Auf weidersehen, 2009

I keep reading all of these posts pointing to the end of this year, this decade. They address their best of, worst of, what rocked the nation and what we'll remember going into 2010. I've been sitting here trying to come up with some dramatic thoughts regarding 2009s end and have come up short. A friend asked me if I was going to do a list like last year, and I don't think I will. I've been bathing in some sort of cerebral melancholy for the past few days and I think a list would include a lot of emotional dribble that would prompt you to phone me up and inquire as to whether or not I've been sleeping properly. Which I have. Thank you.

This year was difficult. And I say that with the knowledge that I have an extremely nice life, so I'm aware that my perspective of difficulty is somewhat different from the poor chap sleeping under the freeway. But I was looking over my posts from 2009 and they seem to be a blur of insomnia, general fatigue and me yelling, "NO REALLY! I PROMISE I'LL GET BACK TO THIS EVENTUALLY!" But I don't think I've totally recovered my verve and passion yet - some of it was squelched by professional disappointment, some just because I've had to focus so much of my energy on the healing process necessitated by an auto-immune disease.

I noticed that most of what I wrote this year was steeped in the pain of love lost...almost as though all of the heartache that I've tucked away over time needed to find an avenue out. There are some things I wrote that I just immediately banished into the far corners of my hard drive as reading them brought me back to a place that I thought I had recovered from and I'm not sure what any of that reveals. I suppose the silver lining in that is that I can mine my own psyche for material if I need it - but what? What does it indicate when one's gray matter pours out so much sorrow? It's puzzling. It's what marked most of 2009. Like the entire creative output of that year was covered with a veil of oft-hidden grief. As though somehow, there was no room for joy.

What do I hope for 2010? I hope to not only know but believe that I am brave. I hope to write more. I hope to have the energy to do so. I hope to get outside of myself and make the world I live in a more beautiful place. I'm on the edge of turning 34 and I'm very conscious of how very quickly time is moving forward. And I have felt, sometimes, like it moves forward without me. I want to grasp onto it and bathe in the deliciousness of my life. I want to love more, complain less, be an encouragement to those around me and be willing to admit when my spirit is broken. I want the blue hue of 2009 to lift and to move into a new decade with a spirit that is ready to be happy. I think I'm ready for that.

Notes from SoCal

A Southern Californian Christmas landscape. Please note the palm trees.

I hope everyone is basking in the warmth and happiness of family. Or friends. Or people that you just sort of tolerate accompanied by egg-nog with a certain amount of oomph added in. However it is that you roll. I am down in Southern California with most of my family. It's 11:30am and I'm still in my pj's which would indicate that it's already a very good Christmas indeed.

In the past few years I haven't been able to spend the holidays exclusively with my branch of the family. Marriage tends to complicate things - in the best of ways usually - but often during the holidays you find that the push-me-pull-you becomes increasingly intense. I come from parents who graciously have always said, "Do whatever is the least stressful for you," and I feel that in years past this has led to a certain amount of neglect on my part towards them. While they have never once made me feel guilty about this, my own conscience has prodded me with some vigor - sort of like a steel toed boot in the kidneys, if you will - and so this year I remedied that and flew down to San Diego with them and have been fully immersed in the usual family traditions, some of which I have forgotten after years of not being present for them.

And to be here with them? Oh, it has been heaven.

We have eaten and laughed and opened wine and snacked and told stories and traded recipes and made plans for the week and giggled at each other and poked fun and loved and have not let an hour pass without someone exclaiming, "This is so much FUN!" And it is. It is hilarious fun. Two days in and I already feel refreshed, if not somewhat fatter than when I stepped off of the plane on Wednesday. But that is what January is for - vigorous cleansing. So I will just continue to enjoy this time and hope that each one of you is doing the same.

I think we spent a lions share of Christmas Eve shopping for food. It's a family sport. Our team always wins.

Yesterday was spent in the gathering of ingredients and preparing of Rouladen which is a German culinary masterpiece. It sort of looks like a turd landed on your plate amidst homemade noodles and red cabbage. So from a visual perspective it's not the best thing you've ever seen. But the flavor? Holy Moses. It's something I cannot even begin to describe, which is probably better since I can't have all of your showing up at my sisters doorstep demanding a bite. I took this opportunity to learn how to make them properly since my parents have never written down the recipe and their version is peerless. So if I know you and you bring me a present (I wear a size 8.5 shoe), I'll perhaps make them for you. I'm now being summoned to the kitchen to learn how to make the corresponding noodles, so I must fly. Happiest of Holidays to you all.

Haggling over radishes.

Magic

It would appear that everything in my life currently needs attending to. My car just got back from the shop - did you know that if you leave $700 with your mechanic you'll get a new battery and an alternator and lose your will to live? It's true. I know.

There are a few other household things that we've been doggedly ignoring. It's amazing how you can just stop seeing things, like that splotch of paint color in the kitchen that I was "trying out" two years ago and haven't gotten around to painting over, or the hole in the ceiling that makes my brain hurt to think about fixing. It's so high up and people REALLY have to crane their necks to get a view of the gash in the drywall, so perhaps we're ok as long as we just put sparkly things in front of our guests or distract them with jazz hands.

But the dog. The dog cannot be ignored. I started getting notes from the vets office earlier this year that sang the tune of, "Kylie needs her rabies vaccination updated, lalala!" I sort of put it off for a while until a wretched, WRETCHED flea hopped on board and decided to bite the ever living shit out of Kylie which then turned into a full two weeks of scratching scratching SCRATCHING to which I recall saying to Marc, "This doesn't seem right...she never scratches this much," to which he responded, "Meh, she's fine. Did you finish this episode of How I Met Your Mother WITHOUT ME?" And since this is my blog, I feel entitled to point out that Marc will sneeze and IMMEDIATELY take himself to the doctor, all while gripping his throat, clawing at his eyes and screaming, "BLARGH! I HAVE THE PLAGUE AND AM DYING IS MY WILL IN ORDER?" He'll also mysteriously come down with the same symptoms I have whenever I fall ill and sequester himself into the best corner of the couch for a day or two, asking that I stop typing so loudly and will I make him some tea? It's true. It will be interesting to see what happens should I ever bear a child.

Anyways, this flagrant hypochondria does not extend outside of his own orbit, meaning I had to physically point out a raw spot on the dog and say, "I'm taking her to the vet RIGHT NOW!" to which he responded, "Are you sure it's not just the lighting in here that's making that area red?"

So. Fleas. I won't go into what kind of work that caused me as I'm still recovering from all of the laundry and scrubbing and apologizing I did to my dog for not taking her in the minute I suspected something was wrong. BUT, while I was at the vets, I decided it might be the right time to get the rabies vaccination updated. I mean, let's get this shit DONE. Kylie hates the vet and uses each visit to almost physically crawl up my body and wrap herself around my head all while shedding her entire coat of fur. There are not enough lint rollers to combat THAT, let me tell you.

I told the vet we were seeing that day that we ought to also follow the vaccine protocol and get Kylie updated. I should mention that he's not our usual vet and was someone I requested we NOT see again while checking out. He liberally smattered expletives throughout his speech, which is totally un-fucking-professional, and I think had this idea of me the moment he saw me...that I must be the kind of girl who sups on caviar and sleeps in the Chanel boutique at Neiman Marcus. I disliked him almost immeidiately.

So the vaccine. I mentioned it. He looked at me quizzically and said, "I think that vaccines are bullshit. Unless you're in an area where she is going to come into contact with wild creatures, she's fine." Um, like bears and bats and coyotes and things of that nature that you see when you're in the back country? Because she sees those things a LOT - our recreational activities involve carrying large amounts of gear deep into the wilderness where we then sleep on the ground and poo behind trees. I said as much (minus the poo) and the vet looked at me in complete disbelief and then said, "No, I mean, like WAY back in the woods...NOT just car camping." That's when I kicked him in the head.

I finally just said, "Look, just give me the vaccine." He seemed put out that I would at all challenge his opinion, but at this point we were neck deep in tufts of Kylie's undercoat and he fled the scene telling me he would send in a tech to administer the shot. I swear he told the tech to really go for it as she walked in with a needle the size of which I hadn't seen outside of a Halloween novelty store. This thing could have stitched a leather couch together. The tech was bubbly and sweet and trying to coax Kylie out from underneath my legs where I assume she was saying things like, "Fuck, NO!" I asked the tech to ratchet down her enthusiasm a notch since at this point Kylie was in danger of leaving the office bald. Finally, she just sort of wrapped her fist around the syringe all Dexter style and JAMMED! it into Kylie's rump. Kylie just wilted against my legs and looked up at me in a way that said she would rather have been left on the streets of LA if being rescued by me meant THIS sort of abuse. Especially since she didn't even get a fancy band-aid or a lolly pop. Just a smack on the ass and a GOODGIRL from the tech who left promptly...probably to go and find the nearest lint roller.

Regardless, my dog now has super human blood and can go and smack a bat or lick a monkey or harass any feral creature and not be in danger of dying a foamy death. She is magic. Marc is jealous. There is nothing he can come up with health wise to compete with magic blood. Though I'd like to see him try.

