Family Ties

I've been sleeping late and watching HBO and eating delicious dinners and going to Walgreens as my primary leisure activity since our move ended last week. That move was awful, and when I say awful, I mean I cried 6 times in two days and if it weren't for those tears, I wouldn't have made it through.

At one point, while looking at an impossibly heavy and awkward piano and wishing my husband preferred the flute, Mack looked at me and said, "Go on, babe, cry it out." And that is when I experienced a cry-laugh for the first time in my life.

Looking back on it, I can hardly believe we made it through it all. I can't believe we got everything packed up, that we made the first storage unit work at all, that we made the couch fit in the second storage unit without taking out that fluorescent light, that when I broke out with a fever after moving for two days I didn't just go on and die. I can't believe we got on our flight and came back to Kentucky and I was able to collapse into people I love and needed more than ever.

In the midst of that move, if you had told me that in a week I'd be at the zoo with my best friend, her two boys, my brother-in-law and my delicious niece looking at baby elephants and watching monkeys swing around, I couldn't have imagined it. But that's what happened. One week since I left Venice, since I cleaned out my apartment and kissed my neighbors goodbye, I spent the day enjoying the sunshine and laying on my mom and dad's deck while Renee played in a bowl of water for an uninterrupted hour. Bliss sort of describes it.

Lucky Duck

I'm in Vegas right now with Mack, Kristin, Will, Sarah and Shannon... a hodgepodge of unemployed, graduates, students, managers and doctors of geography. Shannon and Sarah have presentations to do and since Kristin has something called "work" to go to, we've been trying to find minutes to cram in with all of them.

Last night Kristin made corn on the cob and homemade, to-die-for black bean burgers, and then Mack and I jetted out to get Shan from the airport. We dropped off her things at her hotel and decided to go to Circus Circus. This is Shan's first time in Vegas, so, of course, she needed to gamble a little bit.

She decided to play the slot machines while we waited for Mack in the bathroom, and poof! out rolled $2.50 on her first try. Not a lot, but enough of a percentage earnings to spark excitement.

Then we went to the craps table, and poof! there went our money to the lords of the casino. Mack went to get some cash out of the ATM while Shan and I settled in at a $5 blackjack table. Then she proceeded to double her winnings while I proceeded to lose all of my money thanks to cards with fours on them.

Mack told us it was time to go after we finished our beer, and Shannon was all like, "You guys go on. I'm gonna keep playing. I'll be fine."

All I can say is thank goodness hers is the only hotel on the strip without a casino in it. Because with her luck and bank roll strategy, she may just give up on geography and settle into doubling down for a living.

Represent.

Dear Venice,

I just took another stroll through your peculiar little streets and wanted to let you know how much I love you.

I once took one of those Jeep tours through Sedona with Kate, and the lady driving was from Michigan. When we asked her how she ended up doing Jeep tours in Arizona, she said that when she visited she felt like that piece of Earth was made for her. That's sort of how you feel to me.

Now that my days here are numbered, I'm realizing just how much I'm going to miss about you. I'm going to miss your hidden walk streets and their decorative doors. I'm going to miss watching the ducks and the little crabs in the Canals. I'm going to miss the beefy pit bulls and Leo the Flying Lion Pomeranian who struts around like he's somebody. I'm going to miss the chance alley encounters with the sweet smell of crack. I'm going to miss seeing Gandolf the White, an alleged former gynecologist, walking around with his staff and patriotic paraphernalia. I'm going to miss the old guy who's been learning to skate board in the middle of California and Electric ever since I moved in. I'm going to miss Abbot's Habit, the Townhouse, La Cabana, and Mao's Kitchen. I'm going to miss stealing nectarines in July from the house with the Ohio flag. I'm going to miss riding my bike through the middle of your main drag. I'm going to miss the girl who paints giant green creatures on the sidewalk. I'm going to miss your gentle homeless people. I'm going to miss finishing off my beer during a walk down the alley. I'm going to miss the Lantern house and the Gingerbread house and the Kitchy house and even our little ghetto house.
I'm going to miss your year-round flowers and the sweet smells that blanket your tall fences. I'm going to miss seeing your boardwalk come to life and watching it go back to sleep. I'm going to miss hearing the drums on Sunday nights drifting 7 blocks from the beach to keep time on my front stoop. I'm going to miss the understated letters that adorn your gateway. I'm going to miss the guys who makes a circle of popcorn for the birds and then does some sort of worship from the center of the ring. I'm going to miss the way you turn a predictable walk to the beach into a Hare Krishna festival with enormous floats and flower adorned pathways and free food for everyone. I'm going to miss your skateboarders and your rollerbladers and your Smart cars. I'm going to miss the posting of the Declaration of Independence hanging on the fences on the 4th of July. I'm going to miss the strange posters and stickers that show the extent of the quick wit and sharp sense of humor of your residents. I'm going to miss seeing if Nice Cream pushes Pinkberry out of our neighborhood.

Basically, I'm going to miss your weird little vibes and your weird little people. You are the best place I've ever called home.

Secret [Sexy] Service

Thursday I got laid off, Friday our apartment was listed for rent, and yesterday Mack had an interview at UC San Diego. So all that extra time for blogging, yeah, it goes away when you've got to rent your place, pack up your belongings, sucker loved ones into putting you up indefinitely and cheerlead someone through the agony of the med school application process.

