A cynical kid at heart

There are few advantages to living in L.A. around Christmas time. The palm trees swaying in the background only make a mockery of the front lawn Frostys and if you stare at the Christmas tree at The Grove long enough, you start to wonder where exactly they had to truck it in from, because it surely isn't local. This year has been more festive-feeling due to the "winter" weather we've had the past week or so. Temperatures in L.A. proper have dipped into the 40s and people have totally lost their shit over it.

It's about as plausible for Santa to make his L.A. rounds in the slightly warmed driver's seat of a Lexus SUV, his sack made by Louis Vuitton and his fluffly white eyebrows styled by Anastasia - as it is for him to glide around the solar-panneled roofs in a sled hoisted by flying cousins of the moose.

But then again, there is Disneyland. And a chilly day spent dodging strollers at the happiest place on earth amid the lights and decorations is just what I needed to lift my Christmas spirit.

Truth be told, it was even better than I was hoping for. It's shocking to discover how wonderful it is to feel like a kid again - if only for a day.

Hard at work

Winner of the best monkey impression at the the 16th summit of the Asian Pacific Economic Cooperation. Other talents include pretzel choking, confidently speaking nonsense and an 8-year record that has him in the running for the title of Worst President in History.

If a picture is really worth a thousand words... oh, Bushy Boy, you wouldn't even need to speak your trademark nonsense for us to understand exactly what you are (or more acurately, are not) capable of.

Doors are hard.

The cost, very high cost, of a Presidential pardon.

Same response to dealing with someone who is a little icky at the moment.

Wishing for lightning...

My thoughts exactly.

Scents of self

Last night I had the most unexpectedly wonderful night.

The plan had been to meet Stacy for a little shopping and Sunday night movie, but a black cloud started to appear over the night when the traffic congestion to park was agonizingly not moving anywhere for what seemed like forever. I deduced, while shifting my car into park to relieve my aching braking foot, that everyone on L.A.'s west side was trying to get out of the choking smoke and raining ash that had been blocking out the sun for the weekend. Well, I couldn't blame them; it was disgustingly, sneezingly awful. But... Stacy and I made these plans before the whole of Southern California burst into flames, so therefore everyone was invited to get the **** out of my way!

I've lived in L.A. long enough to occasionally be able to read the writing on the wall - or in this case, read the non-moving traffic in a claustrophobic parking ramp. The movie I had been dying to see (an occurrence which only happens about once a year) would be nearing full...for the showing that didn't start for another 3 hours. I could just sense it. And sure enough, at 4:30 the 6:00 showing of Slumdog Millionaire only had 2 seats in the front row open. "Okay," I exhaled, "how about the 7:30 show?" Yes, yes, fine, I'll take those seats in the fourth row.

After finding Stacy in the crowd and breaking the news of the fourth row seating debacle we headed to the Nordstrom's sale and got down to business. My curly-haired friend bagged a spring grass green cashmere sweater for a steal and then wanted to know what it was that would suit my fancy?

First floor. Total indulgence, please.

Shoes and purses turned out to be so picked over that the best looking bag we saw was by Juicy. And I am not a Juicy girl (much like I will never - never! - be a girl who purchases Jessica Simpson products). On the way to the jewelry cases we were meandering through fragrances when something made us stop at a display of ungodly expensive body soufflés. Before I knew it, my nose was in the jar labeled Almond Coconut Milk and Stacy was firmly reminding me that, "the last time I smelled a lotion and made those noises you made me buy it because you said you'd never heard that kind of yummy noise coming from me before. And you know what? Best purchase I ever made. You have to buy that. Hello?! You LOVE coconut!"

Me: "What? When did I do that?"
Her: "Target. The 'lemon cookie' lotion."
Me: "Oh. Yes, I'm very wise. (pause) This is going to be expensive though!"

And then a bubbly sales girl was at the counter and the three of us spent an unknown amount of time yapping, with me and Stacy asking question after question, quickly finding a routine where one asked a question as the other busily stuck their nose into another tub of lotion and then demanded that the other smell it immediately. Before I knew it, I had French Vanilla on my hands, Almond Coconut Milk on my arms and a spritz of the Nuits Enchantées parfum on my wrists - all subtly combining into the most heavenly aroma.

To our credit, we walked out of Nordstrom's for a diet Coke break without making any purchases just yet. Because, really, you never do know how a fragrance will settle. Just a few weeks ago I had spritzed the crook of my arm with something that on first whiff wreaked of shoes. I had been horrified and Sephora stupidly doesn't have a sink or high-powered hose for such situations, so I'd had to live with it. And an hour later, it had sunk down and mellowed out into a lovely warm scent, but who the hell would want to smell like a shoe everyday during the transition period?

