Friday, November 28, 2008
I think...
This was one of the best Thanksgivings ever. Yay, friends! Yay, great food! Yay, going to sleep off a turkey-induced coma! G'night!
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Random notes from Thanksgiving preparation
-We pick up The Bird from Baby Blues BBQ in Venice tomorrow. Oh, deep-fried turkey that I do not have to deep fry, how I love you so.-Whole Foods is insane the night before Thanksgiving.
-The plastic flamingo in our front garden is wearing a turkey costume.
-Every nook and cranny of our house is shiny-clean, and the entire place smells like a combo of lemon and cinnamon. It's cozy.
-Tomorrow we embark on a pie-making, green-bean casserole concocting, potato-mashing journey. Dinner is at 4. Wish us luck.
Monday, November 17, 2008
My husband is good at surprises.
This is what greeted me when I walked out the front door on the morning of my birthday:
Yes, that IS a bright, shiny Trek hybrid. Rock! Or should I say roll?
Yes, that IS a bright, shiny Trek hybrid. Rock! Or should I say roll?
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Why I love Los Angeles, Part I
This morning we went to free yoga in the park. I would like to point out that it's November, and I was definitely barefoot, wearing a tank top...and sweating. I love Los Angeles.(Photo credit salomon888)
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Cougar Cafe
Author's note: I am well aware of the fact that I haven't blogged in months. Getting married and a subsequent move halfway across the country, the realization that I would need to figure out an alternative plan for nursing school, and the fact that I needed to find a job all took up a bit of time. Excuses aside, I'm back; we're married; life is good. My blog style will be changing slightly - for now, I've decided to blog short snippets of real life, with the occasional profound foray into All Things Deep and Philosophical. Without further ado...
Today my dog jumped off a cliff.
To elaborate:
Today my ever-fabulous neighbor, Lanie, and I took our dogs to Runyon Canyon. Basically, it's a 134-acre off-leash park with a wide path that gradually climbs to the top of the canyon, affording views of downtown L.A., the Hollywood sign, and on clear days, the Pacific Ocean.
The pooches loved it. All was going swimmingly until Lanie's pooch, Calliope, found a stray tennis ball. My somewhat intellectually challenged dachshund, Badger, loves tennis balls. Now, we use the word "love" a lot - we "love" pizza, we'd "love" to take a nap. This does not compare to the way Badger loves balls. He loves them, pardon the expression, like a fat kid loves cake. He will do ANYTHING for a tennis ball. He proved it today when one of the dogs let the ball drop on an inclined part of the path.
The ball rolled over the edge - and Badger soared over after it. Just to give you an idea of this "edge" I reference, please see the photo* below.
See the path? Yeah. See the drop? Yeah. That's what Badger leapt from. The dog has a death wish, I swear. I turned around in time to see a flash of golden-brown fur flying down the slope...and then nothing. I was sure my dog had been eaten by a cougar. (An actual cougar, not a forty-year-old woman dating a twenty-year-old man. Although, now that I think about it, there are probably more two-legged cougars than four-legged ones at Runyon, and they really have no interest in dining on dachshund.)
We called. We cajoled. We started to draw a crowd at the top of the hill. Lanie began stripping off layers so she could dive down after Badger and Calliope, who had now decided to follow Badger down on a rescue mission. And then, in a moment that truly should have had musical accompaniment, (c'mon, Hollywood, where are you when I need you?) Badger and Calliope emerged intact from the brush, Badger with the hard-won tennis ball clamped in his jaws.
The rest of the Runyon trip was uneventful. The ride home was peaceful. Fierce was taken directly to the groomer for a wash 'n curl and is now a pretty, pretty princess. Badger has been asleep for the last six hours. Los Angeles? I think I love you. Tomorrow: My love/hate relationship with IKEA.
*Photo credit: Alain Demour.
Today my dog jumped off a cliff.
To elaborate:
Today my ever-fabulous neighbor, Lanie, and I took our dogs to Runyon Canyon. Basically, it's a 134-acre off-leash park with a wide path that gradually climbs to the top of the canyon, affording views of downtown L.A., the Hollywood sign, and on clear days, the Pacific Ocean.
The pooches loved it. All was going swimmingly until Lanie's pooch, Calliope, found a stray tennis ball. My somewhat intellectually challenged dachshund, Badger, loves tennis balls. Now, we use the word "love" a lot - we "love" pizza, we'd "love" to take a nap. This does not compare to the way Badger loves balls. He loves them, pardon the expression, like a fat kid loves cake. He will do ANYTHING for a tennis ball. He proved it today when one of the dogs let the ball drop on an inclined part of the path.
