Tales from La La Land

Tonight will be our last night in our little beach cottage. All this time we thought it was a modest 700-square foot dwelling that we made work because we were steps from the beach. It’s easy to justify having no closet space when you see this everyday. However, the other day Laef got out his measuring tape to figure out what the actual square footage.

500 square feet.

That made it even easier to continue packing boxes in anticipation of moving into a place with some real space. Not that our new place is huge, but compared to what we’ve been making work for 3 years, it’s going to feel like we can breath a little. I honestly don’t know how we made it work, but I guess we just like each other a lot to be that close day in and day out.

Despite the size, the lack of air conditioning and the commute to work, it’s a little bittersweet to be leaving. When I ran the Eugene Marathon in May, one of the things that kept me occupied was the fact that by running 26 miles around Eugene, I went past almost every place I lived in when I was in there. Between 1996-2007 I lived on Harris St., Mill St., 18th Street, Ferry St., 245 Marche Chase Dr., 295 Marche Chase Dr., Crest Dr., and Cal Young Rd. I moved almost every single year while I was there.

I have no idea why I did that.

Poinsettia Ave. in Manhattan Beach has been our home for 3 years. That is the longest either of us has lived anywhere since leaving home at 18.

There are a lot of memories.

The Six Man. That was one of the first things we did after moving in. We didn’t know what to expect, and let’s just say it became one of our favorite things to do every year. People are insane. And, it looks like we’re moving just in time because the city is trying to crack down on it big time.

Perfect Sundays. There was no better place to walk out your front door and go on a walk. We could walk to the beach, or we could just walk around the neighborhood and look at all the houses we will never buy. We went on many, many walks. It was also the perfect town to train for a marathon. I think I’ve ran on almost every street in Manhattan Beach. There’s no other place I would have liked to train. I will miss my running routes.

The Check Out Lady At Ralph’s. OK, this is random, but the same lady has worked at the self-checkout line at Ralph’s since we’ve lived here. I love going through self-checkout whenever possible because I really hate the way people bag my groceries. Yes, I am anal, but honestly, when grocery baggers put 3 things in one bag and then double bag it, I hate it. As we all know, I used to have problems with the self checkout. But, I got better, and this lady is always there to quickly save you if things go wrong. Eventually, she stopped asking for my ID (I guess she kind of got used to the wine purchases), and would exchange eye rolls with me when there were people with 700 items trying to go through the self. Randomly the other day I said bye as I was leaving and she said, “I don’t know why, but you always make me smile when I see you.” I already liked her before she stroked my ego, but that was so nice to hear at the end of a long day. I told her that I felt the same way. Then I told her we were moving. I couldn’t believe that me and the Ralph’s check out lady had gotten so close.

That’s the thing about moving. It’s hard to leave your routine behind. I have my favorite grocery store, my favorite sushi restaurant, my favorite bar, my favorite dry cleaner, my favorite gas station, my favorite breakfast spot, my favorite running routes, and my favorite memory of all: my wedding day.

Sanch has his favorite windowsill and his favorite barf spot, so he is also struggling. At this point he has no idea what is going on, he only knows that there is a lot of cardboard to eat, and a lot of boxes to play with. What he doesn’t know is that he’s about to enter a world with an air conditioner. His life is going to change forever.

We will have an extra room, and I won’t miss  people having to sleep on an air mattress on our living room floor.

Will also not miss: The 405, overpriced touristy restaurants and questionable plumbing.

Brentwood here we come!

The blog is suffering. I guess I can attribute it to writers block. There’s also a small part of me that rebelled after finishing the marathon. For months, I had to be diligent about running. The training became another thing in a never-ending to-do list.

Blogging is not necessarily a “to-do”. Obviously, if I don’t want to write, no one makes me. But, I do feel a little guilty when I leave it for weeks on end. Like I’m letting the domain go to waste. I mean, what is the point of owning the domain or having a blog if you never write on it?

This past weekend, Laef and I drove to the Bay Area to visit my family. If nothing else, I wanted to put something up for my sister and Art, who claim to check everyday.

