Check me, like, totally out:

http://shop.lomography.com/shop/

But this will only apply on Monday, May 22, 2006. After that, I'm just me again.

Speaking of me, I had a terrific time in Tahoe. Max's game is black jack. He knows about when to hit and when to stay, when to split aces and when to double against a ten (never, apparently). He's a good tipper and friendly guy, and truly seems to enjoy himself at the tables.

Then there's me. I like to play skee ball.

Our hotel had an arcade in it so I was happy as a clam. They had 2 mediocre pinball machines (Lord of the Rings--feh--and Batman, the one with half-naked Kim Basinger on it. Shudder.) and I played my first Dance Dance Revolution ever (did you know that a video game can "boo" and "hiss" at you?). But the skee ball was unreal. Something truly amazing took place in that dark room full of epilepsy waiting to happen.

See, I never play the end lane, it seems to squished for the wide range of skee ball motion necessary to dominate the game. I usually pick the lane second from the right. It's just my thing. But for some reason on Saturday, after about 3 games, I moved to the furthest left lane and after about 10 seconds, I realized what was happening. Every time the game started a new play, the points meter would instantly register 450, regardless of the actual points being scored, and the ticket dispenser would spit out 20 tickets. Now, my average game that day was closer to 240 (I never said I was good at skee ball, just that I like it) which is worth 7 tickets. After about 6 consecutive 450 ill-gotten point games, it dawned on me that my game card (tokens are so 2005) had about 2000 points on it, and one game of skee ball was worth 21 points. I could stay here at this wonderfully busted lane and play...a hell of a lot of games of skee ball. And "win" 20 tickets per game. I played for a while, but I kept getting really nervous. How could they not know that the machine was malfunctioning? Would they be suspicious when a 30 year old chick wearing Bermuda shorts and flip flops stepped up to the prize counter with a bazillion tickets? Could I get arrested for this? Which prizes would I choose in exchange for my morally questionable tickets?

I kept freaking myself out with these questions, and every so often I would leave the busted skee ball lane, feed my pile tickets into the automatic ticket redemption machine (counting your own tickets is so 2005) and go play mediocre pinball. But the lure of the Broken Skee Ball Machine kept calling me, and I returned to the Lane of Temptation again and again. It wasn't my fault the machine was malfunctioning. It was a victimless crime. Right? Right.

By the end of the afternoon, I had acquired 2,180 tickets. I had played 109 games of skee ball. I had hurled 981 heavy little plastic spheres at the funnel-shaped targets. I walked up to prize counter and handed my ticket count receipts to the 17 year old counter boy with the droopy expression.

Me: "Let's see..."
Him: "..."
Me: "Hmmmm."
Him: "..."
Me: "I'll take one yellow Care Bear."
Him: "OK."
Me: "And one purple Care Bear."
Him: "OK."
Me: "And one blue Care Bear."
Him: "..."
Me: "And the Monkey Care Bear, er, the Care Monkey."
Him: "..."
Me: "What is that one? A dog?"
Him: "Yeah."
Me: "I'll take that one. Oh, it's a lion. It's not a dog. It's a Care Lion."
Him: "Yeah, it's a lion."
Me: "And that pink one. The Care Elephant."
Him: "OK."
Me: "How many tickets is that?"
Him: "1,800."
Me: "I'll take the balance in Pop Rocks."
Him: "..."

And I left the arcade with 6 Care Bears and 8 packets of Pop Rocks.

And my arm is KILLING me.

Best. Tahoe. Trip. Ever.

Deal or no deal?

Oh boy oh boy oh boy

I'm really excited to go to Tahoe today. I could really REALLY use a little getaway, especially one that has 2 outlet malls on the way. This will be nice. Like a bite-sized road trip. I still really want to take that cross country road trip that I've been talking about since 1995. The one that goes through (in no particular order) Arches National Park, the Grand Canyon, Mount Rushmore, the South in general, the Great Lakes, Atlantic City, the Mississippi River, Deadwood South Dakota, Cedar Point Ohio, Pennsylvania, Yellowstone, Thousand Islands, Dollywood, and Graceland. Holy crap, that's going to be an awesome vacation. It will be the kind of vacation where we rent an RV, I think. It will be the kind of vacation where I spend weeks beforehand at AAA pouring over maps with handful of hi-liters and attraction brochures. How grand!

Not to take away from the excitement that a weekend in Tahoe so rightly deserves. The drive is going to be great, and the I've got a hankerin' for some black jack and a horseback ride. I know it's supposed to rain a bit this weekend, but right now it's still sort of muggy and warmish--good traveling weather.

I'll let John Darnielle tell you how I'm feeling today. He does it so damn well.

Noche Del Guajolote, The Mountain Goats

Eye eye, captain

Breakfast of Champions

Whoever it was that decided that there is any real difference between cupcakes and muffins doesn't hang out at Starbucks. Not that I'm complaining. I would never allow myself to have a cupcake for breakfast--well, not on a weekday anyways--yet this peach-honey concoction filled with super sweet blackberry jam is entirely appropriate for a Thursday at 9 am. It has to be. The little sign behind it said "Whole Grain Goodness." Damn it, it would unhealthy not to eat the sucker.

I know you've all been on the edge of your seats waiting to find out where we'll go for our little teeny tiny not-quite-vacation-get-away. We decided to go to South Lake Tahoe because it has everything: smokey black jack tables and gin and tonics, long banquet tables filled with fried foods and shrimp cocktail, bathrooms with televisions in them (I never noticed this television-bathroom phenomenon in Las Vegas or Reno, only in Tahoe. Hmmm.), plus a big beautiful lake and pine trees--everyone's a winner.

Everyone, that is, except you know who. Nobody cried, but there were many utterances of the F word in my parents' living room last night as the Sharks' season came to a close. The tears only came after all was said and done and our favorite bald color commentator announced that he will not be returning next year. Then everyone cried.

Somebody stop me

Do I really want to go to Disneyland over Memorial Day Weekend? Is it just the dumbest and most un-fun idea ever?

The driving forces behind the idea generation:

1) It's Max's birthday
2) It's our last chance for a vacation before The Move
3) That crazy lady from Clamhead is giving up her glamorous Disney lifestyle in order to move to pee-smelling SOMA (She's making the right decision, of course. Even pee-smelling SF is better than LA, no matter how it smells.) and ever since I read about it I've dreamed of living near Disneyland, which I kind of do
4) It's the happiest place on earth!

No place is the happiest place on earth during Memorial Day Weekend. There has to be a better solution.

Originally, I wanted to take Max to cowboy school for his birthday, and there's a one-day class in Elko, Nevada that looks pretty promising. Reno is halfway between here and Elko, so we could make it a fakey-Western road trip and play the Bad Livers and Willie Nelson the whole way there. Of course, that necessitates the eating of many ribs, and I'm still fighting this multiple root canal battle a bit.

But look how happy we were last time we went to Disneyland for Max's birthday:



But then again, Cowboy School...

Oh how I love a good vacation

And boy do I love the Sea Ranch. Not much to do there but nap. And knit. And nap. And nap!



Ozzy is quite possibly the best napping partner known to man. He even holds hands.



It's been almost a month since we went to the Sea Ranch, and seeing these pictures makes me want to go back, desperately. Of course, being outside in this weather--even if it's just walking to the lunch store and back--makes me want to spend a few days on a tropical island, too. In a hammock. And passing the Disneyland billboard on the way home from work everyday (well, until we left the city anyhow) has made me want to go back to Disneyland. Desperately. DESPERATELY. Seeing the trailer for Pirates of the Caribbean 2 last night didn't help, either. And here's some glorious free association you: Pirates of the Caribbean = Monte Cristo. We can thank Laura for that one. Apparently, the Blue Bayou restaurant inside the Pirates of the Caribbean ride has the best Monte Cristos anywhere. Unfortunately, even if I do make it to Disneyland before we leave for Ireland, the Blue Bayou--and Pirates of the Caribbean--are closed for remodeling. I guess I know what I'll be cooking for dinner this weekend!

To Jimi or not to Jimi

Referring to my previous post on Jimi Hendrix, I still haven't tried that song again. And I'm pretty sure that the longer I wait, the less of a chance there is that I'll actually like it. We'll see. I do plan to try it out. Maybe I'll add it to the list of things that I want to do this weekend while my parents are visiting my Grandma in Chicago.

For those of you who don't know, Max and I (and Ozzy and Nanna and Milhouse and Miru) have been living with my parents for the last 11 days. It's temporary, just until we move to Ireland. When plans had to be made, like giving notice to landlords and such, we were planning on moving in May. Things have gotten slightly, erm, sticky since then, and we may not be moving right away, so my lovely parents have graciously offered to host all 6 of us until we leave or whatever it is we do.

Anyway, when I was in high school and my parents would go away for the weekend, my to do list looked something like this:

1. Have friends over for stupid movies and junk food. Lots of pizzas. Make a huge mess.
2. Wake up. Cook breakfast. Make a huge mess.
3. Hang out and drink beer. Make a huge mess.
4. Repeat.
5. Spend 3 hours frantically trying to clean up a 45-hour mess.

