Fine, I'll tell you all about my amazing weekend adventure

Getting the hell outta dodge is officially my preferred form of therapy. It costs almost as much as a session by the time you secure vegan hotdogs and the most amazing tofu veggie burgers ever made and two tanks of $4.29/gallon gas and what we'll refer to as "refreshments," but you'll get more sweet relief running away from your problems than you'll ever get sitting and stewing about them.

I'm proof.

California has long kept me in awe with its ridiculously varied topography -- deserts, rocky coastlines, docile beaches, Yosemite, Lake Tahoe, Joshua Tree -- and my escape to Montana de Oro this weekend just reinforced that this is the most beautiful state I've ever set foot in.

You expect most destinations in California to be breathtaking, so if they are breathtaking, it's fairly unremarkable. It's nice, but it doesn't leave you speechless. But the thing about California is that while breathtaking is ordinary there's always a little layer of "this can't be real" on top.

Here's what I mean. I expected Montana de Oro to be stunning blue ocean spilling over ridges of gray rock, and it was. I didn't expect that I'd spend 2 days hiking BAREFOOT over sand dunes that felt like baby powder. I couldn't have imagined that at one point I'd have to stop, look deep into my mind to look for words that describe how wonderfully beautiful everything around me was, and finally have it pointed out to me by a fellow writer that it's "like we're in the middle of a painting." And there was no way I would have ever suspected that I'd picnic at a tide pool I'd affectionately name Vagina Beach in honor of all the strange vagina-like sea anemones Mack discovered.

Just like on my barefoot hike, my head spinning from all the beauty enveloping me, I can't find the words to do it all justice. I want to go back, even if it means I don't shower for another three days or eat off clean dishes or get internet access ever again.

Yes, that is the ocean out there.

This is on a rock on the beach that has a beach on top of it.

The crest of the sand dune of powder soft.

Rocks that point to the sailboat I should probably be living on.

One of about a million little crabs we found.

About the time I realized how lucky I am to be alive.

Layers and layers of amazing.

Mack discovering sea vaginas.

Mr. & Mrs. T on the run.

An Abbreviated Leave of Absence

Dear Lovelies,

Don't try to call me this weekend or email me or expect me to be anywhere or do anything. I am running away to this place. The neighbors are watching Miss Kitty, who can just deal with her own pee on the floor for a while, and me and Mack are escaping the concrete jungle and hunkering down with our vegan inspirations. We are going to hike and lose track of time and stare at nothing and drink whiskey from the bottle while the campfire crackles and pops.

Here is something that will make you jealous, which is the way I like you...

Enjoy your weekend.

Love,
Me

A Diet Ad that Didn't Make Me Hate Myself

Quietly e-stalking as a wind down to my beer soaked weekend, I discovered this advertisement on Facebook. 

I don't really find that midriff very enticing. It kind of reminds me of monkey bread, which I like to eat, but even with all its cinnamon gooey goodness, it's still not a good model for a sexy tummy. Let me just say right here that if my stomach looked even close to that midriff up there, I'd be okay with it. But if you're going to picture a sexy tummy courtesy of "this year's most talked about diet. As seen on CNN and Fox News," you might as well pick one that doesn't look like one a normal person would have, am I right?

Here are some midriffs that I find captivating. My stomach will never look like these (read the part about the beer soaked weekend above), but I appreciate them all the same. 

  

If I was in heaven when God was handing out bodies and this one came up, I would have sold my soul to the devil to get it. Which is probably why I ended up stocky. 

Yes, Eva, you're beautiful, and it's probably hard to look like a beacon of fitness in mid-stride even with all that beauty on, but somehow you do it. Which is why I hate and love looking at you.
This woman may be a lesbian, but if I could have that much ability to kick ass around my belly button, I might not need men either. Reminder: she does run a gym and works out a billion hours a day while I run a website and sit at a desk a billion hours a day.

Dulywed: What's Beneath All Those Vows (a series)

I don't do snot, boogers, loogeys, rockets, anything that comes out of the nose.

