Extreme Tourism...

Jen is a tourism super model. She does all the right poses and is just so when it comes to getting her travel pictures taken. This makes assembling Martha Stewart-esque scrapbooks much easier.

But in the case of the photo below, Jen played up her tourist persona to bring you a very special glimpse of Muscle Beach. Can you tell what it is? Leave a guess in the comments and then I'll do a big reveal in a couple days. The first winner gets a trick or a treat... I get to decide.

A little toupee experiment

Jennifer is here. Suck it to the rest of you who want her. I won this weekend.

We've had oodles of fun that involves bicycles and margaritas and ravines and minimal blogging, but for now, I offer you this: a segment we call "uh, what's up with the hairpiece?"
Hey, we tried to be perfect, but alas, Mother Nature issued other mandates. Since it's been a losing battle, we've instead opted for perfect fun, which, to quote my future president, makes us potentially a little "too awesome."

Lisa, this one's for you...

Just about a lifetime ago, I had the privilege of being an observer of "A Summer of Staches." The "SoS" was a season of change for several of my guy friends, wherein they all agreed to grow mustaches and wear tank tops.

Lisa asked earlier this year if anyone had photographic evidence of this event, and while I had a mental picture, I just could not find the physical one. I pulled out boxes upon boxes of photos, making Mack think I'd caught the crazy that Barbara Hershey gets in Beaches when she's all, "I've got to find the picture of my mom's hands or else my daughter will die!"

I gave up and assumed it'd been lost in the move. Until last night.

While tidying up for Jen's visit (just 10 more hours!!!), I was trying to toss Mack's microphone to the top of the bedroom closet. It decided the top of the closet wasn't where it wanted to be, so it took aim at my head. I fell into the shelves where I keep my hot rollers to dodge its attack, and in my state of grace, I knocked a decorative photo box off the shelf. Photos spilled out chronicling misplaced moments from my life, and there, at the bottom of the pile of memories, folded in half, was The. Stache. Photo.

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

Sitting in our respective spots in the living room, after watching a thrilling episode of Project Runway and eating pumpkin muffins for dinner, Mr. T looks my way with a glint in his eye that means he's thinking about something not related to judo.

"We've had some great adventures," he says.

"Season Finale, part 1...," I remind him, ruining the sweet moment that's about to slap me in the face.

"How many other couples can say they've been to Africa and to a McDonald's diner together?" he ponders.

"Or to jail."

No, this is not "baby fever"

But, come on, when meat collides as it has in this photo of my neighbor Sadie and her cousin, it needs to be shared with the world.
So as not to explode your mind, I cropped out the BABIES KISSING, because that would have been cuteness overload and the kiss was really not letting the meat have its moment.

Now, if I could just get my chub to look that cute...

Riddle me this...

Right, so, okay. There's this thing. It comes once every four years, but it lasts only about two minutes. And basically. Yeah, basically, people have died trying to get this thing. Uh huh, they've died. Like more people than have died in Iraq have died trying to get this thing. And now EVERYONE has it. Everyone. They've given it to Every. Single. Person. It's doesn't cost a penny. But it could cost you everything if you don't do it. So, what is it?

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

Mack slumps into the house after a long day of school and discovers me hard at work on his computer. Reading stories.

"Babe, seriously, can we get some groceries?" he whimpers. "I really can't go to school all day and not eat."

I tenderly point out the fact that it's not the we don't have food... it's that he won't make it. If it doesn't come in a microwaveable bag or a banana peel, suddenly it ceases to exist.

Broken into a state of ludicrous from starvation, he turns into a crabby monster.

"Don't treat me like I'm a baby," he huffs.

"Stop acting like one and I won't," I tenderly retort.

"Get out of my face and don't talk to me the rest of the night."

Normally, I would have thrown some hate back in his face because that's what makes us happy, but he was hungry, and I know how hungry can make you insane.

Like when I'm hungry (or tired), I turn into this:
I tenderly stood up, left his computer, went into the kitchen and started cooking every morsel of food we had in the entire house. I made him two grilled cheese sandwiches, a dinner plate's worth of green beans, pasta salad with green beans, basil and tomatoes from our garden or my Aunt Becky's garden, potato salad and tuna salad. Then I went to the grocery store and replenished some of the snack stash, even throwing in a bag of hydrogenate-free chocolate chip cookies in the hopes that it would sweeten him up a little bit.

And that is why I earned an A+ in wife today.

I'm sad about this.

