Tales from La La Land

Kids.

I keep hearing when they’re your own, you don’t notice certain things. Maybe the poop smells like Absolut Citron. Maybe the boundless snot glistens like rare diamonds under the moon. Maybe the whining sounds like Dave Matthews Band. Maybe you don’t even hear your own child’s whining.

So, the other day, I’m in CVS thoroughly enjoying the bajillion aisles of make up, bubble bath, hair accessories, magazines and candy. I finally decide that I should get the fuck out of there before I spend $200 on purple nail polish. I end up in line behind the dude in highwaters who is buying condoms and gum. (Is he buying the gum so that he’s got something else on the conveyor belt? Or his he buying the gum because he is on his way to a date-thing, in which condoms and gum are equally necessary? No, seriously, I was analyzing it in my mind for 2 minutes). I am in front of the lady who is returning a tube of toothpaste.

Said lady is with her son, who for some odd reason has a beige rubber band around his head. I don’t know if this rubber band is affecting his mood, but he is fucking moaning and whining and bitching about standing in line. He is at least 8 years old, which in my book puts him about 5 years past being allowed to whine. He starts off by complaining that it is taking forever. His mom sooths him by telling him that they are next, right after the lady with 4,231,534 bottles of nail polish in her cart.

After realizing that the “it’s gonna take foreverrrrrr” line isn’t working, he moves to the “I have to go to the bathrooooooooooooom.” So, at this point his mom calmly says, “OK, there’s a bathroom here. Go to the back and use the bathroom.”

But he doesn’t want to use the CVS bathroom. He says he can’t, and wants to wait until they’re home to use the bathroom. At which point, I sort of start to relate to this little rubber band-wearing punk, because, really, who wants to take a shit in the CVS bathroom? I get it. So, I tell his mom to go in front of me, and she is super appreciative, and really nice. She goes in front of me, but her punk-ass son is still behind me becasue he didn’t hear the conversation – the one where I tell him to go ahead of me – over his whining. He finally realizes what’s going on and whips past me, still mouthing off.

This is what should have happened next. His mom should have pointed out the gesture, and had him say thank you.

Here is what happened next: Rubber band boy whines, and his mom says, “OK, see, she let us go in front of her, and now we will be home soon so you can go to the bathroom.” And then rubber band boy says, “I don’t have to go the bathroom. I just wanted to get out of here.”

At this point, I wonder: Does the proverb, “It takes a village to raise a child” mean that I can bitch slap this little ass hat in an effort to help him learn some fucking manners?

At some point during her 5th birthday party this weekend, my niece Sophie and her cousin Avery slipped away to make an audition tape for Shear Genius. I knew that they were into painting their nails, putting on eye shadow and dressing up in princess attire. You know, things that can wash off or be taken off. So when the two of them disappeared for an unspecified amount of time on Saturday, there was no reason to be alarmed.

My sister told me that she did become a little concerned when she realized it was just too damn quiet.

Apparently, it was so quiet because Sophie was focusing very, very hard on her client, Avery. Specifically, she was trying to make sure to get Avery’s bangs into a perfect V just in time for school to start next month! I’ve been told that Sophie’s cut is actually worse, but you can’t see it here. She’s apparently got a giant bald spot on the back of  her head.

This is probably more funny for me, and for my mom, because we don’t have to send those kids to school. We aren’t those parents. We aren’t the kids who have to hit up school on the first day with jacked hair. I can just hear Sophie now, “Avery, sit here quietly while I make you so beautiful. Your hair is definitely NOT going to be a hot mess!”

And then my memory started coming back to me. I didn’t have the heart to tell my mom (after she proudly proclaimed, “None of you guys ever did that”) that while she was away working and providing for her kids, a lot of shit went down that’s probably better left unsaid (i.e. light matches on the side of the house, playing with firecrackers, snooping through Christmas presents). One of the things that went down (a lot) was me using my brother as my muse.

Now, this could be a  softball muse (i.e. he catches while I learn to pitch), refining my eye-shadow applying skills, having him test out the giant hill with his big wheel before I go down it with mine, making him take the lead role on doorbell ditch, and most importantly, practicing my beautician skills.

Sidenote: Taking the lead role in doorbell ditch basically meant that he walked up to the house across the street, rang the doorbell, and had to run away fast enough to hide. All while I watched safely from our living room window.

Sidenote 2: I definitely made him let me put make up on him. A lot.

Sidenote 3: If it makes everyone feel better, I once took my bike down a steep trail and flipped over my handle bars, which led to a huge fat lip. He didn’t always get the short end of the stick.

Sidenote 4: I wrote my brother a really nice card about 15 years ago apologizing for an enormous list of things I did to him (including stealing all of his money during monopoly and eating all of the fruit roll ups before he could have any).

Sidenote 5: Fuck, I still feel really guilty about all this.

