Little Packages

In addition to blueberry pancakes every morning, rooms so dark you can sleep until two in the afternoon and still think it's only four in the morning, and people that I love more than anything, Home also has a Little.

Little, who I thought should be named Buttercup after the princess in The Princess Bride, is allegedly Betsy's chihuahua, but Little, like all dogs and children before her, intrinsically knows who the real mom is and, therefore, spends most of her time riding on my mom's shoulder, sleeping under her shirt, snuggled under her covers, and biting anyone who dares come too close when she is watching tv with mom. She also can dance on two feet like a ballerina, likes to bring you toys when you come in the door, prefers her food, aka "crunchies," to be laid across the floor in a sweeping motion, and does "the pretty" when she's really interested in pleasing you.

Although she didn't inherit the princess's name, she did come equipped with her tendencies. She likes to get up on the table while we're reading the newspaper. She likes her own bowl of cereal in an appropriately-sized bowl, complete with a splash of milk. She expects a reasonable helping of turkey, especially if it's the kind we have for special occasions, but certainly every couple of days. And whatever you are feeding her, whether it's turkey or chips or crackers or apples, she will turn her nose up at any piece offered to her that is bigger than a thumbnail.


For a six-pound dog, Little has done an admirable job of training us. She is brilliant.

Ghosts of Christmases Past, Present & Future

There's never a dull moment at the Griswald, er, Hensley's house at Christmas, and with the addition of two husbands, one fiance and one infant, the odds of something happening go way up. With laptops adorning every flat surface in the living room, discarded shoes at the top of every flight of stairs, and "boop boop" pads decorating every discreet corner in the house to demostrate how well-potty-trained the little Chihuahua is, tragedy is basically being tempted.

The clutter and lingering disaster is part of the thrill of being at home for the holidays. Just how long can a dozen unique personalities at different stages of life and enlightenment get along, especially when half of their time is spent making meals or doing dishes?

Perhaps the most exciting part of Christmas at our house is the Appendicitis Attack. For the last half decade, my dad has spent either Christmas Eve or Christmas morning at the Urgent Treatment Center or the Emergency Room. It started with Shannon, whose appendicitis morphed into menstral cramps. Then Leiah, one Christmas Eve, got a bout of appendicitis so bad, she ended up with a bladder infection. Even Little, the dog, had an absessed appendix one Christmas that erupted when she jumped from my mom's shoulder and landed on the hallway floor. I've secretly had appendicitis every year for the last five years, but eventually I poop it out. That's when the appendicitis attacks the plumbing, which is another indicator of a successful Christmas.

This year, son-in-law, husband, brother-in-law, uncle, dad-to-be Charles carried on the Hensley family tradition. He bravely started coming down with appendicitis on Christmas Eve, just before our 13th meal of the day. Not wanting to let marinated Alaskan Salmon, made especially for his vegetarian tendencies, go to waste or to miss out on the mystery present inside his holiday cracker (a three-year-old tradition courtesy of the victim himself), he sat through the meal before fully succumbing to the Appendicitis Attack.

I thought for sure we'd dodge the AA bullet this year, since Baby Ben would be filling the house with appendix soothing gurgles and demonstrating how best to have a bowel movement, but when I got to Shannon and Charles' bedroom at 9 o'clock Christmas morning, I was met with a sprawling, vacant bed. The saddest moment of the day. Then I learned that Charles had gone to the doctor. The second saddest moment of the day. Then I realized Christmas would be stalled. The third saddest moment of the day.

Charles ended up having the actual, real appendicitis, the kind where the appendix is inflamed and the pain localizes in the lower right side of the abdomen. The kind my dad actually, really had when I was a little girl which inspired the collective hypochondria that makes us believe that every unfamiliar stomach action is destined to be appendicitis. The kind that requires surgery and vicatin. The kind that delays Christmas a whole day while we wait for Charles to get better so he, his wife and our dad can be a part of our Christmas gift-opening marathon.

The Boy Who Stalled Christmas made it home the next day, and we picked up on our traditions where we left off -- eating, drinking, and being merry, with a thin layer of potential disaster on top to keep things exciting. It was the most wonderful time of the year.

'Tis the Season

At 9 p.m., after making ornaments out of a cut up soda box and some glitter from my forgotten/abandoned craft box, I felt inspired to do Christmas cards. I love to do Christmas cards, and it's not necessarily because I like to get them. I like to spend a couple hours flipping through my address book, prioritizing the 36 people I want to know I'm thinking of them, sending a quickie message into the Christmas mail abyss, never knowing for sure if they're getting the message but feeling good about at least sending it out.

This is the first year I haven't sent them out solo, and I gotta say, adding Mack's name felt a little fake, a little conflicting and made me a little mad. He didn't ask me to include him on the cards, but to omit him seemed to be bragging, like an unspoken, "I am better than you because I am thoughtful and it is the thought that counts." To include him gave him a sidecar of credit that crippled the integrity of my thought. I mean, it's not like he signed his name. To be honest, I don't know if he wanted to sign his name or not, but I assumed he was like every other man I've ever met who masks his laziness by trying to appear flippant about such silliness as Christmas cards. I added him because I wanted to be nice, which is probably the whole desperate reason I spend two hours every December being inventive with the phrase, "Happy Holidays."

Mack does not care in the slightest if I include his name or invite him to sign the Christmas cards or ask his opinion as to which ones are cutest. I have a feeling he is not alone. I can't think of a single Christmas card I've ever received from a single man. I get them from couples, families, single women, but single men, never.

