So, I will get down to doing a real post one of these days, but in the meantime, here are a few recent events I've thought about posting about. I have no idea why they all involve driving. Oh, except that I spend my entire life in the car. Seriously, I should have been a trucker. Then I could have gotten paid for it. And learned all that cool C.B. lingo. Alas...
Late November
Two weekends ago, I witnessed an accident while driving on the 10-West. Traffic was cruising around 50 mph and all of a sudden everyone’s slamming on their brakes and I see a car a couple of vehicles ahead spinning in circles across several lanes, driving the wrong way head-first into a wall, bouncing back, and bumping a minivan in the process. When the whole thing ended, I had like second-row seats to the affair. I pulled out my cell phone and called 911, sure that the driver of the spinning car was seriously injured. I have done this once before (to report a driver that was either drunk or completely asleep at the wheel in the middle of the day, and who had turned the packed freeway into a bumper-car course of sorts) and it’s creepy because 911 knows where you are and automatically patches you into CHP. I told them about the accident and all. Then the driver of the spinning car, apparently fine, gets out of her car, starts throwing a Jerry Springer worthy fit about the accident and shaking her fist at the poor woman in the minivan. This is about the time that I, and the rest of the freeway, lost all sympathy and concern for her and began driving off in droves.
But post-crash etiquette is not the point of this post. Rather, for the next half hour, my cell phone periodically gave off this weird ring/alert I had only heard once before—the last time I called 911 from the highway (I swear, I don’t do this every day). Does anyone out there in blogland know what this is? Was CHP keeping tabs on my position or something? Just wondering.
Thanksgiving in Phoenix
In LA, the speed limits are kind of a reference point. The reality is that you are permitted to go as fast as traffic will let you. Usually, this is far below the speed limit. But on a good Saturday morning, where no wildfires or bikers or landscaping trucks or other accident-prone vehicles have managed to mess things up for you, the flow of traffic generally averages out at around 80 mph. As long as everyone is going 80 mph, and as long as you’re not doing anything too stupid while going 80 mph, you can drive right past a cop at 80 mph (who will also be going 80 mph) without any real worry.
Given this background, I’m sure you can appreciate how very frustrating it is for an LA driver to be in the greater Phoenix area on a holiday weekend where the traffic is light enough that one could easily go 80 mph but be forced to drive 65 mph instead. When you’re able to drive 80, 65 seems like a snail’s pace. But that’s just what they’ve done in Phoenix—taken the joy out of driving by placing a whole robotic committee of ground-triggers, radars and an entire photo studio complete with fake books and oversized “Class Of” letters and other stupid props at five-mile increments on all the freeways in town. This committee purportedly records your speed and snaps a picture of your car and then tickets you by mail. What, no e-mail tickets? No tickets asking to be my friend on Facebook?* Sheesh. Get with the times, Phoenix.
So even though Dave and Mary warned me about the new and ruthless traffic regime in the Valley of the Sun, and even though there are signs posted everywhere telling you about it, I still got noticeably flashed on the night I drove in and then, while leaving town, I spaced and did it again. So now I am biting my nails every day as I open the mailbox, waiting for not one but two speeding tickets to jump out at me. And the worst part is that I wasn’t even going glorious 85, only like 72 or so. So it wasn’t even worth it.
Thanksgiving in L.A.
SoCal’s holiday rush hour started a mere seventy miles from the Arizona/California border this year. It took me three hours to drive from the Fantasy Springs casino to the Cabazon Outlets. Previously, I always considered the two to be adjacent to each other. Oh wait, they are. There was a meltdown of sorts. I’m still experiencing PTSD as a result.
Yesterday
Yesterday I was sitting in traffic after work, which was even heavier than normal due to something going on at the Staples Center that warranted Batman lights and helicopters flying all around, and I see this kid walking on the side of the freeway, pull out a can of spray paint, and begin to tag a concrete wall right then and there. In rush hour. The freeway was packed. A cop was bound to drive by eventually. That’s some real moxie, people.
Now, I don’t know what this says about LA and the jaded nature thereof, but all of the drivers in my lane, including yours truly, had the exact same reaction at the exact same time: pull out the celly and snap a grainy picture of this young hooligan in action, because nobody’s going to believe it otherwise. Seriously, the lights on our phones all went on in tandem. Alas, it was dark and we were under an overpass or five, so the grainy picture is not worth posting. Neither was the kid’s graffiti. I can see why he’s willing to risk life and limb to get some practice in. His handwriting wasn’t even good.
There you have it, folks.
* No, I don’t do Facebook and I won’t be your friend.
12.03.2008
10.16.2008
Targeteer
Better to blog poorly than to not blog at all.
If you are one of the many blogsnobs who disagree with that statement, you should probably stop reading here.
Things that have been going on lately:
Life as usual. Meh.
Politics. Have you heard there is an election coming up? Well, not for me as I already voted by mail weeks ago. Yet the fact that my vote is “spent” has not stopped the entire universe from perpetually pestering me for my vote and/or my assistance in pestering others for their vote. Never before has the phrase “I’m over it” rang more true. That said, I am grateful to Governor Palin for providing an easy Halloween costume this year. Despite our difference of opinion on many issues, we apparently share a love of ¾-sleeved business suits, peep-toed heels, pearls, and mid-length brown hair. I’ll pretty much be able to go to any Halloween festivities straight from work without doing anything other than teasing my half-do and switching my regular glasses for a rimless pair I bought online for $14. Ooh-I hope they come in the mail today.