So, here’s a brief history of what’s been going on post-marathon.

The weekend after the race, I went to San Diego for a girls night with Erin, Debbie and Kristen. It was exactly what I needed to get me out of my funk. I hadn’t been able to run the whole week, and I definitely felt “off”. Maybe it’s because my feet looked like they went through the woodchipper Fargo style. Seriously, my feet were a hot mess, and my girl Erin either didn’t want to be seen with me in flip flops, or she’s just a sweet girl (all signs point to all of the above) so she treated me to a pedicure in San Diego before the start of girls night.

It is amazing how far a little pampering can go. I didn’t even know my toes could look that cute. I ventured way out of my comfort zone (I’m usually a black nail polish kind of girl) and got bright pink toes with little white flowers. Again. WHO am I? It was so fun to sit with a friend, read trashy magazines and have my feet rubbed.

Debbie sent us a message the morning of girls night and warned “Make sure you carb load for lunch. You’re going to need a solid base for tonight.”

Erin and I decided that wine and sushi were a perfectly acceptable base.

Girls night was, um, goofy. Pictures have been deleted to protect everyone. You know, in the event they decide to run for public office.  Let’s just say that there were multiple costume changes, wigs, sunglasses, bright red lipstick, and a lot of vodka. We capped the evening by watching Betty White on SNL. I may or may not have passed out on the couch in full makeup and a sparkly blue tank top I stole out of Kristen’s closet. (I wanted my girls night clothes to be as cute as Debbie’s, and felt very un-girly in my UCLA sweatshirt).

This past weekend, Laef and I headed North to visit family. What it boiled down to was the usual – my sister and Neil did a lot of cooking (I made the mimosas so I did contribute something); my sister stole from her younger baby brother; I dominated everyone at Wii table tennis (wakeboarding is a totally different story); Laef, Neil and Mike actually combined to drink 5 beers; I somehow convinced Neil to allow the TV to be on collegiate softball; I gave Sophie candy at 10 a.m. which is apparently a big no-no for kids; and I left my cell phone sitting on a park bench only to realize it once we made it all the way back home. (Surprisingly, it was still sitting there when I went back. Damn. Kind of wanted an excuse for an iPhone).

Hanging out with the family is complete and total chaos BLISS. I actually love the madness and wouldn’t have it any other way. On Sunday before Laef and I headed back home, I took Sophie to a yogurt shop that lets you do everything by yourself. You serve your yogurt and then you get to put whatever toppings on that you see fit. In the end, you are charged by weight. Of course, being  the aunty (and being that I got to leave before her sugar high hit), I let Sophie get whatever toppings she wanted. I can tell you that she opted for: Gummy worms, chocolate sprinkles, Reeses Pieces, Reeses peanut butter cups, chocolate syrup and M&Ms. All on top of rasberry yogurt. Who would of thought chocolate syrup and gummy worms go together?

We are back home now, and because I don’t have running to keep me occupied, I am focusing my time on moving. Sadly, we will be vacating our little beach bungalow in July. It is definitely bittersweet as we have so many great memories from living in Manhattan Beach. However, we have outgrown the place and are tired of commuting to work everyday. So, on the bright side, we will be living closer to UCLA to avoid the madness of the 405 freeway, and we will finally have a guest bedroom!

Because of my excitement re: more space, I may or may not have already starting packing. This type of behavior makes Laef insane. I’m just trying to avoid one of those 13-hour moving days where you do everything in one day – pack, load the car, unpack. Those days SUCK. I’m pretty sure I will see the Longeteig’s on my doorstep in July since I think I’ve helped them move once. Or 9 times.

At first, the idea seems so logical.

Let’s make cookies for all of our friends and coworkers as gifts. It will be cheaper, more thoughtful and meaningful.

And then reality sets in when you actually count the number of people both Laef and I work with along with the neighbors, the UCLA basketball team and the mail man.

