Musings Upon the Close of Another Year

Unlike less-pleasant events that take place on a yearly basis (i.e. DMV visits and OBGYN appointments), I thought it fitting--and dare I say amusing--to seal up a year concluded with my thoughts, questions and reflections of our dear 2010.

Buying drugs in Mexico is not as easy as everyone makes it sound.

Smuggling avocados into the United States may produce dire consequences.

In 2010 I received both cosmetic surgery and a large, perfectly-cut diamond. The relationship betwixt these events will remain one of the great mysteries of our time.

I've realized that my greatest fear about marriage is that I'll no longer be allowed to eat cereal in bed at 6 in the morning.

A 7-mile run really will solve most, if not all, of life's problems.

You don't have to be registered to run in the Hungtington Beach Turkey Trot if you pin a paper to your shirt and look like you mean business.

Friendships ended when both of you are on Percocet are usually repairable.

I am most popular among the under-12 and over-50 crowd.

Agreeing to marry a 33 year-old Mormon boy will guarantee his parents love you. For life.

Making it to the last week of December does not let you out of the woods. You could, for instance, receive two traffic tickets and a failed clutch that week. Maybe.

Lots of people care whether or not you wear a wedding dress to your own wedding.

Ocean water less than 74 degrees may as well be the North Atlantic.

If you're getting married in March, don't quietly reflect, once Christmas is over, that you have nothing to look forward to now.

Sometimes it takes 2 years to officially change your residence to a new state.

I will forever wonder how I succeeded in life without a Kitchenaid.

FroYo addiction is a very real and personal problem in our society today.

Just because you quit blogging doesn't mean you have to quit blog-stalking.

Most things are forgivable; even taking a week off for a surf trip but nada for your honeymoon. Sometimes.

Here's to a new year - maybe being a Mrs. will give me something more exciting to blog about than my paltry life alone.

Trading Breadcrumbs for Bread?

So lately I've been thinking about boredom and how I have it. Not with life - I'm a busy girl, a full-time marketeer, a freelance writer, an (almost) daily runner, a wanna-be personal shopper (so I practice - personally) and an amateur baker. Not to mention there's always miles of San Diego beaches, a handsome boyfriend and - when all else fails - Costco to keep me entertained.

But lately - and don't take this the wrong way - I've been thinking about blogging and how it's sooo two-thousand-and-late. Yeah, yeah, it's like a journal - well, I've never been organized enough to keep one and cataloging my life at this point could only lead to unwanted liabilities down the road (don't read this, unborn children). So I'm moving on to something that interests me more:

Food.

Namely the fluffy, frosted, sprinkled, rolled, cut, iced, folded, piped, and filled kind.

The BAKED kind.

So I bought a web site (name to be divulged when it's up and at 'em), and will try my hand at the online baked goods business (you know, in my spare time). Luckily, I have at my disposal a web designer (hope you're reading this and get the hint), and a businessy-accountanty boyfriend who also doubles as a very willing critic of all things baked.

But for added motivation (and for my journal, wink-wink), I'm displaying a few of my bake-reations (that's not a bad name, huh?)

California Summers: A Photo Essay

Yes, I'm posting pictures. Because I've finally realized just how odd it is that one as self-absorbed as I rarely engages in the obnoxious over-illustrating of her blog page.

Well, I'm turning over a new leaf. At least long enough to disburse the following pseudo-glamorous happenings in and about Southern California.

Mexico - nothin' says third world like a sombrero, a poncho and a Via Spiga bag.


Graduation - he's smart, handsome, funny . . . AND now - a master.


Sorry, I can't remember the month of July. But I DO know it involved Utah, painkillers and some much-needed (24/7) time with my BFF. Sadly (and fortunately), there are no pictures to post.

But back in California, I spent some time hanging out with wallabies (I know, I'm such a cliche).

Not to mention BOTH of my surfer boyfriends:

Bring us something good, August.

"Changing" their Oil

What couldn’t come sooner for most Gulf-coast residents (not to mention millions of sea creatures), British Petroleum today announced that the now infamous, record-breaking oil leak in the Gulf has stopped.

Whew.