The McDonald’s Monopoly Game. Unfortunately, I have been plagued by a lifelong gambling addiction. Fortunately, my strict religious beliefs frown on gambling and have therefore prevented said addiction from getting me into any major trouble. Unfortunately, commercial sweepstakes have never really been characterized as “gambling” when, in reality, they kind of are (I mean, you pay in with the hope of getting an even bigger payout despite strong odds against you). Thus, twice a year I consume 4000% more McDonald’s food than normal in a foolish attempt to secure the winning Monopoly game pieces. Anyone need an Oriental Avenue? I’ve got about 400 hundred of them. Also, I thought we weren’t supposed to say “Oriental” anymore. “The Orient” is a proper noun/place, while “Asian” is an adjective, right? Hey, if you’re of the Asian persuasion, why don’t you contact me and we’ll file some sort of lawsuit against McDs and Parker Bros., insisting they change it to “Asian Avenue” and also that they give us, say, $10 million for our trouble. It’s probably a surer payout than playing the dumb game and considerably less fattening. Cause did I mention that I am dressing as chubby Gov. Palin for Halloween this year? I would sue McDs for making me fat, but I hear that’s been done.
My new career as a multi-sport athlete. In addition to compulsive gambling, I have been beleaguered by a lifetime of taking a joke too far. Like, I’ll say I’m doing something silly or outrageous just to get a laugh out of people, but then when they respond exactly as I expected them to—i.e., by saying something along the lines of “How hilarious,” or “You will not,”—I get all huffy and belligerent and “I’ll show them!” And then I do it. Maybe not well, but I do it. The thing I was only kidding about doing. Even if it takes years and changes the course of my entire life. Like that one time when I joked about going to law school.
So remember how after the Olympics I joked about winning a gold medal in archery in 2012? Well, guess who’s been going to archery practice two times a week for the past month and a half? Guess who spent her birthday money on a leather quiver and an armguard and a finger tab? Guess whose left arm is covered in bruises because said armguard does not cover her hyper-extended elbow? Guess who was talking to a “traditional” archer at the “range” the other day when he compared the rules of his “trad club” to those used at “Ren Fairs”?
In case you’re really dense, it’s ME. And I have to admit that, after that last scenario, I seriously questioned the specific course of life events that led to the moment when slang such as “Ren Fairs” was being thrown around in my presence. (FYI, I have no interest Robin Hood type archery or bow hunting or attending said fairs or even faires). But aside from that, it has been a ton of fun and I’ve actually seen some real improvement.
But then I worried that “just archery” wasn’t athletic enough. After all, it's not the most cardiovascular of sports. (Have you seen all those heavyweights at the Ren Fairs?) So I decided to start training for a (distant future) marathon, too. There has been improvement in this area as well, but it has been a lot slower and a LOT less fun to come by. I still love my Nike+ gear, though.
So, what with all the living and politicking and McDonald’s eating and Asian client courting and target shooting and running till I nearly kill myself with the accompanying huffing and puffing, guess who has had absolutely no time for blogging?
(Duh, it’s still ME. In case you haven't caught on yet, this blog is kinda all about ME.)
If you are one of the many blogsnobs who disagree with that statement, you should probably stop reading here.
Things that have been going on lately:
Life as usual. Meh.
Politics. Have you heard there is an election coming up? Well, not for me as I already voted by mail weeks ago. Yet the fact that my vote is “spent” has not stopped the entire universe from perpetually pestering me for my vote and/or my assistance in pestering others for their vote. Never before has the phrase “I’m over it” rang more true. That said, I am grateful to Governor Palin for providing an easy Halloween costume this year. Despite our difference of opinion on many issues, we apparently share a love of ¾-sleeved business suits, peep-toed heels, pearls, and mid-length brown hair. I’ll pretty much be able to go to any Halloween festivities straight from work without doing anything other than teasing my half-do and switching my regular glasses for a rimless pair I bought online for $14. Ooh-I hope they come in the mail today.
The McDonald’s Monopoly Game. Unfortunately, I have been plagued by a lifelong gambling addiction. Fortunately, my strict religious beliefs frown on gambling and have therefore prevented said addiction from getting me into any major trouble. Unfortunately, commercial sweepstakes have never really been characterized as “gambling” when, in reality, they kind of are (I mean, you pay in with the hope of getting an even bigger payout despite strong odds against you). Thus, twice a year I consume 4000% more McDonald’s food than normal in a foolish attempt to secure the winning Monopoly game pieces. Anyone need an Oriental Avenue? I’ve got about 400 hundred of them. Also, I thought we weren’t supposed to say “Oriental” anymore. “The Orient” is a proper noun/place, while “Asian” is an adjective, right? Hey, if you’re of the Asian persuasion, why don’t you contact me and we’ll file some sort of lawsuit against McDs and Parker Bros., insisting they change it to “Asian Avenue” and also that they give us, say, $10 million for our trouble. It’s probably a surer payout than playing the dumb game and considerably less fattening. Cause did I mention that I am dressing as chubby Gov. Palin for Halloween this year? I would sue McDs for making me fat, but I hear that’s been done.
My new career as a multi-sport athlete. In addition to compulsive gambling, I have been beleaguered by a lifetime of taking a joke too far. Like, I’ll say I’m doing something silly or outrageous just to get a laugh out of people, but then when they respond exactly as I expected them to—i.e., by saying something along the lines of “How hilarious,” or “You will not,”—I get all huffy and belligerent and “I’ll show them!” And then I do it. Maybe not well, but I do it. The thing I was only kidding about doing. Even if it takes years and changes the course of my entire life. Like that one time when I joked about going to law school.