The ball rolled over the edge - and Badger soared over after it. Just to give you an idea of this "edge" I reference, please see the photo* below.
See the path? Yeah. See the drop? Yeah. That's what Badger leapt from. The dog has a death wish, I swear. I turned around in time to see a flash of golden-brown fur flying down the slope...and then nothing. I was sure my dog had been eaten by a cougar. (An actual cougar, not a forty-year-old woman dating a twenty-year-old man. Although, now that I think about it, there are probably more two-legged cougars than four-legged ones at Runyon, and they really have no interest in dining on dachshund.)
We called. We cajoled. We started to draw a crowd at the top of the hill. Lanie began stripping off layers so she could dive down after Badger and Calliope, who had now decided to follow Badger down on a rescue mission. And then, in a moment that truly should have had musical accompaniment, (c'mon, Hollywood, where are you when I need you?) Badger and Calliope emerged intact from the brush, Badger with the hard-won tennis ball clamped in his jaws.
The rest of the Runyon trip was uneventful. The ride home was peaceful. Fierce was taken directly to the groomer for a wash 'n curl and is now a pretty, pretty princess. Badger has been asleep for the last six hours. Los Angeles? I think I love you. Tomorrow: My love/hate relationship with IKEA.
*Photo credit: Alain Demour.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Accepts with pleasure
Here's a fun game - go ahead and Google these terms for me:
1. Wedding planning
2. Preparing for marriage
Just play along. Google them. I can wait.
OK, you're back? Good. I'm sure you noticed that your efforts were rewarded with roughly 7 million hits on search 1...and 300,000 results on search 2. This seems backwards to me. In wedding reception language, it's almost like serving the five-layer buttercreme-frosted cake before the demi-glazed duck. Putting the tulle-covered carriage before the white horse, even.
Where did we get the idea that Choosing a Dress That Will Flatter All Seven of Your Bridesmaids and Still Guarantee That You Will Look Better Than They Will! is more important than preparing for and maintaining what will surely be more important than Your Big Day - namely, the next 50 years of your lives?
This "big-day" mindset perpetuates the idea that is probably at the root of America's divorce statistics. I'm sure you're familiar with the numbers, but just in case - they're sitting right around 50%. Now, those surely don't apply across the board, but let's say (for the sake of argument) that they do. In that case, I hope you didn't engrave anything too couple-y on the toaster you gave Amy and Chad* last weekend, because odds are they're going to be in court disputes over who gets the good kitchen stuff sometime within the next seven years.
Could these divorce statistics stem from the fact that from the time we're little, we're fed a "happily ever after" mindset?
As women, we must sit around and wait for a man on a white horse (or at least driving a white Honda) to sweep us off our feet and away to a life of 2.3 children, a home with a white picket fence, and a perfectly housebroken Labrador. Gentlemen, I certainly hope you are both sensitive and manly, but not too much of either, and only in the appropriate situations. (Sensitivity is never appropriate while watching football. Manly behavior is banned while shopping for throw pillows at IKEA.)
Perhaps, as the Tom Robbins says, "we waste time looking for the perfect lover, instead of creating the perfect love." Maybe we should stop thinking that the ultimate display of love is a $125 bouquet of roses and a box of chocolate. Or let go of the delusion that when love ceases to be "exciting," it certainly must be boring. Perhaps we should learn to accept that the perfection of love lies in its ability to grow, adapt and evolve. Perhaps we need to remember -
"Love is the ultimate outlaw. It just won't adhere to any rules. The most any of us can do is to sign on as its accomplice. Instead of vowing to honor and obey, maybe we should swear to aid and abet. That would mean that security is out of the question. The words "make" and "stay" become inappropriate. My love for you has no strings attached. I love you for free.”
*Names are hypothetical and are not intended to imply misery or doom for any couple named Amy and Chad or variations thereof who may or may not have recently received an engraved toaster.
1. Wedding planning
2. Preparing for marriage
Just play along. Google them. I can wait.
OK, you're back? Good. I'm sure you noticed that your efforts were rewarded with roughly 7 million hits on search 1...and 300,000 results on search 2. This seems backwards to me. In wedding reception language, it's almost like serving the five-layer buttercreme-frosted cake before the demi-glazed duck. Putting the tulle-covered carriage before the white horse, even.
