I was told today as a joke to write about Ghosts vs. Vampires. so that's what I'm going to do. It was a random choice and I could have as easily been told to write about turtles vs. sweet potatoes, and thank goodness I wasn't because really how much can you say about a turtle vs a sweet potato. One is green, one is orange. One is delicious and one makes a great soup. Oh lord, I'm just kidding! But the point is (which the producers of The Colony will apparently never know) randomness can be entertaining. ;)
So ghost vs vampire. Which one would I pick to be if I had to make a choice? Not that its likely to come up, but then again neither is my salary and sometimes I sit around and contemplate that. So in the interest of fairness I spent some time thinking about this.
If you are a ghost you are dead. If you are a vampire you are dead. Well, that's a tie.
If you are a ghost you get to pass through walls. If you are a vampire you have hands and can open the damn door. One for the vampire I'd say, unless you are a peeping tom and then its one for the ghost.
Ghosts wear white sheets. Vampires wear whatever they want, but it must apparently be made out of silk or velvet. One for the ghost in terms of frugality in these recession hit times, buuuuuut one for the vampire for providing jobs to tailors, salespeople and silk worms.
Ghosts get to appear out of nowhere and startle people, which could be a lot of fun if you think about it. However, vampires can turn both into mists and bats to startle people. While being a bat I would think you run the risk of being hit by an outraged housewife with a broom and as for mist, well just shut the damn window and it can't get in.
Which reminds me, ghosts can go anywhere as far as I can tell and vampires have to be invited into your house or they have to stand on your porch like the Avon lady. (just kidding about the Avon lady, I love Avon - in fact go buy some right now! from Maggie Cockerell at www.youravon.com/mcockerell -accepting cash, check or credit card!) So that one definately goes to the ghost.
Although, once in the house the ghost is limited to wandering about, making ooooooooooooh sounds and maybe, if they are incredibly strong, moving your keys from the counter to under the couch. Vampires on the other hand, once invited into your house are as a corpreal as you are and can play Wii Fit, sit on your couch, or have a snack, which is hopefully not you.
Ghosts and vampires are both restricted to the night so no points for that one on either side.
Ghosts live in houses for the most part and so do vampires. However for the ghosts that house is usually someone elses and for the vampires its usually a fabulous castle somewhere on a rocky crag in the werewolf infested mountains above Luthuania. I'm gonna have to give that one to the vampires. Being a homeowner is far better than being a renter even with the pesky neighbors and their all night howling.
And finally, I'm not sure if ghosts sleep during the day or if they just sort of "Poof!" out when the sun comes up but vampires, they have to sleep in coffins or dirt depending on where they are at the time. I'm going to give that one to the ghosts for being mysterious. And because coffins are just plain creepy and claustrophobic.
Ok, you'll notice, I hope, that I kept to the standard definitions of ghosts and vampires. No new-fangled teenage vampire legends with semi-vegetarian vamps, who even though they are 400 years old still mope about with teenage angst and oozing with teenage boy hormones. (ooohh I detect a note of animosity here). And I stuck to just your garden variety ghosts, no House on Haunted Hill or Poltergeist types which might tip the scales mightly one way or another.
So by my book it looks like they are tied. Since I know which would I would pick, I guess the question is, which one would you?
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
It Really Wasn't Much of An Apocalypse After All
There is a new show on the Discovery Channel called The Colony. The premise is that ten very randomly chosen "apocalypse survivors" are put into a wasteland and cameras follow them while they attempt to rebuild society using only things they can scavenge and their every day type ingenuity. As my mother, my sisters and assorted others would tell you, I love me the post-apocalyptic fiction. There's a quaint little book called The Stand by Stephen King, The Postman by David Brin (made into a movie wherein Kevin Costner got to wear a postman's hat, ride a galloping horse, fight mutants and single handedly rebuild the ENTIRE world) and also Swan Song by Robert McCammon a great book that nobody has ever heard of. (not that that should matter, no body has heard of this blog and yet I pretend I am rebuilding the ENTIRE world every time I sit down to write. Ok, not really the entire world, just maybe this desk, and this chair and maybe that small corner of the wall with the scratch on it)
But anyway, The Colony. A random selection of society, put into a wasteland. Yeeeaaahhh, not so much. I want to try an experiment. Go stand on a busy street corner in Any Town and close your eyes, wave your hands in the air and spin around three times. After you've done that and after the gathering crowd of people have stopped staring, pointing and laughing, randomly pick ten people. I'm willing to bet fifteen filet mignons and a harbor seal that The Colony did NOT use this particular random method. Their randomness netted them a Nurse, a Doctor, a General Contractor, a Computer Engineer, a Machinist, a Martial Arts Instructor, a Solar Tech Tech, an Aerospace Engineer and a Mechanical Engineer. Really? Cause if I concentrate reeeeaaly hard (which I can only do for about 10 seconds tops) I don't think I could some up with a group better suited for this. Except for maybe McGyver.
Where, you may ask (because I did, loudly at my T.V. and fortunately none of them answered me) is the office clerk, the Sparkletts delivery guy, the advertising executive, the manicurist, and where is the stay at home mom or the unemployed welfare recipient? Apparently statistically there are not enough of them to be picked out of a group of 100 people. Nope, in their universe solar tech techs (I just love saying that out loud) are much more plentiful then grocery checkers.
Ok, so we've established that their so called randomness is frightfully transparent to everyone but a blind, goat raising monk living on a remote mountain of Tibet. But the wasteland and scavenged items? That's got to be real right.?Well...........no.
