, I am still capable.
Today, I spent the last half of the morning running errands so that I could write during the afternoon. I'm very excited about the direction that my novel is taking -- a sort of meaningless side character that I wasn't sure why I was including turned out to be very important and the pivotal figure in leading the main character back to a painful memory. I love when that happens -- you're not expecting success, you're actually expecting total and utter failure, and then, all the sudden, a moment comes together and although it's not toally clear, it's clear enough that you can get down the outlines of the image. Then the outlines become clearer and clearer and you revise once, twice, seven times, and afterwards, you have a moment in focus. Having a moment in focus, just as I know it ought to be, is probably the most rewarding part of writing fiction for me. It's why I crave to be in my writer's chair, tapping away and staring into space all afternoon.
But before I get to that, I have the real world to worry about. Money. Bills. Food. Netflix envelopes. So, I hop around town, from one destination to another, trying to get it all done as fast as I can so that I can get to the part of my day that matters. I ended up at Rubio's for lunch today, which is not unusual. In fact, all the lunch time workers know who I am and probably roll their eyes at each other when they see me coming because of my very complicated, Sally-in-When-Harry-Met-Sally order. I always get a fish burrito, but without onions, cilantro, salsa, sour cream, and black beans. And I get the white sauce, but I get it on the side. There's a method to my madness -- I get containers of the salsa at the salsa bar and then, mix the white sauce and salsa together so that I can both pour it over my burrito and dip my chips into it. Much of the time, I later walk back up to the counter to ask for a take-home box because I only eat half of the burrito. I always bring a book, get a 3/4 Diet Coke-1/4 Coca-Cola, and relax among people that I hear, but don't have to talk to.
Today, though, there was no relaxation to be had, neither at Rubio's or Kinko's or Von's. And it was because of children...curs-ed children.
Many of the people who know that I'm nice also know that I'm not a child person. I'm not kid-friendly. I'm a sharp edge. I like a few kids, ones that I've warmed up to over time, like my niece and some kids at church, but as a rule, I dislike merging with kids in public. It's partly because I'm uncomfortable talking to kids in any voice that is higher than my natural one. I find that kids and parents of kids enjoy falsetto cooing and squeaky exclamations. One thing I like about my niece is that she looks at me weird if I pull a voice like that. The other part I dislike about kids in general is the constant activity. Enough with the bouncing off the walls already. Just sit down and read a book. Or draw pictures and imagine stories to go along with them. That's what I did when I was kid. That, and played in Illinois mud puddles after thunderstorms. If any one ever wants to blackmail me, they'll have to look no further than my sister.
So imagine me, with my burrito and my Thom Jones at Rubio's, and as I start to eat, some cutesy music starts to blare from the table next to me and the falsettoest of falsettos shrieks, "Hola!" That would be the one and only Dora the Explorer. On a portable DVD player. Two kids with their mom and grandma were watching this DVD with no consideration for anyone around them who might want to eat without having to listen to Dora shrilly say, "Look at what Diego found -- un perro!" The real kicker is that once Dora was over, the kids whined and complained until the moms put in a Strawberry Shortcake DVD and let it play just as loudly. I don't know who I was more annoyed at, the adults or the kids. In any case, my annoyance happens often at this particular Rubio's, since there is a Gymboree in the same shopping center and from overheard (loud) conversations, I've gathered that the moms have some sort of post-play pow-wow.
I have often thought about what would happen if I wasn't so nice. If I turned to parents of the Dora-DVDers and said, "Hey, don't you remember how annoying it was when people's kids were making a racket before you had any?" If I said, "How would you like it if I picked a fight with someone on my cell phone and you had to listen to all the details?" Or how about, "Can we keep DVDs out of food joints and just in houses and cars? Because some of us are trying to enjoy our food without a side of Dora."
But maybe I am a nice person. Because I would never, ever say any of that outloud. I may think it, chew my specialized burrito a bit resentfully, but when it all comes down, I would never sass a mama.
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Weekend Update
The best part of Saturday Night Live these days. Also, a recap of what I did over the last four days.
This weekend, Russ and I made like Puxatawny Phil and climbed out of our den to see if winter, aka the incessant studying and designing and writing and working inside our house, was a shadow of former months. Albeit, a good month and half later than old Phil. The good news is, it was indeed a brief lapse in the world of hibernation. We celebrated the end of Russ's winter quarter with mojitos at Xiomara and dessert at Cafe Bizou, visited the Norton Simon (free for students!), cheers-ed each other with brisket and cabbage and potatoes and beer at Christina and Emilio's brisket fest, and spent time rearranging our kitchen cabinets, which counts as fun because we had funky tunes blasting and did some spontaneous grooving.
Russ and I also hopped over to the Getty yesterday, just to see what's been going on there lately, and I must highly recommend the Robert Adams landscape photography show. The photos are focused on the disintegration of nature in Los Angeles and Colorado and also, what humanity can't wreck in nature. That Robert Adams is a smart man cookie -- reading his quotes on the wall and beside his photos made me want to pick up one of his many books. There's also a Degas show, which is a must see if you are a fan or just enjoy being crammed into a smallish room with fifty other observers. Some beautiful sketchings and some interesting experimentations with photography toward the end of his life are standouts.
The gardens and outsides at the Getty are just fantastic right now. We could see all of L.A. from the railings. I think the Getty is sort of the castle of Los Angeles, perched on a high hill, overlooking its kingdom. Unfortunately, Russ and I both forgot our sunglasses and the glare from the travertine had us wandering around, squinty and watery-eyed. Sort of groundhoggishly, if you will. So if you go, don't forget the sunglasses.
Good night and have a pleasant tomorrow.
This weekend, Russ and I made like Puxatawny Phil and climbed out of our den to see if winter, aka the incessant studying and designing and writing and working inside our house, was a shadow of former months. Albeit, a good month and half later than old Phil. The good news is, it was indeed a brief lapse in the world of hibernation. We celebrated the end of Russ's winter quarter with mojitos at Xiomara and dessert at Cafe Bizou, visited the Norton Simon (free for students!), cheers-ed each other with brisket and cabbage and potatoes and beer at Christina and Emilio's brisket fest, and spent time rearranging our kitchen cabinets, which counts as fun because we had funky tunes blasting and did some spontaneous grooving.
Russ and I also hopped over to the Getty yesterday, just to see what's been going on there lately, and I must highly recommend the Robert Adams landscape photography show. The photos are focused on the disintegration of nature in Los Angeles and Colorado and also, what humanity can't wreck in nature. That Robert Adams is a smart man cookie -- reading his quotes on the wall and beside his photos made me want to pick up one of his many books. There's also a Degas show, which is a must see if you are a fan or just enjoy being crammed into a smallish room with fifty other observers. Some beautiful sketchings and some interesting experimentations with photography toward the end of his life are standouts.
The gardens and outsides at the Getty are just fantastic right now. We could see all of L.A. from the railings. I think the Getty is sort of the castle of Los Angeles, perched on a high hill, overlooking its kingdom. Unfortunately, Russ and I both forgot our sunglasses and the glare from the travertine had us wandering around, squinty and watery-eyed. Sort of groundhoggishly, if you will. So if you go, don't forget the sunglasses.
Good night and have a pleasant tomorrow.
Friday, March 17, 2006
Best Parking Ticket I Ever Got
Being on MySpace has really made me feel nostalgic. It's sort of nostalgically addicting. Among other things, it's made me think about opening up the photo boxes in my house, which have been waiting to be put into multiple photo albums. Basically, that's never going to happen. I'm just too uninterested in such a tedious task. But I decided to open up a photo box yesterday and that was great fun. I saw faces that I hadn't seen in years, remembered events that I'd forgotten, and thought about how much my past is still with me, even when I don't remember it specifically.
Among other things, which I may or may not be posting about in the future, I found this parking ticket:
Happy St. Patrick's Day, by the way. I broke my rule of not wearing holiday color on holidays by donning a kelly green polka-dotted head wrap. So don't pinch me. Today, Russ and I...okay, Russ cooked Bailey's-based pudding to bring to Brisket Fest, where we will eat brisket and cabbage and drink medium to large quantities of Irish beers and maybe even make a few Irish Car Bombs. So, if you don't hear from me for a few days, now you know why.
Among other things, which I may or may not be posting about in the future, I found this parking ticket:
Happy St. Patrick's Day, by the way. I broke my rule of not wearing holiday color on holidays by donning a kelly green polka-dotted head wrap. So don't pinch me. Today, Russ and I...okay, Russ cooked Bailey's-based pudding to bring to Brisket Fest, where we will eat brisket and cabbage and drink medium to large quantities of Irish beers and maybe even make a few Irish Car Bombs. So, if you don't hear from me for a few days, now you know why.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Agree With Me Or Else. Or Else What? Exactly.
Upon picking up Tanya at Petsmart, from "doggie daycare" (part of her learning-to-work-well-with-others practice), I found myself staring at a Brownie-Girl Scout cookie table. Now I'm not one of those who is swayed easily by doe-eyed children selling chocolate for their basketball team or ski trip or whatever. I try not to be a total bitch, of course, so a lot of the time, I'll say "No thanks" when what I really mean is "Take your chocolate and shove it because I know it's all just an elaborate scam for your chocolate pimp." Not to put too fine a point on it.
But I approached the table. For one, the mother and daughter just smiled at me when I walked in, didn't jump on me screeching, "Would you like to buy some Girl Scout cookies?" Just because they're Brownie-Girl Scouts, doesn't mean they aren't capable of freaking me out, which is what happens when they scream at me like that. Second, the girl looked just like my niece, whom I adore. And third, she was dressed up as a Brownie bite. The costuming, something I remember at least aspiring to when I myself was a Brownie-and-Girl Scout, put me over the edge. This girl was obviously dedicated to the fine art of cookie selling. And so, I approached.
Right away, I knew this little girl was kick ass because she knelt down and started petting Tanya, who actually nuzzled up to her. I couldn't believe it. The dog who hates children was nuzzling one. Incredible. Or, as it's said in Portuguese, incredible.
I talked with her mother for a while and learned that she was trying to win the most cookies sold this year in order to be the one who gets to throw out the first pitch at Dodger's Stadium. Wow, that's so cool, I said. When I was a Girl Scout, I think the winner of the most cookies got to have a pizza party at Chuckee Cheese with five friends. The Girl Scouts have obviously evolved since I counted myself as one of their ranks.
I bought a box of Samoas, which I believe are the best of all Girl Scout Cookies. Disagree if you dare. But I challenge anyone to prove that any of the other cookies are as delicious, as perfectly conceived, as the Samoa. What could be better than a chewy coconut mixed in with chocolate casing and drizzled with chocolate on top?
Help the coolest Brownie in the world win the most cookie sales by purchasing all your cookily-goodness at the Petsmart off of Foothill in Pasadena. By the Best Buy and the Gold Line station. I told her mom that I'd get the word out about helping her win and as you know, I always keep my promises. Girl Scout's honor.
But I approached the table. For one, the mother and daughter just smiled at me when I walked in, didn't jump on me screeching, "Would you like to buy some Girl Scout cookies?" Just because they're Brownie-Girl Scouts, doesn't mean they aren't capable of freaking me out, which is what happens when they scream at me like that. Second, the girl looked just like my niece, whom I adore. And third, she was dressed up as a Brownie bite. The costuming, something I remember at least aspiring to when I myself was a Brownie-and-Girl Scout, put me over the edge. This girl was obviously dedicated to the fine art of cookie selling. And so, I approached.
Right away, I knew this little girl was kick ass because she knelt down and started petting Tanya, who actually nuzzled up to her. I couldn't believe it. The dog who hates children was nuzzling one. Incredible. Or, as it's said in Portuguese, incredible.
I talked with her mother for a while and learned that she was trying to win the most cookies sold this year in order to be the one who gets to throw out the first pitch at Dodger's Stadium. Wow, that's so cool, I said. When I was a Girl Scout, I think the winner of the most cookies got to have a pizza party at Chuckee Cheese with five friends. The Girl Scouts have obviously evolved since I counted myself as one of their ranks.
I bought a box of Samoas, which I believe are the best of all Girl Scout Cookies. Disagree if you dare. But I challenge anyone to prove that any of the other cookies are as delicious, as perfectly conceived, as the Samoa. What could be better than a chewy coconut mixed in with chocolate casing and drizzled with chocolate on top?
Help the coolest Brownie in the world win the most cookie sales by purchasing all your cookily-goodness at the Petsmart off of Foothill in Pasadena. By the Best Buy and the Gold Line station. I told her mom that I'd get the word out about helping her win and as you know, I always keep my promises. Girl Scout's honor.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
One Reason Worth Getting out of Bed in the Morning, Even When It's 48 Degrees
I spent a good part of my morning reading in Starbucks rather than at Westminster. I could blame this not making it on the fact that I had a mojito nightcap at Xiomara with Christina, celebrating our resepective triumphs over the last few months. Her school just had a WASC visit, which she was in charge of and has been working on for months. Happily, she and her school got glowing reviews by the WASC committee. Mojito worthy stuff. And Xiomara has that cool machine, the King Cane, that actually grinds up the stalks of sugar cane.
The real reason, though, was that I didn't go because I just couldn't bear getting out of bed. Yes, I was physically capable, but totally unwilling. Our house was built in 1906, one of the oldest structures in all of Monrovia, and it hasn't exactly been modernized. I doubt it's up to code in most respects (and we've made it worse by not replacing any of the batteries in the smoke alarms). Case and point -- there's no insulation and a ton of windows, so the damp cold seeps through in winter and the stale heat creeps in during the summer. It's liveable most of the time, but when the temperature drops to 40, like it did last night, it's almost deabilitating. We have two space heaters, two heating pads, two paris of REI insulated socks, and one anicent looking gas-heater unit on the wall. I'm sort of afraid to turn it on. Okay, not sort of, really. I imagine the explosion scene with the helicopter a la Independence Day. Plus, Russ and I have accumulated so many books in the last year, that it's become a bookshelf and we'd rather be cold than move all the books. And so, we are.
Perhaps the thought of a warm church would've gotten me out of bed, but alas, Westminster is also very cold. It's a gothic-style cathedral, built about 20 years later than our house, but sadly, not many more technologies in heating and cooling had been devised. Gothic cathedrals aren't exactly designed to be warm and cozy, either. Everything is stone and brick and dark wood, which might be okay if the ceiling wasn't also 40+ feet. As we all know, heat rises. So the pigeons and church mice are all very cozy up in the ceiling and bell tower, thank you, while we silly humans rub our hands together and shiver on the ground level. It means that you wear layers of socks and blankety wool wraps in the winter. Add to this the fact that Westminster's boiler is constantly on the fritz or as in the case a few years ago, destroyed by vandals, and you can see why I did not leap out of my bed.
What actually motivated me to finally get out of bed today was the thought of spending the morning at Starbucks, reading. I know, I know, Starbucks sucks and so does corporate America. But I actually like the one Starbucks by my house; I know a lot of the workers and they like working at this particular Starbucks. Many of them are grad students, artists, lifers. The chairs, it's true, are uncomfortable and the wall art is hideous and some of the clinetele are extremely loud when on their cell phones, but there's always steam coming off the espresso machine and enough heat to keep your feet warm without the special socks. What was actually more exciting than the thought of heat, glorious heat, was reading a book for fun. Something I haven't done in a few months and in a way, needed much more today than warmth, though I didn't know it at the time.
