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.

G'Day Douche.... Update

Dear readers and sympathizers to my plight, as described below in "G'Day Douche."

Since posting the aforementioned blog, the cube-mate has swapped Australian morning shows for an Australian dance radio station. He left his cube about 3 hours ago, leaving the music blasting unattended.

Just had to share.

G'Day Douche

OK. I've held this in long enough. I hate my cubicle-mate. HATE.

I know, I know, hate is a strong word. But I'm sorry, it's also the only word that is appropriate. And yes, I also know that I have a strong tendency to hate my neighbors, but honestly, I've tried. Hey, it's been over a month since I've talked openly about this, so that has to count for something.

But here it is. My cubicle-mate sucks.

He started the same time as me, which I thought would bond us for life, but he is one of the worst people ever, so forget about it. I will bond elsewhere.

The first week on the job, my cube-mate (who is literally a mate, as he hails from some douchey section of Australia where one's accent sounds like those giant-jawed editors at The New Yorker from Family Guy) was having some phone trouble. He was trying to re-route his international number to his new US line and the company responsible for this was clearly incompetent. Or so he screamed. He spent hours on the phone, berating customer service reps until I had to walk away out of embarrassment.

The worst day was April 13, the Monday after Easter. He was outraged that no one was working on Easter. The man is Godless.

The next offense involves a blatant disregard for personal space. Something that I moved away from New York to avoid.

Picture a giant commune of cubicle space meant for three. Now imagine that the space itself is divided by a wall - making one cube on one side (mine) and two on the other (cube-mate and an empty).

Granted, if I had the extra space on my side of the wall, I would definitely let some files stray into the empty territory, but cube-mate has gone too far.

One day, some files appeared. Benign. The next day, he hung pictures on the cork board of the opposite cube. Brazen. Today, he is rocking a television constantly streaming Australian public access. Bastard.

Not only has he effectively taken over two spaces in the office, he is also blasting Aussie morning shows not two feet from my head. This sir, does not make you awesome. It makes me hate your marmite-eating guts.

But the straw that broke my back (wait, did I just make myself a camel?) happened this morning. There has been a large, framed soccer jersey on the floor in the corner of the office since I started. I has nothing to do with our company, our clients, or our products. It always seemed a bit out of place, but not today. Today, the jersey was handing on the wall. The wall just off our cube section. Hanging there. Like it belonged.

Yes, the jersey is cube-mate’s. Yes, he hung a picture on a shared corporate office wall. A wall that is not even attached to his work space. A random wall. For him.

WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, BUDDY? Are you that important that you not only need your own television, but your own wall for personal art? Seriously?

I hope you can agree that this hate is justified. And if you can’t, then I will come after you with all my might – by putting my conference calls on speaker phone. Take that Aussie Scum!

Pool Party

I had a horrible cold last week that left me exhausted and drippy. So like a character fresh from a Jacqueline Suzanne novel, I headed to Palm Springs this weekend to dry out.

I have lived in cities all of my adult life and have never owned a car, which means weekend trips always involved some kind of public transportation. Now that we live in the ‘burbs, we have Tony, our trusty steed, who takes us where we need to go. This made for a rather revolutionary weekend away.

It's not that I've never been on a road trip before (see the drive through Florida, Spring Break '98), but I've never been on a road trip with my husband in California.

When I was younger, my parents and I would venture into New York City once a year to see a show and walk 5th Avenue. At the end of the long, exciting day, my mom would come into my bathroom with a bottle of Sea Breeze and some cottonballs, so I could "clean the city off my face." On Friday afternoon, as we drove through freeway after freeway with the windows down, I felt a burning need to "clean the freeway off my face." Something I am sure to get over in a few more months of living amidst the smog.

When we arrived in the desert, I felt very calm and very dry. And after a solid 7 days of nasal discharge, dry was a welcome feeling. We collapsed into a king bed (oh how I've missed you) and slept off a hellish week.

The next morning, we headed to the pool to have our life forces sucked dry by the desert sun. Luckily, no one else was (foolish enough to be) at the pool that day, so witnesses to my new maternity bathing-dress remain at one.

I've never been a big ocean person - after countless wave incidents involving both involuntary nudity and water in my nose - but I am a total pool freak. I love the pool. And I especially love the pool when CinS and I have it all to ourselves.

Please don't get the wrong idea. We don't do anything naughty in the pool. We just like to play games. Games that look really foolish when played by chubby adults.