So remember how after the Olympics I joked about winning a gold medal in archery in 2012? Well, guess who’s been going to archery practice two times a week for the past month and a half? Guess who spent her birthday money on a leather quiver and an armguard and a finger tab? Guess whose left arm is covered in bruises because said armguard does not cover her hyper-extended elbow? Guess who was talking to a “traditional” archer at the “range” the other day when he compared the rules of his “trad club” to those used at “Ren Fairs”?
In case you’re really dense, it’s ME. And I have to admit that, after that last scenario, I seriously questioned the specific course of life events that led to the moment when slang such as “Ren Fairs” was being thrown around in my presence. (FYI, I have no interest Robin Hood type archery or bow hunting or attending said fairs or even faires). But aside from that, it has been a ton of fun and I’ve actually seen some real improvement.
But then I worried that “just archery” wasn’t athletic enough. After all, it's not the most cardiovascular of sports. (Have you seen all those heavyweights at the Ren Fairs?) So I decided to start training for a (distant future) marathon, too. There has been improvement in this area as well, but it has been a lot slower and a LOT less fun to come by. I still love my Nike+ gear, though.
So, what with all the living and politicking and McDonald’s eating and Asian client courting and target shooting and running till I nearly kill myself with the accompanying huffing and puffing, guess who has had absolutely no time for blogging?
(Duh, it’s still ME. In case you haven't caught on yet, this blog is kinda all about ME.)
Illustration I-A
9.17.2008
In case you haven't met your advertising intake quota today...
I need some advice: how can one find time to blog? Cause I just don’t seem to have it. Right now I am “cheating” by blogging while I am at work and therefore supposed to be working on things other than my blog. As a result, my billables will be low today. If you do not know what billables are, consider yourself very fortunate.
So yeah, any advice on efficient blogging methods will be most appreciated. In return, I will share with you a few of my more recent fascinations:
The Nike+ Sportband
If you haven’t seen this, it is a pedometer and a watch and a running diary and the display of a treadmill all in one—the cross-promotional brainchild of Nike and Apple, corporate giants who I think are worthy of their own celebrity relationship name, like “Nipple.” Or maybe not.
So… you put a little chip in your shoe and it transmits info to the sportband while you are walking or running, like the distance you’ve traveled, your pace, the time elapsed, calories burned, etc. Then you go home and plug a removable portion of the sportband into your USB drive where it uploads and tracks all your information for you on the Nike+ website, which is managing that “Human Race” project appearing in annoying pop-ups all over the Internet. The website lets you set all sorts of training goals and participate in virtual running groups with people around the world.
Oh yeah, you can also skip the sportband and have the chip communicate with your latest gen Nano… but I love my regular iPod and the sportband is a heckuva lot cheaper than buying a Nano just for this purpose.
One warning—when I first got it about two months ago, I just put the chip in my usual running shoes. This was painful at times (like having a smooth rock in my shoe) and the results were less than accurate. Last weekend I finally splurged on a pair of the Nike+ shoes, which contain a compartment for the chip under the lining in the shoe. Not only are the shoes super comfortable, but I have since tested the sportband on a couple of treadmills and it was so precise I chose not to mess with the calibration.
The Kiltie
I have been known to make an accurate fashion prediction or two. (Remember the cameo jewelry trend of 2003? I totally called that one in summer ’02. And remember how I bought a Vespa before people were fighting over them like Tickle Me Elmos and you could actually get one below MSRP? 'Nuff said.) Anyhow, I think this adorable golf shoe staple is going to make a big comeback. It will start out on sports shoes and loafers but will eventually inspire all sorts of fringes and trims, even going so far as to replace the grommet.
Being ahead of the trend and all, I fell hard for these Puma Golf Cat shoes with a removable kiltie and might have bought them in a couple of colors when I recently wandered into a Puma outlet despite the fact that I know I have no business going to Puma outlets as such are very dangerous places for me and my pocketbook. I also bought them despite the fact that I don’t play golf, but they have rubber soles that can be worn anywhere, including on a Vespa.
(And for those of you who are horrified that this post refers to the recent purchase of several pairs of shoes, you clearly don’t know me…)
So yeah, any advice on efficient blogging methods will be most appreciated. In return, I will share with you a few of my more recent fascinations:
The Nike+ Sportband
If you haven’t seen this, it is a pedometer and a watch and a running diary and the display of a treadmill all in one—the cross-promotional brainchild of Nike and Apple, corporate giants who I think are worthy of their own celebrity relationship name, like “Nipple.” Or maybe not.
So… you put a little chip in your shoe and it transmits info to the sportband while you are walking or running, like the distance you’ve traveled, your pace, the time elapsed, calories burned, etc. Then you go home and plug a removable portion of the sportband into your USB drive where it uploads and tracks all your information for you on the Nike+ website, which is managing that “Human Race” project appearing in annoying pop-ups all over the Internet. The website lets you set all sorts of training goals and participate in virtual running groups with people around the world.
Oh yeah, you can also skip the sportband and have the chip communicate with your latest gen Nano… but I love my regular iPod and the sportband is a heckuva lot cheaper than buying a Nano just for this purpose.
One warning—when I first got it about two months ago, I just put the chip in my usual running shoes. This was painful at times (like having a smooth rock in my shoe) and the results were less than accurate. Last weekend I finally splurged on a pair of the Nike+ shoes, which contain a compartment for the chip under the lining in the shoe. Not only are the shoes super comfortable, but I have since tested the sportband on a couple of treadmills and it was so precise I chose not to mess with the calibration.