How incredibly precious. Not that I miss high school, because I don't, but my to do list for this weekend looks more like this:

1. Come home form work Friday night. Watch Sharks game. Wish once again that the dogs could walk their own damn selves. Order pizza.
2. Sleep all weekend.
3. When not sleeping, do laundry, run errands, feed animals.

Although, it would be fun to have a party or a game night or something, just for the heck of it. "Hey, my parents are out of town! Let's get a case of beer and play Balderdash! But don't use any dishes."

Happy Birthday LDB

I remember when we first met and I thought 2 things:

1) Gosh, she's beautiful

2) Damn that cat is old

I miss Hickers because he got even older and eventually went to live in kitty heaven. I miss LDB because she continues to be gorgeous but lives so far away in Portland. Whenever she tries to leave, the people of Portland revolt and stop her from going. You see, they have no sun up in Portland so they need all the pretty people they can get. When one tries to leave, everyone gets all bent out of shape.

Enjoy your birthday! I'll have some Cold Stone for you.

This is the last Quick Post

Because I think I finally got it to do what I want it to do.

Quick POst

Quick Post

School is Cool

Rhonda and I are heading to the city in a bit to attend this month's NCBPMA meeting. They're going to be presenting a check to the winner of the 2006 Carol C. Butterfield Scholarship Grant--me! I'm going to use the grant money to attend the Stanford Professional Publishing Course in July which is really truly amazing. It looks like it's going to be a very intense, very jam-packed program full of tons of interesting speakers and attendees. I'm postponing my departure to Ireland until after the course; this is not something that should be effected by jetlag in any way.

The only thing that could make this better is if they hand me a giant cardboard check at lunch. Giant cardboard checks are much for fun than little paper checks. If they did hand me a giant cardboard check, would I have to write a giant cardboard thank-you note?

You could say that the secret ingredient is salt

Who put the "extra" in "extra super fantastic"? Me! Because jeez, this guy just did not seem super enough to me.

So what constitutes extra super fantastic? This (thanks, Scotty!). And this. And this!

The Dawning of a New Era

Well, it finally happened. After some hemming and hawing, I now have a website. It's on the internets even! No small thanks to Mr. Wait who has put up with my questions--some valid, most dumb-ass--for the past couple of days. He is a man who gives generously of himself to help those around him, less fortunate or not. A men among men, he is a hero to me.

So go, already!

And check back often, because I'm so totally going to town on that thing.

quick post

Like a spring-time-fresh horse and carriage

Soon I will be entering into the union of holy matrimony. As somebody may or may not have said, I guess I'd better learn how to cook.

It's truly terrifying! What are the basic rules of marriage? How should I behave? How should I expect my husband to behave? Thank goodness my friend LDB is looking out for me and answering all of my questions.

Please excuse me while I go and stick my head in the freshly cleaned oven.

The animals know that I'm leaving. They have been so nice to me, I can only deduce that they have ulterior motives. For at least 38 hours this weekend, there was a black cat lounging on some part of my person. The grey one even slept on the couch next to me while the black one was on my lap. Nanna has been extra super cute and cuddly, and Ozzy is barely taking up half of the bed. I can't imagine what they're planning, but I'm sure it will be gruesome.

The power outage on Friday evening prevented the garage sale from going down as planned, so here's your call to action: if I have something that you know you want, it's yours. Come and get it. This offer is only applicable to things that I no longer want; I don't want any smart asses stealing my computer or my Simpsons DVD collection. But feel free to take home some slightly used IKEA furniture or a book about Swedish Art History.

Anybody wanna buy a garage?

So if anyone finds themselves in the Duboce Triangle neighborhood of San Francisco tomorrow, stop by my extra super fantastic garage sale. There will be everything from DVDs to lava lamps to kitchen appliances to furniture to a talking Simpson's clock ("Weaseling out of things is what separates us from the animals. Except the weasel."). And tons of arts and crafts supplies. That's right, everything must go. We're moving next weekend on the first leg of the transatlantic journey that will henceforth be known as the time Deb & Max went to Ireland for a year and Deb fell in love with a sheep dog named Heidi and refused to leave her behind when it came time to come home and when Max tried to talk some sense into her she cried and cried and cried but eventually realized that 3 dogs and 2 cats is too many dogs and cats so she (reluctantly) left Heidi the sheep dog in Ireland and came home.

It will be unspeakably hard to live without my furry minions for the next year, but I plan to drown my sorrows in fish and chips.

Go Sharks! I'm looking forward to watching you wipe the ice with Nashville during the first game of round 1 of the playoffs tonight.

Back on track

It wasn't my fault. I blamed blogger, but it turns out it wasn't their fault, either. All I know is that I haven't been able to blog for a couple of weeks, but everything's back to normal now. Everyone can let out a sigh of relief.

Don't worry--nothing worth blogging about has happened in the last 12 days.

HA.

The Sharks are in the playoffs. My best friend is back from the Holy Land. The sun has been shining for 4 consecutive days. The wedding has been moved to points unknown--I'm pulling for EuroDisney--and on a date to be determined. My brother is gaffing for Sean Penn's new movie in Alaska. Holy crap, what hasn't happened in the last 12 days??

And, as promised, baby seals!



No, they're not dead. They're relaxing. And being cute. What else does a baby seal have to do, really? And happy upcoming birthday to another cute baby seal that I know. You continue to swim your way into my heart with your skillful use of flippers.

My dog ate my post

No excuses. Don't look back. Just keep on blogging.

Coming soon--pictures of baby seals!

It's already been brung--again

Oh, it's on.

Why do I love the teenage-competitive-sports-slash-coming-of-age-slash-feel-good movies? Beats the hell out of me. But it's not just Kirsten Dunst or Degrassi. OK, it's mainly Kirsten Dunst and Degrassi. But I'm really looking forward to this one. There simply aren't enough movies about competitive women's gymnastics.

The gypsy was right

Last night I fell into a peaceful, victorious sleep on my sofa during the final minutes of the Sharks' 5-0 blowout over the LA Kings. After the post game coverage, the special Bay Area sports channel went into off-the-air mode, where they show the DirecTV logo and play crappy music. But then something strange happened. After about 20 minutes, I slowly awoke to this deeply moving music, I would even call it soulful. It felt like a guitar was reaching into my chest cavity and squeezing my heart, simultaneously triggering every so-sweet-and-perfect-it-makes-me-cry feeling, and it was uncontrollable. The steady drum beat periodically exploded in a way that made the adrenaline simply rush through my body and I was ridiculously close to jumping up and actually shaking my booty--not an activity for which I am known. Then the drums settled back into the beat-keeping role while the guitar rose up and reminded me what passion feels like, dedication, faith, belief, optimism, wisdom--basically everything I felt when I was a teenager, when I still believed I could change the world. So imagine my horror as I slowly awoke to this crescendo of emotion and musical epiphany only to realize it was Jimi Hendrix playing Voodoo Child. You have got to be kidding me.

It's not like I don't feel passion for music anymore, and I am certainly inspired by music on a daily basis (ignore the fact that are playing Billy Joel on the office stereo right now). But emotionally inspiring music, for me, has the tight, energetic drumming of Dealership, the knock-you-down powerful harmonies of Mates of State, the melodic genius of Pavement, the lyrical perfection of M. Ward. And yes, the toe-tapping fluff of one Mr. William Joel. But I hate--nay, loathe Jimi Hendrix, Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd and the like. "Classic rock" honestly gives me indigestion. I'm not a fan of virtuoso guitar solos and lackluster lyrics like

"I’m a voodoo child, voodoo child
Lord knows I’m a voodoo child
Hey hey hey
I’m a voodoo child baby
I don’t take no for an answer
Question no
Yeah"

I mean, come on. I am also averse to the blues in general, and this particular song was obviously done in the style of the blues. So why did it make me feel as if a thousand angels were playing hacky sack in my heart? I have no idea. But I'm going to listen to that song again while I'm fully awake and see if it has the same effect. If it does, I'll refer to that feeling as the Jimi Hendrix Experience. 'Cause I'm super clever like that.

But it's a cozy lie, with a hood and a pocket on the front

I'm wearing my Blogger sweatshirt today. I feel like I'm wearing a lie.

All of the energy that I regularly use for blogging has been sucked up by just about every other aspect of life lately. Work, love, logistics, animals, responsibilities, hygiene, dental improbabilities--there's no energy left for reflection, communication, or pointy wit and sarcasm. Heck, there's barely energy to stay awake during Law & Order. I realize that it's a phase, and that life tends to ebb and flow just like anything else. It just sucks when it results in blog neglect.

To make up for it, I'll share this invigorating link that Rhonda found (of course she knew to share it with me). I've also got a theme song this week, which I will also share. Enjoy!