When I am in better form, I usually initiate a handstand contest and/or back flip contest. CinS enjoys cannonballs. But we always play Mousetrap. Mousetrap is a game where one person (the Mouse) swims through the other person's legs (the Trap) without touching their opponent. With each successful pass, the Trap's legs close a bit, until the Mouse can no longer pass through untouched.

As I'm sure you can imagine, we look ridiculous playing Mousetrap, as we are over the age of 10. But I promise you, it's way more fun than pool volleyball or whatever other "adult" water games you're playing.

CinS and I will be moving out of his parent's house and into our own place in about a month, and our new place has a pool as well. But I doubt that we'll ever be able to replicate the empty, aquatic bliss of our weekend in the desert. We will have to be civilized. We will have to enter the pool from the stairs. We will have to dunk our heads only occasionally, just to cool off. We will have to discuss world politics and art history while listening to Brazilian Jazz.

This blows.

I'm now counting the days until my unborn child becomes a master underwater swimmer so CinS and I can play again, shame free. But there is no way she is taking my Handstand Grand Champion title. No way in hell.

Calling In Sick this Week

Sorry gang, but we're rockin some swine flu this week. Can someone please tell my innards that I am not Mexican, despite my new SoCal diet?

Suburban Adult Age Wasteland Blues

Seeing a lot of my friends on a regular basis has been great, but there's one dude in particular that I've come to realize is awesome-o. Like me, he went off to college and then law school, and then began practicing law in LA while I was in New York. Because of the distance, I hardly saw him, and when I did, he spoke of trendy restaurants in West Hollywood, bars in Santa Monica, late night spots in Downtown, etc. And like me, he seemed to have lost some of the "I don't give a shit about anything" style that growing up in a small beach town provided us.

The transformation has been amazing. He's back in our town, and no longer that dude. Moving from LA back to our hometown has brought out exactly what made him awesome back in the day (yes, I can say "back in the day" because the day I'm referring to is > 10 years ago).

That quality he missed? Not giving a crap about anything.

Two years ago: Brooks Brothers suits, wine bars in LA, brunch at the Viceroy, etc.
Today: Hawaiian shirts, dive bars in our town, and Mexican hole in the wall grub. And of course, the new habit: dipping.

I think dipping (though not for me and quite visceral) is the ultimate form of telling the world that you don't give a shit about anything. Cigarettes kind of convey that, but those are too much effort. What brand to buy, having a lighter on you, etc. All those things take some kind of premeditation.

Dipping, however, does not. Dipping involves shoving some tobacco between your gums and lower lip, and spitting shit into some kind of receptacle. The reason it works so quickly is because the tobacco contains very small pieces of fiberglass, which serve to cut your inner lip so as to deliver the tobacco into the bloodstream more quickly -- and man does it work. Several friends in college dipped, and one of my roommates in law school would dip all the time. (So much so that random bottles of Gatorade half-filled with spit would loiter his room -- maybe they were souvenirs from a particularly good dip sesh?). But unlike those guys, my friend here in LA dips with the right accouterments that convey that he doesn't care, and more importantly, dips openly in public, often at well-lit establishments like the grocery store or while taking his newborn for a walk in her stroller.

He dips while we're playing softball (which, given his old school grey baseball pants and general attitude, makes him gnarly).

He dips while he's running errands around town, picking up diapers for his newborn (radical).

He dips whenever and wherever he pleases, and lets everyone know (by virtue of all the spit on the sidewalk) just what's up.

And last weekend, while at a fancy bar in Santa Monica to celebrate the engagement of some friends (the kind of bar where the dudes behind the bar dress in 1930's era shirts, ties, and vests and call themselves "mixologists" and charge $14 for a rum and a coke [see, e.g., Tailor in Soho, Employees Only in the West Village, and a host of other bars in New York I've never heard of or could never get into.] [see also name-dropping bars in former city you lived in = douchebag; as is using bluebooking format to make side points within a blog]).

While we were all trying to be mature and sip our beverages (by the way, some dude called me a wuss for drinking a Manhattan [b/c of the maraschino cherry in it], so I ordered him one and watched his face cringe as he tried to swallow down the heavy pour of Jim Beam rye that I insisted the TV-extra-wearing-a-shirt-and-tie-come-mixologist put in there -- don't heckle a fat dude with chest hair drinking brown liquor, chances are his drink is legit), my friend decided that this party at an upscale bar was the best time to bring out his tin of Skoal and began crushing Bushmills in one hand, while dipping into the other.

