New Red Lipstick

I love a man in uniform

2011-11-02T16:54:00.000-07:00

I know! This totally comes out of nowhere because it's been a few months or 11. If I weren't so lazy I'd probably create a poll where you could vote on what happened to me. The options would be something like:

A) In the hospital with amnesia
B) Moved to be with her kindred spirits in The South and currently out hog hunting
C) Got sucked into a black hole of watching Kardashian re-runs
D) A man

Much to the dismay of all, the answer is D! High fives and free drinks for everyone because I done gone and got myself hitched ya'll! Check it.

Bonus points: He's in the Navy AND hot.

Here's how it happened: He came strutting into church one day and I was like, "Who is THAT tall drink of water?" Then a year ago he finally asked me out. We went out almost every weekend after that. He asked me to marry him while eating a bowl of rice in my parent's kitchen in March, and we tied the knot in May. And tra la la - here we are a little over 5 months later and now he's off being a stud in Afghanistan.So that's what I've been doing.

More photo evidence? Ok, but just a few.

You want to know why I really married him? Because all that man has to do is crinkle his baby blues and smile and, boy scout swear, a rainbow will shoot out of your chest and end in a pot of swoon. I'm teen girl squealing inside.

And what would a wedding be without a honeymoon? Lame, that's what. So we took a jaunt over to Caye Caulker, an island off the coast of Belize.

Please focus your attention on the scuba gear in the background:

I wore that. 80 FEET UNDERWATER. WHAT! And I hate marine life up in my business. I guess I must love him. But my adventurism didn't end there. . .

Next stop: Old Crumbling Temples That You Can Climb On Because Clearly They're Not Too Worried About Lawsuits, Bless Them And Their Legal Ways!

Yes, those are each a different temple and H to the NO did I climb any one of them. My husband did though, because he is a man and foolishly laughs in the face of tripping on those wicked steps and breaking his neck. Which 100% would've happened to me.

Bonus: We took a river boat to get there! It was like Disneyland's Jungle Cruise minus the cap gun, fake animals and awesome jokes. Instead we had poisonous acid-barked trees and crocs and this gross thing -

- and homemade Belizian food AND six Europeans that were going to be the first to go if our boat sank and the crocodiles were prowling. Which made it 10,000 times better than the jungle cruise.

Plus, I had a lieutenant there with me which makes things a bajillion times more interesting.

SA-WOON.

I Resolve for YOU

2010-12-30T12:56:00.001-08:00

My love of Year End Wrap Ups has been sufficiently documented, but frankly, I'm too lazy busy to catalog The Best And Worst Of 2010. And as most of you also know, I am really into seasonal goals that don't actually do much to improve my character or increase my health. Whatever! Those are the only goals I sometimes accomplish, so judge away. But let's discuss that one topic that never gets mentioned this time of year: Resolutions.

Since we have reached that blessed time when humans everywhere take stock of their many shortcomings and give a Valiant Effort – till March – to correct noted flaws, I am going to change it up a little this year. I'm going to make resolutions for other people. It's both a talent and a service! Here is the list I have come up with so far:

More restaurants should resolve to offer sandwiches/paninis with Nutella as the main ingredient. Because very nearly everything tastes better with Nutella. In fact, it should also be offered as a sauce/side to all entrees and appetizers. Watch out ketchup!

The Indianapolis Colts should resolve to win more games. I mean – what happened? Peyton is practically Zeus reincarnate. I know there have been injuries and yada yada yada, so maybe Austin Collie and Dallas Clark should resolve to
stop getting hurt.

THE NEIGHBORS should resolve to stop smoking, stop buying horrible yappy dogs they neglect, stop re-landscaping with their newfound inheritance money since we both know it will be a field of weeds doubling as a parking lot in a couple months anyway, and stop living next door.

All authors everywhere should resolve to create a male character that doesn't have crooked/lopsided/uneven but Completely Adorable smile. Please tell me that I'm not the only one who gags when EVERY MALE LEAD in every book has this wack mouth. Or maybe I am the only one who notices, because I don't have many YA fic lovin friends and am probably totally alone in this grievance. But whatev – the point is: What does a crooked smile look like?! I get that it's supposed to be this cute and unique faux-flaw on Otherwise Flawless Boy – but it always sounds kind of gross to me.

Celebrities and "celebrities" should resolve to stop naming their babies crazy-a names. Pilot Inspektor? Buddy Bear Maurice? Perhaps I ought to send "Welcome to Earth!" cards to these rich and famous, complete with tips on How To Not Screw Up Your Child Who Will Probably Interact With Normal Humans For The Rest Of Its Life.

What about you guys – any resolutions you would make for everybody else?

Dear Santa,

2010-12-21T16:23:00.001-08:00

We've never had a real chat, you and I. And by real I mean me writing a blog post on The Internet to you, which of course you will receive with delight. I think you'd agree that it's time we cleared a few things up.

So here's the deal: I've been a goodish girl this year. I turn a blind eye to THE NEIGHBORS, I recycle, I stopped flipping people off when they cut me off in traffic. I even smiled at some nutty old lady the other day in Trader Joes. That's what we call PROGRESS, Mr. Claus.

So my question is thus: When will I finally get the awesome presents that I deserve?

I know they say that this season isn't about the presents you get, but that is a load of LIES. Gifts are the reason I stuff my year full of good deeds. And at this point I think I have earned something more than flannel pajama sets and scented candles.

What I'm trying to say is that I need black Louboutin pumps, a big Marc Jacobs purse, and a dainty gold necklace for starters. We can move onto bigger items next year, since there is some supposed economic crisis going on.

I don't want to sound all scroogey with my needs; it's not like I don't love the Christmas spirit because I DO. This is the only time of year I stuff myself full of nogg and gingerbread cookies ON PURPOSE. It's just that I appreciate tangible benefits for all the troubles I go to with my giving heart.

And should you doubt that I deserve what I so desire, let he who is without blame cast himself off the sleigh. YOU, Jolly Ole' St. Nicholas, are the one who sees us when we're sleeping and knows when we're awake. In other words, pervy.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

Tara

Welcome to Hogwarts – Please choose 1 of 4 stereotypes and take a seat

2010-11-18T16:45:00.001-08:00

Happy Harry Potter #7 vol.1 Release Season ya'll. Hope you got your midnight viewing tickets ordered because those suckers were sold out an eternity ago. I for one prefer to view my films with some semblance of alertness and cognition – and a #2 from In-N-Out with a neopolitan shake -- so I'm gonna forgo on the 12:03 show in the Roxy Theater tonight Sam, but thanks.

A while back I read a blog about some galpals who found themselves constantly sorting all types of human, real and fiction alike, into the different Hogwarts Houses. And I was like – WE ARE SOUL MATES 4 LIFE. Because after my fifth time reading through the whole series, I found me doing the same thing. Like, I'd be sitting in church and look down the pew in front of me, head by head, and make a case why Lori McWhiteTeeth would be in Ravenclaw, or Daniel "Kung Fu" Smith would be in Gryffindor. What? Like you ALWAYS pay attention in church. Whatevs.

The point is – I realized something. I bet that most of us HP fans have often mused about how mind-blowingly awesome it would be if we went to Hogwarts, and how we would TOTALLY be in Gryffindor because they obvs give the smackdown to all other houses on a weekly basis and how Oliver Wood would feel like 15 bludgers just came crashing into him if we came strutting our stuff out onto the Quidditch pitch. And we would be besties with the Weasley twins AND Peeves and find ways to subtly light Draco Malfoy's robes on fire in the hallway.

But you know what ya'll? Most of us WOULDN'T be Gryffindor, okay? I might be doing a bit of adding upon with the JKR Cannon, so don't burn me at the stake or anything, but we only have so much to go on description-wise about the four houses from the books. And we just CAN'T all be heroes, you know? Like Will Rogers said, someone has to sit on the curb and clap as they march triumphantly by. And you and me pal? We're probably the curb-sitting clappers.

What I would really love to see happen is for people to just CHILL OUT about Gryffindor and accept that if they got Sorted, they'd probably be Hufflepuffs.

Gryffindors are indeed Brave At Heart, and Loyal and True, as well as optimistic and idealists. They just can't do half-hearted gestures. I mean, look at Fred and George. For most of us, a nice "Up yours! The DA FOREVER!!" and the finger to Umbridge as we stormed out of school for the last effing time would have been huge. But the twins have to go fly around on banned broomsticks, conjuring up nasty swamps in the hallways and setting off nuke-size fireworks. And then of course there's Harry. Our bad-a Voldemort-hunting Hero, who can also be a bit rash and probably would have found himself having nightly pillow duels with Neville's parents in St. Mungo's if it hadn't been for The Brains of the operation, Hermoine. So while the Gryffs dominate Quidditch and have chivalry oozing from their big hearts and out of their pores, they aren't really known for their calm and cool logical abilities.

For the House of Gryffindor, I place . . . My brother Sam. Who cried a lot as a child, but now is in Junior High ASB and is a protector of the weak and friendless. Love for the scarlet and gold!

Ravenclaws = nerdy pants, right? Well – yes. But that's not all! While it's true that Rowena Ravenclaw claimed that "Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure," she never said anything about humility or kindness. And if you have to slip a puking pastel into the oatmeal of your best friend who is also top in the class to claim that "greatest treasure" for yourself before you head off to midterms, well, so be it. Of course, most Raves are kind – as Luna Lovegood is the walking proof of this. And –er, creative. And Luna's crazy jewelry is also proof of this. So while you might want to look elsewhere if what you desire is an emotional hug, you're gonna want a Ravenclaw on speed dial should you "accidentally" break international wizarding law or need some last-minute help on schematics for a new flying car.

For the House of Ravenclaw, I place . . . The alpha male who shall remain nameless that I went out with that one time. Smart? check. Ambitious? check. Witty? check. Unsupportive of my love of karaoke? Double check.

Hufflepuffs were always kind of sad to me. I mean, what do they do? The best thing they produced was Cedric Diggory – and look what happened to him. The name isn't doing any wonder for them either. And they're ghost is The Fat Friar?! Come on. Is he at least funny? Don't think so, though he sounds like he should be, which makes me feel cheated somehow.

I've come to realize though that Huffs may be the best kept secret of Hogwarts. They're just so "Whatever" with a side of "Let's eat some ice cream and have some laughs." Huffies are known for being Just, True, Loyal and Hard-working. Which to me translates into the kids in class who get As because of sheer will power, not smarts. They're like the Blues from The Color Code – totally COMMITTED. To work, to ideals and most importantly: relationships. Maybe to the point of un.health.y. Still, you'll want one of these in your back pocket should you ever find yourself in a bar fight – because Huffs have got yo back.

For the House of Hufflepuff, I place . . . my old roomie from the days of yore, Natalie! Because she was totally Blue, and super loyal and fun. And hot. Come to think of it, that might another thing them Huffies have going for 'em . . .

I've often felt over the years that Slytherin suffers from a bad rap that isn't always deserved. I think it's one of those cases where the crazies who are screaming for pure blood and HP's head on a stick that get all the attention. And sure, Draco And Co. are pretty obnoxious. But the rest of the Slytherins were just, you know, hanging out plotting their next move in their dank, bleak common room. Because the Slyths are nothing if not great leaders; cunning, confident and ambitious to the max. Which is why for the House of Slytherin, I place . . .

Myself.

Yep. While I have no interest in slaughtering those not of my race or religion, I've never claimed to be the kind to Follow My Heart. My loyalty remains with myself and what/whomever will get me favors and secrets and candy. At first I was like, Well maybe I'm Ravenclaw. But Raves aren't usually grappling for power, and I WANT POWER. Where Gryffs and Huffs are concerned, it's all "I'll be a martyr!" and "I'll never break your heart!" But with us Slyths, its our AIM to break some hearts and burn some bridges – all with style and flourish, of course.

So. What think ye of my Sorting Hat abilities? And what house would YOU belong in?

Selling Myself

2010-10-21T13:39:00.000-07:00

There are many things in life that I just love to hear over and over again from people who have no connection to my life whatsoever. One of my all time favorites is, "Why aren't you married yet? Are you really picky or something?" That one makes me feel like a million bucks every time. When I was younger I wasn't sure how to respond to that one. Now I have many responses, the most effective being "It's sad how many guys will write you off because of a mild case of gonorrhea," coupled with a dainty sigh and a shrug.

Last week I was asked to fill out a dating survey. Which I filled out WITH PLEASURE. So it's got me to thinking of ways to increase the demand for the goods, as it were. Two things were pretty clear to me right off the bat. Obviously I should start wearing way less clothing on a daily basis. And I should do more Captain Morgan poses. Wearing the hat and sword and boots ONLY.

Also. I think it would also be really helpful if I created a LOVE RESUME for myself! It's time for a lesson in self-respect ya'll. The thing is, I should probably make this PG rated which means my colorful and explicit background should only be hinted at, like it was here. It's all about honesty you know.

What we're having right here is some brainstorming, so feel free to contribute ideas that I can add to my resume. So far I think this stuff should be mentioned:

-- I have high yet reasonable standards. While I've often gone out with a 9, I have NEVER dated a 3, or a relative.

-- I like things clean and orderly! So you better believe I will hire THE BEST maid that minimum wage can buy.

-- I'm really happy, patient and loving! Excpet in situations involving most animals, small children, crying, stress, forced monogamy, my favorite football teams sucking, weird smells, lack of ice cream in the freezer, anything related to Mockingjay, no fresh flowers on my kitchen table, and annoying people.

-- I'm into saving the environment! I always cut up those plastic soda can holders before I dump them into the ocean so that the poor birdies don't get their beaks all jacked up in them.

-- I'm super supportive! When you get home from work after a long and stressful day, I'll let you release all that pent-up anger by giving me a good back rub.

Hm. I feel like it's missing some things. It's a good start though, right? Body flaunting is a good first step in the right direction.

What's My Age Again?

2010-10-06T15:25:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I find myself in situations where I wonder if my Life Ambition is to be a cougar. And I'm not referring to the furry school mascot. No, I mean COUGAR.

I see these women all over the place, what with the year round warmth and 24-hour tanning beds and Botox Vans That Make House Calls, who obviously can't let go of their Glorious Days Of Real Youth and age gracefully. Not that these fashion mistakes make them Cougars, but I'm a good judger and I can just tell. It's got something to do with the really low designer jeans paired with a flowy-satiny-sequined tank top and the way certain wobbley bits hang out. Gosh at least put on a bra woman! Did you trip on your 5-inch heels and mistakenly think you woke up in 1981? Because guess what? Forever 21 is a store, not a mantra.

Anyway. Even though I'm in my twenties, I'm pretty sure that the new fragrance "Cougar: Denial" was accidentally sprayed on me a few too many times on Friday night. When I went to THE. MOST. AWESOME. high school football game ever.

I was sitting on the bleachers with another twenty-something, critiquing play successes and failures with incredible insight and accuracy, and then doing plenty of cheering and dancing when the occasion called for it, when this conversation began:

Her: Oh no - I think I might be turning into one of THOSE women (pointing to every mom on the visitors bleachers).

Me: What tipped you off first? The fact that you're at a high school football game with other single girls? or the fact that #20 keeps popping up in our game analysis, even when he's on the bench?

Her: I had this thought when I first saw those 5-foot, 85-lb. blond girls wearing only their underwear and body paint with their boyfriends' number on their stomachs--

Me: That you wanted to let them borrow your scarf?

Her: No! That I wish I was one when I was in high school.

Me: (stunned silence) Sooo . . . practically naked?

Her: You know - the girl who dated the quarterback.

Me: Or the whole football team.

Her: Well OBVIOUSLY I'd where more than a swath of jersey around my loins.

Me: Why? I'd wear that every day if I could.

I thought about her comment for a minute, and realized -- I TOTALLY AGREE. I was never a Jersey Chaser, but in my mind I totally was AND STILL AM. My pride would never allow me to admit to it, but I would be all over a decent-looking and non-sweaty athlete if given the chance.
..What? Don't judge me.

I told my friend the moment I put it all together, and she's like, "Yeah I think you'll end up like that (head nodding back toward moms) too, just watch. We've never dated athletes, so it probably means we can't ever let go of high school."

Shudder.

But you know what? Whatever. What. Ever. Being all deep and principled and dignified is always toted as being "better." But better for whom? For ME?! Since when has dignity gotten me anywhere? Maybe those I'm 23 But Actually 49 women are onto something. There's only way to know.

So guys - new fall goal!

Three Excuses and a Heat-Induced Stupor

2010-09-29T13:04:00.000-07:00

A couple days ago someone came up to me and said, "Why don't you update your blog more often? It's lame that you post about as often as I get my car insurance bill." Maybe I would have felt more lame at that moment if I hadn't been dwelling on how much a blog and a parole officer have in common.

Since I've certainly had times when I fume in frustration that (insert website here) hasn't posted anything new, I'll now state my excuses for being scarce.

Firstly, it's football season -and as I am an aspiring Texan this requires much time, dedication and honing my telepathic capabilities of transferring power and skill to the dismal BYU team - which doesn't seem to be working.

Secondly, I occasionally attempt to engage in activities that don't require sitting. Yes, it's been hard.

And thirdly, do you realize how tricky it is to continually write mildly snide things WITHOUT including friends, family and coworkers out of fear that they will read it?! If I can't write nasty things about those three groups of people then who can I write about I ask you?! I understand it's common practice in Land of the Blogs to describe - in great detail - the everyday wonders of life. I tried that once, and when I went back to edit I wept out of envy for the impressiveness and excitement of my life, so I feel a little snobbish making others wail and gnash their teeth just to show how awesome I am. Parenthetically, I have always loved that there is a g in gnash. Gu-nash. Isn't English awesome in it's clarity? As of this very moment, I'm permanently substituting gnash for chew or bite.

Anyway. In an attempt to fit in with my people of Bloggerdom, I give a happenstance from Sunday which is both inspiring in it's mundaneness and riveting in it's detail. . .

It was HOT when I got home from church at 4:30. At least 200 degrees, and that was with all the windows open, the blinds drawn and the box fans turned up full speed. I stripped down and collapsed onto my bed, which consisted of only thin white cotton sheets since I had pulled off all the blankets the night before. I lay there, miserable, not having eaten all day and so hot that I was contemplating pulling a Britney and shaving my head. The sheets were starting to stick to me as sweat trickled down my neck and legs. I considered if it was worse to lay in heated agony on an empty stomach, or to spend my last bits of energy on walking to the kitchen, only to collapse when I found that all the ice cream and Otter Pops had been devoured by the babies. Naturally I would have to beat them, to teach them a Lesson, and that would not improve temperature conditions. To wither-melt away, or erupt lava from enacting my justice? What to do, what to do.

As I weighed my options, with my box fan only two feet away and pointed directly at me, I began to hallucinate. Or maybe just fall asleep. Who knows. Either way I began to see strange images flash through my mind. Voldemort chasing Harry Potter on a chubby pony, flying Otter Pops that were just beyond reach, me rolling metal balls down ramps at the skate park, and then -- I was in my car. Driving down the non-101 with the top down. I was going so fast, beyond fast. The wind was pushing all the heat and sweat off my body. It was tangling my hair. The wind made the intense sun almost bearable. There were so many curves on the non-101. "I don't remember all these turns on the freeway," dream me thought. I kept speeding, racing the wind down the empty curvy road. I needed the rush of air to cool my burning skin. And then I came to a turn, and I was going too fast and I knew I should slow down but I could make it I could make it the car can handle it but what is that off the turn and is that construction work going on because that looks like construction work and HAVE THEY CLOSED THIS PART OF THE FREEWAY?!?

I jerked awake right as my car had been careening full-speed off the turn, and I was facing my box fan. My box fan that was no more than two feet away, and in that split second I thought of the construction work on the non-101 and I still thought I was flying to my Death By Propeller so I YELLED and threw my hands in front of me to protect my face and SHOVED THE FAN OFF MY DESK.

That's right. I yelled, OUT. LOUD. And then shoved my fan to the floor.

But, you know, just a typical Sunday afternoon. Getting in fights with inanimate objects is my MO. And yes, the box fan survives and continues to faithfully perform its cooling duties.

College Guide to Man Creatures 101

2010-08-31T22:24:00.000-07:00

My younger brothers, the twins, have just taken their first plunge into the great NeverNeverLand for young adults: College. They've never lived out of state, unless you count the two years in England they spent serving as missionaries for our church, which I don't.

This has thrown me into a reminiscent mood, and so I was recounting to yet another brother the many categories of Male that exists on a college campus. I realized that this information went somewhat wasted because a) this particular brother is 16 and concerned with only music, water polo and his "6 pack," and b) this could be some beautiful heedings to the twins, but the target audience mistakenly thinks that because they're out of state they have some kind of immunity to my wisdoms. They really ought to know better.

So in the spirit of Back To School Fever, and for the benefit of my brothers -- who may or may not fall in some of the offending categories to follow -- and for all single ladies who are hitting the books this year, I give you some highlights of the wide variety of Male I came to recognize. (Disclaimer: I went to BYU. So . . . maybe not the normal variety of men you'd find on other campuses. In fact, I believe there was a ditty that went something like "BYU: Where the girls are girls and the boys are too." Ah well - embrace the quirks, you know?)

And now to the safari!

