Tales from La La Land

We Laef found our place and we are all set to move in on July 17.

My lazy ass can take ZERO credit for any of it. I didn’t even see the place until after we paid the deposit. I saw a total of one place in person. It was very clutch that Laef has several days off during the summer, so he was able to get out there and drive from Beverly Hills to Century City to Westwood to Santa Monica to see a variety of places.

I basically sat at my computer at work and sent Laef 3,238,389 links to places that I thought looked good, then he would go look, send me some pics and move on to the next place. At the end of a very long day of looking, Laef called me and said he thought he found the one.

So we took it.

The whole thing was probably for the best. Laef likes to see many, many options. He takes his time making decisions. He likes to mull over many things. I am the world’s most impatient person (the place we live now was one of  the first place we looked at when moving to LA originally), and driving all the fuck around LA is probably last on my list of things to do. I would have been cranky and grouchy, and he would have gotten frustrated as he tried to marinate on all of the options.

So, when he says he found the place, who am I to question?

The following day we submitted our applications, got approved and were able to pay our security deposit before leaving on a trip to St. Louis. The landlord offered to show me the apartment since I had not yet seen it. The current tenants were there, packing and getting ready to move.

To Eugene.

Oregon.

To teach at UO.

Say what?

We definitely found the place.

First of all, I don’t need to see Ed shaving in his boxers and wife beater. Ever.

Here we go with the irony right off the bat. Of course Jacqueline is making something for breakfast that requires 8 tablespoons of butter. Is she trying to prove to the camera that despite the fact that she failed to use butter in her liver mousse that she loves cooking with butter!? Or is it her disease?

Whatever. Cut to Sam Kass. He is hot. I commented this out loud. My  husband said, “You do love you some bald men.” (Ed Note: My husband is slowly going bald).  Bravo might be fucking with me though. It might be trying to switch the competition from Boob v. Boob to BHead v. BHead (Tom should watch out).

For the quickfire these tricks are going to make sangwiches. They have 30 minutes to make a sangwich, so obviously there’s a catch because who takes 30 minutes to put avocado between two pieces of unevenly grilled bread?  By the way, sangwich challenges are bunk. Anyone can make a sangwich. Actually, scratch that. If I was tied to Arnold I could not make a sangwich because I would be constantly wondering WTF was up with the bling on his hand. Or was that a fake hand? Seriously, what was that?

The chefs realize the winning team is going to get immunity so Kenny says something like, “Immunity is irrelevant. I’m looking at chopping each one off week by week.” For the record, he’s not fucking kidding.

The hammer drops that Angelo owns a sangwich shop, so not only is he the best chef (Kenny is going to challenge for sure), he has another clear advantage in this quickfire. And thankfucking God, because that means when he wins the quickfire with liquid love on a plate, he has immunity, and thus can’t win the elimination challenge. And now the suspense of him winning every challenge is gone.

Tracey wins the lottery in a huge way. Not only will she get immunity by being partnered with Angelo, she apparently  has a crush on him and gets to have her arm around him. However, she later talks about her raising a child with her girlfriend, so I’m thinking she’s just providing back support to the Golden One when she talks about putting her arm around him. Again, I don’t know. Bravo is making things blurry this season. Or it’s this vodka soda I’m drinking to try and make this show entertaining.

I mean for real. They tip toe around drama with the chefs during the quickfire, but the bottom line is there’s only one story to follow and that’s Kenny v. Angelo. No, Amanda, I don’t want to ro-sham-bo with you to be on the right. And, no, I don’t care that you are seductively taking of your Top Chef coat in your opening for the show.

Alex is afraid Kenny will cut him. Wahhhh.

Jacquline and Stephen win the award for most awkward couple ever.

I swear to Jesus when they showed the clip of Arnold and Kelly working together I had to rewind 4 times to be sure that the hand with the giant bling on the finger was Arnold’s. I forgot what their drama was.

Tiffany and Lynne. Who? Also, what is a knife and fork sandwich?

The Elimination challenge is to feed 50 school children for $2.68 per child. They want the chefs to understand the obstacles that come with feeding middle-school children healthy meals on a tight budget.

The chef’s are broken up into teams of 4. Angelo has immunity so he gets to pick who he wants on his and Tracey’s team. He picks Kenny and Alex. Apparently, it’s all strategery because if their team loses it’s Kenny’s ass on the line, and that would make Angelo’s life a whole lot easier. Who knows if Angelo was really trying to sabotage his team to put Kenny on the line, but he did make celery and peanut butter and claimed at some point he “turned a rock into a wheel.”

No, bitch. You turned a bunk ass, high sugar, high fat snack into a high sugar, high fat snack.