But, I was determined to make three kinds of cookies: Paula Dean’s Chocolate Gooey Butter Cookies, Paula Dean’s Ginger Cookies and Tyler Florence’s My Big, Fat Chocolate Chip Cookies.

In the end, I realized the errors of my ways, and realized that making two different kinds of cookies – or even one – would have been more manageable.

I thought everything was fine until I hit a wall midway through Sunday afternoon, had a mini-meltdown and practically divorced Laef for eating the cookies and not vacuuming.

Seriously. I was a FREAK.

I was so tired from standing in the kitchen, rolling dough into balls and washing 4,343,502 dishes that I was beginning to go insane.

Which is the only explanation for also making Martha Stewart’s slow-cook lasagna in the middle of all the cookie mayhem. (It’s actually a really easy recipe and was to die for when it was done. Super yummy).

After it was all said and done, I was happy I did it and we had 40 bags of cookies that looked like this:

I have sent Laef to work with 20 bags, and am curious to know how many bags he eats and how many he gives away. The over under is at 10 each.

After the cookie debacle was finally done, we walked downtown to watch the annual Manhattan Beach Christmas firework show. For some reason, we have never been for this, and despite the fact that my back was killing me and I was at stage four of five on the psycho meter, we went.

We stopped by our neighbors’ house on 18th street to give them cookies and a Christmas card. These are the people who came out of their houses at our wedding to throw rice at us and give us champagne.

Neither was home. The current residents informed us that they are only there during the summer.

I hate them. They totally should have had Laef and I watch their houses during the winter. We would have gladly made sure nothing went wrong.

Anyway, all of the shops downtown are open. Some have hot cocoa, some have champagne and most offer some sort of treats. There are thousands of people camped out on the closed streets.

Despite the fact that Manhattan Beach celebrates Christmas with fireworks, it was the first time this month that I actually felt like it was the holiday season.

We walked home right after and I promptly went to sleep at 8:20 p.m.

Moral of the story: It sounds logical to make homemade gifts, but sometimes a box of chocolates is just fine.

The newly crowned Allison Morris is honeymooning with Laef in New York, rubbing elbows with the upper crust of society in Manhattan. (Tori Spelling was on their flight, which technically might not count as the “upper crust”, but she’s definitely crusty.) So as to not bog her down with the task of updating her legions of fans on every intimate detail of the wedding day / weekend while enjoying her first week of wedded bliss with her new husband, I volunteered to step in and post something on her behalf. I only hope that she doesn’t get kicked off the BlogHer Network for allowing someone with testicles to post something on her site, but as Laef pointed out, I’m married, so it really shouldn’t be a problem.

The weekend had so many highlights it’s hard to know where to begin. Check that, it’s easy to know where to begin (as you’ll soon find out), but where to go from there?

THE DANCE: For most couples, I think the first dance is one of the more nerve-racking parts of the wedding day (at least it was for me). Everyone’s looking at you, and there’s really only so much rocking back and forth you can subject your guests to. Those not lacking confidence – or rhythm – can opt for something a little more involved, like salsa or swing. Or, you can do what Laef and Allison did: make everyone think they were going the traditional route, but a minute in, change it up from Carrie Underwood to Lady GaGa. This was great on so many levels: anyone who really knows the couple wasn’t surprised that “Poker Face” made an appearance at the reception, but that Allison was able to talk Laef into doing this for their first dance; Allison did all the choreography herself (with a little help from the internet); almost everyone at the reception was completely in the dark that they were doing this, Allison only spilling the beans to a few of us after a shot of Patron unlocked the key to her vault on Thursday night. I’m going to stop trying to describe it because, quite frankly, whatever I say won’t be able to do it justice.

So hop on over to YouTube to check it out.