The mere thought of nose stuff makes me nauseous. While I haven't particularly liked snot and its kin my whole life (seriously, I never ate a booger as a kid, NEVER), my dislike ballooned into disgust one innocent afternoon when I was volunteering painting old ladies fingernails at Parkview Medical Center when I was 11. I'd just zipped down to the 3rd floor to visit one of my favorite crazy old bats who would squeal with delight when we painted her nails. She wasn't all there, probably never had been, but she was happy and I liked her. That's why I made a special -- and as fate would have it final -- trip to her floor to do her nails.

I pulled out my little suitcase of color, took her hand in mine, listened to her glee manifest, and then headed off to meet Heather on another floor. As I reached out to push the elevator button, there, right there on the middle knuckle of my index finger, was Crazy Old Bat's 100-year-old booger.

Discovering an old person's booger on your finger while in an old folks' home calls for a delicate response. I swallowed my urge to run screaming to the nurses' desk yelling, "GET IT OFF! GET IT OFF!" -- along with some vomit -- and instead tried to handle the situation with some semblance of composure. The need to flee was so great, I squirmed into the elevator and was left to face the booger on my own. Since I was 11, that meant I wiped it on my jeans.

For some people who wipe boogers on their socks (you know who you are), a little booger on your jeans may be something you can overlook [no kidding, I just gagged right now]. But for me, someone who has a little OCD and can't leave things alone especially if they aren't symmetrical, that booger was like a mental parasite, plaguing me with panic and discomfort and squeamishness. That booger was all I could think about, and the feeling of it on my finger is as distinct now as it was 20 years ago.

I'm subjecting myself to physical discomfort to bring this post to you, the innocent single people in my life, who have a right to know what "I do" really commits you to. Now that you understand my feeling about nasal discharge, humor me.

Today was rainy (can you believe it?) and Mack didn't have school, so I took the car to work. We had a shoot this morning, and since I never have a car, I offered to drive. When we were finished, I decided to take the car back home because I don't have a parking space at my office. On my way home, I stopped by Blockbuster to get a couple of movies since the weather suited a movie night so well, and as I went to get back in the car, I noticed some light green smudgies on the side of the driver's seat.

"What is that crap?" I thought as I leaned in to inspect the crusty debris a little more closely.

BOOGERS! MACK'S BOOGERS! A SIDE OF MY HUSBAND I NEVER WANTED TO SEE!

I choked down the chunks that were trying to expel from my mouth, hopped onto the seat to avoid brushing up against the child-like treasures stored on the fabric, and immediately called Mack.

"You cannot pick your nose and wipe your boogers on the side of the seat. That is disgusting."

I am going to say he laughed, but you should know that he really guffawed, hee hawed, almost snorted and thoroughly enjoyed himself for about 11 minutes. If we were dating, this discovery would have been a deal breaker, but unfortunately when you are dating, people keep these parts of themselves a secret, under wraps, buried deep down in the place only you know about, exactly where they should be. After you say, "I do," that's when you really start to learn what you got yourself into.

30 Down, 300 to Go

Since I'm planning to live mostly for forever, I decided that for my 30th birthday I probably ought to get a beauty regime.

I don't shower everyday, don't put on deodorant every day, and don't brush my hair everyday, so a beauty regime is a bit of an undertaking. If I look close enough to my best with minimal effort and awkwardly my best with extra effort, beauty for me just isn't worth... well.. the effort.

My new beauty regime is based on multiple magic potions that I learned about from the lady who invented my DIY French manicure kit. I did an interview with her a while ago, recruited her to write for Capessa, became enlightened about collagen and the size of Vitamin C molecules, and gained access to wholesale pricing.

Prior to getting a price break, I was keeping myself up by dusting my eyelids with skin-colored shadow to cover some blood vessels that showed up when I turned 25 and using the glare from my glasses to downplay the tired hue of purple under my eyes. That was working well enough until fine lines started accentuating my mouth and a few ravines of worry/annoyance started traversing my forehead. Because I didn't wear nearly enough sunscreen as a child. Or last year.

Now my bathroom vanity is like a chemistry lab, complete with droppers and small glass bottles of active liquid. I have about as much grace dripping Vitamin C serum on my face as I do putting on eyeliner, but I guess I'll just have to get better over time. Like I usually do...

Is it less than a week until my birthday ALREADY?? (aka what I want)

I can hardly believe I'll be turning the big 30 in just 5 days. I thought by the time I was 30 I'd have a million dollars, a sprawling mansion, and a few years under my belt as the president of the world. As it turns out, I feel accomplished if I feed myself dinner every night.

