Mmmmmmmmm

I have just eaten the BEST Jelly Donut ever!!! It was so EFFEN good that I am certain I will be smiling all day from the memory of it's donuty goodness.

That's all. I just wanted to tell the universe about my beloved, now dearly departed, jelly donut.

Talking In A Hole

I am up early today. Not by choice really. I just woke up to relieve some pressure on my bladder (TMI?) and then couldn't get back to sleep. It happens to the best of us. I found myself laying in bed with my mind racing faster than my dad cruising around those racetracks of my youth. Said mind, however, was not reminiscing about days spent at the speedway, rather about a particular architectural phenomena of the 70's.

You see, when I was 13 years old, we lived in Tucson, AZ. That's not entirely correct. We lived outside of Tucson in a secluded subdivision in the middle of the desert called "Corona De Tucson." Having moved less than a year before from Western New York, one might imagine the culture shock. We went from a town where the newest house I'd ever been in was built sometime in the mid '50's to a place where most of the houses were still under construction.

This particular subdivision was not all that unlike any subdivision you might wander into today. There were a string of immaculately decorated "model homes" fronted by brightly colored, attention getting flags right off the main road. As you wound your way through the newly paved streets, the landscape was peppered by house after house that all looked basically the same save an occasional shift in block color from gray to tan that pale shade of "southwestern" pink.

One particular model contained a very special feature. The feature which has disrupted my slumber this morning. As you walked in the front door, you were greeted with a spacious formal living room appointed with plush wall to wall carpet. About 15 feet or so into that room there was a double sided fireplace (the other side of which warmed the family room / den). Directly in front of said fireplace was something that I found eternally fascinating. The conversation pit.

Now, over the years I've come to realize that things that I knew from my youth, like objects in a rear view mirror, are somewhat distorted. So you will forgive me if my measurements are a bit off. As far as I can tell this pit was about 6 feet square and about 4 feet deep. I'm guessing this because I could stand in the bottom of the pit and just see over the top and if I was to lay on any of the 3 sides, I would have to bend my knees to accommodate my entire 13 year old self.

The pit, like the living room, was lined with plush carpet. Not really shag, but I'll say deep pile. It had two steps going down in and a "bench" on three sides. Imagine a hot-tub lined with carpet rather than tile.

I was lucky enough to have 2 close friends in the subdivision who each lived in that particular model of home. That meant I had my fair share of access to the conversation pit. And, frankly, I can't say that too very much conversing went on in this pit. Granted, I was 13 and my friends were 11, but I don't actually remember their parents making use of the pits either. In fact, more often than not, the pits remained empty. Occasionally, my friend Jenny would stick her little brother in the pit to get him out of our way while we played pool in the family room. But other than that, I honestly don't remember anyone ever hunkering down in the pit for a heated conversation about anything.

I suppose that might be why that particular design feature has all but disappeared from homes today. With houses priced upwards of $250 / square foot, who wants to sink a couple of grand into a hole in the floor?

Anyway, that's what I was thinking about this morning. A hole in the floor.

Sooooooo L.A.

Well, the time has come. I've finally "made it." I am officially Sooooooo L.A.

Why? You ask.

Well, a couple of weeks ago, a girl I used to work with was chatting with a girl I work with now. They thought, "ooo, we have to get together soon. We should have lunch. Oh, and let's invite Kelvis." So, girl I work with sends me an instant message asking when I was free. Time is very precious right now as the clock ticks down to the arrival of the Great Pumpkin. Lunches are hard to come by as it seems like I am always coming in late after touring a daycare or leaving early to go to a doctor's appointment or birthing class. Because of this, I told girl I work with that they should just go ahead and pick a day and if I can make it, great, if not, they can talk about me in my absence.

Flash forward to yesterday. I, in my pregnant absent mindedness, left my cell phone at home and wasn't able to check my voicemail till I got home around 8 or 9pm. Apparently I missed a very important call. The message went something like this.

Hello Ms. Grrrl, this is Melissa from Girl YouUsedTo - WorkWith's office calling in regards to your lunch for tomorrow with Girl YouUsedTo - WorkWith and Girl YouWork - WithNow. Unfortunately Ms. YouUsedTo - WorkWith is going to have to reschedule with you, Ms. Grrrl and Ms. YouWork - WithNow. If you could give me a call to let me know what your schedule looks like, I will try to find a time that works for you as well as Girl YouUsedTo - WorkWith and Girl YouWork - WithNow. OK? Great. Buh Bye.

I determined 2 things from that message:

1. After more than a decade here in LA LA land, I have, for the first time, been the recipient of a call from a friend's assistant. Or, more appropriately, a friend has had her assistant call me to cancel lunch.
2. I am the only person in LA with one last name. I'm thinking I need to get a hyphen so I can get an assistant to due my bidding for me!
   

Is Whitney Houston the answer to world peace?

According to Osama Bin Laden's alleged former sex slave, the grand pupa of terror is obsessed with America's most famous crack ho, Whitney Houston.