I love the scene in Cool Hand Luke where Paul Newman eats 50 eggs. In no way am I a film expert, but that scene is executed to perfection. The ludicrousness of the challenge, the humor of Luke's distended belly, the rallying prisoners -- it's tense and dramatic and comical all wound up together in a dreamy little package of time.How do you pay tribute to the life of a man like Paul Newman, a man who happily stayed married to his wife forever and who started an organic food movement long before it was cool? I think it starts with a bag of Newman-Os, a tall glass of milk and plans to escape.

Smooshie Muahs

I love being this close to other human beings. I love squashing our faces together and forgetting whose arm is whose and letting our heartbeats make sense of it all. Thanks to those of you who let me be this close to you. It makes this life worth living.

The Endorsement Series (Part 9 in a Series)

When I visit my mom and dad's house, I eat basically every nut they have in their house.

They have Everybody's Nuts Pistachios. Ate 'em. They have Blue Diamond smoked almonds. Devoured. They have Blue Diamond wasabi almonds. Well, they HAD wasabi almonds.

I just can't help it. Nuts are like salty crunchy goodness wads, and I am weak in the face of salty crunchy goodness wads.

I crunched through every nut in the house, and then, on the way to the airport, just when they thought their nuts were safe, I discovered the Blue Diamond Cinnamon Brown Sugar Almonds that my dad keeps in the console in the event that during his workday he realizes he's skipped 6 meals and is on the verge of a coma from improper nutrition. His near-death starvation couldn't even stop me from popping a handful into my mouth.

Come on, they taste like CHRISTMAS MORNING, people! A nut that is like Christmas. As if I could resist that.

Just go out, buy them, and hide them in a special place like a little squirrel does with its winter nuts. Deez nuts.

Making Messers

Leiah and Matt finally did it. No, they did that a LONG time ago. This time they did this.
During a whirlwind trip home to witness the nuptials and share my over-sized bosom with relatives I haven't seen in years, I think I managed to get in 11 hours of sleep.

The whole weekend was like a slurry of sassy comebacks, which basically means it was like a long weekend in heaven for me. I went out with Leigh and Heather to soak up some "Is that Sarah Palin?" glances. I got to have a beer with my cousins Isaac, Ryan, Nate, Andrea, and Taylor, all of whom I haven't seen in years and are even more fun as adults than they were as kids. Aunt Tina and Aunt Becky made my mom smile that way that only her sisters can make her smile, and I had an impromptu family reunion right outside the restroom with the Hensleys, who all seem to be gradually turning into Mimis and Pas. I think Magnolia actually emits light from her bright personality. Of course, Seth was there too... flunking on his ushering duties and trying to grow facial hair. I got to spend the night at Betsy's apartment and be jealous of her tiny furniture and her ability to make random feel orderly -- and I got to perform some big sister duties against some newly discovered larvae in her bedroom. I got to teach Ben the importance of the clink when toasting, even though he was drinking out of a sippy cup.

The only thing not perfect about the whole affair was the absence of Shan, Chaz and the Sweet Meat. But, they were huge parts of the story telling and big sources of pride for the rest of us, so while they weren't there in physical form, they were represented well by the words hanging in the air.
I talked too loud, I barked too many orders, I laughed too hard, I revealed too much, I generally overdid everything. It was like I was on Life Red Bull or something, and now, now that it's calm enough for me to bathe responsibly, I am sick. Like sinus pressure, hacking cough sick. Like the sick where your colleagues say, "Um, maybe you should go home," and you retort, in the voice of a 13 year old boy because that's all the voice you have left, "No, I'm okay. I've got some tea."

I wouldn't change it for the world.

Dulywed: What's Beneath All Those Vows (A Series)

The room becomes filled with what can only be described as bombed by a Porta Potty.

Me: Did you just shit your pants?

Him: No, you were just ignoring what I was saying so I tried to communicate with smells. 

Never before in my life

Normally I steer clear of political discourse because I get too mad to listen to people who don't care about those less fortunate than them and I am admittedly far too uninformed to challenge their way of thinking. And, in my house, even though Mr. T & I live on the same political page, he is black and white and I tend to swim around in murkier realities. Then he gets exasperated at how rageless I am and I shut down at how rageous he is, and then I make a mental promise never to discuss politics again. Ever.

But lately, especially since the Democratic Convention, I have been smiling at the TV in ways that are usually reserved for episodes of Wife Swap. I have been doing my dishes to speeches that make me take my sudsy mitts into the living room to worship the orator. I have been moved to approach voter registration tables to thank the people for working to get others involved. I have felt a kinship to people who I'd normally have nothing in common with, and all of this has given me a sense of peace.