Husky/Shepherd/Silly Putty Mix

I found another really good use for The Simple Life yesterday. If you watch like 3 or 4 episodes in a row, you can almost let go of the anxiety and horror you experience when your crazy dog jumps out of your car and runs away.

It's OK, we found him. But not before I ran around Colma for 20 minutes in a pair of bowling shoes, clutching my cell phone, crying hysterically, and asking everyone I saw if they'd seen a big white dog. After a while I found a couple of police officers--obviously sent from god--who alerted the Colma, Daily City and South San Francisco police departments of the situation. They joined my own personal search committee, comprised of Miriam, Kate, Laura and Brian (We were just about to begin a friendly little bowling competition when I was alerted to the fact that there was a crying dog in a station wagon in the parking lot. When I went out to check on him, the original dog count had been reduced by one.). I was already beyond the point of loosing it when Laura and Brian called--they found Ozzy sitting quietly in front of a Walgreens about 4 blocks away.

Anyone here who can tell me how a 65 pound dog with a chest which is, at it's narrowest, 16 inches across fits through a 3 1/2 inch crack in the window wins a big, big prize. Apparently, he was motivated. While I was wandering around looking for him, I passed a cemetery (Colma is nothing but cemeteries--weird place) that was having some sort of odd celebration involving fire crackers. We couldn't hear the fire crackers from the parking lot at the bowling alley, but Ozzy's canine super hearing had no trouble distinguishing one of the scariest noises in the world, second only to thunder. Within 15 minutes of arriving at the bowling alley, he lost it and decided to use his other canine super power--contortion--to escape the evil noises.

Of course, Ozzy was just fine and dandy after all was said and done. I had been reduced to bawling, slobbering, mucasy mess--and poor Nanna was a witness to the whole thing; yet another reason cars are bad, bad, bad. I'm glad he's home safe and sound, but sometimes I want to chop his little doggie feet off. In a good way.

Record Breaking Sucks

Ah, San Francisco. The little city that could. Could what, you ask? Could deliver a totally sucky March, weather-wise. It's almost as if the city wants me to leave, and go somewhere where it doesn't rain as much. Hmmmm. Tastes slightly ironic to me.

I won't regale you with the details of my tooth saga, but I'm pretty sure that my whole mouth is turning against me. And here I was thinking that whenever I break my diet to eat pizza, I do so for the benefit of my mouth and all of the little taste buds that live in there, giving no regard to any love handles, thunder thighs or extra chins that may or may not be temporarily leasing space on my person. Well, no good deed goes unpunished, my friends. The great endodontic uprising of 2006 is upon us.

Fair Warning: Wedding Content

If you're sick of hearing me yap on and on about wedding stuff, stop reading now. Go shopping instead.

I tried on wedding dresses today. Of course I won't post pictures of the fairy princess fashion show here, but suffice it to say that I love me the tulle skirts.



That's 10 layers of tulle, netting and taffeta. Yup. Long live poofy dresses!

I've only scratched the surface

I was reading a friend of a friend's blog and apparently he blogs with something called Word Press. I know that to many of you, that sentence was not unlike "I was talking to a friend of a friend and he drinks something called soda." It's not like I haven't heard of Word Press, it's just that I started blogging in August 2004 with Blogger and I never looked back. Between Blogger and The Planning Shop's server, I've always had everything I've ever needed to blog, post pictures, songs, videos (sort of), links, etc. Sometimes I'd like to customize the look of my blog a bit more, but I have acute codephobia. HTML, HTM-anything. That stuff is like gobbeldy gook for the most part. Whenever I start to wonder what Word Press could do for me, or Movable Type or any of those other way cool sounding platforms, I take little peek at their websites then go running post hast back to the warm and safe arms of Blogger. So what if my blog looks a little, erm, un-customized? And so what if I basically only have one page of blog? If I had access to more than one page, there would be a page for each pet, at least page for wedding stuff, a page for travel destinations...it would just get out of hand. This is exactly how it works when I have a grand idea for an art project: "Oh, it will be great. I'll use the shadow box and that freaky dollhead I found in college and that glitter glue I borrowed from Alene and the pictures from that weekend we went tot he beach..." And then I make a mess and the project never actually gets done. But when I take a nice photo, put it in a frame and simply hang it, it only takes 5 minutes. And it looks lovely. And it gets done.

I'm still here

OK, you can all relax now. I'm much better, and back at work. Don't get me wrong, I'm not running marathons or anything. In fact, by the time I get home from work and feed the minions, it's all I can do to make it to the couch and watch the Simple Life (it's the season where Paris & Nicole drive around the country in a pink pick-up truck with an airstream trailer--lucky brats.). I am plain exhausted from all of this illness crap. But still, I can swallow without crying, and I can eat mostly solid food (dang root canal). This concludes today's update on Deborah's health.

Does it sound like I'm one of those "poor me, I was so sick I couldn't even complain about being sick" types? Because I swear I'm not.

This week at The Planning Shop we welcomed our newest team member, Maggie. Maggie is our new Managing Editor, and she's a real honest-to-goodness go-getter. Even in her first week, she's managed a ton of, er, editing. In fact, she's working so hard that I may have to stop watching slingbox at my desk and actually start working again. It will be a difficult transition for me because I'm totally hooked on those Volkswagen commercials where they "unpimp your auto." That old German guy creeps me out in *just* the right way. But I suppose I can manage. Besides, Rhonda is bound to ask me why I haven't actually left my desk in 3 weeks eventually, and if that has anything to do with our daily book shipment going from 20 to 0. I kid, I kid. I leave my desk to get more coffee all the time.

even woooooooooooooooorrrrrrrrrrse

I'm sure I would be complaining about the flu that Rhonda gave me last week, except I'm too busy complaining about the nasty case of strep throat that I caught the next day. But I'm on the mend now--I finally graduated from jell-o to poached egg last night. Now that's progress (cringe).

ooowwwwwwww

I'm sure I would be complaining about yesterday's root canal re-treat right about now ("Your tooth is so unique! It has 3 canals instead of two! Now hold still while I cram this long, pointy metal deal into your face."), except that I'm too busy complaining about the chills and body aches that this flu is giving me. Thanks, Rhonda! I can't say my boss never gave me nothing.

RAWR

Right. There's nothing like a weekend full of rain, hail, and cold cold cold wind. The only one who hates this weather more than me is Ozzy. And not just cause of the thunder. I suppose if I had to do my business outside, I'd be bitter, too. But then again, I don't wear fur underpants.

I watched just enough of Dirty Dancing on cable yesterday to get "(I've Had) The Time of My Life" stuck in my head all day. Also, I've had to fight the urge to respond to every question, comment, and random thought with "Nobody puts Baby in the corner." So far I've been successful. So far.

By the way, this is my new T-shirt.

Teeth: The gifts that keep on giving

I thought it was strange when my tooth started hurting. I had, after all, had a root canal done on this particular tooth not 2 weeks previously, and I had a crown put on just last week (and yes, of course I contemplated getting a platinum crown with teensy weensy diamonds in it). And a root canal removes the nerve. Oh, well, apparently the root in question has a micro-channel, which is of course undetectable by the x-ray. So tomorrow I get to have my root canal undone--oh joy--so I can go to a specialist who will take it from there. LUCKY ME. So excuse me if I seem grumpy or irritable. It's because I am.

After this is all over, I'm getting a massage.

I'm not a total spoiled brat. I know that this is no big deal. I know that if this is the worst thing that happens to me this year that I'm doing pretty darn well. Heck, at least I have roots for canalling. Still, I feel that I am within my rights by doing a bit of complaining, especially considering that I really hate going to the dentist and that I chose Gentle Dental for that reason. Not so they could gently explain to me that they have to undo the root canal they just did so that it can be redone. Plus, I have a cavity.

Just can't get enough Disney

Miriam *finally* uploaded her Disney pictures. That girl can really rock the sepia!



That's me at New Orleans Square, waiting for Bijan to buy his ridiculous hat.



Miriam was also able to capture some of the colors that really make me loooooove California.

They also make me wish--I mean really wish--it was summertime and not extra super cold freezing rain storm season. Nuts to March.

The Darker Side of Disney

I am, in many ways, a fool. I make impulse purchases both in stores and while shopping online. I procrastinate to the point of no return. I watch American Idol. Additionally, I make clothing decisions based purely on aesthetics with little to no thought given to comfort or the level of appropriateness. In regards to this issue, the pointy, pointy thorn in my side are my beloved favorite of all shoes, my navy blue converse low top sneakers. Great for wearing with jeans, skirts, bermuda shorts, what have you. Awful, and I mean AWFUL, for walking any sort of distance. Especially once you've been wearing them for a while and the soles have become paper thin.

I should have learned this lesson extremely well after walking the Bay to Breakers last year--in my converse. To be fair, we started walking at mile 3. Being the genius that I am, I brought the dogs along--and didn't think about how we would get back, as the Muni wasn't going to be a very dog friendly place post-race (think sardines in a can, then triple it). Total round trip: 9 miles in those damn shoes.