The Lingerer

Known for either his bad manners or complete obliviousness of the time, The Lingerer is the guy who makes himself comfy on your couch and stays. And stays and stays. Really long past the customary hour of when friends go back to their own lodgings. It seems as though this unwillingness to leave is not connected to anything in particular. It doesn't matter what the weather is like outside, if it's ESPN or the Lifetime channel on, whether it's only you at home or there are 35 guests over including your beefy uncles -- none of that makes any difference.

Hints like "Oh my is already 2:30? I have to be up in 5 hours!" have no effect on him. No, with The Lingerer the only suitable approach is honesty. "Dude. It's really late/time for class/my normal primping hour. I'm going to bed/leaving for my bio lab/going to my great aunt's wedding. Therefore, you must go home."

Typically The Lingerer is harmless. Sometimes he might even be a good friend. So remember -- you can be kind, but be DIRECT.

The Mooch
Mooches come in all forms, but the most common among dorms and apartments are the breed He Will Be Chummy With You So It Won't Seem So Rude When He Asks You For Things type. He'll shout Hi! and wave on campus, ruffle your hair and put an arm around your shoulders when you pass each other. He might even give you a nickname. But you aren't really friends. The only time you "hang out" is when he comes around to ask for something. Maybe he's a tool, but usually not. The fact is, he either came to school with only a backpack and a toothbrush, or he's a real tight wad.

The most obvious offense of The Mooch is finagling food from you. He'll come to hang out at your place, notice the pillows on your couch (if you're fortunate enough to live off-campus) or the IKEA bedspread and closet organizer (if you . . . get that opportunity to live in dorms), and make the connection that you are Prepared For Life and must therefore have a great stockpile of food. You are, of course, a nice human, so you offer him a cold beverage from your mini-fridge or some toast and applesauce. And that cinches it. Your fate is sealed as the Giver Of Food, and that's just the beginning. Next he'll be "borrowing" your favorite writing pens, your shampoo, your vacuum, your textbooks. All the while systematically draining you of everything from your fresh produce to those nasty fish flavored crackers that might have been there when you first moved in.

There are different theories on how to best break the mooching, but my advice would be to enact a Closed Cupboard policy and only meet him in the library. Or cafeteria, if it's not on your dime.

The Gamer
These guys are often distinguishable by their Pale Bordering On Jaundice palor, the wearing of tennis shoes with all outfits, and common usage of words like "gib" and "scimitar" and "debuff." There are such things as Closet Gamers though, so these signs aren't always so palpable. Typically Gamers stick to themselves, but usually are more than willing to share their extensive knowledge of medieval military tactics and sword parries and feudal uprisings should you ever feel the fancy to ask.

And should you start dating a nice boy who wears dark wash jeans and uses moisturizer, only to be shocked two weeks later when you realize he's a Closet Gamer -- well, your only real options are: live in denial, make patience your best virtue, embrace the World of Warcraft, or turn tail and run.

The Gift From God To All Females
It's hard to know if TGFGTAF poses a real threat. Certainly there are those who do, and you can't put enough distance between their raised trucks and Axe-drenched bodies and yourself. Usually it's wise to err on the side of caution, so have your mace handy in the event your niceness is perceived as an Invitation For Naughtiness.

The rest of TGFGTAF aren't malicious, but what they lack in malevolence they make up for in obnoxiousness. He will either completely disregard you, because you don't look like his Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader Ex-Girlfriend, or he will attempt to collect you as one of his admirers. If the latter -- Beware! TGFGTAF is known to be charming, good looking, and probably exudes twice the amount of pheromones as your normal male.

Hey may compliment your lovely smile or great hair cut, but what he really loves to do is compliment himself. Usually through some self-deprecating humor that really ISN'T. His ego is bigger than the American southwest. He won't ever call you with any kind of question you'd for sure know the answer to, or just to say hey, or even when he sees that old man in shorty-shorts roller skating down the road even though he knows you'd really appreciate that sight.

Unless you want some convenient arm candy to get back at your Ex who just dumped you for no good reason, it's best to let TGFGTAF have the love affair with his own reflection.

The Granola Bar
He might not be Bear Grylls, but Granola Bar makes the term "outdoorsy" an understatement. He's the neighbor you noticed right away because the only thing you saw him carry to and from his old Subaru was camping gear and Nalgene bottles.

The Granola Bar is the nice guy who is always busy doing something. He's never too busy to talk to you about his new plans for recycling though. Or to offer you some of the "delicious" organic whole bran protein fiber bars he just discovered. He is always considerate enough to ask if you'd like to go with him and some friends camping next weekend, or on that thousand mile bike race through the desert, or to a water conservation seminar. And when he brings over some vegan cous-cous that you once mentioned you'd like to try, the topics of eastern philosophy and the American cattle industry are sure to come up.

The Granola Bar is always an adventure and definitely worth befriending, even if you are an Indoors Person Who Likes A Good Hamburger.

The Renaissance Man

Much like illusive White Stag of fairy tales, The Renaissance Man is a fascinating rarity that requires a hunt. He is the ultimate dabbler. Perhaps you'll sit next to him in ceramics and label him as the artsy type. Or have him as your accounting TA and assume he's a 20 year old version of your dad. And then as you get to know him it's like SURPRISE! He slyly checked multiple boxes on the Preferred Stereotype list, because he wasn't happy with just one or two.

Renaissance Man is the guy you come to adore, but also secretly kind of hate. Because he makes you and every other human look like ultra-lazy dolts who waste away their lives by sitting on the La-Z-Boy eating Hostess cupcakes and talking about Kim Kardashian's latest fashion blunder. He probably plays hockey and tennis, is majoring in political science and minoring in calculus, teaches evening cooking classes, has hiked Everest twice, reads everything voraciously, speaks four languages, has an upcoming internship with a firm on Wall Street, displays his post-modern paintings at the local art gallery, never takes his car to a mechanic since he can fix it himself, plays the piano and the violin, and is currently designing his own photo editing software.

Let's face it -- he's a different breed of human. But certainly one that will always be good to have on speed dial in case you suddenly find yourself in the Cash Cab and need to make a call to a friend on that one stumper of a question that only the creatively genius well-rounded humans know the answer to.

'Tis but a taste from the Melting Pot Of Men, I know. But it would take another 10 years to go through them all. Any particular treasures you have stumbled upon that should be added? Do tell. I love me a good laugh at the many Manmories of college life.

After a Ghastly 11 months of Dying From Anticipation -

2010-08-25T21:12:00.000-07:00

I feel betrayed.

And I think I won't be the only one.

Chapter 4: THE NEIGHBORS

2010-08-16T15:37:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since I've reported anything about THE NEIGHBORS. Partially it's because things have been almost normal over there, and partially it's because I try to forget they exist.

For those unfamiliar with the humans that are housed directly next to me, suffice it to say that over the years they've provided the neighborhood with a plethora of criminal activity, bizarre incidents, and a permanent cloud of cigarette smoke. They're treasures.

So. The youngest, whom we affectionately call Joe Dirt, recently took a giant metaphorical leap: he left the house. For a few hours, but still. Watching J.D.'s comings and goings have become something of a sport for me and my brothers. Twin #1 will be like, "I haven't seen him in three weeks but I know he's in there because I still hear him watching Nickelodeon late at night." And Twin #2 will say, "It's gotta be any day now because he has to come out for air sometime, unless his lungs have evolved to the point where he can breathe in smoke instead of oxygen."

Sometimes we place bets on whether we'll catch a glimpse of him during the week, just to keep it interesting. He's like that illusive snow leopard on Planet Earth that took weeks of watching before the film crew ever got a shot of him, except that J.D. has yet --from what I've seen -- to lope after an animal in the hopes of catching it for his next meal. Which is a shame.

Although, now that I think about it, it's quite possible that J.D. is keeping a low profile in order to continue his burgeoning life of crime. I know it's rude to accuse people of wrongdoing, not like it stops me, but I have a feeling he might be The Mysterious Local Graffiti Artist. A couple weeks ago, as I was leaving my house in the morning, I noticed some lovely spray paint "words" on a lamp post and For Sale sign down the street. Not that I live next to a golf course or anything, and the SWAT team has made an appearance on my street, so I shouldn't be surprised. Still, I was. And methinks that my suspicions are correct. Perhaps some sleuthing is in order . . .

In the meantime, it appears that Joe is currently alive. Oh, and the Momma Dirt has moved back in to that Smoke Den.
Hooray.

Taradise vs. The Hair

2010-08-09T13:59:00.000-07:00

Wasn't it just yesterday I was writing hate mail to August? Guess not because this month is just RACING past, which got me to thinking about how much I was supposed to accomplish this summer. I haven't even had an affair with a surfer and/or cowboy yet, which is a well known staple of summertime.
Shameful.

So. For about ten years now I have toyed with the idea of cutting my hair. By which I mean CUT, not trim. I'm not totally foul ya'll - I trim my hair a couple times a year. But it's always been decently long and rather blah. Laquina almost talked me into a Big Cut a few years back, but then I remembered in a rare fit of sanity that round Charlie Brown faces like mine just DO NOT mix with above-the-shoulder bobs.

And then, yesterday and apparently 10 years behind everyone else, I beheld The Latest Haircut To Make Tabloid News:

Emma Watson, better known as Hermoine Granger of the Harry Potter phenomenon. Whom, incidentally, I love. The hair though? Undecided.

Look - Granger is gorgeous and very feminine and makes surprisingly good fashion choices given her age and popularity. But this to me says Prepubescent Choir Boy With Mascara. And HELLO many awkward-length phases while growing out. With any luck she'll attempt that incredible dutch boy bowl-cut a la Nick Carter circa 1990. That would be awesome.

Weirdly though, I can't seem to stop looking at her hair. I think the more I look at it the more I think she pulls it off quite adorably. But is this representative of some unknown fit of Teenage Rebellion that Hermoine experiences in the last Harry Potter films? Because aren't they still filming? If so, will she sport a tasteful wig? I don't think I can take a wig-toting Hermoine Granger seriously. OR will she keep the chop in the movies, thereby ensuing a new sub-plot involving Ron's confusion about his own hair-length which makes him hyper-sensitive about his Masculinity, causing Harry added personal-life angst on top of his professional-life Horcrux Slaying and perhaps a spat with Ginny over the values of short/long hair which in turn cause her to chop off her red locks in a fit of defiance and start a new Hogwarts Club with Hermoine along the lines of the GWAB (Girls Who Are Boys) gang from the fantastic book Slob.
One can only hope.

So. While mourning my lack of action from surfers and cowboys I've been pondering on the pros and cons of A Major Haircut. Obviously not of the pixie cut variety, as I would resemble a slightly tanned bowling ball.

This, truth be told, is all rather pointless because when it comes down to it I'm just too lazy. Still. My split ends reach the small of my back and I know Stacy & Clinton would send me to the salon STAT to fix this hot mess of blondish straggle. Too bad neither they nor Laquina are here to give me a hardy shove in the right direction.

Verdict: The jury is out.

Dear August,

2010-08-02T15:30:00.000-07:00

So. You're back. And in case you were wondering, I still have lingering anger towards you and your 31 days.

Oh sure, the beginning was usually a time of laughter and merriment. Swim parties, vacations, lemonade sales. The fun poured down my face in sweat and left burns and new freckles on my shoulders. Remember those good ole days of yore?

Then came mid-month. The pool parties died down, vacations ended, lemonade demand dwindled. A melancholy- nay, a feeling of dread- began to creep into my life. Why, thought I, Doth this feeling of foreboding disturb my peaceful slumbers? My answer came only a few days later. I remember it well: I spent all day with the twins poking a maybe-dead turtle on the other side of the backyard fence. My legs were burned after (unsuccessfully) attempting to 1)wake it up, and 2) knock it into our yard. Exhausted, I spent the evening slathered in aloe vera gel watching TGIF - and that's when I saw it. The reason I'd been anticipating something awful, like death by guillotine or Keith Richards singing me lullabies, coming my way. It was . . . the dreaded Back To School Sales commercials!

It was no longer than two blinks and a gag and I was back at The Stalag. Another nine months of government sanctioned torture, complete with The Gestapo (staff) and Hitler Youth (classmates). All through my childhood and into my young adult life. That, August, is why I've always loathed you.

Now things are different. I've graduated from The Stalag and found myself wandering through East Berlin, as it were. So actually it's not that different.

While ocean breezes keep the sun from melting my deodorant and makeup off every five seconds, and the end of the month ushers in football season instead of The End Of My Life, I find it hard to let go of old feelings and really enjoy your End Of Summer offerings. I might apologize if I thought this hurt you more than it hurts me.

As a means of therapy for my long-standing grudge, I will Party In The USA everyday this month. Nothing says "Over It" like karaoke, Scrabble tournaments and an open bar of diet soft drinks. Don't you agree?

Sincerely,
T (Pain)

Tis a dull, dull world

2010-07-20T13:59:00.000-07:00

Sometimes (usually when I run out of Diet Coke and mascara and the air conditioning in my car just STOPS WORKING) the world seems quite tiresome. And since boredom reluctantly loves company, I'll give you a recount of my day in the most droll way possible.

THIS MORNING . . .
I was lying on my bed in my bedroom. The alarm clock rang. I got off my bed and stood up.

15 MINUTES LATER . . .
I poured myself some cereal. I then added some milk. I used a spoon to put the cereal in my mouth.

JOB #1 . . .
I was sitting on a chair facing a wall. After having looked at the wall for some time, I turned my gaze and looked elsewhere.

10 MINUTES LATER . . .
I dropped a pen on the floor. I reached down and picked up said pen. I considered stabbing it into my eye. I decided against it, and turned to look at another wall.

WHILE DRIVING . . .
I sat in my car doing what one does when sitting in the driver seat of one's car. I thought about putting on some music. I thought for a while. I looked at my iPod. I decided not to play any music. I continued to drive.

JOB #2 . . .
I had several pieces of paper on my desk. I moved one to the basket on my other desk. Having done so I looked at the other papers for a while.

15 MINUTES LATER . . .
My head hurt. I took some advil from my drawer and swallowed them with water. My head began to feel better soon thereafter. I resumed my usual activities.

I'm feeling rather dreary and sluggish after having put all this effort into writing.

Here - you can borrow my noose

2010-07-15T14:53:00.000-07:00

There are few things in life more boring than listening to someone drone on and on about their health problems.

Wait. I just remembered something more boring. Okay real quick story. Once I went to a bookstore to look through magazines with a friend of mine, and there was this oldish one-legged man sitting at a table next to us. He constantly looked over at what we were reading and would say things like, "I was married to a woman who looked like that actress right there. Except my wife was WAY hotter. Seriously, she was this gorgeous Spanish supermodel. Penelope Cruz looks like a dog compared to her." And my friend would pretend he didn't exist so I felt the need to try to be kind of polite and I would "Hmmm" and "Oh" and nod because - well, he had one leg. Anyway. It got ridiculous. Soon he was talking about his rocket scientist son who was better-looking than Brad Pitt circa A River Runs Through It. THAT was probably the most boring storytelling I've ever been guilted into.

So, meds. People these days just run around telling you about what medications they're on or how many vials of blood the doctor just took or about their erratic sleep patterns which is "killing" them because they're just sooo tired. My mom would probably say that with some people, this obnoxious word vomit is a cry for help and I should smile and nod and sympathize. Huh.

Obviously I'm not my mom. Because when a sob-fest broke out last night amongst a few girls, I was calmly backing away to my car in an attempt to flee the scene of pretentious pain. I failed. One turned to me for my two cents, which was probably unwise.

Her: Life is just really demanding, you know?

Me: (Nod with blank look on my face).

Her: I mean I've started taking some medications recently but I think it made me gain all this weight or maybe that's from not working out and eating more chocolate because I've just been so stressed that I crave those Snickers ice cream bars so I eat like 3 of those while I have Gilmore Girls marathons but then I stay up late and I'm all tired at work and my co-worker is like"Here have some of my Adderral" and I was like "I don't believe in using that stuff" but maybe I'll ask my doctor about that too because I'm so super tired all the time and so super stressed!

Me: Well . . . maybe you should just kill yourself.

Her: (Pause. Blink. Blank look).

Me: I mean, it would pretty much solve all your problems.

Her: (Pause. Blink. Blank look).

And VOILA! I have just found the perfect way to shut people up. I just love discovering new methods of avoiding horribly mind-numbing situations.

Gearing Up for the Red, White and Blue

2010-07-02T09:06:00.000-07:00

'Tis a well known fact that the 4th of July is my all time favorite holiday. Not only do I love celebrating Independence and the 2nd Amendment, but there's almost a sure chance that I'll get to see fireworks and eat my body weight in homemade ice cream. And if I'm REALLY lucky I just might get to see a man in Yankee Civil War garb harboring a muzzle-loader rifle.

Nothing will ever top celebrating in Coronado with The Cousins, watching the awesomely non-pc parade where the marines reenact capturing the Taliban, but I'm determined to do something special regardless of my lack of a powdered wig, kegs of ale or a charming sailor. I'll be at church during the day so I think recreating The Boston Tea Party is out of the question because of time constraints. That was Plan A, so I'm having trouble coming up with a Plan B. Obviously I'll be listening to "Party in the USA" by our very own M. Cyrus on repeat, and for sure I'll watch some snippets of John Adams while I drink some Diet Coca Cola and eat some SPAM. Maybe I'll also have a Bake/Yard Sale (BaYard? YaBake? Yard-Bake? Does that sound like I plan on burning my front lawn? Or better yet THE NEIGHBORS lawn? Because that's not a bad idea) to tip my hat to capitalism, if you will.

I am still accepting alternative ideas, should The Spirit of Liberty enlighten your minds with brilliant possibilities.

Bring the Heat

2010-06-23T13:25:00.000-07:00

Well folks, it's that time again: Summer is officially here. The birds are singing, the gas prices soaring, and the sun is scorching our skin off and giving us cancer. Looks like it's time for Summer Goals!

I've been putting a lot of thought into what I want to achieve. What should I be aiming for? What kind of person do I want to be? What will make me lots of money and give me lots of power? And I've decided to work on two things that I think might get me on The Path To Responsibility, so to speak.

1. Become a somewhat decent Scrabble player. I admit it - I've never excelled at card and board games, which is how I came to be a great cheater. But Scrabble I can't really cheat at, and when I try I usually get called out and therefore lose which kind of defeats the purpose of cheating since I'm only in it to destroy my competition. It still remains a mystery as to why I struggle with Scrabble, since I have such stunning vocabulary and I regularly create anagrams in my mind while people drone on to me about boring things.

2. Embark on at least one Quest per season. That's right - a Quest. Any kind will do, though I'm thinking something akin to Frodo and The Ring sounds reasonable. Up first: locating a great rope swing. Obviously over water. And preferably within an hour of my home. I haven't had a good swing and/or plunging-into-unknown-depths in years. It's time, you know?

I'm aware that in the eyes of some my Summer Goals aren't going to "Help my future" or "Get me out of my parents' house", though they sounds curiously able to increase my Nerd Score. I, however, have confidence that Scrabble and rope swings will not only destroy my June Slump, it will transcend it.

The Cute & Cuddly

2010-06-17T20:31:00.000-07:00

I have this co-worker, bless her heart, who just loves to show me picture books of the cute and furry creatures of God's kingdom. Either she's a bit dense or I do a good job of feigning interest, because I am constantly being bombarded by "Oh! Isn't this just the cutest thing?!?" while she waves pictures of bunnies or puppies in my face. And I am the last person who would coo over a smelly germ infested anything, even if it is fluffy and waddles.

So while she prattles on about how adorable some animal is and I dumbly nod my head in response, I'm ACTUALLY musing about what the animals are probably thinking at the moment.

"You know friend, I've been following you around this box for hours but everything still looks the same. At least, I think it was you. Or maybe it was that other podgy yellow ball of fluff, or that other . . ."

"So my mom said I can go practice nipping at the mailman tomorrow with you - hey Rufus are you listening to me?"
"Ya Milo. It's just that this !@#$% onesie is cutting off my circulation and I'm being slowly asphyxiated to death."
"Hang in there Rufus. Just a few more minutes and then we get to stuff our snouts with a big bowl of Iams."
"I hope one day we can turn the tables and do this to THEIR children and post the pictures all over the internet for everyone to gawk at."

"And then I was like, 'Take this you drooling flea bag! What?! You think because you're a Doberman Pincher you can take THIS on?!'"
"Oh, Bravo Fluffy! Bravo!"

Rodent: "Guys isn't this GREAT? All of us so adorable and friendly with each other?! Although . . . um . . . Kitty, I have to say that it makes me a TAD nervous that you keep staring at me while simultaneously invading my personal space. And is that . . . drool?"
Kitty: "Hm? Did you say something, Snack? I mean, Friend?"

And just to be fair, I do this with pictures of little baby humans too. Ya, probably the pictures of YOUR kids.

From Sticks to the Ritz: A Travel Adventure

2010-05-31T19:54:00.000-07:00

I decided to start my summer off right by taking myself on a vacation to Maui. Now before you roll your eyes and mutter that this will just be one of those My Vacation Was Super Awesome And Your Life Sucks kinds of posts, which is probable, let me say that I was unsure of how this trip would go.

Here's why:
Heelllooo Jack! This is Matthew Fox, who plays Dr. Jack Shepard on the brilliant and tragically over show, LOST. And I saw him in LAX as I was about to board my plane. AND we locked eyes for a sweet moment. I successfully repressed my urge to run and plant a whopper of a kiss on him, or to yell out something slightly snide like Did you find your destiny yet Doc?! But then I realized that he just might be a terribly unlucky omen, because for those of you who don't watch the show, his plane crashes on a mysterious island on the way to LAX.