Recovering from Last Week

So Last Week? Let's just promise each other we won't talk about it, all right? Last Week was a straight up bitch and I'm doing my best to remove all memory from my mind. Come Friday Marc and I opened a bottle of VERY nice wine in an effort to erase the past five days, and by the time 11pm rolled around all I could do was sob something incoherent about chicken soup and Chris O'Donnell so Marc declared an immediate and swift moratorium on all outgoing calls, texts and or Internet communication and sent me straight to bed. You're welcome.

Saturday, I spent most of the morning sacked out on the couch dozing and avoiding the laundry that was screaming FOLD ME! from upstairs. I did manage to rouse myself by the afternoon to go wine tasting which was glorious. The weather has been Arctic and so pumping our veins full of the grape helped numb us from the nearly freezing temperatures outside. (Though I said I wouldn't talk about Last Week, I do have to mention that almost everyone was updating Facebook with some version of "What is UP with this weather?" Like the cost of living here should mean certain things...for instance: we don't have to put up with temperatures that require a parka AND a hat AND gloves. No one living here owns all three items. If we're not warm enough with a sweatshirt and Uggs, we're not going outside.) Despite the cold, the afternoon was lovely and we managed to go through what I can only imagine was at least a barrel of wine.

BEHOLD! The Carnage.

I woke up yesterday with an extreme desire for a crab sandwich. And no, that is not a euphemism for something else. I was craving an actual crab sandwich from Duarte's, which is this random, little restaurant along the coast known for its artichoke soup, various berry pies and the crab. OH SWEET LORD IN HEAVEN THE CRAB. The first time I ate there I though I saw Jesus and the second time I went through something not unlike a conversion. All I know is that I fell to the floor in ecstasy and when I woke up I was covered in butter and was spouting off the recipe for sourdough, so SOMETHING holy happened while I was passed out. Either way, my very obliging husband who was also recovering from Last Week said, "Ok!" when I expressed my desire for the religious sandwich. After years of marriage we have fallen into a routine of sorts. We have our Evening Routine, the Santa Cruz Routine, the Let's See How Long We Can Get By Without Folding the Laundry Routine, and the Jen Needs a Crab Sandwich Routine. This entails driving over to the coast, getting drinks at San Gregorio General Store, walking along the beach in search of seals and then driving to Pescadero, home of Duarte's, home of my Holy Grail of crab.

I won't go into great detail about the day only to say that the healing power of time with one that you love is magnificent. It's the perfect balm for tattered nerves and any lurking unhappiness that might spot your usual glow. Marc and I didn't speak much. We just listened to great music, pointed out things that made us laugh, held hands and were peaceful in the knowledge that when we have weeks that do their best to stomp out all of our resolve and joy, we still have one another to come home to. And that thing, that care and love that we provide for one another in the eye of all of the muck and mire of life, well, that's erases a world of wrongs.

BEHOLD! The weary couple. I need more sleep. Or some REALLY good eye cream.

So it was a good day. The sandwich was as amazing as it was the first time I ate it. The weather was perfect...that stormy, Gothic kind of feeling that makes you want to run along a moor and call out for Heathcliff. Byronic tendencies aside, added to the fact that my hair was starting to do strange things, we headed for home where we cuddled up on the couch and watched Up! and then retired to bed early. I'm now paying for the sins of ingesting WHEAT & BUTTER! But I'm just going to sack up and not complain about it. Marc, on the other hand, might have a thing or two to say to you tomorrow about my intestinal gymnastics. Whatever. He signed on for it.

BEHOLD! The sandwich.

Overheard

"All I want, just once in my life, is to rappel out of a helicopter with an assault rifle in my hands. Is that too much to ask?"

And here I thought finishing the New York Times crossword all by myself was a lofty goal. Note: aim higher.

Wherein I prove that I have some effing holiday spirit.

So something strange has happened this winter. I'm not as paralyzed by the holidays as I've been in years past. Usually, December rolls around and I automatically break out into hives and lock myself in a closet with a jug of cabernet. I can usually drink my way out by mid January in time for my birthday. To me, Christmas is a time of closeted resentment and seething frustration. Usually, the only nice thing I can come up with about December is, "I like ham," and even that is sort of a lie because I'm not sure I really DO like ham. But this last week, I was in the grocery store and actually found myself humming along with Frank Sinatra who was crooning SOMETHING. I don't know. All I know is that I didn't get kicked out of Whole Foods for standing in the middle of the frozen food aisle shouting "Fuck THAT guy!" I then had "Silver Bells" stuck in head for a day or two and it didn't drive me to plunge a dull pencil into my ear. I caught myself humming "Make Me a Christmas Bride" while chopping onions and didn't automatically thrust the knife up towards my jugular to MAKE IT STOP. So either my meds have given me a stronger immune system AND holiday cheer or Marc is slipping something into my cider. Hard to say.

Either way, it was time to bring out the fake trees! that I bought last year. I say that with an exclamation point because I unfailingly kill live things. Well, plants, let's be clear. If you bring your kids over, they'll be in one piece upon leaving. Mostly. If they don't like salt licks, you might want to find someone else to babysit.

So the trees were yanked out of storage by their trembling limbs, stripped of their Glad bag covers and the halls were decked. So here. Photographic evidence that I'm slowly moving past my brittle acceptance of Christmas.

All good decorating starts with a fire. It should be stated that the women in my family - along with being prone to bossiness and never having to ask for directions - are complete pyromaniacs. Let me be clear: if you cannot get your fire started, call one of us. We can get wet logs to throw out a flame that will negate your need to get your eyebrows waxed. Perhaps ever. It's on my resume.


Kylie does not like fires. Her bed normally sits in front of it, but the moment she sees me carrying logs into the house she high tails it into the dining room and spends the rest of the evening alternating between peering around the corner at us and disappearing upstairs to polish her nails black and read Sartre. But look how cute she is:


And then! LOOK! ORNAMENTS! I have this extreme aversion to Christmas colors (shock) and so the ornaments are what my nephew would refer to as "dull colors". But I think decorating with the standard red and green and those shitacular epilepsy lights would cause my spleen to explode. And who wants to clean THAT up?


And then I took a nap. Or stumbled across that jug of cabernet that I was talking about earlier. I don't know. Either way, I woke up under the cabinet that houses our liquor and BEHOLD:


Small trees with Buddha! Who is holding a candlelight vigil. Presumably for the tequila that seemed to have walked off the other week and hasn't returned back to the cupboard yet. Strangest thing. Actually, I'm full of shit here. I put these little trees up last Christmas and then just totally forgot to take them down and then got used to them and then just stopped seeing them altogether, so really, they were already there. But let's just focus on the nice photo composition. Lalala.

And then finally, the outdoor wreath. This photo caused a bit of consternation. Kylie was trying to get outside to avoid the fire, I was opening the door wider and wider to get a good angle on the thing and Marc was screaming, "YOU'RE LETTING ALL OF THE HOT AIR OUT!" and I was yelling back that he ought to just speak more and then that problem would be solved and then his cerebellum exploded. Either way:


There you have it. We are CHRISTMASSY, dammit! And there is cheer. I think.

Wherein I talk about my dogs inability to produce a normal poop.

It seems as though my entire week has been focused on poo. That's right. I just went there. Kylie spent a lions share of Saturday through Tuesday in a state of complete digestive disrepair. It started on Saturday with a steady 24 hours of vomiting which turned into my favorite - diarrhea! She thoughtfully kept her anal leakage for the night hours, coming up to my side of the bed each time she needed to be let out (which was every hour on the hour). Consequentially I've wandered through much of this week with wild hair and bloodshot eyes muttering things like, "I HATE LOOSE STOOLS!" I've met a lot of new people this way. You should try it.

To wrap up, I took her for a walk yesterday and she poo'd normally, and act for which I did a slight jig on the sidewalk and then called everyone and shouted, "SHE DID IT! SHE POOPED!" Clearly, I need more excitement in my life. Either that or I'm overly prepared for parenthood. Regardless, Kylie is thrilled that I'm no longer following her out into the backyard to watch as she let out an audible "Pffffffffffft" along with the contents of her ass. She had taken to hiding behind every available vertical object just to shield herself from my eyes while she went. I imagine if she could speak she would be yelling something like, "OH THE HUMANITY!"

In addition to this weeks problems, my car started making a really weird sound on Monday. In sixteen years of neglectful auto ownership I've heard my fair share of jacked up car noises, but nothing that ever sounded like Cirque du Soleil came to town in my steering column. It's so out of nowhere and so ridiculous that when I hear it I can’t help screaming, “OH MY GOD, WHAT?” Then my car responds and I get kind of scared so I just settle back to ten-and-two and shut my mouth. The first few times I heard it I tried to convince myself it was my imagination so I wouldn't have to tell Marc about it. Because the second I go, "It's like a weeeeeeehaaaaaaaahhhh! sound," he's going to completely lose his shit.