This is going to sound nuts, but Barack Obama does for me what I imagine Jesus does for others.

He inspires me to love my fellow humans, he makes me feel valuable, he gives me courage to be myself, he teaches me that truth and honesty are the best defense and the greatest unifiers, and he shows me that being friendly is heroic. He gives me hope.

I have a very unfounded but very present fear that the world may in fact end in the year 2012. I know it's ridiculous. I know it won't happen. But things are just so bad and there are just so many coincidences that point to 2012 and the environment is flashing a red alert and I don't even have an earthquake box ready! That little voice whispering, "Twenty Twelve!!!" in the back of my head won't shut up all the way and keeps me in a constant albeit low level state of freaked out.

But ever since Obama has taken the political stage, I feel like we've had a second coming. Like we've been given a bonus chance to get it right. I don't feel afraid, but rather feel optimistic, like we may just come out of this alright. We may just be able to keep loving those we love and breathing the air we've become accustomed to. We may just settle down and stop running all frenzied until we die. We may start taking care of ourselves and stop being so damn greedy.

I have voted in every election I have been old enough to vote in, but never before have I been motivated to do much beyond that -- beyond placing my fate in someone else's hands even though I know it's really up to me and me alone. Unfortunately we have created a situation where I am not enough anymore -- and I am hard working, college educated, healthy, blessed beyond belief. I can't pay down my student loans because they've done nothing but accumulate interest since I got out of school. I can't afford to add my husband to my health insurance policy because it would prohibit us from paying our rent. I am not enough, and something needs to change so that those who are hard working, college educated, healthy and blessed beyond belief won't have to feel that they aren't enough.

Obama represents that change to me. His is the first campaign that I have donated to (meagerly yet always significantly appreciated). He is the first presidential nominee that made me want a campaign T-shirt. He is the first candidate that I have actually wanted -- and trusted with my well being.

Vote Obama.

Take This Milton Keynes!

Charles is always so braggy about England's impromptu witch hunts and strange festivals where they give babies dirty cats to chew on, so I wanted to share a little of what goes down in Venice, where I live, and where strange happens basically every weekend. And, I'm doing it in comic form because I know how Charles LOVES a Chick Tract!

Partying Down with the Virgo Babies

One of my best friends and my favorite nephew both have birthdays in September, so when the two collided on my front stoop on Labor Day Weekend, we had choice but to throw a party.

Sadie, the creepy monster who lives upstairs with her mom and dad and security dog, is turning 1 on Sept. 12, and Ben, the love machine with the goldilocks and shark chompers, is turning 2 on Sept. 15. I believe birthdays should be celebrated for an entire month, and the only way to teach the kids that is to start them early. That's where I come in.

I may have spoiled it for the rest of you by getting first dibs on the party, but I got what I want, and the squirts got what they wanted, so we win.
[Note: this is a slideshow from that Smilebox thing. It's admittedly more annoying/less cool than the scrapbook thing, but I wanted to try it. The pictures are cute enough to make you watch all the way through, though.]

Scrapbooking

[Note: I got a free copy of this scrapbook/slideshow software called Smilebox when I was at BlogHer. It's normally $40 for a subscription, and then a few bucks extra for music options and ad-free slideshows and photo albums. It's very cute software, so if you like it, now you know how to get it.]

Precious Moments

There are several things that are incredible about the following. First, Ben is voluntarily on the sand. Secondly, he is having fun on the sand. Thirdly, Leiah did not vomit despite spinning round and round and round. Fourthly, I restrained myself and did not right then and there kidnap that angel baby and flee to Mexico.

A Letter to John McCain

Dear John,

I don't think you're a bad guy. In fact, as far as Republicans go, you've always seemed somewhat mild mannered and reasonable. If I shared a table with you at a wedding, I wouldn't find it altogether miserable, and I certainly wouldn't rub my armpit on your chair and swab my crotch with your napkin, which is what I think Republicans usually deserve (except Jennifer, who I love). But as a presidential candidate?

John, come on. You're turning 100 years old soon. You admit you don't use the Internet. You've got that weird thing where your arms are stuck like Barbie's, which I'm sure is probably from all that torture you survived but it's still weird looking. You're not bad; you're just not right.

I don't deny that you are an asset to the United States, that you have served more and better than I would be willing to, that you make the Republican Party (except Jennifer, who I love) seem less insane and evangelical. But this presidential campaigning is just wearing you out.