I just read Dog Soldiers, a book that took me three days and a total of seven or eight hours to finish. That's a long time for me. I was further frustrated by the fact that as I read the final pages, I wasn't sure that I understood the book at all. Granted, it's about the developing drug community in 1970s California for which I don't have a lot of context. Even more, though, I just felt like I didn't understand exactly what Robert Stone was trying to do. He felt inscrutable, way too cool for me. I felt like I wasted a lot of time reading a book that ultimately excluded me.
This made me feel rotten about myself as a reader. It's a National Book Award Winner, after all. Stone must've been doing something right -- and not only something right, but something important. Something that would be mind-blowing and earth-shattering if I could only figure out what the hell he was talking about, especially in the last 100 or so pages. But, I didn't. All I felt was a vague sense of shame and a little bit of anger, as in, what's wrong with me?
When I went to Starbucks this morning, I cruised through my bookshelves (and heater shelf) looking for something to read. I have a lot of options. But instead of reading something that I have to read, I chose a book that I'd already read once, a memoir by a writer I respect and who has written me a really nice note in the past. Plus, I like her funky cat-eyed glasses. So I pulled it down and brought it to Starbucks, along with another, more academic, book. I figured I would reread a little bit of my memoir, get my groove back, and then tuck into the other book.
But I never even looked at the other book. I found myself rapt in a voice, in stories, in perspective and beliefs. I'm a sucker for great humor and for great sadness, and I was manically laughing and then, by turns, wiping the corners of my eyes as sentences and stories sprang off the pages at me. But more than anything, I love a story full of hope; to me, hope means possibility, a way to look at the world and imagine "What If?". As a writer of fiction, that's my job, to look at what is and imagine it as other. It's a very bold, very hopeful sort of thing to do.
It took reading this book to remind me why reading is so joyful, such a huge part of my life. It also took reading this, and feeling deeply connected to the words on the page, to get me to take a deep breath and say, "It is okay that I was frustrated by Dog Soldiers." Not every book is going to get me all hot under the collar and it's, whether I believe it or not, normal. And it's okay if sometimes, the books I'm supposed to love most as a writer end up frustrating me. It put me in mind of a book I'd read a few months ago by Andy Besch, who wrote a book about wine, which was a revelation to me. He said the biggest mistake that people make with wine is not knowing what they like. And if you don't know what you like, you'll never have a satisfying wine experience. If you base your wine choices on Wine Spectator (or other reviews), you're simply adopting someone else's likes and dislikes. The most important thing you can do, he said, is to experiment by trying lots of different wines and figuring out which qualities appeal to you and which don't.
I think the beauty of Andy Besch's approach is that it's about learning to trust your own judgments as valid. This is what I'm slowly learning how to do, with wine and with everything else. So much of the time, I know I rely on others to tell me what's valid and what's not. I'm glued to Amazon, Metacritic, and Rottentomatoes, to how others judge certain books, music, and movies. I want my opinion to not only be informed, but confirmed. But really, when it all comes down to it, Kenneth Turan or Michiko Kakutani can only tell me what sets well on their palates. They can't tell me that how it will set on mine. There will be days when I may choose a memoir over Joyce, or a bestseller over the obscure. There will be times when I go that movie that no one liked and get a kick out of it. But that's okay. That's where the joy of reading, or anything else, happens, in discovering what affects and resonates.
And if that's unhip, what of it? You should see me in double socks and a ski cap at home.
The real reason, though, was that I didn't go because I just couldn't bear getting out of bed. Yes, I was physically capable, but totally unwilling. Our house was built in 1906, one of the oldest structures in all of Monrovia, and it hasn't exactly been modernized. I doubt it's up to code in most respects (and we've made it worse by not replacing any of the batteries in the smoke alarms). Case and point -- there's no insulation and a ton of windows, so the damp cold seeps through in winter and the stale heat creeps in during the summer. It's liveable most of the time, but when the temperature drops to 40, like it did last night, it's almost deabilitating. We have two space heaters, two heating pads, two paris of REI insulated socks, and one anicent looking gas-heater unit on the wall. I'm sort of afraid to turn it on. Okay, not sort of, really. I imagine the explosion scene with the helicopter a la Independence Day. Plus, Russ and I have accumulated so many books in the last year, that it's become a bookshelf and we'd rather be cold than move all the books. And so, we are.
Perhaps the thought of a warm church would've gotten me out of bed, but alas, Westminster is also very cold. It's a gothic-style cathedral, built about 20 years later than our house, but sadly, not many more technologies in heating and cooling had been devised. Gothic cathedrals aren't exactly designed to be warm and cozy, either. Everything is stone and brick and dark wood, which might be okay if the ceiling wasn't also 40+ feet. As we all know, heat rises. So the pigeons and church mice are all very cozy up in the ceiling and bell tower, thank you, while we silly humans rub our hands together and shiver on the ground level. It means that you wear layers of socks and blankety wool wraps in the winter. Add to this the fact that Westminster's boiler is constantly on the fritz or as in the case a few years ago, destroyed by vandals, and you can see why I did not leap out of my bed.
What actually motivated me to finally get out of bed today was the thought of spending the morning at Starbucks, reading. I know, I know, Starbucks sucks and so does corporate America. But I actually like the one Starbucks by my house; I know a lot of the workers and they like working at this particular Starbucks. Many of them are grad students, artists, lifers. The chairs, it's true, are uncomfortable and the wall art is hideous and some of the clinetele are extremely loud when on their cell phones, but there's always steam coming off the espresso machine and enough heat to keep your feet warm without the special socks. What was actually more exciting than the thought of heat, glorious heat, was reading a book for fun. Something I haven't done in a few months and in a way, needed much more today than warmth, though I didn't know it at the time.
I just read Dog Soldiers, a book that took me three days and a total of seven or eight hours to finish. That's a long time for me. I was further frustrated by the fact that as I read the final pages, I wasn't sure that I understood the book at all. Granted, it's about the developing drug community in 1970s California for which I don't have a lot of context. Even more, though, I just felt like I didn't understand exactly what Robert Stone was trying to do. He felt inscrutable, way too cool for me. I felt like I wasted a lot of time reading a book that ultimately excluded me.
This made me feel rotten about myself as a reader. It's a National Book Award Winner, after all. Stone must've been doing something right -- and not only something right, but something important. Something that would be mind-blowing and earth-shattering if I could only figure out what the hell he was talking about, especially in the last 100 or so pages. But, I didn't. All I felt was a vague sense of shame and a little bit of anger, as in, what's wrong with me?
When I went to Starbucks this morning, I cruised through my bookshelves (and heater shelf) looking for something to read. I have a lot of options. But instead of reading something that I have to read, I chose a book that I'd already read once, a memoir by a writer I respect and who has written me a really nice note in the past. Plus, I like her funky cat-eyed glasses. So I pulled it down and brought it to Starbucks, along with another, more academic, book. I figured I would reread a little bit of my memoir, get my groove back, and then tuck into the other book.
But I never even looked at the other book. I found myself rapt in a voice, in stories, in perspective and beliefs. I'm a sucker for great humor and for great sadness, and I was manically laughing and then, by turns, wiping the corners of my eyes as sentences and stories sprang off the pages at me. But more than anything, I love a story full of hope; to me, hope means possibility, a way to look at the world and imagine "What If?". As a writer of fiction, that's my job, to look at what is and imagine it as other. It's a very bold, very hopeful sort of thing to do.
It took reading this book to remind me why reading is so joyful, such a huge part of my life. It also took reading this, and feeling deeply connected to the words on the page, to get me to take a deep breath and say, "It is okay that I was frustrated by Dog Soldiers." Not every book is going to get me all hot under the collar and it's, whether I believe it or not, normal. And it's okay if sometimes, the books I'm supposed to love most as a writer end up frustrating me. It put me in mind of a book I'd read a few months ago by Andy Besch, who wrote a book about wine, which was a revelation to me. He said the biggest mistake that people make with wine is not knowing what they like. And if you don't know what you like, you'll never have a satisfying wine experience. If you base your wine choices on Wine Spectator (or other reviews), you're simply adopting someone else's likes and dislikes. The most important thing you can do, he said, is to experiment by trying lots of different wines and figuring out which qualities appeal to you and which don't.
I think the beauty of Andy Besch's approach is that it's about learning to trust your own judgments as valid. This is what I'm slowly learning how to do, with wine and with everything else. So much of the time, I know I rely on others to tell me what's valid and what's not. I'm glued to Amazon, Metacritic, and Rottentomatoes, to how others judge certain books, music, and movies. I want my opinion to not only be informed, but confirmed. But really, when it all comes down to it, Kenneth Turan or Michiko Kakutani can only tell me what sets well on their palates. They can't tell me that how it will set on mine. There will be days when I may choose a memoir over Joyce, or a bestseller over the obscure. There will be times when I go that movie that no one liked and get a kick out of it. But that's okay. That's where the joy of reading, or anything else, happens, in discovering what affects and resonates.
And if that's unhip, what of it? You should see me in double socks and a ski cap at home.
Friday, March 10, 2006
On This Wild Night, We Have...
Hail. Yes seriously, hail the size of dimes. It's a L.A. snowstorm. Undeterred by frozen water balls, Russ went outside and did a little Shawshank spin for good measure.
(I also have a friend named Hale and I keep typing his name instead of the meteorological phenomena. Hail, not Hale.)
Two trips to Traders Joe's within 1 hour. The cashier, Brian, joked that we forgot the food the first time. Ha ha ha, Brian.
The first two DVDs from Season 1 of Reno 911. There's a lot of numbers in the previous sentence -- try to wrap your head around the numbers as best you can.
Papers to write on creation myths and land art, books to read on Dog Soldiers. Novels to continue on aquariums, Scrabble, and the fine state of Tennessee. I'm going to visit Tennessee sometime soon, hopefully this summer. Also on the agenda this summer: Illinois, North Carolina, and Panama. Possibly Italy for two weeks in the fall.
Dodgers season tickets with Eitan, Kristan, and Hale (not hail). I call all the games vs. the Cubs.
Endless distraction by Blogger, MySpace, and Ebay. I check to see if my favorite bloggers post all the time. I'm definitely disturbed. I probably should've given up this incessant checking for Lent, but have decided that I am taking this Lent off. If you can do that. Which I am.
Steak and creamed brussel sprouts for dinner, homemade bread pudding with chocolate and cherries for dessert. Green tea optional.
A cleaned out refrigerator, a cleaned out trash can, and dishes out of the sink. I spent the day de-smelling all three locations. I won't tell you what I found in each. It would make you gag. Grad school fridge, trash, and sink is not pretty.
A renewed appreciation for the designs of Ella Moss. She makes the most comfortable t-shirts in the world.
The guilty pleasure of watching What I Like About You. It's silly, yes, I know, but sort of edgy at the same time. Not Sopranos or Arrested Development edgy, but a little bit Sex and the City edgy.
Freesia blooming in the back yard, irises and daffodils in the side yard, Mexican evening primrose in the front. In short, a good smelling yard, now covered with hail (not Hale).
A desire to see the movie version of Ask the Dust. I was invited to go with Shanna and Rob, but alas, am low on entertainment cash.
Perhaps, just perhaps, a heated game of Nertz later on. Not know Nertz? Check it out, if you dare.
Hail, not Hale. And Hale, not hail.
(I also have a friend named Hale and I keep typing his name instead of the meteorological phenomena. Hail, not Hale.)
Two trips to Traders Joe's within 1 hour. The cashier, Brian, joked that we forgot the food the first time. Ha ha ha, Brian.
The first two DVDs from Season 1 of Reno 911. There's a lot of numbers in the previous sentence -- try to wrap your head around the numbers as best you can.
Papers to write on creation myths and land art, books to read on Dog Soldiers. Novels to continue on aquariums, Scrabble, and the fine state of Tennessee. I'm going to visit Tennessee sometime soon, hopefully this summer. Also on the agenda this summer: Illinois, North Carolina, and Panama. Possibly Italy for two weeks in the fall.
Dodgers season tickets with Eitan, Kristan, and Hale (not hail). I call all the games vs. the Cubs.
Endless distraction by Blogger, MySpace, and Ebay. I check to see if my favorite bloggers post all the time. I'm definitely disturbed. I probably should've given up this incessant checking for Lent, but have decided that I am taking this Lent off. If you can do that. Which I am.
Steak and creamed brussel sprouts for dinner, homemade bread pudding with chocolate and cherries for dessert. Green tea optional.
A cleaned out refrigerator, a cleaned out trash can, and dishes out of the sink. I spent the day de-smelling all three locations. I won't tell you what I found in each. It would make you gag. Grad school fridge, trash, and sink is not pretty.
A renewed appreciation for the designs of Ella Moss. She makes the most comfortable t-shirts in the world.
The guilty pleasure of watching What I Like About You. It's silly, yes, I know, but sort of edgy at the same time. Not Sopranos or Arrested Development edgy, but a little bit Sex and the City edgy.
Freesia blooming in the back yard, irises and daffodils in the side yard, Mexican evening primrose in the front. In short, a good smelling yard, now covered with hail (not Hale).
A desire to see the movie version of Ask the Dust. I was invited to go with Shanna and Rob, but alas, am low on entertainment cash.
Perhaps, just perhaps, a heated game of Nertz later on. Not know Nertz? Check it out, if you dare.
Hail, not Hale. And Hale, not hail.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Portrait of an Artist in a Small Town
Today, when Tanya and I took one of our thrice daily walks around the block, I again noticed the peach house on the corner of Alta Vista and Lemon. I might've pointed it out to Tanya, but she was busy sniffing an old gummy-Backstreet-Boys wrapper on the ground. The house perfectly sums up the block on which I live.
I've never actually seen the woman who lives in the house. I assume it's a woman, though it's not totally unlikely that a man would secretly decorate his large front porch for every holiday - even Flag Day - and bouce atmospheric lighting off a bunch of Japanese-style paper lanterns hanging in the adjacent tree. Color coded per holiday. The weird thing is the secrecy of it all. I have a feeling that this holiday fiend goes on all-night decorating benders. For instance, I went to bed on Valentine's Day and everything at the house was red, pink, and white. By the next morning, however, the porch and lanterns were already Irishy green. It's not your typical Creative-Memories-Scrapbooking-Slut sort of decorations. There are the usual, innocent sorts of decorations, such as shiny green shamrocks hung like paper chains across the length of the porch. But then, there are the mannequins. One of the several for St. Patrick's Day is a scary leprechaun, leering over the front railing of the porch with a huge stein in his hand. It's not at all friendly. It's like the Lucky Charms leprechaun grew up and became a violent drunk who eats passers-by, not cereal.
Believe it or not, the holiday house is not the only house on the block with a mannequin on the front porch. Ever since I've lived here, the semi-creepy old man who lives around the block poses a female mannequin in various positions on his front porch couch. She is scantily clad and scarily life-like. Sometimes, when I'm walking by, lost in my own thoughts, I'll suddenly jump because he's just changed her arms from crossed against her chest to pointing out toward the street, like she's ready to charge.