I've decided that this year, I'm going to be more selective about what features I add to my life so that I have a clear path to that mansion and presidency I'm supposed to have. As I've gotten older, I've become wiser, and I accept that I don't have the space or the attention for anything other than things I love, things like:

The Modern Plumbing & Remote Growth Prints by BenBen

This Screen Print Owl Hoodie in a Size LargeThese Sweetie Carved Tea Cups with A + M '03 on Them

The Most Intelligently Designed Grill Ever, Made By Eva SoloThis Sleek & Effective Windshield for My Honda Metropolitan ScooterSome Exotic Hula Hoop Classes for Beginners

A Hot Air Balloon Ride over California's Beautiful Countryside

Happy Mother's Day

My sisters and I are flung 5,500 miles in every direction. Our mom is our central anchor point, and Mother's Day is one of our best excuses to get together. She is easy to love, a delight to covet, and an honor to know. We love you.
Happy Mother's Day to all the other mothers I know and love. Thanks for the work you do.

7-Year-Old Wisdom

Mack's mom is in the Philippines for work this week, and before she left she gave me an assignment to wash Laila's hair. Normally, I think that a 7-year-old should wash their own hair, but I like Laila and her mom and so I do everything they tell me.

Laila has a mane of hair, long wavy hair that is such a rich brown color it makes wood jealous. It qualifies as luscious. I would love to have her hair, but after last night, I realized I would also love to have her life.

While she sat in the tub gabbing about how she'd played with not just one friend but two and how she spent the afternoon in the hot tub and the pool and how the day was just so much fun that when her mom called she had to tell her hi-bye so she could get back to her insanely wonderful life, I sat on the edge of it, trying to get the temperature just right and planning how I was going to wash and condition her hair without getting a drop of water on her forehead or -- god forbid -- near her eyebrows. She was carefree, completely solid in the fact that she was just going to live life and other people would make sure she was fed food she likes and didn't go around smelling like the inside of a shoe.

I asked her, "Laila, why don't you wash your own hair?"

"Holding my arms up for that long makes them tired." Then she looked at me like I just fell from outer space and that these questions, these ideas that I have, they need to stop annoying her or I will not be given the privilege of washing her hair again this lifetime. Clearly, she cannot be asked to exert precious energy on holding her arms over her head for 38 seconds when that energy would be better used playing for 14 hours a day.

Then she said, "Besides, when you're in the bath you're supposed to relax." And she is right, which is precisely why someone better be showing up to wash my hair every other day or I quit.

The End of the Beginning

I took my GRE today. For those of you who've been there before, this may look familiar. For those of you who haven't this is a taste of what I've been swimming in for the last month+. No, it doesn't smell like grape.
I think I was out of the testing room all of 19 minutes before I cracked open a Coors, sat down on plastic furniture in the carport, broke out the knitting (this one's for you, Kristin!) and watched Mack work on his Ninja motorcycle. Maybe because when I start to feel "smart" I get freaked out and the part of me that was brought up thinking ambition meant stomping all the beer cans in the garage to make $40 takes over. Sometimes I utter the words "Troyer brothers." I'm so glad that stupid test is over I feel like I just got a clean bill of health. I didn't do great on the test, make no mistake, but I did just fine. Fine enough to pair my test score with my work experience and my irresistible self to get into a school that will teach me something. If I decide to go in the next 5 years.

I haven't felt this good about getting through something as I did when I finished college... when I looked at myself and said, "Guess what? You NEVER have to write another essay again in your life!" And then immediately started a job writing a journalistic version of essays.

Now that I've got my free time back to get absorbed in such brilliance as The Real World: Hollywood (if I see them out I will punch them in the face and be fine going to jail for it) and Shot at Love with Tila Tequila II (because I still can't quite put my finger on why she reminds me a praying mantis), my next big plan is to christen the $8 grill I got off Ebay with a big, fat stack of vocabulary words. I am just that brilliant.

Wake & Shake

When I moved to California, I got all kinds of fear injections from people wanting me to stay in Kentucky. What about the EARTHQUAKES? The BIG ONE? The DEATH LOOMING JUST BELOW THE SURFACE ON THE SAN ANDREAS FAULT????