And then it hit me? Is this how he has dealt with becoming a father? I've heard that new dads under 35 often do things to rage against the machine, that is, to remind themselves that they are not completely settling down (although in reality they are). And by "I've heard that new dads under 35...." I mean I just made that up for the convenience of my point.

So, for him, shoving fiberglass and tobacco into his mouth and spitting brown chaw all over the place lets him know that he still is a degenerate at heart. For others, maybe a new car or an alcohol habit. For me, probably a buttload of neon.

In the end, with a baby on the way, men have to find something to release the anxiety of becoming a new parent. Ladies get the camaraderie of other new mothers, the support of their own mothers, mothers in law, and friends, and society's love of a newborn. That is how they cope.

For men, apparently all you get is a tin of Kodiak or Skoal, and if you like, a cup to spit it all into.

Stark Raving Mad

Now that we have landed in California, CinS has decided to mix things up a bit by growing some facial hair. He was working on a full beard until I complained, and 2 weeks ago, he picked me up from work wearing the following: baseball cap, metallic aviators, Iron Man Goatee.

Yes, my husband is channeling Tony Stark. And for some reason, he thinks this is an awesome look.

In case you aren't as well-versed in comic facial hair as we are, let me attempt to describe the Iron Man Goatee before you cheat and look down at the provided photo.

The IMG is one part groomed mustache, in the Paul Newman from Road to Perdition style - that is, with space under the nose. This is to maximize efficiency while sneezing.

Next, there is a clear space between the mustache sides and the chin hair. No connector. On the chin, we've got some hyper-sculpted fuzz in the shape of a black widow, with some sweet Puerto Rican hair lines extending outward and upward (but don't connect!) to make it a full goatee.

I have tried to explain to CinS that the IMG does not occur in nature and that Robert Downey Jr. was likely wearing a piece. He does not believe me.

To his credit, CinS did create an almost perfect IMG using nothing more than a $20 razor and good, old-fashioned determination. The IMG lasted about 3 days until we had to go to dinner with friends... in public.

His ultimate goal was to keep the IMG, but move over one misguided PR hair line about 2 inches. This involved growth. And precision. I suggested he create a Stark Stubble to allow him to grow out the critical line hair, while not looking like an unkempt gorilla. The result was palatable.

But then CinS got greedy.

He decided to "clean up" the IMG in some areas other than the chin. Namely, under the nose. Quickly, the IMG went from Tony Stark to Antonio Starnandez. Horrifying.

The moral of the story is this. The lifespan of your average IMG is about 3 days, or until you need to shave. It seems like an impossible task to carve out the perfect IMG in the first place, but once you're there, it's only half the battle. A few short days later, the razor that was once your friend, turns into some giant robot who is really mean and filled with Jeff Bridges. Come on, you know what I mean.

Cats Rock

All my adult life, I've wanted a dog. A small, puffy, stupid dog that would sit in my lap and love me. My dog would be named after an elderly Jewish man, like Morty or Saul.

My dog would likely be misbehaved, like all small dogs, but he would not be a yappy barker. He would just be adorable. He would wear sweaters in the winter, but not rainboots. Those dog rainboots are asinine.

Although CinS hates small dogs in any form, he particularly hates Pomeranians (my ideal best friend) because of Blade Trinity. Although, after many hours of compelling logic, I have successfully convinced my husband that vampire Pomeranians are merely a tool of Wesley Snipes imagination, the small dog will still have no place in our lives.

For a while, I was sad. But since living next door to a virtual small dog park, and now moving to a neighborhood saturated with small dogs, I may have to agree with CinS.

In my almost 3 weeks of living in LA, I have been awakened by dogs barking every freaking day. The worst culprits are the three small dogs living across the street. They hang out on the upstairs deck, barking their faces off and ignoring CinS's chants to jump. But there is a new dog in town, and she is causing a ruckus.

On paper, this new dog is right up my ally. She is small, fluffy and is named for my grandmother's (human) best friend, Mildred. But in reality, I'm about to go all Michael Vick on this little princess.

Mildred was up the other night at 3AM, barking in the yard. She was barking for about 10 minutes before her owner decided to "intervene." I was completely unaware that the best way to handle a barking dog in the middle of the night is simply to scream out an open window, repeatedly, for 20 minutes. "Mildred! Mildred! MilDRED! Mildred! For the love of God, Mildred!" Totally effective, sir.

This went on for a good 45 minutes, until Mildred's owner got out of bed to take care of his dog. The whole time I was awake, I kept thinking about that scene from the totally underrated Tom Hanks flick, "The Burbs."