I've never actually seen the woman who lives in the house. I assume it's a woman, though it's not totally unlikely that a man would secretly decorate his large front porch for every holiday - even Flag Day - and bouce atmospheric lighting off a bunch of Japanese-style paper lanterns hanging in the adjacent tree. Color coded per holiday. The weird thing is the secrecy of it all. I have a feeling that this holiday fiend goes on all-night decorating benders. For instance, I went to bed on Valentine's Day and everything at the house was red, pink, and white. By the next morning, however, the porch and lanterns were already Irishy green. It's not your typical Creative-Memories-Scrapbooking-Slut sort of decorations. There are the usual, innocent sorts of decorations, such as shiny green shamrocks hung like paper chains across the length of the porch. But then, there are the mannequins. One of the several for St. Patrick's Day is a scary leprechaun, leering over the front railing of the porch with a huge stein in his hand. It's not at all friendly. It's like the Lucky Charms leprechaun grew up and became a violent drunk who eats passers-by, not cereal.
Believe it or not, the holiday house is not the only house on the block with a mannequin on the front porch. Ever since I've lived here, the semi-creepy old man who lives around the block poses a female mannequin in various positions on his front porch couch. She is scantily clad and scarily life-like. Sometimes, when I'm walking by, lost in my own thoughts, I'll suddenly jump because he's just changed her arms from crossed against her chest to pointing out toward the street, like she's ready to charge.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
'Scuse Me Whilst I Recommend
I procrastinated like crazy last weekend and am paying through the nose for it now. Anyway, excuse my own lack of posting but I'm now playing catch up on all my work.
So let me recommend my favorite blog-read of the week: Do It Again, Parts 1 and 2. If you've ever wondered whether there was any connection between John Milton and Buffy the Vampire Slayer -- now you know.
So let me recommend my favorite blog-read of the week: Do It Again, Parts 1 and 2. If you've ever wondered whether there was any connection between John Milton and Buffy the Vampire Slayer -- now you know.
Saturday, March 04, 2006
Meditations on a Saturday Afternoon
Everything is beautiful and blooming today.
Mountains, mountains. So clear you can see to the top of Mt. Wilson.
It smells sweet and spicy, like pink jasmine.
Hummingbirds dart from tree to tree. They especially like the oak trees (even though this is not an oak tree in the picture).
Tanya keeps watch on all these things for us. She loves to perch.
Mountains, mountains. So clear you can see to the top of Mt. Wilson.
It smells sweet and spicy, like pink jasmine.
Hummingbirds dart from tree to tree. They especially like the oak trees (even though this is not an oak tree in the picture).
Tanya keeps watch on all these things for us. She loves to perch.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Didn't We...?
I got tapped to carry this on by the one and only Eitan:
Okay, I really never do this, but this one is really good...
If you read this, if your eyes are passing over this right now, (even if we don't speak often) please post a comment with a COMPLETELY MADE UP AND FICTIONAL memory of you and me.
It can be anything you want - good or bad - BUT IT HAS TO BE FAKE.
When you're finished, post this little paragraph on your blog...
Okay, I really never do this, but this one is really good...
If you read this, if your eyes are passing over this right now, (even if we don't speak often) please post a comment with a COMPLETELY MADE UP AND FICTIONAL memory of you and me.
It can be anything you want - good or bad - BUT IT HAS TO BE FAKE.
When you're finished, post this little paragraph on your blog...
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
I Feel Like An Ash
Today is Ash Wednesday, that moment on the Church calendar when we all go and think about what we would like to give up over the next forty days, what bad habits and behaviors are holding us back from being the people we want to be. We write these things on slips of paper and watch our pastors dump them into a caldron of sorts and light them on fire. As the smoke rises, we are called forward and marked with the sign of the cross on our foreheads, using the ashes from the caldron. There is some beautiful symbolism in this service. It's one of my favorites.
That's why I was so surprised when Russ called and informed me that today was, indeed, Ash Wednesday. I had no idea. I was busy thinking about dog mange, theses, what to eat for lunch, and if this was the day that Los Angeles was going to get bombed out of oblivion. There's no connection between any of those things, by the way. It's just my hyperlinking mind on paper. There's no way to make heads or tails of it.
I was also thinking about how glad I am that there's a new episode of Lost on tonight and how I really want to watch The Life Aquatic now that I've been writing to the soundtrack for the last few days. But thoughts about ashes and my internal, non physical state of being? Far from my mind.
I began to think of other things I missed. I did not realize it was already March. I realized it has been a very long time since I called my grandma in Illinois. I have not been out for a drink and a chat with some of my good buddies in a while. It has been way too long since I last did yoga and breathed deeply and cleared my mind of outer distractions (even though I always struggle with that last part). I have not dirtied my hands working in the flower beds around our house all year and as a result, there are mounds of dandelion greens and other California nusiances sprouting up. It has been a while since I sent out a card for no reason.
So I'm off to take a walk in the daylight. To look around a little, see what's going on outside around me. Just in case I've been missing it.
That's why I was so surprised when Russ called and informed me that today was, indeed, Ash Wednesday. I had no idea. I was busy thinking about dog mange, theses, what to eat for lunch, and if this was the day that Los Angeles was going to get bombed out of oblivion. There's no connection between any of those things, by the way. It's just my hyperlinking mind on paper. There's no way to make heads or tails of it.
I was also thinking about how glad I am that there's a new episode of Lost on tonight and how I really want to watch The Life Aquatic now that I've been writing to the soundtrack for the last few days. But thoughts about ashes and my internal, non physical state of being? Far from my mind.
I began to think of other things I missed. I did not realize it was already March. I realized it has been a very long time since I called my grandma in Illinois. I have not been out for a drink and a chat with some of my good buddies in a while. It has been way too long since I last did yoga and breathed deeply and cleared my mind of outer distractions (even though I always struggle with that last part). I have not dirtied my hands working in the flower beds around our house all year and as a result, there are mounds of dandelion greens and other California nusiances sprouting up. It has been a while since I sent out a card for no reason.
So I'm off to take a walk in the daylight. To look around a little, see what's going on outside around me. Just in case I've been missing it.
Monday, February 27, 2006
Ladies, Feel Free To Disagree, But...
I have the best husband in the world. He made me this in Photoshop last night.
He gave me a fish one other time, too. It was a halibut and I found it inside my mailbox at Biola. I almost threw it away, but was told by some of his pals that there was a secret message for those who dared to go inside the fish's mouth. So I did, and ta-da! A scroll appeared: "Want to go out, just for the halibut?"
He gave me a fish one other time, too. It was a halibut and I found it inside my mailbox at Biola. I almost threw it away, but was told by some of his pals that there was a secret message for those who dared to go inside the fish's mouth. So I did, and ta-da! A scroll appeared: "Want to go out, just for the halibut?"
Saturday, February 25, 2006
Defying Troutness and Other Weekend Activities
Russell and I bucked our respective troutness and headed out to see the movie Transamerica last night. This is not as defying a move as it might seem, since we first started talking about going on a Friday night in January. So it's taken almost a month, maybe longer, to actually get us out of the house and to Laemmle to see the movie.
I'd wanted to see this movie ever since I first heard about it, firstly, because I adore Felicity Huffman as an actress, and secondly, because it's a road movie. I love the tradition of the road movie. It feels distinctly America, a cultural legacy born of the Kerouac crew and handed down, in different forms, until it arrived on the screen in the shape of a banana colored station wagon, driven by a pre-op male-to-female transsexual named Bree.
We were nervous about our troutness - especially at a late movie - but our nerves were for naught. The movie was a pleasure, the best, both of us concurred, that we'd seen this year. Funny, disarming, challenging, but best of all, excellently written. Much better than our Brokeback Mountain experience, in which the theater was a sweat-inducing temperature and all L.A. hipsters out to see the buzz movie of the year laughed uncomfortably when the lead males even looked at each other. And there's something nonvisual about Proulx's story that didn't translate well to the screen. In Transamerica, the woman sitting next to Russ, probably a mom herself, was so involved with the story, she kept clenching her fists and whispering, "You gotta tell him," over and over.
Other weekend activities include:
The farmer's market (for lots of leeks and strawberries, not to be eaten together)
Any one of a number of music stores (because I got a surprise paycheck, Russ and I each are buying one CD)
Target
(The dreaded) Puppy Class
Thesis Writing
Struggling through at least half of Under the Volcano (no easy task)
But first, a good latte.
I'd wanted to see this movie ever since I first heard about it, firstly, because I adore Felicity Huffman as an actress, and secondly, because it's a road movie. I love the tradition of the road movie. It feels distinctly America, a cultural legacy born of the Kerouac crew and handed down, in different forms, until it arrived on the screen in the shape of a banana colored station wagon, driven by a pre-op male-to-female transsexual named Bree.
We were nervous about our troutness - especially at a late movie - but our nerves were for naught. The movie was a pleasure, the best, both of us concurred, that we'd seen this year. Funny, disarming, challenging, but best of all, excellently written. Much better than our Brokeback Mountain experience, in which the theater was a sweat-inducing temperature and all L.A. hipsters out to see the buzz movie of the year laughed uncomfortably when the lead males even looked at each other. And there's something nonvisual about Proulx's story that didn't translate well to the screen. In Transamerica, the woman sitting next to Russ, probably a mom herself, was so involved with the story, she kept clenching her fists and whispering, "You gotta tell him," over and over.
Other weekend activities include:
The farmer's market (for lots of leeks and strawberries, not to be eaten together)
Any one of a number of music stores (because I got a surprise paycheck, Russ and I each are buying one CD)
Target
(The dreaded) Puppy Class
Thesis Writing
Struggling through at least half of Under the Volcano (no easy task)
But first, a good latte.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Variations on a Theme
Just yesterday, I realized that I'd had both Broken Flowers and Born Into Brothels for over a month without even opening the Netflix envelope. I fear I've lost my ability to sit through any narrative longer than 45 minutes, including commercials. So I sent both movies back and will be receiving Reno 911 in two to three days. Sweet episodic relief.
When I told Kristan this, she groaned, informing me that Broken Flowers was an amazing movie and she couldn't believe that I sent it back without watching. But can I help it if I'm a trout? Flash something shiny in front of my eyes, and I totally fall for it, as long as its shinyness does not exceed 45 minutes (including commercials). Offer something nourishing, intelligent, and artistic, and I'll most likely never open the envelope.
Comparisons to trouts lead me to thoughts about Susan Sarandon. How, you ask? I once read this article where the writer quipped, "Susan Sarandon is so lefty, her eyes are slowly travelling to one side of her head, like a halibut."
And...we're full-circle with the fish.
When I told Kristan this, she groaned, informing me that Broken Flowers was an amazing movie and she couldn't believe that I sent it back without watching. But can I help it if I'm a trout? Flash something shiny in front of my eyes, and I totally fall for it, as long as its shinyness does not exceed 45 minutes (including commercials). Offer something nourishing, intelligent, and artistic, and I'll most likely never open the envelope.
Comparisons to trouts lead me to thoughts about Susan Sarandon. How, you ask? I once read this article where the writer quipped, "Susan Sarandon is so lefty, her eyes are slowly travelling to one side of her head, like a halibut."
And...we're full-circle with the fish.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Hey, I Heard That At Church!
As promised, I have been watching the Olympics with a fervor and curiousity that has only increased throughout the week. It's so much like life, it's amazing. Bode Miller, who went in favored to win a gaggle of medals, has won nothing except the disappointment and dismissal of all sports writers (yes, I read the sports commentary, too). Lindsey Jacobellis, ahead of the everyone at the end of the snowboard cross, did a fancy trick and fell on her ass, losing to the slow-and-steady rider who zoomed past her when she fell. I ask you -- who of us hasn't had these types of disappointments, dismissals, and falls on our respective asses when it comes to grades, jobs, or relationships?
That aside, I've noticed something curious as I watch the medal cerermonies. Let me start by saying that I have been a Presbyterian most of my life. That probably doesn't mean much to most people and it barely means something to churchy-types. My reasons for being a Presbyterian are myriad and complex, and have changed over time, but pretty much boil down to the fact that Presbyterians are, by and large, good people. (Except when you get a few of them started on Diet Coke - beware. Just trust me on this one.) They started a little rebelliously (John Knox, that minx!), raised a little good natured Protestant hoo-ha, and then, became a church and, as I learned last week, a delicious cocktail.
Being a Presbyterian means that my life has been spent singing hymns with an organ. I will probably classify myself as the oldest-27-year-old-alive by saying this, but I rather like the organ. I like singing with it. I like the way it looks with all those funky pipes peeking out of the walls. I like how it almost disguises some of the horrible, off-key singers around me. And I like hymns. I really do. Some of them are actually funny, and make many of us laugh, like the one with a chorus that goes, "One was a doctor, one was a queen..." And written by a woman named Lesbia. Seriously. You can't make this stuff up.
So imagine my surprise, when watching Germany take home yet another gold medal, their national anthem started playing and I could sing along with it! Granted, I can't tell you the name of the hymn, but still, the fact remains -- recognition occured. It's so hard to feel like one is up on anything these days, so recognition, when it happens, is wonderfully suprising. It makes one feel like part of the human race again. This is what a life of hymn singing can do for a person. Allow you key access into things like national anthem singing and the human race -- if you can keep from laughing.
That aside, I've noticed something curious as I watch the medal cerermonies. Let me start by saying that I have been a Presbyterian most of my life. That probably doesn't mean much to most people and it barely means something to churchy-types. My reasons for being a Presbyterian are myriad and complex, and have changed over time, but pretty much boil down to the fact that Presbyterians are, by and large, good people. (Except when you get a few of them started on Diet Coke - beware. Just trust me on this one.) They started a little rebelliously (John Knox, that minx!), raised a little good natured Protestant hoo-ha, and then, became a church and, as I learned last week, a delicious cocktail.
Being a Presbyterian means that my life has been spent singing hymns with an organ. I will probably classify myself as the oldest-27-year-old-alive by saying this, but I rather like the organ. I like singing with it. I like the way it looks with all those funky pipes peeking out of the walls. I like how it almost disguises some of the horrible, off-key singers around me. And I like hymns. I really do. Some of them are actually funny, and make many of us laugh, like the one with a chorus that goes, "One was a doctor, one was a queen..." And written by a woman named Lesbia. Seriously. You can't make this stuff up.
So imagine my surprise, when watching Germany take home yet another gold medal, their national anthem started playing and I could sing along with it! Granted, I can't tell you the name of the hymn, but still, the fact remains -- recognition occured. It's so hard to feel like one is up on anything these days, so recognition, when it happens, is wonderfully suprising. It makes one feel like part of the human race again. This is what a life of hymn singing can do for a person. Allow you key access into things like national anthem singing and the human race -- if you can keep from laughing.
Monday, February 20, 2006
Go Speed Racer
Russ and I were just joking about what would happen if I became an Olympic Slalom skier because I got rejected for a job I applied for and commented that maybe I should just chuck it all and become a skier:
Russ (playing me): "How do I get up this hill again?" and "What are these boards on my feet?"
Me (playing me, crying): "Olympic Judges, help me, I can't get up" and "I'm just here because I can't get a job in L.A. with my English degree."
Russ (playing me): "How do I get up this hill again?" and "What are these boards on my feet?"
Me (playing me, crying): "Olympic Judges, help me, I can't get up" and "I'm just here because I can't get a job in L.A. with my English degree."
Tanya is the Master P of Puppy Training
Unlike most people who enjoy their weekends, Russ and I decided to go for broke and enroll Tanya into Petsmart's Puppy Training class. The going for broke part refers to the fact that we have given up any semblance of having fun weekends at this point in our respective academic careers. We're so dreadfully boring that we try not to subject our friends to our presence, unless they beg. Granted, we have some very kind friends who do beg once in a while.
