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?!!

La Lasagna is Italian for The Lasagna

Back when I attended the College of Weight Watchers, I'd get a little low fat recipe card each week to make eating healthily easier and more delicious. Most of them were for fancy green beans or some freaky meatloaf, but the recipe for veggie lasagna, with fattening modifications of course, is one that has worked its way onto the list of 10 Things I Can Cook Really Well.

Every time I make this at home Mack eats through the entire pan in a day. And when I make it for parties or when we have friends over, I always get asked for the recipe. Which is fine except the recipe I have is the WW one and it's just not as good as the one in my brain.

So, for all those who want to know and for those who just need something to read right now, here's my La Lasagna.

Ingredients

12 lasagna noodles
2 jars of spaghetti sauce
8oz. packages of mozzarella cheese
1 tub of part-skim ricotta cheese (the normal size)
veggies you love (I get 1 zucchini, 1 yellow squash, 1 head of broccoli, 1 package of sliced mushrooms, and 1 green pepper... sometimes I do tomato slices or black olives)

The WW recipe says you can just construct it and rely on the sauce to cook the noodles... but sometimes parts don't cook all the way, so I throw my noodles in the pot and boil them while I chop veggies. Just make sure you stir them until they settle in the water so they don't stick together.
Chop your green peppers and broccoli into tiny little pieces and slice the squash into discs. The veggies can't be too bulky or else they won't lay flat and La Lasagna will be Una Mess.
I sometimes spray a 9x13 pan with olive oil but sometimes I forget. Either way, you need a 9x13 pan and you need to spoon some of your sauce favorita into the bottom of it. Just a thin delicious layer. (I buy Chunky Ragu Mama's Garden Recipe or something like that for $2.50 because it's cheap and I can use the leftover sauce for homemade pizza.)
Then, and this part is very important, put a layer of noodles on top of the sauce. Don't let how complicated that is scare you away from this recipe because it is worth it. Be sure you sort of squeeze off the extra water or else your lasagna might be a little juicy. And by squeeze off I mean squeegie it with your fingers. Also, if the noodles aren't all the way done, that's okay. They'll cook the rest of the way in the baking process.
After the first layer of noodles, you need a layer of veggies. I usually start with my zucchini and yellow squash because I studied food infrastructure in college and am an expert in sturdy vegetable foundations. On the day I made this lasagna I felt like mixing it up a bit and sprinkled on some green peppers. In college they called this "avant garde," which also happens to be the name of an annoying font.
Then put a layer of sauce on top.
The put another layer of noodles, a layer of ricotta cheese, some veggies. (I usually pair broccoli and green peppers with my ricotta layer because, again, it satisfies food infrastructure requirements.)
Put a layer of sauce on top, another layer of noodles, and a layer of mushrooms and green peppers or whatever other veggies you have. This is where I get confused and just sort of wrap things up regardless of where I'm at in the pattern.

At this point you should be out of veggies with three noodles, some sauce (I'm usually cracking into my second jar at this point) and some mozzarella cheese left. Since you want to cap the dish with a layer of noodles, a layer of sauce and a layer of mozzarella cheese -- in that order -- go ahead and arrange that on top.
Put it in the oven at 350-400ish degrees. I don't really know what temperature. Bake it until it smells good and you get hungry. Then check it, and if the cheese is the way you like your cheese to look, it's ready. It should cook for about 30 minutes to cook the veggies, so if your cheese is cooking too fast, lay a piece of foil loosely on top to keep it from burning while the veggies cook.

Let it cool before you cut it or it will be a little drippy and won't keep its shape when you serve it. In our house it gets cut within seconds of leaving the oven.
The best thing about La Lasagna is that you can put it all together the night before, cover it with plastic wrap, throw it in the fridge, and then the next day just toss it in the oven and act like you've slaved away all day.

The Holiday Spirit

Fine. Los Angeles doesn't naturally have any holiday spirit. Fireside chats and the first snow are sort of like jokes about Mars. Why would anyone need fire? And snow makes it cold.