Do they not think? Or is the thought too much to ask? Or are they too cool for cards? Or are they lazy? Or, maybe, do they not do it so that women can feel good about having the thought and passing it on? Do they secretly like getting the Christmas cards when they get them from their women friends and from other couples whose female component takes the initiative? How is it that something I like to do so much can seem so worthless to the other gender? How can we be so different? What would people think if I just left his name off? Why should I care, especially since these are my top 36 people?

I guess it comes down to relationship building, and women are so much better than men at relationship building. If I were to get a Christmas card from one of my dormmates from my freshmen year of college once a year, I would look forward to that once-a-year update and expect nothing else. That would be sufficient relationship maintenance for me. If I send a hopeful hello to a cousin I haven't spoken to in years, I hope it resonates enough to reinvigorate that relationship, but if it doesn't, hey, I tried. The Christmas card relationship round up -- all I can say it's a good thing women keep it going. If we weren't keeping relationships alive, there'd be some very lonely men in the world. And all that thought that's supposed to count so much might be lost in the shuffle toward the PS3.

Old Habits Die Hard

Ever since she was a puppy, Venus has had an affinity for bread. Pizza crusts, bagels, baguettes... any hard, crusty bread turns her into a sneaky hoarder. A few years ago she lost bed privileges, and one of the hardest things that went with that was the "silly dog" smile that swept across my face as I'd stretch my hand under my pillow and come up with a covertly buried pizza crust. She won't eat the bread, she just wants to keep it. And when she buries it, she doesn't like for you to notice what she's doing. The cutest part about the whole deal is when she uses her nose to cover the bread up. She used to stand on her blanket while trying to shove it over the bread and then smoosh it down on top of it. It was a futile exercise, but she thought she was really accomplishing something. One day, just before we moved, I caught her burying a pizza crust outside. Hilarious.

Since we don't have much of a yard here, and since she's already been hauled in once for meandering about unsupervised, she doesn't get the hoarding opportunities she used to get. But somehow she still finds a way to feed her habit. On Friday, as we walked around the block so she could go potty and I could pick up her hot poop (going to the bathroom in front of people is also something she's had to learn how to do), she picked up a hunk of bread somewhere along the way. I have no idea where she picked it up or how long she'd been carrying it, but when we got home, there it was, sticking out the sides of her mouth, while her eyes said, "What? I don't have an enormous hunk of bread in my mouth."
I left the door open while I finished getting ready so she could have some alone time with her special find, but since watching her bury things is one of the highlights of having a weirdo for a dog, I waited until she was around the corner and then I followed her. Sure enough, she was pawing at someone's unkempt flower bed, digging out a spot for a chunk of bread that she will not eat, will not even remember burying, but still cherishes and needs to save it. The cuteness of her at those moments is enough to make me forget just how bad she can smell and enough to remind me just how sad life would be without her quirks warming up each day for me.

I’ve Had Too Much Coffee

Last weekend Mack and I watched Word Play, a cute little documentary about crossword puzzles and the genuine nerds (watch another cute little film called American Splendor to know the right way to say genuine nerds properly) who love them. Because I worship the box others call television, I heard the mandate to start doing crossword puzzles. Because I acknowledge that my worship of the box has seriously compromised my mental capacity, I knew that a grande au lait was a prerequisite to any attempt at word games.

We sat down with the New York Times with good intentions and lubricated brains and thumbed through every page of every section in search of this mental challenge that has developed a cult following. We couldn’t find the crossword puzzle. Mack bought an LA Times, and two hours later, we had done about 75 percent of the puzzle. It was such a good way to spend a Sunday, we’ve sort of adopted it as a weekly ritual -- for two weeks running now.

This week, we sat down to do the puzzle, and because we spent all our money on plane tickets home, we had to come up with our own coffee. One cup of Folger’s cappucino mix just doesn’t do what a grande au lait does, so when Mack asked if I wanted another cup, I accepted the offer.

We drank our second cups and busted the puzzle open. Our brains were focused yet flexible, and we kicked the puzzle’s ass.
Now we’re sitting at the table staring into the other boxes we worship, with fingers that can’t be still and brains that are starting to buzz. My armpits are sweaty, and my legs are shifty, and I swear the table is vibrating. We don’t have another crossword puzzle to do so all this mental racing is manifesting itself physically. How can something so good turn so bad so fast?

A Dance Off

Last year when Mack and I were separated so he could save the South from Katrina (read: rape the government for an exorbitant amount of money since FEMA is the biggest disappointment since Nixon), I got to fall madly in love with Laila. Oh, she's a total demon, cute and smart and with a voice that cuts diamonds and a laugh that crumbles my sense of self, but I still fell for her big time. Well, Mack sent me a challenge (which I'm not allowed to post for fear bad words will fly in my face), and with the help of Laila and Shahin, it was broughten... as well as a white girl in a turtleneck can bring it. Enjoy, and sorry for the delay in sharing.

A Crappy Experience

We, okay I, fell for one of those radio FREE TRIP TO VEGAS scams when we first moved here, and then, after weekly calls from Consolidated Cons, er, I mean, Consolidated Resorts, I caved. We needed a trip out of town, we didn't have a lot of money, we needed to officially get married, and I had to have something to look forward to over Thanksgiving since I wasn't spending it with my lovelies. We secured our three night, four day package in exchange for two hours of being subjected to high pressure sales tactics and headed to Sin City. As we pulled into the Frontier, which is understandably scheduled for demolition because the walls are now exhaling cigarette smoke, Mack actually lit up brighter than the sign at the words, "cold beer dirty girls."

