Reward for Good Behavior

We all know that working out is beneficial to every human physically, emotionally and mentally, yada yada yada. But what they DON'T tell you are the benefits that come from eating snacks after one's jaunt to the gym.

Example: When I get back I usually crave cantaloupe. Beautiful ripe, juicy, orange cantaloupe. And, for whatever reason, I always feel the need to eat it with a knife. I think it's the hick in me, because I cut it, spear it and then bite it off the knife - a sharp steak knife. Did I mention I have a higher than normal IQ? Anyway. The other day I didn't want any cantaloupe - I wanted FUDGSICLES. Not the plain fudgsicles though, but the deluxe kind with the crumblies on the outside. It was essentially a life or death craving. So I walk into Vons and what do I see . . .

FIREMEN.

A whole squad, or unit, or flock, or whatever the group form is called. What is it about firemen that is so appealing? I don't care whether you are single or married or lesbian - they always require a second glance. And let me tell you, I stared like a common perv. Because the testosterone and other wafting pheromones just about knocked me over. I confess I felt a bit . . . awkward, checking out fudgsicles in my exercise clothes. But at that point, their lack of interest in me mattered about as much as their personalities.

The high that I was on for the rest of the night was NOT from exercise, I assure you. Thank you Lord for creating the fireman. I've decided that THAT is what I want for Christmas.

Slumdog Flumdog

Ah, the Oscars. An award show purportedly viewed by billions around the world (definitely not true so don't believe it); full of glitz and glamor, in which pawns like ourselves will drool over the designer gowns while the celebs hob-nob with one another and compare whose date is the hottest. And yet, somehow, I totally missed the whole thing. And I didn't even think about it until I checked the news this morning and saw who this year's lucky winners were. "Hm," said I, and continued on to more interesting things, like my ever-depleting 401K.

I always enjoyed watching the Academy Awards growing up, but the last few years have been so meh. Probably because the outfits aren't nearly ridiculous enough to keep me coming back. Even Tilda Swinton looked fairly normal, wonder of wonders. Although Phillip Seymour Hoffman looked pretty hashed. Presumably he wore that beanie because he knew he would never beat out Heath, so he figured, What the crap - I might as well just throw on this suit after I come back from robbing a bank.

But what I truly can't figure out is movie industry, because most movies are geared towards teenagers, and adults who act like teenagers, in order to make lots of money. Which is fine by me because money I love. But then you have the Academy, who once a year says, STOP! It's needs to be ART! And so they typically cast their votes for obscure movies that the average American has no desire to see, and probably hasn't even heard of. For example, The Dark Knight made $533m, while all the nominees for Best Picture earned $276m COMBINED. Maybe it's just me, but methinks the Academy is slightly out of touch with the public.

So tell me - what do you think? Do you cast your vote with the Academy, or with the masses? Or are you a true snob who hates both? (Don't be afraid to admit it. We love snobs here.)

My tribute to what once was The Golden State

This is the view from the beach house porch this weekend, as I sipped Strawberry Crush and pretended like Will wasn't peeing on the sand bank below me. A storm had recently blown out so there were massive waves and surfers galore (towel changing!), so I sat on the balcony and mused about how great it would be to have binocular vision so I could spot some whales (and towel changers).

I love this state, with it's Mediterranean weather, lip-smackingly perfect produce, beautiful people and ridiculous celebrities. Almost everyday I see lots of sunshine, a surfboard strapped to an SUV, and 15 Mexicans packed into a Toyota Tacoma. And I'm pretty sure I spotted George Clooney the other day when I drove past his house for the 22nd time. It's safe to say that I have a love affair with this corner of the earth. Or at least, had.

Here on NRL we try to steer clear of all things political and remotely serious, because really - that is so Debby Downer. But I need to announce something I never thought I'd say:

I AM BOYCOTTING CALIFORNIA.

That's right, I said it. I have officially stopped looking for jobs here - I am taking my business elsewhere to stick it to you, "Golden State", who makes lovely promises, takes most of my money, and then runs away without fulfilling any of said promises and leaving me with a broken heart and an I-owe-you instead of a refund. As a matter of principle I can no longer support this pit of corruption and ineptitude. I have asked myself, WWARD (What Would Ayn Rand Do)? Answer: Leave.*

California, it not me, it's YOU.