It also doesn't help when you're left slack-jawed and drooling over the hotness of your husband in a suit and trying to snap out of boy-watching freakishness usually reserved for adolescents.


He really is the hottest guy in the gay bar. No question.

We are screwed.

For more thought provoking, listen to TED.

Trouble Makers Have More Fun

You know you're entirely too close to someone when they're farts are familiar to you. That's the way it is with Heather. I have been smelling this girl's colon for my entire life. And even though I know she comes with squirty toots that you can taste if you're in an enclosed space, I still would have her visit every single day if I could.

[In a complete coincidence, Mack just farted as I wrote this and then broke out with, "I'm bringing Heather back..." to the tune of Sexy Back. He gets it.]

That girl makes me laugh til I drool every time. She is a trouble magnet, and potentially regrettable things happen when she's around... not bad things, just potentially oopsie ones. Like this:
The first night she got here, we went out with my friend Gio, who shares my birthday and my delight in taking innocent yet incriminating photos that would be completely inappropriate without the forgiveness of Pabst Blue Ribbon. He was so much fun he drunk texted my mom, tinged Heather and my Facebook statuses/stati with naughtiness, and got to hold our purses the 11 times we peed in the alley.
He also got to take the above reference innocent yet incriminating photos.
On Saturday we woke up, went to breakfast at my favorite diner, and then headed to Abalone Cove to see if the tide pools my neighbor told me about actually existed. When Jen visited last year, we hiked around looking for these stinking tide pools and could not find them anywhere. Jen was in a sundress and heeled flipflops and was either going to cry or kill me if I did not get her out of that failed outing immediately. Well, this time, with accurate tide charts in hand, we made it. And it was freaking awesome!
We saw orange starfish, maroon starfish, baby starfish, teenage starfish, adult starfish, sea vaginas, hermit crabs, bright purple sea urchins and tons of birds. Enjoy this slideshow music compilation courtesy of $3 and Animoto.com, which I also love.



We also discovered squirters. Some of you may know squirters as something else, but all we knew was that as we were walking around the tide pools trying not to step on sea urchins, some things would periodically squirt water at us. We channeled our inner scientists and named them after one of Mark Carrothers' old girlfriends. Would you be surprised that it was Heather's idea? Naaah.

Sunday was basically as perfectly lazy as it should have been. We walked up to Venice Beach, laid in the grass, read books, took photos of Sadie playing outside, took medicine for our aching calves, went to sushi for dinner, and vegged like the champion vacationers we are.

She left on Monday morning, and even with daylight savings time, it's been a little less sunny without Heather's spontaneity and easy laugh. She is good for the soul. And the devil inside.

Meeting Minutes

11:17 Boss suggests we take a walk to get a muffin.
11:18 Boss and I talk about how cute his kid is.
11:23 Boss orders a banana nut muffin.
11:24 Boss and I sit at bistro table outside of cafe next to a vibrant window box.
11:25 I drop the "I thought about it and..." bomb. With the words comes a huge internal sigh of relief. Feel very grateful for the supportive conversations with mom and mother-in-law this weekend. Boss shakes his head knowingly, surprises me with how easy he's making this, wins my favor and sincere appreciation.
11:36 I say thank you. Boss says thank you. We get up.
11:37 Walk back to the office feeling 100 pounds lighter and realize I STILL don't have a firm answer or absolute resolution.
11:41 Weight settles back onto my shoulders. Dammit Joan...

Okay, Teen Years, end already.

I break out every month when I'm about to get my period, and looking at the mirror this morning I realized that only ONE WEEK PER MONTH am I my normal self. The other weeks, I am, in order:

• bloated with retarded size boobs
• bitchy with pimples and a need to clean and eat ice cream
  
• having cramps and experiencing the joy of menstruation

Mack especially loves this phase I'm in right now because it means he'll be called an asshole for enjoying himself. Asshole.

Tweetle Lee Dee Doo

I like Twitter. And not necessarily the product as much as the branding.

The product is a little like Facebook status updates but through a different site so there's nothing too unique about it besides the fact that I can follow people without their mandatory approval.

But what's really fun about Twitter is the cuteness of it all. I like the colors and the logo font and the little birds they use (I normally don't like birds because I don't trust their hollow bones, so me liking their birds means they are doing birds well).

Even when the site craps out, I still like Twitter. Because even in crappy times, Twitter is still cute. Which is more than I can say for me.

I dunno... just cool stuff

I've had a few "extra" minutes at work to spend perusing the internet and here are some things I've found that I like.

I Found Your Camera

This satisfies the voyeur in me but is also a great public service. How many times have I left my camera in a cab or at a party only to lose all evidence that the hangover I'm feeling is from me having a memorable time and not from me being stupid? Okay, never, because my camera is more important than my wallet (certainly more valuable). But for the rest of you, now when you lose your camera, there is hope that you'll get it back. And if you're like me and don't or haven't lost your camera, you get to snoop on the private lives of strangers in the name of "helping them." Win, win.

List of the Day

There are no rules for this blog other than to make a list of something each day. On some days, it's The 10 Most Special "Very Special" TV Episodes Of The Day, and on other days, it's an Engrish Roundup, but every day it's funny and makes me jealous because, dammit, my lists are never this good.