While this might be an obvious relief to the world’s population and (no doubt) BP executives, it’s quite obvious to the world that this situation’s timetable was . . . less than ideal.

Well, not to play the devil’s advocate, but I’d like to take a moment to defend the oil-lords of British Petroleum and assume that the company wasn’t irresponsible, just misinformed. I’d rather suppose that while the blue-green waters of the gulf were (horrifically) polluted for nearly 90 days, BP was just under the impression that they had to “change” their oil at the same intervals as the rest of us: Three months or 5,000 miles.

Well, it’s too bad (or good?) the oil only made it 600 miles. I propose that instead of demanding reparation and responsibility, we simply advise BP to revise their oil-change stickers. After all, we don’t want to buy a new engine –er—ocean, do we?

Textual Peeves

As much as I hate to talk about me, I find it necessary to address an unignorable trend that I’ve overlooked much too long: one that exasperates me at least twice daily and sends my grammatical sensibilities absolutely raging on the rare occasion.

I am, of course, referring to text message shortcuts.

“How r u?”
“Gr8. U?
“Want 2 meet up?”
“Y? Ur hungry?”

I can’t hide the fact that it drives me absolutely haywire. And with text messaging becoming an official and accepted form of communication, this is one peeve that shows little sign of abatement.

A word to the wise:

If you use “2” in a non-numeral sense, I’ll presume you’re TOO dimwitted to know the difference between one “o” and two.

If your message contains “r,” used as a singular word, I will take after the Motion Picture Rating System and consider you restricted.

“BTW” in my mind means “bring the weapon,” and assume you are in fact asking me to kill you.

And WTF? I still consider this cursing and will forward the message to your mother.

And while we’re on the subject, “x” does not stand as its own word or make up for a “ks” sound, capish?

Thanks for your time. (Thanx 4 ur time, if translation was needed.)

Undesignated Drivers

Memorial Day motorists beware: American drivers are slacking. And as we gear up for a long weekend (let’s breathe a mutual sigh of relief), I found this CNN.com article of particular interest.

According to article, one in five American drivers can’t pass a written driving test.

At first this shocked me (and, as a self-proclaimed terrible driver, I am not easily-shocked), but the more I got to thinking about it, the more I realized, this is the perfect excuse to spend this Memorial Day doing nothing.

So, if you’re one of the elite 80 percent with the courage of your motor-skill convictions, why not let those other 20 endanger someone else this holiday weekend? After all, three free days in a row are the perfect opportunity to:

• Watch all six seasons of Lost once more in a vain attempt at comprehension.
• Write those long-overdue letters to those political leaders who have showed unsatisfactory performance (wait.. we only have three days?).
• Send that 2010 Census back (or at least answer the door this time).
• Meet your neighbors, so you don’t look like a hermit when the Census guy comes around asking about them.
• Gather your “papers” into one convenient, mobile container (this applies only to Arizonans).
• Try not to spill any oil.
• Buy a new hot tub with the money you saved on gas for the weekend.
• Quietly judge the crowds of women lined up to see yet another Sex in the City movie.
• Become enraged with the men judging the women lined up to see yet another Sex in the City movie.
• Lose a bunch of money in the stock market. Wait. . . .
• Formulate and promote a new, ill-conceived stimulus plan to sink the nation into greater debt (this is applicable only if your first name is Barrack).
• Practice driving tests online for the self-fulfillment of being among America’s (80 percent) elite.

Happy Memorials, friends.

The Language Barrier (a/k/a Fear and Loathing on the Jersey Shore)

I’ve made a point thus far to avoid talking about Jersey Shores. I’ll confess, it’s not due to any elitist attitude that excludes the mentally-repressed or the culturally-tactless. Rather, it has more to do with the general sense of unease that the MTV series invokes in me. I feel much like the scientist stumbling upon an undiscovered species: I’m intrigued. I’m fascinated. I’m curious. But I haven’t come close to understanding these beings.

The bouffant, the juice, the tans and laundry. The fist-fights and drunken benders. The blatant disregard for self-awareness. Yes, Jersey Shore has introduced us to a whole new kind of animal. And while, as a shamed watcher of The Hills, I am not unaccustomed to the mindless banter and useless existence of the vapid and venomous 20-somethings that infect LA, I am still freshly taken aback by the vermin inhabiting Seaside Heights, New Jersey.