Do you remember the part when Tom Hanks' dog is digging by the fence because the neighbor's yard is riddled with corpses? I do. And it made me wonder what Mildred was so riled up about. It was probably a dead bird or a mouse or something, but wouldn't it be awesome if the reason our neighbors have such kick-ass orange trees is due to some natural fertilizer? Radical.

Mildred just may save us all.

I Wish They All Could Be Californian?

As badly as I don't want this blog to turn into my unique and witty observations about how New York and LA are different (man, what an untapped concept), I just HAVE to go there. Sorry. I promise I'll do better next time.

We had what I consider to be our first real weekend as human beings in LA and the weather was phenomenal. Much like the phenomenal weather in New York.

We went to the beach on Saturday, laughing at those we left behind to do what we once did on sunny NYC days - attempting to get comfortable in a busted wooden "lounge" chair on our buddy's roof, fighting bugaboos and puppies for a clear path along the West Side Highway walking path, and buying out all the Bud Light Lime from the local bodega.

Ha ha you fools! We are at the beach - and April is too early for your summer share on Fire Island.

But as we sat at the beach, surrounded by drunken volleyball players tackling each other, I had some second thoughts about my new-found LA haughtiness. Would I rather be surrounded by drunk guys arguing every point in a game of Aces, or drunk guys talking about boning sluts at a club I can't get into? Is there a lesser of the evils?

On the one hand, I'm at the beach. On the other, I'm on a roof. I have a view of some guy's hairy, sunburned crack. I have a view of the downtown Manhattan skyline. My struggle is clear.

My brain was overloaded and I needed a break. Needing some mid-afternoon nourishment to power through the rest of my internal debate, I trekked 20 minutes to get some $9 sandwiches and saw a late night talk show host. It felt like any ordinary day in Tribeca*, and I realized that maybe things aren't so different here after all.

So I’ve resigned myself to stop making inane NY vs. LA comments about jaywalking and barbeques. Because really, I like and hate it all.

*except this was Jimmy Kimmel and not Jon Stewart, but you can't win 'em all.

Hey! Hey! You! You! Get Into My Car!

As a new Angelino with no automobile, I am trapped and desperate.

CinS and I went car shopping (rounds 1 and 2) last weekend, and despite rolling with the Blogtari SWAT team, we left empty-handed. Perhaps 3 aggressive Persian men and an exhausted pregnant chick eating free dealership popcorn was a bit overwhelming to the Honda dealers of Los Angeles.

Because I have no wheels, CinS has been driving me to work every morning for the last 7 days (not that I'm counting). I know it sounds very decadent and Hollywood to have a personal driver, but I'd much rather have the freedom to run some errands during lunch than get carted around in a busted 1990 BMW.

My favorite part of the trip to work each morning is the running commentary. It is further proof that my husband is turning into my father, who finds it hilarious to describe in painful detail the sandwich computer system at the Wawa every single time we pass a Wawa.

Just because I know you wish you were along for the ride, I'll give you a sample:

"Did you know this is the longest traffic light in Manhattan Beach? I did an
experiment in middle school. It's been proven by the scientific method."

"That's where my car (said busted 1990 BMW) is getting detailed. It's gonna look
like new." (doubtful)

"I worked at that Blockbuster for 2 days. Technically, I never quit. I wonder if I'm still an employee."

"What are they going to do with all those neon signs (at the now closed liquor store that will be turned into a Rite Aid)? How can I get them? I need to call the Rite Aid. Oooo! Is that a car in the parking lot? I'm totally going to talk to them today."

"I need to go back to Frys."

I'm sure that was not nearly as entertaining for you as it was for me, but I thank you for indulging me.

To avoid the guided tour of the 2 mile drive from my in-law's house to my office, I decided to drive the busted 1990 BMW to work yesterday. I thought it would be liberating.

For anyone who has had the pleasure of driving with me, you may recall that I rely on the car's "elderly Asian woman" setting for my seat placement. Yes, I drive with the steering wheel in my lap and my nose pressed against the windshield.

But I guess there weren't too many elderly Asian women rocking a Beemer in the early 1990s, because I could barely reach the pedals yesterday. The seat back is also permanently reclined so I had to hunch over the wheel and stretch my feet to get going. LIBERATION IS MINE!

So CinS and father are going to yet another Honda this afternoon to barter beads and chickens for a mom-car. Let's hope that the new two-man tag team can outwit, outplay, and outlast the dealers of Cerritos.