They have a big, huge, actually gigantic warehouse to use, with the words SANCTUARY spray painted on the side in case the cameramen and producers failed to point them in the right direction. Helpful. Inside, of course there is no running water and no electricity, but oh my god - what's that! A pallet full of cell type batteries. Just lying there like they would be doing in any abandoned industrial warehouse. Hmmm, they say to themselves, what can we do with these since nothing runs on battery current around here. Wait, says the engineer "Look what I've found "abandoned" on this shelf over here, suspiciously close to these peculiarly abandoned batteries. An AC converter!" (He doesn't actually say that, he mostly picks it up over his head and runs around, shouting victoriously. Good lord people, its only been one day and already you've gone round the bend.)
Because in ALL post-apocalyptic true life scenarios you are going to have not only batteries, but an AC converter AND the one guy with the job experience who can figure out how to put it all together so they can run their electric shavers and can openers. Hooray!
Then there is the water, which they have to get from the L.A. River. This is almost too nasty for me to contemplate, since even mutant fish/crab hybrids with eight fins and claws growing out of their heads won't live in the L.A. River. But don't fear for our Random Ten, because not only do they have the one guy left in the world who can light up their lives, but they also have the one guy who knows how to make water clean by filtering it through stacked layers of sand and charcoal. And a twenty gallon plastic trash can. But I'm deflated by the thought that while its a great idea, where are they going to get that much sand and charcoal while holed up in an abandoned industrial warehouse. Oh, silly me, it was right there by the front door the whole time. Next to the wheelbarrow and the push cart. And the twenty gallon plastic trash can.
So when do these guys have to start living on their own? That's a great question. I'm waiting to see if next week someone cuts themselves shaving with their battery powered, AC converted electric razor and the doctor and the nurse (cause yes, you'll find lots and lots of doctors in a random selection of the general population) have to perform minor surgery. But where? Where in the industrial wasteland will they ever find someplace sterile enough perform surgery, some placed stocked with gloves, scalpels, sutures, clamps antibiotics, and the worlds ONLY battery powered, AC converted surgical light? Oh yeah, there it is, right behind that row of canned peaches "someone" left there.
Well one week down only ten more to go. If we're lucky they'll find the solar panels on the roof they can convert to run the big screen television in the basement. :)
But anyway, The Colony. A random selection of society, put into a wasteland. Yeeeaaahhh, not so much. I want to try an experiment. Go stand on a busy street corner in Any Town and close your eyes, wave your hands in the air and spin around three times. After you've done that and after the gathering crowd of people have stopped staring, pointing and laughing, randomly pick ten people. I'm willing to bet fifteen filet mignons and a harbor seal that The Colony did NOT use this particular random method. Their randomness netted them a Nurse, a Doctor, a General Contractor, a Computer Engineer, a Machinist, a Martial Arts Instructor, a Solar Tech Tech, an Aerospace Engineer and a Mechanical Engineer. Really? Cause if I concentrate reeeeaaly hard (which I can only do for about 10 seconds tops) I don't think I could some up with a group better suited for this. Except for maybe McGyver.
Where, you may ask (because I did, loudly at my T.V. and fortunately none of them answered me) is the office clerk, the Sparkletts delivery guy, the advertising executive, the manicurist, and where is the stay at home mom or the unemployed welfare recipient? Apparently statistically there are not enough of them to be picked out of a group of 100 people. Nope, in their universe solar tech techs (I just love saying that out loud) are much more plentiful then grocery checkers.
Ok, so we've established that their so called randomness is frightfully transparent to everyone but a blind, goat raising monk living on a remote mountain of Tibet. But the wasteland and scavenged items? That's got to be real right.?Well...........no.
They have a big, huge, actually gigantic warehouse to use, with the words SANCTUARY spray painted on the side in case the cameramen and producers failed to point them in the right direction. Helpful. Inside, of course there is no running water and no electricity, but oh my god - what's that! A pallet full of cell type batteries. Just lying there like they would be doing in any abandoned industrial warehouse. Hmmm, they say to themselves, what can we do with these since nothing runs on battery current around here. Wait, says the engineer "Look what I've found "abandoned" on this shelf over here, suspiciously close to these peculiarly abandoned batteries. An AC converter!" (He doesn't actually say that, he mostly picks it up over his head and runs around, shouting victoriously. Good lord people, its only been one day and already you've gone round the bend.)
Because in ALL post-apocalyptic true life scenarios you are going to have not only batteries, but an AC converter AND the one guy with the job experience who can figure out how to put it all together so they can run their electric shavers and can openers. Hooray!
Then there is the water, which they have to get from the L.A. River. This is almost too nasty for me to contemplate, since even mutant fish/crab hybrids with eight fins and claws growing out of their heads won't live in the L.A. River. But don't fear for our Random Ten, because not only do they have the one guy left in the world who can light up their lives, but they also have the one guy who knows how to make water clean by filtering it through stacked layers of sand and charcoal. And a twenty gallon plastic trash can. But I'm deflated by the thought that while its a great idea, where are they going to get that much sand and charcoal while holed up in an abandoned industrial warehouse. Oh, silly me, it was right there by the front door the whole time. Next to the wheelbarrow and the push cart. And the twenty gallon plastic trash can.
So when do these guys have to start living on their own? That's a great question. I'm waiting to see if next week someone cuts themselves shaving with their battery powered, AC converted electric razor and the doctor and the nurse (cause yes, you'll find lots and lots of doctors in a random selection of the general population) have to perform minor surgery. But where? Where in the industrial wasteland will they ever find someplace sterile enough perform surgery, some placed stocked with gloves, scalpels, sutures, clamps antibiotics, and the worlds ONLY battery powered, AC converted surgical light? Oh yeah, there it is, right behind that row of canned peaches "someone" left there.
Well one week down only ten more to go. If we're lucky they'll find the solar panels on the roof they can convert to run the big screen television in the basement. :)
Monday, July 27, 2009
Its My Party and I'll Cry if I Want To!