And since Jersey Shore shows no merciful sign of collapse, I have pledged to give this minute, vacuous segment of the American populace the benefit of the doubt by assuming their despicableness is due entirely to a language barrier: I speak the vernacular American English; They speak Jersey Shore. It is in this spirit of humanity and understanding that I offer the following translations:

“We’re beatin’-up-the-beat, that’s what we say when we’re doing our fist pump. First, we start off by banging the ground, we’re banging it as the beat builds ‘cause that beat’s hittin’ us so we’re fightin’ back, it’s like we beat up that beat.”

Translation: I received poor grades in English.

“That's why I don't eat lobster or anything like that cause they're alive when you kill it.”

Translation: I’m not stupid. I’m anorexic.

“G.T.L. baby. Gym, Tanning, Laundry.”

Translation: As you'll see on my resume, I'm a productive multitasker specializing in cleanliness, illegal performance-enhancing drugs, and extreme skin pigmentation.

“I'm not trashy, unless I drink too much.”

Translation: I don’t mind being trashy, if that's what you're into.

“Everybody at the Shore definitely knows The Situation. As far as I know, everybody loves The Situation, and if you don't love The Situation, I'm gonna make you love The Situation.”

Translation: RUN.

"Your bank account can be low, but you always gotta look good — always have to get a new haircut, always gotta wear new sneakers, always gotta look fresh."

Translation: I used to work for AIG.

“Don’t fall in love at the Jersey Shore.”

Translation: Wait, finally they're speaking our language.

Space . . . Cadet?

If there’s one thing I love, it’s space. And I’m not just talking about an open floor plan or a full-size sedan. I’m referring to outer space – the final frontier, the great unknown, the home of Martians, Vulcans, Alf and ET. The outer limits, so mysterious that we write books, make movies, form cults and sacrifice ourselves just in hopes of riding through it on a comet.

Okay, that’s just some of us.

Clearly, I’m an advocate for furthering the exploration of this great solar system we call home. I’m dying to know if there’s life on Mars or extra moons orbiting Jupiter and Saturn. So much so that I can understand pumping a few billion dollars into some galactic exploration.

But Barack, with all due respect, I’d advice we do nothing with Mars. Unless, of course, we have substantial evidence that its economy is far-exceeding our own. And perhaps let’s forget the Milky Way for a time, save it will provide actual Milky Ways (dark, preferably) for those using food stamps on Main Street while their homes are foreclosing.

And let’s steer clear of that astro belt until we know exactly what happening on our own Beltway.

Although, in the light of America’s current state, perhaps we could find some new territories – where land and resources are plentiful and the terrain in desperate want of human habitation – and claim it. For China.

In gratitude of the 6 billion we borrowed to find it.

I adore science. But Barack, fellow Americans, this seems a bit spacey.

On Arizona, Immigration, and Costco

Beware, desert-dwellers: A new sheriff’s is town and he’s taking names. Or rather, the same sheriff is still in town and he’s taking names, ID cards and citizenship documentation.

Arizona, I’m talking to you. And since the introduction of a new law that allows officials to require identification and immigration papers of citizens (or non) on demand, “Show me your papers!” might just be the hot new sub-Utah catchphrase.

Which, naturally, got me to thinking about Costco.

I have a deep-seeded affection for the warehouse company I call my Saturday-morning home. I love its snow-capped frozen meat department, the majesty of the purple-mountain-sporting section, and the amber waves of bulk-quantity grains.

I appreciate –nay, depend upon– the provisions of groceries, prescription medications, tires, housewares and entertainment materials this concrete-wrapped Mecca provides.

To put it simply, if I could pledge allegiance to Costco, I would.

But here’s the catch: you gotta be a member to score the goods.

I know, I know, other stores are free to enter, zip to peruse, nada to purchase. No one at WalMart checks my membership status upon entering. Target doesn’t demand documentation at the pharmacy counter. And Macy’s never asks for a membership card when I’m buying a blender.