Oh but I didn't learn. Not the first time anyway. I wore those same beautiful, hurtful shoes to Disneyland. But by the afternoon of day 2, I was in podiatric hell. I decided to buy a new pair of shoes, even if all that was available were overpriced Nikes or something like that. Oh, if only they had overpriced Nikes of something like that! The only pair of adult shoes sold in Disneyland? Behold:



(And remember what I said about Disney characters.)

I wore the crap out of those shoes, and my feet were at least 35% more comfortable, making me at least 47% less irritable. But I forgive my converse. I still love them the most of all shoes. You'll see my feet in nothing but flip flops each summer, but every other time of year it's converse for me. I just don't learn. And now I have a pair of emergency Mickey Mouse shoes in the back of my car. Just in case.

Drag Queens--They're Not Just For Birthdays Anymore

The other, erm, fun thing I did last weekend was hang out with my good ol' college pal, Liz. And what better way to catch up and reflect on the old days than to have dinner served by a bunch of gender illusionists? Don't answer that.

As with any drag show, the best parts are the costumes and the music. Sparkles, feathers, platform stillettos (muh?), fish nets, show tunes, Britney Spears, Janet Jackson, Nancy Sinatra... But even better at this show were the patrons. Mostly out-of-towners and people celebrating events for with transgendered drag shows are appropriate (again, muh?), the facial expressions were 100% priceless.



Much to my surprise and pleasure, the owner of the joint could be seen milling around and chatting up the regulars. Needless to say, I can't wait for Liz's next visit.

One thing leads to another

Obviously, the internet is great for many reasons. This is one of those reasons. So is this. I spent a bunch of time over the weekend working on the design for our wedding invitations--and even more time being distracted by internet junk.

The whole wedding planning thing has kept me pretty busy. The Planning Shop has also become a whirlwind of activity lately, hence the lack of blog. If I'm too busy to blog in my spare time, and there's so much going on at work that I can't slack off and blog there, and I'm actually eating lunch at lunch time instead of blogging, the posts are bound to be fewer. It makes me just as sad as it makes you, I promise. I'll try to designate a tinch of my Law & Order time to more regular blogging (notice that I only said "regular," not "interesting" or "read-worthy"). Maybe I'll even slice off some of my Project Runway time. Plus, the Olympic break is finally over, and Sharks start playing again tomorrow. And we all know that the winninger they are, the blogginger I are. Am.

The power of Disney compels you!

It's so true. Every store, emporium, shoppe, kiosk... I bought loads of Disney crap.



I bought pens, candy, t-shirts, stuffed animals, shoes, baseball-mouse ear antennae toppers, squeezy skulls whose brains come out of their eye sockets--luckily for my friends and family, I hate Disney stuff. Everyone got lots of gifts. The power of Disney compelled Miriam as well:



It's a hard thing to reconcile, but I truly hate Disney stuff. And I absolutely LOVE Disneyland. I love Euro Disney. I would probably love Disney World if I'd ever been there. I love Space Mountain and Pirates of the Caribbean. Just can't stand the mouse. Or the duck. Or the dog that wears pants. Or the one who doesn't. I do have a soft spot for Stitch, though.



But the fake rocks and fake mountains and fake castles make me giddy--for reals! Everything at Disneyland is clean and well thought out and has high production value. Talk about getting your money's worth! I can't think of another cartoon character-themed amusement park where $119 would go so far. Three fun-filled, action-packed, park-hopping days! Totally worth it.

My Top 10 favorite rides from my Disneyland weekend:

1. Space Mountain
2. California Screamin'
3. Tower of Terror
4. The Matterhorn
5. Splash Mountain
6. Soaring Over California
7. Pirates of the Caribbean
8. Indiana Jones
9. Big Thunder Mountain
10. The Flight of Peter Pan

Note: The Haunted Mansion was closed, and we didn't ride the Sun Wheel or the Grizzly River Run, but those would have bumped 8, 9 and 10 off of the list for sure.

One weird thing about It's a Small World though, I'm pretty sure the 2 Israeli kids that were there in May 2004 were gone this time...

Slightly more stalker-ish

The List, Part 2

6. Belle & Sebastian, primarily Stuart Murdoch. Back in 2003, Belle & Sebastian were planning a 3-city US mini-tour (NYC, LA & SF) to support the release of their new album. They thought it would be fun to get a couple of fans in each city to organize a treasure hunt the week before the show and the band would present the winner with a special treasure chest on stage at the show. The band announced an essay contest on their website, and chose 2 winners in each city to run the treasure hunts. Having just done a treasure hunt for L's birthday, I felt compelled to enter the contest--and won! After weeks of hard work, my treasure hunt partner and I pulled off a treasure hunt that was so good that apparently it was too good--nobody found the final answer in time! So we were called up on stage during the concert (it was August 2003, at the Greek Theater in Berkeley), awarded with engraved medals AND a kiss on the cheek from Stuart (swoon), plus we got to hang out backstage with the band after the show. It was possibly the closest I'll ever get to becoming a hipster.

7. Jon Stewart from The Daily Show. The biggest and brightest of my Book Expo America celebrity meetings, this one took place in 2 parts. First, there was a Q & A breakfast session at BEA Chicago in 2004. Almost every single question was about politics, so at one point, I stood up and asked Mr. Stewart who he thought would win the Stanley Cup. Then he made fun of hockey. Plus, it was broadcast on CSPAN-2 (and more horrifically, it was Tivo'd by my dad who has shown it to everyone who's ever set foot in our house). I took the exchange as a personal insult and didn't watch The Daily Show for over a year. Now I can watch it again (especially after attending a live taping of the show while in NYC for BEA 2005), but my stomach still gets queasy. I learned a valuable lesson about putting myself out there for ridicule by TV personalities. Next, when Mr. Stewart was signing books in the exhibit hall later in the day (actually, he was signing blads--the book hadn't been finished yet), I said to him "You never answered my question. Tampa Bay or Calgary?" Just for fun, I put 5 bucks on his answer--and won $15.

To be continued...again...

Not in a creepy stalker way

It turns out that I have met quite a few famous people. By "met" I usually mean "stood in line at an independent record store for hours in order to get the autograph of." Sometimes, I also mean "had a phone conversation with." In one case, I even mean "scammed my way into interviewing them for a fake business magazine." Here's a list!

1. John Linnell of They Might Be Giants. It was, to this day, one of the best experiences of my life. I got his autograph after an unexpectedly less-than-crowded solo in-store appearance at Amoeba Records on Haight Street in 1999. And there were lots of pictures. I have a nice glossy 8 X 10 of us together; me leaning in as close as I could without frightening him, him leaning as far away from me as he could without actually standing up and walking away from me.

2. Stephin Merritt of The Magnetic Fields (and various other stuff). This one was pretty scary. In order to get into a sold out show at Bimbo's, I got on the press list as a reporter from a supposed small business magazine. I am so not a good liar. He smelled my fear, and it all went downhill from there. No autographs. No pictures. Just a stomach ache.

3. Marc Summers. We spoke on the phone when he called for Rhonda once back in the day. They were once on the same talk show to promote their respective books, and they remained friends. He has since sent me 2 autographed pictures.

4. Don Novello (AKA Father Guido Sarducci). A few years ago, he ran for governor of California. When we (shockingly) discovered that www.donnovello.com was available, we bought it and built a little "Don Novello for Governor" type of deal and offered it to him as a gift. He called to thank us, but informed us that he hadn't gotten enough signatures to make the ballot. Boo.

5. Just last Friday, I spoke with Kevin Smith on the phone. He was guest hosting the Sarah & No Name Morning Show, so I called in (first time caller!) and asked him what it was like to do a few episodes of Degrassi: TNG, and what it was like to kiss Caitlyn Ryan. I totally stole the show. Totally.

And I'm sure there are more. Perhaps a List Part 2 is in order.

Me too! Me too!

Wow. I've never been tagged with a meme before. What the hell is a meme? Oh well, I guess I'll just answer these questions.

Four Jobs I've Had
Personal Assistant
Sandwich Artist/Deli Engineer
Retail Clerk at a holistic vet's office
Everything Do-er for a publishing company


Four Movies I Can Watch Over and Over
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
Young Guns
Hello Dolly! (with Barbara Streisand)
Rushmore


Four TV Shows I Love to Watch
Arrested Development
Six-Feet Under
Medical Incredibles
Law & Order (all 3 varieties count as one show for this purpose)


Four Places I've Been on Vacation
Paris, France (Euro Disney!)
Banff, Alberta
Minneapolis, MN
Las Vegas, NV


Four Favorite Dishes
Bacon or anything with bacon in it
American cheeseburger classic pizza from Domino's (such utter crap, it's a good thing it's not available year-round)
Chicken Tikka Masala
Ravioli di Zucci with brown butter ancrispypy sage bits...