I'm scared to gamble. I used to play blackjack with David at the Indiana riverboats, but only because I knew if I didn't know what to do I could just look at Dave and he'd tell me. Plus, he always seemed to have lost more money than me and that kept me from feeling guilty. Other than that, I had no desire to gamble, and the last time I was in Vegas with Kate, neither one of us placed a single bet.

This trip to Vegas things went a little differently. I plunked $1 into a slots machine and ended up with 200 credits (a whopping $5).
While I sunk into a slots-induced coma, Mack sauntered up to the craps table. He stood back for a while and watched, then he started asking the dealers questions, then he came skipping over to me to deliver $60 in chips. Craps had recruited some fresh meat.In my slot zombie state, I couldn't accept any new knowledge and refused to play craps, but the second day in Vegas, I threw the dice after being sponsored by a neighboring player and turned $10 into $30. A few hours later, trying to get rid of the $10 in chips we had left from one casino, I threw the dice again, and $10 became $50. A few hours later, as we stopped to play once more on our way to the room for the night, a table of Chinese people were winning left and right on a Hi/Low bet with 31:1 odds. Craps, it turns out, is the shit.

Why weight?

Today I joined Weight Watchers. This is actually the third time in my life I have joined Weight Watchers. You'd think by now I'd have learned how to watch my weight, but alas, my Taurean hardheadedness still wins. Well, that and my addiction to potato chips.

Today I weigh 152.4 pounds. This is actually not a bad weight for me, considering my senior year in high school I weighed 148 pounds, and the first time I joined Weight Watchers I weighed 166. I went that first time because I had to hold my breath while I bent over to tie my shoes, and after I visited my friend Heather who was on Weight Watchers, I got the pictures developed and whoa, was my face round. Well, even though I don't weigh 166 pounds, my face is round again in pictures. And I have to hold my breath when I tie my shoes, which I barely noticed since I mostly wear flip flops. And yesterday, when I tried to chase Mack to the end of the alley, roughly 25 yards, I was breathing like a gold medal swimmer after an Olympic race.

I've been trying for about three weeks to get myself under control, but I'm weak. I'm a bad boss of me. I let myself get away with buffalo wings and calzones and beer and candy and Cheez-Its. And potato chips. And then when I'm embarrassed to wear clothes without a comfortable top layer, I pout and succumb to Sweatsuit Syndrome, except that instead of Hanes I at least maintain a Victoria's Secret Flannel Jammies standard.

I know no one is interested in my weight woes. But by putting it here, in print, I'll have to start paying attention to it before I get to 166 pounds. For humoring me, here's an evolution of a fat face. At least I can maintain a ponytail!

I Do, Again

(As I sit down to write this I am experiencing one of the true joys of having a full-blown husband: "Did you bring in the suitcases?" I am also getting an insightful lesson on the joys of parenting: "Kitty looked like she had to poop, but she was just sitting there like her butthole was about to explode!")

It's officially legal. Mack and I spent Thanksgiving weekend in Las Vegas saying, "I do," "I will," "Absolutely," and "Yes." We, along with 57 other couples at the courthouse between 6 and 6:30 p.m., secured a Nevada-based marriage license and headed to the Garden of Love Chapel to make promises to one another. It was a dream come true, at least for all the white trash blood cells running through my body.
To prepare for the ceremony, I bought a bottle of champagne I know to be $3.99 at a liquor store for $14 at the hotel gift shop and put on some mascara. Then I subjected Mack to some Before shots so I could give my mom a visual reproduction.
Mack and I with our Nervous Faces on.A stretch Hummer limo snaked its way into the valet/taxi drop off at the Frontier hotel, an old Vegas lodge whose atmosphere left me with a sore throat and what I'm sure will develop into black lung. We hopped aboard, rode downtown and climbed the steps to the Las Vegas marriage license branch. We received congratulations from everyone from the beggars on the corner to the officers by the door as we made our way inside and through the necessary paperwork. I felt a distinct sense of pride wash over me for being able to complete the one-page form after listening to the guy at the window next to mine try to explain that he has no idea what his father's name is even though a Jr. is affixed to the end of his own name.

We paid our $55 and joked about where the divorce branch is with the clerk, although Mack's mom has already informed me that divorce is not a tradition in her family when I joked about it over dinner one night. Then we carried our white enveloped documents back to our limo and headed off to the Chapel in the Middle of a Construction Site.

The Chapel was quaint but still boasted five altars. We picked the one that was the most readily available, the second most ugly one, and were herded to the bouquet wall to pick from a rainbow of silk flower bouquets. I chose a red, blue and yellow number roughly the size of my torso and assigned Mack a purple boutonniere that he delicately stabbed through his sweater. Then we were hypnotized by the voice of the Baptist minister into thinking we were doing a rehearsal when we were actually doing the real ceremony. I caught on just before I took off down the three-foot long aisle.Our ceremony, which cost $149 plus tips, which totaled about $200 when it was all said and done (limo drivers, photographer, videographer, minister, the guy at the window we asked to take a picture of us with our license), lasted about four minutes from start to finish, including time at the end for the photographer to take some blurry shots of our rings. It was very sweet, very short, very direct and very complete.
Afterward, we headed to the New York, New York Casino to ride the rollercaoster. I didn't think of the perfect metaphor that is for a marriage until afterward, when I jokingly said to my mom, "We went ahead and got our ups and downs out of the way." I have a feeling that marriage, like any long term relationship, will be one of those things that makes you grin from ear to ear at certain times, that makes you lose your stomach at others, that makes you want to scream, that makes you laugh, that makes your head hurt, that goes by way too quickly and that, when it's all said and done, really is thrilling.