Oh, but they are not Costco, nor do they provide the high-qualitied, bulk-quantitied, low-costing products that my native warehouse does. (Nor do they provide a polish dog and coke for a buck-fifty, but I digress).

So cheer up, Arizona. We’ve got a pretty good thing going with this little country of ours. It may be inconvenient, and it may be demanding, but if we let everyone in here we’d just be another giant superstore with high prices and dirty carts.

And then where would you go when you needed to find both a kayak and a rotisserie chicken in one place?

Think about it.

An American Emblem

Fearless, bold, and free, the bald eagle invokes the firmly-planted seeds of patriotism to swell in all of our chests. After all, the distinguished bird, with its proud posture and undying determination has been our nation’s emblem for more than 200 years, gracing our currency, coins and every nook and cranny of Washington DC.

But with this hearty introduction I, with regret in my heart and sadness in my pen, suggest that this beloved bird no longer symbolize the true American.

Or at least the true American man.

Sure, the eagle is domineering, likes the beach, and is opportunistic in his every mannerism. But, I sadly concede, the bald eagle mates for life.

For life.

That means that Mr. BE (bald eagle), upon winning dozens of eagle-like sporting events, doesn’t flee his fine-feathered-(girl)friend for 10-20 be-beaked escorts.

Nor does he leave his plumaged partner in the nest with her brood of chickadees to pursue life on a reality television show.

And we know he doesn’t run for office while discreetly perfecting his “wide stance” at his favorite watering hole.

Not to mention that our favorite winged one is also known for its courting rituals, wooing the female with “elaborate calls and flight displays.” Well, I can’t speak for everyone, but I only receive elaborate calls when cell minutes are free and football season is over. And as for flights, my mother taught me long ago that there’s always expectations attached to free vacations.

Ah, the eagle. A fine testament to what Americans could be. Perhaps Ben Franklin was right about that turkey after all.

Papa Knows Best

Papa Knows Best

It might be rebels that make the news, but life isn’t so bad for the obedient, either. Or so it would seem in a recent CNN report (http://www.cnn.com/2010/CRIME/03/26/new.jersey.cold.case/index.html?hpt=C1). As it turns out, the fifth commandment (for you heathens, that’s the one about honoring your parents), might have some validity after all.

This got me to thinking (always a dangerous activity) about the advice I’ve received from my own father through the years. And though, in my 27 years, I have chosen to test the legitimacy of said advice through extensive experimental means, I have compiled the following as the best advice I’ve received from Pop (to date).

• If you suffer from Attention-Deficit Disorder, it’s good idea to stay away from standard transmissions.

• Just because you’re getting 12 CDs for the price of one, committing to Columbia House or BMG could have catastrophic consequences.

• Open cell phone accounts for yourself, not someone else, especially if that someone else may or may not end up in prison.

• Stay out of Mexico.
  

• Never take a promotion without a pay increase.

• Be wary of men who don’t pay for dinner on a first date.

• Be wary of men who procure dates online.

• Be wary of men.

• Never burn a bridge of someone who might hire you later in life.

• Stay out of Mexico.
  

• You can still squeeze 50 miles out of your tank once the gas light comes on (note that this only has a 75% effective rate).

• Paying rent will, in the end, fulfill your life more than new shoes will.

• Changing your oil is not an optional service.

• Stay out of Mexico.
  

My thanks to CNN for making it en vogue to mind your father.

There are times . . .

when the most bizarre of song lyrics fill me with the greatest pleasure.

For instance:

"Plants, as far as we know are still bending toward the light. And if we dance, until the heart explodes we can make this place ignite."

My thoughts exactly, MGMT.

I'd really appreciate you all getting on board: www.whoismgmt.com

Like a moth to this flame.

Being the red-blooded American that I am, I can’t help but be enthralled with the Olympic Games: High-speed skating, aerial ski jumps, rough-and-tumble hockey, and men twirling on ice in a delightful combination of sequins and spandex.

Yes, it gets right into the core of me.

But with the exhilaration of watching these lithe, toned, athletic machines, comes that familiar pang of disheartening regret.

For I am not an Olympic athlete.

Although, to be fair, I do run 35 miles a week and have a resting heart rate of 55.

