10 years ago

Ten years ago, I boarded a plane, and flew to a place that I never dreamt about going to. Ohio. Because, really on this Cali girl's list of things to do, Ohio wasn't on there. Not that there is anything wrong with Ohio, it's just that, Italy and Hawaii take precedence over Ohio. All I knew of the place was that they had cows, and country cooking. That they bowled, ran, played volleyball, basketball and had subway. Also, Ohio had my heart.

There was this boy. This boy who in his Midwestern way, silly laugh, teasing words, had charmed his way right into my life. Via emails, phone calls, chat rooms. He was someone with who I could share my day, frustrations, celebrations, and jokes with. I had boyfriends, friends and a life he only knew about through emails, and chats, but he was always right there, the first person I could talk to, any time of day. We exchanged pictures, letters, he sent me flowers, gifts, even a video, showing me where he lived, what he did. We were young. I could have just laughed, tossed it in the trash, and ran out to spend my days with boys who were surfing, and more so, were in my own time zone. But I didn't. There was something about him, so captivating, that anything else wasn't so appealing anymore.

So I met him. Jumped on a plane and showed up. He was there, with his hat on backwards, jeans and striped polo shirt on. Very Abercrombie and Fitch, Midwestern hip. He had this smile, this huge butterfly inducing smile. I walked toward him, and I knew. He gave me a hug and in that moment, that fairytale, movie magic moment, the tingling sensation swept from my head to my toes, and settled in my heart. This was it. I was looking at my forever. My happily ever after. The father of my babies, stealer of my heart and my best friend. I knew he was The One before I ever went to meet him, but truly seeing him, touching his hand confirmed everything my heart already knew. He once sent me a letter, a few months before I went to Ohio, it was a single paged, pencil written letter. I have carried a part with me always, because it defines our story. Our story in a world where Internet dating was taboo, off, and anything but normal.

It said:
"It's late at night as I write this. I don't know much, about anything. I don't know what we're doing, or where we are going to end up. I don't know what this feeling is, but I do know this:
That I don't ever want it to stop."

Ten years ago today. He still writes me cards. He still has that smile. The weak-kneed, sweaty palm, am- i -dreaming smile. I have fallen in love with him over and over.


He's still The One. And that feeling has never stopped.

Uh The Diva cup

http://www.divacup.com/

It makes me squeamish. There is NOTHING diva like about shoving a cup up your hoo ha and having it fill up like a glass full of Kool Aid. People, or I should say, women rave about this thing. I can't seem to jump on the bandwagon. Especially after reading the reviews

I've been anxiously awaiting my period (how often do ya hear that one?) since I received your product a few weeks ago...

Anxiously awaiting? Only nuns praying they are not pregnant anxiously await that beast. Ok, so maybe undercover nuns like Whoopi Goldberg do, but still.


First off, I am not a gusher; it's just not an aspect of my personality, BUT...Oh My God! I L-O-V-E my new DivaCup...

Gusher? ewww, maybe they should create a Diva Bottle for the gushers out there. Sorry I couldn't resist. It was there, and I laughed and yeah, moving on.

I am all about doing good things for the environment. But sending aunt flo packing in a plastic dixie cup is not my style. It's not. I was skimming through the frequently asked questions, like is it messy? IT'S still a period. I don't care what you say, that stuff is messy, and gross, and nasty. Natural or not. The Diva cup isn't a vacuum that sucks that Uterus lake up to dry. It's more like a holding tank, just like a tampon is.

Can it collect other fluids other than menstrual flow?

WTF??? EWWWW. and talk about needing to talk the drippy shippy to the doc(k) and get it looked at. God my gagger hurts with that one.

Reading the instructions and seeing terms like "bear down" and "squat" sends me running for the hills. Sounds way too much like Pocahontas giving birth.

Yeah, not for me. We all do our part in this world, and I'll be leaving this for the others out there. Especially when this thing involves sizing it and boiling it. Don't worry Tampax pearl, you still got my vote.

Some more Salad Lovin'

Summer means salad. Because salad means skinny. And skinny means beach. I am alllll about the beach. So to be in competition with the rest of the fine beach body world, I go to the salad world and dive in. I love this salad because it's easy and scrumptious.

Spinach
Red Onion
Strawberries
Feta Cheese
Avocado (if you got it)

toss it all together and put this dressing on it: Brianna's Home style Blush Wine Vinaigrette.
( see, it evens says delicious on fresh strawberries, they ain't lyin')




Popeye meet 2008, no more nasty shriveled spinach in a can, fresh spinach and good eats.

The Golden Child

I take tons of pictures. Not for money, not for business, but for me. I like to capture every little thing about life. Whether it's my kids picking their noses, or smiling beautifully, I'm there with a camera. I have done tons of studying, reading, practicing, and just enjoying photography. This light is one of the little things that I love. I stand there with a big shit eatin' grin, like a kid at Disneyland hyped up on giant lollipops and soda.