Where did we get the idea that Choosing a Dress That Will Flatter All Seven of Your Bridesmaids and Still Guarantee That You Will Look Better Than They Will! is more important than preparing for and maintaining what will surely be more important than Your Big Day - namely, the next 50 years of your lives?
This "big-day" mindset perpetuates the idea that is probably at the root of America's divorce statistics. I'm sure you're familiar with the numbers, but just in case - they're sitting right around 50%. Now, those surely don't apply across the board, but let's say (for the sake of argument) that they do. In that case, I hope you didn't engrave anything too couple-y on the toaster you gave Amy and Chad* last weekend, because odds are they're going to be in court disputes over who gets the good kitchen stuff sometime within the next seven years.
Could these divorce statistics stem from the fact that from the time we're little, we're fed a "happily ever after" mindset?
As women, we must sit around and wait for a man on a white horse (or at least driving a white Honda) to sweep us off our feet and away to a life of 2.3 children, a home with a white picket fence, and a perfectly housebroken Labrador. Gentlemen, I certainly hope you are both sensitive and manly, but not too much of either, and only in the appropriate situations. (Sensitivity is never appropriate while watching football. Manly behavior is banned while shopping for throw pillows at IKEA.)
Perhaps, as the Tom Robbins says, "we waste time looking for the perfect lover, instead of creating the perfect love." Maybe we should stop thinking that the ultimate display of love is a $125 bouquet of roses and a box of chocolate. Or let go of the delusion that when love ceases to be "exciting," it certainly must be boring. Perhaps we should learn to accept that the perfection of love lies in its ability to grow, adapt and evolve. Perhaps we need to remember -
"Love is the ultimate outlaw. It just won't adhere to any rules. The most any of us can do is to sign on as its accomplice. Instead of vowing to honor and obey, maybe we should swear to aid and abet. That would mean that security is out of the question. The words "make" and "stay" become inappropriate. My love for you has no strings attached. I love you for free.”
*Names are hypothetical and are not intended to imply misery or doom for any couple named Amy and Chad or variations thereof who may or may not have recently received an engraved toaster.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Celebratory weasels
This is a shallow blog. I'm just warning you - if you're expecting deep or insightful, click onward.
I am having my hair put up for our wedding. I'd debated doing it myself, and then remembered several key points -
1. I have semi-long, extremely thick, naturally curly hair.
2. It is August.
3. I live in Kansas.
4. Kansas + August + long, thick, curly hair = one potential giant ball of uncooperative frizz.
Thus, I have an appointment at a local salon in order to get the mass tamed, pinned, and otherwise coerced into submitting for the better part of eight hours.
I have my hair trial next Friday. I'd debated canceling said trial, and then remembered the last two times I had updos done by unknown stylists:
Stylist 1: I wound up with a French twist. I haaaaaaate French twists. (Disclaimer: this statement only applies to a French twist on me. Go ahead and twist away - I think they're gorgeous on everyone else.)
Stylist 2: I had what appeared to be an angry, lopsided weasel (ALW) living on top of my head.
In the hopes of avoiding an angry, lopsided weasel, I went ahead and kept the hair trial. In the event that I DO end up with an ALW, I'm hoping that between Lorenia, Atoosa, Brooke, and a big ol' pile of bobby pins the ALW can at least be turned into a weasel who's there to party.
I am having my hair put up for our wedding. I'd debated doing it myself, and then remembered several key points -
1. I have semi-long, extremely thick, naturally curly hair.
2. It is August.
3. I live in Kansas.
4. Kansas + August + long, thick, curly hair = one potential giant ball of uncooperative frizz.
Thus, I have an appointment at a local salon in order to get the mass tamed, pinned, and otherwise coerced into submitting for the better part of eight hours.
I have my hair trial next Friday. I'd debated canceling said trial, and then remembered the last two times I had updos done by unknown stylists:
Stylist 1: I wound up with a French twist. I haaaaaaate French twists. (Disclaimer: this statement only applies to a French twist on me. Go ahead and twist away - I think they're gorgeous on everyone else.)
Stylist 2: I had what appeared to be an angry, lopsided weasel (ALW) living on top of my head.
In the hopes of avoiding an angry, lopsided weasel, I went ahead and kept the hair trial. In the event that I DO end up with an ALW, I'm hoping that between Lorenia, Atoosa, Brooke, and a big ol' pile of bobby pins the ALW can at least be turned into a weasel who's there to party.
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