Tales from La La Land

Well, my sister has returned to LA to run the half marathon with me this Sunday. I am not sure if you remember her last stay, but let’s just say that the bruises from a long night of drinking have just now healed. She is recently single, which means she is 43 going on 21. For as awesome as I always thought I was, I can not keep up with her in her current state.

I picked her up at LAX last night, and thankfully she did not smell of tequila. I knew we’d be off to a better start. We made a quick stop at Whole Foods and Pinkberry before heading home.

She came in like a hurricane, leaving The Sanch speechless and scared. For starters, she plopped all of her belongings in the middle of the floor, made a quick assessment of the house, broke a glass, let the cat get out (twice) and took over the lone computer in the house. All while making me watch Private Practice.

Once The Sanch realized that my sister was no maverick, and that she would certainly make many more mistakes that would lead to his escape, he decided to follow her all over. Well, it was part her inability to not close doors fast enough, and part the shredded beef she gave him from her Whole Foods spread. So, he cuddled with her all night and slept in the bed with her.

Prior to falling asleep, she went ballistic on her blackberry, texting and talking on the phone like a little school girl. I was simply in awe of her ability to maintain such a high level of energy at 10 p.m.

It seems she wakes up with the shakes from missing her blackberry all night because I was awoken at 6:30 a.m. to the sound of her voice on the phone. She was laughing and giggling and carrying on a full conversation. 1. Who talks on the phone at 6:30 a.m.? 2. Who talks on the phone for a half hour at 6:30 a.m.? My brain cells don’t even know the meaning of life until I have a shower and coffee.

Anyway, I am now at work and have gotten the following texts from the Zoo that used to be my sister.

8:50 a.m.: Where’s your iron?
8:54 a.m.: Any hair product stuff? Forgot mine.
9:57 a.m.: Sanch is psychotic. He is under the sink and won’t come out. He is trying to escape out of the hole under there. OK. He is fine now.
10:08 a.m.: I just fell off the back step out to the back yard. There’s a weird dog out there. Sanch ran out.
10:12 a.m.: Is gorgeous out. Heading to coffee then the beach!
(BTW, I sure did love getting that one)
11:12 a.m.: Where is your sunscreen?
11:56 a.m.: My nice vaca buzz just burst by a $40 ticket for not curbing my wheels??!! WTF??
12:10 a.m.: Back at home with Sanch.

I am nervous about what the next few hours will bring. I hope she doesn’t fall, break a glass or kill my cat. Oh wait. She’s pretty much already done all that.

The record needs to show that I am no longer the biggest cluster to come out of my mother.

XO

I needed to post something without McFrosty’s photo so people don’t think I’m a crazy stalker. You should all know me by now in that the whole thing was a funny joke and something to spice up the blog. I’m not, like, searching for photos and stats of him on the web.

Heather has suggested a blog contest entitled, Win A Date With Coach Frost. As soon as McFrosty gets back to me as to whether he’s on board and that Oregon will pay for the airfare, maybe we’ll try it. Hopefully he’s into pregnant chicks and sarcastic dudes.

Also, I have some things on my mind that I need to address.

MY SHOWS

1. Nip/Tuck: If anyone actually believes that Christian’s peen could turn a lesbian straight, they should be shot. On the flip side, if anyone actually believes that Christian could be in love with, and sleep with (on a regular, monogamous basis) Liz, they should also be shot. This is the most ridiculous development yet. And, lastly, I think F/X must have made huge budget cuts. So far, there has been no sight of Kimber, hardly any glimpses of Matt, they killed off Julia’s lover and there are virtually no patient storylines. It’s essentially a three-ring circus between Christian, Sean and Liz (and sometimes Julia, who better fucking eat a hamburger STAT because she looks like a skeleton with eyes).

2. Real Housewives of Orange County: OK, the last episode was utterly depressing AND boring. As much as Tamra annoys the hell out of me, or how much I can’t stand Vicki, or how bad Jeana’s Xanax coma is, the show is much better when all the girls are wreaking havoc and causing drama. TOGETHER. Watching Gretchen do pilates and Lynne’s daughter wash her hairball down with vodka and Vicki diss Donn (yet again) is so boring. Then, on top of that, Jeana’s son, Shane WAS SO MEAN TO HER that I wanted to turn off the TV. It made me so sad and it was so hard to watch. Hopefully next week one of them throws a party and gets naked wasted. That’s where it’s at.