The Kiltie
I have been known to make an accurate fashion prediction or two. (Remember the cameo jewelry trend of 2003? I totally called that one in summer ’02. And remember how I bought a Vespa before people were fighting over them like Tickle Me Elmos and you could actually get one below MSRP? 'Nuff said.) Anyhow, I think this adorable golf shoe staple is going to make a big comeback. It will start out on sports shoes and loafers but will eventually inspire all sorts of fringes and trims, even going so far as to replace the grommet.
Being ahead of the trend and all, I fell hard for these Puma Golf Cat shoes with a removable kiltie and might have bought them in a couple of colors when I recently wandered into a Puma outlet despite the fact that I know I have no business going to Puma outlets as such are very dangerous places for me and my pocketbook. I also bought them despite the fact that I don’t play golf, but they have rubber soles that can be worn anywhere, including on a Vespa.(And for those of you who are horrified that this post refers to the recent purchase of several pairs of shoes, you clearly don’t know me…)
(And thanks to recent birthday girl wingonwing for the LAist article.)
9.02.2008
Rainy Days and Tuesdays
Well, I lied about the “live from Seattle” broadcast in the last post, as I am now back in Los Angeles. But those few faithful readers of this blog probably expected as much. The great news is that Pdaddy survived his 8-hour esophagectomy and has been recovering up in Seattle like a trooper. And seriously, folks, this is a particularly difficult (dare I say horrendous?) recovery and Pdaddy deserves oodles of credit for his ongoing good attitude. How would you like it if you weren’t allowed to drink anything for days, eat anything for months, and had to sleep with your head at a 30-degree angle for the rest of your life? I, for one, would not like it. I also would not like the constant poking, prodding, draining, blood-taking, and 14-different IV tubes refilling that Pdaddy was subjected to during his week-long hospital stay. (Double hooray—as I was writing this post I received word that Pdaddy had just been discharged from the hospital, several days earlier than anyone expected!!) When Pdaddy finally returns to his home on the range in AZ, he will get another round of chemo as a welcome back present. And yet he hasn't complained a whit. I hope he realizes how much the whole wide world appreciates everything he has endured and given up just so we all can have the luxury of hanging out with him for awhile longer.
The not-nearly-as-great-but-still-good news is that I got to see Seattle on a few short occasions, and it only confirmed the opinions I had formed through prior visits and years of Frasier reruns. If, like me, you attended high school in the early nineties and are therefore acquainted with oldies bands such as Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Soundgarden, Alice in Chains, Sonic Youth, Dinosaur Jr. and Mudhoney (I know, I know… it’s hard to remember a time when band names weren’t required to begin with an article) and if, like me, you occasionally experience nostalgia for that long-lost, dirty-haired era, I might suggest taking a trip to Seattle, where nothing has changed since 1993. Sick of the young ruffians loitering at your local shopping mall in their tight-fitting, gluteus-eliminating skinny jeans? In Seattle, I saw tons of kids still wearing the long-johns & combat shorts combo that Matt Dillon donned in Singles. Tired of the Seacrest metrohair phenom? In Seattle, there were plenty of guys still sporting the half-shaved, half-long hairstyle that Anthony Kiedis had before his coif was so obviously influenced (infiltrated?) by the likes of Keith Urban, Pete Wentz and Ellen Degeneres. (Seriously, will someone please cancel his subscription to US Weekly before he gets a John Mayer perm? I know I’ll probably get in big trouble for saying this, but some people just look better when they’re strung out on heroin.)
The kinda bad news? Well, if you live in Seattle, it’s apparently kinda bad news that it rains a lot there. This was a bit surprising to me and Mary Ess and Pdaddy, all of whom naively assumed that people in Seattle were used to the ample precipitation for which the area is famed. Not so. It rained while I was there, and this was BIG NEWS. As in, “let’s cut into the DNC and the GOP VP announcement and other large, acronominizable events to talk about how it’s still raining” BIG NEWS. Err… I don’t get it. In LA, that kind of “news” would have been relegated to the very end of the newscast, along with all the gang-related shootings. In LA, if it didn’t warrant regular updates on TMZ that day, it wasn’t big news. (Of course, in LA we are also in such a state of drought that we could really use some big news kind of rain. I swear, Gov. Schwarzenegger is now asking us to recycle the water we use to brush our teeth.)
The worst news? LA is sunny, but smoggy, and it looks flat and void of greenery when one has just returned from a week in Washington. Today the rush-hour traffic doubled, as it always does on the day after Labor Day, officially signaling the end of summer. And today I had to go back to work.
The not-nearly-as-great-but-still-good news is that I got to see Seattle on a few short occasions, and it only confirmed the opinions I had formed through prior visits and years of Frasier reruns. If, like me, you attended high school in the early nineties and are therefore acquainted with oldies bands such as Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Soundgarden, Alice in Chains, Sonic Youth, Dinosaur Jr. and Mudhoney (I know, I know… it’s hard to remember a time when band names weren’t required to begin with an article) and if, like me, you occasionally experience nostalgia for that long-lost, dirty-haired era, I might suggest taking a trip to Seattle, where nothing has changed since 1993. Sick of the young ruffians loitering at your local shopping mall in their tight-fitting, gluteus-eliminating skinny jeans? In Seattle, I saw tons of kids still wearing the long-johns & combat shorts combo that Matt Dillon donned in Singles. Tired of the Seacrest metrohair phenom? In Seattle, there were plenty of guys still sporting the half-shaved, half-long hairstyle that Anthony Kiedis had before his coif was so obviously influenced (infiltrated?) by the likes of Keith Urban, Pete Wentz and Ellen Degeneres. (Seriously, will someone please cancel his subscription to US Weekly before he gets a John Mayer perm? I know I’ll probably get in big trouble for saying this, but some people just look better when they’re strung out on heroin.)