It doesn't help that the guy you're running against is not only charismatic and charming and brilliant and deliberate and affirming and confident and stoic, but he's also young and sexy. Well, younger and sexy. When you try to come off as young and hip against Obama, you look older than ever. And it hurts me to watch, especially when all those idiots in your party (except Jennifer, who I love and who is not an idiot) start whining on your behalf after they've made you do things they couldn't stand up to the scrunity of.

So, pack up your dignity, hold onto your self respect, go back to being a rational right winger, and act your age. It'll help you save face, I promise.

Love,
Miss Thomas

Move Over, Beethoven

I know it may sound like I'm bragging, but I'm pretty convinced Bam Bam is a prodigy. Whether he'll make David Beckham look like a ballerina or make Bob Dylan look like a suburban emo only time will tell, but right now, at the ripe old age of almost 2, he masters everything he touches. 

It's kind of freaky to watch, but then I remember he does have my DNA, and it all makes a little more sense. 

Dulywed: What's Beneath All Those Vows (A Series)

"Hmmm, lunch... lunch... what should I pack for lunch? Oh, I know, there's half a lasagna left from last night. I'll grab a bit of that."

[opens refrigerator; doesn't see lasagna anywhere; spots empty container picked apart by vulture man on counter top; eyes fall out of head in disbelief that a single human being can ingest that much lasagna as a midnight snack]

"Or not."

[heads off to work with the leftover salad that was completely untouched during the husband binge-fest]

I saw a perverted old woman... At Last

I love the Hollywood Bowl and I love Etta James, so when Etta decided to perform at the Bowl last week, it was basically the universe telling me to go, love, and smoosh it all together into a fun patty.

Paolo Nutini opened up the night, and if he wasn't so sweaty I'd be writing a marriage proposal right now. His songs were purely happy, and he kind of reminded me of the Beatles, only Scottish, a little drunk, and a little nerdier. As he rotated off the stage, Solomon Burke rotated on. The man showed up sitting on a throne big enough to hold an elephant and did not stand up one single time... because he was the size of an elephant. His voice was Barry White sultry though, so the love amped up so much that Mr. T had to remind me that he was the husband and as such, he should be putting his arm around me and secretly getting to second base.

Sometimes I forget.

Things were getting all lovey dovey touchy feely when Madam Blues took the stage. Since she's pushing 70 years old, she sort of hobbled out and immediately sat down on her hip replacement friendly stool. We also settled in to listen to her tell us how it is and were then treated to some of the creepiest old lady porn I've seen in... well... my whole life.

For some reason, possibly because she is crazy, she came out and rubbed herself. Her lower self. And then her upper self. And then she flicked her tongue around the microphone as if to say, "Hey there young boys, there's nothing but magic under these dentures."

It was so bizarre that whenever she made an advance on herself, the entire Bowl responded with gasps of horror and bursts of laughter. I couldn't look away because I could barely believe it was really happening.

Thanks to my FanciPhone, I was able to capture the moment in this triptych I call "Please. God. No." And now, you too, can experience Etta at last.

Things to Do in Austin when You're Drunk (part 2 of a series)

South Congress is a pretty notorious part of Austin, and after you've gorged yourself on Guero's, South Congress becomes a nice little stretch of asphalt that will aid in your digestion.

The strip has a lot of kitchy shops and restaurants, but unfortunately, it doesn't have a lot of trees. You're basically the egg frying on the sidewalk in August unless you learn how to hug the wall like Sarah does.
We wandered into vintage and antique shops with dusty old photos of people who are way past dead but who looked like they had a really nice life. I love old black and white snapshots of people. If it wouldn't be so incredibly weird, I'd like to make a family album of the pictures I really like and pretend that those are my ancestors and make up stories about them. Maybe in my secret life I will do that, but for now I'll let Shan be the primary weirdo in our clan.

Among the chandeliers, old farm equipment, feathered hats, tiny shoes, dishes and word cards that defined the four of us as Slow, Creak, Nerve and Prize, Kristin and I found a child's memory box. I had never seen one of those before. Since it's likely you haven't either, let me explain.

Apparently in the olden days, affluent parents liked to preserve their child's youth by collecting DNA samples and storing them in a velvet lined box. A lock of brown hair snaked around five little brown teeth in this particular box... and it was nasty. Interesting and mysterious, but nasty.

If I ever do become a parent, I must resist my pack rat tendencies and NOT save body pieces shed by my child. And if I simply have to keep these souvenirs, I must resist the temptation to put it all in a fancy box to make it seem special and not gross.

