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!