D-List Beach

The Blogtaris moved to new digs and set out to explore our neighborhood on Saturday. We found a perfect stretch of beach that will soon be ours. Not too many people, a decent walk from snacks, and close to a lifeguard (because I don't always keep an eye on CinS while he is attempting to body-surf). It all seemed perfect. But we didn't realize just how good we had it at Blogtari beach until our afternoon stroll.

Unlike our former beach spot, which is filled with 20-something volleyballers tackling and beating each other in a drunken frenzy, this new beach is filled with 30-something volleyballers playing volleyball. Comparatively, it was very civilized.

We passed the volleyballers without a second glance on our snack walk, and only paused to notice them on our return trip because the group had doubled in size. There were about 40 people congregated by the volleyball nets. Being civilized. Interesting.

CinS and I shuffled back down the beach to our chairs and settled in for some chips. We were soaking in the sun and talking, when CinS screamed, "BOBBY!"

Now let me take a step back. CinS and I watch all sorts of crappy television, but we have a particular soft spot for shows on less than major cable networks. One of his favorites is "My Boys" on TBS. For you "My Boys" virgins, there are two "famous" people on this show. Jim Gaffigan, of Hot Pocket comedy fame, and Kyle Howard, of dating Lauren Conrad fame. Kyle Howard plays Bobby.

So Bobby was at our beach. We quickly deduced that Bobby was part of the civilized volleyball crew and instantly started scheming as to how we could befriend them. We decided on a combination of losing weight (to avoid embarrassment) and wearing novelty caps (to attract attention). I'll let you know how that turns out.

Bobby and unfamous buddy came and went in their neon board shorts and we smugly basked in the glee of having a celebrity on our beach, followed by a tirade on whether or not Bobby was an actual celebrity (I said yes, but only due to the LC factor). In the middle of our debate, another pair emerged from civilized volleyball land. The girl's voice sounded way familiar, but she darted by us so quickly that we spent the next 45 minutes while she was in the water trying to place her.

When she passed by again, we figured it out. Samaire Armstrong, who we did not watch on The OC, but did watch on Entourage and Dirty Sexy Money. She now has brown hair and looks beat. Sorry, dear.

Had it not been for my very full bladder and very cool ocean, we would have stayed at D-List Beach for several more hours trying to place the rest of the celebs who were surely part of the volleyball crew. Don't they travel in packs? But the bladder prevailed. Sigh.

We'll be back this weekend, but aren't optimistic that the celebrities will be spending the 4th with us. They're probably all getting paid to party at some tequila-sponsored event. But we promise to update you of future sightings from D-List beach. Just think of us as the new Perez.

Breakfast of Champions

I found the cereal in my office today. Frosted Mini Wheats! Holla!

When I was a baby, I was gigantic. My pediatrician told my parents to feed me whenever I cried. He was wrong. I am convinced that the charming knee fat I carry to this day is a direct cause of this man's negligence.

I soon switched doctors and my parents started a "cry it out" regimen that got me back into happy chubby baby shape as opposed to National Enquirer freakshow shape. But because of my first few months of obesity, my parents decided to treat my childhood diet with kid gloves. This meant no sugar cereal.

My pantry growing up was stocked with Rice Krispies, Life, Cracklin' Oat Bran, Kix and Frosted Mini Wheats. In later years, we also added Peanut Butter Cap'n Crunch (yum!), but that's as wild as we got.

Needless to say, I ate a lot of Eggo waffles growing up, and every time I slept at a friend's house, I ate my body weight in Cookie Crisp.

Despite my lack of cereals that turn your milk a nasty color, I have always had a deep appreciation of the cereal mascots and their rich history. I particularly enjoyed the Count Chocula/Franken Berry/Boo Berry gang. I guess all that Scooby-Doo desensitized me to monsters at a young age... and ascots.

Cereal characters today are just not as cool. Sure we still have the old standbys like Lucky Charms and Coco Puffs, but you’d think in 30 years of cereal development we could do a little better than three elderly chefs named Wendell. I weep for our youth.

The upside of the dwindling sugar cereal commercial adventures (ug, remember that smug toucan?) is that my child may not realize how lame it is to eat Honey Nut Cheerios over Sugar Smacks. Until my husband tells her.