If you are one of my inexplicably growing amount of daily readers you know that Saturday was my birthday. (and if you've wandered here by accident looking for, oh I don't know, an intelligently written essay on the merits of thermonuclear powered mass transit vs open air solar powered vehicles then boy are you lost, but maybe you should stay and read a bit, since you are obviously much too serious)
The day included the spa (a topic already covered) and a birthday party (delightfully new territory). The party's events included a woman in dire need of knee surgery standing on a folding chair to hang up paper streamers on my patio in the wind, the baking of a frightfully pink, but strangely delicious strawberry cake made by someone who has never even baked a brownie, not one but two blood stains on the concrete of my patio, grown ups singing karaoke, kids screaming about wanting to sing karoake, margaritas made by me without all that pesky measuring, and a broken toe! (There were also some amazing gifts that made me cry for all the right reasons, and friends and family and food to die for although fortunately no one did)
I'm going to call my gimpy friend Matilda, not because I'm trying to protect her, but because she would probably want royalties or billing above the title for being used herein. Matilda is a great friend. She needs surgery, in fact is having surgery in a week, and yet when I got home there she stood, her legs shaking while trying desperately to balance on one of the wimpiest folding chairs that have ever been mass produced. Since Maltilda yelled at me that it was my party and I wasn't going to hang up my own darn (stronger words may have been used, but I want to keep my PG-13 rating) decorations I very meekly stood by and handed her strips of tape. I didn't tell her but I was waiting for her to fall. I figured I could break her fall with my body since I don't seem to have any sharp edges anymore to hurt anybody when they land on me. Although she didn't fall, she did apparently have a brain cramp and hopped down off the chair like she was 18 and hopping a fence after illegally skinny dipping in the neighbor's pool. This caused her knee to collapse which caused lots of pain and strange facial contortions. An ice pack was quickly fetched.
All the while, in the house Lee was masterfully handling the worlds pinkest cake. Cotton Candy pink, Hello Kitty pink. Whichever, it was really, really pink. Sydney picked it because Mommy LOVES STRAWBERRY! Mommy loves chocolate. Sydney loves pink. But he mixed and he baked and he frosted and then he stuck the cake in the freezer. Huh? Apparently it was part of the MASTER PLAN (please read that in a loud masculine voice inside your head) that involved my pink and frothy cake being placed inside the dead body freezer in the garage two hours before the party. But, he even wrote on the cake (with Pepto colored icing) AND remembered candles! He is quite the guy!
In the middle of the guest arrivals, during a heated conversation, I decided that one of my metal dining room chairs would be better off if it was two feet from where it was so I picked it up, took a step and in the middle of a sentence, apparently to vehemently drive home my point, I slammed the chair down with feeling. Onto my toe. Which broke. An ice pack was fetched.
Outside the kids were playing a game that I was told (much, much, much later) involved one five year old laying on the ground, being a "bridge" while all the other five year olds tromped across them. Somehow in the midst of this incredibly safe and well thought out game, Sydney trampled across the the "bridge's" nose, squashing it. She said it was the bridge's fault for not being a good bridge. Uh huh. Learn to pass that buck early Sydney, its a skill that will come in handy in your later life, as a lawyer. Anyway, there was blood staining not only my patio, but both Sydney's and the victim's beautiful pink dresses. (Yes, more pink) And at this point I'm running dangerously low on ice packs.
But poorly measured margaritas, a cooler full of beer, sticky pink and delicious cake made everyone feel better. Fortunately, since we had come to the end of my ice packs, no one else got hurt. Some neighbor dogs may argue about that in relation to our karaoke but since I have to listen to them howl off key every time an siren goes by, it did them good to listen to me for once.
The day included the spa (a topic already covered) and a birthday party (delightfully new territory). The party's events included a woman in dire need of knee surgery standing on a folding chair to hang up paper streamers on my patio in the wind, the baking of a frightfully pink, but strangely delicious strawberry cake made by someone who has never even baked a brownie, not one but two blood stains on the concrete of my patio, grown ups singing karaoke, kids screaming about wanting to sing karoake, margaritas made by me without all that pesky measuring, and a broken toe! (There were also some amazing gifts that made me cry for all the right reasons, and friends and family and food to die for although fortunately no one did)
I'm going to call my gimpy friend Matilda, not because I'm trying to protect her, but because she would probably want royalties or billing above the title for being used herein. Matilda is a great friend. She needs surgery, in fact is having surgery in a week, and yet when I got home there she stood, her legs shaking while trying desperately to balance on one of the wimpiest folding chairs that have ever been mass produced. Since Maltilda yelled at me that it was my party and I wasn't going to hang up my own darn (stronger words may have been used, but I want to keep my PG-13 rating) decorations I very meekly stood by and handed her strips of tape. I didn't tell her but I was waiting for her to fall. I figured I could break her fall with my body since I don't seem to have any sharp edges anymore to hurt anybody when they land on me. Although she didn't fall, she did apparently have a brain cramp and hopped down off the chair like she was 18 and hopping a fence after illegally skinny dipping in the neighbor's pool. This caused her knee to collapse which caused lots of pain and strange facial contortions. An ice pack was quickly fetched.
All the while, in the house Lee was masterfully handling the worlds pinkest cake. Cotton Candy pink, Hello Kitty pink. Whichever, it was really, really pink. Sydney picked it because Mommy LOVES STRAWBERRY! Mommy loves chocolate. Sydney loves pink. But he mixed and he baked and he frosted and then he stuck the cake in the freezer. Huh? Apparently it was part of the MASTER PLAN (please read that in a loud masculine voice inside your head) that involved my pink and frothy cake being placed inside the dead body freezer in the garage two hours before the party. But, he even wrote on the cake (with Pepto colored icing) AND remembered candles! He is quite the guy!