And you know it's going to be one of those sounds that no one else will ever hear and after hours of me going, "No, wait, shhhh! Just listen. Keep driving. JUST KEEP DRIVING! FUCKING LISTEN!" and Marc looking at me as though all of that Zumba! might have twirled my brain in the wrong direction, I'll go insane and jam a nail clipper in his eye.

Having said that, I have to do something. I can't go on like this. The upshot is that I'm pretty sure a WEEEEEEEEHAAAAAAAHHHH! sound isn't indicative of something morbidly wrong, but it's like I'm driving around with a clown committing suicide underneath my steering wheel. Would a clown do that? Because they shouldn't.

I'm really a 12 year old girl.

I've been busy this weekend writing fan/fic about my soon to be occurring love affair with Robert Pattinson. This came out of my purchase of the new Vanity Fair, the cover of which he graces and O. MY. GOD. If I wasn't on Team Edward before, I am now. My friend Tina and I were talking about the various bad things we would like to do to him. She pointed out that we were not only competing with, well, most of the female population of the free world in a certain age bracket but were significantly older than most of his fan base. Whatever. I have my leopard print dress and cigarette holder all picked out. Come to mama.

Because lookit:

I mean, right? If I were in junior high, you can bet that photo would be gracing the interior of my locker and perhaps even the inside of my Trapper Keeper next to my algebra notes.

Tina bought all of the books after having seen New Moon last week. They arrived on Wednesday and I believe she tied a salt lick around each of her sons necks so that they wouldn't disturb her for silly things like FOOD and WATER - GOD! - while she dove in. She texted later to inform me that along with the books, Amazon had seen fit to tuck in a full sized poster of R.P. as well. Her husband is often away on business and I told her she ought to install the poster on the ceiling over her bed as a distraction. Because I'm brilliant. And am looking out for her needs.

Did everyone get through Thanksgiving in one piece? I did! I didn't even have to employ the Official Eating Pants, so ironclad was my resolve not to overeat this year. Normally, we all end the meal by clawing at our throats and lurching into the living room, hoping to find a flat surface on which to lie down and stretch out our stomachs. This year we all somehow contained ourselves, perhaps because we had extra guests and didn't want them to forever associate us with gluttony. Normally, I loudly proclaim my thankfulness for the elastic waistband, but my jeans didn't have to work very hard to stay shut and I didn't have the normal nightmares brought on by indigestion. Moderation for the win!

So I hope everyone is sliding easily into the holidays. I went with my family this evening to the Festival of Lights which is a parade in held annually in downtown Los Altos to ring in the Christmas Season. I hadn't done this in years and was cracking up with my sister as the floats went by - many of them were the same ones that we waved at as they drove down Main Street in our youth only a wee bit worse for wear. But, there is something nice about that kind of continuity. I don't easily embrace change and love tradition and so it was fun to be there with my nieces and nephew, watching my high school marching band go by and seeing Frosty the Snowman drive his float somewhat erratically down the street - I think he'd hit the bottle first.

Regardless, here's to a happy December to everyone, no matter what or how you celebrate. I, for one, will be pulling out my fake trees and Christmas music this week in order to get into the holiday spirit. It takes some doing for me since I'm notoriously anti-Yuletide, but this year! I'm going to be cheerful! Dammit! Perhaps I need a poster of R.P. above my bed to get me in the mood...

I carry you in my heart

You'll have to read this through a thick gauze of forgiveness as I took an Ambien about an hour ago and am really only half aware as to what I'm writing. Also, I think I just bought a set of steak knives and a vibrator. Hard to say as I temporarily fell asleep and then came to on a website that my mother would qualify as unladylike. I'll see what shows up in the mail over the next week...

...I've done this a few times before. Taken a sleeping aid and then woken up in the morning with my inbox filled with shipping notifications for things I bought while under the influence of my medication. When a faux fur vest showed up that gave off the impression that I had taken up wearing road kill as fashion, I knew I had to limit my access to the outside world once an Ambien has taken a swim down my gullet. So this foray, here, is somewhat verboten. Normally, I put myself straight to bed and read until my lids need to be propped up. However, I'm feeling frisky this evening.

Well, not frisky so much as just thoughtful. I'm home from yet another trip down south. This time it was for my nieces wedding and from Wednesday evening to Saturday night, I think I only sat down once, and that was to watch Heidi and Scott say "I do" to one another. It was an amazing ceremony. I've been having a hard time putting into words my feelings on how this weekend, this wedding, went. I spent much of it in tears, for reasons I'll explain later, but more than anything, I was just in awe. In awe of the strength of the love that they have for one another. In awe of how much their relationship has touched those around them. In awe of how peace just seems to surround Heidi and Scott and how their love for one another extends so beautifully out towards the people that they care for in their lives. As individuals they are each unique and people that you want to know. As a couple...well, it's inspiring.

I think everyone who walks down the aisle with the person they intend to spend the rest of their life with has just as much of a chance as anyone else of making it the distance. But then there is this little subsection of people. This tiny percentage who, before they even take their vows, seem to have a more mature and wizened understanding of what marriage is and how theirs will proceed. They grip each others hands tightly and you know that they are one before they ever proclaim that before their friends and families. They are the marriages that you look up to even though you might be married already and have several years on the newlyweds. And this is how I feel about Scott and Heidi. That they found each other amidst the quagmire of this life and created their own little oasis and have, in this imperfect world, found a tiny bit of perfection in their love for one another.

It was one the most beautiful things I have ever seen.

A shameless plug for BabycakesNYC.

So it turns out that I might have a minor case of OCD. It so happens that I will become totally focused on one thing and become unable to do anything else...like make my bed, or work out, or apply my eyebrows in the morning. The last couple of days I have been so totally immersed in gluten free/vegan baking that the rest of my life has taken a rather disastrous turn. Just this morning I left the house and realized that I had been so involved in thinking about the double chocolate chips cookies I was going to make later that I had neglected to brush my teeth OR my hair. Thank heavens I keep a full bathroom kit at work.

This preoccupation is significant for two reasons. One, since I've been stripped of all wheat and dairy privileges, I've been not unlike the street urchin who presses his filthy face up against the glass, looking longingly in at the family tableau within that he will never be a part of. I pass bakeries with a sigh, look on as people eat ice cream and frozen yogurt with the wounded air of a child who has been denied her favorite toy. And once in a while I transgress, eating a cupcake or a cookie and then spend a day or two on the floor writing in such intestinal agony that I'll spare you the details of what transpires only to say that God was kind when He bestowed us with air freshener.

The second reason is that I've always eschewed baking. I love to cook, primarily because there are few rules, and even those can be bent. The rigors of baking have always offended me. I'm supposed to be the bossiest thing in the kitchen, not this book that is telling me only to use TWO TABLESPOONS of vanilla. What if I don't want to? This attitude resulted in flat cookies and bread that my mother used for a door stop for years. My sisters were both accomplished bakers and so I let them, lending a hand when the bowl needed to be licked and then disappearing conveniently until things actually came out of the oven.

Then, last week, I happened upon a cookbook that I think I might marry. I've been stuck to it since Saturday and SWEET HOLY MOSES! The things that are coming out of my kitchen! Not to mention the fact that I've been making friends with things, like, measuring cups! and spelt flour! and coconut oil! And now my trousers are tight, but I've been able to enjoy a chocolate chip cookie for the first time in my adult life without the agonizing stomach cramps that usually followed consumption. The extra time on the treadmill is well worth it considering a whole culinary world is opening up to me that had been padlocked and duct taped shut with the word "VERBOTEN" spray-painted across the front in red, graffiti type letters.

So this is where I have been. And I promise, next time you see me, I'll bestow you with the fruits of my labor. You'll never miss the butter or flour, I promise. If you are a fellow suffer'er, I can recommend this book/bakery with the highest of accolades. Happy baking!

http://www.babycakesnyc.com/

The tranny danced wide

So. I went to Zumba! last night as I do every Monday night. I've been very excited lately about attending the Monday class because a REAL TRANNY has been showing up with startling regularity which is SO EXCITING. Actually, the proper term for her might be transexual, as I do believe she is post op. I assume this only because she wears pants so tight that I'm worried about her ability to breathe and there is no way even the best tucking job could hide what a man is packing. There has been LOTS of surgery (and a very well done weave). The eyes, the nose, SWEET MOSES THE BOOBS which would put an eye out if you fell into them. She has yet, though, to do anything about the Adams apple that bobs up and down as she talks with a voice that is still lower than any woman that I know. It's distracting, this particularly male piece of anatomy that stares at you from a unnaturally female face.

I first spotted her a few weeks ago. She was vogue'ing in front of the mirror which was perplexing since most people sort of slouch into class and plop onto the floor to reserve their bit of space. She, however, posed in front of the mirror with great focus, pursing her inflated lips and moving this way and that. I sidled up behind her for a better view, and immediately grabbed my phone to text my friend something appropriate and mature like, "OMG U are going to be SO UPSET that you missed class! THERE IS A TRANNY!" My friend was, in fact, upset. The tranny wiggled her nonexistent hips. I updated my friend. The tranny executed a high kick, which didn't go as planned as she stumbled back and directly into me. This too, was reported, "Bish almost just TOOK ME OUT with a high kick! This class is going to ROCK!"