The kinda bad news? Well, if you live in Seattle, it’s apparently kinda bad news that it rains a lot there. This was a bit surprising to me and Mary Ess and Pdaddy, all of whom naively assumed that people in Seattle were used to the ample precipitation for which the area is famed. Not so. It rained while I was there, and this was BIG NEWS. As in, “let’s cut into the DNC and the GOP VP announcement and other large, acronominizable events to talk about how it’s still raining” BIG NEWS. Err… I don’t get it. In LA, that kind of “news” would have been relegated to the very end of the newscast, along with all the gang-related shootings. In LA, if it didn’t warrant regular updates on TMZ that day, it wasn’t big news. (Of course, in LA we are also in such a state of drought that we could really use some big news kind of rain. I swear, Gov. Schwarzenegger is now asking us to recycle the water we use to brush our teeth.)
The worst news? LA is sunny, but smoggy, and it looks flat and void of greenery when one has just returned from a week in Washington. Today the rush-hour traffic doubled, as it always does on the day after Labor Day, officially signaling the end of summer. And today I had to go back to work.
8.21.2008
Warning: this Olympic-themed post does NOT mention Bob Costas' hair
So La Dolce Vespa will be broadcasting live from Seattle next week. Said trip to Seattle will represent a welcome reprieve from the daily grind as well as the Olympics-watching that has consumed my life for the past, uh… as long as I can remember. As for the daily grind, this will be my first entire week off work in two and a half years, and I am looking forward to it. As for the Olympics, I have no idea how I got so into watching them, as I don’t remember catching a single second of the Athens games. I recently bought a much larger television, and I’m pretty sure the 555 extra lines of video it provides has enabled Bob Costas to hypnotize me into watching entire marathons, synchronized diving and, say, women’s weightlifting. The other day I actually yelled “Show us the stro-mo!” Out loud. Who does that?! I even got a little teary the first three hundred times I saw the Derek Redmond VISA ad. And I never tear up at anything media-related, especially commercials. I specifically remember watching Old Yeller at school as a child and rolling my eyes at the end while all the other kids were bawling their brains out.
So the biggest problem with the summer Olympics is that it is hard to get anything done while they are going on. Thank you, oh glorious IOC, for only holding them every four years—although an even five might be better. The second biggest problem with the summer Olympics is that if you watch enough of them, they tend to make you feel like an unaccomplished, out-of-shape loser. After a while, it starts to seem as if everyone is breaking world records and winning buckets of gold medals—everyone, that is, except you. It was with this sense of overwhelming defeat that I began to research what Olympic sport was best suited for a thirty-two year old woman who had never been especially athletic. Said research has culminated in my decision to take up archery. See you in London, Zhang Juanjuan.
But the Olympics aren’t all bad. They sure beat anything else on the late summer television lineup, with the possible exception of Project Runway. There was one segment with Mary Carillo that featured a bunch of baby pandas, which was cool. And if you, like me, struggle with the occasional body-image issue, I might suggest watching a little women’s weightlifting (+75 kg). It’s good for the soul.
But with all due respect to Messrs. Phelps and Bolt, I have no doubt that their recent accomplishments will soon be trumped by one man’s brave willingness to part ways with his esophagus. Go Pdaddy!
So the biggest problem with the summer Olympics is that it is hard to get anything done while they are going on. Thank you, oh glorious IOC, for only holding them every four years—although an even five might be better. The second biggest problem with the summer Olympics is that if you watch enough of them, they tend to make you feel like an unaccomplished, out-of-shape loser. After a while, it starts to seem as if everyone is breaking world records and winning buckets of gold medals—everyone, that is, except you. It was with this sense of overwhelming defeat that I began to research what Olympic sport was best suited for a thirty-two year old woman who had never been especially athletic. Said research has culminated in my decision to take up archery. See you in London, Zhang Juanjuan.
But the Olympics aren’t all bad. They sure beat anything else on the late summer television lineup, with the possible exception of Project Runway. There was one segment with Mary Carillo that featured a bunch of baby pandas, which was cool. And if you, like me, struggle with the occasional body-image issue, I might suggest watching a little women’s weightlifting (+75 kg). It’s good for the soul.
But with all due respect to Messrs. Phelps and Bolt, I have no doubt that their recent accomplishments will soon be trumped by one man’s brave willingness to part ways with his esophagus. Go Pdaddy!
7.07.2008
Miss Betsy Ross
Once again I must look myself in the mirror and admit I have become a very bad blogger. Sorry. To myself, that is. For getting too busy to write down everything that’s going on that makes me so darn busy at the risk that I will not be able to remember it all in ten years, or ten minutes for that matter.
So, at the risk of not providing enough back story, here’s all the stuff that’s been going on lately that has prevented me from feeling like anything really blogworthy is going on.