THE MILLIONAIRES: You know how most people with money are pretentious assholes? Well, we found evidence to the contrary on Saturday. The wedding party arrived to the beach a few hours before the ceremony so we could take some pictures, and as we hiked up and down the beach, sweating our collective balls off and getting sand in uncomfortable places, all while trying to look fresh and photogenic, Laef and Allison were constantly being congratulated by the locals. One particular group seemed very interested in when / where the ceremony would be, but honestly we didn’t pay a whole lot of attention to them. Hours later, when the limo parked a couple blocks up from the beach (there are only so many streets that a stretched Hummer can fit down), we had to walk down a pedestrian street nestled between multi-million dollar beachfront homes, and who should be waiting for us on their rooftop deck but the people from beach earlier in the day. We stopped to talk for a bit, and Allison jokingly asked to use their bathroom — along with like three of her bridesmaids. And they very graciously said yes and let the girls into the bathroom on the first floor of their house, then wished us well as we headed off to the ceremony. A couple houses later, there was another group of people who applauded as we walked by and even offered us beer, which we reluctantly declined.

After the ceremony was over, we had to walk back up that same street to get back to the limo, and the people from both houses were still outside waiting for us. The people that offered us beer had a bunch of 10ish-year old girls who were armed with rice to throw at Laef and Allison, which would have been the highlight of the walk back if it wasn’t for the other house. When we got to them, they were waiting outside with a tray of champagne glasses filled with Dom Perignon (think about that – having enough money to blow a $300 bottle of champagne on a group of strangers). We toasted with the guy that presumably owned the house, and he asked where they were going on their honeymoon, and they told him they were going to New York and staying at the Waldorf Astoria, to which he shouted to the people up on the deck, “Hey guys, did you hear that? That’s one of ours!” I have no idea what “one of ours” actually means, but needless to say, this guy probably throws away more money than most of us will ever make in our lifetime, and he and his family were super cool and extremely generous (even though some of them were USC alums). Really made our afternoon.

THE PEEPS: One of my biggest concerns when Annett and I got married was what George Costanza so accurately described as the “worlds colliding” phenomenon. You have family, friends from work, friends from school, friends from back home and friends of your parents, all who the bride and/or groom may be extremely close with, but not know that the other groups even exist. Now all of a sudden here’s this great celebration that they all are a part of, and will be a part of together. Will they get along, or will it be like a junior high dance with a bunch of little groups all over the place that look judgingly at everyone else and whisper about their outfits, or how much they’re drinking, or how stupid they look on the dancefloor or how obnoxious their kids are?

Once these different worlds did collide, something very special happened. Not only did people get along, but I think that some pretty good friendships came from the wedding activities. The bridal shower, the bachelor and bachelorette party were the bride’s and groom’s first line of defense: get everyone together a couple times, presumably with an adult beverage or twelve, and by the time the wedding rolls around, people should at least know each other well enough that small talk shouldn’t be a challenge (I know Annett couldn’t wait to see everyone from the bachelorette party and catch up). And let’s be honest – the other thing that Alli had going for her was this blog. She talks so often about her friends and her family that you feel like you know them before you ever met them.

So, as people started to trickle in and the weekend started to unfold: sushi on Thursday night followed by drinks at a couple bars, and then a midnight meal followed by more drinks at one more bar; the rehearsal dinner on Friday followed by drinks at the hotel bar; and then the wedding day marathon of activities that may as well have been sponsored by Corona and every brand of champagne priced under $10 at Vons. By the time we all parted ways on Sunday after breakfast, I think it’s safe to say that the majority of the group felt like we were saying goodbye to friends and not just casual acquaintances.

THE CEREMONY: What more could Laef and Allison have asked for? Sunset on the beach (with the famous L.A. smog noticeably absent); an intimate gathering of 50 or so of their closest friends and family flanked by tiki torches; Sean rocking a bowtie and accompanying the ceremony with some selections on his acoustic guitar; some great sentiments by Neil, Allison’s brother-in-law who performed the ceremony; some adorable flower girls; and vows written by the bride and groom that were both funny and heartfelt, demonstrating that Laef and Allison truly are meant to be together … I’m pretty sure it was exactly what Allison had envisioned when she started planning things.

Like I said, it was an amazing weekend and Annett and I were both glad to be along for the ride. And now that it’s over, the next logical question is, “So, when are you going to start having kids?”