And indeed, it did. I decided to dance next to the tranny. For research purposes. Given her elaborate warm up routine, I was expecting her to bust out some serious moves, Tabitha and Napoleon style. It would appear, however, that her expertise didn't move past posing in front of the mirror. The tranny spent most of the class dancing to music that I believe only she could hear. I've never seen someone move in such a manner that I can only describe as both painful and spasmodic. She hit me twice while spinning while the rest of us squatted and kicked me twice while the rest of us spun. It was confusing and I left feeling deflated and very much in need of some ice for my limbs and a whiskey and someone to hold me. I texted my friend, "Tranny = hot mess. Hope she comes EVERY TIME. In pain. She kicked me. I love her."

So for the past few weeks I have kept my distance, dancing several rows behind her (when she has shown up...it's random but class just isn't the same when she's not there) and to the left so that she is still in my eye-line but out of flailing distance.

Last night, however, she flanked me.

I had claimed my turf, which is important given that class is packed and I need space to get my proverbial groove on. The music started and two songs in I felt something smack the back of my head and I turned to the right to see the tranny dancing next to me. I don't know how she crept into that spot, but I smiled and moved slightly to the left. She commenced some random arm gestures and followed. Perplexed, I moved forward. She pursued. The hour went on like this, with me billowing around the room like some flustered paper bag and her right behind, taking out her Monday's frustration on my shins and upper arms. Granted, I don't think she was doing this on purpose. As you dance, you sort of peripherally keep an eye on people and gravitate in whatever direction the group and your surrounding people go. So I understood. There was just no where to flee to, so I endured the onslaught and was relieved when the hour was over and I could return home and nurse my bruises.

But what I was recalling the entire time was this scene from Will & Grace, which was one of my favorite shows. Will and Jack were at a club and Jack, seeing someone he wanted to talk to instructed Will to save his spot on the dance floor. Will protested and said, "How the hell am I supposed to save you a spot?" to which Jack replied, "Dance wide, Will. DANCE WIDE." And then he demonstrated what he meant by flailing wildly so that no one would get near him thereby ensuring himself enough space. Being a good friend, Will danced wide, and I often think of this when I'm at a club. I thought of it last night after the tranny had hit me in the shoulder for the third time.

Because the tranny dances wide. VERY WIDE.

After class, I was gathering my things and the instructor came up to me and said, "You looked in pain through class...she hit you?" (I'm approximating his accent here. He's not retarded.) I laughed and said, "Yes, she seems to have her own thing going." He replied, "Yes...no rhythm. She dances like a white man. Which she was. So it makes sense."

CONFIRMED. And that's when the week took a turn for the awesome.

Things I Do Not Understand - Foundations

Sweet fancy snickers, it's Monday already? It would appear that since this was the first weekend in for-eh-EH-var that I didn't have a million and one things to do that it sped by with warp speed. I'm just getting ready to settle in for a Friday night movie and already here we are at the start of another week. WHAT?

I'm starting to realize what it means to be an adult. I spent Sunday morning cleaning out gutters in my town home complex...well, I didn't personally clean any gutters but I offered up encouragement and directions to those who were. This falls under the category of KNOW THY STRENGTHS. And I'm best with two feet on the ground and telling others what to do. Fact. I was in the middle of instructing my neighbor where to throw some leaves - NO TO THE LEFT! - when my OTHER neighbor called me over and said, "Jen, do you think the foundation should look like this?" My first instinct was to say, "I don't know. Let me go check with my dad." I think those words actually started to fall out of my mouth and then I realized that she was asking ME. As though I would have anything profitable to offer about foundational integrity! HA! I mean, we didn't float away in the last storm, so I'm assuming it's solid! High five! Let's have some drinks! What I did do was lean over and look at the area she was talking about while cupping my chin and going, "Hmmmmm...I'm not sure that looks right. Should we call someone?" Because when in doubt, PASS THE EFFING BUCK.

She stared at the spot in question for a bit and then said, "Maybe." Relieved, I went off to hold a ladder for someone and wrestled, as I often do, with the fact that I'm a homeowner and therefore responsible for things such as roofs and foundations and sprinkler systems. This makes me want to fall to the ground in horror as I feel like it was just last week that I was paying rent for the first time and calling my mom to say, "HA! I can make it on my own! Oh, would you put dad on? I can't figure out how to plunge the toilet." The sad thing being that I'm 33 and I still can't unclog a toilet properly. I just cover my eyes with one hand while stabbing at the bowl with the plunger, praying that it doesn't turn inside out and douse me. Because that happened once and I still haven't recovered my ability to feel, or love.

Why are we talking about this? Oh yes...adulthood!

Which isn't all that it was cracked out to be, right? But there are some good things. For instance - sex! And we're now allowed to stay up late and watch bad tv! And sex! Or eat 12 Tootsie Rolls in one sitting without my mother stabbing my in the back with her bony finger saying, "THAT IS TOO MUCH SUGAR!" (I did that on Saturday night, and it just so happens that it IS too much sugar.) And all of the sex!

Anything else? No? I know, I can't think of anything either.

Sigh. Happy Monday people. I'm off to go and boss around some clients.

On being a girl and my inability to do so.

I finally went in for a hair cut today. I was several months overdue and my poor stylist nearly had a heart attack as she surveyed the split ends and tangles of blond. Anna should be given some sort of award - she labors over my head only to have me wrestle it continuously into a pony tail or something that gets it the hell OFF OF MY NECK. I'm terrible at the grooming part of being a girl. I feel as though much of my life is a battle between me and my eyebrows, my hair, my ragged cuticles. The clothing thing I have under control. I can rock the shit out of my closet, but the upkeep it takes to look as though I didn't just fall out of bed...sheesh. My beauty barometer is really based on whether or not I look homeless and/or washed. Today, all signs pointed towards my having spent a rough night at the shelter wherein I got thrown out of the line for the shower and had to use my ninja like knife skills.

I didn't sleep well and when my alarm went off this morning a parade of expletives fell out of my mouth as I batted around the nightstand in search of the snooze button. When I finally had gathered up enough resolve to get out of bed (that, and my bladder was screaming ATTEND! ATTEND! that bitch) I realized that I had 15 minutes to get ready and to work which meant a baseball cap and very little makeup. It wasn't until three hours into my work day that I realized I was wearing the same pants I had slept in. I was bossing my clients through some ab work and looked down only to realize, "Fuck, I totally wore these to bed last night." Being me, I also felt like this would be an amusing diversion for my clients who were writhing around in pain on the floor, "Hey guys! I'm still in my PJ's!" This startled them out of said writhing and one of them screeched, "Dear GOD, please tell me you at least brushed your teeth!" I did a quick tongue check and things seemed to be smooth, so I said, "Yup! 20 more, please!"

I relayed this to Anna as she was dancing around the back of my head, swearing at one of my many cowlicks. She raised her eyebrows in concern and said, "Don't you have two sisters? How did no one ever teach you to be a girl?" Clearly, I wasn't paying attention when classes were being held re: playing with dolls and eyebrow maintenance and how to apply eyeshadow so as not to look like a two bit whore. (Note: dolls don't do much, but they make great targets when you need something to shoot out of a tree. That's really as far as I got.)

So despite it's rough beginnings, today ended well. My hair is bouncing around and Anna insisted that I not leave until I apply some lip gloss...which I have an astounding number of despite my inability to keep anything on my mouth for more than five minutes. (Is there some secret to that? I'd love to know it.) I was thinking that it would be a great night to go out since I actually am wearing something other than workout clothing and my hair has been washed. But then again, there is an open bottle of wine downstairs that needs company and the rest of me needs showering. Plus my neck is itching and I need to find my hair elastic which is probably in the pocket the pants I slept in last night which look awfully comfortable...

As you can see, I'm not making a hell of a lot of headway here.

Are you still there?

HELLO! Here I am! My name is Jen! tap tap tap IS THIS THING ON?

Hm. Let's try this again.

Greetings! Anyone there? Do you remember me? I'm that person who used to post regularly with witty and hilarious stories about my daily mishaps (adjectives mine). That seems to have gone by the wayside a bit. Sorry about that. From the amount of hate mail (both real and imagined) in my box that say things like, "YOU REPUGNANT SHREW. UPDATE." you would think that my lack of blogging was contributing to both Global Warming and the leggings trend that seems to persist despite my hatred. My apologies. I didn't know my own powers.

I sat down today to write and realized that I hadn't flexed that muscle for a while. It cramped in a way I can only describe as tragic, so I backed away from my computer and went to make some tea and stretch in the hopes that something intelligent and sparkling would come out. You'll have to let me know how I do.