So, for the next seven weeks, we will be at Petsmart on Saturday nights, teaching Tanya how to sit, lay down, leave it, and most importantly, not act like a raging bitch every time she's in the presence of another dog or human male. I'm still not sure what one word we're going to attach to that command -- Russ has suggested, "Tranquilo," but I'm arguing that it's too many syllables (though appropriate for a Chihuahua). We did the whole class thing with our Lab once upon a time and it was great -- cool people, fun dogs like a Boston Terrier named Mr. Tea, and a great instructor with good stories and a punky purple streak in her hair. But that was then...and this is now. This class is the longest hour of my life. The people are boring. I guess that's what you get on a Saturday night. The instructor looks like Dana Carvey's Church Lady with a bad perm. Even Tanya seems bored. She'd rather be at home, laying on a gigantic pillow and curled in a ball, and I can't say I really blame her. I was so bored this past week, I went to the bathroom just to leave the circle -- a move I haven't executed so deliberately since my boring US history class in high school.
If Tanya is going to improve, it's not going to be in this class. Just like, if Master P improves, it's not going to be in ballroom dancing. Some things just aren't meant to be.
So, for the next seven weeks, we will be at Petsmart on Saturday nights, teaching Tanya how to sit, lay down, leave it, and most importantly, not act like a raging bitch every time she's in the presence of another dog or human male. I'm still not sure what one word we're going to attach to that command -- Russ has suggested, "Tranquilo," but I'm arguing that it's too many syllables (though appropriate for a Chihuahua). We did the whole class thing with our Lab once upon a time and it was great -- cool people, fun dogs like a Boston Terrier named Mr. Tea, and a great instructor with good stories and a punky purple streak in her hair. But that was then...and this is now. This class is the longest hour of my life. The people are boring. I guess that's what you get on a Saturday night. The instructor looks like Dana Carvey's Church Lady with a bad perm. Even Tanya seems bored. She'd rather be at home, laying on a gigantic pillow and curled in a ball, and I can't say I really blame her. I was so bored this past week, I went to the bathroom just to leave the circle -- a move I haven't executed so deliberately since my boring US history class in high school.
If Tanya is going to improve, it's not going to be in this class. Just like, if Master P improves, it's not going to be in ballroom dancing. Some things just aren't meant to be.
Friday, February 17, 2006
Eww, That's Gross
Let me tell you a story about hair loss...
As a twelve-year old, my grandpa got a book of Gary Larson cartoons. There was this one that I remember scratching my head about, one that showed a dog scrutinizing himself in a mirror, looking worried, while the caption said something like, "When young dogs experience premature mange." After looking through dictionaries and encyclopedias, which were not helpful (where was the Internet when you needed it?), I had to make my own assumptions, so I just assumed that dogs lost their hair, just like some humans, at some point in their doggy existence.
Later on in life, I learned that premature mange is the canine version of lice. They get in the fur/hair and sit there and make a dog scratch and scratch and scratch. Unlike lice, though, whose only lasting effects are the smelly scalp and the social ostracism back at school, mange causes the fur/hair to fall out. So if you had, say, a Chihuahua with mange, you might begin to find large patches of fur on every surface of the house.
Okay, I admit it, that last sentence is about me. Tanya has mange. We noticed this nasty looking rash on her shoulder about two weeks ago, where her hair had begun to fall out. We thought it was where she'd gotten some shots and maybe had the anesthesia when she had her teeth cleaned. We laughed about mange, but it didn't occur to us that our dog might have it.
But as I was doing a little much needed cleaning yesterday, I started finding these large crop-circles of Tanya hair. On the couch. On the floor. On my pillow. Yuck. I mentioned it to Russ and he started picking through her fur, like a chimp looking for nits, and he groaned. "Oh man," he said. "There's a bald spot on her butt now." That's when we knew it was time to call in the experts, our vets at Banfield who excel at pet whispering. And sure enough, one skin scrape later, she officially has mange. What it really means is that means she'll have four very expensive baths tomorrow.
Luckily for us, it's the kind of mange that's dog specific. They're also the lazy kind of mange, which means that they don't hop, they lounge. That means we don't have to burn all cloth exteriors of our house. So that's fortunate. But it's a good thing I decoded that Gary Larson cartoon all those years ago -- if I hadn't, I might've just thought that Tanya was naturally losing her hair, like all good dogs eventually do.
As a twelve-year old, my grandpa got a book of Gary Larson cartoons. There was this one that I remember scratching my head about, one that showed a dog scrutinizing himself in a mirror, looking worried, while the caption said something like, "When young dogs experience premature mange." After looking through dictionaries and encyclopedias, which were not helpful (where was the Internet when you needed it?), I had to make my own assumptions, so I just assumed that dogs lost their hair, just like some humans, at some point in their doggy existence.
Later on in life, I learned that premature mange is the canine version of lice. They get in the fur/hair and sit there and make a dog scratch and scratch and scratch. Unlike lice, though, whose only lasting effects are the smelly scalp and the social ostracism back at school, mange causes the fur/hair to fall out. So if you had, say, a Chihuahua with mange, you might begin to find large patches of fur on every surface of the house.
Okay, I admit it, that last sentence is about me. Tanya has mange. We noticed this nasty looking rash on her shoulder about two weeks ago, where her hair had begun to fall out. We thought it was where she'd gotten some shots and maybe had the anesthesia when she had her teeth cleaned. We laughed about mange, but it didn't occur to us that our dog might have it.
But as I was doing a little much needed cleaning yesterday, I started finding these large crop-circles of Tanya hair. On the couch. On the floor. On my pillow. Yuck. I mentioned it to Russ and he started picking through her fur, like a chimp looking for nits, and he groaned. "Oh man," he said. "There's a bald spot on her butt now." That's when we knew it was time to call in the experts, our vets at Banfield who excel at pet whispering. And sure enough, one skin scrape later, she officially has mange. What it really means is that means she'll have four very expensive baths tomorrow.
Luckily for us, it's the kind of mange that's dog specific. They're also the lazy kind of mange, which means that they don't hop, they lounge. That means we don't have to burn all cloth exteriors of our house. So that's fortunate. But it's a good thing I decoded that Gary Larson cartoon all those years ago -- if I hadn't, I might've just thought that Tanya was naturally losing her hair, like all good dogs eventually do.
Mmm, That's Good
Yes, I'm talking about the dinner I made last night. Other than the smoky lounge-like atmosphere that resulted from my adventures in cooking, the short ribs were surprising edible. Russ proclaimed them "the best you've ever made," which is not saying much. Christina contributed to the dinner (unintentionally) by stopping by for a quick hello and bringing with her the best chocolate and cherry cookies Russ or I have ever had. Since she offered, I took four (and two more for me -- don't tell Russell) and that turned out to be our dessert. Perfect-o.
I must brag just a teeny bit about my wine choices. I went to Cost Plus, which is my favorite place to shop for wine, because they have a great selection and it's laid out very well. Their prices are also excellent. But it's not as overwhelming as, say BevMo. Because we were having short ribs with a maple-rosemary glaze, I figured that we needed a really heavy red wine, which had me browsing the Zinfindels and Cabernets. I ended up with one of my favorite Zins ever, an old vine Zin from Bogle. It's so juicy, with a hint of vanilla, that it was the perfect compliment. And it's a very reasonable price for such a good bottle of wine, at $8.99.
I took a chance on a second bottle of wine and it was only because we were so darn curious about it that we opened it at all last night. We just had to taste a wine called Wrongo Dongo. The back label is covered with silly blurbs like "You can't go wrongo" and "Dongo to a party without this wine," and yet it's a Spanish wine. Christina surmised that the label had to be written by an English speaker and I agree. I can't imagine any self-respecting Spanaird breaking out with such stupid puns. Puns aside, though, the description of the wine was what sold me, assuring me that it was heavy enough to go with red meats, but fruity enough for less intense dishes. I didn't believe them, but since it was a very reasonable $7.99, I thought, hey, why not? Worst case scenario, we give it to Tanya before she goes in for "treatment." Just kidding, PETA.
Anyway, from the small taste Russ and I had, we loved this wine. It was just what the label said it would be, heavily fruity yet without the spiciness that would've made it too big for a meat other than beef. So there are two freebies for all you wine connoisseurs out there.
Future plans, you ask? Jon has bravely offered to try my cooking...at least, he thinks. So Jon, anytime you and Lisa are ready, come on over to Chateau Le Sarah.
I must brag just a teeny bit about my wine choices. I went to Cost Plus, which is my favorite place to shop for wine, because they have a great selection and it's laid out very well. Their prices are also excellent. But it's not as overwhelming as, say BevMo. Because we were having short ribs with a maple-rosemary glaze, I figured that we needed a really heavy red wine, which had me browsing the Zinfindels and Cabernets. I ended up with one of my favorite Zins ever, an old vine Zin from Bogle. It's so juicy, with a hint of vanilla, that it was the perfect compliment. And it's a very reasonable price for such a good bottle of wine, at $8.99.
I took a chance on a second bottle of wine and it was only because we were so darn curious about it that we opened it at all last night. We just had to taste a wine called Wrongo Dongo. The back label is covered with silly blurbs like "You can't go wrongo" and "Dongo to a party without this wine," and yet it's a Spanish wine. Christina surmised that the label had to be written by an English speaker and I agree. I can't imagine any self-respecting Spanaird breaking out with such stupid puns. Puns aside, though, the description of the wine was what sold me, assuring me that it was heavy enough to go with red meats, but fruity enough for less intense dishes. I didn't believe them, but since it was a very reasonable $7.99, I thought, hey, why not? Worst case scenario, we give it to Tanya before she goes in for "treatment." Just kidding, PETA.
Anyway, from the small taste Russ and I had, we loved this wine. It was just what the label said it would be, heavily fruity yet without the spiciness that would've made it too big for a meat other than beef. So there are two freebies for all you wine connoisseurs out there.
Future plans, you ask? Jon has bravely offered to try my cooking...at least, he thinks. So Jon, anytime you and Lisa are ready, come on over to Chateau Le Sarah.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
T-Minus Five Hours To Go
Russ and I don't really do Valentine's Day. I hate all that artificial hoo-ha. I'm definitely one of those people who believe that flowers (not roses) and chocolate (dark, not milk) and schmoopy looks (oh yeah) are a 7-24-365 requirement. I don't buy lovey cards or heart-shaped stuff or wear red or pink or even white, unless by wearing pink or red or white, I am commentating satirically on the holiday. Which I rarely do for fear of looking as though I am partcipating.
But in a gesture of love and affection and a willingness to risk burning the house down, I offered to make Russ dinner tonight. You must understand that Russ is the cook in our house, and an excellent one at that, whipping up concoctions that sparkle in the mouth. I, on the other hand, have a non-sparkling history when it comes to using the oven/stove. I've been known to put tuperware in the oven or bake cookies without a cookie sheet. All very messy. I don't know what's wrong with me, when it comes to cooking. I've had many friends give me diagnoses and the one I keep coming back to is that I'm a combination of non-tactile and unwilling to pay attention to the details. It would be like if Martha Stewart cut off her hands and developed an obsession with American Idol. That's me.
It's fair to say I'm a bit nervous. Last year, I made him dinner, but it was after a teaching session/practice run with the fabulous Ms. Christina Wenger, a.k.a. woman-who-could-bam-Emeril-to-oblivion-with-her-cooking. (Yes, she's really that good.) But there has been no practice session this year and I am blindly going where very few Wallin women have gone before -- the land of braised short ribs that require about an hour of intense preparation. This all goes down in about five hours. Pray for chewable meat.
But in a gesture of love and affection and a willingness to risk burning the house down, I offered to make Russ dinner tonight. You must understand that Russ is the cook in our house, and an excellent one at that, whipping up concoctions that sparkle in the mouth. I, on the other hand, have a non-sparkling history when it comes to using the oven/stove. I've been known to put tuperware in the oven or bake cookies without a cookie sheet. All very messy. I don't know what's wrong with me, when it comes to cooking. I've had many friends give me diagnoses and the one I keep coming back to is that I'm a combination of non-tactile and unwilling to pay attention to the details. It would be like if Martha Stewart cut off her hands and developed an obsession with American Idol. That's me.
It's fair to say I'm a bit nervous. Last year, I made him dinner, but it was after a teaching session/practice run with the fabulous Ms. Christina Wenger, a.k.a. woman-who-could-bam-Emeril-to-oblivion-with-her-cooking. (Yes, she's really that good.) But there has been no practice session this year and I am blindly going where very few Wallin women have gone before -- the land of braised short ribs that require about an hour of intense preparation. This all goes down in about five hours. Pray for chewable meat.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
The Next Two Weeks of My Life, a.k.a. Why You Will Find Me Sitting on My Ass In Front of the TV Nonstop for Said Amount of Time
My Fellow Americans,
It is finally February, and yes, that means it's finally time for the winter Olympics in Torino, Italy. Skiing and skating and curling, oh my. This is something I've been waiting for since Christmas. I love all things Olympics, even the cheesy commercials about being a champion, and watching it from the warm, English-based comfort of my living room only sweetens the deal. My goal - unmet - was to have sports cable by this Olympics so I could watch it at all times (even hockey) and live vicariously the athletic goal to which I have never aspired.
The winter Olympics are even more fascinating to me than the summer Olympics because they all take place in snow, an athletic medium for which I have no talent. I have only publicly cried twice in life -- once, it was because the Pasadena Kinkos employees were horribly mean to me and the other time, it was because I'd been sitting on a hill in the mountains of Taos, NM for over five minutes, and still couldn't figure out how to get up. People assume that because I grew up in Illinois, a.k.a. land-of-miserable-winters-where-it-snows-until-June, I'm well-versed in all the finer points of winter sports. But Illinois is no place for winter events, unless the IOC were to introduce an event called "Windshield Scraping."
Russ laughs at me because my only skiing experience (before Taos) was in Wisconsin. The bunny slope was nothing more than the incline of my street. But it still took me all day to get down without crumpling into an embarassing heap. He grew up in California, Utah, and Colorado respectively, so let him laugh. I never put anti-freeze in the windshield wiper fluid container. Take that, mountaineer.
But, this is not about Russ. For once, this is about the Olympics and the fact that the next two weeks are all about them. The scandals -- ah, the scandals. Already, Michelle Kwan has dropped out and there's a guy who's been disqualified for using Rogaine. Skating is a good bet for controversey. So is Bode Miller. But don't rule out short track speed skating. The Koreans are buff and have been nursing their vendetta against Apolo Anton Ohno for the last four years.
In any case, I will be dedicating my time and energy to watching the somewhat-spotty coverage of trendy events on NBC. While I'm peeved that NBC will still be carrying such programs as Extreme Teenage Room Swap, I will use these gaps in coverage in order to get my work done. Plus, Bob Costas is hilarious.
Go Team U.S.A.!
Suprisingly Patriotically Yours,
Sarah
It is finally February, and yes, that means it's finally time for the winter Olympics in Torino, Italy. Skiing and skating and curling, oh my. This is something I've been waiting for since Christmas. I love all things Olympics, even the cheesy commercials about being a champion, and watching it from the warm, English-based comfort of my living room only sweetens the deal. My goal - unmet - was to have sports cable by this Olympics so I could watch it at all times (even hockey) and live vicariously the athletic goal to which I have never aspired.