What I Am Thankful For

Every year at Thanksgiving, my perfect family with its perfectly cliche yet beautiful traditions goes around the table and each person says what they are thankful for. It does feel like a chore to come up with something clever yet sincere, something that honors the tradition without making it feel overdone, but it also feels good just to actually say to the people you love the most in the world, no matter how cliche it sounds, "I am thankful for all of you." This year I didn't get to go around the table because the table was 2000 miles away. Don't worry, we'll be making up for it at Christmas, mark my words.

So, instead of going around the table, I'm going through the last 24 hours.

Dear Cuisinart,
I am thankful for you. You make dicing the onion so quick that I can actually get it chopped, transfered to a bowl and moved to the bedroom before tears start running down my face. As if that isn't enough, you follow suit by chopping celery, grating cheese, grounding chickpeas and making things that would normally be too difficult worth getting into. Thanks Cuise, you are my most honored kitchen appliance.

Dear Diet 7-Up,
I am thankful for you. Normally I don't drink pop because it's loaded with high fructose corn syrup and if it's diet, it boasts aspertame, aka Sweet N Low. Well, aspartame gives me a headache no liquid is worthy of. But you, Diet 7-Up, you are sweetened with Splenda and you are caffeine-free. I can drink you without regard to the hour of the day or concern for my noggin.

Dear Honda Metropolitan Scooter,
I am so thankful for you. Because of you I have not had to fret over a parking spot or worry about gas prices or actually walk those distances that aren't worth driving to but aren't really worth walking to either. You are the happy medium, happy to get me to work five minutes early or get me to work on time, depending on how obnoxious my hair is being. You make the life I want possible, and your just tiny enough to keep my out of harm's way, even if harm is the size of a Hummer.

Dear Chi Flat Iron, the pink one that benefits breast cancer,
I am thankful for you. With your ceramic heat and instant power, I am able to manage a hairdo I should never have been privy to. I should have been stuck with frizzy waves that won't be tamed, but with you I get sleek hair that elegantly arrives at tattered split ends (I am not thankful for my endless depleted checking account). And it's soft, no matter how tattered it is.

Dear Television,
I am thankful for you, in a love/hate kind of way. You entertain me better than most humans. You make hangovers feel like vacation days. You bring complete losers onto my radar and make me feel like my life is progressing beautifully. Because of you I need to lose 15 pounds, but because of you I've been able to spend weeks with those Amazon tribes that put bones through their chins and those African tribes that put plates in their lips. You always put a smile on my face, sometimes without my knowledge.

Dear Microwave,
I am thankful for you. Without you, what would I eat? I know I've been neglecting you the last couple days in preparation for Thanksgiving, but who makes those leftovers worth eating? Gas stove? No. Dishwasher? No. You do, Microwave. You, the greatest invention of my life.

Dear Shoes,
I am thankful for you. I love each and every one of you. I wish more of your friends lived in my closet, but I am still glad to have you making my feet feel exquisite. Even though most of the time I just pull you out to look at you, since wearing you for more than four hours should be a form of torture adopted at Guantanamo, I appreciate how the possibility of you makes me feel. And I am grateful for the way you make me look 5'9" when I am really only 5'6". I am much sexier at 5'9" and that degree of sexiness would not be possible without you.

Dear Living Things Around Me,
I am thankful for you. You know who you are, you know how you make my life special, whether by giving me pride when I walk up to the front door with your orange flowers or by giving me a laugh when I rub your tits and you pretend you don't like it, you are part of my everyday, and you inspire a spectrum of emotions to prove that I am human and this is what it's about.

Dear Canned Pumpkin,
I am thankful for you. Is there no end to your ability? Pie, muffins, soup, bread. You are becoming as versatile as the potato, which not only deserves appreciation but also respect.

Dear Las Vegas,
I am thankful for you. Nowhere else on Earth can you book a $150 wedding and not feel like you're getting nothing for nothing. Nowhere else can you buy your marriage license 15 minutes before making a lifetime commitment. Nowhere else in the United States do I want to make the impossible promise to love, honor and cherish that leaves out the promise to ignore, agitate and argue with the highest hopes I've ever had.

That's about it. I'd much rather be beating my family over the head with how much I adore them, but in their absence, it's still important to be thankful. Hope everyone had a great Thanksgiving, and if you've got any room, there's some homemade macaroni and cheese and a layered pumpkin pie waiting for you in my fridge.

A Wild Mushroom Cigarette Kind of Evening

I discovered the finer things in life one evening in the bar of Jonathan at Gratz Park when Chef Jonathan sent a brownie pot pie to my table.

Oh. My. Heavenly. Father.

I wish I could melt back into that memory the way the warm chocolate housed in the brownie shell melted in my mouth. I remember I ordered Rocksalt Roasted Chicken that night, because chicken was familiar and I knew I liked salt. Mack ordered Beef Wellington, which I'm not sure if it is supposed to be capitalized, but judging from the taste of it, it should be. The flavors exploding off of his dish put my pathetic little chicken to shame, even though it was delicious. That's when I realized my flavor fear had seriously left me in the dark about the magic that is food.

Since then, I've been a committed food adventurer. Sometimes I end up at the equivalent of a Wal-Mart parking lot, but sometimes my tastebuds get to explore every nook and cranny of the "Goddamn Grand Canyon," as Louise so eloquently refers to it. Because I exist in a state of perpetual broke, my dinners out rarely get to be extravagant, but this weekend was an exception. My friend Charlie came to El Ley, bringing with him his taste for the finer things and standards that can't be shaken. He likes a tittle of wine poolside before dinner, an education on the menu before ordering, and food that makes you feel like royalty -- or at least like a critic. Charlie generously invited me and Mack to have dinner with him at a place du jour called Grace.