3. Grey’s Anatomy: I’m giving this shit one more week. And, only because apparently Denny really is dead. Or something. This show is making me dizzy this season. One week I heart. The next week I loathe. And so on. Little Grey and McSteamy with their broken penis thing and whatever. Gah. That relationship is totally unrealistic. Although, thanks to that episode I got to hear a great explanation from Laef as to how you could actually break your penis. He then told me to try it.

I can’t get into the rest of my shows because the blog would be too long.

Moving on.

SAVE THE DATES
Annett Malone should start a business. I have gotten a lot of compliments on the STDs. From the people that actually received them. It should be noted that we have decided to do a tiny wedding in an effort to save what little savings we have for our future. We essentially kept it to immediate family and a few friends. Which makes us kind of sad, but it was simply becoming something we couldn’t exactly afford. Anyway, you would think that sending out far less STDs would be easy for me (insert nasty skank Aross joke here). No. So far I have realized that I sent one to the wrong address and a few have been returned to me for various reasons. That’s just how I have to roll, I guess. I will say that I’m proud of myself in that I made labels and all of that. But, apparently I still fucked some shit up. Resends go out this weekend.

IMPORTANT NEWS
I read in The Week that a new version of The Joy of Sex just came out. But, it does not include the section about sex on moving motorcycles or horseback. Um. OK. If you have ever done either, please email me immediately. I feel like if texting while driving is illegal, this should be included, but I’m kind of prude like that.

I’m sure by now you’ve all heard about the couple that gave birth to Octuplets in California on Monday.

They were only expecting seven babies, but during the birth doctors apparently found an eighth baby.

Let me tell you how annoying that must of been. I am pretty sure that Laef and I would have spent months arguing and debating while trying to come up with seven baby names (AND MIDDLE NAMES!) that we both agreed on and were happy with. When that eighth baby came out, I am pretty sure I would have named it
NOFUCKINGWAY WEONLYHAVESEVENCRIBS Morris.

Seriously. You know they only had seven of everything, including names. And, even if they did have an eighth name it was the name that didn’t make the cut in the first place.

Anyway, speaking of names, I have decided to start Nickname ’09 for my new favorite Oregon coach. Jason Bellamy claims that McFrosty had two nicknames while trying to make the Green Bay Packers squad a few years back. Those nicknames were: “Scottie Too Hottie” or “Scottie The Body”.

Good names, but too long. We need something that is quick and easy. Something that truly encapsulates the fact that he could actually take a role on Grey’s Anatomy if this coaching thing doesn’t work out.

If you need a reminder as to what he looks like, allow me to post his headshot again. I’ve got my spies in Eugene who will keep us posted on what he looks like from the shoulders down. Surely he has a tail or something. Or bad breath.

SUGGESTIONS SO FAR:

1. McFrosty (Aross)
2. McYou’reABitch (Laef)

Well, last night it happened. I had my second wedding-related dream. Both dreams have actually been nightmares in that NOTHING goes right in the dream. Luckily, in last night’s dream I was at least wearing the wedding dress that I bought, and not some long-sleeved lacy thing.

So here’s how it went last night. For starters, we definitely were not on the beach. We were in the woods on very rocky, unstable ground. The possibility of rolling down a cliff was very real. I was sitting in a little wooden shack all dressed and ready and kept looking outside at the ceremony site. There were like four people there. I couldn’t figure out where everyone was.

I quickly realized that I had never sent out the invitations. I had sent the save-the-dates and kept hoping that people would remember. They didn’t. There were no more than five people in attendance throughout the dream. Once I realized that no one else was coming, I decided to come out of the shack and proceed with the wedding. As soon as I saw my brother-in-law, Neil, I realized that Laef and I had never written our vows and had never discussed the ceremony with Neil. (Neil will be marrying us in real life).

Now I am starting to panic. I tell Laef to just make something up when it’s his turn to say his vows.

“Just say whatever comes to your mind. Whatever you think about you, me, us.”

(If you know Laef, winging it is not something that makes him happy).

I spend the remainder of the dream wondering how ghetto and unorganized Ben thinks I am for not remembering to send out invitations. I fear that people think “forgetting” was part of a bigger plan to save money.

I wake up before the wedding starts.

So today I am tired from “running all around” looking for my guests and trying to “write my vows” quickly.

Now, on to the second part of this blog. The dreamy part.

Oregon just hired a new wide receivers’ coach.

Are you kidding me?

Now, no one can hold a candle to Oregon’s dreamy-est coach of all time, Jeff T., but when did the Duckies start hiring Ken dolls?

I’m just sayin’. There weren’t any coaches that looked like that when I was there. Most of them were a)married b)50 c)had chew-stained teeth and d)were bald.