And I was flying out of LAX to an island.

Kinda freaky, right? The whole horrible flight over I was thinking of what I would do if our plane went down. This was good planning on my part, because even though I obviously made it there in one piece, I actually ended up living in the rain forest. FOR 5 DAYS. So all those boy scout survival skills, extra water bottles and sanitary wipes came in handy. A little TOO handy.

I stayed with some friends in Hana. In a hut. In the Rain Forest of Greedy Mosquitoes. With an outside shower. But WITHOUT a bathroom. And let me tell you right now: Tara + popping squats = messy wet disasters. I know. GROSS. I found myself saying prayers of thanks anytime we went to town and there was a public restroom. Me giving thanks for porta-potties is on my list of Things I Never Thought I'd Be Thankful For, right up there with sprained ankles and sun stroke.

I'd recount more about the misadventures in Hana, but do you really care? Of course not. We'll leave Hana on the high-note of toilets and move to the final phase: We ended the stay in Wailea, thank goodness. At The Grand Wailea, which is a Waldorf Astoria hotel. I was about to flop down in the massive outdoor lobby and weep from relief and happiness, but they frown on that kind of thing there.

I've never been so glad to see clean towels, running water and rich retired folks in my life.

I came away from this holiday with a renewed sense of my high maintenance lifestyle and love of all things money can buy. Go ahead and judge away, but I'd like to see how you hold up when on your left leg ALONE you have 18 mosquito bites.

So I guess I'm not great at roughing it. But I AM great at loafing and staying at expensive places on someone else's dime. We all have our talents, I guess.

In which I make two major life decsions.

2010-05-12T22:40:00.000-07:00

First.

I'm going to invest in a nice phone for the first time in my life. The few that I've had always range somewhere between Secondary Character On Some Teen Show Once Had One In Part Of An Episode and Owned Only By The Homeless.

The lucky new phone will be none other than the Droid Incredible for Verizon. Honestly, HTC is probably the best thing to ever happen to Verizon. So now I'll get to experience what it's like being able to access my email even when I don't have my computer, only a few hundred years behind everyone else. I'm slowly starting to catch up to the rest of America so WATCH OUT.

Two.

I think I'm going to start another blog where I review books. And if you just snorted some milk out of your nose, your eyes did not deceive you. I CAN read. I learned a year or two ago and just kind of ran with it. And since no one reads the same things at the same time as I do, or maybe it's because I "lack friends", and I always have things I want to say about something I read, particularly if I dislike it, I'm just gonna blog it.

Plus, I don't have cable. Or an imagination. Which is why I read things other people have thought of. That's what I do when I'm not updating this blog. Which is pretty much always.

Anyway. Details to follow shortly. Which is such a wonderfully ambiguous term.

Merry Birthday To Moi

2010-04-23T17:47:00.000-07:00

So . . . I had another birthday. It's weird - it happens at the same time every year. And sadly/thankfully/appropriately I was in Austin for the big event. I was working, which is a crime, but I was also IN AUSTIN, which was like taking a bath in testosterone and Jack Daniels fumes. I was thinking it might be a good idea to ride the mechanical bull with the other drunken co-eds, but then I remembered that I only ride bucking broncos in my special lingerie and lucky whip, which I didn't have on my person. Next time I'll better channel my inner Boy Scout and Be Prepared, so lesson learned.

On the actual anniversary I got a bunch of pipe cleaner jewelry and paper boxes and other crap like that from the little 6th graders whom I was essentially babysitting in Austin, so I was hoping for some REAL presents when I got back. Like money or jewels or a pony or a new life or something. I told the little ankle-biters in Texas, "Listen up kiddies - tomorrow is my birthday. Bring me presents," which seemed to get the point across, so I did the same with my family. This also provided excellent results. It's all about up-front and honest communication, you see. Even Zach, the cheapskate of the family, gave me more than a quarter taped to a homemade "card", which is what he's famous for. In our family we show our love by how much money we spend on each other, so you can see how much Zach loves the rest of us.

And, like any remotely sentimental holiday, birthdays make me reminiscent and reflective. As I was contemplating the many successes of my life today, I realized I do have one weakness: I just don't don't pamper myself enough. I mean, can you ever do enough for yourself? I realized I'm always giving giving giving to every needy human that crosses my path and I'm just over it. I'm resolved to work on this minor flaw of mine. Starting tomorrow I'm going to tell the crippled girl to get her own ride to church, and my co-workers to find someone else to whine to about their boring lives to, because I've got a life to live ya'll. I've got needs too. Most of which continue to go unfulfilled day after day after day, so obviously I've got to focus a little bit more on numero uno. I'm not completely selfish, however, so if you ever want advice on how to stop screwing up your life, you know where to find me.

Happy to my birthday!

The Lipstick Temptress: On Writing

2010-03-26T13:47:00.000-07:00

I need a pen name.

I've wanted one for a while, but it's now become a necessity because I have my newest calling in life: author. Of ROMANCE NOVELS. And I'm ashamed to say that my family would never want their last name connected to a creator of fictional sordid love affairs because they're prudes.

I currently have a job where I work with loads of books, and over half of the ones I assess are romances. Initially I thought, Huh - the cover art is so original and each novel is so distinct - what uniqueness! And then I happened to see one particular cover, and I was like, Is that ME?! Because one time in a similar situation this sneaky perv took my picture while I was . . . unawares.

There was this whole fallout because my whiner EX-boyfriend was all, I can't believe you cheated on me! And I was like, HELLO did you not see his rippling biceps?!

Anyway. That's when it hit me: I can write romance novels because my life practically is one. Don't they always say to write what you know? And what I know is half-clad Highlanders/Italian Dukes/Sweaty cowboys/Yearning high school football quarterbacks (not my proudest moment, I admit)/Risky Playboys a la Chuck Bass, in fiery moments of intense passion. Honestly, my love resume is about as torrid as it gets, which makes me more than qualified to pass my know-how off as fiction AND get paid for it.

Just in the last 6 hours I've written three. I think I will title them Her Swarthy Secret, A Midsummer Night's Scandal, and The Prince's Surprise Heir. They all will start with some tension, and then heaving bosoms and wet pirate shirts when they just can't fight it anymore, and then an almost-tragic misunderstanding, probably involving a love triangle with a long-lost and mysterious twin who of course is conniving and just playing her because he wants her enormous dowry, and finally - the surprise but wanted pregnancy, and then the wedding on the beach as the sun sinks below the calm ocean waves which gently lap the shores of their own private island.

There will, of course, be some juicy plot twists which will give each story a unique flavor of its own. Are you excited yet to read about my life? Better help me come up with a good pen name then, since I can't publish them as Taradise. It's too obvious. I need something more classy which will better suit my genre. Winner gets the first three books free of charge!

Stop callin' Stop callin' I don't wanna talk anymore

2010-03-06T12:54:00.000-08:00

Quandary: my cell phone contract with Verizon is up next month, and I'm debating between jumping ship, staying and going month to month, or renewing. Rather, my family is debating this because we're all on a family plan.

Preferably I'd stay with Verizon, but their phones are crap. Also I don't want a data plan - which limits my options severely, I know. Suggestions? Good plans you know of? Is it possible to get more than 5 people on a family plan?

This would be the time I would usually begin my tirade about sleazy cell phone companies and the inability for competitors to offer viable alternatives because of restrictions in the free market - but I'll restrain myself.

Feel free to review service, phone reliability, pros/cons - whatever. I need guidance.

Oh, and i Phones are off the table.

Empire State of Mind

2010-03-04T22:00:00.000-08:00

I know I might be going against traditional thought here, but really guys, I just DO NOT like New York. Sure the city is cool and last time I was there I got a knock-off purse in Chinatown like every other tourist, but really their options are limited. Everything is Chanel or Louis Vuitton or Gucci, and I'm like - Where are the black market Marc Jacobs bags and Louboutin pumps? Disappointing. I concede, Ms. Keys, that the Big Lights do inspire me. But then after a few "OMG that taxi almost took me out" moments, I feel inspired to become a hermit and never travel to big cities again.

Anyway. Not only did it snow a foot an hour whilst I was trapped there, but the New Yorkers are somewhat distasteful. Unless you are reading this and you are from New York, in the which case of course I'm not talking about you.

I don't care for the accent in that whole US region, all the kids I dealt with were entitled with a heavy serving of attitude, and they all swore like sailors. Even the little 6th graders. Which personally I found beneficial because I've been looking for new ways to use the F word, since my common usages were becoming trite and boring.

So while I get that, according to the poet known as Jay Z, the "The city never sleeps, better slip you an Ambien," I think I'll just stay home next time.

Dear state of Texas,

2010-02-07T21:48:00.000-08:00

There seems to be a bit of confusion, a sort of misunderstanding between you and myself. Because, you see, I very much want to move to the Lonestar State, and yet you seem to not want me. Why is that? Do you think I'm not a good fit? Just because I'm from California doesn't mean I'm not a Texan at heart. I mean, I totally get into county fairs. I also eat cantaloupe with a knife sometimes. And believe you me, I fully intend on picking up a twang and eating whatever animals I run over on the road. Consider it done.

You should also know that I love barbecue, football, cowboys and wide open spaces. And I look great in cowboy boots.

I'd be willing to establish a written contract regarding what I'll do for you. How about this - I promise that if you open your friendly southern arms to me, I will:

* Listen to country music on a regular basis. (I assume this includes Taylor Swift).
* Shoot things on my property. Snakes, old tin cans, obnoxious dogs - you name it, I'll shoot it.
* Remember the Alamo.
* Marry a football-and-family loving cowboy, with whom I'll gladly make strapping sons, and I'll always attend their football games and cook hot meals with lots of meat and fresh produce from my garden.
* Own an old Chevy truck or new SUV. Or both, probably.
* Sit on my porch every pleasant evening with a glass of lemonade, freshly squeezed from my own kitchen (read: children).
* Not have neighbors.
* Own all the seasons of Friday Night Lights. Still love Riggins, by the way.
* Use the word "ya'll" in every complete thought that I verbally express.

See, aren't I the ideal candidate? And also consider what I'm willing to sacrifice by leaving my home state: I live in the Mediterranean of the US, the land of movie stars and convertibles and earthquakes. And leaving The Dirts who live next door will truly be a heart-breaking day.

I think it's clear that we need each other. So please give me a job.

Best regards,
Tara

Paying the Pied Piper

2010-01-26T12:40:00.000-08:00

Meet Piper. The newest addition to the-home-which-houses-too-many-people-already. My brother brought (read: snuck) her home 10 days before Christmas without telling my parents, who just happened to be out of town when Kyle heard that a lady was giving away puppies. And by the time the parents did get home it was too late: Paige was attached. And we all know that whatever Paige wants, Paige gets.

I suppose it would be untruthful to say that any of us really didn't want her, because we all agreed that she was cute and THANKFULLY looked like her full black lab parent as opposed to the ugly beagle-pug-lab-mutt parent. We're a hands-off bunch though and none of us wanted to take care of a puppy. Honestly it felt like having a newborn baby in the house again, and not in a good way. Especially at first, because despite Kyle bringing it home without consent, who was the one who took care of it 24/7 for the first week, playing with it and taking it the bathroom at 2am? Oh yeah, ME. And then mom comes home from vacation and decides she wants to name it Piper ("I'm the one that has to deal with it for the rest of it's life, so I should get to choose!" she says), even though everyone but Paige hated that name, so of course Piper it had to be.

Sigh. Whatever, I'm over it.
Anyway.
Despite it being an "outside" dog, we keep it in a crate in the kitchen at night. This was a case of ongoing dispute, which sounded something like this:

Dad: "It's an animal. It wants to sleep outside."
Mom: "Kevin, it a PUPPY. It'll get cold. And I want it to get used to a crate."
Dad: "Why? Dogs sleep in dirt in the wild."
Mom: "Well it's not a dingo. Honestly, we are NOT doing the whole survival-of-the-fittest experiment in the backyard AGAIN. And besides, I already know I'm going to be taking care of it, so what do you care?"
Dad: "So long as it doesn't bark or pee and doesn't stink up the house, I guess it's fine. FOR NOW."

I know what you're probably thinking. You look at that cute face and think, How could your dad want to leave it outside in the cold all night?! Well I'll tell you. It's because 1) it's a stinky puppy and we all hate smelling animal in the house, 2) it barks and whines when it's in the crate, and 3) it isn't COLD at night. It's like, 60 degrees for a low at night, unless it's raining or something. This is no Minnesota winter, you know?

Plus, the dog is a little psychotic. Though that was bound to happen, because my family can never have a normal animal that lives above two years. Remember this brief history? Ya. Anyone care to wager how long little Piper here is going to live? I'll tell you one thing - it'll be much shorter than even my brothers and I have bet if she does to any of my possessions what she did to that soccer ball you see in the picture above, where she sits so sweetly. Crazy dog.

Conflicts of interest come in all shapes and sizes

2010-01-07T15:22:00.000-08:00

I take birthdays fairly seriously. Mainly because its a good excuse to shove cake into my mouth all night long. But also because I like to celebrate things, and the day you graced this planet with the event of your birth should be a staple celebration.

Today is my dad's birthday, and my family is something of a Debby Downer when it comes to celebrations. All he wants, and has ever wanted, is to eat some ribs and sit on the couch and dominate the remote control. Translation: BORING. However, I am willing to acquiesce to his request today because, though I do love birthday parties, I also love Colt McCoy.

And I fear McCoy might get his Longhorns thrown around and stomped on by the crazy tough Defense of Alabama with Mark Ingram leading the charge. Oh the tension!

So what will it be: dad+ribs+cake, or UT/Bama BCS National Champs Throwdown? Why OH WHY must I choose?!

Lessons Learned

2009-12-17T12:08:00.000-08:00

You know how when you interview for a job, or talk about your current job to someone else, and you say things like, I hope to/am getting lots of experience and learning valuable lessons that will improve my skills yada yada yada? Well, here are some things I've learned and am now sharing with you. Valuable lessons indeed:

1. When working with children, try to relate. In other words, have quick access to urbandictionary.com. This came in useful when i needed to figure out what the kids meant when they used the word "bamma", as in, "This girl at school always comes in sweats and never brushes her hair or teeth - she is straight up Bamma." After telling the sweet darlings of the unappropriatness of such language, I added it to my repatoire, and now say it to my co-workers all the time.

2. Travel Wisely. This includes many things, like don't make flight connections in Detroit. Mainly because if you get stranded there, like I almost did last week, you're stuck in DETROIT. Also, gloves not only keep hands warm, but provide a barrier between you and everything you're forced to touch, so wear them at all times - tis the flu season, after all. Also, remember that some fellow plane passengers have it worse than you, like the hot Italian man who was courteously trying to avoid, unsuccessfully, the paws of the probably-prostitute seated next to him named Twinkle. Good thing it was a quick flight.

3. Embrace the unexpected. Like when I woke up a few months ago, thought to self, "hmmm it's been awhile since I watched football. I think i really love football," so I had a co-worker explain the rules of engagement, and now I have to watch every game i possibly can. College and NFL - love 'em both. I spent a heavenly night watching multiple games with a funny Texan at a bar while my co-workers got wasted, and i kinda felt like the dude who is glued to the tv and ignores everyone till the game is over and demands people leave him alone unless they're bringing him nachos and i loved it. It's gotten pretty intense; I mean, i'm going to a bar tonight, ALONE, because the gym doesn't have the NFL channel and I need to see the Colts vs. the Saints and I'm already going out of my mind just thinking about it and how they're both undefeated but i really dislike the Saints and love the Colts and would love to see New Orleans get pounded but i'm pretty sure they won't because they've been doing the pounding this season and Indianapolis is more fast than strong and they're not shooting for an undefeated season but i hope they still try and omg what if Peyton gets injured and i love him and would love to see the Saints get beaten and hopefully humiliated it would be like an early Christmas.

4. Put away those stereotypes! When I was in New Jersey I was willing to give one and all the benefit of the doubt. A friend gave me a briefing on "the people of Jersey," to which I figured was a bit of a bias since she's a New Yorker, but . . . I decided on closer inspection that sometimes stereotypes are a great way to prepare you for the unexpected.

5. Just say no to free pets. This has nothing to do with my job. My brother came home with a 9 week black lab yesterday, and the parents are out of town. Already I feel like I've just dedicated my life to this mongrel, it's so needy.
This does not bode well.

I'm offering these tips free of charge, so take them. Treasure them. And learn.

AMENDMENT TO #3: As Mr. Lau pointed out, and as I realized when I got TO THE BAR, it was Colts vs. Jaguars - a bit disappointing, because who really cares about the Jags, but still a good game. Or at least would've been, had I not been called home in the 3rd quarter because little sister was vomitting all over the place and my parents are gone. Awesome.

I'm gone.

2009-12-05T12:17:00.000-08:00

Traveling about the east coast + working long days + fickle internet = no updating a blog.

And no posting pictures either, because that just takes too many long minutes out of my very valuable time.

So wipe away those tears. I'll be home soon.

Pennsylvania: A Love Story

2009-11-04T11:20:00.000-08:00

Susquehanna River, courtesy of myself on my jogging tour through the rain.

I confess that I sometimes forget Pennsylvania is a state. Or DID, rather, because now it is seared into my memory for all time. I think the problem was that when pondering upon the states in the contiguous US, I picture them in regions - and I never knew how to categorize PA. I sort of pictured Midwestern, even though it's Eastern, and Amish and countryside, even though it's the state of Ben Franklin and Philly. Yuck. And when I say yuck I am referring to Philadelphia based solely on stereotypes, not B. Frank whom I love dearly.

Anyway. The following is a list of the reasons why I just might have to get me a house in PA:

1) I'm a sucker for wide open spaces. Remember Lucy on The Peanuts Christmas, and she says she never gets what she REALLY wants for Christmas - Real Estate? I share the same dilemma. I stopped believing in Santa when I continued to NOT get a ranch for Christmas. Or a photograph of Rudolph.

2) This man. Mjr. Richard Winters of the 101st Airborne Division, who lives in Hershey, a mere 15 minutes from where I was staying. I love him. If only he weren't in his nineties and married. Such is my luck.
Not familiar with this stud? It's high time that you Netflix Band of Brothers then. And as extra motivation, the cast is really hot.

3) Speaking of love, I found my destiny on the plane ride back from Harrisburg connecting in Cincinnati. Truly, if ever there was a man made just for me, he was it. Beautiful, witty, workaholic, AND had a farm that sat on 300 acres which he HUNTED ON and rode ATVs on with his family. HELLO match made in heaven. Too bad he lives across the country. And didn't ask for my number. And don't feel like you need to tell me he's just not that into me, because I KNOW. A passionate celibacy is what I will have to content myself with I suppose, because I'm pretty sure he was my one shot at true love.

Moving on.

4) If one can judge a place by its airport, and I fully believe that one can, then I think this says all I needed to hear:

Yes, rocking chairs. Outside of security next to the kiosks. I mean really, why not? It's genius! AND comfy. I rocked for a good 15 minutes before waltzing up to security where I had to wait behind all of two people. I just felt so much more relaxed. LOVE IT.

Do you live in Pennsylvania and have a great job you want to give me? All you have to do is say the words and I'm there.

"Halloween is the one night a year when girls can dress like a total slut and no other girls can say anything about it. "

2009-10-31T08:44:00.000-07:00

So I know a lot of people just ADORE Halloween and claim it is their all time favorite holiday yada yada yada. But ever since the trick-or-treating days of yore ended it just doesn't seem to matter. What is the point of a holiday where you can no longer knock on a strangers door and demand candy in exchange for not pulling a trick on them?

Thankfully, there is no age limit on dressing up (or way, way down - depending on how you look at it). Costumes are an essential part of Halloween, and that, I think, is where my problem lies. Because here is what you maybe didn't know about me: I love going to places mostly naked.
Restaurants, the movies, playgrounds, church - you name it. My philosophy is The Less Clothed The Better.

And I don't really stand out when every other female, and the vast majority of males, are out-skanking me. All of these get-ups are stealing my thunder, and they act like they're SO ORIGINAL. I mean, why do we act like someone wrapping themselves in only cellophane and calling it a costume is the equivalent to brain surgery? Trust me, cello-wrap's not difficult to do, though it IS difficult to break dance in.

Just last night there was a pre-Halloween party, and the "Tarzan" who walked by got all kinds of stares and comments from my co-workers like, He's only wearing THAT?! And I was all, Please - like it's HARD to walk around in front of children with all your flesh exposed. I would like to see Mr. Thunder-of-the-Jungle pull that off next Thursday.

So really, I opt out of this holiday of pretension. If so many people not-so-secretly wished they were porn stars, why don't they just dress like that for everyday occasions like I do? Why all the spectacle and fanfare? Man all this nudity talk really makes me want some candy.

Another Tail for Tuesday

2009-10-27T13:35:00.000-07:00

YOU GUYS. One of my worst nightmares came true last night. Remember this?

