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)
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
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.
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