Wednesday, April 11, 2007


Last night, Simons and I shelled out $220 for a parking place about 6 blocks away. This is because we have paid about $1000 in parking tickets since we moved here, so any parking place, no matter the price, is going to be cheaper. They shell out $80 parking tickets like Hershey at Halloween here. A bird craps on the street and you get a parking ticket. I got two $275 parking tickets for being within seven feet of a handicap ramp the other day. That's $550 for eight hours of parking. $550 between 11pm in the rain and darkness and 7 am when I moved it in the morning. $550 after driving in circles for an hour and a half trying to find a space and finally giving up in despair.

So this morning, while working on invoicing, I got a loud hammering at the door, which somehow I heard over the loud hammering of the workmen gutting the apartment next door. And it's a workman. And it's a meter maid (are they maids if they are men? I think they are. They deserve the emasculation.). And they say that even though the construction crew already has their allotted 40 feet of space on the block, they also demand the 10 feet of space I am taking in our legally parked car which has been in the same place for three days without complaint, and if I don't go move it, they will tow me. So I go to move the car to our newly paid for parking space, and there is another goddamn ticket for $40 on it.

It's a good thing meter maids are fast, because I'd have dearly loved to have told him what a

cheap, lying, no-good, rotten,

four-flushing, low-life, snake-licking, dirt-eating,

inbred, overstuffed, ignorant, blood-sucking,

dog-kissing, brainless, dickless, hopeless,

heartless, fat-ass, bug-eyed, stiff-legged,

spotty-lipped, worm-headed sack of monkey shit he is!

I need to go eat some cheese.

Tuesday, April 10, 2007


Okay, don't tell anyone (Simons), but this morning, I downloaded the whole second season of Weeds and watched every single episode and now I'm DYING. Is the second season over? Is it still ongoing? Because I don't think I can wait however many months for them to give me more Mary Louise Parker.

I. Love. Her.

Anyway, Simons and i just watched the first three episodes (there only 27 minutes long, people, stop looking at me like that! AND I knit while I'm watching, so it's not totally unproductive.) and it was all I could do not to say, "Oh you think THAT'S crazy, wait and see what Uncle Andy does with a microwaved banana peel in a minute."

[Spoiler Alert] For those of you who don't know about Weeds, it's about a suburban widow whose husband leaves her penniless with two sons, and she ends up selling pot to make a living. And at the end of last season, she found out her new boyfriend is actually the DEA.

I'm telling you, downloading TV from iTunes is the BOMB!

Monday, April 09, 2007

Maximum Efficiency

So today I was a model of efficiency, accomplishing the following:
  • Paid my $550 parking tickets
  • Finally posted on my blog
  • Updated a client's webpage on behalf of some very pushy architects
  • Filled in my schedule
  • Bought cedar balls for the winter clothes, which we have exchanged and picked through
  • Found a dermatologist
  • Booked a hotel for the non-blogging Aloysius' wedding
  • Invoiced my clients
  • Outlined two articles and one essay
I'm telling you, it's Spring. Time of renewed inspiration and aspiration!

But apparently not nutrition (she says while typing with one hand and spooning caramel sauce into her piehole with the other). Back when I first started this blog, I tried an ayurvedic cleanse in a failed attempt to wean myself off of sugar and processed wheat gluten and all other things George Bush is using to destroy our health and nation. I say "failed" because on the very day the cleanse was over with, I polluted my new detoxified cells with two bottles of Pinot Noir, kicked my big toenail off in a famous author's hot tub and then barfed in my front yard.

I'm not proud.

Every so often, usually before planning a big trip, I get into the My Body Is A Temple routine and run and stretch and drink herbal water and consider my chakras. I'll be going home for weddings in June, which I guess count as trips, not that I have to shape up for them (normally my trips involve hiking or rock climbing or looking attractive for high school reunions). But since I work alone and some days only see the dog and Simons, I'm not getting as much feedback on trip planning and fitness. I miss the days when I would wake up and meet friends for a morning run. Maybe I need more verbal rewards. Maybe I require a sense of competition. I think it's a little sad that I require someone to pat me on the head in order to acquire the appropriate My Body Is A Temple sensibility. In itself, MBIAT ought to come from within. Clearly I am a new age failure who is drowning her self loathing in caramel sauce.

With my recent cancer scare and treatment, it ought to have sunk in that "it can happen to me." It ought to be abundantly clear that I cannot avoid cancer, diabetes and heart disease because I simply pretend they won't happen. And judging by my reaction to the contractors working on the apt below mine, my blood pressure is in immediate risk. So how do you find the willpower not to eat crap? To face the future pragmatically and take your health planning as seriously as you do your financial planning?

Happy Easter!

Did we go to church?

Did I go running?

Did I actually leave the house beyond the morning foray for Peet’s and Paas?