Hard to tell if he’s trying. It doesn’t really matter anyway. Jacqueline, who I fully expected to make banana pudding without banana ( you know to make it more healthy) came through in the clutch to dump 2 pounds (!) of sugar into her banana pudding and is sent home. Hopefully she and John are drinking cosmos.

She’s not the only one who completely missed the boat on this challenge, however. No, no. Our resident vixen Amanda insisted on making a sherry wine braised chicken or something. If Lindsay Lohan was at school this day, then fine. Otherwise, why do 7th graders want chicken braised in sherry wine? Also, why do they want mushy onion rice?

But, who cares anyway because the only thing you need to know about the elimination challenge is this:

Gale: “What do you think of Kelly’s taco?
Tom: “I think it’s good.”
Sam: “That is a solid taco”.

Yes, I am 12, and I loved every second of it.

Judges’ table was also awesome.

Angelo pleads the fifth. He’s so fucking cocky that you have to love it.

Everyone else is trying to establish themselves.

Stephen decides he will call Kenny out for not being more assertive in his team. Kenny replies with a dig about the ridiculous amount of sugar Jacqueline used in her pudding. Kim then fires back about the fat/sugar content in peanut butter. So, Ed says “Does Sherry wine really  need to be in the chicken?” Kim says, “They weren’t drinking it.”

Apparently Kim likes braising in sherry. Gail gives that the big fat F YOU by saying, “I like a lot of things. I like vodka. Not cooking with it.”

And with that I downed my last sip of vokda/soda and wondered if I could prove Gail wrong.

Whatsherface won for her tacos. Apparently her taco was really good.

We are now in our last month of beach living and trying to enjoy every second of it. Unfortunately, June Gloom is not cooperating with our desire to spend every waking second at the beach. Couple that with the fact that it took me 1 hour, 10 minutes to make the 12 mile drive home from work yesterday, and we are actually really looking forward to moving closer to UCLA.

Because it is summer, and UCLA student-athletes are not around much, Laef had this entire week off. I believe he spent Monday on the couch. I also believe that he has not worn underwear all week, but I try not to ask too many questions. However, I did shed a small tear when I called him on Tuesday and he was outside in our storage shed organizing things to prepare for the move. I shed 6 more tears when I came home and saw the trash cans filled to the brim with random shit that he had finally decided we no longer needed to keep.

Feeling super accomplished after Tuesday’s events, my sources (Sanch) tell me that Wednesday was spent on the couch. On Thursday, Laef had to stop by work for something, so he decided that while he was showered and wearing underwear, he would go look at some apartments.

We had a short list of top choices near UCLA.

We are seeing one of these places on Sunday, but he decided to do a drive by to check out the area. He liked it, and across the street from the apartment complex was another building that had a for rent sign, so he called the number. Apparently, a 70-ish year old lady answered and hit Laef with a barrage of questions. Are you alone? Is it you and your friend? Oh, it’s your wife? Do you want to wait for you wife?

Eventually Laef cut her off to let her know that he wanted to see the place, and also tell her we have a cat so if that’s a deal breaker, no need to waste her time.

Laef: “We have a cat. Is that OK?”

Cat-Eater: “Um, oh. Does it run around outside?”

Laef: “No. He stays inside.”

Cat-Eater: “Do you have to bring it with you?”

No, bitch. We are leaving Sanch in Manhattan Beach to become a surfer dude and pay his own rent.

Besides, who would play Cribbage with Laef if we abandoned The Sanch?

It only got better once Laef was actually able to get inside to see the place. When she showed Laef the bathroom she said, “A perfect place for your kitty”.

So, yeah, whatever that means.

During the day, I called on another place that was in a perfect location. I asked the guy if it was available right now because we won’t be ready to move until July. He said yes. I said I’d keep an eye on it, and if it’s still vacant when we’re ready to move, I will call him back.

Creepy Landlord/Hustler: “Oh, you’ll watch it like Wall Street, heh?”

Me: ….

CL/H: “Why don’t you pull the trigger. Put a deposit.  I’ll hold it for you.”

Me: “Ihavetogobye!”

It’s not so much what he said, it’s how he said it. I pictured him in a wife-beater with mad amounts of black chest hair protruding and a gold Rolex that he picked up on Canal Street. He was super pushy wanting to get confirmation without us having seen the place or met him.

In a sense, we are interviewing landlords as much as they are seeking good tenants. I don’t want to be hustling with my landlord every month or worried that The Sanch’s mug will end up on a milk carton. But, there are a TON of vacancies all over the place and it seems with the economy the way it is, landlords want to find people to fill those empty apartments. So much so that they’re willing to consider a cat even though it’s obvious they hate cats.