It was heavenly. I perused the menu and mingled flavors in my mind that I'd never associated before. Prosciutto wrapped figs. Pumpkin, sea urchin, sweet Maine shrimp risotto. Wild burgundy snails. Hemp seed, pink peppercorn tofu. What in the world?

Since Mack is a fish-eating vegetarian, we all heartily agreed on Sashimi of Japanese Hamachi. The description underneath all these imi, achi words said "wild mushroom cigarette, yuzu gelée." What in the world?

Who cares. They brought out an eight-inch joint of crispy mushrooms wrapped in the most delicate pink fish I've ever seen. After my first bite I wanted to throw it back up and eat it again. Even the vomit of that bite would have been good. The fish practically melted in my mouth. The mushrooms crunched in a way I didn't think mushrooms could. The pineapple enhancements wrapped up the palate with respect to the dish. It was food in harmony, the way chef's intend food to be.

For dinner I ordered a less exotic grilled tenderloin of wild boar with roasted Brussels sprouts, herbed Yukon Gold potato spaetzle and violet mustard sauce. Violet mustard sauce sounds a little freaky, and Brussels sprouts haven't even made the bottom of my list of Foods I Crave, but after Saturday, I'm willing to eat anything starring violets, mustard or sauce and plan to enroll in Brussels Sprouts Roasting 101.

If anyone has any outrageous must-try foods, let me know. My appetite is definitely whet.

I Bleed Blue! (and White and Red, in that order)

As I'm now on the coast that brings up the electoral rear despite all of its forward-thinking, I'd like to send Kentucky a gigantic and heartfelt THANK YOU for outting Ms. Anne Northrup and inning Mr. John Yarmuth. Also thanks for keeping Chandler in, although it would have been a pity and an embarassment if he'd lave lost since he didn't have a challenger.

It's strange, but being surrounded by educated, aware, understanding, diverse people actually dulls the fight in you, for better and worse. It also makes you appreciate the little shifts happening in places like Kentucky, since anymore, they really can make the difference.

Thanks to everyone who voted (to change the world for the better) and shame on you to those who didn't (it takes like seven minutes).

Where have all the bloggers goooooone?

(Title to be sang like the song that says Where have all the cowboys gooooone? Sorry, it's been stuck in my head and I'm trying to get it out.)

I started stalking blogs last year about this time. I came to El Ley on Nov. 2, 2005, and after about a week of being a five-year-old's accomplice, I took to the web for adult interaction. That's when I would check in on people through their blogs. Liz and Phil were the blogging mother and father, but last fall for some reason blogging became infectious. Lisa started the Schandingalings blog in October, and while her posts weren't frequent, they were regular. I started mine in January. When I came home in February, Amber M. introduced Amber Alert!, Jana started up Jana Land and Leiah gave birth to Ahh--Life. In the spring, Evil Doug from Marikka's even offered up some of his cynicism, and while I didn't read it much because I didn't know who was who or whose team was whose, I was still glad to have another link to try when the days got really boring. When Brett started trivia on his blog in April, I started getting up in the middle of the night looking for updates. When he went crazy in May, just days after he'd hooked me with trivia, it was like watching a car accident unfold in manic text. I was a blog-reading junkie, and I had scored some of the best suppliers on blogspot. But then, after the summer, blogs and their authors dropped off the face of the earth.

I get it. Kids were being adopted and being born, promotions were earned, relocations were necessary. But what about me? What about me?

Since it takes 48 seconds to read a blog entry and/or check its comments and since my old standbys have apparently moved on (despite my pleading with them on myspace!), I've found myself with a little extra surf time on my hands. I'd like to offer up these blogs I've fallen for, in case I ever leave you hanging or in case you need to fill the same voids I do. Or in case you find yourself at home on a Saturday night perfectly content drinking cider and eating popcorn and not feeling at all desperate until you go to check some of your favorite blogs and apparently the rest of the world has a life.

Dooce: I thought I was hot shit for finding this blog. Turns out she is basically famous, and rightfully so. Heather Armstrong is a recovering Mormon and stay-at-home-mom whose newsletters to her 33-month-old wide-eyed wonder are heart-wrenching and hilarious. She also has a very comical dog with a nose for spaghetti and a head for remotes. Add her to your favorites. She is so worth it, especially if you are married, are a parent, have parents, live with depression or need to laugh.

Very Zen: This one is sometimes hit or miss, so I don't check it all the time. She takes awesome photos and sometimes sings in the bathroom, and those are an extra treat. I found Amanda, the author, through Dooce. I like when she does political things. It's definitely worth checking out.

PostSecret: A suicide hotline place put this one up, but it's way cooler than that might make it seem. Basically every Sunday a new blog comes up with postcards that people have mailed in telling secrets. It's a little seedy, a little inspiring, a little funny, a little tragic all rolled into one. Something about confessing is so attractive. This is favorite-worthy.

Found: There's a little thing called Found Magazine, which is actually a book in my mind, that is freaking awesome. Found is a compilation of found letters, photos, fliers, whatever is found, and they are so fun to look at. On the website, there's a new one every day, and once you get turned on to this site, you start justifying looking at your feet while you walk with the assertion that you are looking for the next great found item. Liz found one while she was visiting that actually called someone a "Dirty Chicken." That is reason enough to add this to your favorites.