So Angie's wedding happened on Friday and it's taken me almost this long to recover. AND NOT EVEN FROM THE OPEN BAR I'll have you know. I was remarkably well behaved which is worth noting because, well, OPEN BAR. Everything went off without a noticeable hitch and Angie is now wed to Mike and they are off to live a long and happy life together with their two cats and collection of Transformers. Seriously. But apparently I'm an aged and easily fatigued woman since I spent most of the weekend working on making a believable ass imprint on my couch. And I succeeded! HURRAH! Also, I made a considerable dent in my Tivo cache. See? I can be productive and lazy all at the same time. Ingenious, I know. Regardless, their wedding was an incredible way to spend a Friday. And I'll have you know that I wore nearly five inch heels and didn't fall down once. The bride didn't fare as well - she brought comfortable shoes to wear to the reception and still ended up on her ass. So I felt particularly smug when I honestly answered "NO!" to all of my clients who asked, "BUT DID YOU FALL?" They seemed so disappointed. Jerks.

So now I'm gearing up for wedding #2, that of my niece Heidi to her fiancee Scott. This takes place in a few weeks in San Diego which means travel! Yay! I was driving by the airport Monday night and my car inadvertently veered towards its exit. I screamed "GAH!" and pulled the steering wheel to the left so as to continue on. Once my passengers settled down from their coronaries, I explained that it seems odd not to be heading TO the airport when in such close proximity. I've always loved to GO places, but this wanderlust has reached a higher than normal peak in the past two years. I crave stamps on my passport.

And it would seem that fall decided to appear out of no where. I'm sitting in my office in a parka wondering how long I'll be able to hold out until putting on the heater. I might just go ghetto and light up my discarded stories in a trash bin by my feet. I live right by a fire station, so they could just aim the hose over the fence should things go awry. But Sweet Moses, I was just wearing shorts last week and suddenly the leaves have changed and the days are dishonest. They are full of skidding clouds and ethereal breezes that coax you outside only to get dumped on an hour later, too far from home to grab the coat you left hanging by the front door - we've officially slid into autumn.

So more later. I'll be better about updating. If only for the environment. In the meantime, stay warm.

I need to let the leggings thing go, I realize.

I was in Santa Barbara this weekend as, apparently, I start to get itchy if I'm not going somewhere, anywhere, far, far away every couple of weeks. It was fun, albeit short as I was in LA the night before and after. It was a mini SoCal tour of sorts, you see. I like to dip in and out before I get too tarnished by the locals. I've seen so many abuses of the dreaded legging this weekend that I feel as though perhaps I should just give in a write a five paragraph essay about how insulting leggings are to, ahem, legs, and women and MY EYES! MY EYES! and humanity as a whole. I only saw one woman sporting the trend who didn't look like a jackass, and I'm pretty sure if I could figure out how she managed that, I would be a step closer to solving the issue of world peace.

So where was I? Ah, yes! Santa Barbara...thank you.

So I was in Santa Barbara this weekend at a birthday dinner for my friend Andrea. I was talking to one of the guys at the table and conversation had veered towards vacation and I lamented that I needed about five days on a beach somewhere to give my head a rest from my life. And! how I was sad that winter was approaching because that would mean the loss of my tan and OH MY GOD I'm boring myself recounting this conversation. He looked at me quizzically and raised and eyebrow and said, "Wait? You mean you're able to tan?" And I'LL HAVE YOU KNOW that I'm currently quite dark. For me. Which means that safety goggles are not required when looking directly at my face to shield you from the rather awesome glare that usually comes off of my lily white skin. So I replied, "Dude. I could practically pass for a native right now." And then we took a picture together and I was just this white smudge on the left hand side - sort of like an apparition that's only noticeable as this queer glow in the corner of photos. The person who took the picture is quite possibly still blind, poor thing. The guy laughed and said, "You look like whatever is haunting that house in Paranormal Activity." So naturally I kicked him in the shins and pushed birthday cake up his nose.

So I'm now waiting to head to the airport in the hopes that my flight home is as uneventful as my trip down here was. Of course, now that I've said that, I'm screwed and will most likely end up flashing the TSA agents while going through security. I'll let you know how it goes.

I ought to come with caution tape

OH MY GOD. It's mid-October and I've barely posted for the latter half of this year and I'm having mild panic attacks about everything that is going on until December is over. I never thought I'd say this, but I'm going to breathe a gigantic sigh of relief come 2010. I feel pulled in so many directions and would happily dismember myself if that would mean getting more done, but I'm afraid you'd just find all of those pieces rolled into several separate fetal positions, unrolling intermittently to take long, healing sips of tequila.

BUT! I'm pretty happy as I received the shoes that I'm going to wear for Angie's wedding today and they are A-MAZING. I mean really - I'll be over six feet tall in them which brings me unparalleled joy. And also greatly increases my chances of severe physical injury, but I'll at least look good whilst being wheeled into the ER.

We had bachelorette party #2 for Ang this weekend which meant that the girls and gays converged on a spa in the Castro (called Hand Job! which begs for some puns but I'm just too tired. Someone else take that) and then proceeded to be very, VERY loud at a restaurant, Limon, in San Francisco. I was seated at a banquette, surrounded on several sides by people and decided that the most efficient way to get in and out would be to go under the table because I'm breathtakingly dexterous. Why go through these gymnastics, you ask? Well, I had forgotten to don my Stadium Gal and my bladder was shouting, "ATTEND! ATTEND!" and I'm nothing if not obedient.

I managed to get in and out with little damage to either myself or the table, which is somewhat miraculous. I teetered down the stairs with my friend Jason behind me, because ladies always go to the bathroom together. I suppose I'm a more efficient pee'er than he is, or he got distracted by his reflection in the mirror - hard to say. Either way, he finally came out and we strolled down the hall to go back upstairs to the party, me in the lead and Jason behind.

Let me start by mentioning that Limon has a polished concrete floor, which looks fabulous. I turned to tell Jason this, because the gleam of the lights off of the floor was really quite fetching. As I turned, my left heel sort of bent to the right and in a spectacular combination of blond hair, legs and arms, I flew a few feet to the right and landed with a sickening thud at Jason's feet. He looked down at me in shock and squealed, "GIRL! What are you DOING? NOT CUTE!" I popped back up, grabbed his arm and said, "HOLY SHIT!" and then rushed up the stairs. Once we were back under the table and in our seats and Jason had relayed what had just transpired to everyone who would listen he said to me, "I'm sure no one saw...you got up so FAST!" To which I replied, "I'M OVER SIX FEET IN THESE HEELS AND I FELL IN FRONT OF THE OPEN KITCHEN. I think EVERYONE saw!"

But that's okay since in my long, tedious line of falls, that one really wasn't the most memorable.
Though the bruises along my upper thigh and on my knee beg to differ. Also, I can't use my left hand - I've been typing this entry with my right index finger since Sunday. Also, I keep hobbling away from Marc who wants to slap a leech on my bruises to see if it will quicken the healing process. Also, where is that healing tequila?

What? It's Monday?

Um. When did it become Monday? Because I just got comfortable with it being the weekend.

This week involves such things as:

PREPARING FOR THE UPCOMING BACHELORETTE WEEKEND IN NORTH CAROLINA

Oh? Do you need more information to adequately understand my stress levels? Because that would involve a lot of screaming and garment rending that I just don't think I can properly describe over my blog. Let's just say that I have a paper bag at ready should anything go awry and I feel the need to hyperventilate. That and tequila, which I feel Rod should know he's allowed to pour in copious amounts in case I start speaking in tongues come Thursday when we meet up at the airport. We have a lay over in Vegas which will only work in his favor as I expect the first leg of the trip I'll be speaking in ALL CAPS ABOUT HOW MUCH I NEED THIS TIME ON THE BEACH. For the rest of you, that means that anything I post up until Tuesday of next week might have a shade of incoherency about it which you ought to just meet with shades of sympathy or perhaps gifts of alcohol. Or just kick me in the shins. That usually brings me back to reality.

Either way! Good times! I'm spending the early part of this week looking for Polaroid film and my sanity which I think fell behind the couch this weekend while I was watching St. Elmo's Fire for the first time on Saturday. Can you believe I made it to 33 without ever having seen this cinematic masterpiece? To give you some perspective, I just saw Dirty Dancing for the first time last year and now every time we're in a remote situation I keep waiting for a hot blond in a leotard and skirt to waltz in and hit me up for an abortion. Because that's what happens, right? Sweet Moses...what were these 80's film makers aiming for? I either have Demi Moore shoving Rob Lowe aside in some ill-advised narcissistic moment or Jennifer Gray making up for her nose by rubbing crotches with Patrick Swayze (God rest his soul). Regardless, everyone is self centered and obnoxious and I left both movies with a feeling that I would never get those hour back in my life. AND IF ROB LOWE IS OFFERING HIMSELF TO YOU, YOU NEVER SAY NO.

Ok. Off to bed. Speaking of ill-advised, I might feel that way about this post in the morning. There may or may NOT have been some glasses of wine involved. Either way, welcome to a new week.

Because I like my legs...

Dear Powers That Be In the Fashion World,

I get it. You clearly hate women. Otherwise, why would LEGGINGS STILL BE IN VOGUE AFTER SEVERAL SEASONS? Will they not die? Will the damned hipsters stop flocking to American Apparel and buying them in bulk? PLEASE?