In the middle of the guest arrivals, during a heated conversation, I decided that one of my metal dining room chairs would be better off if it was two feet from where it was so I picked it up, took a step and in the middle of a sentence, apparently to vehemently drive home my point, I slammed the chair down with feeling. Onto my toe. Which broke. An ice pack was fetched.
Outside the kids were playing a game that I was told (much, much, much later) involved one five year old laying on the ground, being a "bridge" while all the other five year olds tromped across them. Somehow in the midst of this incredibly safe and well thought out game, Sydney trampled across the the "bridge's" nose, squashing it. She said it was the bridge's fault for not being a good bridge. Uh huh. Learn to pass that buck early Sydney, its a skill that will come in handy in your later life, as a lawyer. Anyway, there was blood staining not only my patio, but both Sydney's and the victim's beautiful pink dresses. (Yes, more pink) And at this point I'm running dangerously low on ice packs.
But poorly measured margaritas, a cooler full of beer, sticky pink and delicious cake made everyone feel better. Fortunately, since we had come to the end of my ice packs, no one else got hurt. Some neighbor dogs may argue about that in relation to our karaoke but since I have to listen to them howl off key every time an siren goes by, it did them good to listen to me for once.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Stick A Fork In Me, I'm Done!
I've always thought that if my dream job wasn't being a bestselling novelist it would be a spa reviewer or spa critic or any job title that allows me to go to spas and get all the treatments they offer, for freeeeeee. But after my trip to Burke Williams yesterday I think I maybe have to revise that - maybe I should just stick to a plain old massage.
I was excited when I made my appointment because since I had a left over gift card from Christmas, a discount coupon and some extra cash in the wallet I reserved three different treatments. A massage (of course), a wrap (whatever that was) and a spa bath (because a spa bath MUST be better than a regular bath). Paradise!
I got there really early because Lee and Sydney wanted me out of the way so they could "do stuff" for my birthday party later (and a great job they did by the way - sorry, little personal business to take care of there) and so I was an hour early for my appointment. I was looking forward to using the Jacuzzi, the steam room, the misting room and the sauna and to having some really quiet time to myself. Time to think about my book and my life, and all that stuff you are supposed to think about on your birthday - Like where I've been, where I'm going, and why my butt gets closer to my knees every year.
So I put my stuff away and hop in to the spa and I close my eyes and soak and think, and soak and think. I think some very big thoughts, realize the meaning of life, get overly warm, and in a panic, check the clock because with all of that thinking I must be late for my massage! But no, its only been five minutes. Wow. Ok, so I have time to use the other amenities. I head off to the misting room to cool down. If you've never been in a misting room, well, its a room. With mist . Like an after thought they also threw in a wobbly concrete garden bench to sit on. I'm not sure what the actual purpose of sitting in cold mist is other than make you cold and wet, but its nice after the Jacuzzi. So I sit in there and endure the freezing drips of water from the ceiling and again think I must be running out of time so I check the clock. What the? Only three more minutes gone. Hell, I've still got 47 minutes left till my massage. Wait, I mean yea! There's still 47 minutes left of self examination and relaxation! Yeah, that's better.
So I head off to the steam room, which of course is just like the misting room only hotter. Yes, I know. Anyway, as I wipe the water off my face again, I'm beginning to sense a theme here, which is evident in my waterlogged fingers and toes. But for the next 47 minutes I go back and forth - spa, misting room, steam room, - spa, misting room, steam room. I've never had such clean pores or such an over abundance of thoughtful examination. (quite honestly by this point I've about all of myself I can take and can't wait for someone else to talk to)
It is finally time for my massage, which after my masseuse and I dealt with a small fire in the hallway towel heater went as all massages should go, quietly and gloriously.
Then I went to the "wrap". This is an odd little treatment that I've never done before. They soak sheets in a HOT tea which is water with herbs and things, then you lay on them and they wrap you up with blankets and finish it off with one of those silver space thermal thingys. Inside this oven you are sweating and lying in a puddle. Really, I felt like a potato wrapped in foil and stuck in the oven. And I'm paying for this? Yea!
After the wrap comes the bath. They put HOT water in a jet tub, add milk and herbs and then just as I'm getting in I was handed cucumber slices. Ok, I know the cucumbers are for my eyes, but I got a flash of that old Bugs Bunny cartoon, the one with the head hunters and Bugs in a boiling cauldron? With a carrot? I even imagined I could hear the sound of jungle drums over the pop and burble of my own bubbling cauldron, I mean bathtub. And they sounded JUST like dinner drums. As I lay there at a roiling boil and thought about my day I realized that maybe I hadn't been a customer as much as a dinner invitee. First I was tenderized (massage), then I was marinated and pre-cooked (wrap) and now, for a delightful end to the process, I was being boiled, with milk, herbs and vegetables. I wondered briefly what the name of this dish was going to be and whether I be considered a braise, a stew, or a soup?
I was slightly delirious from all that water, mist, aromatherapy, milk, massage, heat and thinking and unfortunately was giggling quietly but hysterically to myself when the attendant came to get me. I'm sure she's still trying to figure out what the hell I meant when I told her with a laugh and a flourish of my arm - "Stick a fork in me, I'm done!.
I was excited when I made my appointment because since I had a left over gift card from Christmas, a discount coupon and some extra cash in the wallet I reserved three different treatments. A massage (of course), a wrap (whatever that was) and a spa bath (because a spa bath MUST be better than a regular bath). Paradise!