The Alligator Lizard of All Freakiness that I woke up to one day, STARING at me as it sat on MY HEAD?!? Consider this Unsolved Mystery case re-opened. Here is how it happened:

It was late at night and I was about ready to crawl into bed. My little sister was sleeping so I had a dim lamp on, ergo my eyesight was a little senior-citizen. I go to turn down my bed, and there it is - SITTING ON MY PILLOW! After my initial heart attack, my first thought was, OMG the diseases that thing is leaving on my clean linens is probably unfathomable! Thankfully, this was Rabid Lizard Junior - so it was only a couple inches long (not including tail). BUT STILL.

Dad was up, so I ran into his office and declared that he just WOULD NOT BELIEVE what was lounging on my bed at this very moment. I am eternally grateful that Dad is more adept at catching lizards than my worthless brothers, because he caught that sucker in one swipe (recall, if you will, Sam and his 20 minutes of "Swat the lizard with your glove").

Though I was exhausted and now nauseated and so confused at how this happened, AGAIN, I changed my sheets - like I'm going to sleep on something that nasty creature crawled all over. As I took my small blankie (laugh if you will, but yes I still sleep with my baby blanket) and began to shake it out, I got yet another surprise:

What you see here friends is the FULL-BODY-SKIN-SHEDDING of serpent junior. I am pretty much vomitting in my mouth right now in this narrative. I hope you are too - that's why I posted the picture. Because misery loves company.

Dudes - how did this happen again?! From whence are they coming? And why on MY bed? And why MY HEAD? Are they attracted to the smell of my shampoo? Do I emit some freak cold-blooded animal hormone? Because heaven knows I don't produce any pheromones (see: attraction). Am I actually part reptilian and didn't even know it? I mean, really - that would explain a lot.

So not only did Little Lucifer mysteriously sneak into my room, crawl under my comforter and get cozy on my pillow, but it also shed in my favorite blanket! That just really pushed me over the edge, you know? I mean, I'm kind of a patient girl - but no more! Which is why I am DECLARING WAR AGAINST ALL CREATURES OF THIS SPECIES. No more missy nice pants here - you disgusting animals have gotten the easy treatment from me. I WILL discover where you are skulking in from. And when I catch you I will throw you, with all my might, to the mutt mongrels next door - yes, the dogs owned by THE NEIGHBORS. And I will taunt them with you first, to make an example to all your nasty buddies who are apparently in on this prank too.

This war is official now. Be afraid, Spawn of Satan.
Be VERY afraid.

Some deep thoughts for you to munch on

2009-10-16T10:27:00.000-07:00

(Photo from Despair.com)

Because its Friday. And who actually works on a Friday afternoon? Nobody, that's who.

I was standing in front of my closet this morning, thinking "REALLY? Why do I even own this stuff? I really have NOTHING else?!" and I discarded at least half of it into my D.I. pile because it was all either too blousy or too frumpy or too chinsy or too embarrassing or just flat-out ugly. So I had to take a breather and do some 30-second meditating. Here is a glimpse into the enlightened workings of my inner mind whilst working on my ch'i:

Why is it that I can never just buy ONE pair of shoes when I go to Nordstrom Rack? I think it is physically impossible for me to walk out the exit doors unless I am holding at least 2 pair. Which is absurd, because OBVIOUSLY what I need is some new clothes, not shoes.

Speaking of shoes, I am convinced that Steve Maddens just do not fit the foot the way that they used to. Am I alone in this suspicion?

I am really slacking in keeping up with fall shows. I mean, I've got excuses I guess - like I travel a lot and I'm still into my Indian Summer of YA Fiction - but is there EVER a really good excuse to just NOT watch tv in the fall? I haven't even STARTED Gossip Girl - it's that bad! And there are a plethora of seemingly so-awful-it's-like-a-train-wreck-where-I-just-can't-look-away kinds of shows, like Melrose Place and Vampire Diaries and Sorority Wars. It's time to take my daily productivity down a notch, obviously.

And since it is now fall, it means time to start working on those Fall Goals! Namely, watching more tv (I WILL keep up with 30 Rock and Glee this season, I am determined) and getting some new clothes. From Target. NOT Gilt, WHITNEY LAU.

I really need a career, so I CAN shop at Gilt and simultaneously build up my retirement. But since that's not happening, thank you mom and dad for allowing your daughter to continue living a Peter Pan lifestyle.

To continue supporting procrastination, I present Cake Wrecks for your amusement. You've probably seen it already, but when I'm in need of a quick giggle Jen's dry wit and sarcasm are just a click away.

Three cheers to brain-mush Fridays!

Recommends

2009-09-22T10:44:00.000-07:00

Oft times I come across something great and think, Hey! I should review that on the blog.

But I don't, because most thoughts that cross my mind linger for an average of 2.3 seconds, and then they revert to something like, How many cookies can I justify eating right now?

So here's an overdue list of a few of my favorite things. (Insert clip of Fraulein Maria dancing about in her nightgown whilst singing "Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens. . ."):

1. H&M tee shirts. How has is taken me this long to discover them? They're soft, they're a good length, they're CHEAP. Like $5.95 cheap. And I'd post a link, but H&M won't let you buy their products online unless you live in Scandinavia somewhere. If this were an argument it'd be a wash, because it usually requires just too much effort to get me to an H&M to buy said cheap tee.

2. "It's a 10!" Leave-In Conditioner. As a self-proclaimed hair product connoisseur, I assert that this is the best conditioner out there; both the hair-repair mask and the spray. You'll be impressed with how silky and healthy your luscious locks feel. It's a little pricey, but you can find it cheaper online. Your hair will thank you, so - you're welcome.

3. A cousin who gives you free things - like A CAR:
I know, right? HELLO adorable black convertible beamer. Courtesy of lovely cousin Kit, I now have my own set of wheels!
Don't you wish someone loved you as much as Kit loves me? Are you all crying with envy? Well rightly so. When I first drove this home I constantly yelled "FREEEEDDOOMMMM!!" real loud like William Wallace in Braveheart . . . TMI, I know.

4. The Hunger Games and Catching Fire by Suzanne Collins. I don't ever review books on here, mainly because that is a serious business, and here at NRL we avoid all things serious. Also, book choice can be personal, and I don't know how your book tastes run when you ask me for book recommends. Also, I can be a bit snobbish, and I now understand I can't throw things out like Atlas Shrugged to just anyone when they ask me what they should read next.

Anyway. I am telling you that if you want something good - read The Hunger Games. It's the first of a trilogy, and the second book, Catching Fire, was just released. They are Young Adult novels that deal with some dark and disturbing themes and situations, but (to me) it never gets graphic. If you like intensity, good writing, good love triangles, rebellions, and you're not an idiot, you'll like these. WARNING: they end very abruptly. If you are the type who CAN NOT handle a cliffhanger, then maybe consider waiting till the final book comes out next fall. Though I wouldn't recommend doing that. Jump on the bandwagon NOW people.

ALSO. Find me on goodreads.com if you really want to see what else I've been reading. Remember summer of YA Fiction? Going strong guys. Going strong.

5. Living here (also referred to as Paradise, minus the crap economy):
I was driving home from Irvine last week, and I stopped in Huntington to film some surfers, because, you know, I could. As I was meandering on the pier I thought to myself, Huh. This is my LIFE. Living in shorts and eating fish tacos and watching the surfers. Awesome.

6. Benefit Creaseless Eyeshadow.
I know, I was skeptical at first too. So I went to Sephora to try some on and see how long it lasted. I use the scientific method, you see. I was surprised that when I went to wash my face, usually betwixt 10pm and midnight, it was still fully intact without creaseage! I still don't actually own any, seeing it runs almost $20 per pot, but I have tried a few different colors, and each time it has easily lasted all day. It's definitely going on The Christmas List 2009.

Sheesh - I should get some kind of kickback for all that free advertising.

Have anything you'd like to add? Go ahead and comment to your hearts' content. And if you somewhat enjoyed this, but wish it were funnier or more interesting, head on over to my friend Rachie's blog where she reviews the latest: Roku Box!

For Amber

2009-09-16T19:57:00.000-07:00

My grandparents have a cabin in Shaver Lake. They've owned it for. ev. er. My dad practically lived there every summer growing up. It's a nice place, and after NINE YEARS I was finally able to go back. Grams and Gramps love the place too - can you blame them - they live in FRESNO and they have a wonderfully nice secluded cabin in the woods, which is why their 8 children and their kids (and now apparently those kids with their spouses go for romantic getaways - which I would vote down if I could - I mean REALLY, its a family cabin not a honeymoon suite) rarely get to go. But I spent lots of time there as a wee thing with the sibs and cousins. Ah the memories . . .

See that huge log? I fell off it once while trying to cross it whilst it was covered in snow, and I landed in the frozen creek below it. It was a near death experience. Saw the bright light and everything. Though thinking back on it, it could've just been snow it my eyes. At any rate, those were the times when I was unaccepting of my clumsiness. Now I embrace it.

So at the end of the summer we had a family vacation, the first in years with all 6 kids there, where we made a pilgrimage back to The Cabin - only to find ourselves doing a lot of this:

Watching TV.

Well, after our nightly walk to Indian Rock where we star gaze and muse about the Indians who used to grind their corn there. Don't judge too harshly though - we are without cable at my house. A sore trial for everyone except my mom. Man vs. Wild always won out, which is no surprise as I'm used to being out-voted with 4 brothers, but don't be fooled . . . What Not To Wear came on during every commercial, and I didn't even have to request it.

As is was quite hot, we played at the lake during the day. And by "we played" I mean I sat in the boat and watched whilst the boys attempted to wake board and knee board and other painful activities I'd just rather NOT, and that suits me perfectly. I did spend a day rock jumping with the babies though, so that has to count for something. AND I tubed. Which any idiot with a decent grip can do. Idiot being the key word. Case in point:

Before.

After.
I caught lots of air, Kyle jammed his finger, Paige bled, the twins cartwheeled over the water, and Zach and Sam hung on so tight that they SKIDDED on the water behind the tube because they refused to let go.

So, it was a success.
And everything that tubing should be.

Here we see some of the crew, but not me, because I'm obviously utilizing my talents: sitting and tanning and watching (judging).
And despite my irrational fear of lakes (monsters and other bottom lurkers that consider me as a tasty treat), I jumped over the side every time we stopped (read: someone wiped out), because the water felt SO GOOD.

Behold Captain Kevin, whom I also refer to as Dad, who only let The Helm out of his grasp whilst he wake boarded for a whopping ten minutes. How we ever survived those ten minutes I will never know, because a) the boat sat REALLY low and took on water every time the smallest of wakes splashed by, and b) there was a madman at The Helm (read: Lance). Twin + machinery = heart failure for those in the general vicinity.

Shockingly, there were no trips to the ER, broken bones, sprains, or deep gashes that needed stiches . . .Quite miraculous considering he's jumping into 4 feet of water. But what's new?

And that, dear friends, BARELY scratches the surface of what went down at The Family Vacation, but I shall spare you the rest. I really don't think I get thanked enough for posting so few pictures and stories of my family.

As a side note: Notice the wood-paneled door in the picture of us in the family room? It's locked, and only Grams and Gramps have the key which means no one, and I mean NO ONE (unless maybe their favorite child Amy) is allowed to step into the other side . . . Have I piqued your interest of the secret room on the other side of The Door? I'M not even sure what the room on the other side looks like. Which is why I can say with total confidence that EVERY SINGLE PERSON who comes to stay there looks for the spare key that may or may not be hidden somewhere in The Cabin. Consider it a treasure hunt, a quest.

It's always something at the Seven-Eleven

2009-09-05T19:40:00.000-07:00

It has been SO HOT here the last few days, and in these parts we don't believe in air conditioning. Mostly because there is only a week or so where the temps reach above 80. So when I got back from DC on Thursday and walked into my stuffy house, I had one unquenchable desire: BIG GULP.

Off I went to get me a 32 oz. at the closest Seven-Eleven, and it was the happening place, let me tell you. Diet Coke in hand, I waited in line to pay, and as I stood there this middle-aged man in a business suit walks in. NOT good looking. But my attention was diverted, so I looked his way. And he flashes me this big smile, and raises his eyes brows at me. I looked around to see if he was looking at anybody else, but no, apparently not. Because as I was in my car backing out, he walked out and gave me the same look. Raised eye brows and all.

Now, let me clarify - this WAS NOT a leer. Not a construction site stare-down. Not even in the same category as a trapped-at-the-stop-light check out. It was like there was something about me he found . . . funny. Okay, I'm not always the world's best dresser on a big gulp run, but funny? My hair was in a pony tail, I was in jeans and a tee, and I didn't have chocolate or smeared lipstick on my face. I'm also fairly certain that I didn't know him.

Maybe this is a regular occurrence, but I'm too oblivious to notice. I was just so confused by the whole thing. At any rate, if ever I see him on the next inevitable BG run, I'm going to ask him what it is about my person that he finds humorous. And then, of course, I'll be so weirded-out by the exchange that it will have to end up on the blog.

August 28, 1959

2009-08-26T21:30:00.000-07:00

The Twins: Aunt Tamy (left), Mom (right)

And you wonder where I get it from.

Happy Happiest of birthdays, dear mum and aunty T! No one would ever guess that you're FIFTY. And now everyone knows!

But really, Deby, you are kind and supportive and hard-working and funny with a contagious laugh, and you're a minimalist guilt-tripper, which I appreciate. And now I am inspired to write a haiku:

smell of warm cookies
and Christmas decorations
i think of you truly

Enjoy the BIG 5-0!

Let's go down the Disco!

2009-08-14T11:26:00.000-07:00

Do you ever wonder what I do with my day when I'm not working? Of course not, but just in case the question has ever arisen in your mind, here is the answer:

I would love to make Ulises the Bunda-Bunda my Latino Lover.

In fact, I'm shaking hips to this video RIGHT NOW, because he will only want a girl who can shake it right along with him.

Post Script

2009-08-12T09:44:00.000-07:00

As of last night, Hot Dude has returned!

See, it pays to shed one's dignity and publicly apologize and plead the return of a man one doesn't know but loves anyway.

Missing: C. the Muscle

2009-08-10T12:10:00.000-07:00

Dear Hot Dude from The Gym,

Wither hast thou gone? It's been months since last I saw your lovely smile and huge tattoo. Did you start going in the mornings because of a recently acquired girlfriend whom you spend your evenings flexing to? Are you touring exotic countries with trust fund money from a deceased relative? Have you stopped coming because CNN is STILL exploring the apparent mysteries of Michael Jackson's death, thereby disrupting your very strenuous lifting exercises? Because I know how you loved to watch the game on the big tv overlooking your bench press machine, and I can see how the plethora of MJ pictures might . . . you know, disturb you a bit.

Or did you perhaps find out that I insinuated you might be on the feminine side? Because it was only a CONJECTURE - and if that is my offense, then I TAKE IT ALL BACK! I'm sorry I questioned your testosterone levels, and your matchy-matchy outfit with whats-his-face. Please, I AM BEGGING YOU, come back! Come back to your beloved weights and love us again. My time there without you has been so boring and lacking in pretend romantic tension.

Longingly awaiting your return,

T

HELLO August!

2009-08-03T15:02:00.000-07:00

You know, it can take a lot out of you: waking up to the sound of waves crashing on the beach, picking out a trashy romance novel for the day, laying on the beach for 6 hours, jumping into the ocean when I felt a bit overheated, and ending the day with a Diet Coke and some Law & Order. I mean, really - those couple weeks were exhausting.

Now I'm back, and I've decided that there is no better way to get back into the swing of things than to make some "Summer: Part II" resolutions. Feel free to join me in these:

1. Wear less clothing. It brings such a sense of freedom - which is, after all, what this country is all about. Remember the days when you would wear your bathing suit ALL summer long without taking it off? Well, that's what I'm bringing back - MINUS THE SUIT.

2. I'm probably not going to go see G.I. Joe: The Rise of the Cobra. Sorry. But you can go if you want to. Although I might reconsider if I hear that it is really so awesomely bad that it's good, like Pathfinder.

3. I'm going to go to Baker. Yes, you read that right. Baker "Pit-Stop-In-Hell" California, because I have a hunch that that is where the chupacabra is hanging out.

4. Make a new friend. It's time for that once-a-year effort to meet someone new.

5. Get a real job. I think about my current situation about 75% of my waking life. I am going to reduce that to 50%, and read more YA Fiction with my extra time.

Wish me luck!

New state in the Union: West Arizona

2009-07-20T18:03:00.000-07:00

Each morning when I wake up, after contemplating which cereal I want to devour, and how to make my hair more shiny and naturally straight when it air dries, I debate with myself about blogging something. Like, say - the copious amounts of flesh I see spilling over bikinis and speedos everyday, which is awesome.

But then I walk a block to the beach instead and forget all about it.

However, I have a bone to pick with a certain people. These people, herein referred to as "Zonies," are the snowbirds from Arizona who come to California coasts for the summer. So I suppose technically they aren't snowbirds . . . more like . . .ugh, I don't know. I've been in the sun and ocean a lot and so I'm TIRED and don't want to think of a word that defines them. The facts are these: they are many, they have big cars, and they think they own the place.

Look, I get it. Living in Arizona in the summer totally blows. How you old people survive those summers where Hell opens it jaws and breathes fiery air over the state for the majority of the year, I will never know. But Zonies, THIS I do know: I have been hit by one of your big-a cars almost everyday, I couldn't see Harry Potter the night I wanted to because you flooded the mall and theater, and you and your yappy brats surround my beach blanket everyday thereby distracting me from my quality romance novels.

I feel like I don't ask for a lot. I just want to try and get a tan while I watch the Golden State crumble. So maybe show a little respect for a dying state and let us loaf in peace.

It's SUPERnatural

2009-07-10T10:44:00.000-07:00

I feel that in life I have really succeeded in being mediocre in every aspect, and I consider that a talent. I received "pretentious/almost nerdy" on my nerd score, so I think I can safely say that I can be pretty deep. For example, much of my time yesterday was spent contemplating the eternities (read: how I can get out of wearing a toga in heaven, because they look quite cumbersome), and how height differences can effect your life (aka, do midgets play baseball, and if so, is the field a different size?). I'm a thinker, you see.

So today, as I was "painting" I was musing about - what else? - THE SUPERNATURAL. My love of the mysterious has been pretty well documented, but I realized I haven't shared with the internet universe my newest quest, if you will: To find and capture the elusive chupacabra. That's right - the blood sucking goat killer often spotted in the southwest and Mexico. In fact, on my 5 hour trip in Mexico in April my goal was to find it. Alas. But I know it's out there, and when I find it, the world will know too.

When first I discovered this creature last summer, from a police video that captured a dog-like creature that WASN'T A DOG, I knew that I had found the infamous "circus pony" that my cousin had seen in Utah oh so many years back. In my heart of hearts I KNOW that the freaky creature she saw while licking a popsicle in the car at a 4-way stop was EL CHUPACABRA.

For all you nay-sayers who think my life quest is useless, riddle me this:

WTF, right? Should you have doubts, be my guest to tell me what you think that thing is.

The Founding Fathers would approve of THIS

2009-07-08T14:10:00.000-07:00

Ahoy there Sailor! Wait - what's that L? You want a photo tour of the greatest holiday which we spent in Coronado? Why, it'll be my pleasure to showcase the highlights of the world's most patriotic community. In the words of your people, Anchors away!

Remember these days? When you didn't care what your mom forced you to wear, and your biggest concern was getting your bubbles to be bigger than your siblings? And after losing that competition you poured their bubble solution out on the grass? Or was that just me?

Blow harder little dude, those are looking kinda wimpy.

For those of you who were worried that Capitalism is on its way out, fear not; these pre-teens have it under control. Only 50 cents for an Otter Pop? What a steal!
Nothing warms my heart more than watching people count money. Ayn Rand would be so proud.

Hey look - the parade is about to begin! Too bad you didn't grab a front row seat. Looks like we're going to have to walk against the flow of its direction. No worries, though - it makes it shorter. Three cheers for that!

We've already reached the best part of the parade! These guys reenact the famous photo of raising the flag on Iwo Jima. They do it in slow motion - and if this were the world of Harry Potter I would tell you to pay close attention so you could watch it happen. Alas.
What happened to the reenactment of US Marines rescuing their imprisoned comrade whilst simultaneously sneak-attacking the Taliban and shoving them in the bamboo cage and turning their own guns on them? Because that was AWESOME. Methinks it was a bit too . . . well, it certainly wasn't pc, which is why I loved it. I fear that piece will never return.

Do you have a good view from that second story window, shirtless man? And what, pray tell, are you staring at?
Oh . . .
I can see the draw to watch these Saloon Ladies in the bedazzled colonial garb, the authenticity of which isn't fooling anyone. They do look like they're having fun though, don't they? I wonder where one can sign up to become a member. I mean, it's probably a profitable and rewarding profession, and I hear STDs are overrated.

Oh good - Union soldiers. I was starting to worry that those proud brothel madams were going to convince the aging traffic patrolman to join in their cavorting on the float. Whew. Yanks with muzzle-loader rifles always make for good peace keepers.

As you were, gentlemen.

I bet you will never see so many Vets in such a condensed location as you will here on Coronado island. Vets from WWII, Korea, Vietnam, and survivors of the attack of Pearl Harbor. In fact, we had a Medal of Honor recipient there in the parade: John Finn. The oldest living Medal of Honor recipient, and only living Pearl-Harbor-Day Medal of Honor recipient. He earned it by firing a 50-cal machine gun at Japanese planes, even though he was out in the open and an easy target. He was wounded many times by strafing gun fire, but continued to man the gun till he was ordered to the hospital. Lieutenant Finn, I salute you.