First and foremost, I would like to go on record as saying that I want to punch Monday in the face. I am nowhere closer to being rich, although when I walked to AM/PM last night, I wondered what might happen if I held up the clerk and stole all the lottery tickets. Then I realized that I actually prefer sitting at my desk blogging as opposed to sitting in jail with a metal bed.

So, rather than cry in my oatmeal about how fuckity fucked Monday’s are, I figured I’d recap the weekend.

Laef and I went out to dinner on Friday night at China Grill in Manhattan Beach. I can’t remember the last time we ate Chinese food, yet I am constantly reminded of how yummy it is everytime I read Brittany’s blog, Facebook status or Tweet. Anyway, it was a great way to end what was a very long week. There’s something about chicken swimming in lemon and orange, and noodles doused in thick sauce, that makes everything OK. Well, that and Sake.

After dinner, we headed to Ralphs to get a bottle of wine. Now, I was super giddy after drinking Sake, and seeing the following in the middle of Ralphs gave me the giggles. All I can think is that the owner saw the Top Chef where the chefs visited a farm and got to basically pick a live animal in order to have the freshest ingredients. Perhaps Ralphs in Manhattan Beach will soon be carrying cows and chickens.

Anywasted, that was pretty much the highlight of Friday night. If I’m being honest, I am 34 going on 84 as I watched Dateline on a Friday night. There’s no way that people under 84 (except for me) are watching Dateline on Friday.

I pulled myself together and did a nice 8-mile run on Saturday with no pains. I don’t think you realize how fucking boring it is to run for over an hour. I have heard every song on my Ipod about 400 times and so I convinced Laef to cough up $9.95 and let me download a book onto my Ipod. I picked Devil Wears Prada and spent my run realizing that my life mirrors Anne Hathaway’s character in a way I didn’t think was possible. Do you realize I have to RUN to go pee when I’m at work?

We spent Saturday night watching No Reservations, Dateline (fuck, I know) and reruns of Bad Girls Club while eating some delicious Italian Baked Ziti.

On Sunday, the sun came out and we walked around Manhattan Beach before going to Whole Foods to do a quick run through. By quick run through, I mean try all of their samples, which are usually cheese, some kind of cheesy spread with crackers, and some sort of organic juice to wash it all down. We escaped before anyone realized we were grazing and not buying.

After that we went tuxedo shopping and then to the mall. We somehow got separated in the mall, and after searching for Laef for 20 minutes and realizing that I didn’t have my cell phone, I attempted to use a pay phone. Problem No. 1: That shit is 50 cents. I am pretty sure it was 20 cents the last time I used one. Problem No. 2: I have no fucking idea what Laef’s phone number is. Problem No. 3: I had already put the money in when I realized I didn’t know the number and, OF COURSE, the fucking change return thing didn’t work. I am so OVER 1976.

Unsure what to do, I snapped back in to the 2000′s and headed to the Mac store. I quickly sent Laef an email, which I knew he’d get on his phone, and we were reunited.

There was no Dateline on Sunday, but I did fall asleep at 9:30 p.m. in the middle of the L Word, which I am pretty still sure equates to me being old.

In unrelated weekend news, my brother sent me a text photo on Sunday afternoon. Pretty much made my day.

She is clearly spending quality time with her daddy.

Well, the half marathon is two weeks away. I am supposed to do an 11-mile run this weekend and then next week is very light leading up to the race.

The training has gone well and I’ve stuck with it the whole way. It was tough in the beginning as I had severe leg cramps, my calves were tight and my knees were sore all the time. Thankfully, Laef seems to know a thing or two about aiding runners, so he was a big help.

I am one of those people who gets sidetracked very easily. Part of the reason for doing the half marathon was to have a hobby, have a goal, and follow through. It was my way of proving to myself that I could finish something I started. And, I’m ready for the race to be here. I have been training for three months. Finding the time to run 11 miles on a Saturday (which will probably take almost 2 hours) or 6 miles on a Thursday after a long day of work or 8 miles on a weekend when I’m visiting my family, has required a lot of discipline.

But, I’ve done it and I’m on the home stretch. And suddenly I am feeling very nervous. I find myself thinking about it in the middle of the night. My concerns are mainly that I won’t be able to finish because of pain in my knee or some other ailment that I don’t even know about. I’ve worked really hard to do it and I just want to be able to finish it. Even if it takes 3 hours.