Here’s a slideshow of some of Tom’s pictures:

Allison and Laef Morris – Images by Thomas Boyd

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!”

UCLA celebrates Veteran’s Day. Which means a rare day off for me during the week. I don’t know what it is, but holiday day-offs seem way more exciting than your average Saturday. It feels so vacation-y.

Not to mention, I have always wanted to be one of those lucky people out on a leisurely walk on a weekday morning. Or the lady at Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf reading the LA Times at 8:45 a.m. as opposed to braving traffic on the 405.

Laef has a half day off. He works at 1 p.m. So, he made an appointment to get my car’s smog check issue fixed. He made a 9 a.m. appointment. Not sure about the thinking on that, but turns out Laef really is as smart as he thinks. We were all up by 8 a.m. anyway.

We dropped the car off and were then going to make a trip to Costco. It was not even open yet. That’s right, bitches! I was out doing errands before Costco was even open! Yep, 34 going on 84. I’m thinking of seeing a matinée and then hitting Applebees for the 4 p.m. senior dinner special.

I then indulge in morning television.

Couple of notes.

Regis Philbin is a likable enough guy. But, he’s getting too old for this shit. Hearing him try to introduce “Island Def Jam Records’ LA Reid” was nothing short of painful. Kelly had to pick up the pieces by saying how big of a deal LA Reid is. Regis’ expression replied something along the lines of “Quiet, biyatch. This is MY show.”

The View. Holy Fuck. Are there four more annoying people on TV in the morning?

After two minutes of hearing Elizabeth and Joy debate what Veteran’s Day should be about, I decide to vacuum and throw in some laundry.

At 12:15 p.m., Laef heads to work and I head down to the beach for a long run. Much to my surprise, the Tuesday farmer’s market is from 12-4 p.m. so on the way back I stop for some fresh strawberries, tomatoes and spinach. Damn…is this what rich people do all day? Stroll around the farmers market and buy fresh produce? I could so do this.

I get home at 2:30 p.m. and rest on the couch while watching the Real Housewives of Atlanta marathon. I know what you’re thinking, but like I told Sanchez, I’m doing things I don’t get to do on normal days. I am proud of myself for going to beach and getting two hours of exercise. Now I want to watch hours of bad TV while dozing in and out of nap time. Speaking of which, Sanchez has no room to talk. I just looked over and saw how he spends his days:

Oprah has Dr. Oz on. Why couldn’t it have been Brad Pitt’s interview? Oh no. It’s all about bunyons and yellow toenails. Ohmyfuckinggod Oprah is showing her feet. And after the break they’ll be addressing someone with bad breath so bad that her dog runs away. I proceed over to Sanchez, blow in his face. He doesn’t even move a fur. I figure I don’t need to watch the next segment.

I’m moving on to my Sex in the City movie.

There is something about watching Sex in the City reruns (or the movie) that brings me total joy. I decide to make a snack using my fresh tomatoes and pour myself a drink. I just want to fit in with the girls – yummy food and fabulous drinks. My outfit is another story, but I thought it’d be weird if I pulled out my best dress and heels to sit on the couch.

(Sidenote: Yummy snack: Roasted Tomato and Olive Oil Triscuits, Smoked Gouda Cheese, Fresh vine tomatoes, Black Pepper).

Unfortunately, I made my snack right at the point where Mr. Big called off the wedding and am now sobbing on my Gouda. Note to Sanchez: One thing mommy does on her daddy-free time is cry even harder at her girlie movies.

I watch the movie as the sun sets and it’s now 6 p.m. I’ll end the blog here because reality is about to set in. Come 6:30 p.m. – the time when I normally get home from work, it’ll be you’re average Tuesday night: dinner, tomorrow’s lunches, putting away the laundry and so on.

If I were rich, I could get used to this routine.

Today was one of those perfect Sundays. I somehow made it through the Sunday edition of the LA Times, slept in past 9 a.m. and completed a decent-sized run.

But before all of my escapades, Laef and I decided to take a morning walk around Manhattan Beach. It was a beautiful day and we snapped photos of a variety of things that seem to encapsulate Manhattan Beach.