1. I bought a house. And then I returned it. This was a big deal for me, who struggles to return anything to a store. Seriously, I will keep a mispurchased item for years, knowing I will never use it, perhaps move it across a state line or two, and then give it to D.I., Goodwill, Salvation Army—whatever’s closest, rather than take it back and ask for a refund. But yeah, in March I bought a new construction townhouse in Chula Vista, a lovely master-planned suburb of both San Diego and Tijuana. (I swear it’s nice--they have an Anthropologie!) I picked out the flooring (high-end laminate/tile/loop pile carpet combo), cabinets (dark java), countertops (white quartz, cuz I’m green like that) awesome appliances and everything else. It was supposed to be finished in early September, but got pushed to late fall. I enlisted the help of a super headhunter because there’s nothing I hate more in this world than job-searching. And then the whole economy fell apart and I just couldn’t find a decent job there. So I pulled out of the deal and, miraculously, got every cent of my deposit back. Hooray for Shea Homes, they couldn’t have been nicer to a reluctant house returner such as myself. In retrospect, I feel really lucky to have had the chance to do a trial-run at the whole house-buying thing.
2. I got really good at riding my Vespa. Now that the weather is warm, it sees a lot more use and I have gone from sort of fearing the thing to absolutely adoring it. It gets ridden to church almost every single Sunday despite the riding-in-skirt debacle. Also, the Roommate recently volunteered to be my first passenger, which I think takes faith (in a higher power), guts and trust (in me). We went on busy streets down to the beach and everything, and the whole time she was respectful of my above-average personal space issues by only placing the occasional finger on my right shoulder and otherwise holding onto the rear rack.
3. I turned into a semi-experienced lawyer despite all efforts to the contrary. Unfortunately, what I have gained in confidence has been balanced out by a stressful schedule full of court appearances and depositions. When I think back on my esteemed law school classmates, I definitely wouldn’t have picked myself as most likely future litigator, but the future is often funny that way.
4. I went to Arizona for Fourth of July and hung out with my parents Dave and Mary for a weekend chock full o’ fun. Seriously, they wore me out. For those of you who haven’t heard or haven’t figured it out from reading the more frequently-updated blogs of my family members, Dave has been sick with all sorts of things lately. When I got there on the third, he had just completed months of chemo and a week-long hospital stay due to blood and lung issues that may or may not have been related to the Big C, but were dangerous enough on their own. So I was kind of expecting we’d all have to take it easy for the weekend, but noooo, Dave had drummed up a tight itinerary of fireworks watching (complete with local hotel room in which to sit-out post-event traffic--nice!), Diamondbacks game attending, ample walking in 110+ heat and lots of local foodstuffs-eating. It’s the first time I can remember telling my parents “I think it’s past my bedtime.” Repeatedly. Also, my lil’ bro and his wife visited the weekend before and lil’ bro arrived with a shaved head in a show of solidarity with the now-bald Dave. But I did not shave my head or really do anything except offer Dave and Mary a can of Olestra Light Pringles that I had snacked on during my 400-mile drive from Los Angeles, which they consistently declined. Apparently it didn’t compare to shaving one’s head. I suppose I could have offered to get a 3/4-inch trim, which I think would approximate the amount of hair lil’ bro sacrificed for his much-lauded effort, but it didn’t occur to me until after the trip. Oh well, we still had tons of fun, despite my full head of hair and the fact that it’s hotter than Hades in Arizona and everything.
(Oh, and incidentally, Blogger, which lets you label posts, has these permanent suggestions for labels: "scooters, vacation, fall." Yet how many bloggers have actually had a post, like the one above, for which these were all appropriate? All I'm saying is, I'm thinking it's time I earned another medal...)
So, at the risk of not providing enough back story, here’s all the stuff that’s been going on lately that has prevented me from feeling like anything really blogworthy is going on.
1. I bought a house. And then I returned it. This was a big deal for me, who struggles to return anything to a store. Seriously, I will keep a mispurchased item for years, knowing I will never use it, perhaps move it across a state line or two, and then give it to D.I., Goodwill, Salvation Army—whatever’s closest, rather than take it back and ask for a refund. But yeah, in March I bought a new construction townhouse in Chula Vista, a lovely master-planned suburb of both San Diego and Tijuana. (I swear it’s nice--they have an Anthropologie!) I picked out the flooring (high-end laminate/tile/loop pile carpet combo), cabinets (dark java), countertops (white quartz, cuz I’m green like that) awesome appliances and everything else. It was supposed to be finished in early September, but got pushed to late fall. I enlisted the help of a super headhunter because there’s nothing I hate more in this world than job-searching. And then the whole economy fell apart and I just couldn’t find a decent job there. So I pulled out of the deal and, miraculously, got every cent of my deposit back. Hooray for Shea Homes, they couldn’t have been nicer to a reluctant house returner such as myself. In retrospect, I feel really lucky to have had the chance to do a trial-run at the whole house-buying thing.
2. I got really good at riding my Vespa. Now that the weather is warm, it sees a lot more use and I have gone from sort of fearing the thing to absolutely adoring it. It gets ridden to church almost every single Sunday despite the riding-in-skirt debacle. Also, the Roommate recently volunteered to be my first passenger, which I think takes faith (in a higher power), guts and trust (in me). We went on busy streets down to the beach and everything, and the whole time she was respectful of my above-average personal space issues by only placing the occasional finger on my right shoulder and otherwise holding onto the rear rack.
3. I turned into a semi-experienced lawyer despite all efforts to the contrary. Unfortunately, what I have gained in confidence has been balanced out by a stressful schedule full of court appearances and depositions. When I think back on my esteemed law school classmates, I definitely wouldn’t have picked myself as most likely future litigator, but the future is often funny that way.