But a funny thing happened while sipping diet Cokes the size of our faces... amongst conversations about family birthday parties, apartment arrangements and why some families deem it a good idea to hold a reunion at a mall food court?... we couldn't stop smelling my arms and wrists. (It was a wafting motion with sniffing, basically.) And I thought of all the reasons why right now was actually not a good time to buy myself a present: 25% of my office had been laid off on Friday, I'd just found out last week that my living situation would soon be changing and would likely result in at least some kind of financial repercussion, the holidays were approaching... But like Stacy said, I don't ever have a reaction like that to something - and Friday's lay offs had actually been round number 4 that I had survived, so maybe I deserved a little gift.

Plans were formulated and last sips of diet Coke were sucked down before we were purposefully headed back to Nordstrom's. And there, under the hot spotlights, I asked for the parfum and the gift set of the body soufflés, which Stacy and I later divided: she took the Crème Brulee (which gave her a skin a yummy salty top note and then melted into subtly sweet caramel) and I took the French Vanilla and, of course, the Almond Coconut Milk.

An hour after our purchases I was in the dark of the fourth row, watching an absolutely fabulous movie (go, go now to see Slumdog Millionaire), constantly sticking my wrist into my face for a secret whiff that always resulted in a small self-satisfied smile. Now, THAT is a good purchase.

I've never been one to have a signature scent. In high school and college I had a new perfume every school year and as an adult, I've shifted between lighter and heavier smells with the changing seasons. And recently, I've been insatiable about it. Constantly sniffing every bottle in every store; never committing... never loving.

Until now.

Now - today - I can't stop inhaling the cozy scent that lingers around me. Maybe it has something to do with having such a great time in the purchasing of it and loving the movie that I disappeared into while stealing little sniffs of my wrist... maybe it's those happy associations that make me think that this inviting, slightly sweet, non-artificial, wrap-you-up-in-a-decadent-blanket-and-sunshine-at-the-same-time fragrance is...just...so...me.

Tonight, and ten hours after applying some parfum and French Vanilla soufflé, I pushed open the door with Stacy one step behind me as we defiantly strutted out of the office. "My god, you smell delicious! It's like a waft of lovely trailing behind you!... And at the end of the day, too!"

I'm hoping that it's a sign of things to come; goodbye sadness and stress, hello lovely.

For old times' sake...

In continuing my ecstatic wave goodbye to W., I've placed below an article, "The Big Boss of the World," that appeared in Australia's Sydney Morning Herald on November 3, 2004. Written by my most favorite of writers, the uber-talented expat, Bill Bryson, it is an attempt to explain the Bush / Kerry election to the people of Australia. I've read this article too many times to count these past four years and so it seemed fitting to include it in my ongoing adieu.

The Big Boss of the World

Brain versus corn ... Kerry is perceived to have the intellect, but cannot inspire his supporters, while Bush seems able to do almost anything - such as eating raw vegetables - without denting his folksy image. Photo: Reuters

George Bush, the regular guy happy to feed a live fish to his dog, is up against a man with the hair to be president and an air of unconquerable aloofness. Bill Bryson untangles the contenders.

I've been thinking a lot lately about the mysterious bulge in George Bush's jacket. The idea that Bush might have been wired for assistance has a kind of endearing charm. With the best will in the world - and of course I am not offering anything as generous as that here - you have to concede that a radio transmitter would explain a great deal, not least Bush's interesting tendency to order himself to pipe down at odd moments in the debates.

Days before any thought of wireless nefariousness entered my head, I remember being struck that Bush referred to the Italian Prime Minister as "Sylvia Burrus", and then a minute or two later, when the name was no longer conspicuously germane, blurted out "Silvio Berlusconi" as if it had just miraculously come to him. Which, as we now know, it may well have.


What is interesting in this is not how swiftly the story faded from the nation's attention - news is really just a series of nano-events these days - but how little effect it had in its brief spell of lively consideration.


Bush, I'm told, could have walked up to the lectern with television rabbit ears strapped to his head and it would have made little difference to how most Americans perceive him. Those who dislike and distrust him do so maximally already, while those who adore him are equally unwavering in their devotions.


For those of us who are not on the adoring end of the equation, the question that naturally springs to mind is: what would it take to get people not to want to vote for him? One quality that doesn't seem to matter as it once did - and I am sorry to bring it up because it is an awfully touchy subject - is the matter of presidential intelligence.


Consider an interesting historical parallel. In 1976, while wooing Mexican-American voters, President Gerald Ford was presented with a large, freshly made tamale to pose with. The tamale was wrapped, in the traditional manner, in a corn husk to keep it warm.