Book Inscriptions

I love a book inscription. I think I got this from my mom, who always signs the books she gives me with words that put the actual book to shame, and now whenever I get a book for someone, I try to write on the inside of it. And if someone gives me a book, I usually insist they write a message on it. I also like to use photos or receipts or other little life trinkets as bookmarks while I'm reading them and then store them in books when I'm done. Liz does that too, because when she lent me Love in the Time of Cholera, I used her enclosed bookmark. Just another little personal touch and something to send the imagination over a cliff.

Unnecessary Quotes

Look. I studied journalism in college. I work as an editor. I used to get excited in the 7th grade about diagramming sentences. I watch Cops because I like feeling superior to idiots. Unnecessary Quotes feeds that part of me, alright!

Please Enjoy

A couple years ago a guy I work with stumbled across this site, and when he sent me the link, I read it as Plea Seen Joy. Not only do I stop by this guy's site periodically to get design or branding inspiration, but I also check in to see what incredible DIY social commentary project he's crafted. Be sure to check out the projects if you're feeling like you want to give your vandalism a clever purpose.

JR ART

Surprise! I like photography! I first started following whoever this JR is when he was doing a project called Face 2 Face. He took photos of Israelis in certain occupations (bakers, lawyers, tailors, etc) and then took photos of Palestinians in those same occupations, and then he hung larger than life versions of the photos of the Israelis version and the Palestinian version next to each other in both countries. The goal was to get these people to go, "Hey, they're not that different from me." Since then he's gone all over the world, capturing humanity and putting our similarities front and center, simultaneously showcasing beauty and disgust at the same time and making us ask how can we do this to each other? (Be sure to click on the English version in the top left, unless you just want to let the photos speak for themselves. and be sure to click on Projets to see his body of work so far.) I subscribe to him so now I get email updates and photos, and I'm never disappointed.

The Belly Project

I'm still sussing out how I feel about this one. I like the concept -- women of different ages and life experiences showing the reality of these bodies we inhabit -- but I have to be in the right mood for it. Like the one that comes on days when the Victoria's Secret catalogues show up and I start having a fit of self-loathing. On days like that, this is a handy little collective of gals being real.

F My Life

Props to Amy for turning me on to this one. I'm not sure how many of these are real and how many are made up, but all of them are entertaining and make me feel grateful that this crap hasn't happened to me. So far.

A Little Thing I Like to Call Lunch Break

California kicks winter's ass.

And you thought OctoMom was a freak show... have you watched TLC lately?

Last night I was flipping between Intervention on A&E and Little People, Big World on TLC. Little people sometimes make me nauseous -- I KNOW I AM A TERRIBLE PERSON -- but those Roloffs are a sweet family and if I'm feeling like the world is crap, watching them puts me in a much better mood. Plus, the camera people have some good tricks up their sleeves to make them seem less dwarfish -- I KNOW, ME = TERRIBLE.

During one particular commercial break - on both channels - I caught a promo for the show Table for 12. This is not a restaurant show. This is a show about a family of 12. Which normally wouldn't be so bad, but it's on the same network as the shows Jon & Kate Plus 8 and 18 and Counting (yes, and counting...).

I watch Jon & Kate Plus 8 sometimes, but sometimes I just can't. It makes me want to kick babies and smack some sense into hyper breeders -- I FULLY ADMIT I AM A TERRIBLE PERSON. I know babies are a gift from god, a miracle, the purpose of humanity, but I also know that, seriously, this planet will (and is) kill(ing) babies if it gets too many of them. Imagine how many people could be saved from malaria if Jon & Kate had stuck with 2 babies, one to replace each of them...

That being said, Jon and Kate -- mostly due to Kate's efforts -- do an inspiring job loving and taking care of their brood. And if they can do it with 6 babies, the rest of the world can do it with 2-4. I see how the show is comforting to overwhelmed and exhausted parents, many of whom appreciate that how HARD it is to raise kids is conveyed so well, and that they get a lot of perspective and, in some cases, good advice from Jon and Kate on parenting and marriage. Plus, Jon and Kate only had two pregnancies, so I don't think they were being freaky as much as they got lucky with their IVF. Like I said, sometimes I like the show too.

But I'm afraid it's started an epidemic.

Not too many seasons after Jon & Kate came to TLC, the Duggars also moved in. You know the Duggars. They're the one who look Amish, but are actually an evangelical Christian religion called Quiverful. I shudder to think...


Anyway, the Duggars got their own show, 17 & Counting, which then became 18 & Counting and a book deal called 20 & Counting. Twenty. Freaking. People. That's a classroom of family. Two baseball teams.

I should say that if the Duggars want to have 100 kids and they're bodies and wallets can support them, more power to them, but I don't feel that way. Because they are freaks, completely self absorbed with their own agenda (one they get away with because they tacked it onto god), and their multiplying affects me... financially, environmentally, socially.

Seriously, if breeding like a bunny couldn't make you famous... couldn't get you a television series that would let you afford all those rug rats... would OctoMom have been so tempted? Don't think TLC isn't developing a show for her right now, one that will air once all the judgy single momness subsides. I can just hear the brainstorms now:

• "14 vs. 1" -- Nooo, sounds too combative.
• "Extreme Single Mom" -- Maybe, it uses the right buzz words. Maybe we could roll out a line of Extreme kid foods to go along with it.
• "Must Really Love Kids" -- You think she's ready to date? Because this would be PERFECT!