Well, I've been here two years and haven't felt a single wobble. If I'd moved from here to Kentucky, I couldn't say the same thing.

So, come on and tell me, what were you doing when it happened? Drugs like the lady in the video? Did your nightstand shake, too?!?! Apparently I have to live vicariously through you Midwesterners for my earthquakes...

In Honor of All Things Elephantine

My mom and dad (the Greg dad, not the Steve dad) gave me a stuffed elephant when I was really little and part of the reason I loved it so much was that it had a little purple "scar" on its tummy.

I took it with me when my marching band went to Washington, D.C., for Bill Clinton's inauguration, and the maid in our hotel, Ngo, stole it.

I cried, my friend Erica Herren called the band instructor, we tried to fight the injustice through the front desk clerk, I wrote an impassioned letter to the maid so she could see it the next day and return Elliot to me, and nothing happened. Elliot and I were separated for life, and every happy memory of my mom and dad being married seemed to disappear with him.

Of all the animals in the world, I think elephants are the most magical. To be so hulking and huge and intelligent and still be vegetarian and able to live peacefully with mice and men (for the most part). There's this one episode of Planet Earth on the Discovery Channel where elephants swim... SWIM!!!... and that turned nature on its head for me. Elephants are beyond definition, beyond any other creature in the animal kingdom. Including people.

In Case You Were Wondering Why Me & Mr. T Won't Be Having Children

When Mack and I were dating we did one of those photo booth things where it takes your faces and smooshes them into a kid. I accidentally made the kid pale white with blonde hair -- just like neither of his parents -- and then quickly gave up on the prospect that we would make beautiful children. Oh, our kids would be strong and smart and bossy and funny, but beautiful, it's not looking good.

Not that either of us are ugly people. Mack has been publicly called out as being the hottest straight guy in the gay bar, and as long as I look over my glasses and remember to cock my head at a slight angle, I can be pretty photogenic. But when our genetics collide, holy moly.

When I found this new Baby Mama Baby Maker thing in honor of Tina Fey's new movie (where she hires Amy Poehler to be a surrogate), I thought I'd give us another shot. I uploaded our wedding photos, waited the appropriate load time, circled the correct features, and crossed my fingers.

And then I decided we're enough of a family without having a little troll running around.

This Is the New Mullet. Please Stop It Already.

I'm not sure how this happened or why, but this ridiculous hairdo should be illegal in 49 states. It can be allowed in New Jersey, but other than there, no way.

I think it might have been inspired by Growing Up Gotti on A&E, but it's been a while since that show was on and I can't imagine this style lasted longer than that reality show. Although, to be fair, reality shows can't be gelled into permanence.

For some reason, it seems that this hair style is always coupled with an unbuttoned shirt with popped collar, a fitted wife beater tank or a tee shouting "ARMANI EXCHANGE" in a dangerous font. I presume the unbuttoned shirt is for the pleasure of the people, who, unbeknownst to us, like looking at prepubescent chests and finely manicured happy trails. The wife beater and the Armani Exchange garb, I think that's just so they look rich... or at least too sexy to care that they're poor.

Please Note: This guy is partying in a utility room.

The other thing that's interesting to note about this style is that it's just not complete without a layer or ten of fake tan, preferably in a hue that matches an Oompa Loompa. Especially if it's prom night. And you're barely 5 feet tall. 

The finishing touch to complete this look is what I call "the asshole pucker." I think boys do this because they think it makes them look tough, like they're getting their mugshot taken and they just don't give a fuck in fact they care so little that they want to look like their blowing a kiss to all their bitches. It actually makes them look like they're signaling for a "daddy."

Please Note: This guy waxes his eyebrows and wears lipgloss. 

I can't explain what's happening with the chin strip.

Is there no limit to how awful this look can be? No. Which is why it must be stopped.

[On a side note, while looking for photos that could help me express these sentiments I stumbled across Hot Chicks with Douchbags, a site that needs no further explanation. Although I should add that it has commentary and addresses accessories such "the ubiquitous red cup."] 

Things Are Not as They Seem

Apparently my devotion to blogging has run its course. I've enjoyed doing it for the last couple of years, but life has been stealing my soul, and I can't commit to putting up new material any time in the next few months.

Plus, it doesn't seem like anyone actually reads my blog anymore except for Shannon, Heather, Jen and Lisa. My mom is not even included in that list. When your mom quits finding you interesting, it's a sign to throw in the towel.