Unfortunately for his reputation, Ford proceeded to try to eat the whole thing, fibrous husk and all. This was roughly equivalent to sitting down to lunch in a diner and trying to eat the place mat. He looked so foolish that millions of people decided not to vote for him, and instead we got four years of Jimmy Carter and his very odd family, which was a national sacrifice, to be sure.


Now cast your mind forward 28 years to August 2004. Sensing a photo opportunity while campaigning in Iowa, Bush stopped his motorcade and bounded over to a vegetable stand, bought an ear of corn and, as cameras excitedly clicked, proceeded to try to eat it raw, discovering in the process what all other grown people know already - that eating raw corn is like eating raw wheat or raw rice, which is to say not remotely satisfactory.


In the same week, while fishing, Bush tossed his dog a live fish to torment to death on the lawn. I hesitate to show disrespect for the President because, as the radio talk show people constantly remind us, criticising the President (or any of his actions or the actions of anyone who has a gun or wears an American flag on his lapel, or such a person's mother) gives comfort to the enemy, so I'll just say very quietly that both of these incidents made him look just a little bit not-too-smart.


Yet neither action, as far as can be told, affected Bush's standing with the electorate even a trifle.


Just as Bush seemed constitutionally unable to dismay his supporters, so Senator John Kerry seemed throughout the campaign constitutionally unable to galvanise his.


The only thing rarer than someone who feelingly supports John Kerry is, it has to be said, someone who understands what his policies are. It is hardly a novel observation to note that roughly half the electorate has voted not for Kerry, but against Bush.


On the face of it, Bush would seem to have the lead in accumulated negatives. The economy is not looking terribly rosy. The budget surplus of $US200 billion ($268 billion) that he inherited four years ago has become a projected deficit this year of $US422 billion and is heading for aggregated arrears of $US2.3 trillion by the end of the decade.


More than a million jobs have been lost in the same period. The rebuilding of Iraq is such a mess that even many conservative commentators - notably George Will and Tucker Carlson - have become outspoken in their criticism of the Administration's foreign policy.


America has achieved, under Bush's command, the extraordinary distinction of not only failing to find the weapons it sought, but then losing 340 tonnes of those it did find.


The President's approval rating is stuck below 50 per cent, which is hardly a ringing endorsement. He can't even be said to be a hard worker. Extraordinarily, considering all that was going on, Bush spent 98 days at his ranch last year.


This compares with the 19 days of annual vacation that President Bill Clinton averaged in his two terms (though comparisons are perhaps unfair as we now know that Clinton took much of his relaxation in the Oval Office) or the 41 days a year that President Ronald Reagan averaged - which, it should be noted, includes his recovery time after being shot. Bush, in short, would seem to have an abundance of vulnerabilities.


Yet it was Kerry who spent most of the campaign on the defensive. The consensus view seems to be that he has excellent hair and a good presidential manner - and these things count for more than we might comfortably suppose - but that these are offset by the more mixed signals that emanate from his patrician bearing and slight air of unconquerable aloofness.


Specifically, Kerry is smart but not endearingly self-deprecating. He doesn't seem wholly at ease with strangers. He is proficient in French - a language spoken, notoriously, by men who sometimes kiss each other on the cheeks and make faithless allies.


He's married to a woman of independent wealth and mind who looks as if she would have to ask a servant where the brooms in her house are kept. When he puts on a hunting jacket or fishing gear, it always looks as if it has come straight out of the packaging. You kind of suspect he doesn't own a single old hat.


Bush is unquestionably the winner in the regular guy department. Like all successful presidents, he is effortlessly comfortable with ordinary people and wholly unashamed to be folksy, and there is no question that he inspires trust among millions. His wife is adored universally.


It's really only his daughters (who look, as one observer acutely noted, like the sort of young women you would expect to see jumping out of a cake at a bachelor party) who seem a little sketchy, as I believe the younger people say, but they have been kept mostly in the background during the campaign.


On the basis of trust alone, I think Bush has probably got the edge.


Still, this being America, anything is possible. This is a country, never forget, where 11 per cent of young adults can't locate the Pacific Ocean on a map, where nearly half of all adults and a quarter of university graduates believe that the Earth was created in seven days, by God, sometime in the past 10,000 years, and where 20 per cent of adults evidently believe that Saddam Hussein not only had weapons of mass destruction but used them on us.


It is often remarked how worrying it is that half the people don't vote. I think I should find it rather more worrying if they did.