Four Websites I Visit Daily
The Planning Shop
Pink is the New Blog
Threadless
You Don't Have to Kiss


Four Places I'd Rather Be
Tel Aviv
Stockholm
Minneapolis
Portland


Four-ish Bloggers I am Tagging
Liz
Scotty
Jeff
I would have tagged Miriam, but her blog is a myspace blog and I don't support myspace blogs. They are crap.

How do they know they've been tagged? Do I have to send them tag-mails? Or am I supposed to assume they read my blog?

Back in the saddle and headed south

I have not been a good blogger lately. And I could give you plenty of excuses why--including, but not limited to, such great excuses as I had a root canal, I've had lots of stuff to deal with, I drank too much at Teatro Zinzanni on Saturday and am just now regaining the ability to form coherent sentences in my head, let alone type them into a blog--but I won't do that. I'll just say that I'm back in a blogging place because of 3 things:

1. The Sharks won their last 3 games--all against Pacific Division rivals--before the Olympic break.

2. I got beautiful Valentine's Day flowers delivered to me at work, complete with a card on which the sender's name was misspelled (if that doesn't make a body smile, I don't know what does).

3. I'm going to Disneyland this weekend! A totally spur of the moment, let's get up at 5 am and drive to Anaheim on Saturday type of plan hatched by my very favorite, Miriam.

All of this happy tingly stuff reminds me to blog about how happy and tingly I feel. I don't really enjoy blogging about how bad or sad I feel, except through the powerful mis-placed fear and sadness subject matter of weird and debilitating diseases and injuries like those high-lighted on the Discovery Channel and TLC. Which isn't to say that when I'm not blogging it's because I'm sad or anything; usually it just means that I'm super busy or just generally uninspired. So the mere fact that there's a new post on this blog today most likely means that I'm more happy and tingly than sad or upset, and that I'm more inspired than not. Good things to be!

Wednesday is for weeping

Hooray, Wednesday, my favorite day of the week. Except for when Wednesday means my car needs new brakes and I'm getting a root canal (like Ozzy! But who will spend the evening cuddling me while the anesthesia wears off?). So in light of that, boo, Wednesday, the stupidest day of the week. Boo.

Worst. Episode. Ever.

I've been such an absentee blogger lately. But I've got all kinds of good excuses.

Like on Friday. I spent the afternoon watching the longest, most boring episode of Law & Order ever. 3 1/2 hours of lawyers, plaintiffs, defendants, judges, bailiffs, and court clerks. 3 1/2 hours of questions, assumptions, bad excuses, head shaking and exasperated sighs. But where were the snappily dressed detectives, groan-worthy one liners and atmospheric "doink-doinks?" Worst. Episode. Ever.

Oh, wait. That wasn't an episode of Law & Order, that was jury duty.

I was actually excited that my group was selected to show up. I've been summonsed for jury duty 3 or 4 times before, but never got past the part where I call the automated system and am told that my service is not needed and that I'm free for another year. This time, on the 5th and last day, my group number was called. And for a minute, a was filled with some weird sense of patriotism and pride. I wanted to do my civic duty and help decide whether or not the freaky-looking skinhead on the judge's left was legally evicted. Not this time.

I celebrated with a fun-filled night of live entertainment and enjoyed the comedy stylings of Emo Phillips. Enough said.

And today? Oh, today was a joy on so many levels. I slept until 10 am with a furry black cat perched squarely in the small of my back (one last night of cuddling before the dreaded Advantage Day, after which meaningful cuddles are off limits for 3 approximately 3 days). And then: the Puppy Bowl 2! Last year Rhonda watched the Puppy Bowl, and when she reported on the canine escapades the next day at the office, there was not a small amount of laughter on my part. And as hard as it is to admit it, she was so totally right. This year, I Tivo'd the dang Puppy Bowl--and I watched it. All 3 hours. Including the Kitty Half-time Show. Does that make me crazier than I was last week? Cause I felt a little more crazy than usual by the end of it all.

Today was also doggie homecoming. My folks have been dogsitting since Thursday, and everyone was happy to have the pack back together. Everyone.



Besides, the Sharks are still sucking right now, and that always makes things seem less blog-worthy. But I have to work on that.

We are less of a loser

Hooray! The Sharks won last night, so I can blog today. Cheechoo even got another hat trick! But sadly, the game was not televised. Boo.

It's a bad idea, I know, for the girl who watches too many crime dramas and frets over traumatic head injury, but I've been watching the entire Six Feet Under series--I'm up to the last disc in season 3 (hooray for Netflix!). And it's really not so much about death as it is about inter-personal relationships and how different people deal with change. The death thing and the funeral home aspect are more like a back drop. But thinking about death and dying is unavoidable when you watch 3 episodes in a row. You become forced into thinking about the practical issues involved in dying, like cremation, which outfit you want to be buried in, what kind of ceremony you want to have and what kind of music you want involved in said ceremony. Not entirely unlike planning a wedding. And I don;t mean that in the obvious morose and disturbed way, not at all. Just in the practical event planning way. I mean, I picture wanting my funeral to be more like a party than a cry-fest, with finger foods and lots of dipping sauces, good beer from micro-breweries and plenty of comfy places for everyone to sit. Sure, when it comes time to actually plan such an event, I may see things differently. I'd like to think I'll be much, much older by then and have a firmer grasp on the importance of life and be less preoccupied with trying to create memories than with remembering the memories, so chances are I won't necessarily find a party-style funeral to be fitting or appropriate. But still, it's a neat exercise to consider these things, and not at all depressing or weird as you may be compelled to think. Besides, I'll loyally watch any show with any of the guys from Sports Night, even if it makes me think more about death than I'd prefer to. (Except Benson. Screw Benson.)

We are a loser

This latest losing streak the Sharks have been on has made me realize an unsettling correlation between the Sharks' record and my blogging record. When they loose, I can't seem to face the thought of blogging about their loss. I don't want to be one of those fans who gets nasty when their team is sucking; I don't feel like the Sharks owe me anything in particular (unless I buy a ticket, in which case they owe me a seat.). But it makes me sad to see a team so full of skill and potential play so poorly. Sad and disappointed and not much like talking about it. So that's all I'll say about that.

No pictures for a while

My beautiful Sony laptop is sick again. While it's at the hospital, I'm using my trusty old IBM laptop which, of course, is not on friendly terms with my Sony memory stick from my Sony digital camera. Plus, I've been taking an extended leave of absence from my small but respectable collection of Lomo cameras, so no blog pictures for a bit. There, there, no need to cry over it. It's only temporary.

I can no longer be trusted

Yesterday was a beautiful day to turn 30.



It was a beautiful day to spend driving around in L's convertible with the top down, walking the dogs at the Palace of Fine Arts, visiting the Presidio, making pigs in a blanket...hey, it's my birthday, I can have pigs in a blanket if I want to.

I think Ozzy had the best time of all.



I'm just glad I was able to resist the temptation to have a party a Chuck E. Cheese.

Gift Ideas

In case anyone is wondering what to get me for my birthday, I've come up with a few suggestions to make your life easier:

1. The gift that keeps on giving!

2. Everyone needs a box full of kittens.

3. Jet pack!

4. Hey. It could happen.

While I'm on the subject of birthdays, let's have a great big cheer for my great big brother, Paul! Happy birthday!

Hello, I Must Be Going

Back from Tucson just in time to spend a couple of days with my very best friend...then it's back to our transatlantic love affair. Sigh. Who ever said that absence makes the heart grow fonder--or anything romantic, for that matter--must have had a fiance who lived 10 time zones away. I've said it before and I'll say it again: thank goodness for hockey, my drug of choice.

And thank goodness for birthdays! I'm counting down to the one year anniversary of my 29th birthday, and the celebration begins on Friday!

Cactuseseseses

Seriously, they're everywhere!



Instead of trees, Tucson has cacti. I know, duh it's a desert. But as a first-time Southwestern US desert visitor, I'm pretty impressed. The stuff and brush I'm used to; both Eastern Oregon and parts of California are lousy with the stuff. But it's the gigantic, pole-like cacti that are just totally blowing me away.



I feel like I should be seeing a chuck wagon or Yosemite Sam or John Wayne or something. All of a sudden, I want to go to a rodeo.

One cson or tu?

The first thing I noticed about Arizona was that the cars don’t have license plates on the front. It was an odd thing to notice, but it really stood out to me. The next thing I noticed was just how deserty it is here. I’ve traveled to a number of different places to attend a number of different conferences, and most of them have been places I would expect to be desssrty-—Dallas, San Antonio, Palm Springs, Las Vegas (well, not Las Vegas—I know well enough that Las Vegas is a thousand other things before it’s a desert). Yet none of them were all that deserty. They were either far too urban or far too resorty. But Tucson—-now that’s a desert! Even if it’s only because it’s covered with those cactuses-—you know the ones.

I’m here for the annual USASBE—SBI conference. You know, the one where Rhonda and I karaoke-ed to “I Got You, Babe” last year. The one where I saw Mickey Rooney (and perhaps more noteworthy, a rock that looked just like Mickey Rooney). It’s hard to believe a whole year has gone by since then. And what a year! New York, Washington DC, Las Vegas, Israel…no wonder my arms are so tired.