If someone wants to have IVF to get their babies and they end up with 8 in one fail swoop, whoops! But if someone already has 6-18 kids from multiple pregnancies -- and by multiple I mean 15 in the case of the Duggars -- they just need to stop already. And TLC needs to stop making them out to be some sort of parenting heroes. Because that, well, that makes me more nauseous than little people ever could.

Goodness Gracious

A year and a half ago, I put "learn poi" on my Google To Do List. And then I stared at it until this past January when I finally got sick of looking at it and signed up for a poi class.

Poi is basically spinning wads attached to strings around your body. Sometimes those wads are just bags of beans, sometimes they're glowing eggs, and sometimes they're balls of fire.

Last night was a ball of fire night.



I especially like the commentary by Victor, a long-haired Harley biker dude who taught me that you're only supposed to sport a braid after you've had sex with someone. He sounds almost girlish in his fire watching delight.

Quite Literally Funny

Because people on the Internet are awesome, they spend their time making literal versions of music videos, where the singer narrates the action and thereby points out the ridiculousness around them. I saw this one today, and I love it... and not just because I love weddings and ruffians.

White Wedding: Literal Video Version - watch more funny videos

Financial Planning

On my first day of college I signed up for a Visa card with a $2000 limit. Ever since then, I've ebbed and flowed into debt and deeper debt. I'm a smart person, so I know credit cards are bad. But I'm also an impulsive person, an I-want-it-all-and-I-want-it-now American, so on days when my head was swirly with desire, Daddy MasterCard was there to help me out.

To be fair, Daddy MasterCard made a lot of things I cherish in my life possible. He paid for my airfare to Europe. He helped me start my own business. He even foot the bill for my and Mr. T's wedding.

When we moved across the country and I started collecting a normal paycheck again, I decided it was time to grow up and start living within my means. I put the old plastic in a baggie of water and threw it in the freezer. For about two weeks.

After more than 10 years of bad judgment and a lack of self control, I wised up and stopped the spending spree in the Fall 2007, days after charging more than $2000 on a flat screen television I cherish. I have been diligently paying off huge amounts of credit card debt each month, a feat made possible by working 3 jobs for more than a year and taking on extra freelance work whenever I can. (And when I say jobs, I don't mean glamorous, sexy jobs. I mean front-desk-babysitting-work-on-the-weekends type of jobs. That's how sick I am of having credit card debt.)

Finally, I have made some measurable progress. Card #1 is paid in full. To celebrate, we bought some champagne and cut the card into confetti. Now I have a taste for blood and Card #2 is next on my hit list.

Married... without Children

OK, so I started another blog, really it's a spin off of this one, called Dulywed where I chronicle my relationship with Mr. T because, really, what's better for a marriage than having no boundaries.

I'm pretty sure this is the one that will make me a million dollars, but if not, it will hopefully make you laugh.

Bookmark it already.

For Your Infomercial

Favorite Quotes from this Sham Wow Masterpiece:

"It's made in Germany. You know the Germans always make good stuff."
"You following me, camera guy?"
"We can't do this all day."



Favorite Quotes from this Slap Chop Masterpiece:

"You're gonna be in a great mood all day 'cause you're gonna be slapping your troubles away with the Slap Chop."
"You love salad. You hate making it. You know you hate making salads, that's why you don't have any salad in your diet!"
"This tuna looks boring. Stop having a boring tuna. Stop having a boring life."
"You're gonna love my nuts."
"You can't open this up. It's worthless. Forget about it."
"We're gonna make America skinny again... one slap at a time."
"Tacos. Fettuccine. Linguine. Martini. Bikini."
"You know we can't do this all day."



Would it be really wrong of me to want one of these in Royal Blue?

Turns out... I AM AWESOME!!

So that video thing I did for Heather... yeah the one just below here.

IT WON!! Which means me and Heather will be heading to New York for a makeover and shopping spree and 3-day opportunity to yell PENIS everywhere we go.

Holy crap this is awesome! Finally, I will be stylish for at least ONE DAY of my life and Heather and I will be taking a trip for the first time since Spring Break '96!

BFF... &E

I started a new school in the 5th grade. I went from St. Matthews to Zachary Taylor, and for someone who was so shy her mom advocated to keep her with the same teacher for grades 3 and 4, moving to a new school was basically my 10-year-old hell.

On the first day, I walked into Mrs. Kidd's classroom and sat at a desk near the door. The desks were arranged in clusters of 4 to 6, facing each other to make squares or rectangles or age appropriate study groups or opportunities for new girls to feel like aliens.

I sat next to a cute girl with huge boobs named Stacy Dickey, hoping we could be friends so I could get through the 5th grade with my fragile psyche in tact (and so I could get her secrets on how to get boobs). Then a girl named Heather Kellogg walked in and changed my life forever.

"Yeah, you have to move," she said. "That's my friend and that desk next to her is mine."

I was defeated, scooped up my supplies and relocated next to a girl named Leslie Smith. Leslie and I became fast friends, probably because she was as needy as I was. We spent every available weekend together most of the school year, earning all As and being teachers pets and over achievers, while that Heather girl caused a commotion and was forced to sign the conduct notebook almost daily.

Then, toward the end of the year, Heather and I became friends. Maybe it was the love feud over Tommy Goins that split her and Stacy up. Maybe it was the rearrangement of desks into twos, all facing front. Maybe it was an invitation to her 11th birthday sleepover party. Whatever it was, Heather became like a sister to me. Another girl for me to fight to the death with, to hate with all my being, to need to survive, to rely on for the will to breathe. So long nice, quiet, respectful, generous, nerdy, safe Leslie. Hello wild, crazy, nutty, hysterical, outrageous, unpredictable Heather.