CinS was allowed the full monte of sugar cereal growing up and is horrified to hear my parenting belief that our children should be turned on to Honey Wheat Chex over Apple Jacks. I think I am right because that’s how I was raised. CinS thinks he’s right for the same reasons. I’ve also seen video footage of CinS as a child and he was one hyper, annoying little man. I blame the Fruity Pebbles.

Choose Your Own Adventure

I am totally bored and unsatisfied with my current state of affairs. I'm sure it’s due to the tantalizing excitement of my baby and move that both seem so close, yet so far. And the lack of good summer TV.

So in a rare hip-hop reference, I've decided to brush that dirt off my shoulders and set out for some fresh adventures of my very own. On the 15th floor of my office building.

My LA office building is a beautiful zen oasis complete with a domed pile of cobalt gravel and cocoa shells as mulch. The guard desk downstairs is always stocked with helium balloons. I believe this week we are celebrating Flag Day.

Our elevator bank is in a comforting NYC style, with discreet sections for floors 1-10 and 11-21. My office is on the 16th floor and our lunch room overlooks LAX and the ocean, so you can watch the planes as you enjoy your chicken vindaloo.* We also have mad snacks available at all times, including cheese. OK, I think I need a cheese break now.

Yum. Cheese break.

To access my office is fairly simple, provided you arrive during business hours. Off hours require a badge swipe. I think this is a reasonable level of security. The folks on the 15th floor, however, disagree.

Something on the 15th floor is so top-secret, so death-defying, that you can't even access the elevator without swiping your badge. The 15th floor also requires a constant influx of likely IT drones toting bags of McDonald's in and out at all hours. There is a definite morning and night shift. They do not speak in the elevator - even when they travel in packs. The 15th floor has an air of mystery, and an air of paranoia as I ponder what I am sitting on top of day in and day out.

What is going on down there?

It is my desperate hope that they are working on the next Twitter or some other harmless project, and that their funding is tied to an impossibly condensed timeframe that necessitates the 24/7 attention. But I fear it may be something far more sinister.

The 15th floor could be the Dollhouse or the Company or Massive Dynamic’s LA branch. But with less telegenic help. I sure as hell hope so. Because I need something cool to happen to kill some time over the next 2 and a half months.

* Of the 60 people in my office, about 40 are Indian and here on work visas. Lunch time is an olfactory delight of curries and rices. It’s a good thing that my naturally hyper-sensitive snout did not go into overdrive during pregnancy and that I love Indian food – unlike CinS who likens it to “chicken soup that fell on the carpet.”

Moving on Up

It's been a busy few weeks for the Blogtaris. We had CinS's brother's wedding, Melissa's parents visiting, tons of work, pregnancy excitement, and a cold. You would think with all that's been going on, we would have a lot to say. But we don't.

We are approaching the final week of cohabitation with CinS parents before we bust out to our new place in Marina Del Rey. I am looking forward to the following things about our new place (in rank order):

• our giant bed
• our giant couch
• our giant TV
• sitting out on our balcony to read a book
• no more dogs

Had this post been written about 2 years ago, my list would have probably looked more like this:

• our giant bed
• our giant couch
• our giant TV
• being hungover in peace
• walking around naked

Before I wrote that second list I thought the discrepancies would make me seem really lame and old, but seeing as 3 out of 5 are the same, I feel slightly better about myself. Yes, like many pregnant ladies who came before me, I too can delude myself into thinking I'm cool when I've clearly lost my edge. My naked edge.

The highlight of our new place for CinS will be "his" room. We have a spare room that we'll be using as an office/guest room that CinS has carte blanche to decorate as he sees fit. It is a fantasy of his to have a converted garage to house his bar, Xbox, mini fridge, and neon signs, but since we are living in an apartment, I thought I'd throw him a decorative bone and give him the extra room to "man up."

Please remind me not to watch Juno at any point before we move. Jason Bateman's singular man room made me feel super depressed and Jennifer Garnery upon viewing, and any reminders may cause me to hang a 6-foot pub sign above the entranceway to my apartment.

CinS has gleefully decided to decorate his room with a concentrated wall of neon. He now has 11 signs that will live in harmony on this wall. It will either be rad or make my eyes bleed. Or if we are lucky, both.

CinS has promised to post pictures of the neon wall to this blog upon completion to make you all jealous. Until then, I leave it to your fine imagination.

Moving day is next Saturday (hurray!) and I expect all new maritime-themed adventures to report from our home by the seas. Yes, be prepared for even more pirate references.