I should probably start taking the same approach with books. I will start a book that I absolutely love and then I will see another book in the store and buy it. Or I will get a gift and begin reading that book. So, ultimately, I have three unfinished books, two unfinished magazines and one basket of un-put away laundry on a daily basis.

I remember when I was a sophomore in high school and we were assigned to read Lord of the Flies in English class. There was something about the book (I’m kinda dark like that) that sucked me in. I read it. All of it. And loved it.

When we took the quiz, I got every single question correct, forcing my English teacher, Mrs. Urbani, to pull me into her office after school. It was like Slumdog Millionaire shit. She wanted to know who gave me an advanced copy of the test and how I knew all the answers. So, I basically recounted my life story and told her how my dad had some stupid shell in our house and that he always told us you could hear the ocean if you put it up to your ear and how I wouldn’t let my brother try it until he gave me all of his fruit roll ups, but in the end, good prevailed and I got six cavities and was almost killed by tripping on a soccer cleat while chasing my brother in attempt to torture him in some inhumane sisterly way.

To this day I am not over the fact that to this day I don’t think she believes that I simply read the book and knew the answers.

She’s not invited to the wedding.

Anywasted, the point is, at least with the marathon, there won’t be cheating. Unless I can somehow convince Laef to pull some Central Washington softball shit and carry me for a mile or two.

That might not be true. I am not sure.

In case you’re 87 and don’t know (or Laef who was too YOUNG to know) that’s a line from a Fabolous song.

But, we’re not really here to talk about him. We’re here to talk about how the Dutchess of Kickball gave me a “Your Blog is Fabulous” award. To be honest, I am more excited about the fact that a girl who is a part of “20-something bloggers” let’s me play along. I could be 20. Or 25. Or 29. Or 34, but whatever.

Anyway, I am supposed to name five things I am addicted to and then pass the award on to five other bloggers. I am not passing it to anyone on my blogroll because those bitches (Lamb), Hos (Brittany) and pimps (Ben) already know they are F-A-B-O-L-O-U-S in my book.

I am addicted to:

1. Cup O’ Noodles
2. Blackberry
3. TV (RHOC, GG, The Bachelor, Nip/Tuck, The L-Word, Real World, Top Chef)
4. Facebook
5. Chapstick

And the awards go to: McMommywood (No better place to get a RHOC fix), AJ(I feel like she knows everything there is to know about me), Cook To Bang (Food, The F word and sex. Right up my alley), Smartass Milf (What can I say? I liked the title. And she’s a Gemini), D Listed (I know it shouldn’t count, but I love that shit).

Dutchess also had a delurking blog a while back. She basically said that if you visited, you had to leave a comment. Do you think you could do that? If you’re here, say hi. And, if you’re the guy (or gal) that labeled my blog as porn, GFY.

Heart.

A harsh reality hit me the other day as I scanned old photos of Laef and I for our wedding slideshow. I am reconsidering such a slideshow after realzing how hurtin’ I was from 1980-1998.

Anyway, as I started to see photos of Laef from the 1990s and then of me from the 1990s, I realized something. Despite the fact that he is the more mature one, there is in fact a substantial age gap. And he is not the older one.

The following photo was from 1992.

Laef was like 10. I think he still has those glasses. And that smile.

Bitch, do you know what I looked like in 1992 while you were in 4th grade? Well, for starters, I was wearing jorts and had a drivers license. I was 18 years old. And smoking hot. If anyone wants to borrow my Stussy shirt with some random rapper on it, let me know.

At least we were both ballers in high school.

CIRCA 1996

CIRCA 1988 (when Laef was 6)

In other completely non-related news, I have been practicing my swaddling on Sanchez. I guess it’s related in that I am posting horrid pictures of our family and Sanchez should be included. Lazy fuck. At least he likes watching Gossip Girl with me.

CIRCA Yesterday

Here I am on Monday morning watching Regis and Kelly, drinking coffee and fantasizing about how wonderful it would be to be a stay-at-home blogger. I really think I could get used to sauntering out of bed at 9 a.m. with nary an email request in my inbox.

I am finally getting around to blogging after a busy week and even busier weekend.

Last week my oldest (she loves when I say that) sister and her older (by six months) friend had a layover in LA on their way to Mexico.

You should know that this particular sister is very business-y and has taught me about budgets, 401Ks and how to live below your means. The other one showed me how to shotgun a beer. I hope it doesn’t sound like one is better than the other, because both have been equally important in my development as a human being.