Aaaaaaand, We're Back!

Hello fools and loyal readers. There has been much upheaval at the Blogtari camp in the last few months and we decided to take an unannounced sabbatical. We're sorry. Here's what you've missed:

• We're with child


• We moved from NYC to Los Angeles (county)


• We had some long, drawn out goodbyes on the East Coast to both friends and restaurants


• We packed our faces off and played a buttload of Street Fighter 4 (ok, that was CinS)

That's about it.

Now that we're all BFFs again, I have a confession. And as my BFF, you are dying to hear it.

A big part of the reason I wasn't posting much in 09 is because I had nothing nice to say. And someone once told me that in this instance, it is better to say nothing at all.

I'm a pretty decisive person and once a decision is made, like Veruca Salt, I want it NOW! So when I decided to leave New York for the temperate shores of Los Angeles, I was ready to go. Immediately. And when you're in that mindset, nothing about your current situation will do. And so, I had nothing nice to say about my life in NY.

My apartment was too small; my neighborhood, to industrial. My commute to work was too stinky. My office; too bleak. My friends, no longer in walking distance. Plus, I was pregnant and nauseated and sober. Dark days.

I realized that no one wants to hear me complain twice a week for several consecutive months, so I took myself out of the blogosphere (which did nothing to quell my use of lame jargon like blogosphere). But now that I've landed in LA (and have some new material), I am reinstating Blogtari and all its glory! (I hear you. I hear you smiling. And thank you, I am too)

So to kick things off, I have to flash back two weeks to our final days in New York. You may recall the deep-seeded hatred for our D-Bag neighbor, his little woman, and their dog. Well, things got worse in my darkened state.

The neighbors decided that it would be an awesome idea to shove yet ANOTHER small, yappy dog into their 775 sq ft apartment. The hallway dog park was in full-effect a solid 12 hours a day. The neighbors even transformed the dog park into a college dorm, by inviting friends to come hang out in the hall and drink wine while tossing squeaky toys against my door. As I've said, these people are awesome.

One hormonal day, I had had enough. It was the beginning of bark-sesh 400 of the day and I lost it. Standing in the kitchen (which is right by the hallway door) I screamed at full-volume, "F***ING KILL YOUR DOG!"

CinS was mortified. I was right. It's just as much their business what I scream in my own apartment as what they do in the hallway outside my apartment. KABOOM! You've been Henstridged.

Needless to say, the neighbor tension worsened in our final weeks in our apartment.
The day before the move, CinS and his bottle opener keychain, were out on the town. I was finishing up some last minute packing and was craving a beer. A non-alcoholic beer.

I was desperate for a faux buzz. I opened the door and peered down the hall. Of course, the neighbor's door was wide open and they were blocking the entire hallway with some kind of porter's cart. It didn't seem too realistic for me to knock on everyone else's door asking for a bottle opener, when the neighbors were right there. So I took the plunge.

Luckily the sideburned-D-bag was severely injured and moaning on the couch about a hernia, so I did my business with his little woman. Perfectly pleasant. The dogs didn’t bark once.

Peace with the neighbors set off a whole string of loveliness on our way out of NY. The pizza place told us to fughetabout the $.012 we owed for our lunch. A stranger carried our bags down a busted escalator. The sun was out.

It was a good day for New York and the Blogtaris. But, I’m sorry to say dear NY friends, the best part was that we were leaving all the good and the bad behind.

Stay tuned for all new complaints about our new life in Los Angeles!

Stay Moist

I grew up in a great beach town in Southern California, and anyone that knows me (or has been to my home or office) knows that I am very nostalgic for stuff back home. Luckily, a woman at my firm's L.A. office lives in the town next to mine, which is part of the South Bay (south Santa Monica Bay, that is).

The significance of that is that like me, this woman loves to read our local weekly paper, The Beach Reporter. And with the advent of interoffice mail, I get it the Beach Reporter on my desk once a week, and can keep up with whatever's going on back home. It's like any local paper -- pictures of high school sports, ads for movies, real estate, etc. One of my favorite things about the Beach Reporter is the weekly "Crime Report." Luckily, the South Bay is super safe (to the point where our local police are what the Big Lebowski would refer to as "fascist" [stay out of my nice beach community], but that's a Blogtari for another day all in itself.). So the Crime Report is hilarious to read. Sure there are robberies and even a murder every few years, but usually it is something like "The wind blew over a tree branch, which hit a car parked on the street and set off a car alarm. The alarm, in turn, was loud and frightened an elderly man nearby who was walking his dog."