After meeting with creepy lady who hates cats, Laef went to our top choice to check it out. I called him later to get the scoop and see if he liked it.

Me: “What did you think?”

Laef: “It doesn’t have a shower.”

Me: “Say what?”

Laef: “It only has a bath.”

Me: “How? What? I don’t ….”

Laef: “You like baths.”

Me: “Not in the morning at 6:30 when I have 5 minutes…OK, we are not even having this conversation. I’m not taking baths everyday. Who takes  a bath?”

As my friend Erin said, Ernie takes a bath. That is who takes a bath.

Or Kate Winslet.

So, yeah. I’m not a Muppet, and therefore we are not moving to a place without a shower.

To Be Continued.

This season it’s Gail’s boobs versus Padma’s boobs.

And, correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe Padma referred to Gail as luscious. Add a little Eric Ripert, 6-inch heels on P, suede Adidas kicks on Tom, and I’m thinking this is a sexy season.

At least at the judges table.

I can do without 17-inch dreadlocks, chicken liver, and limp cucumber.

It’s the first episode, and therefore we get introduced to this season’s chefs. Within minutes we meet our antagonist, Angelo, when he proclaims that there will be blood on the stage for anyone who goes against him. He’s worked with Le Someone, been to Le Somewhere, and asks fellow chef, Tim, if he has gone to Le Louis XV in France.

We can’t really see Tim’s face during the convo, only the slithering smirk of Angelo – arms crossed, hair gooed straight up and sideways (both at the same time), Members Only jacket looking thing, and perfectly orchestrated (we’ll get to that later) 3-day shadow. Luckily, Tim tells us what his eyes were probably saying during the rooftop tete-a-tete: “This is some BULLLLLL shit”.

Love it.

Finally, Padma and Tom come onto the roof and interrupt the formalities. For some reason Padma is wearing 6 (maybe even 7) inch  heels. I do not know if this is supposed to distract us from the fact that she’s now a mommy, her scar, or something else, but it worked for me. It also alerted me to the fact that Tom is wearing black suede Adidas shoes. Hot. I’m distracted from his baldness. And lack of height.

The first quickfire follows the Top Chef format, with a slight twist. The chefs will need to showcase basic skills – peel potatoes, brunoise onions, break down chicken. In order to advance you need to be quick. However, the 4 fastest will actually have to cook something with those ingridients to win the 20K prize. This is a good addition to this challenge, because peeling quickly does not necessarily equal the best chef.

Unfortunately, this works in Angelo’s favor as he is the second fastest in the skill part of the challenge, but in the cooking portion, he is tops, and wins the money over Kenny. There’s a hint of squirrel side eye from Kenny as Angelo wins, but luckily he will tell us exactly what he was thinking when he conducts his one on one interview: “What the fuck?”

Unluckily, Angelo and his sideways hat backward also gets to do interviews. “I actually want to be the first contestant to win every single challenge.”

Now we move onto the elimination challenge, and in this rare instance it’s actually a good thing to be picked last. The chefs are divided into four groups and they are competing against each other within those groups. There are 4 chefs per group, and one person will be in the top 4 and one person will be in the bottom 4 with the possibility of going home. So, the top 4 from the quickfire get to start picking from the remaining chefs, and seeing as they’ll be competing amongst the people in their group, they’re obviously trying to pick the weak people.

(I’m pretty sure that paragraph does not make sense, but fuck it. It is not important whatsoever, and there are too many 4s.)

Tracey Bloom is picked second and all I am thinking is that she reminds me a lot of Jesse Sandlin from Season 6. Which does not bode well for her.

Notables from the elimination challenge:

Jacqueline. It was obvious where things were going with her when she said, “It’s a little bit risky, but also a safe bet.” No, sweetie. It’s one or the other. And,  if you’re making chicken liver mousse without butter for a French chef, you are fucked. Case closed.

Angelo. He continued to drop sweet gems: “I’m like an orchestra with flavors. I can tell you when it’s gonna hit your mouth (that’s what he said), why it’s gonna hit your mouth (that’s what he said, too!)”.

John Somerville. I just can’t.

Jesse Tracey: “Steven’s a little hick”…smoker laugh, smoker laugh. Ugh.

Stephen: O-HI-O. All I know about Steven is that he told us that leaving his baby twins was the hardest thing about the process, but he was sure excited about getting wastey in the stew room. “I’m gonna throw my fruity snacks on a hard 6. SHOOTAH, SHOOTAH!” Thatta kid. I’d be chilling with him while those ones who were all like, “I take this seriously” frowned in agony for 18 hours on a folding chair.