Without Heather to delicately push me out of my nerdy cocoon, I would probably be afraid to do anything the least bit valuable. Afraid to kiss a boy. Afraid to stand up for myself. Afraid to make noise and take up space. Afraid to explore new places and meet new faces. Heather blazed a trail to life for me. I owe a lot of who I am to her, probably more than anyone (not counting those who are one of us).

I recently saw a contest that was about what friendship means, and even though I've been blessed with the world's most incredible women for friends (shout outs: Liz, Amy, Ruble, Sarah, Kristin, Jen, Leigh), Heather popped into my mind immediately. She has seen me through everything that mattered since things started mattering. So I made this, to honor her and to try to win us a trip to New York for a makeover.

Because that's what best friends do.

Happy Birthday Sheba!

And then Laila went to college.

When the government makes it a 3-day weekend and your employer complies and you live in LA, the best way to spend those 72 hours is to GET OUT.

So Mack and I loaded up the hatchback with a change of clothes and went to kidnap Laila and take her to San Diego. She'd been so excited to go with us on an overnight, out-of-town, NO PARENTS ALLOWED trip that ever since we mentioned it, she made a point to tell Mack, "I'm free this weekend," every time we visited.
She assumed the back seat on her own, after trying to convince me that I wouldn't be as bored back there as I'd be in the front seat, and we hit the road.

We went to the beach and inspected tidepools and sandstone cliffs.
We walked along the rocky outcroppings and felt the ocean mist our faces.
We watched the pregnant seals roll around on the sand, certain they were seconds from giving birth.
We explored caves marked by strange foot formations.
We went back in time and visited dinosaurs at the Natural History Museum.
All of this was a lame waste of time. Laila wanted to get to the hotel, "check out the mini fridge," and pretend we were college roomies. Less than 30 minutes after checking in, she had unpacked her bag AND my bag (hanging up all of our clothes, including our pajamas) and created a "beauty bucket" for our toiletries.
Then we broke out the beer bong and took her to get a tattoo. How can she be this big already?

Analyze This.

Lately Mr. T and I have been using separate comforters, an act he hates and I love. For years I've been freezing my ass off at night, clinging to the duvet overflow because my bedmate thinks he needs a king size comforter all to himself. But last week our other comforter wasn't dry all the way, so we brought in our back up, and then, well, then we just never put the back up away.

So now we get to be two cocoons of warmth instead of one. Sweet equality.

But all this sound sleep hasn't necessarily been restful. I sleep so deeply that my dreams take the place of reality and I'm up all night running from killers and saving people's lives.

Take last night for example. Everything was great at first. I was sitting on the dock of a huge lake, watching Amy swim, beer in hand, in the little roped off swimming area. She was floating that special way she has of floating and everything was just fine. That is, until Shamu showed up.

All of a sudden, I was screaming from the dock for Amy to swim to the side and get out. But she was floating that special way she has of floating and she couldn't make out my actual words with her ears in the water. Then Betsy ended up in the roped off swimming area magically and she heard me screaming and started to swim toward me. Which was dumb because I was farther from her than the side and she had to swim right past Shamu to make it to me.

In all the commotion, Amy finally caught on that her life was in danger and started to swim to the edge. But not very aggressively since she had to keep her beer hand up out of the water to keep her beer safe. At the very last second, just as Shamu was about to have an Amy snack, she swam under the dock and took cover.

Betsy got to me and I pulled her out of the water, very dramatically by her bikini bottoms, which gave her a ridiculous wedgie. Why was that part so clear in all of this? A wedgie sticks out during my whale attack dream? Come on brain.

We both ran to the dock where Amy was hiding, expecting her to come out the other side so we could pull her out, but she never came out the other side. She was just under the dock. Running out of air. Without her beer.

What a nightmare.

Things I've Been Doing to Keep from Dying of Boredom

1. Listening to NPR's playlist of Lesser Known Love Songs.
2. Designing phone book ads for my neighbor's construction company.
3. Cropping photos of my professional clips and working on my professional website because I AM A PROFESSIONAL DAMMIT.
4. Taking mental vacations to South America. (Have you been here because it is AWESOME!)
5. Sniffing the different color Sharpie highlighters to see if they have subtly different smells.
6. Wondering if that lady who had the 8 babies really did have surgery to look like Angelina Jolie.
7. Revisiting the idea of composting.
8. E-stalking on Facebook.
9. Reading blogs. And more blogs. And more blogs.
10. Typing creative concepts as they're being dictated to me by the guy in the office with the broken finger who also likes to tell me about how he asked a girl once if he could just "stick it in her butt" since she was on her period.
11. Deciding if I really need a master's degree to do graphic design or if one of those education extension classes would do the trick.
12. Planning to take a long photo walk. Planning.
13. Watching this hilariousness over and over and contemplating if this really is real life.

14. Trying to forget my last horrible dentist appointment so I can fit in one last visit before my insurance goes bye-bye.
15. Wishing my office had a bubble bath.
16. Imagining what will happen tonight on Barbara Kingsolver's The Poisonwood Bible.
17. Chatting at an unnecessary length about the unconstitutionality of entrapment, even if it is to catch a predator.
18. Looking up photos of Michael Phelps with the bong.
19. Enjoying Good Earth tea 4-5 times a day.
20. Counting the minutes until I can escape, go home, and do the exact same things but find them pleasurable and exciting.