But this year, I wanted it.
And despite his initial resistance, Mr. T fell for it too.
It was like the best day ever.

Holiday Discoveries

I can always tell which of my friends have the baby itch based on the Christmas card they send. The tell tale sign that next year's card will feature a bundle of joy is a Christmas card with a festive pet on it.

Maybe it's just the dog with a Santa hat or maybe it's a "family" portrait with the pooch before it becomes old news, but that's my theory and I'm sticking to it.

In other exciting Christmas card news from the Random Thought Laboratory that is overrunning my mind, I found this today.
Is it just me or does that Santa baby freak you out? Kids are cute and it's fine if you want them to be on your Christmas card, but prop a baby up for goodness sake!

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas...

No, there aren't any lights sparkling off my eave. No, we don't have a Christmas tree twinkling in the window. No, the temperature hasn't dropped below 65 for more than three days in a row...

And yet, it's never been so festive outside. How could this be?

I don't know. Maybe this FREAKIN POINSETTA TREE that's on fire on my way to the beach is the culprit?!!

A Poinsetta tree... Wonders never cease.

So the aunt who used to "make her own cigarettes" came to visit...

My mom's littlest sister, my Aunt Tina, and her husband, a gas factory named Uncle Tony, headed West last week to commemorate their 25th anniversary. Since they hadn't been on a plane together since their honeymoon, the trip was long overdue.
I had to work during the days while they were here, but we spent the evenings drinking beer and overeating delicious food. Tina taught me how to make homemade pizza crust, and Tony showed me that Mack's gaseous output is actually "girlie." Then, sometime between 5:30 and 8, they curled up on the sofa like giant cats and slept to the rhythmic beauty of Tony's Large Man Snores.

On the weekend, though, I got to get in on the vacation fun. Tina & I headed to the Huntington Botanical Gardens while Tony hopped a bus to Sears to get new loafers. Prior to our garden outing, Tina had been impressed by the snapdragons in my yard, excited by the landscaping at the Venice Canals, and enamored with the foliage on the walk streets in my neighborhood. Once we went to the Huntington Gardens, however, Venice lost its botanical superiority and started to feel like old bread.

Orchids may be hard for most people to grow, but clearly most people aren't in charge at the HBG.

The rose gardens made me feel like a queen in her court, and the Dame Helen was the most delicious smelling one. Can you believe roses bloom in December?This is a bad picture of the Chinese garden. Imagine if it was a good picture. That is how awesome it is. There's also an Australian garden, a Japanese garden, a subtropical garden, a palm garden, a Shakespeare garden and a succulent garden.

In case it's not obvious, something about the succulents made this my favorite garden. They're so dangerous and so weak at the same time. Like puppies and newborn babies.See what I mean about the dangerous.
This is a century plant. No, it is not about to eat Tina alive. It's what happens when agaves go wild.

We also went to El Matador Beach this weekend. I first went there to remove a layer of guilt that came with an unusual hangover, but today I finally discovered what all the real buzz is about. I thought I saw the "caves" on my first visit, but today Tina, Mack and I scooted around rocky outcropping after rocky outcropping, crawled through uncertain holes and eventually found our way to an actual real live ocean cave. Then, my inner mother warned me that if the tide came in we'd be stranded forever and die alone, so we headed back to our "cave" and grubbed on a picnic lunch.

Mack introduced Tina to the famed Sea Vaginas.

Just call us Lewis & Clark.

Basically we are pirates.

Beach picnics in December. Thank you California.

We headed back to Venice so T&T could catch a sunset while they're here, and they got a doozy of one. Sailboats, crashing waves, soaring birds. It almost even made Mack feel romantic. Almost.

What Happened in Vegas

Kristin, aka Miss Perpetually on the Ball, scooped me on my trip to Vegas last weekend. Maybe that's because she didn't have to sit in traffic for 8 hours to go 288 miles when the weekend was over. Yes, that is an average of 36mph.

Before the worst road trip experience of my life, though, there was a lot of fun to be had. Kristin shared the basics, so let me clue you in on the details...