Amber, please find me a job in your area. No, I'm not kidding. It is time.

*This is of course conditional on me finding a job elsewhere, and assuming I don't get offered some supremely delightful job here afterall.

nanny taradise

For the next week I will be babysitting 5 kids whilst their parents holiday in the Europe. And I know you are expecting me to complain about it, because we all know how much I love little kids. If any of you caught How I Met Your Mother last night, Robyn is ME when it comes to other people's children.

However, I'm NOT sweating with anxiety, because this means three things: 1) A whole week of not having to clean my own house, 2) using their beach house, yes - right on the beach, for this extended weekend, and 3) they have cable!

Plus, these are the rare kind of kids: the ones who are quiet, listen and obey. Let's do a communal crossing of fingers that we can avert disasters reminiscent of my younger babysitting days when the psychos would put plastic trash bags over the heads and tie them, jump off the roof onto the trampoline, and light each other on fire.

Here's to hoping.

Confessions of a Smart Person with Good Taste

I know at times I might come as a bit . . . self-righteous.

A BIT.

After all, nothing lifts my spirits like stumbling upon a Bai Ling look-alike in the mall, reading about celebrity downfalls, and witnessing some major wackitude in the lives of those around me. Can you blame me for getting a jovial chuckle out of the masses? Of course not, because if you're reading this, you probably do too.

But there does come a time though when the chortling stops, I get bored, annoyed, and then all I can do is roll my eyes whilst thinking, "You win, Ineptitude! You WIN!" That describes my thoughts on this:



No, I'm not talking about Isla Fisher. I like her fine - and I actually quite love this color palette. And lest you forget, she made a baby with this man:




So that says something. What I AM talking about is the books - the Shopaholic series by Sophia Kinsella.

Okay okay, the jig is up: I've read them, and not only that, I kind of liked them. These books are a great poolside read when you've got nothing to do all day but lay out and drink lemonade and have bronzed muscular men fan you with palm fronds. The kinds of days I have all the time. If you are thinking about reading them, ask yourself the following:

- Do I think Twilight is the greatest book ever written?

- Do I fantasize about super-rich, powerful, smart, sexy businessmen falling madly in love with me, regardless of the fact that I am NOT a Victoria Secret Angel and I often eat my feelings?

- Do I only put InStyle and Elle on my digital bookshelf on GoodReads?

- Do I like to lie?


If you answered YES! to any of the above questions, then this is the book for you! If your taste runs marginally more high brow, may I suggest picking it up on one of those off days when you're out of Diet Coke, your hair is limp, and all you want is some good, over-the-top, over-indulgent euro-fantasy.

You'd better believe I am going to see the movie when it comes out though, because I love me some high fashion B films. But one wonders at the timing of this release. Rebecca Bloomwood shopping her way into fiscal annihilation - sounds vaguely like something I've heard in the news recently.

Ms. Kinsella, why is it your character NEVER learns from her mistakes and at least successfully attempts just ONCE at living within her means? Also, do you realize that NEVER being honest with one's family/fiancee/financial institution will only lead to tears? ALWAYS?

I know I've learned an important lesson from this: use more TJ Maxx, less Barneys and credit card.

How un-Christian

There are many things that have brought me down, down into the depths of despair as of late: new cavities, economic strife, blotchy skin . . . the list goes on. But most of all it is the downfall of one formerly-normal A-lister. You know who I'm talking about:


Remember when he was in Newsies forever ago and was still hot even though he was barely legal? Those were the good ole' days. And, as you probably have heard, they are gone like the wind. I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt over his mom/sister/assault fiasco - after all, women can be nuts. But the latest outrage has taken things too far. Christian, it's time you and I went our separate ways. It was fun, and you have a hot bod, but the temper tantrums ruined many a fine piece of furniture in my house. And as proof that I am serious, I am going to sport this new shirt out in public:


I think it might be beneficial for you to speak to a professional about anger management CB. And remember, playing Batman and the Terminator doesn't transfer their abilities to you, because they're FAKE. Maybe it's time to channel a bit more Jack Kelly into your life. And take some time each day to sing some Sante Fe - I know it always helps me.