The winter Olympics are even more fascinating to me than the summer Olympics because they all take place in snow, an athletic medium for which I have no talent. I have only publicly cried twice in life -- once, it was because the Pasadena Kinkos employees were horribly mean to me and the other time, it was because I'd been sitting on a hill in the mountains of Taos, NM for over five minutes, and still couldn't figure out how to get up. People assume that because I grew up in Illinois, a.k.a. land-of-miserable-winters-where-it-snows-until-June, I'm well-versed in all the finer points of winter sports. But Illinois is no place for winter events, unless the IOC were to introduce an event called "Windshield Scraping."
Russ laughs at me because my only skiing experience (before Taos) was in Wisconsin. The bunny slope was nothing more than the incline of my street. But it still took me all day to get down without crumpling into an embarassing heap. He grew up in California, Utah, and Colorado respectively, so let him laugh. I never put anti-freeze in the windshield wiper fluid container. Take that, mountaineer.
But, this is not about Russ. For once, this is about the Olympics and the fact that the next two weeks are all about them. The scandals -- ah, the scandals. Already, Michelle Kwan has dropped out and there's a guy who's been disqualified for using Rogaine. Skating is a good bet for controversey. So is Bode Miller. But don't rule out short track speed skating. The Koreans are buff and have been nursing their vendetta against Apolo Anton Ohno for the last four years.
In any case, I will be dedicating my time and energy to watching the somewhat-spotty coverage of trendy events on NBC. While I'm peeved that NBC will still be carrying such programs as Extreme Teenage Room Swap, I will use these gaps in coverage in order to get my work done. Plus, Bob Costas is hilarious.
Go Team U.S.A.!
Suprisingly Patriotically Yours,
Sarah
Friday, February 10, 2006
Trader Joe's Slut
I admit it. So does Russell. We cannot stay away from ours for more than a day or two.
Exhibit A: Crusing down the vegetable/prepared food/chips/cheese aisle, I saw Tiffany stocking lettuce. Tiffany is quite possibly the nicest person in the world. She always shrieks, "Hey girl!" and tonight, she gave me a side-hug. I ask you -- how many people side-hug their grocery store employees? I can't see myself ever siding it with the tired, grumpy looking people who work at the local Vons. They seem determinedly anti-hug.
Exhibit B: Here are their names and/or personality descriptions: Tiffany, Justin, April, the woman who usually runs the try-it-now bar who also owns her own catering business, Jason, Mike (see below), Laura, the woman with funky glasses who just had a baby and who I chatted with at the post office the other day, Sarah (punky lip ring), Chad 2 (the guy who is the evil twin of my friend Chad), Deanna, the woman with the dark, thick hair on her arms who is very, very nice...need I go on?
Exhibit C: They all know what Russ and I are doing on the weekends and that we're addicted to the chocolate toffee almonds.
Exhibit D: Unlike all other alcohol distributers, they know that although I may look like a college freshman, I'm actually a teacher of college freshman and thus, they no longer ask for my I.D. Ahh. One less card I have to pull out.
Exhibit E: Tonight, when I was leaving, Mike, a tall, skater-sort of guy, held up a finger that indicated I should wait a moment. Mike is a cool guy, really funny. As soon as he finished with his customer, he said, "Check it out." He then rolled up his shorts to his mid-thigh and showed me the continuation of his tattoo whose progress Russ and I have both been monitoring. It starts at his foot, then moved past his ankle to his knee, and now, it's up to his mid-thigh. Imagine what he'll show me next.
And you thought I was being ironic with the whole slut thing.
Exhibit A: Crusing down the vegetable/prepared food/chips/cheese aisle, I saw Tiffany stocking lettuce. Tiffany is quite possibly the nicest person in the world. She always shrieks, "Hey girl!" and tonight, she gave me a side-hug. I ask you -- how many people side-hug their grocery store employees? I can't see myself ever siding it with the tired, grumpy looking people who work at the local Vons. They seem determinedly anti-hug.
Exhibit B: Here are their names and/or personality descriptions: Tiffany, Justin, April, the woman who usually runs the try-it-now bar who also owns her own catering business, Jason, Mike (see below), Laura, the woman with funky glasses who just had a baby and who I chatted with at the post office the other day, Sarah (punky lip ring), Chad 2 (the guy who is the evil twin of my friend Chad), Deanna, the woman with the dark, thick hair on her arms who is very, very nice...need I go on?
Exhibit C: They all know what Russ and I are doing on the weekends and that we're addicted to the chocolate toffee almonds.
Exhibit D: Unlike all other alcohol distributers, they know that although I may look like a college freshman, I'm actually a teacher of college freshman and thus, they no longer ask for my I.D. Ahh. One less card I have to pull out.
Exhibit E: Tonight, when I was leaving, Mike, a tall, skater-sort of guy, held up a finger that indicated I should wait a moment. Mike is a cool guy, really funny. As soon as he finished with his customer, he said, "Check it out." He then rolled up his shorts to his mid-thigh and showed me the continuation of his tattoo whose progress Russ and I have both been monitoring. It starts at his foot, then moved past his ankle to his knee, and now, it's up to his mid-thigh. Imagine what he'll show me next.
And you thought I was being ironic with the whole slut thing.
Thursday, February 09, 2006
Fetch, Fido, Fectch
Things we've discovered about Tanya this last week:
1. She's excellent at playing catch. She'll play until she drops.
2. Like Russell and I, not really that fond of kids.
3. If she's playing catch and can't find the ball, she stands and walks on her hind legs, looking up in the air (as if the ball didn't come down to earth).
4. She likes avocados.
5. She likes to meet other people backwards. As in, being passed to them butt-first. Then, the licking...the incessant licking.
Now then, some other matters of contemplation:
I heard Bush referred to today as "Captain Cuckoo Bananas." I love that.
I've been listening to some really great music lately, mostly Alison Krauss and Sufjan Stevens. It's fun to listen to Sufjan in the car with the windows down. People on the sidwalks look at you funny when they hear his intensely dramatic flute runs.
Why are things such as Britney Spears holding her baby while driving and James Frey still at the forefront of news? As for Britney, okay, yes, not exactly great to hold a baby in your lap while driving, but I remember when my four-year old sister would hang out the window - to her waist - of our Oldsmobile. I also remember being told that if I kept putting my arm out the window, it would get chopped off by a semi truck. So maybe I'm just auto-desensitized. And James -- the guy got fired. So he's obviously had better days. He'll be a fiction writer from now on, he promises.
Fante's The Road to Los Angeles = sort of weird. Fante's Wait Until Spring, Bandini = wonderful and funny and sad. As Dr. Coop said, we should all read Ask the Dust before the movie comes out in March and Colin Farrell forever taints Bandini.
1. She's excellent at playing catch. She'll play until she drops.
2. Like Russell and I, not really that fond of kids.
3. If she's playing catch and can't find the ball, she stands and walks on her hind legs, looking up in the air (as if the ball didn't come down to earth).
4. She likes avocados.
5. She likes to meet other people backwards. As in, being passed to them butt-first. Then, the licking...the incessant licking.
Now then, some other matters of contemplation:
I heard Bush referred to today as "Captain Cuckoo Bananas." I love that.
I've been listening to some really great music lately, mostly Alison Krauss and Sufjan Stevens. It's fun to listen to Sufjan in the car with the windows down. People on the sidwalks look at you funny when they hear his intensely dramatic flute runs.
Why are things such as Britney Spears holding her baby while driving and James Frey still at the forefront of news? As for Britney, okay, yes, not exactly great to hold a baby in your lap while driving, but I remember when my four-year old sister would hang out the window - to her waist - of our Oldsmobile. I also remember being told that if I kept putting my arm out the window, it would get chopped off by a semi truck. So maybe I'm just auto-desensitized. And James -- the guy got fired. So he's obviously had better days. He'll be a fiction writer from now on, he promises.
Fante's The Road to Los Angeles = sort of weird. Fante's Wait Until Spring, Bandini = wonderful and funny and sad. As Dr. Coop said, we should all read Ask the Dust before the movie comes out in March and Colin Farrell forever taints Bandini.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Smoke Gets In Your Lungs
As the hills of Orange County are burning away, I am happily clear and blue-skied up along the San Gabriel Mountains. It's fire season in California once again.
Though sometimes I would feel no remorse about Orange County burning to the ground, I do feel a certain solidarity with the Orangeos in this case. I think as southern Californians, we all understand the power of fire and how it could burn this mother down in two breezy days. Two years ago, the hills in Azusa (a few freeway exits east) were burning and the buzz on the streets of Monrovia was all about evacuation. Would we have to flee to the overpriced hotels of Pasadena? Luckily, Monrovians were spared the torture of leaving behind their beloved Coldstone and Krikorian Theater. All we got was a blanket of smoke that hung over the town for at least a week. The smoke turned the sky a color I can only describe as "apocolyptic gray." The shape was sort of reminiscent of the cloud-finger of God parting the Red Sea in The Ten Commandments.
The most amazing part was the cinders free-floating around us at all times. We found cinders in our bed sheets and caked on the window panes. The Blaxima (my black Maxima)'s hood had a white-flaked coating, as did the geraniums in our garden. A walk to get the mail required a face wash or a clothing change.
It's the closest we get to snow in California, these cinders clinging to your nose. Next thing you know, there will be "cinder fights" and "cinder-men."
Though sometimes I would feel no remorse about Orange County burning to the ground, I do feel a certain solidarity with the Orangeos in this case. I think as southern Californians, we all understand the power of fire and how it could burn this mother down in two breezy days. Two years ago, the hills in Azusa (a few freeway exits east) were burning and the buzz on the streets of Monrovia was all about evacuation. Would we have to flee to the overpriced hotels of Pasadena? Luckily, Monrovians were spared the torture of leaving behind their beloved Coldstone and Krikorian Theater. All we got was a blanket of smoke that hung over the town for at least a week. The smoke turned the sky a color I can only describe as "apocolyptic gray." The shape was sort of reminiscent of the cloud-finger of God parting the Red Sea in The Ten Commandments.
The most amazing part was the cinders free-floating around us at all times. We found cinders in our bed sheets and caked on the window panes. The Blaxima (my black Maxima)'s hood had a white-flaked coating, as did the geraniums in our garden. A walk to get the mail required a face wash or a clothing change.
It's the closest we get to snow in California, these cinders clinging to your nose. Next thing you know, there will be "cinder fights" and "cinder-men."
Monday, February 06, 2006
Los Angeles, Sad Flower in the Sand
Kristan had the awesome idea today, after I mentioned that Sandow Birk's Inferno wasn't "L.A. enough," that we need to form an official "Los Angeles Appreciation Club." By people who love L.A. - and its quirky this-is-not-New-York-ness - for people who love L.A.
Any joiners?
In other L.A. news, Russ and I joined Christina and Emilio in partying down on the Queen Mary last Saturday night.
We celebrated the marriage of Christina's friend Kate, who because of her work with social justice in L.A., Russ has dubbed "the people's Kate."
Russ and my gift to the people's Kate and her husband, Alexander, who is a Cuban transplant in L.A., were communist revolution hats. Viva Cuba and la revolucion and el amor!
Emilio "the eye" C-G took some beautiful, breath-taking photos of the Queen Mary.
I took some beautiful, breath-taking photos of my face smooshed against the table.
Upon closer review, definitely not in the same league as Emilio's.
Russ and I tried to salsa. Never try to compete with a Cubano and Cubana-by-marriage.
When Christina and I were dancing to Michael Jackson, this old, old man approached us. He'd been dancing with his caretaker, but I'd seen him eyeing Christina and I shaking it. He was hard to hear, but we finally understood that he wanted to dance. Christina kindly offered him her hands and I thought the man was going to pass out from sheer ecstasy.
As they were dancing, he whispered (something along the lines of), "If I had a hotel room tonight, I'd invite you over."
Any joiners?
In other L.A. news, Russ and I joined Christina and Emilio in partying down on the Queen Mary last Saturday night.
We celebrated the marriage of Christina's friend Kate, who because of her work with social justice in L.A., Russ has dubbed "the people's Kate."
Russ and my gift to the people's Kate and her husband, Alexander, who is a Cuban transplant in L.A., were communist revolution hats. Viva Cuba and la revolucion and el amor!
Emilio "the eye" C-G took some beautiful, breath-taking photos of the Queen Mary.
I took some beautiful, breath-taking photos of my face smooshed against the table.
Upon closer review, definitely not in the same league as Emilio's.
Russ and I tried to salsa. Never try to compete with a Cubano and Cubana-by-marriage.
When Christina and I were dancing to Michael Jackson, this old, old man approached us. He'd been dancing with his caretaker, but I'd seen him eyeing Christina and I shaking it. He was hard to hear, but we finally understood that he wanted to dance. Christina kindly offered him her hands and I thought the man was going to pass out from sheer ecstasy.
As they were dancing, he whispered (something along the lines of), "If I had a hotel room tonight, I'd invite you over."
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Figgerit Madness
Russ and I, lying in bed last night, me doing Figgerit puzzles, which are sort of a mix of cryptograms and crosswords:
"What's an eight letter word for 'pirate of sorts'?"
"Hmm. Buccaneer?"
"How do you spell Buccaneer?"
"B-U-C-K-A--"
"It isn't spelled like BUCK AN EAR, you know."
"I know. I just like that joke."
"The one about how much it costs pirates to pierce their ears?"
"ARRRGH -- a buck an ear!"
"What's an eight letter word for 'pirate of sorts'?"
"Hmm. Buccaneer?"
"How do you spell Buccaneer?"
"B-U-C-K-A--"
"It isn't spelled like BUCK AN EAR, you know."
"I know. I just like that joke."
"The one about how much it costs pirates to pierce their ears?"
"ARRRGH -- a buck an ear!"
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
The Problem with being Augustus Gloop
On the aforementioned Dante's hell quiz, one level of hell that I had a moderately high score on was level three, the level of the glutton. I think it's because I wrote that I eat out several times a week. I hope God takes into account that some of us just can't cook, no matter how hard we aspire. And that pizza tastes damn good sometimes.
Tanya might be there along with me. My own personal hell hound. We got her a new toy, a package of three mini tennis balls. She loves them. She loves them so much, in fact, that she refuses to drop them once they're in her mouth. So we have to use two at a time when we want to play ball with her. But now, she's become a greedy girl. Russ and I laugh and laugh watching her trying to fit those two balls in her little mouth at once. Just when she's walking away with one, she remembers the other one and grabs it, in the process dropping the other one. It's like a little Charlie Chaplin act. We can almost see her scratching her head trying to figure it out.
Tanya might be there along with me. My own personal hell hound. We got her a new toy, a package of three mini tennis balls. She loves them. She loves them so much, in fact, that she refuses to drop them once they're in her mouth. So we have to use two at a time when we want to play ball with her. But now, she's become a greedy girl. Russ and I laugh and laugh watching her trying to fit those two balls in her little mouth at once. Just when she's walking away with one, she remembers the other one and grabs it, in the process dropping the other one. It's like a little Charlie Chaplin act. We can almost see her scratching her head trying to figure it out.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Four to the Third
So much fun did I have reading kristan's four (which she was tagged to do by her friend who originated the four) that I had to carry on this charming questionare. Plus, the State of the Union is on TV and who wants to watch that?