4. I went to Arizona for Fourth of July and hung out with my parents Dave and Mary for a weekend chock full o’ fun. Seriously, they wore me out. For those of you who haven’t heard or haven’t figured it out from reading the more frequently-updated blogs of my family members, Dave has been sick with all sorts of things lately. When I got there on the third, he had just completed months of chemo and a week-long hospital stay due to blood and lung issues that may or may not have been related to the Big C, but were dangerous enough on their own. So I was kind of expecting we’d all have to take it easy for the weekend, but noooo, Dave had drummed up a tight itinerary of fireworks watching (complete with local hotel room in which to sit-out post-event traffic--nice!), Diamondbacks game attending, ample walking in 110+ heat and lots of local foodstuffs-eating. It’s the first time I can remember telling my parents “I think it’s past my bedtime.” Repeatedly. Also, my lil’ bro and his wife visited the weekend before and lil’ bro arrived with a shaved head in a show of solidarity with the now-bald Dave. But I did not shave my head or really do anything except offer Dave and Mary a can of Olestra Light Pringles that I had snacked on during my 400-mile drive from Los Angeles, which they consistently declined. Apparently it didn’t compare to shaving one’s head. I suppose I could have offered to get a 3/4-inch trim, which I think would approximate the amount of hair lil’ bro sacrificed for his much-lauded effort, but it didn’t occur to me until after the trip. Oh well, we still had tons of fun, despite my full head of hair and the fact that it’s hotter than Hades in Arizona and everything.
(Oh, and incidentally, Blogger, which lets you label posts, has these permanent suggestions for labels: "scooters, vacation, fall." Yet how many bloggers have actually had a post, like the one above, for which these were all appropriate? All I'm saying is, I'm thinking it's time I earned another medal...)
6.06.2008
I wore a cellophane bodysuit (okay, I didn't, but it felt that way)
Okay, so my very brief DC Memorial Day excursion is now over two weeks past. I could have taken the same trip a couple of times over during the period since my last post, but here is the exciting conclusion anyway.
Sunday Night
If you recall, the Hyatt Regency in Crystal City had been taken over by biker families participating in the Rolling Thunder motorcycle rally. When the Roommate and I returned to the hotel late Sunday night, expensive Coldstone in hand, the bikers were still everywhere. Except for one guy waiting outside. Very conspicuously. He was a tall African-American man in white slacks, a pale pink sweater, and leather loafers, with a folded newspaper under his arm. In fact, he was the first guest other than ourselves that we had seen at the hotel sans leather vest covered in patches. When we walked inside, I couldn’t help but ask the Roommate if she had seen him. She said she had, but after discussing it some more, it was clear we were talking about two different people, only one of whom had sufficient poise to wear pink cable knit at a biker rally (the other had chosen a nice blue chambray shirt).
And then we saw the sign in the lobby. It appears that, in addition to being the official Rolling Thunder headquarters for the weekend, our hotel was hosting an additional conference:
The Positive Black Man Convention.
Now, I have scoured the internet for evidence that said convention took place, but have found none. But I am not joking. We saw the sign, it said this very thing, in a fancy font no less. And in the event you feel inclined to google it yourself, I want to assure you it had nothing to do with HIV. We saw the attendees, all of whom appeared very positive and confident. We also saw the women who, with word of said conference, had conveniently dropped in at the hotel bar that same night, only to find themselves surrounded by drunken biker vets, which sadly reminded me of the dashed expectations I’ve had at every LDS singles conference I’ve attended, and by “every,” I mean “the only,” but I digress…
It was also on Sunday night that I realized just how important it is to keep one’s patchy leather vest on at all times during a biker rally. When the Roommate and I got off the elevator on the sixteenth floor, there was a group of bikers standing around talking. It was pretty late by that point, and one of them was wearing his pajamas and had a serious case of bed-head but, sure enough, he had put the vest on over his jammies in order to chat in the hallway with his friends.
Sunday Night
If you recall, the Hyatt Regency in Crystal City had been taken over by biker families participating in the Rolling Thunder motorcycle rally. When the Roommate and I returned to the hotel late Sunday night, expensive Coldstone in hand, the bikers were still everywhere. Except for one guy waiting outside. Very conspicuously. He was a tall African-American man in white slacks, a pale pink sweater, and leather loafers, with a folded newspaper under his arm. In fact, he was the first guest other than ourselves that we had seen at the hotel sans leather vest covered in patches. When we walked inside, I couldn’t help but ask the Roommate if she had seen him. She said she had, but after discussing it some more, it was clear we were talking about two different people, only one of whom had sufficient poise to wear pink cable knit at a biker rally (the other had chosen a nice blue chambray shirt).
And then we saw the sign in the lobby. It appears that, in addition to being the official Rolling Thunder headquarters for the weekend, our hotel was hosting an additional conference:
The Positive Black Man Convention.
Now, I have scoured the internet for evidence that said convention took place, but have found none. But I am not joking. We saw the sign, it said this very thing, in a fancy font no less. And in the event you feel inclined to google it yourself, I want to assure you it had nothing to do with HIV. We saw the attendees, all of whom appeared very positive and confident. We also saw the women who, with word of said conference, had conveniently dropped in at the hotel bar that same night, only to find themselves surrounded by drunken biker vets, which sadly reminded me of the dashed expectations I’ve had at every LDS singles conference I’ve attended, and by “every,” I mean “the only,” but I digress…
It was also on Sunday night that I realized just how important it is to keep one’s patchy leather vest on at all times during a biker rally. When the Roommate and I got off the elevator on the sixteenth floor, there was a group of bikers standing around talking. It was pretty late by that point, and one of them was wearing his pajamas and had a serious case of bed-head but, sure enough, he had put the vest on over his jammies in order to chat in the hallway with his friends.