I got there really early because Lee and Sydney wanted me out of the way so they could "do stuff" for my birthday party later (and a great job they did by the way - sorry, little personal business to take care of there) and so I was an hour early for my appointment. I was looking forward to using the Jacuzzi, the steam room, the misting room and the sauna and to having some really quiet time to myself. Time to think about my book and my life, and all that stuff you are supposed to think about on your birthday - Like where I've been, where I'm going, and why my butt gets closer to my knees every year.
So I put my stuff away and hop in to the spa and I close my eyes and soak and think, and soak and think. I think some very big thoughts, realize the meaning of life, get overly warm, and in a panic, check the clock because with all of that thinking I must be late for my massage! But no, its only been five minutes. Wow. Ok, so I have time to use the other amenities. I head off to the misting room to cool down. If you've never been in a misting room, well, its a room. With mist . Like an after thought they also threw in a wobbly concrete garden bench to sit on. I'm not sure what the actual purpose of sitting in cold mist is other than make you cold and wet, but its nice after the Jacuzzi. So I sit in there and endure the freezing drips of water from the ceiling and again think I must be running out of time so I check the clock. What the? Only three more minutes gone. Hell, I've still got 47 minutes left till my massage. Wait, I mean yea! There's still 47 minutes left of self examination and relaxation! Yeah, that's better.
So I head off to the steam room, which of course is just like the misting room only hotter. Yes, I know. Anyway, as I wipe the water off my face again, I'm beginning to sense a theme here, which is evident in my waterlogged fingers and toes. But for the next 47 minutes I go back and forth - spa, misting room, steam room, - spa, misting room, steam room. I've never had such clean pores or such an over abundance of thoughtful examination. (quite honestly by this point I've about all of myself I can take and can't wait for someone else to talk to)
It is finally time for my massage, which after my masseuse and I dealt with a small fire in the hallway towel heater went as all massages should go, quietly and gloriously.
Then I went to the "wrap". This is an odd little treatment that I've never done before. They soak sheets in a HOT tea which is water with herbs and things, then you lay on them and they wrap you up with blankets and finish it off with one of those silver space thermal thingys. Inside this oven you are sweating and lying in a puddle. Really, I felt like a potato wrapped in foil and stuck in the oven. And I'm paying for this? Yea!
After the wrap comes the bath. They put HOT water in a jet tub, add milk and herbs and then just as I'm getting in I was handed cucumber slices. Ok, I know the cucumbers are for my eyes, but I got a flash of that old Bugs Bunny cartoon, the one with the head hunters and Bugs in a boiling cauldron? With a carrot? I even imagined I could hear the sound of jungle drums over the pop and burble of my own bubbling cauldron, I mean bathtub. And they sounded JUST like dinner drums. As I lay there at a roiling boil and thought about my day I realized that maybe I hadn't been a customer as much as a dinner invitee. First I was tenderized (massage), then I was marinated and pre-cooked (wrap) and now, for a delightful end to the process, I was being boiled, with milk, herbs and vegetables. I wondered briefly what the name of this dish was going to be and whether I be considered a braise, a stew, or a soup?
I was slightly delirious from all that water, mist, aromatherapy, milk, massage, heat and thinking and unfortunately was giggling quietly but hysterically to myself when the attendant came to get me. I'm sure she's still trying to figure out what the hell I meant when I told her with a laugh and a flourish of my arm - "Stick a fork in me, I'm done!.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Cocktails!
Its Friday and the day before my birthday. Both are legitmate reasons to celebrate with a cocktail and together? Two cocktails!!! Which is why I find myself sitting in front of the computer contemplating a glass of strawberry lemonade and vodka. I'm wondering if I dipped the rim of my glass in sugar could I technically call it a martini and feel more like an adult? I guess its really not important enough for me to get up and find the sugar, throw it onto a plate, wet the rim of the glass and so forth. This seems silly since I would then be dirtying two dishes (need a new glass cause this one be full already!) just to pretend I didn't just use my five-year -olds lemonade as a mixer. If nothing else it is an ecologically unsound idea, because the water used to wash the one extra glass and one unnecessary plate, not to mention the unused sugar wasted....a green nightmare! Phew, glad I figured that out before I went back into the kitchen. :)
Besides, drinking like an adult is over rated. My parents drink like adults, all vodka tonics and vodkas straight up with olives. Gives you the shivers going down and is not at all the pleasant sipping beverage that so makes cocktail hour enjoyable. "Here's your drink, now grin and bear it!" Yuck.
Its funny how some people are so adamant about the type of alcohol they drink. Not all of you obviously, cause how many stories have we all heard about the brilliant hangovers someone got after a night out drinking first margaritas, then rum and cokes, then martinis, and then in some
inexplicable fit of a desire to self-mutilate, Jagermeister shooters. Its likely that the next day those unfortunately souls were vowing, if not abstinence altogether, then at the very least to be a one alcohol man. (or woman )
Some people are whiskey drinkers, some drink only rum, and some only vodka, always saying that anything else causes blinding headaches, blinding lack of inhibition, or just plain blindness. Who, by the way, drinks gin. I have never been anywhere that someone actually ordered something with gin in it. I don't even know anything about gin except that its made from juniper which smells like pine so I can therefore only assume that gin tastes like Pine-Sol. Pine-Sol and tonic. No wonder no one drinks it. (Vodka is of course made out of potatos and french fries are ever so much more delicious than Pine-Sol)
Drinks in my world are sweet and delicious and if I'm lucky come with a little umbrella, a piece of fruit and maybe, just maybe one of those plastic mermaids hanging from the side. Of course now that I have a small, brown eyed dictator in my life those mermaids never stay mine for long. She won't even let me keep the umbrellas. (Mermaids don't like the rain you see). Aww so cute you say? Yeah, its all cuteness and light until you step on one of those damn blue plastic mermaids at 3:00 in the morning on the way make sure the small dictator has her covers on.