I was a child of the 80's. I remember wearing (nay - ROCKING) The Leggings ancestors, The Stirrup, with a bright-assed draw string top. Usually from, say, the Limited. After a while, the stirrup was dropped in favor of lace, zippers and other accouterments...and I find that these hideous things are back. And they are shiny, and sometimes liquidy, ripped up and being touted as the only thing you'll need to get through fall and winter. Really? Do they come with a liposuction coupon, because I fail to see the allure unless you have Gisele Bunchen's legs, and last time I checked, you couldn't purchase those on the Internet.

I respectfully decline to participate in said trend. Why would I put on something by choice that is just going to make me hate my thighs? They are nice thighs. They get my from point A to B and don't need to be shoved into something that is akin to sausage casing. I just refuse to insult them thusly.

So suck it. Especially that designer that came out with a pair of leggings in Gold Lamé and then went on to describe them as neutral. They go with everything! Pardon me, sir, but are you retarded?

Sticking to my straight legged trousers,

J

There's something about men in skinny jeans with ill advised facial hair that I just can't get behind

So my phone has been out of commission since yesterday. I was late to Zumba! and left the house without a water bottle which is IMPERATIVE since I sweat enough that once, after class, I was at the market and the check out guy asked, "Oh, did you just go swimming? And what smells?" I scrounged around in my car and unearthed a water bottle from ought nine that didn't have any suspicious floaties in it. So! Score!

I arrived at the studio and grabbed my bag as I ran towards the entrance. Something felt queer, and I looked down to notice that my entire left side was wet and that there was liquid leaking out of the bottom of my purse. The water bottle. The lid had come undone and the contents were now giving my wallet, iPhone, iPod and some assorted lip glosses a free swim. They looked like they were having a good time down there, floating around in the pool of my bag. They just needed mai tais and a beach ball and it would have been a party. I tried to play it cool, but actually was having one of those fucking huge internal crisis' since this isn't the first time I've done something like this which resulted in my frying out several (phone, iPod, camera) pieces of electronica and having to endure endless conversations with creepy IT people who immediately run you through the reboot/unplug/restart gamut when you've already done that three times BECAUSE YES YOU HAVE AN ELEMENTARY GRASP OF ELECTRONICS AND I DON'T THINK THAT HOLDING DOWN THE START BUTTON FOR A LITTLE WHILE LONGER IS GOING TO SOLVE THE PROBLEM OF MY HAVING ACCIDENTALLY DROPPED MY ENTIRE PURSE INTO THE TOILET.*

I squatted down on the stoop of the dance studio, removed all of the soaked contents and poured about 24oz of water into a nearby bush. The iPhone protested as she had been enjoying a vigorous back-stroke and immediately went to a black screen to show her displeasure. Whore. I dried everything off as best as I could, meaning I wiped it all against the dry seat of my pants, and went into class. My heart really wasn't in it as I spent most of the hour thinking about the sanctimonious boobs over at the Genius Bar who would cluck-cluck at me for allowing such a silly thing to happen and then demand my firstborn in exchange for a new phone. My hip swivel suffered. My teacher came over after to compliment me on not giving in to heart failure during class and when he saw me bent over my pile of sopping wet things and coo'ing to my phone to please stay alive he said, "Oh! You should NOT have gotten that wet! That's bad!" I think I yelled something like, "AAAARRRGGGHBLAH!" And then I kicked him in the back.

I came home and spent a long while in prayer and mental bribery (I will stop yelling "DOUCHEBAG!" whenever I see a hipster fly by on a fixie if you'll make my phone work!) while shooting warm air from the dryer into what I imagined to be the business end of my phone hoping that the moisture would evaporate and bring the innards back to life. Instead, I got a limp response - a quick flash of light which I interpreted as something akin to "Meh," and then the screen would resume its plunge into the inky maw of death. What ensued then was a lot of crying and screaming from me. Then I think I blacked out. Hard to say.

This morning I woke up and ran to my phone which I had tucked in with baby kittens and angels. It lay there blankly, mocking me with its blankness, all blank. I plugged it gingerly into iTunes. Your phone it in distress! Let's restore its factory settings and see if we can't save it, shall we? Oh please oh please oh please.

So I restored it.

Your phone is in distress! Let's restore its factory settings and see if we can't save it, shall we?

Fuckity fuck fuck fuck. This happened four more times until I finally gave up and drove to work, feeling utterly cut off from the world. I actually had to WALK UP TO THE FRONT OF THE STUDIO TO CHECK MY EMAIL BETWEEN CLIENTS. I nearly sprained an ankle. I wondered how fast the payment turnaround was for selling a kidney so that I could afford a new phone. I felt ill.

I crept back to my phone as soon as work was done, thinking that perhaps in my absence it had sprung to life and would be engaging in a lively game of bridge with my computer, but still nothing. I plugged it into iTunes again. One last shot before heading to the Apple store and! BEHOLD! IT CAME TO LIFE! RESTORED! LIKE MAGIC! There was much rejoicing. I kissed the dog. (She still won't come near me.) BUT! I can once again check Facebook while I'm in the bathroom!

Down side being that I have to stop making fun of hipsters. Almost not worth the trade. Douchebags.

*AFTER it had been flushed, thankfully.

Question

Does anyone else out there who uses Blogger notice that publishing has been a huge problem lately? Like, you'll write an entire post, hit "publish post" and get this really weird error message? Because this has been happening often enough that I've lost my voice from screaming and am considering moving to another provider.

Either that or I'm going back to stone tablets.

Leporsy! It might have been leporsy!

How's everyone doing? Good? Great. I know I'm not updating as much as some of you would like...I'm trying to figure out how to juggle the blog along with other professional obligations and also the rest of my life. Not to mention it's gorgeous outside and I want to roll my naked body in sunlight and warmth before fall steals it away. You understand, right? Of course you do. Except for you. And you can just suck it.

So last week I finally came home from my thousandth trip down to SoCal. This time it was for wedding planning, and it was the most wedding-plan-iest five days ever. The sheer volume of things that we GOT DONE was staggering, but I won't go into detail as I'm sure at the mention of the word "wedding" most of the men who read this started to nod off and think of boobies.

By Monday I had reached a state of exhaustion so profound that I was unable to do much more than gum baby-food and drool politely as I listened to my mother take every possible opportunity to announce how WARM we were at all times due to the relentless HEAT. I knew it was time to go home. I was dropped off at the airport and made my way through security and to the gate without incident which, if you are a regular reader, you know requires a simultaneous act of God and Congress.

It was a late afternoon flight on Southwest meaning that only half of the flight was full. Lovely since it would ensure that I didn't have to sit next to anyone. I boarded early and secured an aisle seat in the seventh row which is important because, ahem, access to the toilets. Minutes later I had my nose buried in my magazine and was startled to feel a hand on my shoulder. I looked up to see a woman and her mother standing in the aisle next to me. I didn't actually see much of the mother who was swathed in robes made up of enough fabric to hide a small herd of goats. The daughter was in her 40's and emanated the unmistakable smell of BO and cumin. In a heavily accented voice she said, "May we sit in this row?" I looked back at the yawning mass of empty seats behind me and said, I'm sure frantically, "Wouldn't you like more room? To sit in a row with no one in it?" "No," she replied, "we'd like to sit here. She kept her hand on my shoulder and I noticed that her forearms were covered with an odd and painful looking red rash accompanied by a few open sores. I involuntarily itched my own and gagged slightly. (I am from a fundamentally over-hygenic family. I grew up in a house of unquestioned daily showers, weekly nail clippings [outside. OUTSIDE!] and twice-sterilized needles for splinters. Wounds of any sort were scrubbed and then addressed immediately with heavy bandaging, prayer and the threat of disembowelment if any fluid of any type leaked onto my mothers furniture or linens). Not wanting to be a jerk, I prepared to get up and make room for them to sit.

I stood to allow the mother to pass through while the daughter held up the rest of the passengers and she loaded their obviously heavy luggage into the overhead bins. I couldn't move as I was wedged between the mother who for some reason wouldn't pass and the daughter. The mother held onto my arm with one of her leathery hands and gesticulated at me, obviously unable to speak English. "Yes, you can pass," I said to her, pointing at the window seat. But she kept pointing at my seat. Confused, I said, "I'm sitting there. MINE." The stewardess, impatient as she had been trying to help the daughter maneuver their unwieldy luggage overhead said with some impressive volume, "YOU ALL NEED TO SIT DOWN...NOW." The daughter, sweat beading on her upper lip, whispered something to her mother and they shuffled into their seats. I was about to reach down for my purse and things so that I could move to an empty row but was stopped by the stewardess who said, "I'm sorry but we're running late. You need to take your seat." I whimpered, looking back at all of the empty rows behind me and sat down next to the daughter. The smell of cumin was overwhelming. Her forearm touched mine. I thought I felt my throat start to close up.