Rest assured that I'll keep accepting your phone calls and reading your blogs and chatting with you on IM when I see you there, but as for blogging, it's time to hang it up. If Phil can't find the time to update, why should I?

I still hope to write, but instead of putting little snapshots of things no one cares about on Like A Twister, I think I should spend more time seriously writing. About things that matter. And the pain of living. Serious things. Things that I understand. And that don't get enough attention.

Lately I just feel like I have to put on a facade when I write, like I have to be this perky, introspective, witty person, and I'm not. Not anymore.

For all of you who have enjoyed my blog, I'm glad I made something you liked. I know not many people care about my cashew cheddar cheese or the porn artwork I found in Santa Barbara, but if anything I said made you laugh, then it was worth it.

One of the things I'll miss the most is putting up pictures of all the reunions I get to have since moving away. They really do show some of my happiest moments, and it's nice to have a virtual scrapbook to scroll through sometimes.

Of course, there's always Snapfish and Photobucket for that. I don't need to maintain a blog.

Lastly, I just want to say goodbye, good luck and good riddance.

So, I guess the best way to sum it up would be to read the first letter of each paragraph going from top to bottom, and then leave me a parting comment.

This Is What Vegan Looks Like

Yes. I made that. It was delicious and amazing. And it was 100% vegan, which means it used absolutely NO animal products. Even that cheese you see there, that mouthwatering, delectable, melty, gooey cheese, that cheese is vegan!

Here's how the magic happened. I ate Better than Cheddar Nachos at Real Food Daily when my mom and sister were visiting and remembered how awesome they were. I got a bit of gumption and a chunk of time, prerequisites for making vegan food, and decided to make the nachos at home. I can't eat regular nachos because of that 10 Pound Challenge thing I'm doing, so I figured, hey, vegan nachos gotta be healthy.

Making the cheese was actually a lot easier than I expected... once I found the sea agar, nutritional yeast, and yellow miso at the health food store... and it made a lot more than I thought it would. We had enough for nachos and I've got two more plastic containers sitting in the fridge waiting to be put on more nachos or tacos or macaroni or sandwiches or whatever I feel like putting cashew cheddar cheese on. It's going to be a good week.

Here's the recipe if you get some gumption and time with your craving for nachos. Try making the cheese just to see if non-vegans can tell it's vegan. They never can. (And if you get a lot of gumption and want to try some of the most amazing vegan food ever created, get the Real Food Daily cookbook or the Candle Cafe cookbook. Both are in my collection of kitchen treasures.)

1 1/4 c. raw cashews

1/2 c. nutritional yeast

2 tsp. onion powder

2 tsp. sea salt

1 tsp. garlic powder

1/8 tsp. ground white pepper

3 1/2 c. unsweetened plain soy milk

1 c. agar flakes (about 2 ounces... this makes the cheese its final consistency and each brand is different, so you may have to tweak it once you get a feel for it. I used two 1-oz packages and it was a bit too much. Next time I will probably use 1 and 3/4 packages.)

1/2 c. canola oil

1/4 c. yellow miso

2 tbsp. freshly squeezed lemon juice

Get a Cuisinart. It will change your culinary life and make this cheese possible. 

Using the pulse button, finely grind the cashews in a food processor.; don't allow the cashews to turn into a paste. Add the nutritional yeast, onion powder, salt, garlic powder, and white pepper. Pulse a few more times to blend in spices.

Combine the soy milk, canola oil and agar in a heavy saucepan. Bring to a simmer over high heat. Decrease the heat to medium-low, cover and simmer, stirring occasionally, for 10 minutes or until the agar is dissolved. 

With the food processor running, gradually pour the soy milk mixture through the feed tube and into the cashew mixture. Blend for 2 minutes, or until very smooth and creamy, and then blend in miso and lemon juice.

For grated and sliced cheese, transfer the cheese into a container, cover and refrigerate about 4 hours, until very firm. Then, grate or slice as desired.

For melted cheese, use the cheese immediately. Or, make the cheese in advance, and when you're ready to use the cheese, melt it in a saucepan over medium heat until smooth and creamy, stirring frequently. If needed, as more soy milk for a thinner consistency. 