But I digress. The point is that its Friday and its a great day to do whatever it is that makes YOU shake off the work week and get back to being the real you. The you that you WANT to be. :)
Thanks for reading!
Besides, drinking like an adult is over rated. My parents drink like adults, all vodka tonics and vodkas straight up with olives. Gives you the shivers going down and is not at all the pleasant sipping beverage that so makes cocktail hour enjoyable. "Here's your drink, now grin and bear it!" Yuck.
Its funny how some people are so adamant about the type of alcohol they drink. Not all of you obviously, cause how many stories have we all heard about the brilliant hangovers someone got after a night out drinking first margaritas, then rum and cokes, then martinis, and then in some
inexplicable fit of a desire to self-mutilate, Jagermeister shooters. Its likely that the next day those unfortunately souls were vowing, if not abstinence altogether, then at the very least to be a one alcohol man. (or woman )
Some people are whiskey drinkers, some drink only rum, and some only vodka, always saying that anything else causes blinding headaches, blinding lack of inhibition, or just plain blindness. Who, by the way, drinks gin. I have never been anywhere that someone actually ordered something with gin in it. I don't even know anything about gin except that its made from juniper which smells like pine so I can therefore only assume that gin tastes like Pine-Sol. Pine-Sol and tonic. No wonder no one drinks it. (Vodka is of course made out of potatos and french fries are ever so much more delicious than Pine-Sol)
Drinks in my world are sweet and delicious and if I'm lucky come with a little umbrella, a piece of fruit and maybe, just maybe one of those plastic mermaids hanging from the side. Of course now that I have a small, brown eyed dictator in my life those mermaids never stay mine for long. She won't even let me keep the umbrellas. (Mermaids don't like the rain you see). Aww so cute you say? Yeah, its all cuteness and light until you step on one of those damn blue plastic mermaids at 3:00 in the morning on the way make sure the small dictator has her covers on.
But I digress. The point is that its Friday and its a great day to do whatever it is that makes YOU shake off the work week and get back to being the real you. The you that you WANT to be. :)
Thanks for reading!
Thursday, July 23, 2009
A "Friend Request" From Who? For Me?
Most of the people currently reading this blog, and thank you by the way, are getting here through Facebook. You are either on my friend list, on my husband's friends list or as seems to be getting to be the case, friends of friends of friends. So I thought Facebook would be a good subject for this here blog. Because Facebook is a weird place. I've heard it called the MySpace for the older crowd. Rude yes, but maybe partially true. Where MySpace is more "creative", Facebook is more concise and clear.
It makes me wonder if that's because as we get older too many creative choices equates to too much chaos and since most of us have all the chaos we can handle between kids, jobs, traffic, and taxes, more chaos is just too much? I'll admit that I feel less pressure on Facebook. Less pressure to have a cool layout underlying my information and less pressure to add music that will make people think I'm edgy not stodgy. I LIKE the clean lines and boring colors of Facebook. Its easy on my tired brain.
But it's still a weird place. When you first open a Facebook account you have one of two friends, most likely family or people you're currently very close to. Then you start exploring. You think of names and when you search them, there they are! You send friend requests that are accepted and suddenly now their friend list is accessible to you and you see other people you used to know and so on, and so on and so on. Which, I found to be very cool, if not slightly disconcerting with all the old and balding pretending to be the people I knew.
However, the weird part comes in when you stop to think for a minute and realize that without this electronic medium, you would never have seen or talked to these people again or in the first place and, in fact you may never even have thought of them again. Now, I don't mean that to be as callus as it sounds, its just that until the beginning of MySpace, Facebook and the rest, it was the natural way of things. The Darwinism of friends.
Now though, you are confronted with what sometimes seems like every thought during the day, not to mention in some cases, every movement and interaction in the outside world of these people. And the question is, do I really need to know what that guy from fourth grade is doing with his dog at the park, or when the woman I used to drink with at Carlos and Pepe's years ago is standing in line for take-out? YES! - Apparently I must answer with a resounding YES, because I am on Facebook four or five (ok maybe a few more) times per day, scrolling down the posts of my friends. I admit it, I am addicted to your lives. Most of you I barely know, barely ever knew, or in the case of friends of friends, don't have the faintest idea who you are, and yet I find myself trying to figure out your cryptic postings and reading the comments from your other friends. I send hugs and drinks back and forth and most lately, I throw food at you. Its fun, its silly, and just maybe its a way to interact with people I would never in a million years do otherwise.
But someone made a very interesting point about Facebook and friendships to me the other day that I want to share. My friend, a very real and face to face friend, asked if I thought it was weird that people you were never friends with in junior high and high school were suddenly making friend requests of you on Facebook. I knew exactly what she was talking about. Neither of us were in the "popular" crowd so to speak in school, and on occasion perhaps had even been picked on or teased by those same kids and yet, now here they were asking to be Facebook friends. Like I said, Facebook is weird.
So, what do you do when (ok, I'm dating myself here) you are twenty or so years out of high school and someone who never knew you existed wants to hook up on Facebook?
I figure there are three options: (In fact I'm sure there are quite a few more and if you can think of any, feel free to add a comment and let us all know)
First (and most boring) - You could realize that as an adult all of that high school stuff is behind you and you accept the friendship request and send a polite little note back.
Second - You can accept their friend request and spend time checking them out, realizing that really, they didn't turn out any better than you did, and in some cases maybe worse.
And Third- You could push that Ignore button and for a glorious moment of immaturity feel like you had some power over them that you never had in high school. Of course choosing three means that you never get to learn what you would from ch0oseing two and what a shame, cause its a guilty pleasure to find out that the most popular girl in school still has the same child, bill, and relationship issues we all ended up with and sometimes you find out the boy voted most likely to suceed lives in his parents basement, blogging about Facebook. ;)
But still, there is one thing I've learned from Facebook, and that is that no matter who are, we all type one word at a time, and that most of us don't use spellcheck.