Quickmuse: This one's for all the writers and readers out there. It's basically mind-stalking. Quickmuse organizes writing sessions with authors, gives them a topic, and has them write about it. The cool thing is not only can you read the final piece, but you can watch how the piece evolves... like watch what the author deletes, see what gets replaced, get a glimpse into how their minds work. The writing sessions are pretty occasional, so adding Quickmuse to your bookmarks is sufficient. I signed up for the newsletter so I could just get the emails and not have to check the website, although I still do.

If you haven't checked out Tread's Photo Blog (see my links), that one is worth it too. I'll keep checking my old stand-bys, but I gotta say, I'm losing hope. Or maybe this is just an intervention... in which case, I'm fine, I promise.

The Power of the Push Up

This is my 100th post.

It just so happens that today I want to write about my boobs. Fitting, isn't it?

I've hated my boobs most of my life. They're big, which in real woman world equals droopy. They're not saggy because they are still full (of hope that they'll fulfill their purpose as feeding machines), but they are big so they can't defy gravity. I finally found a way to deceive gravity thanks to an episode of Tyra Banks' talk show where she had women try different bras and showed how a bra really can change the way your body looks, an overly delightful attendant at Victoria's Secret and an afternoon with Leigh. But still, my boobs are not pretty. Big, sure, but pretty, no. See, I'm prone to stretch marks. Seriously, I got my first ones across my lower back when I was 10, long before I expected anything to stretch, so I actually had to go in my parents' room and ask them what these red marks on my back were. When I was 14 and one boob started to grow (yes, they grew independently), it stretched its way into a B-cup while the other one waited until I was 16 to start blooming. It wasn't much of a problem unless I had to get in a bathing suit, in which case there was no way to hide the obvious rift in growth patterns. I guess it's better than getting a boner at the chalkboard, but it still sucks.

I kept the ninnies under wraps and pretty much tried to pretend they didn't exist through high school, even though they grew to full size. I'd wear two bras to play sports and dodged low cut dresses for dances. Then, one day at an awards ceremony, a friend of mine I called Jon Tuba caught a glimpse down my top. He then said he knew a secret about me, as if I didn't know it already. When he whispered that he knew I had stretch marks, I should have smacked him and said, "I know you're fat." But I didn't have the sense then.

A couple years later I consulted a doctor about getting a breast reduction. I've always been a little stout, mostly because I have a problem with potato chips, so when I went to the doctor I was afraid of having surgery because if I lost weight I knew my boobs would shrink. I've never been a fan of surgery, let alone surgery I can avoid by, you know, exercising, so I just sort of let it go. Plus, having a polaroid taken of your droopy boobs is enough to send any rational woman running from a doctor's office vowing NEVER to return. It's humiliating enough trying on jeans.

I think when I found out my great-grandma had had breast cancer I decided I'd better forgive my boobs for being the way they are. No, they're not perfect, they're not even nice, but they are healthy. And turns out they're comfy to lay on, too. But today I discovered that, as flawed as they are, they are powerful tools.

I've never risked letting them heave with my breaths in public, but I wore a new boatneck sweater to work today and got to conduct an accidental experiment. Turns out the sweater dipped a little more after a couple hours of wearing it than it did when I put it on. Then I noticed men who normally ignored me or were dismissive of me were a lot friendlier. Not flirty or sexual, just jovial, more at ease. They listened when I talked, laughed when I made jokes, explained things to me with patience. It wasn't flustered or horny, it was more like they were having fond flashbacks from a time only their deepest subconscious could remember, all sparked by a touch of bosom.

Of course when I came home it was a different story. Instead of my tatas luring respect out of or giving comfort to Mack, they inspired him to stick a Fudge Brownie Square in my cleavage.

I will never understand the fascination, but at least it's interesting to watch the reaction.

Happy Halloween!

I don't get to dress up for Halloween this year, which is totally depressing, and I didn't get to go to any Halloween parties, which was just wrong. I am going to a scarefest at Universal Studios tonight, which is something I'm sure I'll remember for all time, but I gotta say, the highlight of this Halloween came from a tiny bundle of pink and lip gloss that I call Laila.

Sure, it's just a little pumpkin. Alright, the burgundy pom pom on top kind of makes it feel like a sea creature. The gobby glitter is tragically accented by chunks of gold, and the snowflake/flower top hat is really just an insult to the pumpkin stem. But this little vegetable taught me a great lesson.

Now I see how things can be so ugly they're beautiful.

The Guest List, Page 2

It's never promising when your guests end up like this after just one day of visiting.

The truth is, Ruble did it to herself. Her first day in El Ley she headed straight to the beach while I headed straight for the cube. My trip took four blocks, hers took about four miles. She came home with a rosy glow and a good excuse to prop her feet up. Ruble started out her vacation going roughly 300 miles per hour, which, to her credit, is one-third the pace she normally exists at, and has continued it since, despite my complaining about tiredness and aches. We both fall asleep on the couch at night until Mack makes us realize what we've done and herds us 28-year-old retirees-in-the making off to bed. At 11 o'clock. At night!

Friday night we tried to go out and find our youthful spirits, but the three hour time difference and the impending Daylight Savings Time (okay, I'm looking for something to blame) wiped us out minutes after we ordered a drink and paid a $10 cover. Mack finagled our cover money back, and Ruble and I sneaked a taxi to Blockbuster to rent a movie (read: put something on tv that we could fall asleep to). We entered our sweet dreams that night through House of 1000 Corpses, a flick that made me love clowns again and that satisfied Ruble's every movie desire. We both lasted about 14 minutes.