So, this blog isn’t anything other than photos of what was a perfect day.

For starters, someone doesn’t appreciate not being invited on said walks. His name is Sanchez.

We managed to snuff our guilt and head out. We walked directly down to the Manhattan Beach pier.

Here is a photo of us sitting on the bench where Laef proposed:

As we headed further, we noticed that a lot of people fish off the pier. Apparently, there is a lot of smelt to be had. I was completely enamored by this guy. He was catching five fish at a time. Consistently. He had a bucket full of them. So, I snapped his photo. He rewarded me by picking up a fish that had escaped from the bucket and throwing it on the ground as hard as he could. That was the low part of the day. Thankfully, there was much more ahead. I do not like live things hitting concrete.

From there, we headed up The Strand towards the 18th Street pier. This is the location of our wedding. Here are some photos of 18th Street looking down to the beach. Essentially, we will head down the street and down the staircase to the beach. We will try to be to the right of the pier so that the lifeguard tower isn’t in every wedding photo.

(Don’t worry, we’re not walking from that far up the street. We might take some photos coming down that street though).

We then we trekked back towards the house on some residential streets. Let me just tell you that Manhattan Beach residents do not skimp on their holiday decorations. I stopped taking photos of all the Halloween houses because there were so many. These rich ass people have the time AND the money to go all out. This house was my favorite.

They also had rad neighbors.

They also had neighbors that may or may not hate each other.

When we came home, Sanchez let us know how happy he was to be left out of the walk.

We then clipped his nails wrapped up in a blanket (thanks Auntie Annett and Uncle Ben!) to remind him who is in charge.

So, he whined and moaned to his friend, Kiwi the neighbor dog. Kiwi is outside 90 percent of her life and likes to look in our kitchen window. They talk about how miserable their lives are.

Sanchez: “This blows. What I wouldn’t give to roll around in some dirt.”
Kiwi: “Careful what you wish for. Those raccoons are some mutherfukers.”
Sanchez: “Well, do you get your nails clipped?”
Kiwi: “I’d love to be wrapped up in a blanket with a human.”
Sanchez: “Yeah. Humans are cool. They drink wine and watch football. It’s totally fucking boring.”
Kiwi: “I LOVE boring! Tell them to let me in!”
Sanchez: “Gotta GO! I’m not allowed to be on the counter. I’m not allowed to do anything cool!”

I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again. This little shit for brains is living the high life. SPOILED. ROTTEN.

As it stands at 9:29 p.m. Sanchez has his head completely inside my running shoe, Laef is on the computer and I’m about to watch Entourage.

I’ll take Manhattan – Beach, that is. Any day. We’re a happy crew.

Where to begin on this glorious Sunday?

After spending the entire morning cleaning our house (which is so fun because I always find my favorite lip gloss in the couch and the watch I thought was gone forever), we decided to head down to the beach to watch the AVP volleyball tournament.

Upon arriving, I couldn’t help but notice how absolutely gorgeous the scene is on the beach. These are the houses we gaze at each time we go to the beach. These are the houses that lead us to hour-long conversations about which one we’d buy if we won the lottery. The houses that help us forget that we haven’t actually won the lottery, but allow us to dream anyway.

Anyway, while I was surveying the scene I came across something that I thought was an urban legend – the chick magnet. Honestly, ladies, no matter how cute the dog is, please refrain from talking to any douche bag that is flexing his muscles while holding a furry puppy.

I finally brought my attention to the volleyball. We only had time to watch the finals, which was worth it because, as usual, Phil Dalhausser and Todd Rogers of Olympic gold fame were playing. It was cool to see them after watching them throughout the Olympics.

We headed home so that I could double check that I was kicking Benji’s ass in fantasy football. I would have been, except my brother alerted me to a roster change he thought necessary and I changed my team late last night. Seeing as I’m 2-0, I probably should have stuck with my first instinct as the guy I put on the bench had 16 points and my brother’s sure-thing had 2 points. There’s still a chance, but that requires Brett Favre to hit his receivers tomorrow. Thankfully Benji is on his honeymoon in Fiji and can’t call to talk shit.