You should definitely check out the full article in The Daily Mail where you will learn:

"He said that he had a paramount desire for Whitney Houston, and although he claimed music was evil he spoke of someday spending vast amounts of money to go to America and try to arrange a meeting with the superstar.... He explained ... that to possess Whitney he would be willing to break his colour rule and make her one of his wives...How beautiful she was, what a nice smile she has, how truly Islamic she is but is just brainwashed by American culture and by her husband Bobby Brown, whom Osama talked about having killed, as if it were normal to have women's husbands killed."

So, here's what I'm thinking. Let's trade Whitney for world peace! Right? Ship her scrawny crack ass over to Bin Laden's cave and call a truce.

Man, I'm brilliant.

Shake your BOOTIE

Pumpkin is gonna have some very happy feet when she slips her little tootsies into these babies!


This pair of softastic zapatos just arrived in the mail courtesy of the amazing Vickie Howell. That world class knitting goddess sure has some skills!

Happy Birthday Scooter Pie

So, the other day, I was flipping through the channels on the old tv and
came across something that made me squeal with delight. It was Cookie
Monster, standing in front of a giant letter C and singing....

C is for cookie
that's good enough for me
C is for cookie
that's good enough for me
C is for cookie
that's good enough for me

Oh Cookie Cookie Cookie starts with C

Hey, You know what?
A round cookie with one bite out of it looks like a "C"
A round donut with one bite out of it also looks like a "C" but it is
not as good as a cookie
Oh, and the moon sometimes looks like a "C"
but you can't eat that
So...

C is for cookie
that's good enough for me
C is for cookie
that's good enough for me
C is for cookie
that's good enough for me

Oh Cookie Cookie Cookie starts with C

Yep - that's what he said, or sang, I suppose. And at that moment I
thought, MAN Gwen's birthday is just around the corner. She's going to
be (GULP) XX (age deleted to protect the innocent).

That's just crazy.

Anyway, I hope the day is treating her well and I hope that if someone
happens to offer her some sort of birthday confection that it will be a
cookie and that will be good enough for her.

What's That In The Sky

You know what's good?

Pie.

The other night I had the most tastey slice of peach pie with a perfectly spherical scoop of vanilla ice cream on top. Well, it wasn't served on top. It was served in a bowl. But I just dumped it right on top and watches it melt oh so subtly over the pie.

Then I ate it.

Yum.

It was so good that I began to think if I were to send some of that pie over to the middle east, that all of those angry men might just calm down, stop fighting and see that the world is a pretty darn good place because there is pie in it.

Oh, if it were only that easy.

MadonnaLu

So I was sitting on the couch this morning surfing through the 8 million channels on our cable system when I came across what, at first glance, appeared to be Marilu Henner (Elaine from Taxi) dancing around to a Madonna song.

I blinked and realized that, in fact, it was Madonna herself. She has truly morphed into Marilu Henner circa 1978. Very strange. Very very strange. I mean, I understand the allure of retro fashion and paying homage to celebrity icons. There are certainly a million people walking around right now paying homage to Madonna. But why would an icon herself choose to emulate a B, nay, a D level celebrity? Don't believe me? Check out these pics I found here.

Clearly I am not the only one that thinks that Madge has hailed herself a taxi straight to the nuthouse.

I See Red

I had lunch with my friend Lil D yesterday. She recently had the wind knocked out of her in the dodgeball game of life. I can certainly relate. I got whacked by that vicious red rubber ball myself a little over a year ago and I know how much it stings.

Lil D asked me if it ever gets better.

"Well..." I said, chewing on my yummy Thai salad. "No."

I went on to explain that it kind of goes in remission, but just when you stop thinking about it, the welt opens up and starts to throb.

Now, I feel bad about saying that. It does get better. It never goes away, but eventually you go back to your life and learn to see colors again and hear birds chirp and taste ice cream.

So, hang in there Lil D, time really does heal all wounds. Even red rubber ball rash.

My Biggest Fear

There are many things that scare me (ordering pizza, Teddy Bear's Picnic, movies about demonic possession). But the thing that scares me the most crossed my path today. The REALLY REALLY OLD LADY crossing the street. Yep. This sight brings me to tears. She is OLD. Methuselah old. SO old that she hunches over and practically walks on all 4's. Or hobbles on all 4's I suppose.
She's got shocking white hair and always a dress that is far too big for her withered frame.

You've seen her. You've all seen her. She shuffles slowly through the crosswalk moving slower than a snail. You shutter as you watch the traffic light, knowing it is going to change from red to green at any second. You look around at the drivers of the other cars to see if everyone else is as terrified as you and wonder if everyone will show her compassion and ignore the light for a few extra minutes to allow her to complete her journey. You pray that there is no asshole among you that would dare honk his horn in an effort to encourage her to do the impossible - speed up.

As the seconds tic, your mind starts to write her story. Who is she? Where did she come from? Where is she going? Why is she all alone? It's this last question that leaves you feeling cold. It's this last question that plagues me still - nearly 8 hours after seeing her.

I am frozen with fear as I contemplate walking in her shoes. I know I am going to get old, really old, someday. And the thought just paralyzes me. It sends chills down my spine. I literally sit in my car and start to cry - not out of sympathy or pity for this amazing show of human spirit - but out of sheer terror that I might someday be old and alone and racing against time to get across the street before the light changes.