Amanda: What in the Sam hell was on that plate? It looked like a limp cucumber dick on a pile of … OK, I’m stopping there. It wasn’t pretty.

When the judges came in, it was back to the battle of Padma v. Gail, now in the form of colorful v-neck dresses. Of course, there was a hint of Eric R. splashed in the middle. The judges ate without having to spit anything out, so that was nice.

And, after one episode, Beethoven set the presidents (no, he really said presidents) and is 2-0.

As in tennis, people!

Geez. You think this is a blog for young people who laugh at words like balls and fart?  Well, it’s not. This is a blog for old people. Like me.

Last week I celebrated another birthday, and inched my way slightly closer to 40. No big thing, really. I even bragged on my Facebook page that I stayed up until 1 a.m. on Friday night celebrating. Then I celebrated all day on Saturday. I was totally patting myself on the back all day Sunday. Feeling like a cool kid after staying up past 9 p.m. TWO NIGHTS IN A ROW!

Apparently, I was feeling so good on Sunday, that Laef and I decided to go play tennis. By play tennis, I mean hit two balls over the giant 50-foot fence within 5 minutes and try as hard as we could to have a rally that reached 5.

This ain’t table tennis, yo.

After a while it became clear that this was the first time Laef had ever played tennis. So, I pretty much dominated him with my sick back hand and my wicked serve (I’m testing him here to see what it will take for him to comment on the blog). He tried to make me run back and forth all over the court, but I just kept yelling, “Marathon, Bitch! I can run all day!”

Nothing will make you feel more youthful than dominating your 20-something husband on the court.

However, everything starting going downhill midway through our tennis “match”. Honestly, we were the youngest people at the courts by at least 70 years. And while we were struggling to rally, these freaking pension-livers were playing like they just swam with alien Cocoon’s. Seriously. It was embarrassing. I mean, the courts are HUGE, the fences around the courts are HUGE, and yet we somehow managed to hit balls onto their court in the middle of their super-intense match time and time again.

So, we are now signed up for tennis lessons, and I shit you not, the age group on the web site says: 18-100. And, I bet there will be some 100-year old there to remind me that, I am in fact, playing a sport that old people can play (and play well).

Later that night, Laef and I went to the movies to see Iron Man 2. Nothing makes me want to stab myself more than sitting in movies with teenagers. I’m thinking that makes me old.

I won’t even tell you how old I felt when I watched the MTV Movie Awards. My favorite part of the night was Sandra Bullock, and she’s well into her 40s. Kristen Stewart is the most awkward person ever, and I have absolutely no idea why anyone would want to put their mouth on Robert Pattinson or Taylor Lautner. But right there in front of my eyes was Tom Cruise and J-Lo doing what they had to do to stay relevant: booty shake it for the kids who weren’t even alive when Top Gun came out. They know that the Twilight generation is running things now, and they wanted to impress them. I sure do miss Jenny from the Block, though.

ANYWAY, I went to bed Sunday still trying to think that I was young and cool.

And then Monday morning BITCH-slapped me.

I am definitely not able to bounce back after so many weekend drinks activities.

The other day I spent several hours throwing away a lot of random things that were taking up space in our house. I thought about Art then entire time. When it comes to “cleaning”, we see things the same way: Throwing stuff away is the easiest way to go.

I can be somewhat obsessive about clutter. We live in a small place, so every little scrap of paper makes me a little twitchy. Unfortunately, Laef does not suffer from the same affliction. Laef does not seem to notice when there are 12 crinkled up Popsicle wrappers with melted juice lining the coffee table. He also thinks it is necessary to save EVERYTHING he has ever gotten in his life.

Maybe I watched Up In The Air one too many times. Maybe after hearing George Clooney tell me that my “back pack”  was weighing me down I got a little crazy and started throwing away random crap that was collecting dust over the past 15 years.

Or maybe I got it from Art.

Two years ago to the day, I wrote an Ode to Art for his birthday. No need to really write a new Ode because I pretty much covered everything in that one.

Today is Art’s birthday, and since he is one of the few people I know checks the blog, I figured I’d give him a shout out. Also, my mom made a point to let everyone Facebook know that it was his medicare birthday so I’m guessing that’s a big deal.

Oh, Art. Where would any of us be if not for your Mr. Mom ways? All of my high school friends can attest to the fact that I had the best lunches at school. Particularly on the days that Art made egg salad sandwiches. Everyone from high school can also attest that our house was the best because there was always an abundance of Miller Lite in the fridge. We could always count on Art to give us the condom talk, and in the next breath ask us if we wanted more sour cream for our baked potato.