ANYWAY, while I was thinking about Avery and Sophie going to school with those bangs, I remembered something. I once cut my brother’s hair for picture day. I do not know a) why I was allowed to do this and b) why it wasn’t fixed before the photo.

So, yeah, hopefully Mike can talk to Avery and tell her how pimp it is to go to school with sweet bangs. Because, truthfully, I’m starting to think that this kind of debauchery runs in the family. Laef doesn’t seem to remember going through any sort of hair-cutting scandal with his sister. I have checked with co-workers, and they both deny ever being in such a predicament.

When I was younger, it was hard for me to not take scissors to my hair. If I wanted layers, then I would simply just try to give myself layers.

Exhibit A (Before):

Dude. Perfect hair. Perfect bangs. But, noooooooooooo, I had to get my layer on before picture day.

Exhibit B (After):

Damn. Apparently I was that kid.

So, yeah, Avery and Sophie are just following in a long line of Ross traditions. And maybe someday Avery will be lucky enough to have Brady write a blog about her and put super cute pictures of her for the whole world to see!

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.

As Laef and I near our one-year anniversary, I am learning all sorts of things about marriage. Yes, it’s about the usual things that people tell you – compromise, partnership, love, fighting for covers, debating at Blockbuster for 30 minutes, disagreeing over American Idol finalists, and major debate over what constitutes good television.

It’s also about the little white lies we keep. I’m talking about harmless things, not “I just bought a $300 Coach purse and am not telling my husband” lies. I don’t know what little white lies Laef keeps, but I know his ass gets per diem on every road trip, yet he never seems to mention how much or show me where he keeps his secret stash. I can respect that. Everyone needs a secret stash to do with what they please. (Laef will tell you that he ends up spending his secret stash on me, but really, he will treat me to something in hopes of some kind of sexual something, so technically, he is spending his secret stash on himself. Hold up. Did I just call myself a prostitution whore?)

So, anyway, I might have woken up to a giant pile of Sanch barf yesterday morning. And I might have pretended to not see it. I might have left it for Laef to wake up to.

Sidenote: Before you start calling me mean names, let me quote Lt. Col. Matthew Markinson: “I don’t want a deal and I don’t want immunity. I want you to know that I am proud neither of what I have done nor what I am doing.”

I really hate Sanch barf. And I know leaving it for Laef to wake up to was an uber-shitty wife move. Of course Laef called me on his way to work, asked if I saw it. I fumbled around a little, kind of dodging the question. To make myself feel better I said, “Doesn’t matter because I would have left it for you anyway”. Then he goes on an on about how I will need to start learning to deal with barf. Somehow I feel like a baby that comes out of you doesn’t have nasty barf like a cat who licks its ass. I could be wrong, but I’m banking on it not bothering me quite so much.

Fast forward to last night when I’m talking to Sanch (um, yes, all people with pets talk to them) and I say something like, “Let’s not leave a pile of barf overnight for us to wake up to”.

FUCK.

I IMMEDIATELY got the evil squirrel eye from Laef. (Thanks for the video, Erin!)

I felt like an asshole.

I tried to justify it because the night before, Mr. Perfect Husband made a bag of popcorn. We were settled in to watch the 24 finale (check that, I was settled in to fall asleep to the 24 finale), and Laef cozies up to me on the couch with his popcorn. So, of course I reach for the bag and Laef yells at me: “My popcorn!”

The fuck? Who doesn’t share a giant bag of popcorn? When the butter is wafting in front of my face? It’s almost like the time he instructed me to eat AROUND the giant chunk of brownie in HIS ice cream tub.

So we both do things that are questionable, right?

OK, yes, I know. Leaving a pile of barf > Not sharing popcorn on the Fucked Up Scale.

And, BTW, I fell asleep the other night and Laef took this picture. Why I allow a barfing, asslicking, litterbox using cat to get up in my grill is a question I constantly ask myself.

I do a lot of things to block out the fact that I’ve become everything I thought I wouldn’t in terms of my professional life. Never in my life did I think I’d be a person who sat behind a desk from 8 a.m. – 5 p.m., Monday through Friday. While I don’t miss the Sunday afternoon hours of working in college athletics, I do miss the roaming around I did for most of my work day.

Let’s be honest, I miss the bullshitting with people while standing at football practice pretending to work. I miss the free grub in the Autzen Stadium press box on a frigid Saturday morning after a long night of drinking (nothing says Saturday morning college football like Hole In The Wall). I miss wandering all over the Cas Center looking for Jonathan Stewart because he’s found the best hiding place to avoid interviews. It annoyed the crap out of me at the time, but now I realize that I was constantly in motion. Rarely was I behind my desk.

That was over 3 years ago. Now I sit behind a desk. The good news: I have my weekends completely free. I don’t stand in freezing rain pretending to care about whether or not Nate Costa took reps with the first team. The bad news: Fuck. I sit. A lot.