Since skin cancer was starting to materialize on Sarah's delicate skin, we called an end to our casual browsing and took refuge at a Doc's Motor Works Bar & Grill. Doc's was like a BW3s, only automotive. The beers were cold, brewed locally and called Fireman's #4. Just the way we like 'em.

Things to Do in Austin when You're Drunk (a series)

How Ruble, Sarah, Kristin and I managed to find the most incredible hangouts in Austin is either a testament to our abilities to sniff out good times or a clear indicator that Austin qualifies as one of the best cities in the United States.

Breathe now, because that sentence was a doozy.

It took us almost a year to the day for us far-flung friends to make it to the same geography, but it was worth the wait. We were barely off the plane an hour and we were sipping margaritas and eating queso at Guero's. A guy on the plane next to Kristin said he was going there as soon as he got out of the airport, so if he was that devoted, it must be a place worth devotion. Yeah, it was.
I was surprised to see how vegetarian friendly Austin actually was. I expected it to be like Dallas only worse, because Austin is known for its barbecue. Instead, I found veggie versions of practically everything. Which I'm sure I would have enjoyed if I wasn't already about to explode from all the queso I drank.

So, add Austin to your list, and at the top, write in Guero's. Also at the top, write "Hot as Hell... DO NOT bring your favorite hoodie."

I needed this today.

Ahh, the Torches of Freedom

Shannon, as we're pulling into Lake Charles for the first time: "Look at all the pollution. They're just burning it right into the air."

Mom, trying to look on the bright side: "Those are the Torches of Freedom, girls."

Shannon, after a long pause and five more sightings of burning pollution tubes: "Why are there so many of them?"

The Lake Charles Skyline

Annie's

I think we were on Common Street. I never did learn my way around since Lake Charles has grown so much since the last time I was there. It actually has several Starbucks now.

The place looked like a roadside shack, where genuine drinkers go to ease the pain, and as we past it I said, "We've got to go there."

Liz knows all about Annie's. Apparently she stayed there one night easing her pain and had Amy pick her up -- from the bar -- the next morning to catch a flight to Kentucky. That's what Annie's does. It sucks you in and gives you a place to wallow.

I'd left my ID in my suitcase with my boarding pass, so getting a beer wasn't as breezy as I thought it was going to be. The bartender refused to serve me even after I explained the ID traveling 30 years old story, when a woman three stools over asked me where I was visiting from. I told her California, Los Angeles, and that when we'd drove by earlier I'd told Liz we had to stop here and get a beer. The woman, Bonnie, called me over to "get a look" at me, had me take off my glasses, and okayed me for a beer. Since she was the owner, the bartender reluctantly complied, but not before a few cuss words were thrown around the room.

The bartender was a bitch. But Bonnie was awesome.

She'd been running Annie's for 26 years and had been living in Lake Charles for 40. As she explained, she was a "coon ass by injection." She'd named the bar for her grandmother, who used to go into bars in the days when women would cross the street to avoid walking in front of them. Bonnie called her a feminist. I understood.

Liz said I had to see the bathroom before we left, so I made my way to the back and, after a confrontation with a beetle the size of King Kong, went into the ladies room. It reminded me of my grandma's basement, where all the retired furniture and velvet paintings went to live. Delightfully tacky, yet refined, if you will.

We had to leave to meet up with Amy, but Bonnie told us to stop by on Saturday night for karaoke. She said things really get rolling at around 2:30... a.m. Good to know for the next time I visit Lake Charles.

Fast forward 18 years

One weekend when we were in the 7th grade, Liz, Amy and I decided to go to Wal-mart to get our picture taken. I borrowed a blue shirt with an over-sized collar from Amy, and the three of us went to the photo department of Louisiana's finest department store.

I forgot all about that afternoon until 2001, when my poor planning and geographical ignorance made me, Liz, Amy & I drive all over Louisiana and Texas in search of a good time. At a pit stop at Liz's house, there on the fridge, the past converged with the present.

She had three copies of the photo, so I stole a tiny one and added it to my stash in Kentucky. She forgives me for things like that.

Last weekend at Amy's wedding, where I was known as the one who got Amy into a fist fight at an amusement park with the unforgettable and foreshadowing statement "What? You're going to fight me over a place in line?!," the photo once again made an appearance. This time as a 5" by 7" framed enlargement.