A thrilling look at LICENSE PLATES!

I saw this the other day and hee heed all the way home.

Then today, I saw this, and I think there may just be a market for modesty plates.

Modesty Plates.
BY LUCAS KLAUSS

- - - -

NOT2GR8

MEDIOCR

103IQ

LILFAT

DECENT

SHRUG

2NDRATE

TOLRABL

OKCOOK

VANILLA

UR2KIND

REALLY?

OSTOPIT

MIDLING

OKDOCTR

AVGBUTT

EH

Correspondence

Laila got an email account. And with it came free access to the mind of an 8-year-old sass queen.

On Monday she whacked her head on the corner of the table and a blood panic ensued. (Laila used to get so upset at the possibility of blood or a scrape or a bump that she would cry so hard she'd vomit. It's tapered off incredibly since she's gotten older, but the head leak was new territory for her and her parents probably deserve an award for letting her live through what were no doubt the worst screams of her life). So today I emailed her to ask about it and to send her this.
(Mack gets all the credit for the cute puppy exchange idea. He started sending her videos and photos of adorable things, and without his guidance, I probably would have started swapping recipes with her. Puppy pics are waaaay better.)

I was thinking she'd email me back something I didn't totally understand. Like once I sent her a photo of herself from when she was 3 and looked like she'd gone for a swim in a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, and I wrote a little message about how beautiful she's become and how I'm glad to have her as my sister. She wrote back, "How did you like my FANCY WIGGGGGGGG!"

I mean, it sort of makes sense, but not exactly.

And then she followed that one up with, "My favorites for songs are lalaland by demmi lavito and shreck2 allstar. ps also more of demmi lavito's songs."

So I'm used to being a little confused by her responses, but that bonk on the head must've done something to her email technique. Here's what it looked like today.
Finally, she's speaking my language of totally rotten.

Super Bowl XLIII

I don't watch any football. Ever.

I used to watch college basketball, but since the team I root for (CATS!) doesn't ever get played on TV on this side of the country, my college basketball watching is officially dormant.

Which means that aside from the Olympics, I don't watch sports.

Which means that it's no big deal for me to be at an airport on Super Bowl Sunday during the Big Game.

This year I was in Memphis. I was at Lenny's sandwich shop getting a tuna sub with baked BBQ potato chips and preparing to head to Gate B10 to read my New Yorker and my OK! magazines. The only thing I knew about either of the teams is that one was there on luck alone and one of the players used to bag groceries.

With dinner in hand, I started to walk down the terminal and noticed the gait of my fellow travelers as they approached big screen TVs. They slowed down like they were running out of batteries, their jaws loosened, their eyes glazed over, and they stood, in a trance, watching padded men chase each other around. They would dam up the terminal hallway ever 50 feet and then, when a whistle blew, they would break from their huddles and try to get a little closer to their own gates.

We are funny monkeys.

Letters to the Cupboard (in this case... the filing cabinet by my desk)

Dear Flavor Blasted Goldfish,

You. You and you're unique paper bag packaging. You even look like the lunches my mom used to send with me to the bus stop. But just because you look like an extreme reinterpretation of school lunch from a happy childhood doesn't mean I should treat you that way.

Like, I probably shouldn't eat your entire contents in one sitting.

Sure, it starts out simply enough. A salty craving justified by your small packaging. The knowledge that 51 -- yes 51! -- of you comprise a single serving. The low price point. Next thing I know you've found an open spot in my shopping basket, alongside things that represent my better judgment.

I added you to my secret stash -- the bottom drawer to my left -- and expected you to sit there quietly... like the pretzels do. But no, you and your fishy little contents swimming in flavor blasted goodness just had to stew in that drawer and jump up into my salivary glands every other thought.

Then, when I brought you out and made a 51-piece pile next to my computer, you repaid me by having 5 other 51-piece piles left in your reserves. And you let those 5 servings beckon me until not a single little fishy was left.

And to think they give you to babies as a snack. Shame on you Goldfish. Shame on you.

Love,
Amber

It's Beginning to Look a lot like Black History Month

If you have the day off today, you should watch this so you know why.

If you're working like me, you should steal 20 minutes from your employer and watch this so you won't feel like as much of a slave to capitalism.

Happy MLK-One-Day-'til-Obama Day! Let the end of segregation begin! Again!

Seriously

My friend David is in Congo right now making a documentary and mingling with child soldiers and it's got me thinking about, you know, child freaking soldiers.

I've heard about 100 stories of child soldiers carrying guns, getting raped, watching their families get slaughtered, sensational stories of survival go team! In general, I think it's bad to have child soldiers and I feel bad about children having to be soldiers.

In specific, look at this:
That woman up there (not the white one, duh) was a child soldier. Her name is Chantal and she was taken by rebels when she was six.

Six.

She was held captive in the forest for nine years.

Nine.

Every day of those nine years she was raped by seven different men.

Seven.

She, like any six- to 15-year-old being raped every day by seven different men, tried to escape. Three times she got away, only to be captured, brought back and tortured. On her fourth attempt, she finally found a way out.

But in the cruel reality of child soldierdom, her escape didn't leave her liberated. Instead she found out she would be forever tethered to the men who'd been raping her every single day because she was pregnant.