The conference hotel is downright schmancy. These entrepreneurship folks sure know how to confer! Between the giant coolers of iced tea everywhere you look and smell of tea tree and lavender wafting in from the spa, it almost feels like I’m on vacation-—sure smells that way. I’ll enjoy my surroundings while I’m here; I’m cutting my trip a day short. L’s going to be home for a week-—just long enough to help me celebrate the one year anniversary of my 29th birthday-—and I can hardly wait to see him. I see a shoulder massage in his immediate future; that’s the perfect cure for jet lag.

It's the most wonderful time of the year

The Planning Shop's annual holiday party is always held notoriously late. We usually get our act together around April, before the craziness of Book Expo ensues. 2004's holiday party was finally held on January 7th, 2006--quite possibly a record for the longest put-off party.

Obviously, it was worth it.



We had such a great time! 10 Planning Shoppers and Planning Shop well-wishers out for a night on the town in North Beach! We saw Beach Blanket Babylon (punsters Rhonda and Mireille were positively giddy) and drank champagne like real socialites (the classy kind, not the Paris Hilton kind), then we hit Rose Pistola for a 4-course butter and garlic fest. It certainly wasn't the rock 'n bowl karaoke parties we used to have in the olden days, but it sure was fun. When you're a group as small and close as ours, the party goes where we go. Next year, I'm thinking party trolley...

105 dog minutes of fame

As a person who has a job and works with other people, I enjoy many varied perks. The people with whom I work know other people, and sometimes those other people are famous. I've got autographed photos on my office wall of Marc Summers (both Double Dare and Unwrapped versions), Gary Sinise, and Sarah Barrable-Tishauer. I've seen Wicked from the house seats twice. I interviewed Stephin Merritt when 69 Love Songs came out about what it's like to manage your own music career (that was a sham interview; I needed a way to get into the sold-out concert). Yes, working at The Planning Shop has proven to be a perk-heavy experience.

My taste for perks and fringe benefits ("Are you sure they're not French benefits?") began before I'd ever even heard of "Planning" or "Shops" or "books." Back in college when I worked for the holistic vet/acupuncturist, we offered a seminar on this touchy-feely animal mind-control massage technique--something that the Eugene, Oregon local news channel found worthy of their camera crew. Every relative, every dinner guest, every repair person who has come to our home in the last 6 years has seen this video. Now that's a perk.

Afterthought

I'm sure at least a few people were upset at the apparent approval of violence in my last post. So a couple of things:

1. Trevor Letkowski was not seriously injured. He was back for the third period. Sure, he didn't stay for the whole period, but it's not like he got a puck in the face and lost 3 teeth, or was punched in the back of the head.

2. It was a clean hit!

Cheechoo's Hat Trick, Part II

He did it again! And I get to wear the chicken hat for another day in honor of Cheechoo's second hat trick of the season.

I might even consider wearing the chicken hat to The Planning Shop's official 2005 holiday party this weekend. We're all going to see Beach Blanket Babylon and have fancy Italian dinner in North Beach. Obviously, the chicken hat is totally in order.

Yes, the hat trick was fantastic. But this hit was the real play of the game. C'mon, feel the wrath of Kyle.

Evil, thy name is Discovery Health Channel

There's a new boogeyman on the horizon. Not a new boogeyman, per se, as this particular fear is well documented, but rather a new identity for an existing boogeyman: Traumatic Head Injury. This is some seriously nasty stuff.

Did you know that the inside surface of your skull--behind your forehead--is a jagged mass of pointy bits of bone and sockets? It's true. And guess what else is right behind your forehead. Your frontal lobe--that's the part of your brain that controls things like empathy and impulse control. It also controls what Neurologists refer to as the spark of humanity. All it takes is a pin prick to destroy your frontal lobe, and it sits nestled up against the equivalent of 50 rusty razor blades.

Then there are your temporal lobes--one on each side of your brain--which are our speech and language centers. Our temporal lobes are also the place where we store old memories and form new memories. Damage to these lobes impair our ability to speak, to comprehend speech, to recall memories and to remember anything new (remember Ten Second Tom from 50 First Dates? Not so funny anymore.).

Car accidents are the number one cause of brain injuries. The abrubtness of the collision causes our heads to whip back and forth, to and fro. And our poor, squishy brains get whipped around inside that craggy skull of doom. It's absolutely astounding that more people aren't walking around with frontal lobe trauma, unable to feel empathy or love, pleasure or pain (although that would certainly explain the behavior of our government recently.).

Traumatic Head Injury. Jeez louise. You can bet I'll be driver slower and safer in general from now on. Heck, I may start wearing a helmet just for extra protection. And roller coasters? Out of the question, as are horseback riding , participation in contact sports, and any sort of punk rock concerts.

This is what I get for bucking the crime dramas last night and watching Discovery Health Channel instead. I know it sounds like I'm a major TV junkie. In fact, I am. But that's beside the point. The thing is that I have to have the TV on in order fall asleep, but it's got to be something that isn't too terribly engaging so it won't keep me up. And nothing with a laugh track. Poirot works really well, so do those documentary-style reports like those on Discovery Health Channel--the narrator tends to have a soothing, calming voice. Even when he's talking about Roy King, the English guy who can no longer feel love for his wife and 3 year old son due to his brain injury. He can't hold a job either because of his lack of impulse control, also due to the brain injury.

No need to call dog protective services

This is Ozzy wishing that the Law & Order madness would end and belly rubbing madness would begin. He doesn't mind when I go into a Netflix-induced Six Feet Under marathon because he thinks Lauren Ambrose is hot. But the Law & Order marathons tend to frighten him.

Law and Orderer

Praise cable TV! Between USA, TNT and A&E, there has been a Law & Order marathon on TV for the last four days. Friday, Saturday, Sunday and Monday--96 glorious hours of SVU, CI and savory original flavor.

You heard me! Praise cable TV and praise Dick Wolf!

I realize that I have an addiction. And I realize that my addiction can be, at times, less than healthy. In fact, I came to this realization most recently on Sunday afternoon as I sat up on the couch, light-headed after moving from my mainstay horizontal position, rubbed my sofa upholstery indented face and looked down at the Triscuit crumbs on the floor. I blinked, looked at the light coming in through the venetian blinds and thought to myself, "Is that hazy mid-morning light or hazy mid-afternoon light? What time is it? Good lord, what day is it?!" Excited by my stirring and no doubt excited by the prospect of food, Nanna began to run around the coffee table in circles, carrying her stuffed goose toy and snorting with excitement. "What is it, girl? What's happening?" Nanna looked at me with exasperation and explained that she hadn't been fed in two and a half days. I actually stopped for a second and tried to remember the last time I had gotten up to get a diet Coke. Surely I had fed the dogs and cats on at least one of those occasions. I mean, if I hadn't, by this point Miru and Milhouse would have engaged in the only activity they both enjoy doing together: meowing pitifully for food. Loudly. That's when I realized that dogs, too, are capable of sarcasm. I put on my shoes and took the poor hounds for a walk.

Then I came home and watched another 17 hours of criminal justice doled out doink-doink style.

Here are some of my painfully achievable New Year's Resolutions for 2006:

1. Get my hair back to my natural hair color (dark brown) because I can't handle the upkeep involved with red hair. It's just too much.

2. Go on 3 or 4 fad diets and purchase at least one more piece of As-Seen-On-TV exercise equipment as I try to slim down and tone up for the wedding.

3. Knit something--anything--bigger than a skinny scarf and in more than one color.

4. Get my Scrabble high score over 412.

5. Have more dog pictures framed and hang them on the walls.

Sigh. It's a little misshapen, kind of wobbly, often temperamental and quite possibly emotionally unbalanced. I think it may be growing some sort of green fuzz on the lower right hand side. But it's my life, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

OK, I just want to clear something up from yesterday's post. I listen to the Alice Morning Show, not the actual music that they play on Alice. That music sucks.

Cheechoo's Hat Trick

In honor of Jonathan Cheechoo's first NHL hat trick, I was going to wear my chicken hat all day. But I forgot it at home, so I'm wearing my Davy Crockett coon skin cap from EuroDisney instead. Ooh la la!

I listen to a certain radio station's morning show when I drive to work each day. This is a fairly new thing for me; I've never been much of a morning DJ type of person, but the news--and by "news" I mean NPR--finally got so painful that I could no longer stand to listen to it. At all. This happened sometime around August or September. These cast of this morning show is on vacation this week and next, so the station is re-playing old shows, and they're picking the real cream of the crop. In the 45 minutes that I was in the car this morning (I love holiday week commutes!) I heard terrific interviews with Bob Barker and Parker Posey. We all know that morning shows aren't the most intellectual displays of media, but they sure can be funny and the cast of this particular show have personality to spare. Plus, since they're part of a fairly major station, they get to interview cool people--like Bob Barker and Parker Posey.