Amy's mom, Ms. Bunny, had found it recently and decided to get a copy for me and Liz to commemorate Amy's wedding. So, to celebrate 18 years together, through fist fights and break ups and births and hurricanes and weddings, we decided to update the photo, with a photo featuring the photo. Photo.
I just feel lucky to have kept such good friends for almost 20 years (in Heather's case, though, it's been 20 years and counting). And I'm glad I've sort of learned to dress myself in that time.

A Planet Sized Belly Growl

Sitting at my desk, dutifully reviewing critiques of the website I run, when suddenly the concrete floor starts to shimmy and the earth lets out a growing grumble. I don't know what to do, so I get up from my rolly chair, scuffle to a doorway (right next to a glass wall because I am a genius when panicked) shouting, "What do we do?! What do we do?!" and watch as my fellow employees, all men, run past me into the parking lot.

Apparently more important than getting to a doorway is getting to an open space. Thanks, Guys.

My heart thundered twice as long as the ground did, and since no major damage happened (except Mack's car almost flipping because HE WAS DRIVING ON THE INTERSTATE when the earthquake hit), everyone's attention turned to the enormous flat screen TVs we all have at home that aren't attached to the wall. Shame on us.

For not attaching those shrines of HD to the wall sooner. Lesson learned. (Mack, get on that.)

I guess I deserved a planet sized freak out since I gave all my Kentuckians an earful when it happened there. For the record, I'm not a fan of 5.8 or higher and I'll be putting together my earthquake box tonight, under advisement from my style consultant and former Cali Queen, Leigh.

Lamy Lou is all grown up.

One of my best friends in the whole world who will likely be the only reason I get into heaven (privilege by association, you know how they decide things up there) got married this weekend.

Here is the new Mr. & Mrs. Lee Byrne.

My Lake Charles trek was a whirlwind adventure that actually had me in a drive thru bar and attending mass within 36 hours of each other. Expect a full report as the week unfolds.

Congrats Amy & Lee! It was amazing seeing/meeting/celebrating with you, and I wish you lots of happiness and wrestling-inspired laughter.

Everything's Bigger in Texas

I'm in Texas on the floor of the airport hoping this jetway door doesn't open and ruin my access to this coveted electrical outlet. I've only been in Texas for about 20 minutes and already the differences between home and here are stinging.

My hair is not pretty today. It's twisted into a clip and drooping from too many plane seats, security checks and a lack of attention. It looks bad because I didn't try to make it look good. But the lady I saw on the skyline train between terminals thingy at Dallas Fort Worth, she had put a lot of effort into getting her hair just right. And it looked all wrong.

I felt rude snapping a photo of her, so let me try to use my words to paint you a picture. You know how in 1987 when you'd wrap your bangs around a jumbo-sized curling iron, pull everything over to the side of your face and down toward your ear, and then lock everything into place with a steady stream of Aqua Net? Yeah, that, colored in the hue that comes to mind when anyone says "strawberry blonde."

The curious thing is that the rest of her hair was stick straight. A biscuit colored board that pointed right to her boobs and then abruptly stopped. The bangs should have been on another woman, in another era.

I also just finished stopping off at a Chili's Too to have a snack. The only vegetarian options available to me were:

1. Chips and Salsa
(*the menu suggests pairing the tortilla chips with ranch dressing for $1 more)
2. Side Salad

Everything else had meat in it. Everything. Fortunately, I'm a contender for the Chips & Salsa Eating Queen of the World, so I'm not complaining. I'm just sayin'.

I ordered the salad and the chips and salsa, and I got 11 pieces of white iceberg lettuce topped with 3 pounds of shredded cheese and a dozen fried croutons and a Family Size bag of tortilla chips with a side bowl of watery salsa. I should have known, I guess. They do say everything's bigger in Texas.
This is AFTER I was about to float away from eating too much.

4th of July Madness

I spent Independence Day 08 living a surreal existence and repeatedly asking myself, "Is this really my life? Because it is freaking amazing."

We woke up early and went with Mr. T's family to the San Diego Wild Animal Park because it was Tom's birthday and what 57 year old doesn't want to ring in another year at the zoo? Then, after sweating and wishing we could have gorillas in the yard, we headed back to LA because I was going to see the fireworks dammit.

Mack was sun whipped so he passed out on the couch, but I latched onto my neighbors and went to the beach. We stopped by the liquor store and bought 22's of Budweiser because at the time it was an American beer, and on the 4th of July you should drink American beer with the colors of the flag on the can. It's like a rule. Next year, I guess I'll have to turn to Pabst Blue Ribbon. Dear god, America, we gotta do something and quick.