And P.S. I've mostly chosen #1 in case your wondering. And if you ask me to I would swear to that on a pack of bibles. No wait, better make that a pack of gum instead. LOL.
Thanks for reading!
It makes me wonder if that's because as we get older too many creative choices equates to too much chaos and since most of us have all the chaos we can handle between kids, jobs, traffic, and taxes, more chaos is just too much? I'll admit that I feel less pressure on Facebook. Less pressure to have a cool layout underlying my information and less pressure to add music that will make people think I'm edgy not stodgy. I LIKE the clean lines and boring colors of Facebook. Its easy on my tired brain.
But it's still a weird place. When you first open a Facebook account you have one of two friends, most likely family or people you're currently very close to. Then you start exploring. You think of names and when you search them, there they are! You send friend requests that are accepted and suddenly now their friend list is accessible to you and you see other people you used to know and so on, and so on and so on. Which, I found to be very cool, if not slightly disconcerting with all the old and balding pretending to be the people I knew.
However, the weird part comes in when you stop to think for a minute and realize that without this electronic medium, you would never have seen or talked to these people again or in the first place and, in fact you may never even have thought of them again. Now, I don't mean that to be as callus as it sounds, its just that until the beginning of MySpace, Facebook and the rest, it was the natural way of things. The Darwinism of friends.
Now though, you are confronted with what sometimes seems like every thought during the day, not to mention in some cases, every movement and interaction in the outside world of these people. And the question is, do I really need to know what that guy from fourth grade is doing with his dog at the park, or when the woman I used to drink with at Carlos and Pepe's years ago is standing in line for take-out? YES! - Apparently I must answer with a resounding YES, because I am on Facebook four or five (ok maybe a few more) times per day, scrolling down the posts of my friends. I admit it, I am addicted to your lives. Most of you I barely know, barely ever knew, or in the case of friends of friends, don't have the faintest idea who you are, and yet I find myself trying to figure out your cryptic postings and reading the comments from your other friends. I send hugs and drinks back and forth and most lately, I throw food at you. Its fun, its silly, and just maybe its a way to interact with people I would never in a million years do otherwise.
But someone made a very interesting point about Facebook and friendships to me the other day that I want to share. My friend, a very real and face to face friend, asked if I thought it was weird that people you were never friends with in junior high and high school were suddenly making friend requests of you on Facebook. I knew exactly what she was talking about. Neither of us were in the "popular" crowd so to speak in school, and on occasion perhaps had even been picked on or teased by those same kids and yet, now here they were asking to be Facebook friends. Like I said, Facebook is weird.
So, what do you do when (ok, I'm dating myself here) you are twenty or so years out of high school and someone who never knew you existed wants to hook up on Facebook?
I figure there are three options: (In fact I'm sure there are quite a few more and if you can think of any, feel free to add a comment and let us all know)
First (and most boring) - You could realize that as an adult all of that high school stuff is behind you and you accept the friendship request and send a polite little note back.
Second - You can accept their friend request and spend time checking them out, realizing that really, they didn't turn out any better than you did, and in some cases maybe worse.
And Third- You could push that Ignore button and for a glorious moment of immaturity feel like you had some power over them that you never had in high school. Of course choosing three means that you never get to learn what you would from ch0oseing two and what a shame, cause its a guilty pleasure to find out that the most popular girl in school still has the same child, bill, and relationship issues we all ended up with and sometimes you find out the boy voted most likely to suceed lives in his parents basement, blogging about Facebook. ;)
But still, there is one thing I've learned from Facebook, and that is that no matter who are, we all type one word at a time, and that most of us don't use spellcheck.
And P.S. I've mostly chosen #1 in case your wondering. And if you ask me to I would swear to that on a pack of bibles. No wait, better make that a pack of gum instead. LOL.
Thanks for reading!
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
How Can You Be From Here, Its Hot!
I went to a nail salon at the mall today, something I never do, but will have to consider on a more regular basis. It was while I was sitting there in that big massage chair, my feet in what I hope was relatively clean, warm bubbling water that I realized that the people all around me were insane. And in so realizing this I allowed my eyes to drift to somewhere a few feet above people's heads as I tried to not look like I was taking in every word they said. Its an art, evesdropping for all you are worth all the while maintaining a look of bored vapidity.
To digress for a minute, I've always thought that nail salons are strange places, microcosms of some other universe. There are woman there who will work on my hands and feet, smiling, nodding their heads while unintelligably asking me if Iwant one service or another. Since I didn't understand them in the first place I end up spending forty dollars for things like salt rub, hot oil, and stupidly hot towels that are so uncomfortable it feels like my skin is peeling off underneath, all while smiling back and trying not to be impolite. I don't want to tell them I don't understand them, so when I smile and nod to their questions that cha-ching sound reverborates through the salon. I'm a sucker and they know it. But, at the same time they are smiling and nodding to me and I am smiling and nodding at them, they are also speaking in their native tongue to each other and laughing. I wonder if they are laughing because I am yet another silly woman who paid forty dollars for soaking her hands in the very same vegetable oil I have in my cupboard at home that I paid three dollars a quart for.
But what has always really confused me is not that I try to engage in coversation with these woman, but that other people don't. Other customers sit there while their nails are clipped, calluses are scraped and polish is applied without so much as a smile in the direction of the person bent over their stinky feet. How is it possible to sit there while someone works on you like a car on a rack and not even acknowledge their presence? Its just weird I tell ya.
But that is not the insanity from today, at least not specifically. In the salon with me were four other customers and five employees. And these are some of the conversations I heard....