Teacher's Pet

Since June 14, 2005, my dog Ozzy has not been alone. Not once. That was the last time he was left in his kennel while the people went out, and that was the last time he broke his tooth while chewing the metal bars off the door on his kennel. It was not the first time, but it was the last. This time, the doggie dentist had to remove his canine tooth, and became overwhelmingly clear that no metal or plastic or space age polymer enclosure was going to keep Ozzy from escaping. Years earlier, Ozzy had already proven that no large enclosure made of lumber, metal, and dry wall would hold him, either--he chewed his way through the wooden front door of our rental duplex in Davis. He jumped through the screen window in the bedroom of that same duplex. In the past 4 years, he has chewed through four front doors (with varying degrees of success), one garage door, one window, and one ridiculously small air vent. He has, with his mouth and paws (remember, he has no thumbs), removed approximately 6 metal bars from 3 different kennels of various styles. The poor guy just doesn't like being alone.

Since June 14, 2005, he hasn't been alone. If he's not with me, he's with L. Unless L is out of the country for, say, 6 or 7 months, in which case he's with my folks. My patient, helpful, loving, caring, dog friendly folks. At the office, if I leave, he's with Dorienne. Or Arthur. Or Rhonda. The point is, he's NEVER ALONE. But I want to be clear about this: I love that dog, and I would do just about anything for him. However, I also love my sanity, and committing oneself to spending 24 hours a day with a creature who can't go to movie theaters or restaurants or bars or grocery stores would make anyone go nuts. So as soon as it became clear that Ozzy values the company of people over his teeth, I started looking for a solution: a doggie behaviorist.

This whole situation probably sounds worse than it is. I tend to be a bit of a fatalist when it comes to dealing with situations that I would simply rather not deal with. All this is really is a case of separation anxiety, albeit a severe case. I talked with my super wonderful vet, and started calling behaviorists who specialize in separation anxiety. I told Ozzy's story to 6 different behaviorists and got responses ranging from "There's nothing else you can do. Find a bunch of good dog sitters and prepare to never leave your house again," to "You're worried about his teeth? If I were you, I'd be worried he'd have a heart attack!" But one behaviorist, Gina, was happy to meet with us. She learned all about Ozzy's background (abandoned shelter dog), his relationship with his pack (Nanna, L, me, my folks), and what we wanted to achieve (Just teach him that it's OK to be alone for a couple of hours. Just long enough for me to go to a movie. Do some grocery shopping.). We started training with Gina in July, and now, 5 months later, Ozzy can be alone in our house for nearly 10 minutes without freaking out. Amazing! My homework for the next week: I should be able to leave Ozzy and Nanna home while I walk to the burrito shop 2 blocks away, order a burrito, and bring it home. All without Ozzy flipping out.

This is HUGE. It's a whole new world opening up for me, for my folks, for all of us who have given so much to this dog. We may--someday soon--be able to love him as much as we ever have, and still have lives--brief, but existent lives outside of him. We've all worked really hard with this training, the core of which teaches him to be a happier, more comfortable dog. We're trying to help him feel more calm, relaxed, happy, and stress-free. Yeah, I know this sounds like a bunch of hooey, like left overs from when I worked at the holistic vet's office in college. But I don't care, because it's working. He's happier. And I couldn't be happier.

She's One in a Million Girls

Today's post is officially dedicated to the Deborah's World of Awesome Stuff player of the week: Weasel! Congratulations Weasel, this week's competition was stiff. You were up against players from all walks of life, from a 6'4" 223 lb. center to a super cuddly Aussie Shepherd mix. But Weasel surpassed even the cuddliest of Aussie mixes with her generosity, and her skills shadowed the hands of Big Joe Thornton. Let us now join together and bask in the glory of Weasel's greatness:



Thanks for the chicken hat, Weasel! Enjoy your POTW status.

Go Sharks Go

I don't want to talk about it because I'm afraid I will jinx it, but the Sharks have won 4 games in a row. They have scored 5 or more goals in all 4 games, and team captain Patrick Marleau has gotten 3 points in all 4 games--both are franchise records! OK, yes, I realize I just talked about it and that it was totally jinx-worthy, but what's the point of winning if you can't brag about it? It has been so much fun to watch them score goals and win for a change! Winning streaks are why TiVo was invented. You can watch Mark Smith score, from one leg, on a short-handed breakaway over and over and over and over and over...

A victim of the insane

I had this whole post planned for today about how I remembered all this stuff from 1980--all of which are things that happened while I was in first grade--but I don't remember John Lennon being shot and what that means to me. Except that it turns out that in 1980 I was in kindergarten, not first grade, and I don't remember crap from kindergarten. It's as if I spent kindergarten on some sort of graham cracker-induced bender. I remember pre-school (I had corduroy Sesame Street pants and sneakers with rainbows on them) and I remember first grade (I was the narrator for our class production of Peter Pan because I was the only one who could read well enough--and I got to wear a pretty lavender dress with lots of frilly things and bows on it), but the year between the two is pretty much a wash. Except for one thing: I know I was black cat for Halloween in kindergarten, and I had a kick ass tail that my mom had made. I remember this because the next year I was Alice in Wonderland (I got to wear a long blonde wig for that one), but the year after that was when the teachers of the Montessori school I attended decided that Halloween wasn't educational enough. For the next 4 years, we had to dress up as historical figures for Halloween--AND write reports on them. That was one way in which Montessori school totally sucked the fun out of an event that would have been just fine if left alone. From a kid's perspective, anyway. Now, as an adult, the whole historical Halloween costume idea is cool if not a bit too eccentric, but back then it meant dressing as Deborah (the character from the Torah, the military leader and sage--very nice, Mom.) or Albert Einstein. Hardly a black cat or Alice in Wonderland. Montessori school did everything else pretty well as far as I'm concerned, but one could argue that they dropped the ball on Halloween.

But I digress. John Lennon was shot 25 years ago today, when I was far too young to imagine the sort of impact his words and music would have on me in my most socially formative years. The Beatles in particular shaped my adolescence and fostered my inner urge to question authority and look for meaning in seemingly meaning places. Still I wonder, had John Lennon not died that cold December day in New York City, would he have continued producing music? And if he had, would it suck as much as Paul McCartney's stuff? If the answer is yes, or even half as much, then perhaps his death is not entirely tragic. Just a thought.

Surrender to the fur

It's been really cold around here the past few days. We're talking mid-fifties during the day and low-thirties at night. It's cold--the kind of cold that even wearing socks to bed can't fix. (I realize that my dear friends in Minneapolis can't decide whether to laugh at me or kill me right now. And I accept that.) The only think that can fix this kind of cold is curling up on the couch with one of these:



I had mine custom made. Nothing keeps you comfy and cozy like a little purring heat generator attached to your lap. Or chest. Or back. Or hip. Depending on how you sleep. Cats can balance on any part of your body, and they can move with you as you turn over. Like those lumberjack log-rollers.

He followed me home...can I keep him?

It's so much fun to play tourist in your own town. Most cities have super fun attractions that us locals avoid at all costs. Let's do the math:

(super fun attractions) = (free time) = (weekends)

And also

(super fun attractions) + (weekends) = (traffic) X (massive crowds of annoying people) X (crying and/or whining children) X (really, really expensive parking)

So when I was lucky enough to have a meeting on Monday afternoon at Pier 39 in San Francisco, I took full photographic advantage of the weekday lack of touristy throngs. (Yes, technically my meeting was at the Pier 39 arcade. But it was still a meeting. Technically.)



That's Alcatraz off in the distance. However, I was technically working from home yesterday so I didn't go all out and take the ferry over for a tour of the Rock. I still haven't been there (excluding the time I did go there. I was only 18 months old, so it doesn't count. I wasn't yet collecting snow globes and the pictures I took came out all fuzzy.). Maybe I'll make it over there the next time I "work from home."



I did spend a good 10 minutes watching the sea lions. I love those suckers. I wish I could take them all home with me. They remind me so much of Nanna--I always thought she was part river otter, but it may turn out that her great great aunt on her father's side was a sea lion.

Speaking of marine life, I'll be at the Shark Tank tonight to help welcome Super Joe to his new home town. So far, so good--let's see if he can keep it up. That'll show the entire NHL for laughing at us.

SJ comes to SJ

I'd like to take this opportunity to officially welcome Super Joe Thornton to San Jose and the greater San Francisco Bay Area. You'll love it here--we don't talk as funny here as they do in Boston, and you can actually leave your house in the winter. And if you could turn the Sharks into a team that wins games, I mean, like, ever, that would be great.