Opening the Box

So I'm a little slow on the up-take.

I see blockbuster summer movies at least 3-4 weeks late, I joined the Gossip Girl phenomenon in season two, and I just discovered Pandora this week.

My iPod has been acting up since spilling coffee on it several months ago and on Tuesday, after about 4 rounds of the iPod frownie face alerting me to seek support, the device turned on. But my victory was neither sweet nor long-lived. My battery was dead.

For you Blogtari "followers" (yes, I can speak Twitter although I do not participate. I'm not THAT slow), you know that my general office area is quite loud, and that headphones are a must for powerpoint formatting, spreadsheet calculating, or any other concentrated sales task. So the fact that my iPod battery was dead caused some mild panic.

Since living DVR-free for the last 2 months, I’ve taken to watching TV online, and figured I could do the same with music. Hey, if the Aussie-douche can find Australian dance hits online, I too can find some Jamie Foxx-free tunes.

I blindly typed "internet radio" into google, and found Pandora. DUH! Pandora immediately prompted me to enter the name of a band or song that I liked, and instantly created me a station. Rad.

I spent the rest of the afternoon entering bands into the site and heard some cool stuff. I felt very hip. I was listening to obscure music. Look at me go.

I've never been a real music-y person. I don't like to talk about music, I don't go to shows, and I don't really feel comfortable with the whole thing. I think this is largely due to my formative years spent with some very music-y people who did not allow me to form my own opinion about the grunge hits of the day.

I've always been intimidated by music, as if liking that Miley Cyrus song would out me as the closet loser I've always known myself to be. But then I realized, everyone likes that Miley Cyrus song. And everyone loves Womanizer. And although my husband really hates that Girlfriend song by Avril Lavigne that I could listen to on repeat 1000 times, deep down inside, it makes him dance in his seat.

Even though I realize that certain "lame" songs that I like are OK, I still tried to trick Pandora into thinking I was way cooler than I am. And my entire radio station sounds the same. Fast-paced, whiney, emo rock.

Today is Friday of the longest short week ever, it is raining, and I am pooped. My standard Pandora tunes are not doing a thing to boost my mood. So I decided to let my guard down, and add a little flava to my station straight from my iPod's "lady rock" playlist. I added Gwen Stefani and Avril Lavigne.

Pandora now hates me. All morning it has been playing Leona Lewis and KT Tunstall and all sorts of other adult contemporary garbage sold at Starbucks. The coolness of the past week is now washed away, and my greatest fear is realized. My love of "The Sweet Escape" has come back to haunt me, as I always knew it would.

I Feel the Earth Move Under My Feet

California is welcoming me with a bang. Literally.

There have been two earthquakes in the last three days, and for a first-timer, the situation is rather unsettling. (I smell puns aplenty today)

My first earthquake was Sunday night while relaxing at home. I was in the bathroom, grooming myself, my husband and father-in-law were in the office across the hall, and my mother-in-law was in her bedroom. We were all upstairs.

In mid-pluck, it felt and sounded like a tractor-trailer overturned on our quiet suburban street. Before I could process a thought beyond, "did a tractor-trai..." my mother-in-law started screaming in tongues and scared me half to death. My bladder isn't the strongest these days with baby on board, but I probably would have wet myself regardless.

My husband calmly popped his head in the bathroom and told me it was an earthquake and that I needed to stand under the doorway. We stood in our respective doorways, across from each other, with matching worried looks. Mine, for he health and safety of the MIL, still screaming, and CinS for the two neon signs precariously perched atop a cabinet in the garage.

Luckily, the quake did not last long and we all settled back in to our nightly routine of eyebrow sculpting, online poker, and needlessly putting ourselves and our loved ones in high-stress situations. I thought my CA earthquake experience had passed.

Yesterday, I was driving to the DMV for the third time in a week (don't ask) and felt my car shake as I stopped at a red light. It felt like an earthquake to me, but as I glanced around the street, I saw pedestrians and bike riders nonplussed, as if nothing had happened. I assumed it was some unseen street construction and that I was now paranoid after Sunday's events. I went about my business.

After hour 9 at the DMV, I checked my phone on my way back out to my car and saw that CinS had left me several messages. It turns out that the rattling was yet another quake. I guess the citizens of Hawthorne, CA are not as sensitive as I am. Or maybe it was all that screaming that put the fear of God in me.