Anywasted, to my surprise, when I picked up my (oldest) sister at LAX at 8 p.m. on a Wednesday, I was planning on a quick dinner out and then back home. But, seeing as she was already drunk (two shots of tequila and two beers on the plane will do that to you), she was ready to go out. And, because of the tequila, she offered to buy dinner an drinks.

So we went to a new sushi and sake bar in Manhattan Beach where the drinks were $15 and the sake was even more. BUT, part of that money goes towards them putting a flower on every effing dish.

I had just seen the Real Housewives of Orange County where Tamra hosted a dinner party with food that was to die for – oysters, sashimi, etc. – so I was craving oysters. Little did I know that later that night my sister would also follow in Tamra’s lead in forcing me to do tequila. I think she was trying to get me naked wasted.

As everyone knows, tequila leads to bad things. Like my sister befriending some guy from Texas named Clif (one F as he told us many times) and his friend with a velour blazer, gold chain and ample chest hair exposed.

But, we didn’t care. Clif (one F) and his friends from Texas became our BFFs for the night, and it was nice to not be the bad influence for once in my life.

UPDATE: Yes, I am well aware that the story just kind of ends abruptly. I left out details like getting home at 3:30 a.m. with a cop shining his light on us and Laef having to find my sister a cab at 6 a.m. since I clearly was still unable to drive. Or be awake. Or how Brooke’s friend was none to pleased to be going to Mexico at 6 a.m. and that Laef and I were jolted awake by the following conversation:

Brooke: “Get up! We gotta go!”
JaReda: “I am NOT going!”
Brooke: “You’re going.”
JaReda: “Wake me up when the cab gets here.”
Brooke: “You have to put on a bra.”
JaReda: “I am NOT wearing a bra! I am not going! I want a Clif bar!”

What’s that you say, Lyla Elizabeth? Derek Nagy is your daddy?

You mean the guy whose MySpace headline reads: “This Sucks”. And, whose profile picture looked something like this:

Until he decided to settle down with a great girl and changed it to this:

Cute, but still with a touch of Nagy flair. And, yes, I realize that he may hear a thing or two from a certain Whitney Morris and a certain Heather Elkinton at our wedding. He’ll probably wear a “Joey Harrington is a TOOL” shirt to the wedding anyway, which may defer some of the enemies he makes from the above photos.

So the progression of Derek Nagy is basically complete.

Let’s revisit 1999 when I met Derek. He was the intern in the Oregon sports information office. He was working about 9 olympic sports and making a huge salary of $1,000 a month. Before taxes.

The internship was only a 12-month gig, and for some reason I begged to get the job. Derek was supposed to train me, but from what I can remember, he sat in the corner hunched over his computer, spewing F-bombs. He was probably just hungry. Seeing as he was probably stoned. (Fear not people, I have been assured that his wake-n-bake and black out days are far behind him).

Eventually he warmed up and we became really good friends. I mean, it was kind of by default because most of the girls in Eugene are either sorority girls or hippy-ish. I was neither, and had a fondness for Rennies on a Tuesday. Which Derek desperately needed because from what I could tell, he didn’t leave his apartment much. All I remember about the tiny shack he called home was that he had a mattress, a bottle of lotion and Kleenex. Oh, and golf clubs.

Anyway, due to the fact that he made 8 cents after taxes and was living in rainy Eugene, Oregon after living in Denver, CO his whole life, he wasn’t all that chipper. Common phrases out of his mouth were: This Sucks, Fuck that, This Is BULLshit, etc. I know that TOOL is a very well-known phrase, but Derek is the one that taught it to me. In his mind every single person in Eugene was a TOOL. Capital T. Capital O’s. Capital L.

I thought his edginess was hilarious the same way that I think Ben’s is. I never took any of his bitterness all that serious and thought it was more funny than angry.

However, when he eventually moved back to Denver, I did wonder who the fuck would ever date him. Then one day he mentioned something about a girl named Amy. Next thing I know, they are living together. Soon after, he emails me a picture of his new kitten. Then he’s engaged. Then he gets a Beagle puppy. And now this, a baby girl. I have often asked him, WHO are you? A kitten? A puppy? You’re in LOVE?

There are still remnants of the old Derek. For example, he wore Cleveland Indian cuff links to his wedding. He gets giddy drunk at Colorado State games (GO RAMMIES!) and I get at least one email per week where he talks shit about having to change the litter box and how much cats pee and how there’s some bullshit rule that pregnant women can’t clean litter boxes.

Those are my favorite emails.

And all I’m sayin’ about this baby thing is this: If Nagy can do it, I for sure can do it.

Congrats peeps! And, Lyla, at least you’ve got your mommy!