Four jobs I’ve had:
1. Law Office Secretary
2. Newspaper Editor
3. Publications Director
4. Creative Writing Teacher
Four movies I like:
1. Rushmore
2. The BBC version of Pride and Prejudice
3. Orange County
4. Chicago
Four TV shows I love:
1. Lost
2. Grey's Anatomy
3. Dancing with the Stars
4. The Simpsons
Four places I’ve lived:
1. Aurora
2. La Mirada
3. Pasadena
4. Monrovia
Four places I’ve vacationed:
1. Belize
2. England
3. Israel/Palestine
4. Arkansas
Four of my favorite dishes:
1. Shrimp tacos
2. Sushi tostadas
3. A good hamburger
4. Moraccan Chicken
Sites I visit daily:
1. L.A. Times
2. Wikipedia
3. Bookslut
4. friends' sites
Four places I would rather be right now:
1. Laying on the couch with a husband beside me and a warm dog in my lap
2. On a beach anywhere pleasantly warm where the ocean doesn't have huge, scary waves
3. Shopping for everyone I love with an unlimited gift certificate
4. Hanging with friends, especially those who live far away (Illinois, North Carolina)
Four jobs I’ve had:
1. Law Office Secretary
2. Newspaper Editor
3. Publications Director
4. Creative Writing Teacher
Four movies I like:
1. Rushmore
2. The BBC version of Pride and Prejudice
3. Orange County
4. Chicago
Four TV shows I love:
1. Lost
2. Grey's Anatomy
3. Dancing with the Stars
4. The Simpsons
Four places I’ve lived:
1. Aurora
2. La Mirada
3. Pasadena
4. Monrovia
Four places I’ve vacationed:
1. Belize
2. England
3. Israel/Palestine
4. Arkansas
Four of my favorite dishes:
1. Shrimp tacos
2. Sushi tostadas
3. A good hamburger
4. Moraccan Chicken
Sites I visit daily:
1. L.A. Times
2. Wikipedia
3. Bookslut
4. friends' sites
Four places I would rather be right now:
1. Laying on the couch with a husband beside me and a warm dog in my lap
2. On a beach anywhere pleasantly warm where the ocean doesn't have huge, scary waves
3. Shopping for everyone I love with an unlimited gift certificate
4. Hanging with friends, especially those who live far away (Illinois, North Carolina)
Monday, January 30, 2006
Inferno -- That's Hot
Been reading Dante's Inferno all weekend and will be reading a millennial update of the epic this week. Of course, it's far from hell when you're sipping a cold Frappuccino while reading.
Alfredo, a classmate of mine, sent this quiz called Dante's Inferno Test. See how far you fall.
Alfredo, a classmate of mine, sent this quiz called Dante's Inferno Test. See how far you fall.
Sunday, January 29, 2006
Scholarship Girl
I spent yesterday in the grand ballroom of the Long Beach Convention Center with some very literary women. While it's always refreshing to be in a room of people who share my love of reading, I tend to get a little cynical at all-women events. As in, I refuse to give in to anyone who attempts to girl-bond with me over womanly subjects. I want to gag rather than laugh at the jokes about how great women are. I shun all things "cute." I roll my eyes at everyone cooing, "Aww" when one of the speakers mentions she has a new baby. I can't decide whether that makes me a good feminist or just a bad person.
Did I mention that there were about 1,000 women in this room? A loooot of estrogen.
I was one of five "student guests" at the event. This involved wearing a nametag with a red ribbon that had "scholarship" printed on it, which meant I was there, courtesy of the CSULB English Department.
During break, when many of the other ladies-who-literary were drinking wine, I went outside to get some air and a homeless man came up to me. He opened his mouth, then looked at my chest (on which the "scholarship" ribbon was displayed). His whole body shifted and he suddenly looked sassy instead of squinty. With a big, flirty smile, he said, "Hey, what's up girl?" Never has a mere nametag been so instrumental in getting holla-ed at.
I also sat next to one of the featured authors, Elizabeth Gaffney, which was fun and a little nerve-wracking at the same time. Once I was introduced to her, I was immediately wetting my pants trying to think of intelligent yet funny comments while also attempting to look cooly nonchalant, like the people in casino commercials. But unfortunately, that didn't work out so well. Note to self: When you try to impress someone by trying not to look like you're thinking too hard, you often give up thinking entirely and allow weird comments fly out of your mouth. If only I had the option of a five second delay so I could bleep out entire sentences. After telling Elizabeth about myself (in retrospect, TMI), I asked her if she was nervous about speaking. Now obviously, this was just my own inner monologue emerging, but she sort of smiled and then, politely answered the question. That was very nice of her.
That was just a microcosm of my day. I love the word microcosm. That's one you don't get to use too often. And fisticuffs.
An unrelated bit of news: Last week, when I was in Felipe's with Russ and his classmates eating lunch, we saw a group of ACTUAL "Cheery Red Tomatoes." It was incredible. They had the red hats and everything. One of them even had on a crosstitched nametag: "Red Hat - Red Hot - My name is Estelle."
Did I mention that there were about 1,000 women in this room? A loooot of estrogen.
I was one of five "student guests" at the event. This involved wearing a nametag with a red ribbon that had "scholarship" printed on it, which meant I was there, courtesy of the CSULB English Department.
During break, when many of the other ladies-who-literary were drinking wine, I went outside to get some air and a homeless man came up to me. He opened his mouth, then looked at my chest (on which the "scholarship" ribbon was displayed). His whole body shifted and he suddenly looked sassy instead of squinty. With a big, flirty smile, he said, "Hey, what's up girl?" Never has a mere nametag been so instrumental in getting holla-ed at.
I also sat next to one of the featured authors, Elizabeth Gaffney, which was fun and a little nerve-wracking at the same time. Once I was introduced to her, I was immediately wetting my pants trying to think of intelligent yet funny comments while also attempting to look cooly nonchalant, like the people in casino commercials. But unfortunately, that didn't work out so well. Note to self: When you try to impress someone by trying not to look like you're thinking too hard, you often give up thinking entirely and allow weird comments fly out of your mouth. If only I had the option of a five second delay so I could bleep out entire sentences. After telling Elizabeth about myself (in retrospect, TMI), I asked her if she was nervous about speaking. Now obviously, this was just my own inner monologue emerging, but she sort of smiled and then, politely answered the question. That was very nice of her.
That was just a microcosm of my day. I love the word microcosm. That's one you don't get to use too often. And fisticuffs.
An unrelated bit of news: Last week, when I was in Felipe's with Russ and his classmates eating lunch, we saw a group of ACTUAL "Cheery Red Tomatoes." It was incredible. They had the red hats and everything. One of them even had on a crosstitched nametag: "Red Hat - Red Hot - My name is Estelle."
Saturday, January 28, 2006
When Neighbors Go Bad
When walking Tan-Tan-Tan-Tan (sung to tune of the Thong Song) around the block, I can't help but get a little voyueristic about the insides of my neighbors' houses, people I see out and about, but with whom I rarely converse. Don't get me wrong, many of my neighbors seem like nice people -- they just aren't the chatty-chat sort. Actually, there is one chatty-chat sort, a woman whom Russ and I have nicknamed "Crazy J" because she tells us all sorts of things about her family that I think she should personally keep under wraps (in order to maintain her dignity). For instance, she once told us about her children playing in their own feces when they were, as the Catholic Church likes to put it, of the age of reason. A four year old smearing doo-doo-butter all over his two year old sister? Nasty.
Toonight, I happened to peek into the house that is in front of ours. Believe me, I did this with no malice aforethought -- I was just wondering what colors they painted the inside of their house because I've seen some paint cans out in the alley recently. But when I looked into their house, I was subjected to the entire crack - not just halfies, but WHOLE-sies - of the man of the house. He's a big, Eric-the-Red type Viking character. I never see him when he's not sort of grunty and/or pillaging the plants out of his yard. Once I caught his dog, a black Lab, from running away down the alley and when I handed her over by her collar, he was almost embarassed that we were within a two foot radius. He never looked at me once. And as of tonight, I don't know that I can ever look at him again -- at least not without envisioning miles of crack.
Toonight, I happened to peek into the house that is in front of ours. Believe me, I did this with no malice aforethought -- I was just wondering what colors they painted the inside of their house because I've seen some paint cans out in the alley recently. But when I looked into their house, I was subjected to the entire crack - not just halfies, but WHOLE-sies - of the man of the house. He's a big, Eric-the-Red type Viking character. I never see him when he's not sort of grunty and/or pillaging the plants out of his yard. Once I caught his dog, a black Lab, from running away down the alley and when I handed her over by her collar, he was almost embarassed that we were within a two foot radius. He never looked at me once. And as of tonight, I don't know that I can ever look at him again -- at least not without envisioning miles of crack.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
The Class of 96 Sucks
Russ and I, who both graduated from high school in 1996, decided today that our respective classes are completely lame. Reason? Neither has planned reunions for our big 10 year anniversary of graduating high school, a.k.a. place-that-we-all-hated-by-turns-and-degrees-because-it-tortured-us-all-in-ways-from-which-we-will-never-recover. And this is coming from a former cheerleader. I think cheerleaders are supposed to have pain-free experience or something, but it's just another myth, like Bigfoot or the finger in the Wendy's chili.
In my defense, I hated cheerleading and most other high school activities by my senior year of high school. I did enjoy a number of non-school related activities that included (but were not limited to):
1. Eating Sweet-Tarts with Rebekah in her car, the Bear.
2. Writing bi-weekly letters to Diana in Guatemala.
3. Singing "Least Complicated" in my car, the Red Racer, with Rebekah in perfect harmony and having nothing do but drive around and sing.
4. Chalking people's driveways.
A word on the fourth item -- it was a weird practice that began because a number of us had been punished the year before for T.P.ing people's houses. So we began writing on the driveway in chalk in the dark. It was fun. Too bad everyone knows your handwriting in a class of 54 people.
That was also the year I finally left all pretense behind and embraced my true love -- writing for the yearbook.
After reviewing this post, I've wisely realized that perhaps there is a high school year reunion going on after all and I have been purposely left off the guest list.
In my defense, I hated cheerleading and most other high school activities by my senior year of high school. I did enjoy a number of non-school related activities that included (but were not limited to):
1. Eating Sweet-Tarts with Rebekah in her car, the Bear.
2. Writing bi-weekly letters to Diana in Guatemala.
3. Singing "Least Complicated" in my car, the Red Racer, with Rebekah in perfect harmony and having nothing do but drive around and sing.
4. Chalking people's driveways.
A word on the fourth item -- it was a weird practice that began because a number of us had been punished the year before for T.P.ing people's houses. So we began writing on the driveway in chalk in the dark. It was fun. Too bad everyone knows your handwriting in a class of 54 people.
That was also the year I finally left all pretense behind and embraced my true love -- writing for the yearbook.
After reviewing this post, I've wisely realized that perhaps there is a high school year reunion going on after all and I have been purposely left off the guest list.
Our Weekly Discoveries about Tanya
We keep discovering things about Tanya as we keep getting to know her better. For instance, last week, we discovered that when in our bed, she doesn't like sleeping above the sheets. She burrows down to the bottom and then, just dies for several hours. Eventually, she comes back to life and does that shake-out-thing. Which means, "Okay, y'all, I'm up. Just so you know."
Another thing we noticed is that she has some weird nasal cavity activities going on. I wish I could describe it for you, but it defies an explanation in words. If you hang out with her for a while, you won't believe the odd things that come out of her nose.
This week's discovery: She doesn't enjoy having her picture taken when the flash is of the camera is activated. I crawled around on my hands and knees after she shimmied away from me and the camera, with little success. But luckily, my first picture was good.
Another thing we noticed is that she has some weird nasal cavity activities going on. I wish I could describe it for you, but it defies an explanation in words. If you hang out with her for a while, you won't believe the odd things that come out of her nose.
This week's discovery: She doesn't enjoy having her picture taken when the flash is of the camera is activated. I crawled around on my hands and knees after she shimmied away from me and the camera, with little success. But luckily, my first picture was good.
How We Hang
For anyone who ever wondered how a writer and an artist/landscape architect spend their week nights, allow me to illuminate.
We both claim a spot and clikety-clack on our laptops. We smile over the tops of our silver Powerbooks and give each other a wink or a kissy-face or a random comment about the absolute awesome-ness of our Macs, but other than that, we are a pretty sad example of artists-gone-wild.
Once in a great while, we pose for pictures. Then we go back to work.
We both claim a spot and clikety-clack on our laptops. We smile over the tops of our silver Powerbooks and give each other a wink or a kissy-face or a random comment about the absolute awesome-ness of our Macs, but other than that, we are a pretty sad example of artists-gone-wild.
Once in a great while, we pose for pictures. Then we go back to work.
Sunday, January 22, 2006
Hot Style in the City
Once upon a time, in a library second floor periodicals room, underwear was discovered by a few grads trying to escape the table-bound-madness that is graduate life as a writer. It was weird, it was random, it was a periodical-and-underwear sandwich.
On Thursday, when Russ and I were walking to the new Caltrans building in downtown, we stumbled upon another underwear job. Is this the work of a new tighty-whitey artist? Or is it perhaps the infamous Long Beach underwear, popping up in new locations every week like the garden gnome in the movie Amelie? Look closely. You be the judge.
On Thursday, when Russ and I were walking to the new Caltrans building in downtown, we stumbled upon another underwear job. Is this the work of a new tighty-whitey artist? Or is it perhaps the infamous Long Beach underwear, popping up in new locations every week like the garden gnome in the movie Amelie? Look closely. You be the judge.
The Cheese Factor
After reading a whole bunch of non-fiction essays today at Kristan's, I accidentally missed the Orange Grove exit on my way back, and was forced to take Fair Oaks. It's a drive right through the heart of Pasadena and Old Town, which I always enjoy, except for the part when I am forced to drive by the Cheesecake Factory.
The Cheesecake Factory represents everything wrong with restaurants in America. You wait forever to eat food that's uncreative in its flavors and its displays. They put sauce on everything. You're also forced to sit next to booths of drunk advertising executives and squawking junior production developers telling stories they think are hi-lar-ious. Top 40 instant grooves play and the waiter/waitresses never fill up your water glass. The whole operation is just one step above Acapulco's on newspaper-coupon night.
It's also where I met and instantly disliked my food nemesis, bleu cheese.
What I hate most about the Pasadena C.F. is that many of the booths inside are window adjacent. And the windows are big and frequently washed. That means that as people are stuffing their faces with large burgers, greasy quesadillas, and mama pieces of cheesecake, I can't help but get a little voyeuristic. All those people grinning at each other, then out the window, with cheesy-caked smiles and sauce-coated hands.
The Cheesecake Factory represents everything wrong with restaurants in America. You wait forever to eat food that's uncreative in its flavors and its displays. They put sauce on everything. You're also forced to sit next to booths of drunk advertising executives and squawking junior production developers telling stories they think are hi-lar-ious. Top 40 instant grooves play and the waiter/waitresses never fill up your water glass. The whole operation is just one step above Acapulco's on newspaper-coupon night.
It's also where I met and instantly disliked my food nemesis, bleu cheese.
What I hate most about the Pasadena C.F. is that many of the booths inside are window adjacent. And the windows are big and frequently washed. That means that as people are stuffing their faces with large burgers, greasy quesadillas, and mama pieces of cheesecake, I can't help but get a little voyeuristic. All those people grinning at each other, then out the window, with cheesy-caked smiles and sauce-coated hands.