And I salute you too, anonymous Vet with cute baby.

And who doesn't like a little free advertising when given the chance?

Sadly, they had given all their supposed 5-star-chef-made breakfast away. Probably with the stipulation that they be allowed to share a message.

Hold on a second here - was I transported back to Provo?! Maybe the tent pictured above should have given it away, because I didn't fully realize I was out of San Diego till I saw this:

Allow me to photo document this special moment, my liege. How I have missed you guys battling it out on the campus quad! And I'm pretty sure that 50% of your Medieval Club were in my major, because topics somehow always came back to the Vikings. I'm not quite sure of the 4th of July connection though . . . did we have knights fight in any of the wars?

But I completely agree, man-with-the-studded-tunic - the only thing the US Military needs is some medieval warriors. It could be a new branch: Knights of the Realm. Though I don't think the flowy white pirate shirts will make the cut.

And so concludes the historic tour. Hope you had as great a 4th as I did!

The Neighbors: Chapter 3

2009-07-02T14:29:00.000-07:00

Back in March I promised the next chapter of THE NEIGHBORS to be about the S.W.A.T. incident. It's your lucky day - I have come to deliver.

Let me take you back, circa 2000, to when I-Am-A-Walking-Drug-Free-Foundation-Commercial Chris was still living with The Dirts. He and his baby-mama plus her other couple kids from other daddys. AND they all lived in his bedroom. Thinking about it now, I just . . . I don't . . . Okay look, if ever I find myself in a similar situation, then PLEASE, just take me to some secluded wood - or alley - and put me out of my misery. I remember hearing an argument one night between Chris and the girlfriend, and she was crying and yelling at him for always calling her "Angela," which apparently was the name of his ex-girlfriend, and he just mumbled unitenligble phrases in response . . . Wow. I really miss them.

Anyway. Chris is a treasure. His pants generally hang somewhere in the mid-thigh region and he walks like he lost a piece of his leg to a landmine in Vietnam. He was on house arrest for something drug related, and despite being born and raised here, he has learned to speak English, or rather something English-like, from rap songs.

Also, he has been MIA since the S.W.A.T. Team came calling.

And call they did. Thanks to Richard. Here are the important highlights of Rockin' Richard: long greasy hair, emaciated, snaggle-tooth, thinks he went to Woodstock, suspected pedophile, really loud electric guitar playing all night long, and most importantly: METH LAB IN HIS HOUSE. No one ever walked past his house, which was partially covered by weeds, and he rarely came out of it. The few occasions where I had the horror of seeing him was when he was conducting business meeting with Chris on The Dirt's front lawn, complete with lawn chairs, beers and the typical cloud of smoke.

One evening after dinner my family was weeding the front planter (yes, you read that right. MOM.) when two large black vans came screeching up the street to Richard's house. Men in black uniforms with S.W.A.T. written in white came leaping out of the vans and through Richard's faux-jungle and plowed into his house. My family sat on our curb and applauded as they cleared some things out (read: his drug lair), but his dang weeds blocked a lot from view. I'm not sure if they cuffed him and took him - does S.W.A.T. cuff people? - but I do know that he never came back.

And as for Chris, he and his fourteen kids are gone too. And now Joe has inherited the bedroom that can apparently house a family. My true heart's desire is to be here when Dog the Bounty Hunter and Co., whom I love, comes storming into THE NEIGHBORS house and takes them all out. One can dream.

In which I discover my Destiny

2009-06-30T23:05:00.000-07:00

I haven't quite figured out why, but I seem to have a penchant for attracting men who fall under the following categories: emphysema, mustache, beer gut, infidelity and OLD. The "Furniture King," a client of my first boss who fell under ALL categories, once offered me the promising position of Mistress #2 - and I was definitely 18. So naturally I accepted.

On the second leg of my late flight from DC back to LA, I had a seat next to just such a man. THANK GOODNESS. Because the Earth would have been thrown off its axis and major catastrophes would have ensued had I FOR ONCE been seated next to a man who showered, brushed his teeth, and didn't snore while being fully awake. I didn't know that I had to add "Capable of breathing at a normal decibel" to my list of man requirements, right behind "Alive" and "Does not live in a car."

So there I was - stuck. My iPod died, I finished my book, and I couldn't sleep. AND I was sitting next to Vito Corleone's unfortunate twin brother whom we've never heard of because of his inordinate amount of phlegm that constantly must be hee-hawed out. Let's call this man Jerome, Christened after THE NEIGHBORS (Joe Dirt) clan leader himself, because they might as well have been the same person. Anyway. As I do in all situations in which I try to escape from reality, I concentrated on my favorite topic: how to unite quantum laws with general relativity before Edward "M-Theory" Witten does, the tosser.

Just as I was getting somewhere, Jerome leans over into my personal space in a very Chuck Bass way, and oh how I would have given anything for a piece of that Bass at that moment instead of the Jerome leering down at me.

(Chuck Bass, NOT Jerome)

Jerome: Whatcha writing there darlin'?

Me: The next big break through in theoretical physics actually.

Jerome (grinning smugly): That's a big word for sucha young blonde thing like you.

Me (attempting to raise one eyebrow): You're right. Excuse my psychobabble. What I meant was that I was doodling hearts and rainbows around what could be my new last name, depending on which of my 5 boyfriends I end up marrying.

Jerome: Well then why don't you try putting it with my name - after all, I could take on all those boyfriends of yours. Plus, I own a Cadillac.

Me: Huh. . . Good to know. I will take that into consideration.

And after some careful contemplation, I have decided that this could be an opportunity that the Universe is presenting me, and I just keep slapping its hand away! I mean, we all know what a great trophy wife I would make. So the next offer I get I am totally taking and running with. Jerome may be no Chuck Bass, but he DOES have a Cadillac.

Tattoos and Lakers hues

2009-06-22T11:39:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since the topic of Hot Dude at The Gym was visited, and with good reason. As something of a stalker, I can tell you with reasonable confidence that he takes a lot of holidays during the summer. Blending that with my indentured servitude travels, it has been too long since I have gazed admiringly (and by that I mean stared shamelessly) at his chiseled biceps. Trips to the gym would be bleak indeed if it weren't for USA and TNT channels now being offered, which means all the House, Law and Order and The Closer my little cold heart could ever desire.

Anyway. There is also another reason I've been hesitant to bring this up. I'm beginning to think - well, actually I've been suspecting this for months, but go with me on this - that Hot Dude is GAY. It first occurred to me in April, when I noticed he was wearing a coordinating Lakers outfit with another ripped tool. Red flag #1. As other said tool was walking by, I noticed a large tattoo on his shoulder/arm which, to my utter astonishment, was EXACTLY THE SAME TATTOO AS HOT DUDE'S. On closer inspection I noticed a large initial in the middle of the tat, but I was too far to see what letter it was. Minutes later when Hot Dude strutted by, I noticed the same thing in the center of his tattoo. Red flag #2.

Here's the thing: even if the initials inside their tattoos AREN'T each others initials, I still find it . . . worrisome? odd? strange? that they would have matching tattoos. I mean, who does that? Unless of course you are in Hollywood, which equals whacked-out crazy. Or in the marines, which equals hard-core crazy. And I feel fairly certain they are involved in neither.

I could be totally wrong about the gay thing - it wouldn't be the first time. I thought I had pegged two different guy friends as being totally gay, and apparently they are not. Or supposedly, I should say. If you think he still might be straight, please feel free to at least validate my feelings of how weird the matching ink is. Because it is, right?

The Neighbors: Chapter 2

2009-06-12T16:15:00.000-07:00

Like a great many people in Southern California, I live in an old tract home neighborhood full of senior citizens, crazies, and the occasional nice family. And, like most people, I rather detest developments, but I also don't have 5 million dollars, so I don't have much of a choice.

My bedroom window faces the bedroom window of the one and only Joe Dirt. As in, the youngest son of THE NEIGHBORS. And by "faces" I mean it's so close I could stick my head out and spit into his bedroom. I have actually been tempted to do that on many occasions, and it's totally possible because he has neither a glass pane nor a screen over his window. Just a sheet. Which is part of the problem - because Joe Dirt watches tv 24 hours a day LOUDLY.

You may be thinking, Just shut your window genius. And my answer to that would be, I ALREADY DO. But I love fresh air and our house is old and gets kind of musty, so I like it cracked open (not enough though, obviously, to let in the devil's alligator lizard). I also have a fan to help block out the noise - I'm doing my part.

So. I woke up yesterday, my whacked-out internal clock still recovering from skipping time zones and a bit of jet lag, and the first thing I heard was Joe Dirt guffawing at some joke on tv. I stormed into my kitchen, and declared to my family that the only thing I hated hearing more than stupid chirpping birds in the morning was Joe Dirt and his loud-a tv.

"While I'm falling asleep all I can hear is Saved By The Bell or Fresh Prince. EVERY NIGHT. And this morning I woke up to Elf. Who watches Christmas movies in June anyway?!?"

"Well," said my dad, "it's better than porn."

Hm. True.

Thank you dad for pointing that out. Although I agree - that would be both uncomfortable and creepy. And if there is anything that THE NEIGHBORS don't need, it's more creepiness.

Mile High City

2009-06-09T22:37:00.000-07:00

Any desire to post recently has been sucked out of me by traveling. And I'm not saying that in the way that celebrities --cough, Jessica Biel/Alba/Cameron Diaz, cough -- complain about how hard it is to be so beautiful and thin and how they give their designer cast-offs to children because they're the only ones who can fit in them, and how it has taken 6 WHOLE WEEKS to lose their baby weight from working out 10 hours a day and eating really fulfilling celery and cotton balls. I mean it in the way that I love seeing different places in this great nation but airplanes make me really nauseated and I have almost vomitted on the laps of multiple people squashed next to me who are always men who INSIST upon spreading their legs out AS FAR AS POSSIBLE leaving me cramped in the fetal position for hours on end.

So anyway. Denver. I liked Denver, but was slightly confused by the blend of cowboys and hippies. Here is what you really need to know about my stay in Denver:
1.) I didn't like the kids and lots of them, inexplicably, had anger issues. Weird.
2.) I almost got sucked into a tornado. For real - I felt like I was living in Twister, and I kept waiting for Bill Paxton to come bounding up and shout for me to take cover with a typical overly-dramatic look on his face.

Photo by Eric Nguyen

I've heard multiple times in my life that California is a scary place to live because of earthquakes - but dude, there is like maybe one a year that you can really feel, which more than likely does nothing more than make you consider whether you want to walk all the way to a door jamb, and by the time you have decided no, it's over. If anything, be afraid of the the fires.

But I freaking saw a FUNNEL FROM SATAN come out of the sky that destroys things. Trees and houses and small animals and probably children - GONE. How is that NOT scarier? That siren was enough to make me want to piddle my pants.

The takeaway: tornadoes suck. Pun intended. And I fully intend on chasing one the next time I am around one, which will be never.

Not walking in Memphis

2009-05-27T20:01:00.000-07:00

I am trapped in Memphis. Very much against my will, so thank you Mother Nature for jack squat. I really thought I would make it to Indianapolis without a hitch, but no. I had to sit on the tarmac and wait out a thunderstorm as my last-chance plane to Indy rolled out.

Of course this would happen, because the moment I walked into the Memphis airport the only thing I wanted to do was race to my connecting gate and never look back. The ceilings are much too low, the lighting is dim and fluorescent, and everything smells like smoke despite the multitude of announcements over the intercom decrying smoking in the terminal.

The story of the airline workers (and getting lost in the bowels of this hotel) is such a nightmare that I just don't have the heart to recount it. Suffice it to say that I am in a Not-Such-a-Holiday Inn and I fly out at 6am to ATLANTA only to connect to a flight to Indy. All the while I am fearing for my life. I mean really - holy GHETTO.

All I really have to say now is that I hope to never set foot in this place again.

Stone Cold Sober

2009-05-25T17:09:00.000-07:00

If I drank alcohol, I would be an alcoholic. I know this because I am always drinking something like Diet Coke, and if I'm not, then I'm thinking about how I wish I were drinking something like Diet Coke. Which is one of the many reasons I don't drink. Last night I remembered another reason: getting drunk makes you look like a total idiot.

Example: A girlfriend and I went out for some late-night dancing in Seattle. We were the first on the dance floor, getting our groove on while everyone else was getting hosed. Miraculously, an hour later the floor was packed with people who suddenly had zero inhibitions where they were previously chalk-full of them an hour before. Girls thought themselves the new Britney (with considerable less balance), the dudes ogled with bottles (and very likely roofies) in hand, and the cougars (bless their hearts) took advantage of anything male that came their way. Such a delight for a connoisseur of human folly such as I.

After hours of dancing and interesting encounters, we tried to bus it home - a total disaster - and just talked a cab into a ridiculously low rate to take us home instead. But I am convinced that had I been sloshed out of my mind, I would be dead. So thank you Diet Coke for giving me a good alternative to mind-blowing inebriation.

I hope that the next few cities on my itinerary hold as much, if not more, intoxicated ridiculousness. I have a feeling I won't be disappointed.

a tail for tuesday

2009-05-12T19:24:00.000-07:00

Not so long ago, on a warm and balmy afternoon, I was lounging on my bed reading. A salty breeze was wafting in through the window, blowing my blonde locks ever so gently across my pillows. The down comforter swaddled my tired limbs, beckoning them to submit to its warm embrace.

I could hardly keep my eye lids open. I placed my finger in between the pages to mark my place, and set the book down on my stomach. Strange dreams faded in and out with the breeze. Seasons seemed to drift by, but minutes later . . . I felt something stir my long straight strands. Just the wind, I told myself. I could hear the blinds on the window stir, like they are wont to do everyday around noon when the ocean air blows through the town. Just the wind.

No more than a few minutes later I awoke again to an odd sensation. Self, I thought, Why is my hair moving so much?

WAIT.

Why does it feel like there is something on my head??

I tilted my face up toward the window, and what did I see? A big lizard face staring right back at me.

OH MY GOSH! I yelled as I rolled off my bed. Satan Lizard scurried to my bed post, and then I realized that this was no ordinary lizard, this was an ALLIGATOR LIZARD. Named so because 1) It has a really long snake-like tail, and 2) It BITES. And hisses.

Sam! I yelled, Get in here and catch this thing! Sam came rushing in and asked, Where is it? I pointed to my bed knob. Sam ran to the garage to get a glove, and consequently spent the next 20 minutes screeching as he tried to corner it. Lance came home soon after, thank goodness. He informed Sam that smacking a lizard with a glove won't get it out of the house. Within a few minutes it was trapped in a bucket, and after a brief study of it we realized that this same lizard was in the house the day before! It's mismatched tail gave it away. Apparently setting it free in a neighbors yard across the street was not far enough.

Unsolved mysteries: How did it get in the house two days in a row? Why was it sitting on my head?! And what kind of reasoning capabilities do these lizards have?!

Suffice it to say I have kept my window shut ever since.

The end.

the devil on the airplane

2009-05-11T15:05:00.000-07:00

In betwixt the sleepless nights lying in starched hotel sheets and logging a series of nauseating transcontinental flights, I have come up with a few observations that I wanted to share with the internet universe.

But you know what? I'm TIRED. So the musings about the Austin woman with the matching bejeweled crosses on her purse and jeans will have to wait. As will the story of Phat, my conspiracy theorist shuttle driver in Virginia.

However, something almost amusing happened a couple days ago:

I boarded my flight Saturday morning after 3 hours of sleep the night before. I knew that for the next eight hours the only sustenance I would have would be the Nutri-Grain bar I took from the hotel, but on the flipside I had the second half of Harry Potter #7 to devour for probably the fifth time (I had read the whole first half on the flight over), so I felt slightly unstable but not quite If-I-hear-one-baby-scream-on-this-flight-I'm-going-to-have-a-rage-blackout.

As I was stowing my carry-on, I glanced at the man sitting in front of me. He had this debonair aura about him that was magnetic. Perhaps it was the dark blue suit and red tie. Or the subtle level 5 Mystic tan. He looks like someone famous, I said to myself. Then, a few minutes later, as I was flipping through one of the airline magazines, there he was! In the magazine. Featured as . . . the Devil?

It's Ray Wise, and apparently he plays Satan himself in the show Reaper, which I have never seen. But I'm pretty sure I've seen him in an episode of Law and Order: SVU. And he's also VP Gardner in 24 Season 5, in case you wanted to know more, which you probably didn't.

Anyway. The point is not that I saw a "celebrity." The point is that even Mr. Wise is having to cut back his spending these days, as evidenced by his descent into slum-class with the rest of us mere mortals.

So I asked, What Would Bea Arthur Do?

2009-04-26T22:48:00.000-07:00

Last week, quite whim-ish-ly of me, I decided that I am mightier than the economy and I was going to prove it. So I packed up my bathing suits and flew to Arizona to visit some friends. Where I bought some more bathing suits. AND business suits. And some gorgeous turquoise heels. Basically I have done what I do best - shop and loaf.

I was having a great time shopping, pooling and eating - and I figured, why stop there? So off we went to Mexico to get some Swine Flu. We spent an afternoon eating fish tacos, getting bombarded by vendors, and forced to witness middle-aged Americans as they blew our ears off with unbearably loud Eminem as they cruised around in their 4-wheeler with hydraulics. I hope to be just like them in 30 years - they were so classy and cool.

Next up - the beach! We drove down the cement sand until we found the right place, put up the tent, and sat on the sand as we watched the tide roll out.

Five minutes and 14 vendors later . . .

Rich: What if we just drove back to Phoenix tonight?

Us: Sounds good.

Back to the USA! It felt so good - we were done with Mexico. Unfortunately, some fugitive men were thinking the same thing when we saw the border patrol handcuff them. Too bad!

Ever since Earth Day I have had an insatiable desire to consume, consume, consume. And I feel like I haven't quite consumed enough petrol yet, so I'm going to fly to Austin on Wednesday before I go back to California. Can't wait for more department stores and restaurants to ravage! I really think this mini-break has shown me what I'm made of.

RIP, dear Bea. In honor of you, Laquina and I are doing a Golden Girls marathon tonight.

Oh to be the youngest

2009-04-19T18:14:00.000-07:00

Meet Paige.

Paige is almost 10, or is it 17? I can't remember.

She's a pretty little thing, isn't she? Like a young Regina George, and not just in looks. Know that whatever Paige wants, Paige GETS. Sometimes it's through begging and pleading and making deals (and threats), but usually it is through her true medium: Manipulation. She is as skilled in this art as Aubrey O'Day is in being a skank. A true master. Though my brothers and I are immune to such forces, my mother, apparently, is not. Perhaps it's because Paige is the baby, or maybe my mom is done fighting battles after 6 kids. Who knows. The fact of the matter is that the docile, sweet, obedient children ended with #5.

Now I know you might be horrified that I say such things about my own blood. Dudes, chill. She's 10 and doesn't read blogs. Besides, she my sister and she knows I love her. Usually. When I haven't run out of Diet Coke and patience.

Let me direct you to the following incident that took place just a few days ago as my family was vacationing in Pismo. We like this restaurant, The Splash:

We like their toasted bread bowls, but the clam chowder isn't THAT great. Paige, however, decreed that it indeed WAS that great, and while the rest of us wanted to eat at Brad's, she demanded that we wait in this line instead:

On a very cold, blustery afternoon mind you. Despite the fact that there was a near mutiny on her hands, my mother acquiesced. Such an enabler. (Just kidding mom). Why, I kept asking myself, am I standing out here waiting with the freaky art when I could be ordering a better bread bowl or tri-tip sandwich right next door? Because I'm lazy, that's why.

So I looked at this for a while and couldn't decide between the following:

a) Clam-Man is horrified at the immodesty of Lesbian Laura/ Feminine Fred / Unisex Pat. For the sake of propriety let's go with Unisex Pat.

b) Clam-Man is horrified that Uni.P here is immensely enjoying eating his cousin Gill, who was unfortunately caught by the dreaded fisherman's nets just when he thought he was safe.

c) Clam-Man is afraid that Unisex Pat is in fact a woman and is about to go into labor, and being a clam he can't do much but look horrified, especially because she seems to be bizarrely smug about it.

Obviously I came to no real conclusion, other than wondering why we humans need to anthropomorphize everything.

THEN, after our very clammy chowder had been devoured, we went back to the pool of the hotel which we had already checked out of hours earlier, so Paige could swim. And, thanks to that great decision, we got stuck in horrible Santa Barbara traffic.

So if you ever meet Paige in person, JUST SAY NO.

The Day

2009-04-17T16:36:00.000-07:00

Dear Lovely Self,

Congratulations on getting halfway between twenty and thirty! Can we consider it an accomplishment? The question now becomes, how old do we claim to be? When does lying about age become commonplace?

Anyway. I just wanted to tell you that 25 is the new 15 and you really are looking younger, thanks to that night eye cream probably. And less laying-out.

So enjoy your "Day of Decrees" and remember: We are going to ROCK the mid-twenties.

XOXO,
Me

Hollywood, Ho!