In any case, however accurately pollsters track voter preferences, the critical factors are how many people turn out on election day and where the turning out is done. The US presidential election is not really a popularity contest at all. It's about winning the right states and collecting the requisite number of electoral votes.


Al Gore, as I am sure you will have been reminded many times already this week, received more votes in 2000 than any other candidate in history except Ronald Reagan, and still didn't become president.


The most unnerving fact of all is that about 5 per cent of voters make their minds up on election day. They just see how they feel when they get out of bed in the morning. It is these decisive souls who will determine who leads the free world for the next four years.

Dirty Thirty

Happy birthday, my friend. I don't know what I'd do without you.

My birthday wish for you: that we spend every one of your birthday dinners at Tasca, drinking and eating to our hearts' content.

Chin Chin!

A cry for decency...COMMON DECENCY!

If wanting to avoid a sore throat and cough won't do the trick, then how about a little bit of shame with your public toilet visit?

I mean, really, it's COMMON DECENCY, people! AND the state law!

It makes me wonder... Did the government conduct a study that showed that when left on their own, people weren't washing their hands? And a committee was formed to determine how to rectify the situation... and they concluded that shaming the girl who is disgracefully stopping by the mirror to touch up her lip gloss after she piddled on the seat and forgot to flush was the way to win that war?

I love it.

The things I hear...

Scene: A fabulous gentleman who lives in Las Vegas is seemingly shouting into the telephone to reach his friend in L.A. ... which I can hear as she holds the phone away from her head and slightly squints at the damage being done to her eardrums...

"How is it that in the state of California a CHICKEN has MORE RIGHTS than a gay PERSON?!"

He had apparently just read up on the fact that both Prop 2 AND Prop 8 passed in California.

P.S. I can attest to all of this, as she with the damaged eardrums is my friend and the gentleman is an acquaintance that I've immensely enjoyed both times I've met him.

The beginning of a very fond farewell

As Bush’s replacement has finally been chosen it feels appropriate for my private celebrations to begin after a long and infuriating 8-year wait. And upon what I like to envision as the American public’s giant boot pushing forcefully on his backside, the nicest thing I can think to say about W The Nincumpoop is that there will not likely be another president in my lifetime who makes me laugh so hard so often. Because when the options are laughing or crying in shame, I most often try to go with laughter.

So, without further ado, heretofore are some of my personal favorites from the total jeanyus who coined the ever-classic, “STRATEGERY.”

"I didn't grow up in the ocean—as a matter of fact—near the ocean—I grew up in the desert. Therefore, it was a pleasant contrast to see the ocean. And I particularly like it when I'm fishing." —Washington, D.C., Sept. 26, 2008

“I am here to make an announcement that this Thursday, ticket counters and airplanes will fly out of Ronald Reagan Airport.” —Washington, D.C., Oct. 3, 2001

“Too many good docs are getting out of the business. Too many OB-GYNs aren’t able to practice their love with women all across this country.” —Poplar Bluff, Mo., Sept. 6, 2004

“Our enemies are innovative and resourceful, and so are we. They never stop thinking about new ways to harm our country and our people, and neither do we.” —Washington, D.C., Aug. 5, 2004

“There’s no doubt in my mind that we should allow the world's worst leaders to hold America hostage, to threaten our peace, to threaten our friends and allies with the world’s worst weapons.” —South Bend, Indiana, Sept. 5, 2002

“There’s an old…saying in Tennessee…I know it’s in Texas, probably in Tennessee... that says Fool me once…(3 second pause)… Shame on…(4 second pause)…Shame on you….(6 second pause)…Fool me…Can’t get fooled again.” —Nashville, Tennessee, Sept. 17, 2002

“The ambassador and the general were briefing me on the — the vast majority of Iraqis want to live in a peaceful, free world. And we will find these people and we will bring them to justice.” —Washington, D.C., Oct. 27, 2003

“Wow! Brazil is big.” after being shown a map of Brazil by Brazilian president Luiz Inacio Lula da Silva, Brasilia, Brazil, Nov. 6, 2005

"Then you wake up at the high school level and find out that the illiteracy level of our children are appalling." —Washington, D.C., Jan. 23, 2004

“Rarely is the question asked, ‘Is our children learning’?” —Florence, S.C. Jan 11, 2000


And drumroll please for the long-awaited answer… "As yesterday's positive report card shows, CHILDRENS DO LEARN when standards are high and results are measured." —New York, NY Sept. 26, 2007

Fingers crossed...

Whether you agree with my politics or not, get to the polls tomorrow and vote. Then, go to Starbucks, brag about voting and enjoy a tall cup of coffee for free! (You're welcome.)