"Where you from"
"I'm from here"
"Here, where's here?"
"Here, Santa Clarita."
"You're from Santa Clarita? But its hot!"
My only conclusion of this is that no babies can be born in a city with a temperature that reaches over 100 in the summer. I wonder if that's because of nature or city regulations?
Then there was... (woman on her blue tooth)
"There are ants in my car. I have no idea, maybe from that cut grass in the wig".
Ok, this one I don't begin to have any ideas on.
Then...(and I swear to heavens themselves that I actually heard this)
"You want this color on your toes?"
"Well, yeah, if I put that color (pointing to the one on her fingers), how will I tell my toes and fingers apart"
Because it IS so hard to figure out which get socks and which get a fork.
My GOD people. Really????????
As always, thanks for spending this time with me!
To digress for a minute, I've always thought that nail salons are strange places, microcosms of some other universe. There are woman there who will work on my hands and feet, smiling, nodding their heads while unintelligably asking me if Iwant one service or another. Since I didn't understand them in the first place I end up spending forty dollars for things like salt rub, hot oil, and stupidly hot towels that are so uncomfortable it feels like my skin is peeling off underneath, all while smiling back and trying not to be impolite. I don't want to tell them I don't understand them, so when I smile and nod to their questions that cha-ching sound reverborates through the salon. I'm a sucker and they know it. But, at the same time they are smiling and nodding to me and I am smiling and nodding at them, they are also speaking in their native tongue to each other and laughing. I wonder if they are laughing because I am yet another silly woman who paid forty dollars for soaking her hands in the very same vegetable oil I have in my cupboard at home that I paid three dollars a quart for.
But what has always really confused me is not that I try to engage in coversation with these woman, but that other people don't. Other customers sit there while their nails are clipped, calluses are scraped and polish is applied without so much as a smile in the direction of the person bent over their stinky feet. How is it possible to sit there while someone works on you like a car on a rack and not even acknowledge their presence? Its just weird I tell ya.
But that is not the insanity from today, at least not specifically. In the salon with me were four other customers and five employees. And these are some of the conversations I heard....
"Where you from"
"I'm from here"
"Here, where's here?"
"Here, Santa Clarita."
"You're from Santa Clarita? But its hot!"
My only conclusion of this is that no babies can be born in a city with a temperature that reaches over 100 in the summer. I wonder if that's because of nature or city regulations?
Then there was... (woman on her blue tooth)
"There are ants in my car. I have no idea, maybe from that cut grass in the wig".
Ok, this one I don't begin to have any ideas on.
Then...(and I swear to heavens themselves that I actually heard this)
"You want this color on your toes?"
"Well, yeah, if I put that color (pointing to the one on her fingers), how will I tell my toes and fingers apart"
Because it IS so hard to figure out which get socks and which get a fork.
My GOD people. Really????????
As always, thanks for spending this time with me!
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
To Blog or Not To Blog - or, Why I'm Writing This For Random Strangers
This. Is my first blog. My name is LeeAnn Morrell and in my head I'm a writer. A few people who don't live in my head, may also think so, but the world in general? Nope, never heard of me. I have dreams of writing a novel, a great American one or otherwise. I look at J.K Rowling who allegedly wrote the idea for Harry Potter on a napkin next to her coffee cup and wonder "My God! Where is my napkin!" Which then sends my in a frenzy to my local Starbucks to sit at a table with my decaf (that's a story for another time) latte and my napkin placed just so. I stare meaningfully at it and a pen hovers, ready for action. Then my mind wanders and I find myself thinking of the many colors of dryer lint and if there's anything you can make out of it. And since I don't think that a long and wildy popular novel can be written on the mysterious of dryer lint, I sigh and leave Starbucks again $4.00 poorer and without my multi billion dollar idea.
Maybe, I decided, I'm setting my sights just a smidge too high, maybe I'm putting just a tad too much pressure on myself. After all, creative as I may be, forcing myself to think is just not working. If I just relax, take a hot shower and a Xanax, it will all come clear. Like when you have the name of the bosses nepotistically placed nephew on the tip of your tongue and the harder you try to spit it out the deeper down it goes. Then, later in the middle of something else out pops his name for no reason at all. This by the way, is not funny and very hard to explain in bed later with your husband. (again, another story)
But all the hot shower and Xanax do are put me in a stupor of calmness from which I could care less if I write anything or not. Obviously not productive. So I decide that if a novel is out of reach right now then I need to immediately be hired somewhere as a columnist. I could write a column every week about things. Even dryer lint could warrant a whole column maybe. Unfortunately, no letter comes into my email inbox that says, "You LeeAnn Morrell, are just the humerous writer we have been looking for, can you immediately start turning out 300 word weekly essays on Life, The Universe and Cat Chow?" "Oh, and we forgot to mention the $500.00 a week paycheck that goes along with it?" I do however get yet another email about how to enlarge my penis for under $5.00. Ah, spam.
So my husband says, "Blog" Blog? BLOG? Blogging is not a column, there is no sweaty, boozy editor yelling for more words, complaining about your subjects, your lack of ability to meet your deadline or even your spelling. Whats the fun in.....wait. No editor, no censorship, no deadline, no requirment for good spelling? And that's bad why? Ok, so by writing a blog you are assuming that you have something to say that somebody might want to read. By writing a "column" you are assuming the same thing right? Its just that someone hands you a check every week for doing it.
So my new motto? Blogs are not just for the Unibomber or that guy living in his mother's basement anymore!
Yes, I am a little late to the party. Yes some people will call me a hypocrite for all my vocal attacks on the nature and characters of bloggers. But hypocrite be damned, I'm going to give in a try even if I'm the only one who ever reads it cause, turns out - Blogging is fun!
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