Pregnant and with no idea who the baby daddy was.

My friend David met Chantal. And her baby, who is now two years old. Chantal has just started to take care of her child because for the first two years she just couldn't stand the thought of being kind to something that was associated with the person who destroyed her life. I can't say I'd be so generous.

Who really wants to think about this sad crap on a Friday? Not me. It's far worse than I ever imagined it was, and even though I prefer being in the dark about the cruel reality, that won't help other kids like Chantal get a fair shot at life.

The Thing about HMOs

Since I'm in media and the media industry is insecure to put it nicely, I've decided to get my health in order. I've lived without insurance before, and, thanks to Planned Parenthood, it's manageable, but the things I need to do now aren't things Planned Parenthood takes care of.

Like a colonoscopy.

My Uncle Mike died from colon cancer when he was 33. He was diagnosed a couple years before that, which basically makes him my age. The thing about my Scott blood is that it really isn't optimized unless it's got a layer of filth in it -- courtesy of violence, sex, smoking or alcohol -- and Mike's blood was pristine compared to my other relatives. He didn't smoke or drink, didn't break his siblings' bones, didn't cheat on women and was generally a good guy. While the rest of the Scotts swam around in the smoky residue of Chesterfield Kings unfiltered cigarettes and toasted their health with cases of Hamm's beer, Mike focused his attention on his shiny red Corvette and adventures in Africa.

Fortunately, I exist with that protective layer of filth on me, but even so, I feel like I should get a colonoscopy to be sure it's working. Plus, my mom told me to do it on my 30th birthday and I put it off and put it off, and for some reason, she just won't forget about it like I do. If I want to hear the end of the colonoscopy, I need to send her footage of a healthy intestine for Mother's Day.

Today I started the process. I made an appointment with my Primary Care Physician (PCP) and paid $25 to spend 3 minutes with her while she filled out a referral form claiming I was "constipated." It's true that I don't crap every day, that sometimes I won't crap for 3 or 4 days, but I wouldn't say I'm ever constipated. I don't feel any pain... I just need the right circumstances to relieve myself. Like a cup of coffee, some reading material, an hour of isolation, and the confidence a book of matches buys you.

With referral in hand, I left the office and called the gastrointestinal (GI) doctors. After confirming my HMO/PPO status, I made an appointment for a consultation with them for Jan. 27.

On Jan. 27, I'll pay another $25, offer up some hyperbole about my "constipation" problem -- something that involves bloody stool and cramping -- and hope that I'll be able to come back in another few weeks to get diarrhea. That is what my HMO makes me do. Lie about my condition so my poor mother (and a little bit of me) can get peace of mind.

From Crackle: Colonoscopy

Less than 5 feet from each other

There's some stuff going down at the office of The United States of America, and it's got me feeling all sentimental and wishy.

For the last few years, my job -- the one that has made me a horrible wife, a lousy friend, an absent sister, and a lame, one-dimensional person -- has been the highlight of my life. It's been the reason I get out of bed and do stuff all day long. Not necessarily because I love it, but because I love doing something. The sense of accomplishment I get from being productive is what makes me take note of my days, what gives time its value.

I have made almost all of my friends in Los Angeles thanks to my job. And while I've not connected with them as much as I wish I had because, you know, we're "colleagues," I plan to add these people to my collection of admirables and make sure they get a Christmas card from me every year at the very least.

But as my office -- and every office in the country -- works to suss out this insecure limbo we call "tough economic times," I'm afraid of losing these friends more than I am of losing my job. I'm afraid that the girl who sits not five feet from me, who I find to be talented and adorable and far more dimensional than myself, who brightens up the dingy corner of our quarters with her easy laugh and sweet reflection, will leave my life before the depth of our connection is realized.

Laura is my friend, but the ease between us when we are together -- lingering with margaritas at the work party, walking to the library during lunch, talking about baking our own bread and imagining how life would be if cars were gone and we had more time to conduct ourselves instead of conduct business -- is something so precious and so full of potential. She's one of the few people I've encountered in the last 10 years who could be a good friend if conditions were right.

It's tough to find good friends at my age. Especially good girl friends. The friends who are your given people. The ones you're going to be hanging out with over the weekend even though no one has planned for it. The ones you're going to go see Mamma Mia with without needing an invitation. Part of it is because my best friend is Mr. T, he's my given, and he's a good given to have. And a lot of women my age have spouses or serious partners who are their givens too. Which makes it hard for us to, you know, be friends.

I guess I'm just bummed that I've taken for granted something that was right next to me for so long. The potential of a good friend is just as valuable as the reality of one, and if this job has taught me anything, it's to break through the cubicle walls before they come crashing down.

Oh, and to build up my savings.

Hype, Hype Hooray!!

And now for the big reveal.

Also, those three gals in the last photo, yeah, me, Leiah and Betsy, WE'RE COMING!!

"I drank Shannon's puke. How do I deal with this?"

New Year's Eve 2009 was the first I've ever spent with just my sisters. Of course Seth was there, but he's always around, and Lara was there, but she volunteered to be the DD, which elevates her to sister status in my book.