It sounds like my day sucked, but it was actually dee-lightful. I spent the better part of the day either cooking or knitting = utter bliss. Holly and Sean came for dinner, and one of the best things about them is they don’t ask if there is any butter in the food. Because they know there is. Butter is the base of my food pyramid. I’m Southern. All my recipes start with “First, take a stick of butter…” One of the other best things about them is that I don’t have to stress whether the dinner sucks, because if it does, we can order Chinese and they’ll still love me.

Although I considered doing a traditional Easter feast with lamb and Peeps and whatever, I instead opted for comfort food and richness. We had Chicken Suzanne, which I didn’t bother photographing, because I don’t think mushroom sauce translates well to visual representation. And Holly made brussel sprouts with rosemary and shallots, and they were totally delish. And then came the caramel apple tarte tatine,

Isn’t it pretty?

Don’t you want to lick it? No? Look CLOSER…

The caramel sauce is pretty amazing. You kind of moan involuntarily, and no, I’m not bragging, because I didn’t invent the recipe. Maybe I should call it Porn Pie. Holly and I can open a bakery and just sell Porn Cake and Porn Pie. We shall call it simply, "Porn," and our mothers will be so proud.

Simons and I did dye Easter eggs, and we came up with some pretty purple tulips for décor. And, you know, some Reese’s peanut butter eggs, because it isn’t Easter without mealing a few of those.

The rest of the weekend was pretty much spent wringing my hands, because our new landlords, they want us out. No, no Simons hasn’t been streaking the courtyard and playing loud deathmetal again...much. They’re renovating all the apartments so they can up the rent to $2500 or so, and therefore are offering $8K to most tenants to move. We were tempted, and even went so far as to go apartment hunting on Saturday. It was just as horrible as before, full of nervous optimism at the beginning and then crushing despondency at the end. You think a place will be grand, because the photos have such shiny wood floors and lots and lots of cabinets, and then there are crackwhores on the front stoop and the paint is peeling and it occurs to you that your lovely corner store that you walk to every afternoon to decide on dinner will now be a 30-minute drive across town. You will have to find a whole new corner store. And while once that seemed an exciting prospect, you just had to go through all that six months ago, and the idea of packing and unpacking and orienteering a new neighborhood just seem so hard. So. Hard. And we came back home and realized the issue was that our little squalorous 700-square feet with no parking and no closets is our home.

So unless they up the ante to $12K, we aren’t moving.

Andy and Harriott’s wedding blanket is now 5.5’ x 7’ and I only have three balls of yarn left. Hallelujah. Also, here is a nice picture of the sweater I made Simons. I love that he wears it.

Tuesday, April 03, 2007


Sim and I got back from Reno at about 9:30 last night, after spending the weekend with Julia and Robert Payne in their ultra cool house (it has closets…and this whole separate area for eating). They’re the badasses who took us on the awesome hike in Lake Tahoe earlier in March.

Lucky Simons got to go backcountry skiing (check out the video) with Robert on Saturday, while I worked all morning (gross). Fortunately, I got loads done and then went for a snowshoe with Julia in the mountains overlooking Lake Tahoe. Snowshoeing! In the snow! In Reno! Snow!

We spent the evening marinating and cooking some wild duck with apricot jam and bourbon, and then had some lovely steaks for dinner instead, and laughed our asses off until 2 am, only it was really 11 and we’re just very old.

[This is what ignorance looks like]

Then yesterday we all went to Mount Rose, where they dumped me in the beginner ski school and took off for the black diamonds. After I'd dribbled down the bunny slopes a few times, they came back all pink-cheeked and sparkly and barely winded, fortified me with beer and then whisked me off up the roller coaster ski lift to a blue slope, a clifflike precipice that had my teeth chattering from the instant I set ski to snow. All three tempted me up there with falsehoods about “cat tracks” and easy
shooshing, and then even the LIFT went faster than the bunny slopes. I was so busy gawping over my left shoulder at the initial slope that I fell off the lift when we landed.

[Do you see anything on the other side of this peak? No? Really?

Then I stood up there over this cliff with my knees knocking together and all the blood draining from my head, while Simons giggled and said, “Oh, you’ll be fine.” I think he was high from the altitude. God know I must have been, because after 30 seconds of panicked gibbering about it, I said, “FINE! I’M GOING! I’M GOING! FUCK!” And then shrieked, “God DAMMIT!” as I reached 85 miles per hour point five seconds later.

Amidst the screaming and falling and bloodletting, I did get to see Sim doing his telemark deal, which is very cool and fancy looking. I think he was pretending not to know the moronic beginner hurtling past him, strapped to the cheapo rental two-by-fours. He maintains that every time he looked at me, I shrieked at him, so he was only acting like he was ignoring me, all while keeping a very close eye on my wellbeing. God, my husband is such a LIAR.

Robert gave me some coaching on how not to hold my poles like they were anchors (but…aren’t they?) and body turning and other such stuff that made me scream lots more professionally on the way down. And I only fell once.

Well, excepting the lift.