They were conferring with one another in hushed tones and as the flight attendants began the safety check the daughter turned to me and said, "My mother would prefer your seat." I just looked at her blankly. "Your seat," she tried again, "she would like to sit there." I didn't really know what to do with this information as I too wanted to sit in my seat - that's why I had chosen it in the first place. Suddenly, the mothers earlier hand gestures made sense. I replied, "I always sit on the aisle. If your mother wanted a similar seat, you should have moved father back into the plane." She turned to her mother, presumably to break the bad news and what came out of her mothers mouth was language so loud and so painful that I imagined the sounds to resemble what might issue forth from a pig being run through a wood chipper.

So I put my headphones on. And went back to my magazine. GOD. 80 minutes to go.

The plane took off. After it had leveled (at which time I was going to switch seats) the pilot came on to inform us that there would be prolific turbulence and to stay seated unless there was a dire emergency. I must have inadvertently killed a unicorn in a previous life as I was now convinced that God hated me. 70 minutes to go.

Apparently "turbulence" doesn't translate well as the daughter decided that this would be an excellent time to give herself a manicure. The only mercy was that the smell of the polish overpowered that of her body and I started to think that perhaps slipping into a chemical induced coma would at least make the trip go by faster. I looked on in disbelief as she swabbed away, often missing the nails entirely due to the bumpy ride. The effect was that she had been finger painting at a whore house. The stewardess came over after her left hand was done and said, "People are complaining about the smell. You need to put that away. Now." More earsplitting conversation between the two women. The daughter scratched at her infected forearm and flakes of dry skin floated between our seats. I wondered what it would be like to die of anaphylactic shock. Was my will in order? 52 minutes to go.

The attendant left and after approximately 8 minutes, out came the nail polish again. She'd made it to her middle finger when the turbulence really set in and she lost control of both bottle and brush. The bottle slid elegantly across her table and landed, open end down, into her purse. HA! BUT! THE BRUSH! It flew gently from her fingers and in a delicate arc landed first on my bare thigh and then slid down my calf, leaving a trail of bright red polish before disappearing into the depths. This didn't seem to bother her in the slightest since she was more concerned with the contents of her purse which she was spreading out all over her tray table, smearing polish as she went, giving her area the look of a mini crime scene. BUTMYLEGOMYGOD was covered. The stewardess chose that moment to come back our direction, perhaps lured by the pungent smell of nitrocellulose and disobedience. She assessed the situation in one disdainful look and said, "PUT THE POLISH AWAY NOW." She turned to me and said, "I'll be right back," and returned moments later with a rag soaked in something. "It will take the polish off in one wipe," she said. I swiped successfully and then handed it off to the daughter who took it from me and said, "Where is my brush? It came to you, yes?"

Indeed. 30 minutes to go.

The "fasten-seat-belts" light finally went off and I was able to escape for a few moments to use the restroom. The water in the tiny sink didn't reach a point I thought scalding enough to wash my arms with and so I sat on the closed toilet seat for a few moments longer than necessary wondering if I could sustain a landing here in the bathroom. Someone knocked. I returned to my seat. The daughter had commandeered my magazine. I said nothing, especially after she put the magazine on her tray table and leaned onto it with her arms. I'm sure I heard the magazine weep. 13 minutes to go.

We landed. Thankfully. I pulled pulled out my phone as the plane taxied to our gate to turn it on. The daughter turned to me and asked, "What is the time, please?" I resisted the urge to shout, "MOTHERFUCKING COCKTAIL HOUR!" and instead answered her question. She reported this to her mother who gesticulated towards me wildly and screeched something at her daughter. She turned back to me and said, "We need to use your phone."

"Why?" It seemed like a pretty reasonable question, but she looked at me as though I had just run over a baby.
"My mother would like to call my father back east to tell him that we have landed safely, yes?" she said, reaching for my phone.
I pulled it out of her reach reflexively. "No," I said. "There will be payphones on the concourse. I'm not comfortable with you calling on my phone long distance." I had just spent the last 90 minutes praying for the sweet release of a stroke or teleportation. Allowing her mother to all on my phone long distance would require at least a drink. Or heroin.
"You are terribly unkind," she said with a grimace. She scratched her arms.
At that moment the man in the seat across the aisle who had heard this exchange leaned over and said, "She isn't unkind. She's sat patiently next to you for this entire flight. You've made everyone around you completely miserable. Let her be."

I almost French-kissed that man right then and there, but we had reached our gate and I couldn't get off of that plane fast enough. I ran through the concourse to the closest ladies room and washed every bit of exposed skin with hot water and soap. I then hyperventilated into a toilet seat protector.

I later relayed this story to my mother who was still pool side in San Diego. After a long pull on her iced tea she said, "Well, the Lord was looking out for you since you didn't contract her flesh eating disease. It's SO HOT HERE. Open some wine. Or bathe in it. Alcohol is a great disinfectant. DID I MENTION THE HEAT?"

Next time I travel, it's by blimp.

Some things never change.

I touched down in San Diego with my parents yesterday and the first thing out of my mothers mouth was, "OH! We need to go to the store to buy some of that powder so we can, you know, poop!"

The bands back together! It's always good to know I can count on "regularity" being a part of my weekend. Right after "laughter" and "possible girth increase due to too much food." But I brought my Official Eating Pants, so all is well.

Have a great weekend, everyone!

Someone needs to get engaged so that I don't perish from boredom in December.

Back down south I go to help my niece plan her wedding! Did you know that EVERYONE is getting married this year? Well, really only two couples. But it seems like EVERYONE since each week up through November has some sort of wedding related activity assigned to it and doesn’t everyone realize that I need my SLEEP?

The weddings are going to be gorgeous, sweet and emotional (read: OPEN BAR) the way good weddings are supposed to be. But I had forgotten since my own years ago how much work it takes to get the bride down the aisle. Either I was a particularly lazy wedding participant or just drank to forget. It might actually be a combination of the two as evidenced by the album. I’m sitting down a lot with a glass of wine in hand, so draw whatever conclusions you may.

Come my nieces wedding right before Thanksgiving, I know I’ll be tired and probably only have the energy to sob something incoherently into the wedding video. But the next day, once the last table is broken down, the candles put away and I locate whatever pair of shoes I’m sure to lose in the shrubbery, I know I’ll feel glum like you do after Christmas and wonder what it is that I have to look forward to. But in the meantime, it’s good to be surrounded by so many declarations of love.

Zumba!

I’ve had a membership at some sort of gym for, like, ten years. Twelve years, maybe. A long time. But for the past few years, I’ve had a rather spotty relationship with cardio. Given my profession – that of bossing people around until they are in shape – one would think that I would LOVE cardio. But with my health condition, I would start running or get on the elliptical or whatever and could usually take about ten minutes before I would start whining the Lord’s Prayer and wonder if going up a pant size was really such a bad compromise given my heart was about to explode. I would quietly get off whatever machine was causing this reaction and rub it enthusiastically with my middle finger until I felt better.

So I hadn’t darkened the door of any gym other than my workplace for a while. And then someone whispered the dulcet tone of “Zumba!” in my ear. I heard about it from a client – a person who sees me regularly but has a pathological aversion to cardio and hadn’t driven by her gym in half a decade. She takes an "all or nothing" approach to exercise - years of lying on the couch punctuated by brief spurts of rabid workouts that leave her unable to walk for weeks at a time.

But! She had heard of this thing called Zumba! which sounded fun and was at a local gym that also had a full service spa, all kinds of saunas, granite counter tops in the locker room, and... like, some other gym shit, I don't know. Mats or something. Wooed by the fancy interior in a weak moment, she decided she would try Zumba! but did not want to undergo this particular type of self-flagellation alone. So she called me! Her trusty trainer who is always saying, “BITCHES! If you want to fit into your skinny jeans for GODS SAKE do your cardio!” knowing all the while that I was full of shit since my own routine consisted of three minutes on the stair stepper followed by some heavy drooling and a collapsed lung.

"We're going to go," she told me over the phone. I heard her opening a bottle of wine in the background. "Because I don’t want to make a fool out of myself alone and you might actually look more retarded than I do while dancing."
"Ass," I said. What she didn’t know was that in taking my new medications, I had suddenly found myself full of energy and able to run without my heart exploding and leaking out of my eyes. Well-played, modern science!

We went on a Wednesday night. The instructor was a gorgeous man who looked Latin but was actually Vietnamese. Strange, I know. Gleaming women who were 98% perk and 2% insanely good hair surrounded him. They were unreal. These chicks could have karate chopped me in two using only their triceps with a little help from their hair. The instructor smiled at my client and me and she said, “Fuck. No one told me he was going to be hot. We should just go to the sauna.”

"Uh, no," I spat wetly. “If you dragged me here, away from The Rachel Zoe Project, we are going to do this.”

In we went. The room was packed. I stood next to a woman who reeked of coconut tanning oil and was the exact color of an armoire I had at home. Burnished, if you will. The music started and our instructor, the hot Vietnamese/Latin man started dancing. And HOLY HELL could he MOVE.

And, I found, so could I! I had no idea that my hips had that kind of range of motion completely independent from my upper body. Apparently I missed my calling as a salsa dancer as the instructor kept coming up to me and yelling to everyone over the music, “WATCH HER. SHE HAS A SPECTACULAR CENTER!” And he would kind of roll his r’s in that way that I cannot (even though most German words require it so I sort of end up spitting at people a lot when speaking that language). Regardless, I was elated! Yay! My center was spectacular! And so far, my lungs were staying inflated.