2009-04-05T20:54:00.001-07:00

Ah, the school play. It's that time of year - FINALLY. Were you ever in one? I wasn't, and let me tell you, I feel gypped. My ex-roommates always had stories about elementary school play drama, and I listened with envy. To my everlasting satisfaction though I got to live vicariously through my sister's production, themed "California Dreamin.'" I won't post all the pictures, because who really cares. But I do feel the need to direct your attention to the following:

(NOTE: I have not yet made a foray into photography, so please excuse the shotty camera work)

I know it's blurry, but check out the girl who is PREGNANT carting a stroller with a baby dragging along BY THE NECK in the back. Somehow I found this fitting, considering the theme. I believe this number was taking place in Santa Monica, hence the "Will Sing for Food" sign and assorted freaks and geeks costumes prancing about. And I'm pretty sure I've seen some prego kids on 3rd Street, so good job portraying reality School Play.

Also for your bemusement:

Cats.

??

Your guess is as good as mine.

Sight for sore eyes

2009-03-26T15:31:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was one of those glorious days where I saw two truly fine and fascinating specimens of humanity. Sadly, I didn't get photo evidence of either, so words shall have to suffice. It was a treat, and I'll tell you why.

First, I was driving about town in my tank top, windows rolled down, warm breeze blowing through my locks, when I spotted something . . . unusual.

I did the double take. And it was just what I had hoped it was. Sadly, the moment happened so fast I couldn't take a picture of it, so let me provide the original idea so you get a taste of my enjoyment:

It's appropriately called The Flying Wedge. And I truly never thought I would see one of these on anything other than Kath & Kim, another planet, or Solange Knowles. BUT I DID. Some twenty year old indy hipster was just strutting down the sidewalk with The Flying Wedge. How? WHY?! Had I not been going on the opposite direction on a busy street, I would have pulled over and ran after her, posing as a writer for some fashion magazine with a few questions. Alas.

Second incident.

I was at the gym. And you know what that means.

Hot dude.

I walked in, and there he was in all his glory, working his triceps. I drooled a little and continued to walk past him. And I ALMOST mustered the courage to look at him in the face so I could finally ask him about his ever-growing tattoo. But then I chickened out, as usual.

Well.

I was doing some hamstring/quad/whatever leg lifts strategically in his general vicinity. And I was conveniently "watching" the TV so I could look at him, secretly, out of the corner of my eye. Because I had zero interest in the actual basketball game when I could watch rippling muscles in action.

And then angels descended and sprinkled Luck dust all over me, because he started to walk RIGHT towards me and LIFTED UP HIS SHIRT to wipe the sweat off his divine face and I got a full shot of his incredible abs, akin to this:

Have you just reached for some ice and a fan to cool yourself off? You're not alone. In fact, when I was blessed with The Ab Shot, I stared. Shamelessly. Like I always do. And he knows that I did, because I was RIGHT THERE. But I don't even care, because despite what you may think, I KNOW that expose was meant for me.

Over the Hedge

2009-03-19T23:22:00.000-07:00

Riddle me this:

What do you call chain-smokers who grow weeds and rusted cars on the front lawn, substitute duct tape for glass on windows, and have a vibrant blue glow emanating through all crevices in the “house” because of their massive-A flat screen tv?

Answer: THE NEIGHBORS.

From here on out they shall always be referred to in all caps. I am fairly certain that I have mentioned THE NEIGHBORS before. In fact, I believe I could make a fairly good mini-series/reality show/documentary of them - they are that awesome. It would have a very Lifetime movie feel to it, and I would call it: THE NEIGHBORS: The Trailer Park Next Door: The Real Story of What Happened Over the Hedge.

In the meantime I decided to start dedicating chapters to them, every now and then. This decision came about yesterday, as I was lounging in the backyard in my bathing suit, diet coke in hand, minding my own business in 75 degree weather. I was contemplating doing something useful, but I forgot about it since the sun was shining on my SPF 25ed-up face, and a breeze was wafting the blooming jasmine and orange blossom and I was just so intoxicated with life.

And then.

Bottles clanking around on cement while someone began coughing up a lung. A cloud of smoke began to rise over the blessed cinder-block wall that separates our backyards. I'm pretty sure this possible turrets-laden man began shouting random quotes and sing-songs to no one in particular. Then their mangy mongrels began howling, and I was THIS CLOSE to borrowing my brothers’ air-soft rifle for pest control. Thank goodness their dog whom under the force of court order had its voice box removed is dead. Finally. Its lack of vocal ability made it sound rather like a wounded sea lion when it barked. It was truly grotesque and I could write a whole post just on that nasty mutt alone.

However, I want to congratulate the Dirts, as we’ve Christened them, for completing the Annual Mowing of the Weeds. This event usually only happens in the spring, when their semi-functional son comes to visit. He is the only child thus far that has stayed in school past 10th grade, held down a steady job at Ralphs market, and avoided prison. And despite the fact that he ruined my afternoon of repose by belching the alphabet and then yelling for his woman to pick up his beer bottles, I rather like him.

In the next episode of THE NEIGHBORS: The Day the S.W.A.T. Team Came a'Calling

Luck of the Irish

2009-03-17T13:01:00.000-07:00

In honor of St. Patrick's Day I am not going to go into explicit detail of Pat's life and his propensity to dispel unsavory characters from Ireland, namely snakes and the Devil himself, because nobody really cares about the story. Everyone's main concern today will be telling other people how they are actually part Irish, pledge their undying love for Notre Dame, and then mumble partially-known drinking songs whilst swigging down Guinness as fast as possible.

For me, this Shamrock Holiday has inspired this musing: If I had to choose between Colin Farrell, Jon Rhys-Meyers, Damien Rice or Jason O'Mara to give up America and shack up in a cozy Irish castle with, who would I pick?

Happy Pi Day!

2009-03-14T15:02:00.000-07:00

In honor of Pi, the most beloved number of math zealots everywhere, you really ought to watch this freaky deeky video:

March is full of totally awesome and completely random holidays, so celebrate away dear friends!

PS - Beware the Ides of March tomorrow. All hail J.Ceas.

TV, it's time to bring back the crazy

2009-03-11T21:53:00.000-07:00

If any of you were fortunate enough to have caught The Chopping Block on NBC tonight, then I imagine you have already begun to form some ideas in your mind on the one Chef Marco Pierre White. DO YOURSELVES A FAVOR - read this book:

I now leave generous tips at nice eateries because of Marco "Holy Terror" White. You will love him, hate him, be willing to become an indentured servant just to learn from him - he's a genius. You will never look at restaurants, chefs or waiters the same again. I was completely seduced through paper. Mostly because he is smug and crazy; if he's not yelling at another chef to F off, then he's throwing a client out into the street. And speaking of insane people and tv, I am SO ready for American Idol to be over already. I've never been a fan, and I vowed that I would watch it only on the condition that Simon be the SOLE judge. I do however appreciate the lunacy of Paula Abdul and her wardrobe concoctions that are almost as whacked out as she is.

More than anything though, I hate that AI is crowding out Fringe. Give me my Pacey, man! Perhaps it's unpopular, but I'd take Walter "I-am-craving-applesauce-after-digging-into-that-guy's-brain" Bishop any day over the dulcet tones of American "I want this SO bad!" Idol.

And lastly, dear 30 Rock, I only have this to say: Bring back Don Draper! Bring back Don Draper!

I realize that when I met you at the turkey curry buffet, I was unforgivably rude, and wearing a reindeer jumper.

2009-03-10T10:41:00.000-07:00

I've never considered myself a real shy person. That was decided when, as a young teen, I "bop bopped" some dude's rear multiple times, on the sly, at stake dances.

I like to think I have matured since then.

Still, I have this Bridget Jones-esque way of making myself look like an idiot in front of any moderately attractive male. And there is one such male in existence whom I see every night at the gym. We have had our moments, he and I. If you know what I mean. And by that I mean, we would walk past each other on many occasions that didn't require walking past each other.

So I decided it was time to take the next step. As I was sitting on a leg machine, waiting to begin my next rep, he comes sauntering by. "Carpe Diem!" I cheered to myself. I looked at him straight in the face, and flashed by biggest Hello smile. (I bet you were expecting that I was going to jump atop him, weren't you? WRONG.)

Then, quite naturally, he smiled back. A kind of 10-year-old-grin that almost made me snort-laugh.

And then I called it a night and went back home, feeling quite pleased with my progress.

Who KNOWS what kind of shenanigans tonight will bring.

Hello McFly!

2009-03-05T17:18:00.000-08:00

As of late I have been wondering where exactly I fall on a scale of 1 - 10 of nerdiness. This has been even harder because I'm not sure how to fix the scale. What is the lowest degree of nerd? I'm thinking Apple snob, blogger, and occasional sci-fi peruser. Those seem to be staples, but is it too much? I don't know. 10 is a little easier; that is going to consist of knowing Klingon, making j factorial jokes, listing Dungeons and Dragons as a hobby, listing "the force" as a skill, and writing notes in binary code.

I suppose most of us nerds fall somewhere in between. But I am having a real identity crisis and I NEED to know where I stand. The facts are these:

- I blog. In case you weren't aware.
- I sometimes watch Nacho Libre when I am alone.
- I have made multiple trips to the library lately with the sole purpose of getting more books on Stephen Hawking for Idiots and Quantum Mechanics 101.
- I sometimes muse about what it would be like to be an Elf in Lord of the Rings.
- I love comic book movies.
- I really do think that Disneyland is the happiest place on earth.
- I'm a snob when I go to Disneyland. I find myself saying things like, "Oh this ice cream stand wasn't here last time," or "They TOTALLY changed the womanizing pirates into thief pirates on POTC ride!" (Which, by the way, they DID. And it's not nearly as funny or creepy).
- I love Lost. Mostly because of all the crazy-a sci-fi junk on that show.
- I read Lost theory sites because more than anything in life I love theorizing about things.
- I have a string theory seminar video bookmarked on my APPLE NOTEBOOK (note: I own a mac, but not necessarily a snob).
- I plan on celebrating national PI day on the 14th.
- Speaking of Pi, I also have Daniel "I memorized Pi" Tammat videos in my favorites on YouTube, which I watch on a regular basis.
- I have a crush on Chuck from Chuck. Mostly for his nerdiness. But also for his tallness.
- I wish I could do math so I could be a math/physics nerd.

HOWEVER. The following keeps me from true nerdom:
- I don't speak/write ANY other languages, though there was once a boy in one of my classes that would always write his name in Elvish on the roll sheet, and then give Elvish greeting to the professor. And he looked suspiciously like the Numa Numa dude. CREEPY.
- I don't understand binary code.
- I haven't started watching Battlestar Galactica. YET.
- I really love shooting guns.
- I can't quote anything from Star Wars or X Files.
- I can never remember how many gigabytes are in a terabyte. Or how to spell those.
- I can name at least 5 major designer labels.
- I sound like a ditz when I talk.

So maybe you, as a removed party, can help me this. BECAUSE IT'S REALLY IMPORTANT. What's an appropriate nerd scale, and where do I (and you) stand?

UPDATE!
Thanks to Azucar, I took the Nerd Quiz and realized that in fact I am "not a nerd, but definitely not hip." And I'm not quite sure how I feel about that. Although, it is rather fitting since I am mediocre in all ways, and therefore being a true nerd would be unfitting with my station in life.

Reward for Good Behavior

2009-02-27T16:38:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-23T12:20:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-19T17:40:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-10T13:30:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-06T17:58:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-04T10:14:00.000-08:00

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.

a mystery

2009-01-26T09:00:00.000-08:00

The other day I was doing the usual: lazing about, looking for black market Chanel bags on craigslist. And, as I always do whilst looking for illegal goods online, I had a stash of treats next to me. So when I reached for my baggie of cereal and tossed a handful of Cap'n Crunch in my mouth . . .

GAG.

I ran to the trash can and spat it out because it was that disgusting. But what was it that made it so nasty? I had to be sure, so yes, I ate some more. STILL FOUL. It tasted like - perfume? How is that even possible?!? I wondered. It's not like I took a bottle of eu de toilette and spritzed it in my ziploc.

Was it in the vicinety when I sprayed a dab on myself earlier? Is this some nasty prank perpretrated by the twins? Nothing added up. So I took another whiff, and sure enough it smelled, and tasted, of CoCo Madmoiselle. The very same Chanel body lotion I had gotten for free earlier at the mall from the class action lawsuit (I hope you took advantage of that, because I know I did. Thank you Macy's AND Nordstrom)!

However, I am convinced that I never stuck my moisturized digits in the goodie bag. I would have thought twice about such a questionable act, because my love of cereal runs deep. So the only possible explanation is that while transporting said bag from room to room, the lotion on my hands SEEPED THROUGH THE PLASTIC and infected all my Crunch. It's the only logical deduction.

Mystery solved.

and the coat finally makes a debut

2009-01-22T15:20:00.000-08:00

Dear Universe,

Per one of my serious resolutions, I am writing you a thank you note. It's true that you and I have something of a tenuous relationship. You build me up, you tear me down. I sing your praises, I shake my fist at you. But let's be honest - we like the roller coaster. One moment is ecstasy and the next is fire and brimstone while peals of Satanic laughter rumble through the stormy sky -- but hey, it's rarely boring. Except for right now, actually. I am SO BORED. But that's not what I want to talk about. I want to say thanks. Thanks for one, and hopefully more to follow, day of semi-coldness. Because 80 degree days are hard to dress for in the winter. I mean, I have really limited amounts of thermatically cool winter clothing, and I refuse to wear spring florals in January. Plus I have all these cute jackets I accumulated from living on a frozen tundra for a few winters that I've only pulled out twice since Halloween. So it's about time.

Best regards,
Tara

PS - In the concern I feel for giving you the wrong impression, I also want to add: Keep up the good work with global warming! or "climate change" or whatever they call it these days. Because I loved spending all Monday at the beach and almost getting tan.

"I have depths he'll never plumb, but I know every inch of his wafer thin soul."

2009-01-14T16:55:00.001-08:00

I've been in something of an artistic slump as of late. I ran out of Diet Coke, the Golden Globes were boring, and my hair really needs to be cut. And by cut I mean TRIM -- not hacked off by Edward Scissorhands like poor Taylor Momsen:

To assuage the anxiety I feel over my lack of ambition and creativity, I have been focusing most of my energies on how other people look. And since, as stated above, the Golden Globes lacked any serious wackitude to lighten my spirits, I have run back into the loving embrace of fashion reliability: Gossip Girl. Am I alone in this? I have a hunch that there are others who also are craving some trusty fashion to put their troubled minds at ease, and I am here to tell you that it's okay. GIVE IN.

Which brings me to a pressing question:

What would it take to make myself look like: Serena van der Woodsen, with the wardrobe of:

Blair Waldorf?

Could I finagle it with exorbitant amounts of money and Dr. Ray? I am holding out hope. And please in the name of all that is holy, do NOT assume that now is the time to bring up how "media gives women false expectations" and "eating disorders" and that what "really matters" is "inner beauty." Because my eyes do not deceive me - they are HOT. And that is what counts in life. So added to my Things I Need to Pick Up List are Louboutin Peep-Toe heels and a Marc Jacobs blouse.

Maybe I should just start by calling my hair dresser for a cut after all. Baby steps people. Baby steps.

I hate New Years Warriors

2009-01-09T18:58:00.000-08:00

Unlike some of my previous roommates, I have never been a real gym zealot. Call me lazy, but the thought of running was about as pleasant as the thought of having the stomach flu. Plus, Gold's Gym on 9th was the Meat Market of Provo. Whenever I went I was flanked by tools in pooka shells and far too much cologne on one side, and bimbos with full hair and makeup done on the other side. Not really my scene.

Now I have had something of a change of heart. A combination of growing obsessiveness in life combined with heavy amounts of boredom have come together to create this phenomena of maniacal health-club attendance. I should also come clean and confess that I sort of stalk this dude who goes at the same time. Not like it's pertinent. Whatever. ANYWAY - I go kind of late so I recognize the other 6 people there. That is, until now. Now that the New Years Warriors are on the loose. And I know that come March they'll be gone, but I'm really annoyed. Who do they think they are, swarming my sanctum of adrenaline and anger management? Unacceptable. And without a solution. Oh Israel/Palestine - I know how it feels to have no solutions!

And to compound grievances, I found a dress in my closet that I got a few months back on a clearance rack at a local boutique. It's a good casual party dress, but I must have had a temporary logic shut-down when I bought it because it is really short. Self, I said, you can just wear black leggings with it, since the dress is pink and black and the combination of fabric and style would work. But I realized the other day when I was looking at it that I don't like leggings. I only own a pair because I wore them to a party once, and the theme of the party called for something a little out of the ordinary. I know that LiLo and other celeb rehab connoisseurs really get into them. But I just have never warmed to them. And a girl who used to be from my home town wrote a much-needed post on What Not to Wear to Church, and I was reminded how deep my dislike of leggings runs.
Well do I remember Blair Waldorf's astute observation: TIGHTS ARE NOT PANTS.

So now I am in a conundrum. How do I wear my short dress without being a skank? Opaque tights - also out of the question. Any ideas for my plethora of problems would be appreciated.

Also, I apologize if I have rained on your Resolutions to work out more. I applaud you, if you can stay with it past Wednesday, so long as it's not at my gym.

WHAT UP 2008 !

2008-12-31T14:21:00.000-08:00

Every year sometime in January my family would gather in the living room and discuss what our goals for the new year were going to be. We each wrote them down and were supposed to keep them in our room or taped on the microwave or wherever we would see them, although they usually ended up as paper airplanes whizzing towards Sam's face whilst he was telling some long detailed story we lost interest in 30 seconds into it.

I want to declare that I am rejecting the traditions of my youth! I am NOT going to do that kind of list anymore. Last year I had two resolutions: learning how to french braid, and becoming more compassionate. Go ahead and guess which one of those I accomplished. So I've decided to be really really original and use my blog as a wrap up of 2008. Are you rolling your eyes right now? Well it's my blog, so I can.

FAVORITE MOVIE: I'm sad to say that nothing really blew me away this year. But in terms of entertainment, I'm going to have to go with Iron Man on this one. I'm sorry, but HELLO Tony Stark. Don't you think he would be perfect for me? I also thoroughly enjoyed The Dark Knight, but it was too, how shall I say . . . dark. I didn't laugh much, so it's demoted. Methinks I have a superhero thing. Or maybe just a thing for mysterious, big-biceped, brilliant rich men. Maybe I ought to do some self-analysis on that. But I won't.

My guess for the Oscar in Best Picture will be The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, with Slumdog Millionaire and Frost Nixon competing.

runners-up: Bottle Shock, Mamma Mia!, The Incredible Hulk, Penelope.

guilty pleasures: The Pineapple Express, Get Smart, Run Fat Boy Run, In the Name of the King: A Dungeon Siege Tale (lying).

Favorite TV Show: This is hard, because I really like a lot of them. This year it's a tie between Mad Men and Lost. I actually don't really like sitting down and watching Mad Men, because I get offended when every 5 minutes one of the men is making some snide, sexually demoralizing remark to a woman. I thought I would never say it, but THANK YOU feminist movement. However, the show truly is engrossing. And I have a really huge embarrassing love for Lost. Deal with it.

runners-up: Fringe, 30 Rock, Pushing Daisies, Chuck, The Office, Extras, Law and Order: SVU, Kath & Kim.

guilty pleasures: Gossip Girl, The Hills, The City (so far), The Real Housewives of Orange County.

worst: Heroes. It's gone way downhill since the writers strike.

Favorite TV Couples: Chuck and Blair, Gossip Girl. Jack and Kate, Lost (or I would be willing to root for Sawyer and Kate. Heaven knows I love me a good love triangle).

runners-up: Chuck and Sarah, Chuck (fake though it may be), Ned and Chuck, Pushing Daisies, Jim and Pam, The Office.

Is anyone else noticing the amount of Chucks on tv? Weird.

worst: Spencer and Heidi, The Hills.

Favorite People who died in 2008: Gordon B. Hinckley, William F. Buckley, Charlton Heston, Paul Newman, Estelle Getty, Heath Ledger.

Favorite Book:
Fiction: Ireland by Frank Delaney. It combines three of my most favorite things - history, storytelling, and Ireland. Plus, the writing is admirable without being too wordsy. And the story, and stories within the story, is really compelling.

runners-up: The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield, Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clarke.

Non-fiction: The Devil in the Kitchen by Marco Pierre White.

runners-up: Sixty Million Frenchmen Can't be Wrong by Jean-Benoit Nadeau, Sharon Osbourne Extreme by Sharon Osbourne, Little Black Book of Style by Nina Garcia.

worst: Something Borrowed by Emily Giffin.

Best Accomplishment: Declaring decisive victory over D.Y. in arm wrestling.

runners-up: Graduating from BYU, finding 2 Calvin Klein dresses on the clearance rack at Marshall's for $15, coming in third place in the Biggest Loser competition at work, finding Gossip Girl Season 1 on sale at Target for $17.99.

worst: Attempting to flirt with Mr. Harvard-grad-aerospace-engineer at a regional conference. He seemed freaked out by me. Whatever man, your loss.

Family Accomplishment: Finally taking a picture where every one's eyes are open.

2009 Resolutions: Finish my autobiography, get a job abroad, do 600 push-ups a day, and stealthily sabotage my neighbors so that they will finally move.

Happy New Year!

