My tribute to what once was The Golden State

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

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

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

I AM BOYCOTTING CALIFORNIA.

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

California, it not me, it's YOU.


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

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

nanny taradise

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

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

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

Here's to hoping.

Confessions of a Smart Person with Good Taste

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

A BIT.

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

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



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




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

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

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

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

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

- Do I like to lie?


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

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

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

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

How un-Christian

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


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


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

a mystery

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

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."

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.