Tears for Fears

So far this week, I have cried while watching the following TV shows:

1. Cold Case
2. Medium
3. House

Each time, the waterworks were brought on by the idea of a happy young family being torn apart by tragedy in the form of untimely death. Cold Case was the real kicker, the only show that made me all-out sob. This has always been one of my two biggest fears, that I would have a happy, young family and that it would be the victim of a tragic death. I think I started having this fear when I was about 11 or 12 years old (the same time I started having my fear of being thrown in a Mexican prison and neither my family nor my government could ever find me or get me out.). I blame this fear on Ashley Judd; I think this basic premise befell her in some movie that took place in Florida, except that it involved drug lords. For some reason, my early-to-mid-week crime dramas this week all touched on this very real fear, and it totally effected me. I don't usually mind watching shows about people dying or being victims of violent crime (remember last week's Law & Order post?), but the devastation of a young couple and their young children, especially when it's due to the tragic death of one of the parents, really frightens the crap out of me.

I'm sure the level to which these scenarios messed with me this week are due to a number of circumstances in my life right now. For instance, a good friend of mine is dealing with a family member who is going through a potentially life-threatening illness--that family member is a very happy parent of a young child. Another factor is a friend of mine who died earlier this year, leaving behind his wife of nine months. Nothing could be more tragic. And it's all about tragedy and what earns something the identifier of "tragic" for me. I'm pretty sure that this is my psyche's way of addressing the fact that I am now one step closer to being that happy young family with happy young children, not to mention that more and more of my friends are becoming the same--these potential victims of tragedy are becoming less faceless to me; the vague feeling of impending tragedy is perhaps being replaced by real--but still vague--concern for actual people in my life.

I don't walk around crying, nor do I view my friends and family as victims-to-be. This was simply a look at what must be an outward expression of internal emotions, brought on by an external trigger--not unlike a dream. The chemicals in my brain just prompted me to cry while watching Hugh Laurie this time, instead of making me toss and turn all night while trying to re-attach my dog's dismembered feet in some horrible anxiety dream.

Maybe I should lay off the crime dramas for a few days. Go back to something safe and comforting like Sopranos reruns on HBO.

The Alpha Dog Diaries

I had to fight Nanna "Jaws of Death" Dog for the dark meat. It's no easy task--she means business. Especially when it comes to tasty poultry. I'm still recovering from my devastating loss. Look at her! She's ruthless!

Turkey Lurkey

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! Whether you're going to be traveling to get there, or you wake up and immediately start cooking for anywhere between 1 and 15 of your closest friends, I hope everyone has a happy and safe holiday--even the vegetarians.

I will be helping my mom cook all of the standards. By "helping," you know I mean "tasting the pies." And watching hockey. Because I love disappointment.

The Story of How I Won 9 Tiny Plastic Ninjas

H&M was a bust. Everyone either overslept or decided just not to go. How lucky were we! One report from the field said that those who got in line at 7 am were already hitting the 500 mark. Holy crap!

MEH and I decided to amuse ourselves by going to the miniature golf course.



I learned two things from our 18 holes:
1. One needs a great deal of patience in order to be around more than one twelve-year-old at a time. Try 50.
2. MEH is very, very good at miniature golf. I, in turn, am very bad at said sporting activity.



We capped off our golf game with everyone's favorite:



Skee Ball! Not only did I wipe the skee ball ramp with MEH, I also won enough tickets to redeem them for nine little plastic ninjas. I couldn't have asked for a better Saturday.



The remainder of my weekend was spent with the visiting IJR family from Minneapolis! Baby Lil is now 7 months old, and she's got an insatiable taste for human flesh. This is when she latched onto my glasses and decided to eat them. You know how when you drive your car through the car wash, and the big, wet mop-thingies swish over windshiled? That's what this was like; I could see her little wet baby tongue going to work on my lenses. "My super human baby saliva will dissolve these glasses right off your face! Victory will be mine!"



By the way, I realize I haven't been blogging much. Unless I've got something I feel is worth blogging about (um, sure), I don't bother. But I've done some brainstorming, and here's a sneak peak at some upcoming blog topics: Michael Jackson, Davy Jones, my friend Jim and his collection skills, and various thoughts on color blending and shades of blue. Stay tuned!

Meat Head for Governor

I often forget that living in the San Francisco Bay Area is not unlike living in a social, political, economic bubble. I don;t mean "bubble" like we're in a "housing bubble," I mean like "boy in the bubble," where I'm constantly looking through a clear plastic film at the rest of the country thinking, "Huh, so that's how normal people do things."

A certain healthy person in my office has convinced me that going to yoga during our lunch hour on Fridays is a good thing. (Hint: it's not Arthur, Rhonda, or Dorienne. And she comes from Canada. And her name is Mireille.) As we were walking--well, it was more like a cross between shuffling and limping--from class to Pluto's to get our daily low-carb steak salads, we were discussing the following things: Rob Reiner's push for all Californians to have access to free pre-school, the two women who walked past us who looked like movie stars (no, really, they could totally have been movie stars), the quantity of lesbians in Santa Cruz, and my Saturday morning plans to get up early and go to the grand opening of H&M at Union Square. Now, think about those last few sentences. What are the main subjects:

1. Yoga.
2. Low-carb steak salads.
3. Actors running the government of California.
4. Movie stars (or people who look like them).
5. Lesbians.
6. Calculated shopping.

When taken like this, as a set of normal, every-day, yet descriptive conversational topics, the whole concept makes me feel rather alienated as a citizen. I like my city and my state, and I like our defining characteristics and I believe we have them for a reason (Please don't read that as support for Gov. Schwarzenegger. It's not.). But we really aren't like the rest of the country. We're kind of like a little kid whose parents and teachers constantly told us how special we are, and how there's no one else in the whole world like us, and now we've grown into a young adult who believes that we're different and special and, yes, better. Not that we're entitled to preferential treatment, or should get more respect or more friends or more invitations to better parties, but it wouldn't surprise us if we did. We put up with more abnormal and uncharacteristic behavior from our friends than most people, we encourage "diversity" and "uniqueness" but we're silently judging everyone almost all of the time. We have some serious issues.

But it's not like we're in trouble. We're going to come out this OK. Sooner or later, someone will knock us off of our emotional and spiritual high horse, and we'll pick ourself up and dust ourself off and get back on our slightly less high horse. Giddyup!

Detective Green got shot in the gut for this?

In a few short days, Rent will open in theaters across the country. I couldn't be happier, and do you know why? Because every time I fall asleep watching Law & Order on my reclining, heating, massaging sofa, all combo cozy, that damn loud commercial wakes me up. Are you asking how I measure a year? Because I would say that a year starts on New Year's Day and ends on New Year's Eve. But that's just me. Perhaps one does measure a year in minute-long increments, and yes, I believe that would make a year 525,600 minutes long. Either way, must you sing about it so very loudly? It's Sunday afternoon, and I'm trying to nap.

Of course, I plan on seeing the movie. For two reasons:

1. Elphaba is in it.

2. Detective Green is in it. That automatically makes it part of the Law & Order franchise. I love Law & Order. I love Law & Order: Special Victims Unit. I love Law & Order: Criminal Intent. Heck, I even mildly enjoyed the short-lived Law & Order: Trial By Jury with Bebe Neuwirth, and that sucked eggs. In Hebrew, it's Hok v'Seder. If Law & Order ran for president, I would vote for it.

I'll go see Rent, but not until it's been running for a while and they've stopped playing that damn commercial.

Langosta y Bacon Bocadillo

Some of my long-time readers will remember that glorious day last December when I happened upon the world's most perfect food. Well, lightning does strike twice, my friends, albeit not in the same place.

In celebration of many things, including but not limited to JW's triumphant return from Ireland, APV & Sully's triumphant return from Cabo San Lucas, Dana's triumphant return from shopping for wedding dresses (it's all about the veil, people), and my triumphant return from the post office, we had dinner at Habana, a super nice Cuban restaurant on Van Ness.

While flip flopping between the halibut and the salmon (I tend to take food-ordering very seriously), my caught a glimpse of the special paella--a paella that contained not only scallops, prawns, calimari, and mussels, but lobster and chorizo as well. Lobster and chorizo.

I'm not the kind of Jew who keeps kosher. What kind of god wouldn't want us to eat bacon? And lobster? And very, very spiteful god, that's what kind. Bacon is by far my all time favorite food, and lobster is a close second on principle (although a good, rare filet mignon will beat out the lobster almost every time). So when I read the paella description on the menu, it was like a flashback from Minneapolis. This was the Cuban version of the lobster and bacon sandwich.

Kev-o was smart, like me. We both went for the paella.

This kiss is itchy

When I was in Israel, I got stung by a jellyfish. It didn't really do anything other than leave a red mark on my thigh and allow me to tell everyone, "Guess what! I got stung by a jellyfish!" But now it itches. A LOT. I've become that girl in the office who constantly scratches her thigh. People avoid me. Small children run from me. Heck, I can barely get UPS guy to take my packages.

Ok so I'm exaggerating. I doubt anyone would have noticed my thigh-scratching had I not mentioned it. But how could I not mention getting stung by a jellyfish? It makes me sound very rugged, like Chuck Norris. And I can't mention the jellyfish attack without getting itchy. Such is life.