Back from walking in the valley of the shadow of death

2008-12-22T19:45:00.000-08:00

I can see that, having not posted in a while, the thought, "I wonder if Tara went on vacation somewhere" might have crossed someones mind. So let me kill that question right here and now. Instead of being on a cruise ship where I belong, I was sucked into a black hole of temp motherhood while my parents galavanted about California. I cooked and cleaned and burned a new hole in the o-zone layer from the amount of time I spent driving. So my question to you mommies who read this is, how do you do it? And more importantly, WHY? After 9 hours of the insanity I was ready to gouge my eyes out. I know that "it's different when it's your own" and that "it's the most fulfilling thing you'll do" but excuse my disbelief. I was not fulfilled. I was exhausted. And I kinda felt like I was living in Gitmo - NO ESCAPE. A prisoner to duties that would never end. You know when Kate from LOST says "Taco night? I don't DO taco night" in her married flashback? Well I wanted to high five her and yell, Amen! Guys, I don't DO motherhood. It makes me weird. Example: The night before I was relieved of duty I was watching "It's a Wonderful Life" while I was folding a Mt. Everest of laundry and I totally cried at the part when Harry Bailey says "To my big brother George, the richest man in town" and everyone cheers and sings carols and the bell rings and the little sickly girl talks about angels. Because somehow, George Bailey ends up really happy being poor with a gazillion kids and unfulfilled dreams. So I guess it's possible. Needless to say I'm in no rush to try it for myself. That little dose was enough to last me a long time. So here's to you moms - I salute you.

"Volure. I thought by now you'd be somewhere the law couldn't reach you. Like Bali...or Utah."

2008-12-09T14:26:00.000-08:00

On Monday night I made an extraordinary discovery: I found the Celestial Kingdom of Retirement Centers. I know, it sounds like an oxy moron doesn't it? Well it's NOT. I was so overcome with awe that I didn't even have time to remember how much old people freak me out. Think Sweet Dee in "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia" where she finds Charlie's Nazi grandpa but almost passes out from hyperventilating too much because the old people are getting to close to her and you will understand. In fact, the only reason I went to Deterioration Central in the first place was because I was guilted into it, what with the whole family and the ward going to sing carols and spread Christmas cheer and what have you.

This place, and I have no clue what it's called, is HUGE. With pale yellow and sage green walls, fake flowers that aren't chinsy, crown molding, a dining area that looks like a restaurant that I would go to on a date, lovely watercolor paintings on the walls, and truly classy Christmas decorations. And most important of all, it DIDN'T SMELL. How is that even possible? I don't know, it was celestialized probably.

So I now have a plan of what I am going to do with my parents in a few years. I figure that since their eyesight is going and they have to wear reading glasses, they are but a few maladies short of "ashes to ashes and dust to dust" and I'm going to need someplace to put them. I mean, it's better than Shady Pines.

no i don't remember you

2008-12-04T16:00:00.000-08:00

Co-worker Stacey and I were discussing the pros and cons of "reconnecting" with people you sort of knew but didn't really like in high school, playground frenemies from the 3rd grade, fathers you didn't know you had, so on and so forth, and we both decided we don't actually want contact with any of these people, but the curiosity of what MIGHT have happened to them can be so deliciously aggravating.

Like, what ever happened to Christina E.? Did she end up having 3 children out of wedlock with different baby-daddy's before the age of 21 like I think she did? And Courtney - is she some artsy vegan tree-hugging nut job in Oregon, who only wears sandals made from recyclables? What about Mean Maggie, the rotund boisterous girl who plagiarized a book report in the 6th grade and GOT AWAY WITH IT because bald-headed Mr. Cooley wouldn't believe me even though I READ the book she plagiarized.

I bet little Marky ended up joining a gang after all, and I have a feeling Tommy Tobin actually is the "bum bandit" who terrorizes Nebraska citizens by leaving his bum print on windows. And if you think I am exaggerating these hypotheses, maybe you ought to take a trip to Fresno and then you'll believe me. On second thought, don't. Unless you WANT your car to get stolen and consequently used for a drive-by shooting because some Mexican hombre with a gold tooth crossed the line into Laotian territory and keyed one of their rice rockets.

But you know when you run into someone from high school, and you realize after you talk to them that they're still as lame as they were when you were forced to sit next to them in English and they repeatedly tried to impress you by leaning over and showing you how much booze they had in their backpack, except they look way worse now? Well that happened to me except I was the loser! It happened at the voting poll of all places, and blast-from-the-past girl was in a medical research Ph.D program, had a huge rock on her finger and a hot fiance, AND she looked good - with that naturally pretty look that I can never hope to achieve. And I was the one in sweats and greasy hair and living at home and probably had chocolate on the side of my mouth. Then, as we are walking out of the polls, we realize we're parked right next to each other. Except that SHE is in a nice luxury vehicle, and I am in my mom's FESTIVA. Needless to say it wasn't one of my better moments.

The moral of the story is that I feel better about myself if I don't by happenstance run into people I used to know. So if you ever find me on facebook and I don't want to be your friend, you know why.

calm the heck down

2008-12-02T14:36:00.001-08:00

Some days I find I have a lower than usual tolerance for annoying things, and lucky for you today just happens to be one of those days. In honor of that, let me vent something important...

Next to my computer screen on my desk at work I have a small Eats, Shoots & Leaves daily calendar. It was given to me by one of the attorneys for one, or all, of the following reasons: a) he obviously sees me as an uneducated bumpkin who could use a few lessons in grammar, b) he is trying to prove something from the few times I scratched out all of HIS grammatical mistakes when editing his letters, or c) because he secretly has a crush on me. Who am I kidding - it's probably c.

Today's subject is on the decline of punctuation standards, blamed on emails and text messages and the lazy people who write "R U going out 2nite" instead of actually spelling it out and using a question mark. (DISCLAIMER: If ever I receive this kind of text from a potential crush, they are immediately dismissed. Ye be warned.) I mean, really. Is it THAT hard to write properly? I think not. Are you really so busy and important that you can't spare an extra eight seconds to type correctly? You know, it just brings to mind my white trash neighbor, Joe Dirt, who probably doesn't know how to spell "sk8" any differently. And I really don't like musing about my neighbor Joe Dirt. I saw him for the first time in months yesterday, spinning around his front lawn like some 5 year old trying to make himself throw up. I wasn't sure if it was because he was high (very likely), or if it's the effects of living in a hell hole that display themselves in odd ways (equally likely). Oh the stories I could tell about my neighbors . . . Maybe someday.

Anyway. This brings me to one of my biggest pet peeves ever: overuse of the exclamation mark. I'm sorry, but I just don't buy the enthusiasm. Actually it's that I don't WANT to buy it. It's like Kim Kardashian's blog, where everything is reminiscent of "OMG i totally wore my newest red stilettos to britney's party and they were so hot!!! and i loved my outfit!! I just seriously think that life is soooo great!!! I mean, next week i get to paaarty in miami and i love it there!!!!"

ENOUGH KIM! Enough. Please, in the name of all that is holy will you just STOP? No one wants your bangs or your thick black makeup or your life, so stop shoving it down our throats with your incessant exclamations. I can't even get through posts where they use only one exclamation point at the end of every sentence. Please tell me that other people find this equally mind-numbing. Unless you are one of the few I've offended, in which case, please heed my frustrations and learn.

in which i say nothing

2008-12-01T13:24:00.000-08:00

After living in a glutton's paradise for many days, I have returned to normalcy and can once again think properly. And here is what I think:

1. Fog freaks me out. Last night I was coming home from a friend's house, and the fog was so thick I could hardly see where I was going. I thought for sure some chalky, red-lipped vampire was going to hurl himself at my car. Which for a moment I couldn't figure why I would even come up with that, since I haven't even seen Twilight, until I realized that thought was a result of watching THIS masterpiece:

TOTAL ECLIPSE OF THE HEART! Yes, you have to dedicate a few, or 5 1/2, minutes to it, but isn't it well worth it? How many times while watching did you ask yourself, Why? What does it all mean? And admit it, the thought flashed through your mind that maybe you would like to "dance" about wearing a loincloth, or a ninja suit, too. Thank you, Amanda and Rob, for sharing this treasure.

2. I almost got baby hungry on Sunday. ALMOST. Because Amanda's baby is so scrumptious. And then the words of dear Mme. Bjork came back into my mind as I was cooing baby Grace. Quoth she:

Single? Psh! What's so bad about that? Like I've always said, being single makes you more intelligent. Since you're having a Totinos pizza for one, you can read the dictionary or wikipedia or layout plays by Marlowe and Shakespeare side by side and you can form your own well-informed decision over whether the chicken or the egg came first. Nextly, you can sample every fish in the sea and then throw them back without ever having to worry about global warming. Being single is like not having a conscience. Goodbye Jiminy Cricket, I'm a real girl.Thirdly, there's no one around to find out exactly how much chocolate you really are eating. Everyone can go along with assumptions like that of my roommate's, "You eat more vegetables than anyone I know. It's like you're a vegetarian. Oh wait, you are."

Does quoting this make me sound feminist? Because I love men. And moms. And I figure that since there are mommy blogs aplenty, why can I not give a shout out to singlehood every now and then? Aren't we supposed to embrace the current situation we find ourselves in? So consider this MY embrace to you, gentle reader.

Anyway. I love this: Being single is like not having a conscience. No wonder I never feel bad! No wonder people often find me offensive! The pieces are all coming together now! Thank you Marge, I now understand. Although I am definitely NOT a vegetarian, as evidenced by the amount of turkey I consumed for 6 straight meals.

3. Don't you hate it when you get really bad book recommendations, but you have to feign a certain amount of interest to be polite? Some girls at work, bless their hearts, know that I enjoy the written word, and so have loaned me Wicked (refuse to read) and some Nicholas Sparks sap (refuse to read). How long should I hold onto them before I hand it back with a "Thanks - that was an interesting read"?

This one's for the girls

2008-11-23T22:19:00.000-08:00

To spare humanity the immense boredom that accompanies anything I might post about the goings-ons of my daily life, I usually try and avoid "So yesterday I..." and "Over the weekend..." posts. Because those would really only consist of how many diet cokes i drank and how I really need to do laundry and how I wish Christian Bale stalked me.

But THIS cannot be avoided. Because I can't hold my candle under a bushel any longer. I just had the potentially best shopping trip of my life on Saturday and I MUST share it.

Behold, Ventura. Known best for it's thrift stores.

I didn't take a picture of the thrift shops because, well, who wants a picture of a thrift shop? But you get the idea. Along with a navy pencil skirt and a purple pair of 99 cent heels, I also found these gems in the vintage section:

What you see so beautifully displayed here is a sequined skirt, perfect for saturday night fever and new years, and . . .

FUR! That's right - your's truly found a fur wrap for a few bucks! When I triumphantly displayed it at home later that afternoon, Mom asked "When are you EVER going to use that?" To which I excitedly replied, "Who cares! It's real fur!" So I put it on right then and there, and have been traipsing around with it on ever since.

Pretty good finds, huh? But wait! That isn't the last of it. I give you the crown jewel to my day full of bargains:

No friends, you're eyes don't deceive you. That is indeed a L.A.M.B purse. My first designer bag ever! In a rare fit of insanity I stopped at Nordstrom Rack on the way home, and there in the bag section was a pillar of light shining down upon the supple leather and plaid canvas and gold chains. My eyes never strayed from the glorious sight. I heard angels singing and harps strumming.

Id: I MUST have it!
Super Ego: NO! It is petty and vain and extravagant!
Id: So? Just think how good you'll look with it on your arm!
Super Ego: Are you kidding? It's a BAG.
Id: How very narrow minded of you - it is SO much more than a bag. Plus, it's plaid. AND HALF OFF!!
Super Ego: Remember that savings account - the one with the cobwebs and dust in it?
Id: But this might be our only chance to get a LAMB purse this cute and this cheap! Where is ego? He should be mediating this.
Ego: I'm here - just currently entranced by this find. Which is seemingly providential. Id, you win. Not through logic mind you, but mere excitement. Happy early Christmas.

So I snatched it and ran up to the cash register before super ego began to argue again. And the sweet cashier gasped and said, This is SO CUTE! To which I squealed and said, I KNOW! So we opened it and unsnapped and unzipped and oohed and aahed over all it's glory. And then she asked, Is it your first designer purse? Yes, I replied. And then she said, Welcome to the big girls club! I myself joined last year when I bought a Marc Jacobs purse! So I thanked her and sighed with envy over her MJ delight, until I looked at my newest purchase and jumped up and down a bit until people started whispering and pointing. I floated home on Cloud 9.

Oh, you want to see it again?

You can even take the strap off and use it as a clutch! Genius!

And that is the story of how I passed a new milestone in my life and now own a designer bag which I got at truly a GREAT deal at Nordstrom Rack. Who knew?!

tagged

2008-11-21T09:39:00.000-08:00

Tagging is one of those things that I don't really love, but go along with it anyway because I DO love the people who tag me. so whatever. Apparently I have to show the 4th picture in my 4th album or some such business, but my pictures aren't organized that way, so I just closed my eyes and clicked on one. And this is what popped up:

Yes, they are related to me. Can't you tell by her sneer? It runs in the family. This is when we went to Cousin Whitney's wedding and had a major ordeal deciding which place we were going to eat at. The babies won, as usual, and their latest obsession was Quiznos. I had just gotten my new camera and was experimenting. So here we are, all of us squashed at one teeny table, and I took a candid whilst they were chowing down.

not asking too much here

2008-11-19T11:03:00.000-08:00

Dear CW channel,

Look, I've got a lot on my plate right now. Job hunting, avoiding the mall, deciding which kind of salsa I want to eat tonight, etc etc, and so I just don't have TIME to deal with Gossip Girl right now. I've been thinking about it over the last few episodes and I've decided I reject the following:

1) Little J's hair. It is FOUL. The cut reminds me of a trashy-blond version of Linda from The Wedding Singer who accidentally sticks her head in the path of the weed whacker. Also, that cloud of eyeliner and black spiked choker. Really? Since when is it supposed to look like Jenny Humphrey waged a war with the trash in the San Fernando Valley and lost?

2) Aaron. I yawn just thinking about him. I feel like I'm being sucked into a black hole of boringness whenever he's on screen. His flannel shirts, greasy locks and cross-eyed goggling stares make me vomit in my mouth. I'm ready for him to be killed off, or at least sent to some zen-voodoo art school extraordinaire where everyone holds hands and chants Simon and Garfunkel songs. Because his whiny monotone 2-unintelligible-words-per-minute speeches on dating aren't doing it for me. And get some braces for crying out loud! This is America: no snagletooths allowed.

3) Chuck and Blair. No longer waging war. The conniving, meddling, back-stabbing, I'll-get-you-to-love-me-yet passion was the only real reason I watched this show. And now with the "maybe sometime in the future" cease-fire, I think I might give up on this show altogether.

Oh, and don't even get me STARTED on Mr. Nate Archibald and that bizarre bundle of conflicts.

Please, PLEASE bring back the fire. The drama. The minor-hunting cougars. Because until you do, NBC is getting my undivided attention.

Best Regards,

Tara

cough cough

2008-11-17T14:53:00.000-08:00

As far as experiments go, I think it fair to say that I passed this latest purse-less test with flying colors. Yes friends, I succeeded in not filling my Mary Poppins carpet bag full of essential odds and ends throughout most of the week. And that was mainly due to the fact that from Wednesday night till yesterday I have been languishing on my sick bed (read: couch), coughing and hacking and whathaveyou. Now I know to some of you that might not make my bag-free attempt "successful" let alone "fair" - but really, when have I ever played fair?

Did I play fair when in 5th grade I told Brain Metcalfe to shove it when he claimed he got me out in dodgeball? No. I stayed in anyway. Did I play fair when I hid that Ace of Spades till the last round of poker and then called everyone suckers as I took all their money? No. Did I play fair when I cut in front of that little boy in the line for Space Mountain while his mom's back was turned and then feigned ignorance when his mom asked him why he was sobbing? No. And look where it got me - AHEAD.

Anyway. The point is that the experiment worked for a while. It seemed to work best while I was bundled in a blanket, sipping Diet 7up and watching 90's Christmas movies and Westerns. Don't judge me.

Foray into Minimalism

2008-11-10T14:33:00.000-08:00

Today I have begun to do three things:

1) Experiment with minimalism. And by that I mean not carting around my purse which is usually the size of carry-on luggage. I feel that it will simplify my life. And also force me to be creative in finding where to put things, since I rarely have pockets in my work slacks. Lipgloss in my bra? Sounds good.

More than likely this will only last a couple days, because where am I going to put my grapefruit, Atlas Shrugged, huge wad of money and secret detective notebook? We shall see friends, we shall see.

2) Define my life each day in 6 words. No more, no less. Example: Most successful accomplishments based on spite. Or: My head, it kills. Advil please.
Again, notice the minimalist theme.

3) Write more haikus. I just feel that the world would be a better place if we spent a little less time protesting and a little more time haikuing. In church yesterday I was inspired by this truly terrible muscial piece to write a haiku. I couldn't remember how, so I had a friend refresh my memory. Though it turns out we were wrong, it's 5-7-5. Here's my latest creation:

Autumn leaves falling
sheep singing, returning sun
Babble, chaotic

Maybe not for everyone, but since when does true art appeal to all? I feel a new career option on the horizon. Do you have 6 words to define your life, or an inspirational haiku? If so please share.

That man is leering
I think of some brass knuckles
Sweet pain to my heart

my family and animals don't blend: a narrative

2008-11-06T11:31:00.000-08:00

A long, long time ago, back when I was just a wee thing, my cousin Jonathan placed a "curse" on my whole extended family. This sounds weird, I know, but if you knew him you wouldn't be surprised. Actually I'm glad I've graduated because I sometimes lived in fear knowing we attended the same University. Now, I'm no expert as far as the dark arts go, and since he was no more than 12 at the time, I have a feeling that this curse-of-sorts actually just affects my immediate family. And this is what it entails: pets.

Every pet my family has ever owned has died prematurely. Without exception. There was my first cat Dabid - that's right, it's Dabid not David - who mysteriously "disappeared". But I knew the truth. The wild cats ate him. And believe you me, when you live out in the sticks of the central valley, everyone fears the feral wild cats. So I did what any broken-hearted child would do: I killed all the wild cats in the surrounding area with a toxic concoction I made out of tomato plant leaves, dirt and lighter fluid. Revenge is sweet.

Then there was my next cat, Coco. Who fell out of a tree as a kitten, got brain damage, turned crazy, and died. And then Abby, our first dog. A true mutt if there ever was one, but I loved it despite it's MANY flaws. While we were on vacation, our neighbors were watching it, and forgot to lock the gate after they fed her. So she made the great escape, got as far as the next street over, and consequently ate some rat poison and died.

THEN we got a bird. Only because my dad randomly FOUND IT sitting in a tree so he brought it home. It was this beautiful lime green and yellow parakeet, who scared the living daylights out of me because it would chase you if you were wearing socks. (Is anyone else noticing a strange pattern with my pets and mental health issues?) Well. Little Jake Hunter, Samwise's best friend, was over. And as all little boys are wont to do, they were playing swords. Jake didn't see the freaky bird running around, so he accidentally whacked it with his sword. Pigwidgeon (the bird) got all puffy and swollen and wouldn't move, even if you poked it. It stayed that way for like three whole days. And then one morning Paige wakes up to find Pigwidgeon moving around, and she gets so excited that she picks him up out of the cage and squueeeezes him with love. He got all weird and puffy again, so as I come waltzing into the family room the next day I see Paige playing with the very dead Pigwidgeon - she was stuffing him into a sock. And his head was flopping around all over the place. So I look at my dad who is watching this like it's NORMAL, and he says, Well she doesn't really know it's dead, and it's not like he cares now.

Which brings me to present day. We have no animals, since we decided to do a service to the animal kingdom by just staying away. But there's this cat who lives down the street. Mac. And weirdly he decided he wanted to live with us. So over the many years that he has been coming around, we have begun to feed him, and then let him in. All the time. And in return he brings us rats and birds and other such treasures. He would let Paige dress him up, and let us cart him around. He chased after marbles and string and we would tease him relentlessly with deli ham.

So a few nights ago, one of the twins comes up to me and whispers, "We found Mac on the street. A car clipped him and he's dead." And you guys, I have to be honest. I cried. ME. Over a stupid cat that I always professed I didn't like. Which was of course a lie. I loved that stupid bag of fleas! I love that he would be on the sidewalk waiting for me when I got back from the gym so I could let him in the house. And when he would follow me around when I was the only one home so he wouldn't be lonely. And now we've gone and killed him. I think the only reason he lasted as long as he did was because he wasn't technically ours. Oh and don't even get me STARTED on the stupid neighbors who buried him in their backyard, even though Mac didn't even like them. I hate neighbors.

Besides the morbid tones of writing about a dead cat, this narrative is also sad because I just barely scratched the surface of our many animal...mishaps. So on this rather unhappy note, let's raise our glasses to our cat that wasn't really ours. Mac, you were the perfect cat for our family and I hope you are enjoying big balls of yarn and ham a-plenty in heaven.

to the happy couple, round two

2008-11-04T11:15:00.000-08:00

This is what I did this weekend. What can I say - weddings are just my thing as of late. I was fortunate enough to be part of the blessed decorations committee:

And was part of the hair and makeup team for this:

We did a good job, no?

Then had a love affair with this:

Yes, I had ribs, pork and chocolate silk pie on my FIRST helping.