For jalapeño cheese, stir in 2 tbsp. minced jalapeño chiles into 2 c. melted cheese. 

Vegan foods are alive, just like veggies, and will expire. This one will keep for about 5 days, covered and refrigerated, so plan what you want to use it with when you make it. Invite me over and I'll help eat it.

Dulywed: Making Small Talk like the Amazing Technologically Advanced Teenagers Do

I happen to find the fellow I married a totally inspiring conversationalist. As a result, I find our chats to be glimpses into the hilarity that he is capable of. He will not like me for this, but you, privileged reader, will.

me: dude... wanna watch basketball tonight? i have to root for michigan state because it may earn me 120 bucks
Mack: dude... where's my car
what time
me: aafter work
Mack: maybe.. depends on if I go to judo
ill let you know
me: come on toshi.
hang out with meeeeeee for a second
Mack: im about to get a haircut... then I have to go do launry
maybe
wanna hear some bad news?
me: DYING TO!
Come on, don't keep BAD NEWS all to yourself!!
Mack: my bike will cost 112 dollars to register, and a piece of rubber flaked off the interior of the fuel line -- went to the carbuerator and now I have to rebuild the carb
so i won't be riding anytime soon
me: ouchie. stupid rubber.
Mack: stupid dry-rotted rubber
where do you watch game
me: maybe someplace fantastic with boobies.
like hooters or the shack, if they're playing it.
Mack: probably i will go
hoe-bag
me: i'll wear my cowboy boots for ya.
and say yee haw a lot of times in a row
Mack: will you stomp on my ballz
me: with my heel
mmm hmmm
Mack: u r so cool
me: omg like totally
Mack: my bff jill
me: lol; rotfl
Mack: kthxbai
me: l8r g8r
:)
Mack: < style="font-weight: bold;">me: you worked entirely too hard on that
Mack: =====() - - - - - - (.)(.)

Can Someone Please Tell Me What's Going on Here?

Mack sent me this before Christmas. When I opened it back then, I remember thinking, "Strange." Then, for whatever reason, I left it on my desktop, and I've been looking at it periodically trying to decide if it's funny or disturbing.

I have never been this indecisive before in my life. So I ask you, is this oddly comical or not?

I'm a Loser Baby...

Got a text from Jen a couple weekends ago saying, "I JUST RAN 16 MILES."

That alone made me winded. So, I'm on a Weight Loss Challenge. It's like the 300th one in my life, but this time I have a very clear goal of 10 pounds and am doing it on Capessa so if I don't stick with it, more people than just me and Mack will know. Nashvegas and Meanestmom will also know.

Check out my 10 Pound Challenge blog (there are videos!), and join up if you feel so inclined. Also, invite your friends, family and co-workers who may want some friendly support during this tough, Victoria's Secret swimsuit catalog time of year.

I Hope My Husband Doesn't Mind that I Just Fell in Love with Another Man...

I was all for Hillary until she beat a dead horse into a bloody pulp. And, while I think I could love her again once she gets out of the madness that is an election, after watching this, I'm excited to give my vote to Obama. Because I need to believe in this country again, and today he made me proud to be an American.

Family Reunion

My mom and Betsy decided to come for a visit... finally... and it was amazing. I've realized that I am my best self, the self I most like to be, when I am around my family. Around other people I'm a little more reserved, a little more insecure, a little more static, but when the people who really, really get me are around, I can just be me, pushing the envelope between funny and inappropriate and being forgiven simply because there is a smile behind what otherwise might be cruel. Ahh, balance.

The few days they were here were a whirlwind. We woke up, we walked on the beach, we walked through the canals, we hiked through Mandeville Canyon, we watched a depressing movie Shannon recommended (it was better than Suckerbaby), we walked all over Hollywood, we went shopping, we bought clothes that made us look rich, we ate glorious fuel food, we walked on a red carpet, we tattooed Betsy, we took on Chinatown, we bought fart bombs, we toured historic Olvera Street, we got courted by mariachis, we watched the sun set, we drank fresh squeezed mango juice, we examined real live Emmy and Peabody awards, and then, just as it was getting going, Delta came down and swooped them away.

Stupid Delta.

I've been too tired living life the last week to commit any more thought to this post, so the photos will have to do. And I hope that the people who rejuvenate my spirit become a part of my day to day asap.