But alas, I will never mount that grand podium or feel the weight of gold around my neck. Nor will I entertain sponsors or flit about in flag-printed tracksuits.

But it is of no matter, for I have, in an attempt to assuage my open wounds of inadequacy, created an array of alternate Olympic events at which I am confident I’d come away the victor.

The committee can contact me directly for adoption. Potential opponents can contact me directly to commiserate.

Olympic Fro-Yo Survival: this will test the brute resilience of a competitor in surviving solely on sugar-free, peanut-butter-cup flavored frozen yogurt.

Olympic Excuse-Making: may the best reason to get out of a meeting/date/appointment/(ahem)relationship win.

Olympic Vehicle Demolition: The first to wreck their car three times in one year takes the gold.

Olympic Freestyle Living-Room Dancing: Points will be calculated based on a 2/3 ratio of neurotic/unsexy.

Olympic iPhone-Shatterer: This one is self-explanatory (and extremely expensive, believe me).

Olympic Shoe-Buyer: Speed plus style are imperative. As is an AmEx.

Readers, committee-members: no need to thank me.

PS – when do I get my track suit?

Love is in the (70 degree) air

Ah, mid-February. A time to bask in and savor the sweet, sweet romance around us. It is because of this very special time that I'd like to talk about my deep, passionate, and committed relationship. . .

with California.

That's right, folks, the golden state and I are celebrating a golden anniversary (minus 49 years) this month. And I'm pleased to report that we're still going strong.

I've been wined, dined, and cleverly seduced by one Mr. Saint Diego. Is it the sunshine? Is it the surf? Is it the shopping? Is it the fro-yo that pinch-hits as my daily supper?

Yes.

And maybe perhaps that this is the view from my back deck:


Or that this is how I get to spend my free time (and, let's be serious, some of my work time):


Or that California brought me this handsome boy:


Happy One Year, Cal. Here's to another.

And no, I still won't go blonde for you.

Intellect or internet?

I’d like to make a confession here.

I used to be smart.

And I’m not talking count-my-own-change smart. I’m talking IQ-over-150-reading-Tolstoy-at-10-premier-MENSA-material kind of smart. I asked for Rand McNally atlases and electronic typewriters for Christmas. A telescope with moons-of-Jupiter magnification capabilities sent me into a frenzied excitement.

And then I discovered the internet.

Now, I’m not trying to assign blame here, and I don’t (really) expect your condolences for my plight, but I want to be very clear here: I could have been someone important if not victimized by the age of information sharing.

And I don’t think I’m alone. While the World Wide Web is brimming with up-to-the-minute news and politics, extensive resources on history, science, math, art, and anything else I was mildly amused with in college, it also houses television shows, entertainment blogs, Meccas for online shopping, YouTube, ESPN and, dare I say it? Facebook.

That’s not to say that, as a generation, we’ve stopped learning, but somewhere along the line, we stopped talking about it. I don’t remember the last time any of my close friends brought up the Paleolithic period, but I have had roughly 1,245 referrals to the “David at the Dentist” clip on YouTube.

And then there are the ads – enough to send a helpless girl with ADD into a downward spiral of pointing and clicking. Just yesterday I was (wait for it) researching the coming exhibits at the Getty when presented with an advertisement for Bloomingdales.

Getty who?

Even my attempts to keep up on the latest news are foiled by the more entertaining “Highlights from the Golden Globes” videos presented on CNN. Suddenly the Haitian earthquake or the state of healthcare reform are overshadowed by the Valentino Jennifer Anniston wore on Sunday.

And so, while my work ethic or general capability to stay on task might have something to do with my waning intellect, I’d prefer to blame the Internet for the schizophrenic tendencies of my –

Hold on, I have a new tweet.

Why Men don't Understand.

Kristen: My new boots came in the mail today!

Boy: Which new boots?

Kristen: Brown, suede.

Boy: Don't you have like five pairs of brown boots already?

Kristen: Six, I think.

Boy: You needed another?

Kristen: These ones go over my knees.

Boy: Why would you need boots that go over your knees?

Kristen: Sometimes my knees get cold.

Boy: But you wear tights.

Kristen: Not when it's warmer

Boy: Why would you wear boots when its warmer?

Kristen: Sometimes my knees feel fat.