Friday, January 20, 2006
Thing I Used to Be Good At, Like Remembering
I just checked this blog to see what I'd posted last night. I was sure I'd written something about my adventure with Russell in downtown L.A. and the "Not A Cornfield" installation yesterday.
Turns out, there was nothing except my post about Lost. Ironic.
Turns out, there was nothing except my post about Lost. Ironic.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
The Lost Diaries, Episode 211
Tonight's episode "The Hunting Party" was a lot of plot, but not much in the way of story. We got to see an interaction with "the others," which didn't lend much in the way of information, only that the others are allowing the survivors to remain on the island. And also, we got to see how Jack's marriage broke up, which was another piece of the puzzle to a man that is so annoyingly stubborn and faithless.
Some pieces of note:
1. Jack's last line to Ana-Lucia: "How long do you think it would take to train an army?" Setting up a potential island-Armageddon between the survivors and the others.
2. Charlie watching Locke with Claire and Aaron, taking over his place (or so Charlie feels). What is Charlie going to do about it? Start using again? Or become obsessed with Locke's interest in Aaron? Take action? The man is a powder keg of heroin.
3. Jack, who is attracted to Kate, is pouting because Kate and Sawyer seem to be growing closer. But when Jack tells Sawyer, "You said you love her," Sawyer doesn't seem to recall saying it. What does this mean for the Kate-Jack-Sawyer triangle? It seems to me that Jack is punishing Kate for her attraction to Sawyer -- when she makes her big mistake by following them and getting herself captured, Jack ignores her. Kate seems to want Jack to love her more than she wants to love him -- she spends the remainder of the episode trying to get Jack to talk to her.
4. How will Ana-Lucia figure into the Jack-Kate-Sawyer triangle? Jack goes to her to take over Kate's usual cohort-role at the end of the episode. Is Jack just using her to make Kate jealous? Is Ana-Lucia's status as an outcast make her more attractive to Jack? After all, Jack's former wife, Sarah, (in the flashback of tonight's episode) said: "You can't stand not having something to fix."
5. Why are the others allowing the survivors to live on this island? And why are they taking all the children and people on the list, but not killing them? Goodwin, a spy who infilterates the tail-end survivors, tells Ana-Lucia that one of the survivors wasn't taken "because he wasn't a good person." Zeke, the others' spokesmen, quotes Alvar Hanso in tonight's episode: "From the dawn of our species, Man has been blessed with curiosity." This raises tons of questions. Are they part of the social experiment of the Hanso Foundation and the Dharma Initiative? Are the others actually good and the survivors the bad ones -- and if so, who are we really rooting for in these episodes?
6. J.J. Abrams, at the Golden Globes, categorized Lost as "a show about faith." Hmm.
Some pieces of note:
1. Jack's last line to Ana-Lucia: "How long do you think it would take to train an army?" Setting up a potential island-Armageddon between the survivors and the others.
2. Charlie watching Locke with Claire and Aaron, taking over his place (or so Charlie feels). What is Charlie going to do about it? Start using again? Or become obsessed with Locke's interest in Aaron? Take action? The man is a powder keg of heroin.
3. Jack, who is attracted to Kate, is pouting because Kate and Sawyer seem to be growing closer. But when Jack tells Sawyer, "You said you love her," Sawyer doesn't seem to recall saying it. What does this mean for the Kate-Jack-Sawyer triangle? It seems to me that Jack is punishing Kate for her attraction to Sawyer -- when she makes her big mistake by following them and getting herself captured, Jack ignores her. Kate seems to want Jack to love her more than she wants to love him -- she spends the remainder of the episode trying to get Jack to talk to her.
4. How will Ana-Lucia figure into the Jack-Kate-Sawyer triangle? Jack goes to her to take over Kate's usual cohort-role at the end of the episode. Is Jack just using her to make Kate jealous? Is Ana-Lucia's status as an outcast make her more attractive to Jack? After all, Jack's former wife, Sarah, (in the flashback of tonight's episode) said: "You can't stand not having something to fix."
5. Why are the others allowing the survivors to live on this island? And why are they taking all the children and people on the list, but not killing them? Goodwin, a spy who infilterates the tail-end survivors, tells Ana-Lucia that one of the survivors wasn't taken "because he wasn't a good person." Zeke, the others' spokesmen, quotes Alvar Hanso in tonight's episode: "From the dawn of our species, Man has been blessed with curiosity." This raises tons of questions. Are they part of the social experiment of the Hanso Foundation and the Dharma Initiative? Are the others actually good and the survivors the bad ones -- and if so, who are we really rooting for in these episodes?
6. J.J. Abrams, at the Golden Globes, categorized Lost as "a show about faith." Hmm.
Weighing In A Little Late
After days of reading the James Frey controversey - which just will not die - I decided that I should add my own proverbial log to the fire.
To me, the whole debate is moot. I firmly believe that all nonfiction can't help but supply an element of fiction. People are upset that Frey embellished his true life experiences by dressing them up a little. But that's nothing new. Just think of Capote's In Cold Blood. Or David Sedaris' Elf Diaries. Do we really believe that Capote's visits to the prison went exactly as he said they did? Or that Sedaris thinks such witty thoughts instantaneously? Even when we're telling stories that happened to us at Trader Joes or at work, they take on an aspect of fiction. If we all reported events exactly as they happened, we might never laugh -- or cry.
So what I'm saying is that I don't think experience can ever, truly be told without a little fiction. And I think that's a good thing. That's where this sort of nonfiction becomes interesting, takes on a life and a voice. That's what makes its potential impact so great. If people are looking for writing without any embellishment, they should invest in technical manuals. Or US Weekly in a pinch.
Now if I'd read Frey's book, I hope I'd be able to come up with "embellishments" as funny as these: http://www.theonion.com/content/node/44479
To me, the whole debate is moot. I firmly believe that all nonfiction can't help but supply an element of fiction. People are upset that Frey embellished his true life experiences by dressing them up a little. But that's nothing new. Just think of Capote's In Cold Blood. Or David Sedaris' Elf Diaries. Do we really believe that Capote's visits to the prison went exactly as he said they did? Or that Sedaris thinks such witty thoughts instantaneously? Even when we're telling stories that happened to us at Trader Joes or at work, they take on an aspect of fiction. If we all reported events exactly as they happened, we might never laugh -- or cry.
So what I'm saying is that I don't think experience can ever, truly be told without a little fiction. And I think that's a good thing. That's where this sort of nonfiction becomes interesting, takes on a life and a voice. That's what makes its potential impact so great. If people are looking for writing without any embellishment, they should invest in technical manuals. Or US Weekly in a pinch.
Now if I'd read Frey's book, I hope I'd be able to come up with "embellishments" as funny as these: http://www.theonion.com/content/node/44479
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
The S.N.O.B. of the Month Club
I absolutely have to recommend the book The Wine Guy by Andy Besch. If you enjoy drinking wine, or just knowing about wine, this is a must-read. After a a few years of wine drinking, I decided that it was time that I got informed beyond just knowing that I tend to favor Syrahs and Zinfindels. But I was sort of nervous, because it's a tricky subject. There's the S.N.O.B. stigma attached to it (that story later) and all those complex names of grapes, regions, and labels. The wine guy's mission is simple -- getting each reader to know all the tastes available so that they can start to decide what they like when they find themselves anywhere wine-related. And dismantling the fiction-oid that good wine has to cost a lot of money.
When Russ was in San Francisco this past week, he and his friends found themselves looking for a wine bar one night. But they had no idea where they were, so Russ got bold and asked the first guy who walked by if there was a good wine bar opened in the area. The guy told him yes, there was, it was called S.N.O.B., and that it was a few blocks down, tucked away on the right side. Russ thanked the guy and told out the group, excited to check it out. The man loves a good glass of wine. His classmates refer to this wine persona as "Gruss."
As they started walking, discussing whether they should go or not, his friend Zach started laughing. "What?" Russ asked. "That guy just called us snobs," Zach said. And the rest of the group put it together (if they hadn't already) -- the letter S.N.O.B. spell snob. As in people who drink wine. Burn!
Russ's excitement would not be tempered, though -- he kept walking. "I guess I just have more faith in my fellow man than you," he said to Zach. It could be true, as Zach was once thrown into a Russian prison for a very minor incident. That tends to hamper the whole trusting-your-fellow-man thing. It also (sadly) takes away the appetite for pirogis for life.
So Russ and Zach had this sort of bet-non-bet going that there wouldn't really be a wine bar on the right side of the street called S.N.O.B. And I have to admit -- it does sound a little suspicious.
But what do you know? S.N.O.B. wine bar was there and kicking. Russ said it was awesome, except that the waitress kept sloshing wine onto their hands and the table. In other words, she was pouring challenged, perhaps negating the theory that all wine drinkers are neat, clean, S.N.O.B.s.
When Russ was in San Francisco this past week, he and his friends found themselves looking for a wine bar one night. But they had no idea where they were, so Russ got bold and asked the first guy who walked by if there was a good wine bar opened in the area. The guy told him yes, there was, it was called S.N.O.B., and that it was a few blocks down, tucked away on the right side. Russ thanked the guy and told out the group, excited to check it out. The man loves a good glass of wine. His classmates refer to this wine persona as "Gruss."
As they started walking, discussing whether they should go or not, his friend Zach started laughing. "What?" Russ asked. "That guy just called us snobs," Zach said. And the rest of the group put it together (if they hadn't already) -- the letter S.N.O.B. spell snob. As in people who drink wine. Burn!
Russ's excitement would not be tempered, though -- he kept walking. "I guess I just have more faith in my fellow man than you," he said to Zach. It could be true, as Zach was once thrown into a Russian prison for a very minor incident. That tends to hamper the whole trusting-your-fellow-man thing. It also (sadly) takes away the appetite for pirogis for life.
So Russ and Zach had this sort of bet-non-bet going that there wouldn't really be a wine bar on the right side of the street called S.N.O.B. And I have to admit -- it does sound a little suspicious.
But what do you know? S.N.O.B. wine bar was there and kicking. Russ said it was awesome, except that the waitress kept sloshing wine onto their hands and the table. In other words, she was pouring challenged, perhaps negating the theory that all wine drinkers are neat, clean, S.N.O.B.s.
Sunday, January 15, 2006
January, the Most Vulgar Month
I just realized that my last two posts both involve poop. I saw that Kristan also posted about poop (re: Linus and Mia). And Josh (re: Duke). It must be the season.
Saturday, January 14, 2006
Pit Stop
What is it about going shopping that makes me have to poop? I have another friend who shares this affliction, but otherwise, I am alone in this store induced dumping. It happens to me all the time. In fact, it's happened since I was little, when my mom, sister, and I used to go to Bergner's, or as it's called now, Carson Pirie Scott, back in good old Aurora. We'd all seperate to follow our own shopping adventures, and just when I thought I might be okay this time, that I might not have to go, it would hit me like a coconut frappacino. I would practically run from the juniors department all the way to the bathroom in lingerie, squeezing the cheeks and praying that there were empty stalls.
Speaking of lingerie, there's a fabulous new shop of it at the Paseo in Pasadena -- it's called East Thirteen and I would say it's the Tiffany's of lingerie buying. You get water and chocolates and if you're lucky, some very beautiful (albeit pricey) lingerie.
These urgent bathroom trips still happen, although I've gotten better at taking the necessary steps to avoid tragedy. Most often, it happens at Target and other big department stores with obscure bathrooms. Today, I was at Marshall's, checking around for a new handbag, and it hit me. I had to poop immediately. Luckily, I've had some practice at keeping it in while speed walking through aisles and past old women who block the roadways. I ran to their bathroom, only to see that there was a key pad on the bathroom door. Who puts a protective lock on their bathroom?! I checked the men's, ready to charge in if it was open (covering my eyes, of course). Alas, locked as well. I had to run all the way to the fitting room to get the attendant to page a woman to let me into the bathroom. A lengthy process when there's a prairie dog situation.
Speaking of lingerie, there's a fabulous new shop of it at the Paseo in Pasadena -- it's called East Thirteen and I would say it's the Tiffany's of lingerie buying. You get water and chocolates and if you're lucky, some very beautiful (albeit pricey) lingerie.
These urgent bathroom trips still happen, although I've gotten better at taking the necessary steps to avoid tragedy. Most often, it happens at Target and other big department stores with obscure bathrooms. Today, I was at Marshall's, checking around for a new handbag, and it hit me. I had to poop immediately. Luckily, I've had some practice at keeping it in while speed walking through aisles and past old women who block the roadways. I ran to their bathroom, only to see that there was a key pad on the bathroom door. Who puts a protective lock on their bathroom?! I checked the men's, ready to charge in if it was open (covering my eyes, of course). Alas, locked as well. I had to run all the way to the fitting room to get the attendant to page a woman to let me into the bathroom. A lengthy process when there's a prairie dog situation.
Thursday, January 12, 2006
My Moment as Kate Moss
I collect Tanya's mini-poos in small sandwich bags every time we go on our morning or evening walk. Then I twist it and tie it up and carry it for a while, wishing that Monrovia had thought to put more garbage cans on street corners.
If you were driving by, it might look like I was dealing dime-bags of heroin or some very dark cocaine.
Now, gratuitous pictures of Tanya.
How can you resist those ears? They're the best in town.
As Kristan said (re:the ears), "You could hook her up to your TV for better reception."
If you were driving by, it might look like I was dealing dime-bags of heroin or some very dark cocaine.
Now, gratuitous pictures of Tanya.
How can you resist those ears? They're the best in town.
As Kristan said (re:the ears), "You could hook her up to your TV for better reception."
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
The Lost Diaries, Episode 210
Lost continues to thrill and baffle. Tonight was a Mr. Eko-centric episode and though my thought has been that his past included involvement in the Rwandan genocide, it was actually a much less specific gang-type involvement. It also seems that Eko is not from Rwanda, but from Nigeria. It's interesting to learn that Eko, as I guessed, has a hugely influential Catholic background. In a nutshell, Eko (as a child) saved his brother from having to kill a man; he became a gang-type leader, at one point, being accused of having "no soul"; and in the end, his brother saved his life. His brother was lost and he took over the duties as priest of the town. The plane in which his brother was lost shows up on the island and in this episode, Eko makes a pilgrimage to find him. This all ties in with his forty days of silence after the crash and the scripture verses carved into his "staff." It makes even more sense, in conjunction with Psalm 23 (also the title of this episode) which refers to a staff as being a comfort. But there's more to Eko than just the religious aspects -- I'm interested in learning what was behind his statement, "Don't confuse coincidence with fate."
The main thrill of this episode was seeing "the monster." Although I'm not really sure what we saw was the monster; it seems like the forerunner to an actual encounter with the monster. It was a nebulus cloud of black smoke, which, when viewed from above, looked like a shadowy brontosaurus. Are we to believe that this cloud is what ripped the pilot out of the plane? It doesn't seem possible. So that leads me to believe that this is not the monster, but an extension of it.
It all ended on a much more scary note than monsters and shadows -- Charlie, the rock-star-and-recovering-heroin-addict, is staring into a tree-stump-hiding-space full of Virgin Mary statues. The kicker? These virgins are full of heroin. As he stares at them, with the flame from his torch flickering on his face, there's an inkling that Mother Mary is not going to save him from starting up with the heroin again. Shiver.