From the beach, I watched as fireworks popped and crackled all around me. You could see them all up and down the coast, and then you could see the smokey haze in the sky that was their aftermath. The beach was full of people, shirtless, tattooed, many with convictions, and I actually felt proud to be an American, inspired by these ruffians who don't do what they're told. Cue the music.

Just as I was feeling all blessed to be a part of people who've made an annual tradition based on explosives and founded thanks to criminal behavior, the cops showed up. To confiscate our fireworks. Which were about as dangerous as a sparkler. After we made the kids who were with us pack them up and hand them over, the cops realized the error of their ways and told us to take them home and set them off. We obeyed.

The pops and flashes brought the night to life and made the entire neighborhood feel unified. It felt good to make noise, to cause a ruckus, to admire the beauty of eruption and to preserve a holiday that has always given me memories worth cherishing. Hooray for the USA.

An Old Family Recipe

In celebration of Sundays, fathers and not liking to cook, the Thomas clan decided to have lunch at an Italian restaurant a couple weeks ago. It was a lot like any other meal, where the grown ups got the grown up menus and the kid got the kid menu. And the kid menu was a lot like other kid menus, where there's a maze and a word jumble and a challenge to find the 13 differences between picture 1 and picture 2.

Because this was a family-feeling Italian restaurant, they also had a space for you to create your own recipe. Laila decided to show off her impressive reading and writing skills and share a recipe for Amber's sauce.
That's right. Put Amber in the oven and burn her. Crispy.

I take BlogHer, for better or worse...

I'm in San Francisco, around the corner from the action, at a hotel that epitomizes "charming." It's the Cartwright, a Larkspur Hotel, and I fit just right in the teensy bathroom and bedroom. If anyone else was here, it'd be crowded, but it's only me and the front desk is uber nice and it's half as expensive as the Westin and it makes me get out on the streets. Which is really where action lives.

At BlogHer's People Party and Newbie Mixer I filled my butt pocket with cards and bumper stickers and hopes of new friends and inspiration. I also drank Heineken because it made me think of heinies and that made things a little less serious. Oh, you blog about post partum depression, nice, well, heinie. (I should say here that in my family we call butts heinies.)

I met this lady and this lady and this lady and this lady and this lady and this lady and this lady and this lady and this lady and this lady and this lady and this lady and this lady and this nice man and this guy. Who totally creeped me out when he tried to invite himself up to my hotel room. Uh, dudes, if you're coming to BlogHer, try to remember that while there may be a lot of poontang there, it's not really interested in your man stick. Even if we're talking about man sticks in front of you. Gross.

After "networking," it was time for me to trek back to my dorm room to eat what was left of my Spicy Thai kettle chips and watch an old Batman movie. But on my way, I met a couple women who made all the women with blogs look like amateurs. Meet Vivian, the original, and Marion, the younger one (please forgive my cooing... I can't afford voice surgery).

Old Man & the Sea

I fantasize sometimes that if my dad goes crazy and starts to not be able to recognize his own life, I'm going to put him in a little fishing boat with cigars and whiskey and send him out into the middle of the ocean to take his last nap. Maybe because all of my favorite pictures of him are of him looking out at the water, wishing quietly that he was out in the middle of the action, where he could better hear the fish... laughing at him.

in Los Angeles

in Minnesota

Dear Chris Isaak...

Sometimes when you get a crush on someone and you're married, your husband will say, "Do you want me to get a paper and pen so you can write your marriage proposal?"

And you'll laugh, think your husband is quite funny, and then go back to oogling the man you'll never meet and who will, therefore, always be so much sexier, funnier, smarter and better than every man you know.



I inherited a crush on Chris Isaak from my mom, and Saturday night, while we were both at the Hollywood Bowl, bookended by our husbands, Chris decided he was going to walk up to our nosebleed section and dance with us. He decided that... but then he realized it would give him vertigo to go up as high as we were and he turned back.

And now I'm left with my virtual pen and paper, swooning over a bar fly, slopping around in memories of a weekend too intense to fully process yet, and hoping that because the above video featured a sexy woman, Mack will forgive me for adding Chris to my crush list... with Eminem, Johnny Knoxville and Rob Lowe.

Business Time...

We had to do head shots of Mr. T for his med school apps today (yes, Yale is interested to know more about him).

Mr. T hates, no, HATES having his photo taken almost as much as he hates having to wear a tie. For his head shot he had to do both.