Anyway, the recent cover of the Beach Reporter is the best I've ever seen. I will have to finagle technology to post a pic, but my description will do for now. The cover of the 1/15/09 Beach Reporter plasters a huge picture of three girls on the highs school water polo team sitting by the pool. They are each around 14-15 years old, and kind of smiling. And the huge headline you can't help but see half a mile away?

"WAITING TO GET WET"

I love local newspapers. No one at the Beach Reporter caught that? "Hey let's throw up a pic of three pubescent girls with the headline 'Waiting to Get Wet.' And then distribute that paper to those girls' parents, friends, and teachers."

Rad.

Obama Schmobama Y'all!

I am out in a red state for business, and must admit that this is a very interesting place to celebrate the inauguration of our 44th President, Barack Obama.

A lot of folks were very grumbly here this morning leading up to the inaugural speech, and waxed poetic about the good old days of President Bush. Yes, apparently, out here, there were some good old days. I think they are all very happy to have him back home. Probably not as happy as the rest of us.

After the speech, a few folks commented surprisingly about what a great speech Obama had given, and I was whisked away to an old Chris Rock joke... "He's so well-spoken! He speaks so well!"

In the cafeteria, we were served free inauguration cake that was no doubt provided by a minority worker in a gesture of good faith. While everyone was thrilled about the cake, I'm not sure they were equally thrilled with what it represented.

The buzz died down after lunch, or so it seemed to me, as I was in a meeting for most of the afternoon. But then Obama madness struck again. My team was discussing plans for after work tomorrow night and we "all" agreed on a trip to the shooting range. After all, we have to get some shooting in before Obama takes our guns.

More Crap That's Rotting My Brain

You know my social life is dim when all I have to blog about is reality TV shows on VH1. In fact, it is so dim, that the majority of conversation when I am out being social with real, live human beings is about reality TV shows on VH1. This happened to me both Friday night and Sunday afternoon.

Sigh. If only a deep knowledge of VH1 cast members and their love triangles could earn me 7-figures.

And while I am at it, I'll dig myself in a little deeper. I actually teared up last night when Real picked Cornfed in the finale of Real Chance of Love. I chanted the phrase, "Oh! He looks so much better!" ad nauseum during the makeover of Hobie Buchanan on Confessions of a Teen Idol. I almost peed my pants at the trailer for I Love Money 2.

The problem isn't that I don’t enjoy quality television, the problem is that CinS doesn't enjoy the same quality television as me. We have very few shows that we watch together (thank the Lord for the return of LOST!), and so, like most of America, we find ourselves watching the lowest common denominator. Also, like most of America, we spend most of our together time in front of the TV. We don’t have pets or children. Please don’t judge.

And there you have it. Two, almost-consecutive posts about VH1. Damn you Chris Abrego and your mad genius! You have won!

In Your Head! In Your Head!

CinS got a new video game involving zombies, which is probably my all-time favorite video game topic - probably only because there is yet to be a sweet vampire vs. werewolf video game. Maybe there was some kind of Van Helsing tie-in years ago, but I'm really waiting for a rad Underworld game. Both star Kate Beckinsale so it should be a wash, but IMHO I think Scott Speedman makes a much more compelling video game star than Hugh Jackman, as evidenced by the very lame X-Men 3 game and the "Boy from Oz Dance Party" that was never greenlit by our friends at Xbox.

But back to the zombies. The latest in zombie gaming, Left 4 Dead, is a phenom that has swept the Tribeca gamer community (of CinS and his 2 buddies). And all of these zombies remind me of a fateful night on a quest for McDonalds.

One night, CinS and I were out with some friends, and like most boozy nights, we got a little hungry after hours. Our usual late night snack is the mighty delicious bodega tuna salad and jalapeño dirty chips. But this night, we wanted something different. Something hot. Something from McDonalds.

I was jonsing some McNuggets and CinS was planning his usual combo of a Double Cheeseburger and Filet O'Fish. So we went to the 24-hour McDonalds in our neighborhood as we always do, and the joint was closed. CLOSED! I think it was the Sunday of Labor Day or some other random holiday that definitely involves liquor and late night runs to 24-hour fast food restaurants. The closing was puzzling. And frustrating.

Hopeful and hungry, we took a cab up the street to the other 24-hour McDonalds. It too was closed. Now we're talking about a conspiracy. I was wearing some kind of giant shoe at the time, yet refused to take another cab. At this point, it was a matter of principle. We would find tasty food this night. Oh yes, we would.