Because we're all married gals (Seth is always around), we decided to hit up the gay bar so we could dance without having boners in our backs... okay, and because the drinks are always stronger at gay bars and we're in a recession people! We got dolled up, raided our mom's jewelry, put on our dancing shoes and had Charles drop us off at The Connection.
The night was primed to be a blast. Good company, strong drinks, balloons netted by the ceiling just waiting to rain down upon you, party hats, drag queens.
This was Betsy's first New Year's Eve as a legal drinker, so I made sure to keep pace with her as she slammed gin and tonicsI could better gauge her drunkenness.
A few minutes past midnight, Shannon, who had more reason to celebrate than just the passing of a year (it's Dr. Hensley now, especially if you nasty), got the dancing bug. I followed her out there, left her with a new friend who though my name was Edna to go look for Betsy, and then lost her in a sea of swirly lights and flailing arms. I sent Leiah and Lara in as reinforcements, and they dragged my leggy big sister back to the table, where she plopped down under a curtain of drunk hair.
And then good times started to roll.
Shannon looks up at me with her face -- her eyes weren't opening at this point -- and says, "Imunnabesich."

Got it. I spot a discarded drink on the table, toss the ice out of it, and put it in front of her. One heave and it overflows onto my hand. I set it on the table, turn to the first doctor in our family, and help her get through it. Bystanders clear out like an atomic bomb of stomach bile would expect them too, the limp body goes rigid with pukey pulses, and as soon as there's a break in the action, it's all, "Come on, we gotta walk, let's go, gotta walk, fresh air, gotta walk."

I call Charles, apologize for the condition his wife is in, explain it's not her or our fault... she got overserved!... and ask him to come retrieve her. We sit outside while a nice smoker goes inside and gets her a cup of water.

"Imunnabesich."

Leiah meets me outside and we assure Shannon that three steps ahead and one to the right is a perfectly acceptable place to yak up all the disgusting mess that 2008 put inside her body. Charles pulls up, we plop her in the car, and me and Leiah head back the party people.
The second we see Betsy, she grabs my arm, gets as serious as a happy drunk can get, and says, "I drank Shannon's puke."

Awww, Betsy. That is a special kind of gross. Why in the....

"How do I deal with this?"

I don't know if she's said anything that funny since the time she told Leiah to "just let it come out your nose." That comment right there made my New Year's 2009 one of the most memorable of my life.

At the time, the only advice I could muster for her was probably, "Don't drink it again," but having had some time to reflect, here's what I would have said if I wasn't about to zerbert a stranger's stomach, steal beers and blow chunks myself within an hour.

"First of all, don't puke up her puke because that seems like a new type of incestuous. Then, pretend it never happened."

Too bad Betsy's big sister has a blog, huh?

Half Time Entertainment

Who's sick of babies??!!! Not me!!!

Enjoy this little diddy by Ben, in which he teaches you the ABC's.

And now for a sweet number by Renee. Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star can now be retired from the toddler vernacular.

We are a musically gifted bunch, a collective of singers and songwriters whose talent is so immense, it may be mistaken for a piercing shrill.

Rock on, my people.

There's a reason we call him Bam Bam

Benjamin Ace Messer is a maniac. A bonafide two-year-old tornado who gets so amped up by a conga line that he clotheslines his darling cousin Renee.

I used to give him cuddles with Leiah when he drank his bottle, but now he wants none of it. He wants to line his cars up and ram his cars into peoples' toes and watch Cars. Either you're into cars or he's knocking you on the ground in an attempt to get you to like cars.
We went to a party at Charles' sister's house over Christmas, and Ben fed off the energy and ran around the room roaring at people... roaring like a dinosaur-lion-maniac in the faces of adult strangers. Luckily, his chubby cheeks and sparkly blue eyes made this frenzy quite adorable.
Sometimes when he gets uber-boyish, there's nothing you can do but baby body slam him, lay on top of him, and squish his scrawny little butt into the ground. Gigi says, "He needs someone to wrestle him. He needs it," and she's right. Twenty minutes of repeated takedowns later, you've got a sweaty little angel who's perfectly content to take his bath and go night-night.

Because he is so boy and needs to beat the living shit out of things, Santa Claus brought him a baby drum set for Christmas. Pretty much the cutest thing ever, although I've gotta say, I am glad it was out of sight before New Year's Day. I can only handle one pounding headache at a time.

Sensual Seduction

Renee, in addition to saying "okay," "sit," and "rest" in the cutest little raspy voice you've ever heard, is basically a little sugar nugget.
She likes to talk to you nose to nose while staring into your eyes more intensely than most adults. She squeals when she's pissed, hoards stuffed animals, and melts into your arms when you kiss her neck.

And the girl can put down some M&Ms. She loves her num-num. I was playing duckies with her in the bath and it was only after 10 minutes of soaking that she finally handed over her yogurt covered raisins. But it's when she feels her nibbles may be threatened by the camera that she really gives you the looks.
I mean it, she is good enough to eat.

Coming in 2009

Here's what you can expect from me for the next few days.

I've just spent the last couple weeks in the delightful oblivion of home -- you know, where the heart is -- and I've come to realize a few things.

Namely that sugar cookies make babies insanely fun, gay bars always overserve you on New Year's Eve (much to my New Year's Day chagrin), and regressing to your 12-year-old self while still being allowed to purchase liquor is basically heaven on earth.

Because I want to relive the joy that was Holidays 2008 again and again, I'm going to here. I mean, really, who doesn't want to hear about Shannon's projectile vomiting, Seth's kissing boys and Ben's green poop in his ball wrinkles?!!