Kristin, Will, Holly & Jim Beam welcomed me to their Vegas mansion just like they used to in the Dirty Dirty. In the olden days a house the size of my entire apartment complex and a yard the size of a house would have seemed like business as usual, but since moving to LA, anything that is free standing, has extra rooms and has more than 8 feet of grassy area around it, it's like a domestic playground. I had my own room... not an office that is converted for guests, but a room dedicated to hosting guests. Awesome. And I can also now vouch for the number of mirrors in her house. Holy cow. Every time I left the bathroom I felt like someone was following me, but it was just... me reflected 3000 times.

Visiting Kristin & Will is as fun in Vegas as it ever was in Atlanta. On Friday, we woke up and started cooking Thanksgiving dinner. The turkey Kristin bought came with gravy, but the smell started to react badly with the night before that was still in our heads and stomachs so she tossed it and crafted her own recipe. All you really need to know about Thanksgiving at Kristin's is that it comes with gravy. I could have just eaten the gravy and been satisfied. I put gravy on everything on my plate, then put another layer of gravy on my plate, then sopped up the gravy on my plate with gravy soaked deviled eggs. I know, it sounds gross, but it was sooo good. Gravy.
Games are always a part of visiting Kristin and Will, and since they had the foresight to bring cornhole with them out West, I was able to fine tune my skills so that this year I can scream, "FOUR IN A ROW" in Lisa's ear while she's pregnant and trying to sleep. She loves when I do that.

Before we could get started though, Kristin had to go on a massive crap expedition and pick up a year's worth of Holly poo. Holly is in her grandma stage of life and putters around the yard with an expression on her face like, "What is that smell?" and we're all like, "Hollins, that's you!"

To keep things fair, Will brought out the rules from the American Cornhole Association, which he has assumed the presidency of. There wasn't a clause that said anything about how to play when the beans have absorbed rainwater and are more like beef bricks than bean bags, which is probably why I was able to kick Will's ass. I'm just sayin'.

We also broke out Jenga, which I lost, and A to Z, which I perfected when I used to play teams with Sarah and, thus, won. Man, Kristin is so cute when she's mad that she will never beat me at A to Z.

Now that Kristin & Will live in Vegas and since there are more amazing things than Dave & Busters to go check out, we headed out to Red Rock Canyon. There's a loop you drive around to all the main attractions, but there was one hike in particular that was just off a "dirt road" that we decided to check out. The hike was described as having the "most significant feature" in the canyon and didn't require 3 hours to do. Sounds perfect, right?

So we headed down this "dirt road," which was really a rocky mess that made it painfully obvious I've eaten too much gravy so far in this lifetime and that gave Kristin an opportunity to hone her off-roading skillz.
We made our way up the trail, trying to keep our pre-death panting under control so as not to worry those around us. It was beautiful.

We finally came upon some red rock which was dramatically different, and the trail sort of ended. After much discussion, we all agreed that this does not qualify as "significant." Pretty, sure. But significant? No.
We asked some other hikers who were coming toward us if there was anything good up ahead and discovered that there was a 400 foot drop off that wasn't too far and that was worth the extra walk. We decided to go for it, and it was definitely worth it. Sure the cliff thingy was nice, but watching Kristin butt hike to the top was the highlight for me. I had no idea she was so afraid of heights.
We did the obligatory timer photo to commemorate our cumulative efforts, in case the hike back down killed us. We had to do two because in the first one, Kristin had her arms around Will and I and she didn't want to "be the armless person" in the photo. You can't argue with that. So instead we look like the people who aren't sure what to do with their arms while Will looks all Obama-esque and like he just had some tea.Visiting Kristin has always been one of my favorite ways to get the hell outta dodge. I've visited her in her dorm room in Athens, in her houses in Atlanta and now in her new home in Vegas, and every time I visit I have an absolute blast. Thanks for being such good hosts and for letting me eat all of your candy, Kristin & Will. I love you and am so glad you're within driving distance!!