Saturday we were much more vibrant, while the sun was up that is. We perked up at 9:30 and headed off to the Getty Museum. That place is freaking amazing. We only scoped two of four pavilions that contained art since the grounds were so gorgeous we had to cover every square inch of them. I don't know much about architecture, but I know I like fountains and mazes and windows and panoramic views and cacti. The Getty has it all. It also has Van Gogh, Pissarro, Cezanne, Degas, Millet and other names that sound familiar but only look familiar in the context of their respective notecard collections. My favorite part of the Getty were these rebar vases/vine trainer things that made the most beautiful canopies.







I've been wanting to go to the Getty for a while, and I can't think of anyone who would have been more perfect to share that experience with than Ruble. Even as museum guards were scolding us for accidentally using a flash and giving us insider tips on where the best lookout points were, Ruble was offering up her beaming smile and making friends in her effortless way. I know she radiates friendly, I just haven't experienced how people are drawn to it in a while. Like moths to a flame I tell you.

In an effort to justify our 11 p.m. crash time on Saturday (we did make it through The Last King of Scotland at an actual movie theater before collapsing), we decided we'd head to the hills for hiking on Sunday. We got up early, bought some picnic goodies, and headed off to Temescal Canyon. We did what all responsible hikers should do -- wander around trails marked as closed with a half a bottle of water each. Why the trails were "closed" is beyond me, unless the closing notices were actually warnings about how hiking the trail would give you unexplainable ass pain for days to come. We hiked about two miles before our trail merged with a Will Rogers State Historic Park trail and we ended up far from home. At least we got to see some beautiful countryside and enchanting valleys along the way.


We hiked about two more miles up Sunset along a sidewalk that was probably more dangerous than the aformentioned closed trails back to the entrance of Temescal Canyon and hopped in the truck to meet Mack and his family at Topanga Canyon for a picnic. I was starving, but that I devoured two bags of potato chips during the drive will remain mine and Ruble's little secret. We did another little hike at Topanga, which brought our walking total for Sunday to about 300 miles.


Our after dinner stroll to find deer found Shahin and her mini-me Laila hiking with purses and heels through sandy trails adorned with horse poop. They called it Beverly Hills Hiking, and it was cute. Laila has learned Betsy's "push my butt" trick, so I spent most of my time hunched over trying to help her get up the incline by shoving her barely there behind.


Maintaining Ruble's 300 mph pace hasn't been easy. Tonight we hit up Saw III (sucks) after giving into the Rocky Mountain Chocolate Hypnotism Factory and tomorrow we've got, brace yourselves, Halloween Horror Night at Universal Studios. I'm sure by Thursday, when Ruble's had her fill of R&R and heads home, I'll need a vacation.

I Love You, Baby

In light of a new baby and long distance relationships, my family has had to do some evolving. Mom basically takes pictures in a steady stream every visit to Leiah's house and then spends hours (yes, hours, my gmail account logs how long ago the messages were sent and I've been tracking her commitment in order to establish what she deserves for Christmas) emailing them to us live-awayers. Dad, with a whopping FOUR blog entries under his belt, has also conquered youtube and is developing into quite the video editor (a job that, he should know, pays $500 a day in Los Angeles -- the same rate for a camera man, which is why I am trying to add that to my list of marketable skills in case prostitution ever falls out of favor). He has become even cuter with his video gadget and compulsion to film even the mundane moments of dishwashing and turn all that worthless documentary bore into the most special videos ever. In light of all this fantastic sharing, I offer this, my monthlong look at our latest life. Dedicated to Leiah for becoming a mother I admire and to Shannon for letting love conquer nausea and migraines.

Hidden Posts

Apparently if you start to post but then save it and come back to it three or 14 days later, it posts in the same place chronologically as when you started it. Which is why my post " Kids Are the Darnedest Things" is showing up after my high school reunion post down there... I only point it out because I think it is astute. And a warning.

Thank you.

Being a Tramp

I spent the entire summer between 8th and 9th grade at Erica Herren's house jumping on her trampoline. I got so good at full twists and flips that we started spraying water on the trampoline to up the difficulty. Trampolining was my calling, or at least one of them that didn't have a college course for it. Damn the system!!

I've always had a soft spot in my heard for the tramp. About five years ago after five or so beers I caught a glimpse of a tramp in a neighbor's backyard and headed over to reclaim a piece of my childhood. Only problem was I was bigger, slower and drunker than when I'd mastered the tramp. The experience was cut short when I went flying from the trampoline and knew I was either going to hit the ground or come down with a spring between my legs. Despite my altered mind, I made a promise to myself that I would never again jump on a trampoline.

But then I was visiting Lexington this month and saw a sticker that says, "Do one thing everyday that scares you," and I adopted that as the lead on my to do list. When Heather said, "We bought a trampoline, wanna jump?," I responded with my old mindset, "No, it's dark and they're dangerous." Thank god for peer pressure.

Gio, a workmate who is younger and spryer than me, and Heather, who has to be since she has two boys, went careening for the trampoline and I refused to be the sissy left behind. Plus, Heather's trampoline has the protective net fence that keeps you from coming down on the springs or flying off the side. A few cautious jumps into it, and I was, at worst, a novice again. We were shooting up like rockets, enjoying the sense of weightlessness that only a tramp can give, playing "Crack the Egg" and "Knee Sit Knee." We were remembering how great it is to play, how fun it is to fall.





We were also discovering some of the ways we've aged. Gio didn't have the problem, but Heather and I peed a little everytime we got a good jump. Heather had the excuse of having two babies, but I couldn't play that card. I also had to collapse at some points to keep my heart from exploding my head since it was beating so fast. A trampoline is just about the best, most fun workout ever! It even tones your bladder!