And so, we set off on foot towards an often overlooked Burger King on Canal Street, just a few blocks from home. We marched from Houston and Varick to Canal and Broadway. No more than a mile, but in the middle of a drunken night, waiting in vain for tasty treats, the walk was epic.

We arrived at the BK and, of course, it too was closed. But what was that in the distance? All glowing and full of light? A 24-hour McDonalds that was actually open!

We raced down the street and entered the hallowed doors. To our dismay, they were only serving a limited menu at this hour, but it was now close to 3:30 am and we just didn't care. French fries please! It took us about a minute to come down off our high and take in our surroundings.

The McDonalds was packed. But not with people eating. It was filled - wall-to-wall - with dead bodies. Bodies splayed out across the tables, passed out on the benches, some with feet dangling in the walkway. None of the bodies moved. There were a few tables open, but as hungry as we were, there was no way in hell that we were going to eat at this McDonalds. It looked like a scene out of any zombie movie, at the point when all the zombies are asleep and have no idea how close they are to real human brains.

We tiptoed out, fries in hand, and started running home as soon as the door closed behind us. We swore to never return to the Zombie McDonalds. It was lucky that we made it out alive the first time, we weren’t about to push our luck.

The Zombie McDonalds is visible on my way to and from work. It's funny that I never noticed it before, and now it looms at me, hungrily glaring, as if I'm the brains that got away. From the street, I noticed that the McDonalds claims to have three stories of seating, but windows only mark levels one and two. I bet the zombie hideout is on the third floor. There must be something in the secret sauce keeping them alive.

You Smell Like My Soulmate

As you know, I watch a lot of bad reality TV. Last night was no exception.

Everyone's favorite wig-wearing, fake-tanning, guyliner-sporting "rock star," Bret Michaels, is (finally) back with installment 3 of his reality dating show on VH1. This season, the whores are on a bus. Bret peppers the "unscripted" dialog with more catchphrases than ever. Madcap antics involving giant fake guns ensue.

We watched the premiere last night, and it was dirtier than ever. All I can say to those who have not yet tuned in, is that the action was so vile that VH1 couldn't even discuss it, let alone show it. From the clever editing and Portuguese euphemisms provided by one contestant, I can only assume that one girl did a body shot off of another girl's vagina. So, so frightening.

After the show, CinS declared, no more reality dating shows tonight. This was before the TV changed to NBC and we caught wind of Mamma's Boys. This show is so bad (sorry Seacrest), yet I cannot look away. Especially when earnest black chicks are cooking brisket and playing dreidel.

I'm sure it comes to no surprise to you that I dreamt last night about reality dating shows. And I think I have a winning idea. Here's my pitch:

The premise is based on pheromones and the idea that everyone's unique scent has some cosmic mate. The producers match up couples prior to the show so that everyone cast has a match. All of the contestants know that their match is out in the pool somewhere, but have no idea who it is. Contestants will definitely include super studs and blonde bombshells for everyone to fight over. The contestants are, of course, living on a bus. (this may or may not be part of my pitch, but it was a critical element in my dream. maybe it's easier to smell people in an enclosed space?) No one gets eliminated, we just watch what happens.

In my dream, CinS and I were cast on the show, and sitting together on the bus. We knew we were married, but no one else knew. I guess we were trying to punk the system, which is something we talk about doing all the time either on TV or on eHarmony. On the episode featured in my dream, the contestants had already paired up and they decided to insert an undesirable element on the bus to see how the pairs dealt with difficult situations. They basically had some actors dressed like homeless people boarded the bus and harassed everyone. CinS and I knew they were actors and made fun of them instead of being scared. I’m sure the producers were annoyed.

I would totally watch this show. Of course I would, it is A) my idea, and B) a crappy reality dating show. It is a compelling idea that has the potential for cat fighting. I am a programming genius. The only problem would probably be the budget. Gas is expensive these days. I also wonder how expensive it would be to smell test everyone? Surely, it has to cost less than disinfecting 20 girls for Bret every 9 months.

We're 100!

Can you believe we've been around for 100 posts? Yeesh!

Like any good sitcom hitting their 100th milestone, today's post will be a contrived rehash of this blog to date.