This is the magic light. It comes right before sunset, closer to 5 in the winter, later in the summer, and it's gorgeous. It can turn any old shot into a great shot. It adds a warmth to photos, and it's as if the sun is smiling down, and it makes one smile in return.

Magic light.

I love it.

Photobombers

Example of a photobomber:

See the nice pirate and boy talking trash trying to take a nice picture. Notice Ol' Granny Hag in the background? She's a photobomber. Someone intentionally or unintentionally ruining a otherwise nice pic.

I got sent these today in an email from Sarah, who shares the same inappropriate , bathroom, borderline childish sense of humor that I do. These.are.great. Hilarious. Please don't pee your pants, that would be unsanitary. Next time I spot an innocent group taking a friendly little pic... watch out.


http://www.asylum.com/2008/06/13/photobombers-ruining-your-picture-one-click-at-a-time
(click on the photo gallery)

and go here:

http://listoftheday.blogspot.com/2008/04/photobombers-of-day.html

Tastes of summer

Love me some corn salad. It's tangy, sweet, and just fresh. And it has all kinds of variations, that it's different every time. And I can eat the whole bowl, by myself. Yes, I really can.

Here is some guesstimates, since I don't measure anything.

I grilled 6 ears of corn. I soak them in water first, so they kind of steam and retain their flavor. Sometimes I place them right on the grill, other times I wrap them individually in tin foil. Or use frozen corn.

Bell pepper: Whatever flavor you like. I typically use green, we had no green so I used orange.

Onion: I used green onions, but I also love red onion. Once again whatever you got or prefer.

Tomato: I used Roma, because they are more firm.

Olives: canned black.

Jalapeno: totally optional, if you like a little heat.

When the corn is done, just cut it off the cob. A trick I use is put a bowl upside down in a bigger bowl, stand the ear on it's tip and scrape downwards with a knife. Works great.

Dice up everything else. Toss it all together.

Vinaigrette:

1/4 c red wine vinegar
1 tbs dijon mustard
1 tsp italian seasoning
2 tbs sugar (or honey)
salt and pepper to taste
1/4 c olive oil

I taste to to see if it needs more tang or sweet and adjust accordingly. Pour over salad and served.

Cheap Produce

Cali gets a bad rap for being expensive. Which it can be. Like owning a house. But some find owning a house overrated, so to each his own I guess. Besides our amazingly blue skies and sweet temps 89% of the time, we have other perks. Like awesome produce. Let me give you a rundown:

3 bunches of green onions
2 red onions
2 white onions
head of red leaf lettuce
6 ears of corn
head of romaine lettuce
bunch of fresh spinach
2 italian squash
1 cucumber
bag of shredded lettuce
1 1/2 pounds of nectarines
3 packs of strawberries
pack of blueberries
pack of raspberries
container of mushrooms
4 pounds of grapes
2 mangos
1 1/2 pounds of tomatoes (salmonella free)
2 3/4 pounds of apples
bag of carrots
1 lb of apricots
2 1/3 pounds of cherries
1 pineapple
1 watermelon

all for $36. Made my day, and my house is full of fresh eats.

It's a hot one.

We're having a heat wave here, and of course I pick the hottest day to go inland, to return some make up. It was 102, which I am sure all the people in Arizona and the Sahara desert are like "So.... grow a pair, that's not hot, that's pleasant." Well, I'm a whiny spoiled west coaster, and it is hot. I'm sitting here, drenched, sweating like a whore in church. That's what we say here in the south. For anyone that wants to point out that I'm not in the "South", well technically I am. Just because I'm not slummin' it in mosquito dunk like most do in the EASTERN south, I am still south. SoCal to be exact.

About to be heading to the pool in a bit, and chill. Literally. A slurpee would be nice. Reaalllll nice.
Might head over to Toys R Us later, got a $5 dollar coupon, which is gold. Will spend it on bday gifts for the almost *sniff sniff* 2 year old.

Oh and, hilarious, yet not so hilarious. I got my very first speeding ticket the other day. That's not the hilarious part. That's the "Holy freakin dog poo that sucks" part. SO today, on the same stretch of road, my 5 year old pipes out, raising her voice over the Lynyrd Skynyrd on the radio,( remember... I'm in the south) and says, "It says 35."

'What did you say?" I holler from the front seat. (Not like I could be driving from the back seat, but just to clarify. Since I'm a speeder, I might also be a backseat driver. This should put all worries to rest.)

"The speed limit says 35. Right there."

I immediately thought of my courtroom speech I would give.