The best part of Halloween: Cute Kids

I know I’m a couple of days behind, but hopefully the cuteness of Tigger, Piglet and Pooh will provide more than enough compensation.

And, a picture of my favorite part of Halloween... When my mother kicks the kiddos out of their own house and has them practice proper trick-or-treating etiquette, with the treats being healthy granola bars taken from Popi's personal supply.

Don't they just look so angelic and polite while practicing at their own house?!

Hope you had a happy halloween! I know these three munchkins sure did.

Attempting to live fully

She danced. She sang. She took. She gave, served and loved. She risked and created. She dissented, grew and enlivened. She saw, sweated, changed and learned. She laughed. She shed her skin. She bled on the pages of her days. She lived. - Hershey

Words to live by - or at least the words I often attempt to live by. Commissioned by Teen for a past birthday gift, this quote hangs on a piece of painted wood above the window in my bedroom. I've read it about a thousand times over the years, always experiencing a fleeting moment immediately upon completion of wanting to jump up and dance... tightly hug a dear friend... be bold and quit the job I hate, sell my stuff and backpack around the world... something - anything - that would signify that I was truly living and experiencing - to the fullest extent - this life that I have been given.

Last weekend I hopped on a plane for a weekend away that was one big question mark. It was slightly out of character for the current version of me, but it was worth a try. Then this weekend I sat in the chair at the salon and took deep breaths as my long hair got the addition of pseudo bangs.


Both were risks I was happy to take - and yes, I fully expect that next weekend's adventure will have progressed to be along the lines of parachuting out of a hot-air balloon. Naturally.

Searching for it all high above L.A.

All I know is ONE

Today this space turns one. Of its first 365 days, I only paid attention to it 64 times. That’s neglect, pure and simple. But hey, I’ve updated the header and am hoping it’s indicative of more changes to come.

It has been an interesting year – and a hard year. I live at work and live for work and it has led to me recently being unrecognizable to myself. My hobbies and interests have fallen to the side of the road… and what’s left feels like a hollow shell of my former self. But knowing is half the battle, right? And I know now. I know that things have got to change. And I have a goal of more than 64 posts in year number 2. (I’m such an over-achiever, no?)

For now, I’ll wrap up this downer of a birthday party with some favorite pictures from the past year that never made it on here for reasons most likely dealing with the aforementioned neglect.

Sparklers are complex to some

Happy to be with Stacy at the company Christmas party

Family action shot

Three things I love: desert sunset, palm trees, crisp white wine

Finally getting to see my best Tuck after 4 years apart

Gavin demonstrating his expertise at fish-hooking

Embarassed by her Vana White-like antics at breakfast

Cocktails at a rooftop bonfire in downtown San Diego

The love that January brings...

A quick little 8-day span in mid-October covers the birthdays of three of my most favorite men in the whole world.

Popi is slightly older than 21, which means that the actual age needs no mention. I'll just say that for a belated birthday present Popi will sit across from me at the Bean sometime soon. Just me and him. Long overdue. My treat...

Chachi, my 2-year-old Godson, you break my heart with your mischievous little grin and the quiet bits of your budding personality that I feel I completely relate to (maybe it's something to do with being the middle child)...

And Squeaky, who had the audacity to turn 1 without me having spent more than 7 days of his life with him. In your expressive face and big blue eyes, I see one of the kindest souls looking back at me. Come Christmas, plan on being wrapped up in my arms with me silently staring at you (and plan on holding still for that, though I know it will be a challenge for you)...

Happy Birthday, my boys. I love you wholeheartedly and achingly from thousands of miles away.

Claymation

It was a surreal moment in my ordinary life to be flipping channels late on Friday night and see my own face fill up the screen, thinking, "Oh god, not again."

This is the story of how China's treasured Terra Cotta Warriors took over my life...

In April I got called into the head honcho's office and told that the company was going to sponsor an exhibit of the Terra Cotta Warriors at a museum in Orange County. It was just going to be him and me working on it apparently, and since he is ridiculously busy, that meant it was mostly just going to be me. It sounded like the first few weeks of preparation would be stressful and then as the exhibit continued through the months the sponsorship would likely maintain itself.

Wrong. WrongWrongWrong.

I won't bore anyone with recounting exactly all that has gone into this new chunk of my job, but will say that at only 27 years old, I have spotted a few gray hairs. And I know that those damn warriors are to blame for at least half of them. The major projects involved have been the press conference before the exhibit opened, a membership-drive program on PBS - complete with a company commercial - and 2 private events at the museum and with the warriors for 600 guests.