Office jobs are funny. It’s all of the stereotypical stuff one might think. Our color printer broke the other day and it was like a 6.0 Earthquake had struck. I am not trying to be disrespectful in light of the recent quakes – I am telling you that people lose their shit when office supplies go haywire.

Pandemonium, I tell you.

So, there’s the stress of: “You stapled this wrong”, “The printer is broken”, “How do you scan this?” (Yes, important people really are that stupid), “WHY CAN’T YOU DO 17 THINGS AT ONCE?”

And then there’s the joy of your Office Max order arriving.

I swear to God I get so excited when my new Post-Its arrive.

It’s disgusting. And I hate myself  for loving ballpoint pens so much.

Just a reminder that on Sunday I will be live blogging at The Cooler during the E! Red Carpet extravaganza. The telecast begins at 6 p.m. ET/3 p.m. PT, so I will go live just before 3 p.m. PST. I’m no expert in movies – or even fashion – but I like to see what people are wearing, what they say, who they’re with, etc. Last year there were a lot of people (OK, by a lot I mean Lamb) who came over to join that chat, and that made it more fun. I just re-read the comments and am cracking up. I hope you guys will stop by and share your thoughts again.

In completely unrelated news (unless we see some of the starlets holding one on the red carpet), why do we need a 31-oz option at Starbucks?

When I read about this, I had to roll my eyes a little. Starbucks is now trying to keep up with the likes of McDonalds and Dunkin’ Donuts. I guess the good news is that they’ll only be offering iced coffee and tea in this size, but it’s only a matter of time before Britney rolls in, demanding that they put her Frap in the 31-oz cup, is photographed with it, and then of course, everyone else will want what she has.

My co-worker is from France. It’s so interesting to see how he approaches food. It’s a completely different mentality from how we do it in the US. Frenchie eats very, very slowly. And he doesn’t eat huge portions. He eats small portions, seemingly savoring every bite. He would never need a 31-oz drink because it would probably take him 2 years to finish it.

So, anyway, it seems as though you can get a super size of just about anything these days. And they wouldn’t offer it if there wasn’t a demand, so I’m probably alone in thinking it’s insane.

See you Sunday!

I recently visited home for the holidays, and being back in my old room from high school brings back a lot of memories.

Now, I didn’t totally hate high school, but I also didn’t totally love it.

I was a zoo in every sense of the word. I was a cheerleader with jet black hair who loved The Cure and played softball in the spring. I’ve never been the kind of person to fit into one type of mold – I somehow always find something in common with almost every person I meet.

That doesn’t really work in high school, and people end up questioning your moral character.

“Damn. Why is that bitch talking to them?”

If I somehow lived the life of the characters on Friday Night Lights (I know, I really need to get over this show) where they all seem so grown up and mature (they go to bars for fucks sake), that might have been OK.  While they all go through serious drama, they come off as way more mature than I ever was.

Anyway, I recently came across this photo of me snapped in my bedroom when I was a senior in high school.

It’s no fucking wonder my parents (and my brother) hated me. If I wasn’t lazy, I would get on photoshop and draw arrows to the MANY things that are wrong with this picture.

For starters, God forbid I allow myself to get a little sun. And, secondly, lose the goth/emo/I hate life bitchface.

You will notice that there is a bright yellow construction/traffic light thing. Apparently, I thought it was cool to steal it and bring it home. I remember that. It was cool until I tried to go to sleep at night.

Blink. Blink. Blink. Blink. Blink.

WHO THOUGHT STEALING A BLINKING LIGHT WAS COOL? WHY?

A few things of note on my mirrored closet doors.

1. I thought the GAP was THAT cool that I put a sticker on my wall. The GAP. Seriously?

2. There is a photo of my brother (taped above a photo of some male model) in which I clearly drew devil horns and a goatee on him. What a nice person I was.

3. Apparently, I thought that Bartyles and James wine coolers were so cool that I put their labels on my mirror. Wine coolers? Seriously.

4. I guess I liked black and white photos of people kissing. A LOT.

5. Wire hangers were totally acceptable to me.

The point is, if I ever had to go back to those days, I might die. Even knowing what I know now, I would never want to be an angst-ridden 17-year old who covers her wall with stupid shit and has enough anger to last a lifetime.

I’m putting this on the internet and in writing so that it is real. So that there’s no turning back, and so that I can lean on random people for support.

After weeks of debating in my head, I have decided to run a full marathon. I have 15 weeks to train, and will do my first (and almost certainly last) marathon in Eugene, OR on May 2.

When I ran my first half marathon, I watched in awe as people continued on for 13 more miles after I had crossed the finish line of the half marathon. I have very close friends who have run full marathons, so I know it can be done. I know you don’t have to be an elite athlete, and that anyone can start from walking and progress to 26.2 miles.