The moral of the story is that earthquakes aren’t all that scary. Even bigger ones that you can feel. Unless your home is furnished exclusively in 9 foot-tall Ikea MDF that is not bolted down, nothing is going to happen to you. So to all my fellow East Coasters who have lived through hurricanes, ice storms, and nor’easters, a little shaking is not so bad. Universal Studios totally exaggerates.

Bizarro Blackjack

After a great weekend in Vegas, I've noticed just how bad people are at all casino games. Not that I'm the authority on how to play, nor do I claim that I always play smart (see, e.g., the Field Bet -- a longtime CinS craps standard, to the point where I called it the Field of Dreams, but now that I am older and wiser, I finally see it for the awesome/horrible sucker's bet that it is), but it astonishing how dumb people are when it comes to gambling.

To begin with, the house already has an advantage over you, so you're best shot at winning is to play the right way. Now, the standard Vegas douche who lurks around the casino with $40 and is only there for the free drinks would object with the following two points: (1) "I'm just a Vegas douche, and it's only $40, so who cares if I lose, since it's just money spent on entertainment, and if I have fun, isn't that all that matters?" or (2) I'm drunk, so I can't be blamed for my bad decisions.

Bullcrap. First of all, there's a recession out there, and don't tell me that your $40 matters. If you play decently, that $40 can become $80, or a helluva lot more, and I don't know anyone who would happily piss away $40 if they could turn it into triple that in 4 minutes using basic math and/or common sense. And to (2), that's b.s. too. Being drunk shouldn't affect the basic way of playing, only how much you bet. I'll admit that after 6 drinks on the casino floor, I'm more willing to throw down a $50 bet than I would be at 11 a.m., but still, being hammered shouldn't make hitting on a 17 plausible.

And it's not just that people aren't playing smart or the best possible way given the odds. Look, if you choose not to double down on a Ace-7 against a 5, that's not a big deal. Or if you don't want to place 5x odds on the passline, that's fine too. I'm not talking about playing in a way that doesn't fully maximize your chance of winning, I'm talking about playing in a way that can only be described as betting so poorly that you must be trying to lose.

I'm talking about Bizarro Blackjack, as my brother calls it.

So for my own venting, please accept my humble suggestions on how not to gamble in Vegas (hey, I broke even this weekend, so I MUST know what I'm talking about).

Blackjack

Bets NOT to make:
-- hitting on a 17 under any circumstance
-- doubling on a 5 (you know who you are)
-- splitting tens
-- splitting fours

-- not tipping the dealer after winning a monster hand (some douche at our table had turned $50 into $1000 and didn't pass the dealer a single buck -- you're willing to give a waiter 20% for bringing you food you already paid for, but won't tip someone who gave you cards that turned your $50 into a half month's rent?)

-- looking at a 15 or 16 vs. the dealer's 10 or ooohFace card like you're buying a car or a house. Seriously, what the f*%k are you thinking about? You have a crap hand, so hit it already. Stop kicking the tires or running a title check on your 15 and go for it. I'm amazed that people spend like 32 seconds pondering a crap hand. And it's always on a $5 bet -- people who are betting $50 or more know that they're hitting before the dealer is even done passing out cards.

-- and the worst thing you can possibly do at Blackjack? Ask the dealer what the best course of action is, and then ignore it. "What should I do here?" "Well, you have a 14 and I'm showing a Queen, so I probably have a 20. You should definitely hit, since you have a weak hand." (insert obligatory 32 sec waiting period to allow dumbass to ponder the meaning of life vis a vis his 14). "Nah, I don't think you have it. I'll stay."

Craps
what NOT to do:
-- betting the Field when a woman is shooting (women throw 6s and 8s like no one's business)
-- not putting odds on a Come bet
-- $10 on each of the hardways
-- not tipping the dealers after turning a stack of reds into a stack of blacks or even greens

Pai Gow
-- never play Pai Gow I've learned. Horrible odds. Horrible everything. If you want a slow paced drinking game, try Keno or 2 cent slots.

Roulette
-- nothing here, there really isn't a wrong way to bet on a marble spinning around a wheel (unless you quote "Always Bet on Black.") That movie alone has made casinos so much money. The dude who said Always Bet on Black also always bet on trying to outsmart the IRS, and got screwed for it. I think I'll stick with Always Bet on Red.