Monday
Monday was largely museum day, so I promise to keep it brief, because I am well-aware that it is more entertaining to listen to someone read a dictionary than recap a museum trip. We started out at the National Gallery—both the classic and contemporary buildings. The National Gallery is so chock-full of famous works by Rembrandt, Bruegher, de Goya, Degas, Rodin (see above), Monet, Manet, Renoir, Seurat, Cassatt, Lautrec, Picasso, Matisse, Warhol, Johns, and Rothko—to name a few—that it feels like being totally star-struck at an Oscar party.
We finished with the NGs in late afternoon and, once again, had yet to really eat for the day. The Roommate wanted to check out the National Museum of the American Indian, which, embarrassingly for an Arizonan, I had never been to before. It was awesome, of course, especially a display about women’s traditional beaded dresses and how they were made, but also awesome was the overpriced food court, arguably the best of all the museums. They were serving up tons of native foodstuffs, but the Roommate and I settled for a snack of fry bread and honey (see below), a State Fair staple where I come from. Yum.
It was closing time when we left the AI museum, but we happened to find out the Air & Space museum was staying open late. We breezed through it in about an hour and largely had the place to ourselves—unlike every other time I’ve been there when the place is crawling with maniacal kids. I kind of miss the days when kids didn’t have cell phones and therefore had more incentive to remain under the watchful eye of their parents rather than get lost in a strange and crowded place. Coincidentally, this also reminded me of the State Fair, where I once got lost as a small child and it was kind of traumatic and I just sat down and waited to be kidnapped, but then somehow I was reunited with my parents. Hooray.
Monday night we took the metro up to Adams Morgan in search of some good food and also so I could show the Roommate what I perceive to be the world’s longest and scariest escalator. We found this great café right by the station called Open City that had outdoor seating. There, we made friends with a couple visiting their teenaged son, who worked at the café, and a girl who decided to rollerskate from her apartment to meet a friend at the café after finding an old pair of skates in her closet when looking for shoes. Skating proved harder than she remembered. Luckily, she ran into someone she knew on the way there, who pretty much pulled her to the restaurant, but she was worried about how she would get back home. As we left before she did, we never found out if she did or not. I suppose we wouldn’t have anyway.
Tuesday
Our perfect weather disappeared on Tuesday. It was overcast with about 414% humidity, or at least it felt that way. As we had an afternoon plane to catch in Baltimore, we decided to head up to Charm City and explore it a bit. I refuse to apologize for the fact that my goal for Tuesday was completely vice-related: eat a Maryland crabcake. I lived in Maryland when I was a wee lass and have a distinct memory of Dave and Mary taking me and Mrs. Gee to the Baltimore Harbor where we looked at a barrel of live blue crabs and a fisherman let one walk around on his leather-gloved hand for our entertainment. Thus, my infallible memories from age four led me to believe that some sort of fish market on the Baltimore Harbor was THE place to find the perfect crabcake. The Roommate and I did some Internet research the night before and found a fish market right off the harbor, right in the middle of downtown, that had rave reviews.
The drive to Baltimore was “gorge,” as my SIL would say, but things got a little sketchy as we headed into downtown. The Roommate and I shrugged our shoulders—we live in L.A., after all, we do sketchy all the time, and proceeded to park the rental car in a garage that was built like Fort Knox. Instead of a paper ticket, it gives you a magnetic coin on entry that you must wave in front a door in order to get back in from the street. Let’s just say we were frantically waving said coin in front of said door approximately thirty seconds after exiting it. Once we were walking around outside, we realized we stuck out like a couple of Positive Black Men at a biker rally (we were the only women, only tourists, and only recently-showered people in sight) and everyone was staring at us, including a jaded street cop who simply raised his eyebrows, as if to say “Hmmm…. this should be entertaining.”
Dave and Mary later informed me that the harbor where we had seen the live blue crabs was in Annapolis.
So we went to our second crabcake pick in Hanover, Maryland, also recommended by random users of the Internet, in whom we had lost all faith: Timbuktu’s. Again, there weren’t many women there, but this time it was because it was a lodge with man’s food and manly portions and dated manly wood paneling on the walls. The place was packed, and when we got our crabcakes, we knew why. They were huge, like softball-sized HUGE:
So huge, in fact, that we could not finish one apiece. So huge that we both got quite ill. So huge that, five hours later, when the Southwest flight attendant offered us roasted peanuts, we were insulted by her assumption that we would ever eat again. Yet the next day we traded emails wherein we both admitted we were totally ready for another one. Lucky for us, they ship nationwide.
Tuesday was finished off by flights, flights and more flights. We gained three hours, but they were all wasted on flying. By the time we finally arrived in Los Angeles late Tuesday night, we had recovered from our Timbuktu maladies and, for the millioneth time on our trip, found ourselves absolutely famished. Lucky for us, Tito’s is on the way home from the airport and is open 24 hours.
Maryland crabcakes for lunch and Tito’s tacos for dinner. It just doesn’t get any better than that.
(I know, I know: TWO pictures of food when I spent an entire day at the National Gallery? Look up your own Rembrandt pics. Mine turned out a little blurry.)
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