The main thrill of this episode was seeing "the monster." Although I'm not really sure what we saw was the monster; it seems like the forerunner to an actual encounter with the monster. It was a nebulus cloud of black smoke, which, when viewed from above, looked like a shadowy brontosaurus. Are we to believe that this cloud is what ripped the pilot out of the plane? It doesn't seem possible. So that leads me to believe that this is not the monster, but an extension of it.
It all ended on a much more scary note than monsters and shadows -- Charlie, the rock-star-and-recovering-heroin-addict, is staring into a tree-stump-hiding-space full of Virgin Mary statues. The kicker? These virgins are full of heroin. As he stares at them, with the flame from his torch flickering on his face, there's an inkling that Mother Mary is not going to save him from starting up with the heroin again. Shiver.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Afternoon Delights
This afternoon, I was forced to go to the laundrymat in order to continue wearing underwear and socks for the rest of the week. One of things I hate most about our backhouse is the lack of laundering capabilities. This is one of the most exciting things about the prospect of moving to a new little house in Pasadena, one that is lined up for us and could be available any day now. Most importantly, one that has a washer and a dryer. I dream of the day when doing my laundry will not involve lugging baskets between my house and our local "All My Laundry," a soap-opera themed laundrymat a few blocks away.
But the perk is that I was able to finish one Aimee Bender's most recent book Willful Creatures, which was just as twisted and delightful as The Girl in the Flammable Skirt. I had such a good time that I read the whole thing in a few hours -- between men who keep little men in cages, a boy born with keys for fingers, and rich, manipulative women at parties, I couldn't put these short stories down. If you haven't had the pleasure of an Aimee Bender experience, I suggest you find an afternoon and indulge yourself.
And I should mention that on Friday, I saw Brokeback Mountain (a.k.a. "a story about gay cowboys eating pudding," which is how Cartman from South Park categorizes all Sundance Film Festival movies), which was just as good as the short story. I didn't cry like I did while reading the story, but watching some of the scenes play out visually just as I'd imagined them was thrilling. I think my lack of emotional response was because every time Ennis and Jack touched each other or talked to one another romantically, the audience would giggle or out-and-out laugh. It wasn't because any of these scenes were particularly funny, but because the audience was so uncomfortable with the idea of male romance. It drove me crazy, which in turn, dried up all tear ducts and snot production. The point of the story is not "gay cowboys eating pudding," but about how you can't really choose who you end up loving. Gay cowboys just happen to be part of the affair. Yee-hah.
But the perk is that I was able to finish one Aimee Bender's most recent book Willful Creatures, which was just as twisted and delightful as The Girl in the Flammable Skirt. I had such a good time that I read the whole thing in a few hours -- between men who keep little men in cages, a boy born with keys for fingers, and rich, manipulative women at parties, I couldn't put these short stories down. If you haven't had the pleasure of an Aimee Bender experience, I suggest you find an afternoon and indulge yourself.
And I should mention that on Friday, I saw Brokeback Mountain (a.k.a. "a story about gay cowboys eating pudding," which is how Cartman from South Park categorizes all Sundance Film Festival movies), which was just as good as the short story. I didn't cry like I did while reading the story, but watching some of the scenes play out visually just as I'd imagined them was thrilling. I think my lack of emotional response was because every time Ennis and Jack touched each other or talked to one another romantically, the audience would giggle or out-and-out laugh. It wasn't because any of these scenes were particularly funny, but because the audience was so uncomfortable with the idea of male romance. It drove me crazy, which in turn, dried up all tear ducts and snot production. The point of the story is not "gay cowboys eating pudding," but about how you can't really choose who you end up loving. Gay cowboys just happen to be part of the affair. Yee-hah.
Breakdown
So I am one of those dog owners who do not like dogs in the bed at night. I don't know if I'm in the majority here, but there's something more smelly, a little more cringe-worthy about a dog in bed, even if she is 9 pounds and excellently groomed. I have no problem with cats in bed, even though they often have poopy-assholes and dig claws into toes in the middle of the night. It's a double standard that has no standard to begin with, since I haven't owned a cat since I was ten.
But now I have a dog and as of this week, Russ is in San Francisco. I've always been good at staying alone -- the sink goes from full with dishes to gleaming and obsessively empty and our stove, splattered brown from our out of control latte machine, goes back to white. If Russ never went away, I think it's safe to say that our house would never be clean. He's the most wonderful guy, and not exactly dirty, but things have a way of piling up when he's at home. One of his alter ego names is "The Piler." He makes piles and instead of taking care of the piles, he gets distracted and goes on to pile something else until there are hundreds of little Russ-piles all over the house. If he is the piler, I am "the dismantler." I slowly work my way through all these piles when he's gone. Because when he's home, I'm much more interested in him than doing dishes or taking apart huge piles of wood screws or photos of Yosemite, and so, nothing much gets done until he goes away on a field trip. It's a cleaning cycle that somehow works for us, sort of like the life cycle of butterflies. Eventually they're light and colorful and fluttery, but they spend much of their lives as fat slugs lounging on a tree branch.
So last night, Tanya went to bed in her her house, which is a small crate with a poofy blue pillow that she loves to hump and bite. It's her best friend and ho. By 7:00 this morning, she jumped up into bed with me and I didn't tell her to get down. So she slept on our bed, directly on our sheets. I fell asleep, feeling a little bit uneasy about what kind of precedent this was setting, but she's such a little radiator and so calming that after a while, I didn't care.
But now, as the night is winding down, I'm trying to decide -- in bed or not in bed?
But now I have a dog and as of this week, Russ is in San Francisco. I've always been good at staying alone -- the sink goes from full with dishes to gleaming and obsessively empty and our stove, splattered brown from our out of control latte machine, goes back to white. If Russ never went away, I think it's safe to say that our house would never be clean. He's the most wonderful guy, and not exactly dirty, but things have a way of piling up when he's at home. One of his alter ego names is "The Piler." He makes piles and instead of taking care of the piles, he gets distracted and goes on to pile something else until there are hundreds of little Russ-piles all over the house. If he is the piler, I am "the dismantler." I slowly work my way through all these piles when he's gone. Because when he's home, I'm much more interested in him than doing dishes or taking apart huge piles of wood screws or photos of Yosemite, and so, nothing much gets done until he goes away on a field trip. It's a cleaning cycle that somehow works for us, sort of like the life cycle of butterflies. Eventually they're light and colorful and fluttery, but they spend much of their lives as fat slugs lounging on a tree branch.
So last night, Tanya went to bed in her her house, which is a small crate with a poofy blue pillow that she loves to hump and bite. It's her best friend and ho. By 7:00 this morning, she jumped up into bed with me and I didn't tell her to get down. So she slept on our bed, directly on our sheets. I fell asleep, feeling a little bit uneasy about what kind of precedent this was setting, but she's such a little radiator and so calming that after a while, I didn't care.
But now, as the night is winding down, I'm trying to decide -- in bed or not in bed?
Saturday, January 07, 2006
Come on down (or up, depending on which way you're coming from)
I have been watching a bit of the Price is Right while working out this week. I watched this one guy totally bomb the game Plinko, the one with the chips that you send down a honeycomb-like board and that you can win up to $100,000. I think I would be very good at this game, as does Kristan, who has spent time researching the game as well. But this guy played it all wrong. He put the chip in the middle every time and any Plinko afficiando knows that putting it in the middle always leads to hitting the two 0s on either side of the very middle slot, which is $10,000. He had all four chips and I watched him put all four in the middle, only for him to walk away with $0.00.
Amateur.
Anyway, tomorrow is the Life on a Plate reading at the Coffee Gallery in Altadena. Come if you can -- it promises to be a caffinatedly marvelous time.
Amateur.
Anyway, tomorrow is the Life on a Plate reading at the Coffee Gallery in Altadena. Come if you can -- it promises to be a caffinatedly marvelous time.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
Bike-hater
Tanya, off her leash for a split second today outside the door, took off after a young girl on her bicycle, growling and barking. The poor girl screamed. I yelled, "Just keep riding!" as I ran after Tanya, clapping my hands at her (which usually startles her enough to settle her down). Once the girl saw Tanya, she stopped shrieking.
Tanya turned around at the edge of our property, the hair on her back still raised, but wagging her tail and head hanging apologetically.
Now this poor girl will have Chihuahua trauma for the rest of her life.
Tanya turned around at the edge of our property, the hair on her back still raised, but wagging her tail and head hanging apologetically.
Now this poor girl will have Chihuahua trauma for the rest of her life.
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
The Good News...and Some Bad
The bad news is that Tanya does not get along with
a.) cats
b.) most other dogs
c.) strangers
d.) people on bicycles
The good news is that she likes laps. A lot.
a.) cats
b.) most other dogs
c.) strangers
d.) people on bicycles
The good news is that she likes laps. A lot.
Sunday, January 01, 2006
2006: Food Odyssey
Times Square has nothing on Christina's Ring-in-the-New-Year dinner party. I can say this from experience. I went there to ring in 2001 and it was cold and wet and people kept yelling, "He's packing heat!" which caused everyone else (except the Canadians, who were trashed and very mellow) to try and move. Which is impossible because it's packed. And unless you get there at 8:30 a.m., you don't even know where Dick Clark or Ryan Seacrest or the boy-toy-announcer of the moment is. It's just a bunch of people, some standing on folding chairs, yelling out cheers and jeers.
New Years used to be my least favorite holiday. I never knew what to do with myself and if I did end up at a party, it always felt like a letdown. I am the one you would find by the chips-and-dip, uncomfortably small talking with random strangers and never having anyone to kiss at midnight. But not anymore. It's one of my favorite times of year now, a day when I get to be with some of the people I love most in this world who know how to throw and contribute to a damn good party. And of course, I have Russell to kiss, which only sweetens the deal.
New Years, for me now, is this: Russ and I hang out at Christina's, sometimes venturing downtown into Pasadena to see all the crazies sleeping out along the street in the 40 degree December-January weather. We grab drinks and talk about the year and celebrate as much as possible. Last year (and Christina will back me up on this one), we had a lot of fun listening to Russ yell "Only you can prevent forest fires" at the crowds along Colorado Blvd. Then, the next morning, we wake up slightly before the fighter jets that announce the start of the parade. Christina packs up her freshly baked Cardamom bread and French pressed coffee and we hightail down the two blocks to Colorado and watch the Rose Parade.
Last night, Christina created the most amazing New Year's menu -- she is not only the best cook I know, but an excellent thrower of parties. She has it in her genes, I think. She carried it off in a fabulous sparkly dress to boot. She and Emilio bought and made all the food and our (Elizabeth, Josh, Russ, and me) mission, as dinner attendees, was to bring a wine to go along with every course. Let me show you the menu to give you the idea of how spectacular my last meal of 2005/first meal of 2006 was:
Hor D'oeuvres: Pate with Pomegranate Gelee
Parmesean-stuffed Dates wrapped in Bacon
Salad: Spicy grilled shrimp over butter lettuce, oranges, and avocado, with a shallot vinaigrette
Soup: Lenti-Sweet Red Pepper Soup with Slivered Preserved Lemons
Entree: Braised Pork Loin seasoned with Garlic, Sage, and Crushed Fennel Seed, served with Onion-Chard Panade
Dessert: Chocolate Pots-de-Creme
Amazing, right? And then, came all the wines. We had a Chenin Blanc (I think) with hor d'oeuvres, a Sauvignon Blanc with salad, a Pinot Noir with soup, a Cabernet Sauvignon with our entree, and Electra dessert wine with dessert. And they were all really good wines (no Charles Shaw with this group). We each told the story of why we chose the wine we did and it turns out, we all chose the wines we did because we all went to the same wine shop and had the same man help us pick out the wines that would go best with our course.
Not only did everything taste great, but we savored every bite -- we started eating at 7:00 p.m. and finished around 12:30 a.m. It was very European that way. We played a game of my own devising that was a lot of fun (if you need instructions, just ask) and filled out a reflection-resolution questionare about 2005-2006 that Christina whipped up. Then, the boys went out on the balcony, Elizabeth fell asleep, and Christina and I looked at photos she'd recently taken, into the wee hours of the night. Every course, conversation, and activity spread itself out like a cat stretching in the sunlight, but on a night like last night, it couldn't be any other way. After all, it's not easy to jump into a whole new year just like that.
New Years used to be my least favorite holiday. I never knew what to do with myself and if I did end up at a party, it always felt like a letdown. I am the one you would find by the chips-and-dip, uncomfortably small talking with random strangers and never having anyone to kiss at midnight. But not anymore. It's one of my favorite times of year now, a day when I get to be with some of the people I love most in this world who know how to throw and contribute to a damn good party. And of course, I have Russell to kiss, which only sweetens the deal.
New Years, for me now, is this: Russ and I hang out at Christina's, sometimes venturing downtown into Pasadena to see all the crazies sleeping out along the street in the 40 degree December-January weather. We grab drinks and talk about the year and celebrate as much as possible. Last year (and Christina will back me up on this one), we had a lot of fun listening to Russ yell "Only you can prevent forest fires" at the crowds along Colorado Blvd. Then, the next morning, we wake up slightly before the fighter jets that announce the start of the parade. Christina packs up her freshly baked Cardamom bread and French pressed coffee and we hightail down the two blocks to Colorado and watch the Rose Parade.
Last night, Christina created the most amazing New Year's menu -- she is not only the best cook I know, but an excellent thrower of parties. She has it in her genes, I think. She carried it off in a fabulous sparkly dress to boot. She and Emilio bought and made all the food and our (Elizabeth, Josh, Russ, and me) mission, as dinner attendees, was to bring a wine to go along with every course. Let me show you the menu to give you the idea of how spectacular my last meal of 2005/first meal of 2006 was:
Hor D'oeuvres: Pate with Pomegranate Gelee
Parmesean-stuffed Dates wrapped in Bacon
Salad: Spicy grilled shrimp over butter lettuce, oranges, and avocado, with a shallot vinaigrette
Soup: Lenti-Sweet Red Pepper Soup with Slivered Preserved Lemons
Entree: Braised Pork Loin seasoned with Garlic, Sage, and Crushed Fennel Seed, served with Onion-Chard Panade
Dessert: Chocolate Pots-de-Creme
Amazing, right? And then, came all the wines. We had a Chenin Blanc (I think) with hor d'oeuvres, a Sauvignon Blanc with salad, a Pinot Noir with soup, a Cabernet Sauvignon with our entree, and Electra dessert wine with dessert. And they were all really good wines (no Charles Shaw with this group). We each told the story of why we chose the wine we did and it turns out, we all chose the wines we did because we all went to the same wine shop and had the same man help us pick out the wines that would go best with our course.
Not only did everything taste great, but we savored every bite -- we started eating at 7:00 p.m. and finished around 12:30 a.m. It was very European that way. We played a game of my own devising that was a lot of fun (if you need instructions, just ask) and filled out a reflection-resolution questionare about 2005-2006 that Christina whipped up. Then, the boys went out on the balcony, Elizabeth fell asleep, and Christina and I looked at photos she'd recently taken, into the wee hours of the night. Every course, conversation, and activity spread itself out like a cat stretching in the sunlight, but on a night like last night, it couldn't be any other way. After all, it's not easy to jump into a whole new year just like that.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)