This is what happens when aspiring doctor and beach bum student collide.

This is dedicated to one I love...

Spending the 4th of July at the Wild Animal Park near San Diego proved fruitful -- not for my in-laws bank account but for my knowledge bank. 

I was finally able to answer Liz's question about the spiked trees. Let me introduce you to the white silk floss tree...

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

Me: Whatever small animal you massacred in the sink while you were shaving, you need to rinse its hairs out so that I don't throw up when I brush my teeth in the morning.

Him: Those are my pubes.

Sunday, Sunny Sunday

Hmmm, she thought, what would be a good way to spend the day after a hangover almost killed you?

I know, she continued, I'll take my library lent copy of The Best American Nonrequired Reading, a gorilla-sized bottle of water, and a striped picnic blanket and escape these feelings of guilt over wasting a day of my life by my own hand.

Then she jumped in the car, drove 26.something miles north and landed at a spot made of forgiveness. Where the birds forgave the rocks and the rocks forgave the sea and the sea forgave the sand and all that was left was a beach made for reflection.

All in a Sunday's work.

Courtesy of El Matador State Beach

Things Outside (a series)

My neighbors have had at least two sets of jawbones on each step up to their front door for the last week. They have a pet raven, a pit bull, half a dozen snakes, an affinity for Jack Daniels, armfuls of tattoos, and just about the most down to earth presence you can expect to be around. 

They're scary at first sight, but they're really not nearly as criminal as they look. In fact, I like them better than anyone I've ever lived next door to. Could bad people make a squatty little yard full of things this beautiful?

A Good, Old Fashioned Patriotism Parade

As the school year draws to a close, elementary classrooms around the world are putting second graders on center stage and requiring them to recite lines with the enthusiasm of an overworked roofer.

On Tuesday night Shahin called me to see if I wanted to go to Laila's school play on Wednesday morning, and since I didn't have anything too important until 12:30 and since Mack has wholly embraced public transportation in the face of $4.79/gallon gas, I decided to brave rush hour traffic and head to West Hollywood for what I was sure would be a morning worthy of a smirk.

Hancock Elementary School did not disappoint. Hancock, because it is situated near the oldest and most sprawling apartment township, could probably be named Park La Brea Elementary. And because Park La Brea is known for its mix of Koreans and Russians and other distinguishable accents, the elementary school committed to its residents is an ethnic rainbow. This palette of little people is one of the reasons I liked L.A. so much when I first stayed here and walked Laila to school every day.

But, it's also why the Patriotism Parade felt a little, uh, off color.

Like, there is probably one "white" girl in the whole school, and she landed the role of Harriet Tubman. And during the part about the Civil War, all the little Korean kids were digging in the air with garden spades, sporting Mammy rags on their heads and talking about Abe Lincoln without being able to make the L sound. And during the Cesar Chavez chapter, which featured a nice variety of color waving "Viva la Causa" and "Don't buy grapes" signs in protest, the namesake lobbied for farmers' rights through a thick Russian accent.

All the while there was a banner the size of my apartment hanging behind them that proclaimed, "I love America."

It was very cute, especially the little "reporters" wearing their fathers' trenchcoats and looking like cartoon characters, but after the flashes from the million digital cameras stopped blinding me, I felt a little bit like I felt the time I watched the Wal-mart morning warm-ups that go on in China. Or the time I watched Jesus Camp. It was cute, but it was also indoctrination parading around as American history.

They are seven, and like 2-year-olds, 7-year-olds repeat what you tell them (although more robotically and without pauses suggested by commas). Maybe it is better to teach them all the words to "This land is my land, this land is your land" before they really understand what that means, but maybe these kids, who are most likely the first generation born in America, have a better sense of what that means than I do.

And even if they don't now, maybe they will when they see their kids doing this play in 20 years. If they can put their cameras down long enough to see what's really going on.

Dammit Joan, why didn't you insist harder that I watch Flight of the Conchords?

As if I needed another TV show to worship, but at least this one really deserves it. 

I love Bret & Jemain and I'm sorry, Mack, but I am drafting a marriage proposal. I've only watched three episodes that were on the For Your Emmy Consideration DVD that my boss got in the mail, and already I want to be the Hiphopopotamus and I wish I had found the Tape of Love song so I could have used it at my wedding or something. 

In case you're not a groupie of the Flight of the Conchords yet (because you are as lame as me or because you too can't afford internet AND HBO), here's a little number they call Business Time. In honor of Wednesday night. And 2 minutes of heaven.