We also came home to our furry little shit for brains. He decided the house was too clean and took it upon himself to TP us.

I guess it’s payback for all the times I did that to people.

Did I tell you that Laef and I bought a Super Lotto ticket? Yeah. We have spent the last two days discussing which investment firm to hire, whether we should buy beachfront or off the beach (that sand can be a bitch, y’all), how many houses in the Midwest and Bay Area we should invest in, etc.

I think at one point we even got in a mini-argument over how much should be left to Sanchez.

Here’s to hoping The Secret can do more than just find me a parking spot. Because we’ve been doing the whole, “talk about it like it’s real and like it’s going to happen.” So, if it doesn’t work this time, I’m deleting Oprah from my TiVo. I can’t keep up with all of the shit she tells me I should be doing anyway.

Anyhoo…back to Michael Phelps.

Wait. Before Michael Phelps. His mother. She is famous now too? She seems real sweet and good for her because I gotta think if your a mother that’s pretty much what you’re aiming for: 8 gold medals. But, come on. She didn’t give birth to him at 6’6″ with 100 pounds of gold around his neck.

I digress.

The other day, Laef and I noticed a very small, quaint house for sale around the corner from our even smaller and more quaint house. Again, following the rules of The Secret we sort of talked about taking a tour. We knew there would be no way, but if anything was going to be remotely in our range, it was a place like this.

Then yesterday, the Realtor dropped off a flyer for the place. I will let you all have a looksee so you can see what we’re dealing with here in Manhattan Beach (you will need to click on the photo to make it larger. That was for my mother. I know the rest of you can figure that out). It’s not just the scallops that are outrageous.

You’ll notice the square footage and the fact that there is ONE bathroom. Then you will notice the price down in the right hand corner.

Yes. That says $1.1 million.

We immediately decide when we win the Lotto that we will not be buying that particular house, but something probably in the $15 million range.

And, lastly. To add salt to our wounds, Michael Phelps and his ever-present perfect life stung me again last night. I read online that he just purchased a Baltimore condo for $1.69 million.

You will notice that for just .5 more million he is getting approximately 3,000 more square footage and something quite a bit more stylish. I don’t know if we’re moving to Balitmore, but it’s safe to say that The Valley is probably in our near future. Or Inglewood. I’ll keep you posted.

TMPIF!

I have neglected the blog since Sunday evening.

I have a good explanation. Two St. Louis boys descended upon Manhattan Beach last Thursday at 12:30 p.m. PST. They did not leave until Monday afternoon. I have had writers blog because the brain cells that help me write died in my eighth bottle of hot sake.

Anyway, It all started Thursday night. Me, four boys and a string of behavior that left my brain completely incapacitated for the past four days.

Let me just say, our tiny love shack somehow survived, which is amazing considering that I heard, “I have to take a shit” or “I can smell your burps” or “The cat is in the fridge again” on more than one occasion.

I realized early on that I had lost control of all four of the boys. This includes Sanchez:

If you are concerned about the fact that I had brown lettuce in my fridge, can you please cut me some slack. I had much larger things to contend with. This is what my table looked like all weekend long:

For those who know me (Laef), this was a particularly stressful situation. Luckily for the boys I was so hungover every day I didn’t care about the table or the fact that Nick’s favorite pasttime (second to drunk dialing) is falling asleep on the couch with a full beer in his hand only to wake up when he spills it all over himself and the couch.

The best part about having drunk guests sleep over is seeing how they can fall asleep in the most insanely uncomfortable positions with no blanket and no pillow. Ahhh to be 18, er, 34.

I had also lost control of Laef and his obsession to dress like a “Cholo on Easter” because he wanted to relive his love for Knocked Up.

Even Sanchez was contact drunk enough to wear his favorite hat:

Needless to say, it has taken a few days to get things back to normal. Sorry for my lack of blogging.