And I got to reunite with this:

There was a bit of a brawl:

Over the last bite of pie, of course. Le cousins dangereux.

Weddings are crazy.

They were CONES

2008-10-29T11:26:00.000-07:00

"You are the worst wedding singer in the world, buddy!"
"Sir, one more outburst from you and I will strangle you with my microphone wire."

Look closely at this picture. Do you notice anything about it, other than a delicious little flower centerpiece and the chocolate-dipped fortune cookies?

Behold, TABLE 9. Ringing any bells? Visions of mullet-headed Robbie Hart should be flashing through your mind right now. Along with a far better rendition of Love Stinks; depressing with a hint of violence.
"Now let's cut the stupid cake because I know the fat guy's gonna have a heart attack if we don't eat again soon... And while we do that here's a little mood music for you."

Remember those guys at Table 9? The ones he included in the I-am-a-love-reject group? I believe they were referred to as MUTANTS. Which is pretty much what we felt like for a part of the evening. The wedding table of single women, where the waiters "pretended" to forget to bring us our food and fill up our waters; where the heating mushroom thing never turned on; where the wedding singers graced every other table with their presence, but one. One table. One, the loneliest number. Each of us alone. Together. At TABLE 9.

We decided that perhaps Table 9 was just not the place for us after all, so after our stomachs were full and our eyes not yet dry from Chad's speech, we patronized the photobooth. Which provided just what we needed: attention. We also received some attention from Mr. Freaky-photobooth-owner, who glowered at us every time we went to snap some more freebees. And more. And more.
And then cake. And oh just a wee bit more cake. And then WAIT JUST A SECOND. We are NOT girls who eat their feelings. And Photobooth shouldn't be the only thing here getting free shots of us. That is a service we can provide all men. So we did what we do best: DANCE.

That's right. When the dance floor was empty, S, L, myself and new-bff-Karen got DOWN on the hard wood. And boy did those wedding singers love us! Who wouldn't, really. We were practically intoxicated with the love that was in the air. And before we knew it there was a crowd, including the wedding singers and our very own Mr. and Mrs. Lau. Hair was let down, ties were removed (a salacious story you should ask me about sometime) and the pumps came off thankfully, since I had just hiked a mile in them the night before on some horror-movie-death-hike-road to a Halloween dance party.

All in all it was successful wedding. The bride didn't run out last minute, nothing caught fire, and no heads were broken. The cake was divine, the decor was classy, and the band was superb. Plus there was that couple... On the dance floor... With his tie... And lots of saucy gyrations... You get the idea. So I give this nuptial event a 9 out of 10. I can't in good conscience give it a full 10 because that requires a fine slice of masculinity to flirt with/throw myself at, and at least one embarrassing public remark made to the bride and groom. So in the almost words of Robbie Hart, "Whitney and Mike are newlyweds! Whoopee-dee-doo!"

Mr. & Mrs. Lau, if you read this, I actually had a great time at your rehearsal dinner and reception. Table 9 was actually awesome and I hope you enjoy the even awesomer pictures we put in your wedding book of ourselves. Just be thankful we spared you the one of cake in our teeth.

Public Service Announcement

2008-10-17T10:50:00.001-07:00

Do you know what today is? Are you having trouble remembering? Probably you're not THAT good of a friend since you can't remember, but I'll tell you and then you can pretend that you knew it all along. . .

Today is my half-birthday, how nice of you to ask! I will be accepting packages and cake at any time you care to send it or drop it by. Thanks for the kind wishes. And in case you were wondering, the etiquette for half-birthdays requires WHOLE presents.

See you at my surprise half-birthday party tonight!

i'm putting this on my fridge

2008-10-15T15:29:00.001-07:00

Have I ever told you the story about Bird and I? Probably. I tell lots of people. But I'm not going to now. Suffice it to say that it was love (Platonic, obviously) at first sight. Not only did we share love of all things book-ish, world-event-ish and all things ridiculous, we also shared a love of the Robinson family. She is one of the few humans that I feel inferior to in this world. And I was so lucky as to receive this award from her:

Yay! And in keeping with tradition, I pass this coveted award to THE REPLACEMENT FRIENDS since I almost wet myself every time I read one of their posts. Plus, they are super good looking.

Who doesn't love the Jews?

2008-10-15T15:12:00.000-07:00

Have you ever tried to calculate the number of people in Hell? Let me help. You can check politicians, insurance agents, car salesmen and anyone remotely tied to the IRS off the list. We can also toss in outspoken celebrities and concession-stand price-setters, if you like. And just when you thought Satan couldn't take anyone else in, I am now adding a new category: the people at those kiosks in the mall who will run after you when you try to ignore them.

I know you know who I mean. They accost you in public with their false smiles and lying words. And it totally happened to me the other day. There I was, after a long day of work, strolling through the mall thinking about how much I hate Abercrombie. Bothering no one. When suddenly this guy yells something at me. It makes me jump a bit, but I start to walk faster to ignore the crazy person who obviously has a problem with me. Then I hear this freak yelp in my direction and since I'm unaccustomed to being shouted at in any place other than a construction zone, I turned around very slowly and gave him my most venomously annoyed look I could muster.

Then he asked me a question, and I dropped all hard feelings. It was that ACCENT of his. Those dang accents get me every time. And this was no foul Cockney British or stale French accent, this was Israeli. I knew it instinctively. The Jew inside me totally recognized it. Plus, he was really pretty. So I did what any Israeli-infatuated girl would do: flirt my heart out. And let me tell you guys, I gave it my all. But he was having NONE of it. Whilst I was trying to glean info on Israel out of him, he was trying to sell me this manicure crap. Hello man, I just want your digits. Or a proper Jewish greeting. I would even settle for a Jew pick-up line. But he just scrubbed away on my already polished fingernails, giving short answers to my genius witticisms.

Jew: So, you interested in this set? I give you a good deal.

Me: It's not the set I'm interested in. . . (insert: huge smile and wink)

Jew: I can give you a good Christmas deal.

Me: Or you could buy it for me for Yom Kippur. It's going on right now, you know.

Jew: (silent)

Me: You know, a friend and I wanted to live on a kibbutz. But now I think I have to go if all the men are as handsome as you.

Jew: (snort-chrortle-sneeze-gag)

Awkward... Awkward...

So I took that as my que, threw him some deuces, and traipsed off without a backward glance. My pride was a bit wounded, I confess. And come on - one of my fingernails was missing paint. As if I didn't already feel like an idiot. I almost turned around and said, Good luck finding someone who loves your people more than I do! But I refrained. Instead I have decided to chant PLO mantras whenever I walk by that Kiosk. Which will hurt me, because as everyone knows I love that gutsy little Israel. I will also declare to every salesman I encounter from now on that I have sworn off buying ANYTHING because of a Jew that broke my fragile heart when he used me to sell some faulty nail product.

Perhaps a bit dramatic, but you know what they say - Hell hath no fury . . .

Who needs money?

2008-10-10T16:23:00.000-07:00

I know I've been all, Poor-me-i-need-to-find-a-job-even-though-i-have-a-good-one-right-now-that-suits-me-just-fine lately, but yesterday I decided to do something about it. And action calls for reward, so tonight I am treating myself to some Golden Spoon (pumpkin flavor) and a good 80's flick. Which is what I do every night now that I think about it. Whatever. That's not the point. The point is that I have actually sent out applications and my resume to multiple places! I know that might not be that impressive to you over-achievers, but baby steps ya'll. I hope you are raising the roof right now. And get this: I've only applied to international positions! Okay that's not entirely accurate because I applied for jobs in D.C. as well. But hello this could potentially maybe if I'm lucky be huge.

I'm also doing something I never really pictured doing: applying through the military. No worries, I won't go all GI Jane over everyone (no promises), because it's not just the military but also the government I'm ravaging thru for jobs. I usually thought me + government job = nuclear disaster, but I think I am reconsidering. Because I definitely applied for a position in the US Treasury. And for some in the RAF, and for some lame low-income jobs in cool cities.

I sort of feel like that grease-ball guy with four teeth and a fatty gold chain who smells like diesel fuel when he tells you that he is going to find a girlfriend who looks like Gisele, and you're like -Dude look in the mirror: that ain't NEVER gonna happen. But we can have our dreams, right? No matter how far-fetched they are, and how under-qualified I am.

Hiroshima to my heart

2008-10-03T15:45:00.000-07:00

As in many situations in life, there is a certain level of conflict one feels about one's current arrangement. A kind of borderline-greatness, if you will. Example: October. The holidays are approaching, the leaves will shortly be changing, and I can begin to unbox my sweaters and jackets for fall prep. Except I CAN'T. Mainly because it's still Hades heartland right now and I get over-heated just wearing a cardi. But I also can't lovingly hang my fall wear because I live in a shoebox, not a room. You think I exaggerate? Come over sometime and I'll show you.

Don't get me wrong - I love having a cook/laundress. Who wouldn't want a maid? And I love hanging out with the sibs. (Usually). But besides the feelings of complete failure and insipidity that comes with moving back in with mom and dad, there are two MAJOR problems with living back at home:

1. ZERO space. Half of my wardrobe has to be folded and stacked! Yes, that includes dresses. Oh the horror. AND I have to toss my shoes into baskets at the bottom of my closet. I mean, really. How would you feel to be cast off like, ahem, an old shoe? Tragic. They deserve better than that.

That is bad enough, but then compound it with this:

2. NO TV! The parents cut the cable a few years ago, but I am just now feeling the horrible effects. I don't know when it happened (though my suspicion is that it came from living with Laquina), but I turned into a TV lover. Before college I didn't care to watch anything, but now I NEED my shows. They have become an addiction, nay - a necessity; like air, like water, like chocolate/peanut butter Golden Spoon. How did this happen? Who knows and who cares. What I do know is that I heart Netflix and the internet now more than ever. Without them I couldn't watch the staples: Gossip Girl, Sunny in Philadelphia, Mad Men, Pushing Daisies, Fringe, Heroes, 30 Rock, The Extras, and my highly anticipated Absolutely Fabulous which is a bit old school and I can't wait to get it in the mail.

Really though, can you blame me for such guilty pleasures? I imagine not, because I have a sneaking suspicion that you, female or male, wants a piece of that Bass (Chuck, obviously).

YUM. Remember the days when I was innocent and sweet and wanted a blend of Mr.Knightly/Capt. Winters/Curly-from-Oklahoma/Mr. Darcy? Yeah, well those days are over. I want me some of that womanizing sketchiness that is CB.

I suppose the solution to my dilemmas would be to find a new job and move out and gain my self-respect back. So if you have any offers of British Parliament externships or London house-sitting opportunities, you know where to find me: on the couch.

No shame

2008-09-29T11:17:00.000-07:00

Dear Mr. Mid-life Crisis,

Look, I don't really want to say this because I'm sure you're a really nice guy. But enough is enough already! I understand that you are in essence saying "Up Yours!" to your ex-wife by going on some warped revenge diet. But your exuberance in Bonnie's Sculpting Cardio Class is taking it a step too far. I mean, jumping in and out of lunges? You're not exactly a spring chicken, and I think I can hear your joints scraping together when you do that. Plus, it's distracting. How am I supposed to keep focused on contracting my core muscle group with you bounding all over the place? You bring to mind little Lord Fauntleroy, except I'm betting that you're NOT gay because you're frumpy. The hair is mullet-ish and the shorts are mid-thigh, but not in the I'm-only-gay-for-Brad-Pitt-European-trash way.

My main complaint: your sweat. It was dripping off you so profusely that your step was 50% covered in wet splatters. At first glance I thought you couldn't drink out of your water bottle properly - but OH NO, that was definitely perspiration . One word for you: sweatband. It will match your high-tops quite perfectly. And it will save you from the inevitable lawsuit bound to happen when someone (probably me) slips in your puddle.

The truth hurts friend, but I promise that I hurt more when I am forced to work out next to you twice a week. Take my free advice and run with it. You'll thank me.

While we're on the subject

2008-09-25T16:24:00.000-07:00

of being aware, click here to get a glimpse of the troubles of Europe, and the rearing (again) of the satanic head of fascism.

Thoughts?

Bye bye dollar

2008-09-25T11:21:00.000-07:00

"Economic crisis" seems to be the tagline as of late. And if you don't know why, then you are a sadly misinformed human who should spend less time reading Twilight and more time reading the news. Or preferably listening to talk radio. Anyway. We all concur that I have some good ideas. And this is my latest stroke of genius: SPEND. That's right. Stop saving, you selfish hoarders. And Congress, don't think you're not included in this. Here is the letter I wrote to Mr. Bush which proposes my idea:

(WARNING: If capitalism offends you, then stop reading. And never visit my blog again.)

Dear Mr. President,

Let's skip the small talk and get right to the point. Don't give $700 billion to the companies who botched all this in the first place, give it to the people! Ya, you heard me. THE PEOPLE. Why? Because we will spend it. If every person over the age of 18 would get somewhere around $535,000, I can pretty much guarantee you that some portion of that will be spent. Smart people will buy real estate, houses, cars, college educations, bonds, stocks, and other smart-people things.

Stupid people will spend it on rims, or cocaine, or Jack Daniels or gold chains and whatever else retards do. But does it matter? No, because it all goes back to the economy. The housing market will start to raise, GM won't go bankrupt, and even WaMu might survive because of those people who will just put it in the bank to save it.

I know people think you are dumb. But I have faith that despite the fact that you are a Bush, you had to work hard for that MBA. Just think about what I have said and don't make a rash decision. I would rather not have to pay over $100,000 in taxes because of the failures of others.

Sincerely,
Tara

PS - I would really like some new pants that caught my eye at Nordstrom, so the sooner you send me that check the better.

A note of credit: Mr. B was the first to propose said plan. I just expounded. Which is what I do.

The streets are alive with the sounds of music

2008-09-22T14:28:00.000-07:00

Picture this: You. Atop your trusty steed, Silver. Clay-red desert, hot wind blowing the tumbleweeds across the dry river bed. A drip of sweat rolls down your forehead. You finger your 6-shooter pistol in its holster on your left hip. Your body tenses with the anticipation of physical exertion just seconds away . . . "Hi-yo, Silver!!" QUE WILLIAM TELL OVERTURE!

Have you ever wanted to gallop along to that triumphant song? Well now you can! But preferably in a Honda Civic going 55 mph. And only until Tuesday. But yes - there is a strip of highway in Lancaster (designed by Honda) where the grooves on the road turn the noise of the tires into the William Tell Overture. Genius! Congrats Honda for your applaudable marketing schemes. Too bad the Lancaster residents are such pathetic whiners. As if "lack of sleep" should be a good enough reason to repave the highway. I mean, COME ON. These geniuses should never have bought a home close to the freeway in the first place. It's Lancaster for crying out loud. It's not like they suffer from lack of space.

Let me give you three good reasons why the highway should stay musical:

1. A sense of community. I'm all about people doing things together alone. Like getting onto Avenue K, then exiting once they pass the musical strip, and getting back on the freeway to do it all over again. What a bringing together of citizens!

2. How many other places can say that they have a road that plays overtures? It will attract all kinds of people. Probably weirdos. But let's be honest, Lancaster needs all the notoriety it can get:

3. If people drive this road enough, and I'm talking the repeat offenders that just can't get enough, then that means that more and more gas will be consumed. Which means there will be some kind of petrol crisis, and then we will deem it absolutely necessary to drill in the ANWR. And I'm all about that. Especially because there might be the added perk of forcing the caribou into the Arctic Ocean. I have no love for Caribou.

The Curse of the Internet

2008-09-19T11:45:00.000-07:00

For those who don't know, I have a very pleasant and simple job that allows me ample time each day to surf the internet. This also gives me plenty of time to post, but I'm not exactly overcome with inspiration while on the job, so I usually don't.

I have something of a daily routine. Think Office Space. I come in, make my tea, chat with Stacey, the real estate secretary, for 1/2 an hour, check the major news papers for interesting things, make my first trip to the loo, and then tackle my projects. Until I get bored, and then I get back online to look at two genres: blogs (of course), and celebrity gossip. Don't judge me!

Truth be told, I love my daily dose of TMZ and Perez Hilton. There is something so delightful about seeing glamorous actors captured on their way back from Starbucks, looking washed-up and nasty, like my meth-using neighbor. I love the downfall. I love the ridiculousness of Hollywood. And since I don't have TV, I've go to have some way to keep up with current pop-culture, right?

I will lean over in my chair and tell Stacey about so-and-so who's now prego, and we will laugh and roll our eyes, and then she will tell me her latest celeb sighting (she sees them ALL the time). But after a few minutes I feel my blood pressure rising and I start to get dizzy and my mouth gets dry. It's the feeling that I often get when reading about China or Russia or Hugo Chavez... something that tastes like rage. And this inevitebly happens when reading "The Queen of All Media", the Perezzers. Maybe I have been spoiled in academia. I suppose I am just used to the pretense of objectivity. I enjoy his open dislike of almost everyone he writes about, and really laugh when he calls Rumer Willis "Potato Head" (perfect example here). But then I see that he actually is Hollywood personified, and that's when I grab my trash can and make a run for the bathroom.

So now I'm pretty sure I have health issues from work. If its not the lastest horrifying case of unjust, frivilous lawsuits in litigation, it's TMZ or Perez pushing me over the edge. I feel a case of disability coming on.

---------------

2008-09-11T09:50:00.000-07:00

Friends and relatives of the victims of the 9/11 attacks at the annual memorial at ground zero. (Pool photo by David Acker)

Life's Laundry List

2008-09-03T13:10:00.000-07:00

Paige vs. the Wave

So far I am The Biggest Loser. So what if we are only 3 weeks in, and have until mid-October. I am determined I will be the reigning champion. Or at least today I am determined. I MUST call back the IRS. The crooks still aren't giving me my hard earned wealth. I have bought three dresses in the past week, and a tan pair of slouchy leather boots. Saving - what? I am desperately wanting to turn back to the lovely genres of gothic novels, Shakespeare and the classics. But Karch M. continues piling book after book on me and I feel almost burdened by the weight. Summer is closing down shop, but secretly keeps it doors open for all sc dwellers. This is a fact: I saw two white skirts and pants today, and Labor Day is definitely over. The gym is still too hot. And I don't mean the people. Not enough fans and too many old men, yet I go back each night like it's become some kind of addiction. I have rekindled my love affair with British Period Dramas. Currently: Bleak House by Charles Dickens. Thank you BBC and Netflix. Monday was the 5th time I have gone to the beach this summer. Shameful, I know. Thankfully I got a decent tan, and the group of middle-aged hombres who were leering on the sand dune were also told to disband by the cops. 3/4 of the ward has gone back to Utah for the fall. How odd not to be one of them. I walked into church on Sunday and realized I missed them, and consequently haven't thought of those people until now. My brothers are home more, since their summer romances have ended and the books are calling. I stopped studying for the GRE for the present. I stopped looking for another job. Days roll in and out quietly and contentedly. I am living my life and enjoying it.

Oh the places you'll go!

2008-08-27T16:26:00.000-07:00

I was talking with this bro the other day about imagination, and he was all bragging to me that he had some spectacular imagination that was WAY better than other peoples' imaginations. I started to argue, but then thought the better of it. First, it was quite obvious that I had the better imagination of the two, because I had better ideas and wit than him. I'm just sayin'! Also, maybe I should cut him some slack because he might actually have some imagination. A deep, hidden well, full of interesting thoughts that he doesn't share with anyone. That would make him less boring!

I sometimes imagine that the many boring people surrounding me each day have really awesome secret dark thoughts. Like kamikaze and death and chaos and shiz. That would make them way cooler and definitely freaky-deeky. No one cut them off in traffic or look out! Probably though most people are just as lame as I think they are.

I bet if someone could peek inside my mind for just one minute they would be overcome with wonder, confusion and bafflement. (Bafflement?) They would have a system freak-out overload. And then they would drop dead. Because that is how great my imagination is. Sometimes while I'm on the treadmill I think of chasing Osama Bin Laden through the cavernous hills of wherever he lives. Obviously I would outrun him. And I would have brass knuckles. You do the math. Or sometimes I think of what I would do if I ruled the world... how big would my army be? What would I wear? Would I marry to be respectable, or rule alone and mess around on the side? (That took me .02 seconds to decide). How will I design my propaganda posters? How big would my monument be? So many things to consider. It's exhausting.

I also enjoy musing about what it would be like to be a character in a book. Like Jane Eyre in Jane Eyre. Or Marianne Dashwood in Sense and Sensibility. If I got screwed over by a man like that, I would definitely NOT sit there and take it like some unlucky new guy in the prison showers. And then I would probably end up abondoning my moral convictions and give in to a life of sin. Because if Jane Eyre had done that then foxy Mr. Rochester wouldn't have gotten all gimpy and crap.

When I was little I used imagine going back in time to the Norman Invasion and giving the Britons machine guns. That'll teach William the Bastard! The sword-wielding men would look at me in amazement, and I'd act like it was no big deal. Then they would ask me to stay to show them more "magic." No, I would say, I cannot. But here is some Advil and tampons - enjoy! When I was even littler I used to make the Twins play "treasure hunt," which basically was them digging with little kid shovels wherever I commanded, with me being the master and getting to keep whatever we found. That's what the twins got because they weren't that imaginative.

Anyway. Maybe I shouldn't have shared all of that info. TMI! But I'm betting that I'm not the only one out there...