The Difference a Decade Makes

I really liked high school. I really liked calculus homework and physics labs and anatomy dissections. I hated anything social studies oriented though, and the one general ed class I was in, U.S. History with an incredibly large Ms. Freeman, felt like a grooming ground for future criminals. Honestly, I haven't been as smart as I was in high school since I graduated from it.

The daily brain exercise wasn't all of its appeal. I liked my friends. I liked playing sports. I liked going to parties at strange houses. I liked riding down country roads with a carload of awesome people listening to everything from the Indigo Girls to Rage Against the Machine. I liked being brave enough to tempt trouble but always being smart enough to get out of it. I liked being sober and being able to laugh so hard I almost peed my pants at the same time.

My high school years weren't the best of my life, but they were a pretty fantastic start to it. Which is why, when I found out about a 10-year reunion a few months ago there wasn't a question in my mind that I'd be there, hopefully with some of my best friends from then who are still my best friends now. This past weekend I got to step back into high school with all the attitude of a slightly buzzed adult, and, despite a few mean remarks that I want to regret but really can't since they were based in truth and very funny, it was just like I hoped it would be.

My favorite people to see were Jason Meenach (who I've stayed in touch with accidentally through Shakespeare in the Park and the efforts of Sarah Smiley), Joelle Bryman (who was one of the coolest chicks I've never been able to be as good of friends with as I should be), Chris Ramsdale (who desperately needed to be proved wrong for thinking I was a lesbain all those years), and Tyra Connor (who is as funny today as she was in Mrs. Wheaton's English class when we were discussing the subtle sex in Romeo & Juliet). I also liked seeing Amy Leinbach, Allison Salyer, Brad Lacy, Paige Harlow and Nicole Drewitz again, mostly because they always made me seem cooler than I am. And finally, I got to meet some of the husbands and wives, although it still feels like we're too young to be married and breeding.

I wish I could remember more from high school so I would know who I missed seeing, but all those memories are getting updated with fresh ones from the real best years of my life. By the time I make it to my 20-year reunion, I'll probably only remember the people who have carved out a place in my heart since our first meeting at Tates Creek -- Ruble, Sarah and Kristin. Those were the people that make these days matter a little more.
(Sarah came in disguise as a black man named Will for some odd reason.)

Bon Jour, Buster...

Leigh is cute. She does very cute things. Buster is her cat. He is very old. Leigh does very cute things to Buster. Except when she pulls out his hair. That is sad and not cute.

Since Buster is old, he gets cold a lot. Since Leigh loves Buster, she tries to make him warmer. Buster used to have a Santa cape that made him think he was hot shit. More like a pimp than Santa. Leigh let someone else use the Santa cape so when Buster got cold the other day, Leigh had to improvise. She found a sock and cut the toe off. She put Buster's head through the new hole and was left with an extra piece of round fabric. Leigh decided to accessorize.

Introducing Monsieur Buster. He feasts on paté and likes to eat cigars. In his younger days he probably drank scotch.

Buster thinks he is very sexy as a Frenchman. But not everyone agrees. Leigh's husband, Nash, had this to say about Buster's new clothes.

"Why'd you make Buster a Jew, Leigh?"

Nash is cute, too. He says very cute things.

(Thanks to Leigh, Nash, Buster, Avo and Kona for letting me shack. I'd like to discuss me moving in permanently.)

Kids Are the Darnedest Things

I've been around babes lately. And yes, while their faces a cherubic and their smiles melt your insides, I have decided that they are demons in disguise. Clever, brilliant, well-disguised demons, but demons nonetheless.

Take the first babe I ever claimed auntie to, Chase Alexander. Chase will be three in December. He already knows all his letters and all types of tractor equipment. He has been to more tractor pulls in his short life than I have in my long one, and no one looks cuter than him in a tobogan. He also knows how to make his self-proclaimed Aunt Amber give in to his reign of terror... by dumping every single one of his toy bins on top of himself, of course. I fall for anything willing to be that naughty.
While on a quick visit to his mom's house (my lifetime partner Heather), I had the chance to play with Chase until his naptime. Granted, playing with him sometimes makes me feel like an idiot since when I pick up a tractor and say, "Go tractor, go," he usually corrects me with, "That's a combine." Just before his nap I told Chase to pick out a book for me to read to him. I'd asked him earlier if he was in school and he'd said yes, so I asked him what he was learning, and he sighed as big a sigh as a three-year-old is capable of and answered, "God." When it was time to pick a book, Chase told me in no uncertain terms that he did not want "the one about God." I found this immensely amusing, but only because I know Heather and John are not religious zealots with the goal of brainwashing their kids. Chase is just a demon, see.

Baby Cole, Chase's 5-month-old brother who I welcomed to the world as soon as he arrived in it was also there for my visit. When I left him he was loose and smooshy, but now he's full of bouncies and smiles and happy. He even had a little angel kiss birthmark on his face, which definitely throws you off when searching for the demon that's sure to surface in time.
By far the most manipulative babe is my blood nephew Benjamin Ace. BAM has managed to get five women hanging on his every gurgle and has successfully interrupted our typically cooperative existence. He has turned my mom, his GG, into a baby hog. He pukes on us, pees on us, and poops on us, and yet we still hang around him inches from his every move and are collectively at his beck and call. He's already turned us into a cult and he can't even speak. Hopefully by the time Shannon and Charles's expectation gets here in May, I'll have found a way to conquer the demons inside. Or I'll have rationalized falling completely under their spell.