The PBS stresser was back in June. A group of us went to the station for the filming of the program and sat in the back with headsets and computers taking pledges. I talked to a couple of oldies who called in and cringed when the commercial came on, hoping that I hadn't messed it up somehow. I genuinely wasn't paying attention to what the camera was ever pointing at and later learned that for about 10 seconds too long, it was directly pointed at me adding its infamous 10 pounds. When I got home later that night and watched the recording I was horrified. I kept pausing it on my round face, watching as I tried to calm down some old bitty who didn't want to pay the shipping fee on the free stuff she was getting in return for her pledge. (Christine would later refuse to believe that there was actually anyone on the phone and insists that I am really just a horrible actress.) That night I consoled myself with the thought of, "At least it's only on PBS. It will air a few more times and no one will ever have to know about it."

A couple of weeks later Christine answered my call in laughing hysterics. She had been flipping channels and flipped right by my face. Now she was wiping tears out of her laughing eyes. So much for no one else knowing about it. Sigh... The last media report from PBS informed us that the program had aired almost 80 times. So much for it only airing a couple of times and then disappearing. Double sigh...

In a few days we'll have our second event at the museum. The first one almost killed me. At the end of the night, after all of the guests had gone, I wandered into the exhibit hall and was alone with the warriors. I was so exhausted that I was barely keeping up on wobbly legs, but I wobbled around and stared at each of their stoic faces. The whole time remembering how I'd first heard of them after Laura went to China on spring break when we were 16. The discovery of thousands of clay life-sized soldiers buried underground had sounded so... unbelievable and fascinating. Now, here we were. Me and them, face-to-face. An arm's length away.

Quite honestly, I'm getting a little sick of them. I've thought about them too much. I know more about them than I ever thought I would. And they may be leaving California in October, but they'll be sticking with me for a lot longer than that. The company plans on sponsoring their entire tour across the country... so Atlanta, Houston, D.C., here we come.

But on a Friday night as I'm contemplating turning in and mindlessly flipping channels, there they are again. There I AM again. Guh! There is no escaping them. They've followed me into my own living room. They're over 2,000 years old...they're made of clay... and they've totally taken over my life. Bastards.

My sound and my fury

During my recent absence from this little space of mine, I actually had started to write many a post. Then I hit delete. On all of them. They were all just me ranting and raving, bitching and whining - and I am sometimes aware that the world is in no need of hearing anymore negative crud. I will continue to try and confine my negativity to those lucky enough to actually speak to me. Lucky, lucky listeners with glazed over eyes and bleeding ears.

So last night I reacquainted myself with neglected little All I Know Is This and read as many old posts as my internet connection would allow. Then I came into work today and during a space-out-and-stare-at-the-wall moment my own words were swirling around in my head. It was then that I looked over and saw a William Shakespeare quote that I have displayed next to my monitor…

“Life is a tale told by an idiot… full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”

Old Willie and I must have been buds in a past life of mine. And then I apparently annoyed him one too many times and he called me an idiot.

So, welcome to my ongoing tale. Judging by my excessive whining, it is indeed full of sound and fury and likely does signify absolutely nothing. But it entertains my parents and Willie is long gone, so why stop now?

Blowing hot air

While parts of the country are starting to feel the cool of Fall and other parts are being pummeled by hurricanes...here in Southern California summer rages on. It's hot. Oven hot. So hot that it makes this look completely enjoyable.


There's no such thing as acting like a dignified lady when the heat is on full blast. In my case though, weather has never really factored in. Lady? What lady?

Californian geography

The fact that there's some truth to this made me laugh... and so, I had to share. Of course.





I live in the land of Awesome, am originally from Canada (apparently) and this fall will be headed to a wedding in Coffee.

Sick, sick, sick

A co-worker of mine recently pushed out a baby.

Life changing? Yes.
One of the most significant moments of one's life? Absolutely.
All-consuming? Should be.

Three hours after GIVING BIRTH she was calling the office from her hospital bed to check up on work. There is something disturbingly wrong about that.

So mature

I came across this picture tonight while digging through files on my computer.

And I was particularly struck by the fact that Paige is more than double the age she was when this was taken 2 years ago.

She's grown up. Quickly.

Me? Not so much.

A long, long time ago...

Nine years ago today I put on a cap and gown and graduated from high school with my girlfriends in tow.

Since then, all 5 of us spent time studying abroad... at least 7 universities were attended... multiple jobs have been had... 2 weddings... 2 baby boys... 1 law degree... 1 soon-to-be veterinarian...

Not bad for a group of girls who graduated from public school in Stillwater, MN. I just can't believe it's already been 9 years.

What would my 1999 self think of me now? She'd definitely wonder how the hell I ended up in L.A., a city I never even wanted to visit, breathe in or fly over.