'But your honor, you see, well, what had happened was......This whole time I thought it was 45, and thank god my five year old pointed out the sign, because who knows how fast I would be going, and well, I am just so thankful for children."

Yeah, doesn't move me either. But I guess you can always count on someone to be the police. Even my kids.

Doggie names

So, my parents have this big, goofy dog. He's husky, shepherd, mutt whatever, and he's huge. As in a very shaggy pony huge. And dumb. Very sad, but true. But you got to love him, because that's what makes him loveable. Being the big lug that he is, he tends to get a very thick coat in the winter. My mom takes him in to get groomed, which is a lot of work, I think they have to special order a machete for that furgalicious look he has.

She goes to get the dog, and they call for him.

"Anus was such a good dog!"
"Anus did so well."
"It took all day to groom Anus."
"See ya next time, Anus."

Now the dog's name isn't Anus. I know these groomers are all into messing around with slimy anal glands, but seriously, did they think my parents named the dog ANUS? The first time my mom heard them say Anus, she thought it was just her hearing, the 2nd, 3rd, 4th and 5th time, not so much. And my mom is one of the sweetest ladies, and more proper than a church mouse getting baptized, so she was mortified, and wasn't about to correct them on his name. She just left, with cheeks flaming, and her not so fluffy behemoth of a dog, inappropriately named Anus.

She realizes after he gets home, that she forgot Anus's--- er I mean AMOS'S collar. She goes back the next day to pick it up.

Only they have no record of an Amos. And the lady is asking if she was pretty sure he was groomed there? She doesn't remember an Amos. To which my mom mentions that perhaps, he is under the name (and I'm sure she whispered this delicately) "Anus"? The receptionist starts laughing, and says " His name is AMOS? We were calling him Anus! We were wondering all day about his name, and couldn't wait to meet the woman who named her dog Anus!" And of course I giggle massively over the fact that at one point someone had to have muttered about the "hairy Anus" they were grooming in the back. I am all kinds of inappropriate.

Every family has a skeleton, and in mine, it's my mom and her dog named Anus. I guess it's a good thing she didn't go write a bestseller called "Anus and Me."

Explain this.

http://www.crocodilebaby.com/qs/product/17/5662/263388/0/0


No way. Do you mop the floor with the baby too?

State of the Economy Address

So we all know that the dang United States economy has gone to hell in a hand basket, or some other super grandmariffic saying. Pretty much sucks. As someone who paid $4.47/gallon for stupid gas today, I'm a little annoyed. I really don't need any Chevron or Exxon execs sitting on TV in their Armani suits telling us basically we just need to use less. As if we are all mindlessly driving around, twiddling our thumbs and doing donuts in abandoned parking lots. While drinking Slurpees.
NO, most of us have to go to WORK, to earn the money, to pay for the gas. And ridiculous health care premiums. Because those rat finks are in the kahoots with the oil peeps, for sure. Except for their not wearing Armani, they like more of the Versace look.


All this and I'll probably be rationing dirt next. And just when I think the economy can't get any worse, this happened:






Can I get a break? um... and some stamps? I'm kind of fresh out of them, and well, the cost of them go up too.

Duncan Hines is my boyfriend

Made cupcakes for the hubby's birthday the other day. Made them into footballs..obviously, and the sprinkles are little football helmets and jimmies. Why those little candy sprinkle things are called jimmies, I dunno. Perhaps Hanks or Harveys just didn't have the same ring. maybe they are made out of something nasty like toothpaste and cod liver oil, baked in a tin can, and they laugh their asses off with their whole "jimmied" product. Who knows. Weird.

I didn't go super Martha and bake them from scratch with flour and all that overrated basic household staples jazz. Nosirreee, I brought home my boyfriend Duncan and we had ourselves a baking party. Betty Crocker was begging to come over, but she tries to sell herself as a better product than Duncan, and I need to stand by my man. Know what I mean?

These are the final product. Throw some butter wrappers on the counter and sprinkle cocoa dust in the air, and I can even make a fool out of Paula Deen thinking these were full of homemade goodness. (Love ya Paula!)

It's five o'clock somewhere

Middle woke me up at 5:15 to ask me if the potty worked. Five frick frackin fifteen. Simply because we had to water turned off for a few hours to work on the sprinkler system the day before. She had since gone potty and the water was on. All was well. But, I guess, at the butt crack of dawn, potty anxiety is heightened.

I wanted to throw her in a chair in a darkened cinder block cell, and interrogate her in a menacing voice under a dimly lit lamp, until sweat beaded on her brow, asking, "why... just WHY the thought of just flushing the dang thing was too much to comprehend"... and then accept my guest appearance on Law and Order SVU like a champ.... which would lead to an Emmy nomination...

and then I remembered I wasn't auditioning, it was 5 in the gall dang morning and my head hurt just thinking about uttering a sound, so I cracked an eye and murmured "yeah." and went back to bed.