To celebrate this momentous occasion, may we (re)present our favorite posts of 2008. Enjoy!

http://blogtari.blogspot.com/2008/04/snapshot-of-ny-living.html
http://blogtari.blogspot.com/2008/05/charity-case.html
http://blogtari.blogspot.com/2008/05/redemption-blong.html
http://blogtari.blogspot.com/2008/05/grand-theft-auto-4-youve-stolen-my.html
http://blogtari.blogspot.com/2008/07/frank-sinatras-got-lousy-taste.html
http://blogtari.blogspot.com/2008/08/wont-you-be-mine.html
http://blogtari.blogspot.com/2008/08/petty-cabs.html

Oh, and our apologies for never blogging in earnest about cocktails or neon, despite our tagline.

Make Money in Your Pajamas!

Happy New Year dear readers! We've taken a holiday hiatus to refuel our creative fire for 09. We hope you won't be disappointed.

The last two weeks of the year are traditionally slow for business folk... actually, only office-style business folk, but since we're both officey, I naturally assume everyone else is officey, which I guess is some form of "-ist" (racist, sexist, careerist?) Well, you can tell things have been slow for me since I'm ranting within a rant, which is a sure sign that I haven't spoken to a human being for a solid 2 weeks.

I went to the office the week of Christmas, and a few others were there as well, so things weren't too depressing, but the Monday after the holiday I was the only person in the office. It was very creepy. Mildly liberating, but mostly creepy. I made the executive decision to work from home for the rest of the shortened week so I wouldn't be alone and a target for corporate takeover/gang violence.

Working from home is not for me. Especially when it's a dead week and there is little to no work to keep me occupied.

Working from Home - Day One: Tuesday
I settled into my desk with a steamy bowl of oatmeal and sat in corporate silence for about 10 minutes. It was deafening. I turned on morning TV. The Today Show makes NBC my network of choice, and I was thrilled to find Mario Cantone co-hosting the 4th hour of Today with Kathie-Lee (on vacation) and Hoda. Homosexual hilarity ensued. The channel stayed tuned, and Martha Stewart snuck up on me. I'd never seen a Martha Stewart show in my life and was surprised(?) to find her smug and un-compelling. But you know who is way worse than Martha? Guest star Terrence Howard. GOOD LORD! You are not a singer. You are an actor. Deal with it.

Working from Home - Day Two: Wednesday
So it's New Year's Eve and not much is getting done today. I have resigned to work a half day anyway. I again start my day with oatmeal and the Today Show. And guess who's back? Mario Cantone! But today, Mario and Hoda are celebrating the New Year a bit early. They are drinking champagne. Mario is clearly unconcerned about being asked back to guest host again. Boyfriend is wasted and ranting about penises on morning television. It is painful to watch Hoda drunkenly attempt to calm him down. He is then set loose on the streets of Manhattan, where he asks tourists trivia questions while unsubtly berating them. After Mario, I do not give Martha a second chance. I watch the girls of The View bicker about creationism. Happy New Year.

Working from Home - Day Three: Friday
I have no idea why my company is open today. It may not be. I work far from the corporate headquarters and am blind to things like vacation days. And if we are open today, absolutely no one from my team is working and none of my clients - even the ones who bother me on both Christmas and New Year's Eve - are around either. It is the deadest day of the year.

I started my day with some eggs. They were delicious. It got me thinking that it would be awesome if my office had a stove and if it was socially acceptable to cook eggs at work. I then remembered my 7th grade Home Ec class where the entire cooking portion of the class was dedicated to cooking in the microwave oven. I am totally serious. We made an omelet in the microwave, which sounds totally gross, but I remember being pleasantly surprised. I wonder if the microwave curriculum is still in place, or if it was more of an ode to new microwave technology than empowering tweens to cook for themselves.

After breakfast, nothing was happening. Desperate for a break from morning TV, I cleaned out my refrigerator. Pulling out the crisper drawers and washing them in the sink. Good times. I waited around the house, desperate for an email or client call, until 1pm when I made a break for it. Lucky for me, this was in the height of the day's snow. I didn't care. I needed to get the F out of my apartment. I bought some new jeans. I spent way too much time at Whole Foods. And then, as always, I had to go to the regular supermarket to get all the real groceries I can't get at Whole Foods. But don't worry Whole Foods, I'm not mad. That hippie dude you sent to my apartment with my groceries totally made up for my sliced provolone run at the Food Emporium.

Needless to say, I am really looking forward to getting back to the office on Monday. To my fellow office workers, I hope you appreciate what you have. Because no matter how crappy your job is, and no matter how little you are looking forward to Monday, I guarantee that your office is bigger than 800 square feet.