What would your high school self think of you?

This one's for you

You know who you are.

Last night I called you a butthead and you laughed. And that's one of the reasons why after 16 years of being friends I still love you with all my heart.

August 8 is closing in

I heart the Olympics. Especially the summer Olympics. Swimming, gymnastics, beach volleyball, synchronized swimming, soccer, diving, water polo and the completely quizzical rhythmic gymnastics... yes, bring it on. These are sports that I love to watch and that are often hard to come by unless it is the blessed 4-year mark of the Olympics. Woo. Hoo.

My all-time favorite athlete (the type where you Google News his name to see if anything of note has been going on lately) had the audacity to retire last year. In his early twenties. My allegiance will now have to shift from Ian Thorpe to Michael Phelps. We all must come to terms with it; we all must continue on with our lives. The Thorpedo would want it that way.

And in following Ian's spirit of always moving forward and trying something new... Teen and I have spent a couple of sunny days at the beach recently with a volleyball. Turns out, the tablespoon-full of skill I acquired back on the seventh grade team of wusses who ran from the ball has been completely diluted over time. After our first go at it, I had sand in crevices I never knew existed and my arms were so horrendously bruised that for a week after I could see strangers fighting back the urge to encourage me to get out of that abusive relationship. You can teach an old gal new tricks though, and we're going to keep getting better... because it's summer and we belong at the beach... plus, the sight of the other one flopping into the sand never fails to entertain, meaning we keep going back for more.

This last weekend we slathered on the sunscreen and headed for the AVP Tour in Hermosa Beach. We were ready to watch the pros in action...ready to be inspired...ready to see some real, live Ken Dolls soar through the air to spike the ball over the net in the manliest of fashions. Happily all of those pre-set hopes came to fruition, and even better, the team that had me glued to the TV in 2004 with my eyes inexplicably welling up with tears was also there for my viewing pleasure.

Yes, when Teen and I bought tickets for the women's semi-finals and finals, we had no idea that the gold medal winners from Athens would be there. Kerri Walsh and Misty May Treanor pretty much put the rest to shame. Trying to compare them to Teen and me... well... imagine a baby giraffe strapped into roller skates versus a cheetah charging across the Serengeti. It's worse than that.


Good thing we weren't trying to compete, but instead were just spending a gorgeous day being fans. Fans who wished that the shirtless foreign wankers in front of us would stop using their uber-zoom lens to take pictures of the silicon-injected Corona girls on the sidelines...

Olympic fever is on the rise. Are you ready?

Remember me?

Back at my computer with a glass of red wine and an open window letting the night air waft in... Tonight, for the first time in a few weeks, I can feel myself starting to come out of the fog. My eyes are roaming, more than darting. And I'm breathing slowly in time to some airy Azure Ray song humming out of the speakers.

Home...

Today I was asked by someone of importance, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" I immediately responded with, "I don't want to grow up," which is both completely honest and a way of darting the question, because, really...who does? Who are the people who can answer that with certain conviction? Especially if you work in Corporate America? WHO is the dolt who responds with, "I want to be a Sr. Director of Marketing Communications. It's my reason for getting out of bed in the morning." I don't want to know that person. That person doesn't know that the Roger Rabbit is simultaneously the most ridiculous and fabulous dance move ever. It is - and I'm quite good at it.

When I grow up... I want to be an environmentalist and a tap dancer. I want to design jewelry and write a book. I want to go to Italy with nothing on the agenda other than to eat, drink and see it all. I want to take more surfing lessons and vent my frustrations by throwing paint onto a blank canvas. I want to model Manolo Blahniks and be a world-class chef. I want to travel from Antarctica to Iceland and everywhere in between. I want to spend my birthdays skydiving and swinging in a hammock tied to 2 palm trees. And sure, I want to tackle the corporate world too, but marketing doesn't sound like much fun compared to the rest of it. (Well, maybe being an environmentalist isn't fun, but it is important. So there.)

I don't want to have to decide today. The fog is still in mid-lift and I feel the need to treat myself gently during the evenings and weekends, because weekdays are nothing but a battlefield. Tonight I just want to sip my wine, resolve that I will try my hardest to not let my little blog go unattended for almost 3 weeks ever again, and watch the finale of Step It Up & Dance, to which I have been hopelessly devoted. It makes me clap...when I'm alone.

And even if it's my wishful daydreams making me clap, at least I'm clapping and smiling - genuinely - at something. I wish the same for you.