My client’s lungs? Well, not so much. She reported later that most of the class was a blur since the only oxygen getting to her brain was coming in through her ears. The hour was much of a red haze except when she would inadvertently smack her hand into someone’s face and turn to apologize, only to realize that she had run into the wall, unclear as to how she had traveled so completely across the room. She had started standing the class standing next to me, but by class’s end I had to make my way through the crowd to find her where she was bracing herself up against a Fichus tree, trying to find her dignity, which had fallen out some 45 minutes back during a rather complicated box-step.

The instructor came in for a meaningful high-five and rolled his r’s through some sentences about how great it was to have us at Zumba! and how he was so impressed that someone who had never taken dance classes had such hip control. This, I assume, was aimed at me since my friend had turned grey and was holding a heated and one-sided conversation with the Fichus that went something like, “FUCK CARDIO, FUCK CARDIO, FUCK CARDIO.” She then turned to me and said, “Do you think they have a bar here?” This was our cue to leave.

We were talking about this while I had her on the reformer the other day. It had been over two weeks since she had shared the meaningful high-five with the hot Zumba! instructor. She informed me in no uncertain terms that there was no way she was going to set foot inside of that building again despite their granite counters and saunas. She was afraid for her health. “Shit, I thought I was going to throw up half way through! I probably would have lost some weight THAT way, at least.” I reminded her that THAT kind of solution is called bulimia.

"So you’re never going back, even though this was your idea in the first place?" I continued, starting her in on some abdominal work.

"No. Unless they play The Real Housewives on the big TV’s and allow napping on the mats and I can make fun of you and your magic hips during class, I’m out. And just so you know, you’re an ass for holding out on me. I didn’t know you were all HEALED and could bounce around like that for an hour without exploding. You need to be hobbled.”

That's what she gets for bringing me with the sole intention of having me look like a bigger moron so her moron'ness would be hidden. The healing part of science rules. Suck on THAT.

Seriously. PULL OVER.

One of my favorite things to do is to pull over and make way for a firetruck. I have ample opportunities to do so, given that our backyard shares a fence with a firehouse and they come flying down our street frequently. But there is something imminently satisfying about hearing the sirens behind you and moving over so that the trucks can go by, presumably on their way to save someone.

Perhaps it's because I will never be a doctor, or an ambassador for the UN or cure cancer. At the very least I can make way for those who run into scary situations to save others while the rest of us line up on the side walk and quietly pee our pants. So I'll happily pull to the side of the road when the need arises. Oh, and yell, "ASSHOLE!" at those who don't*. In the name of public service, you know.

*I may or may not have done that on the way home from work today.

GREAT Sauvignon Blanc, by the way.

Mom: I’m so sorry about the wine.
Me: Why? It tastes fine to me.
Mom: Well, the label is a bit scandalous, you know.
Me: You mean the naked women? Psh. I don’t think that’s going to give anyone a boner over dinner.
Mom: JENNIFER. WE DO NOT SAY THAT WORD.
Me: Really? I do all of the time. You should try it.
Mom: How am I related to you? I actually tried to tie a ribbon around them so we wouldn’t have to look at their bosoms.
Me: And what happened?
Mom: I don’t know. It wouldn’t stay on.
Me: Just look at it as an anatomy lesson of sorts.
Mom: I don’t really want to look at anyone’s anatomy over my pork chops.
Me: Well, we’ll put the bottle in front of one of the men, then.
Mom: NO! It will make them think lewd thoughts!
Me: I’m not sure the women on the label are representative of anyone’s particular “type". Though most men DO like a woman with a tush, and they seem to abound here.


I felt confident no one was going to start fornicating over the main course because of some rubenesque women frolicking along a label. Perhaps it was all of the wine I had already had. Hard to say. Regardless, we brought the bottle to the table, where immediately one of the men went, “BOOBIES!” to which my dad replied, “WHERE?” And then, to my mother’s mortification, we entered into a ten-minute conversation about everything that she tries to avoid speaking about in her life, namely sex or the mention of hoo-has (which is polite code for VAGINA). The men were enthusiastic. My mother wept into her shirtsleeves. I pulled my shirt up over my head and waved my arms around to distract everyone, which didn’t work. There were naked ladies on the table, after all.


And yes, this is a normal family gathering at my house. Next time, there will be film.

Situation

So, remember how I once wrote about collecting a stool sample when I was in the midst of getting diagnosed with some health stuff? (Update: since then, I have been unable to enjoy fries.) That whole post came back to me in frightening detail this weekend.

Because we went camping.

Which, you see, only brings this to mind because high on the list of Things I Will Not Do is poop in the woods. Also on that list is Work With Only Women, Wear Capris and Eat at a Restaurant That Has Pictures of Their Food on the Menu. Take note, please. The list is laminated, ergo, non-negotiable.

Camping means several things. It means seeing things that no one else gets to, not bathing, waking up with the sun and having breakfast while looking out over 12k peaks, and dodgy bathroom conditions. Generally, I'd rather go behind a bush given the state of most national park toilets, the conditions of which are better left undisclosed. And this is fine. Pee'ing poses few problems, the largest one being the inadvertent exposure of your backside to complete strangers. But at that point, you most likely haven't bathed for a day or two and so mooning someone who wouldn't recognize you in polite society doesn't really leave an emotional scar.

However, if you have more pressing business to attend to, the kind that you would prefer a stall OR four walls and an advanced kind of ventilation system for, then nature is a cruel bitch. Not only will you not EVER find sufficient cover, but one must also come prepared with a trowel and toilet paper to bury not only whatever you leave behind but a good portion of your dignity as well. As I discovered from my fry tray incident, there is never a good time to deal with ones own poop. It just serves as a very unpleasant and pungent reminder that no matter what state of life you're in, you can't get away from your own shit.

But back to camping, my rear has always cooperated with me and stopped all evacuation type business when we go away on these weekends where I may not be able to find a toilet. It knows that I would rather deal with bloat and minor discomfort. However, with my new medications and eating habits, I've been introduced to a new routine of startling regularity. I am the envy of all men. So while I was hoping for the familiar shut-down upon our arrival at Yosemite this weekend, my innards had different plans.

Day one was fine, as we were conveniently positioned near bathroom stalls whenever the need arose, but on day two, we found ourselves deep in the woods at a new climbing area which, sadly, did not include facilities. Why the park services did not anticipate my needs and haul a port-o-let miles into the back country is beyond me. I should write my senator about that.

I didn't think this would be a problem, given I had taken care of things hours before. Either my body was on a roll or I had consumed too much fiber that morning but familiar rumblings started some hours into the afternoon when we were no where near either a. leaving or b. spontaneously coming across a bathroom with sufficient amenities. So I had stern speaks with my intestines who were just going to have to PIPE DOWN since I was not going to hike off, dig a hole and make a deposit. It's on the LAMINATED LIST OF THINGS THAT SHALL NOT HAPPEN. Everything calmed down for a while and the afternoon went on with only an occasional protest from down below.

Everyone was nearly done climbing for the day when my stomach kicked into high gear, apparently having had enough of waiting. I realized that I was not going to be able to put off the inevitable for much longer and prayed to the Baby Jesus that people would be quick to pack up as we had a half hour march back to the car and excessive movement was only prompting my body to take care of things. Marc wondered why I sprinted down the hill, leaving our group behind as I made my way quickly to the car. I didn't want to announce the reason, hoping that he would just gather my situation via osmosis since he's aware of my newly found bathroom prowess.

We made it to the car and I said goodbye to our friends hastily, my mind on other things. I turned to Marc and said, "We need to go back to The Store NOW." The Store being a place that has a small restaurant, a gear shop and BATHROOMS and was also several miles in the opposite direction of where were headed. Marc, still not fathoming the gravity of the situation looked at me and said, "But wouldn't you rather get a head start and make our way out of the park?" I stifled the urge to kick him in the shins and whisper shouted, "IT'S NOT A REQUEST WE NEED TO GO NOW," at which, I think, he got the point. He even kindly sped through the Meadows which is not recommended given the very enthusiastic police who will pull you over at the slightest provocation.

With deliverance close at hand, I unbuttoned my pants as I ran across the parking lot to the ladies room, body-checking a small child who I thought might get there ahead of me. I was in no mood to wait. I met Marc back at the car, the relief registering on my face in a contented smile. "Seriously?" he said, "You couldn't just go in the woods back at the climbing area?" "You know my rule," I replied, settling in happily and looking for some celebratory music on the iPod.

He just shook his head and started the drive back home wondering, I'm sure, how I consider myself any kind of outdoors-woman without being able to take care of this most simple of tasks. But you see, I HAVE done it once before and almost didn't live through the episode, the horror being too much to ever recall or document...and then there was the incident of the fry tray. So really, it's not for lack of experience that I don't want to have to deal with my own shit in such an intimate way. You have to draw the line somewhere.