But, I am nervous. I’m worried about the time commitment, the possibility of injury and about the complete change in my life over the next 4 months. Because the truth is, I can’t really make weekend plans because running 20 miles on a Sunday doesn’t really coincide with a night of drinking on a Saturday. Nor does it coincide with doing ANYTHING on a Sunday aside from that run.

And so I thought a lot about this decision. It comes at a time where I have been seriously assessing certain things in my life and wanting to change those things. Focusing on this will force me to make some of those changes – drinking less, eating better, thinking about positive goals as opposed to dwelling on petty things that don’t matter.

There really isn’t a more perfect time to attempt this. There’s no wedding to plan, no babies planned in the very near future and no big plans over the next 5 months.

So, here goes.

WTF am I doing again?

Oh, yeah. Eugene 2010.

My favorite place for so many reasons.

The Proclaimers wrote a sweet song about walking 500 miles and then 500 more “just to be the man who falls down at your door”.

Even The Proclaimers knew that 1,000 miles was their max.

I’ve already told you how I don’t have any grand resolutions for 2010, but I am trying to continue to challenge myself in different areas of my life. In 2009, I decided I was going to run a half marathon. I ended up running three over the course of the year, as well as one 10K.

A lot of people scoff when I talk about running. Most people hate running and get bored with. To be honest, sometimes I hate running too.

As I prepare for the upcoming Surf City Half Marathon, I’m finding myself extremely bored with it. I am lucky this time around in that I don’t need to train as diligently because I’ve been running consistently for almost two years.

But, I need running.

For me, exercising does two things for me. It keeps me fit, and it keeps me mentally healthy. I know immediately if I have missed more than 3 days of running. I just don’t feel right.

Sometimes, I am sadder. Sometimes, I am bitchier. Sometimes, I am more lethargic. I don’t sleep as well and I am not myself. Laef can also tell and will very politely say, “Sooooo….maybe you should go on a run.”

That’s code for: You’re being a huge bitch and I don’t know why you are sobbing over the fact that Tim Riggins is sleeping with his 30-year old neighbor and not you. GET OVER IT.

Lately I’ve been thinking that I need a new goal. I have been dangerously close to committing to a full marathon. Or buying a bike a trying a triathalon. Or joining a team that competes in something like the Hood to Coast.

And then the other day, I stumbled upon Operation Jack.

This is all I can say about that: The Fuck?

I had to read this web site about 500 times. And then 500 times more just to be the person who fell off of my chair.

Briefly: Sam Felsenfeld is running 60 (YES SIXTY. 6-0) marathons in 2010 to raise awareness for Autism. Essentially, Sam is running ONE MARATHON A WEEK to honor is son Jack.

Maybe I am the only one freaking out because after I run one half marathon, I need like at least a week off. Then, I slowly ease back into running 3 miles.

This fool is in wicked shape. He’s running around a 3:30 pace.

It’s insane. I am in awe of this, and it has completely helped me become re-inspired by running.

And, for all of the people who shy away from running or exercise, Sam wasn’t a world class athlete. He was an unhealthy, overweight college student. He started walking. Then he started jogging. Then he started running. And now he runs marathons.

Since I’m on this big, “I can do anything I want” kick, I thought this story was worth sharing.

He’s a multi-media phenomenon.

TV star.

Print legend.

Internet sensation.

He is my husband.

And, seriously, when the fuck did Laef become the most famous person in our house?

It started on Monday night with UCLAs first regular season game, which was televised nationally by ESPN.

He was shown trying to heal a point guard with leg cramps.

Some people’s (Hansen, Moseley) version of heal might have the words, “rub one out”, but he was on TV for fuck sakes. For a lot of minutes.

And, as much as I want to, OK, am going to, mock my husband on my blog, I will say that seeing him dressed up, doing his job, made me super proud.

I got several texts during the game from people who were watching, and who were also excited.

Go honey. You are so LA.

Then on Tuesday, I was told there was a front page sports photo of mah boo from his days at Oregon (This because the Ducks are traveling to Tuscon to play Arizona and when Laef was working at Oregon, the starting QB suffered a season-ending injury. And there’s a photo of Laef carrying him off the field).

Now I’m wondering if we need an agent. I mean, fuck, there’s got to be a reality show here somewhere, right?

Because wouldn’t people love to see how at home the DIVA is just another man.

For example, he took my cocktail dresses out of my garment bag so that he could use it to transport his suits to the tailor and when he was done with the garment bag it somehow ended up on the bottom of the closet instead of wrapped around me dresses?

I blog this because I found it completely hilarious. It falls in the category of him taking off his dirty clothes and leaving them on the floor.

A mere inches from the hamper.

I literally sit there and stare at it for few seconds and try to understand it. How can it be harder to put them two inches to the right?

Maybe that’s how DIVAs roll.