Until she came in and asked if I was sleeping. And why the "paper toilet" (her unique terminology for toilet paper) is white. At five frick frackin twenty.

And thus begins my day.

Some info

Things that I love:

fireflies in the summer. cheese enchiladas. little baby feet. the notebook.
romance by ralph lauren. smell of sunscreen. black and white photos. carrot cake.
pizza fridays. skirts. gymboree. hubby's laugh. reading US weekly in the bathtub.
my kids little sayings. bedtime. slurpees. hydrangeas. snuggles. maya angelou. pink. my children. my husband. my family. myself.

Not a fan of:

california drivers. crocs. sushi. dockers pulled over the stomach. kids who lick snot off their nose. bleu cheese. tie dye. ballet flats. dirty socks. fish.
kool aid. abstract paintings. Newsweek. dog poop.

Clinton and Obama, eat yer heart out.

It's amazing that we have been doing the whole Clinton/Obama campaigns for so long. So many people, torn on who to choose. Constant analyzing on what cost Clinton votes, or why people like one and not the other. How to win, and come out on top. I'm sure a whole lot of moola has been handed out to "advisers" on what should be the next move in their political chess game.

Next time, ask an 8 year old.

I was watching the Today show, and of course it was the elections, non-stop. The following conversation between Oldielocks and I ensued.

"Mom, do you want to be president?"

"Uh..... no. I wouldn't find that job fun."

"I would. I'm gonna be the president."

"Good for you. Go to school, and learn about how to be a president." (I am such a help.)

"I already know. All about the 3 branches of government: the judicial, alleged-slative, and elective. And the White house has 10 bowling alleys and lots of fireplaces." (I think I might have to do my research-TEN bowling alleys? What the nasty bowling shoes and greasy t-shirts?)

"That's important stuff.... it's a hard job." (Not to be confused with jobs under the president's desk, not that kind of job.)

"yes, you check yes or no on a bill. But it would be fun to make the choices for all the United States."

"Yes, but if things go wrong, it's your job to make it right, it's a big responsibility." (Perhaps I should remind past presidents about that little moral tidbit...)

"Well, when I am president, chocolate will be free."

"all chocolate? Hershey's kisses?"

"It's chocolate isn't it?" ( I wonder where the sass comes from) "Hershey's, m and m's, the whole candy section of chocolate."

"well, who will pay the chocolate makers?" (I am always the dream squasher)

"Well, since chocolate is free, I will make the cost of Twizzlers 4 dollars."

(DANGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG she is good, inflate the price of something else, to cover the price of chocolate....)

"And, if people don't like chocolate, they get Twizzlers for free, and chocolate for $4.37." (dang chocolate went up like it was a gas price or something.)

And my little President went off to get dressed for the day. Perhaps if we went back to choosing presidents based on the things that matter, like chocolate and twizzlers, instead of whose pastor said what, and whose supporter did what, we'd get a president that makes choices that matter. Just sayin'.

Vote Oldielocks, 2044!

Life in the fast lane

Let's discuss the fast lane. It's the lane to the far left in which the cars go faster than all the other cars. If you're late, in a hurry, got the hershey squirts and need a bathroom, it's the lane you take. You got a hot date, hot pizza that's getting cold, or just an overachiever that has spent their life graduating magna cum laude, entertaining foreign dignitaries and single handedly building an eco friendly house... then yeah, it's the one for you.

Now that we have covered that left lane = fast cars, it is completely inappropriate to be driving along in the middle lane, brushing your teeth and decide that 65 is too slow, so swerving into the fast lane is a better option, but slam on your brakes when you get over there. Because that small one car length that was between the car in front and back, was not for you to fill, it was more of a STOPPING DISTANCE, should one need to slam on their brakes in the fast lane. The horn honking and friendly gesture was not an initiation into the fast lane club, it was more of a big fat "you suck" in traffic speak, so wipe the crap eatin grin off your face, like you accomplished something great, like the cure for hemorrhoids. Or something.

Better yet, let's skip to the 1992 volvo mom today. Who was knitting a sweater and baking cookies in the fast lane. I've seen a constipated tortoise haul ass faster than her. She wasn't even going 65, singing along probably to Michael Bolton, or listening to talk radio. She literally thought she was the pace car for Nascar, with the 76 bajillion cars lined up behind her. As we all made the detour to the right, she would look at each car that passed, and perhaps by the 11th that went around her, a light bulb should have gone off, and she could have crawled a few lanes over. But as I looked behind in the disappearing landscape, she was there, leading the Calvary, at about 60 miles an hour. I guess she wanted to be featured on the Happily Ever Laughter Wall O' Shame.