Boy: Your knees aren't fat.

Kristen: Right, but sometimes they feel fat.

Boy: But you run like 7 miles a day.

Kristen: But I still get my period.

Boy: And that makes your knees feel fat?

Kristen: Well, yes.

Boy: I don't understand you.

And the humiliation goes to . . .

If the excess of sweeping gowns and molded smiles on magazine pages and entertainment news stations wasn’t enough to tip you off, let it be known: award season is upon us.

Golden Globes, Oscars, SAGs, Emmys, Grammys, Tonys . . . it’s enough to keep Sunday night television around and People Magazine in business for three months of the year.

And while the accolades for actors, actresses, producers, directors, musicians and designers pile up, I find myself regretful that the year’s more spell-binding, more dramatic, and, let’s be honest, more entertaining “performances” aren't receiving the necessary attention.

So, in an attempt to give credit where credit is due, I’d like to offer the following awards, for a full and – umm – compelling 2009.

Best Multiple-Cheater Award: Obviously, this one goes out to Tiger. Lucky for David Letterman, this hit the fan just before the close of the calendar year.

Most Tasteless Relationship: This one’s a toss-up between the Mel Gibson/Oksana-whoever affair and the John Gosselin-college co-ed match-up. The Gibson duo have iced the cake with a pregnancy, but John Gosselin continues to sport an earring and way too much Ed Hardy. Obviously John wins.

Biggest Hollywood Weenie: Chris Brown. In fact, I’m convinced that had she not been seated in a limo, Rhianna totally could have taken him.

Most delusion self-image: “I’m more of a modern Mother Teresa.” – Heidi Montag. This statement might have actually been a bigger mistake than her music video (which is now burned into my subconscious, thank you YouTube).

Worst Idea of the Year: Socialized healthcare. There. I said it.

Best Pro-Athlete Let-Down: Michael Phelps? Alex Rodriguez? No. David Beckham. Why is he STILL married?

Saddest Rejection: Do we award this for Madonna’s inability to adopt another child? Or for Tony Romo dropping Jessica on her birthday? We’ll call it a tie.

Most Vicious Insult: I don’t want to hand yet another one out to Jessica Simpson, but if even the President is mocking your mom jeans and excess “baggage,” something’s got to be amiss.

Most Consequential Resignation: Sarah Palin. Ummm… WHO is watching Russia NOW??

And with all due respect to the above recipients, Kanye West had the best public debacle of all time. OF ALL TIME.

Feel free to thank the academy.

New Year's Reso - YOU - sions

Before beginning, I must disclaim: I am irreparably flawed. And every January 1st arrives with the same hopeful motivation combined with the looming presence of gross inadequacy. So, in an attempt to make 2010 less disappointing for me, I am giving up my usual resolutions and making new ones – for you, in the hopes that 2010 will annoy me a little less.

• Stop looking for parking spots: Just stop. The first one you see is good enough and you could probably use the cardiovascular benefit of actually moving your own body around. My trips to Costco would be vastly improved if each lane in and out weren’t clogged by immobile Suburbans searching for a spot 100 yards closer to the door.

• Leave your cell phone in your car/purse/pocket when in a grocery store, movie theater, restaurant, or simply around the general public. Your one-sided, high-decibeled conversation is ruining my shopping/eating/watching/breathing experience.

• For the love of all that is holy, learn to drive a roundabout.

• Stop carrying your dog in your purse. This doesn’t inconvenience me, but tremendously annoys me.
  

• Please learn and retain the difference between “your” and “you’re.” Use this knowledge in your daily life.

• Stop making films (this is non-applicable if your name is not Cameron Diaz, Keanu Reeves or Miley Cyrus).

• Dispose of any and all personal items designed or endorsed by one Mr. Ed Hardy.

• Stop trying to sneak explosives onto planes. I already have to get to the airport early enough, thank you.

• Extricate the phrase “we need to talk” from your repertoire (you know who you are).

• Emotionally accept that holding hands is the most you and your significant should do to show your affection in public. Ever.
  

• Hold doors, tip waiters, say thank you, stop for pedestrians, smile, and cease any and all general douchebaggery.

Happy 2010.