CREATE & STYLE: The Collection

There are many things that I collect. As a direct descendant of a pack-rat (hi, Mom!) it is in my blood to keep, stash, store and treasure those things that I adore most. This usually includes a wide range of goodies, such as: friends, books, wine, photographs, jewelry, old magazines, ballet flats, coffee mugs, magnets, perfume, handbags, bud vases and voicemails.

This photo encapsulates so many of the things I love. A few rows of lovely wine, which I often discover during memorable dinners out with friends and then go and find for my home collection. A stack of thick books to prop up the lamp. A photo that always reminds me of the moment we took it and how much fun we were having. And the wine rack itself, which I triumphantly painted a deep violet after getting frustrated with a never ending search for the perfect place to store my bottles and finally deciding to just do it my damn self.

All grouped into one colorful little area that makes a trip up the stairs well worth the effort and occasional huffing.

Singing her praise

Here she is folks. My friend, my work-wife, the one that I can have a full conversation with through a series of squints and eyebrow lifts...Stacy.

There are a million reasons why she is the greatest, but one in particular is something that is just so...her. She likes to send cryptic messages via texting that say things like, "Just bought us concert tickets for the 14th. You WILL be there." Then she refuses to let you pay her back for the tickets, because according to her, you had no choice in the matter and were forced into a fabulous evening against your will. As though the whole event was soley to entertain herself.

At the end of weeks in Europe this fall, there were only two viable reasons for returning to the land of George W. Bush; seeing Teen again and the long-distance promise of a surprise concert with Stacy.

Concert + drinks + friend = FU-UUN.

Tomorrow night she, Adriann and I will be going to see Kate Nash in Hollywood. Another one of Stacy's text message surprises. And I cannot wait.

The journey is the reward

Here's the thing: I'm tenacious when it comes to doing what I've set out to do. I moved to California almost three years ago by myself - no friends, no idea what I was doing, only the resolve that I would figure it all out and make it work. It turns out that figuring it out and making it work is a never-ending adventure.

After all this time, I still think to myself on a disturbingly regular basis, "What am I doing? How do I still not have a plan?" I'm all about plans; not having one drives me insane. But the little devil on my shoulder is constantly reminding me that the unplanned events in my life have usually been the most fun. So, I try to take a deep breath and go with the flow. Maybe a couple deep breaths...

Two weeks ago I gave up the fight at work at 8:00 p.m. for the third night in a row and dragged my tired self out into the dark night toward my car. Since my phone doesn't get any reception in the office, it beeped back to life in the freedom of the outdoors that I had a voicemail. It was Teen. "Hey, you want to go to Nugget's this weekend? Let me know. We'd leave on Friday night." I hung up, dialed Teen and responded with an unwavering, "Of course. I'm in. Hmmm... I'm going to need to find my bikini..."

That Friday night when I finally arrived in Palm Springs I was met with an 80's dance party, a glass of wine and a smorgasbord of gas station candy bars. Things were looking up...

The next morning we sat with our hosts pouring over the morning papers and cups of coffee before heading out to the Jacuzzi in the front yard to take advantage of the crisp desert morning air. As the jets worked on the small of my back and I laughed with Nugget and Teen while constantly throwing the dog his tennis ball, I realized that I wasn't having to remind myself to take those deep breaths.

The rest of that Saturday passed by in a blur of swimming laps, cannon balls, grilled shrimp and blended margaritas, reggae and disco blaring through the house and yard, moments of dozing on pool floats and relaxing in the late afternoon shade with a couple of Coronas while wrapped up in beach towels. If only every day could be so wonderful...

By the time we were having pre-dinner cocktails and watching the sunset, I was totally exhausted; truly relaxing can really wear a girl out! But it was the good kind of tired - the kind where you want nothing more than to stay seated, sipping champagne and grinning through heavy eyelids.

On the drive home Sunday night I realized that I may not have the husband and the kids that so many of my friends are starting to acquire. And maybe I am still fighting and pushing to reach that turning point in my career, but I am constantly collecting experiences...and I remain hopeful that someday I will have that husband and those 2.2 kids. And just maybe, for 10 minutes of their lives, they will be impressed that crazy Uncle Nugget has a fancy award and that I've tested out just how hard it is to raise it above my head in mock-triumph (though by that time, Auntie Teen will probably have a whole house full of them herself)...maybe they'll think it's cool that mom and Auntie Teen used to jump in the car for weekend adventures in Palm Springs and San Diego...or maybe not.

For now though, I'll just keep reminding myself that the current stretch of my path seems to have me in the role of a wanderer - collecting stories, friends, pictures and experiences in a million different destinations. And when I put it like that, well, that doesn't sound too bad at all. Deep breath...

"To dream of the person you would like to be is to waste the person you are."