Art and I had our battles when I was in high school (I know it’s hard to believe, but I was a psychotic bitch who liked to do the opposite of what I was told to do). Back then, I definitely was NOT of the mindset that things should be kept tidy. No, I believed that I needed to save every single issue of Vogue magazine from 1989-1992. And they all needed to be stacked in my room in a somewhat neat pile. (Sidenote: I am very, very pissed at myself that I threw those magazines away at some point). I never made my bed, picked up my clothes, turned down my music or got off the phone. My room was a disaster area, and I’m sure it made Art crazy.

So, AJB III, enjoy the silence in your empty, clean, well-kept nest today. And thank you for always feeding us and cleaning up after us.

Have a Miller Lite and cheers to the fact that you can now get a discount at Denny’s for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Disclaimer: I haven’t even seen the movie yet. This is not a review. It is my internal debate about whether I’m even going to pay $15 to see this shit in the theater.

Back in the day, Sex in the City was a Sunday evening event that brought my closest friends and I together. Between 1998-2004, the series gave us a great excuse to come together to eat and drink. Well, the girls enjoyed the eating and drinking and the boys were super hopeful that the episode would show boobies.

Sidenote: The other night I was watching a SATC rerun on TNT. As soon as the first scene came on, Laef said: “This sucks. This is the one where they all show their boobies, but it’s TNT so we won’t see them.” He claims that he only knows that because I’ve watched SATC reruns a million times, but I think boys’ brains log that shit, and they can easily reference it when needed. Funny, they can’t easily reference where the vacuum cleaner is stored, but that is a post for a different day.

Anyway, SATC, like many shows was in its peak during Seasons 1, 2 and 3. Then they started stretching for storylines, and things got a little far fetched. So, they wrapped it up, leaving enough open ends to justify a movie. In 2008, with plenty of 30-something women joneseing for their SATC fix (myself included), the movie hit theaters.

I ate that shit up. I admit it. I went with my friend Allie. We got cosmos beforehand. We waited in line. There were questions and stories that were still justified in being answered. The Carrie and Big wedding, the exploration of Miranda’s marriage, Charlotte finally having a baby, Samantha living in California doing whatever it is that she does.

But, let’s face it. After 2 hours and 25 minutes, everything is explored. Carrie has her ridiculous New York apartment. Charlotte has all the happiness she could ever want. Miranda saves her marriage, and Samantha does whatever it is that she does.

The End.

Frankly, I don’t want to get Carried away again.

I’ve seen the previews. If someone can explain to me why the fuck Aiden would be in Abu Dhabi, I’m all ears. I know some of my girls are going to get mad at me and tell me to lighten up. This is what SATC is supposed to be: meaningless fun. Don’t ask questions because it’s not meant to make perfect sense. It’s meant to be a fun-filled 2 hours with your girlfriend on a Saturday afternoon.

So, Carrie is struggling to feel free after two years of marriage. And she’s bumps into Aiden. Thus Carrie becomes the girl I want to punch and say, “But, sweetie, we’ve been down this road before. With Big. Not with Big. In love with big. Heartbroken by Big. Left at the alter by Big. Married to Big. Now, after all this, you want me to watch you flirt with disaster in the form of Aiden? Now that you have your gagillion-dollar Manhattan apartment, faithful man and all the shoes you want?

Hell. NAW.

Charlotte and Miranda are struggling to raise kids and keep their sanity. THAT, I can relate to. Well, no I can’t because I don’t have kids. But, I’ve seen people with kids. It seems hard, exhausting, chaotic and, at times, frustrating. This would be a perfect story line if Charlotte didn’t have a billion dollars and several nannies.

The only thing I can decipher about Samantha’s story is that she takes lots of pills to keep herself, um, youthful? Horny? Nimble? All of the above?

I don’t know what happened to me since 1998. When the show was on HBO, the writing was really good. It was like nothing I’d ever seen before. I LOVED it. I still watch those DVDs. Um, hello, I drank Cosmos with Amy as though we were trotting around NYC and not Eugene.

Now I’d like a little more credit as a 30-something woman. I mean, at least give me some decent writing and some believable story lines. And, please, for the love of NEW YORK, keep the girls in the city that made the show what it was.

But, maybe it’s just time to shelve the girls. It makes me sad to say, but I wanted to watch them prounce around New York. I lived through them and their single lives. I lived through Miranda’s high-paying job. I lived through Carrie’s cute apartment and the fact that she got to type on a Mac all day looking cute and getting paid.

I really don’t want to see what happens when they become more like me. If I want to see a guy glued to his TV eating take out food, I can look across the couch.