Wednesday, December 28, 2011

Well that was interesting...

Today was weird. In a sort of surreal way. I was hanging out at the beach house, staying in bed way too late, not really wanting to face the day. I finally got out of bed and hadn't been up and about for more than a half an hour when my mom called. I was hesitant to answer because it's usually some annoying thing like "What are you doing with your day?" type question. She wanted to know if I was back at her house yet. I took this as a "get home" request but she wanted to know because the alarm company had called and the alarm was going off. I told her no, I wasn't. I could tell that she was at the dog park with the dogs and my stepdad and thus our house was, as it so rarely is, completely empty.

Ah, this seems familiar...

It's a hangover day because watching the miserable Caps game at 4 p.m. somehow turned into spending way too much money on way too much booze and making an ass out of myself (I think?) in front of a guy I've known since I was 10, because that is what happens in this teeny tiny city. It'd be realllllly nice to stop making the same stupid mistakes over and over again.

Sunday, December 18, 2011


With regular football season wrapped up, and only a collection of meaningless bowl games, important to alums of the school and no one else, of which I can't afford to go to my school's (*sobs uncontrollably*), I'm turning my attention to the crop of new shows that premiered this fall that I've been watching. Because...well, what the hell else is there, really?

I also am not currently full of holiday cheer. This is shaping up to be a miserable Christmas season (though recently partly saved by a card from my dad so my mood is improving). So you don't get your "YAY! Christmas!" post. At least not until I get blind drunk in an Irish bar and listen to Fairytale of New York on constant repeat and get over the fact that I, as a native of the city I live in, can't escape my family at the holidays.

So: TV!

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

Kids (a rant)

I have this constant, reoccurring conversation:

Me, "I don't want kids. I mean, fine, sure they're great for everyone else, but I've thought about it and it's just not really my gig." I try to say this as nonchalantly as possible because I know what's coming next. And it's this:

Other party, "Oh, you'll change your mind!"

(Hiding the rest behind jump for being ranty-rantyness.)

Sunday, December 11, 2011


My family makes this ridiculous Caesar salad. It's family tradition. My dad and I have our own special wooden Caesar salad bowls that are used exclusively to make this divine concoction.

Part of what makes our Caesar better than average is that we make our croutons from scratch. In some cases, the croutons have become more popular than the salad. One time, when starving and impatient, I took the warm out of the oven croutons, put them in a bowl and shredded Parmesan cheese over them. They were divine. I then promised that should I ever open my own bar, that would be an available bar snack. I have had more than one friend sit in my kitchen and eat croutons as a snack as opposed to chips or something else. My favorite is when at 3 a.m. during the house party a few years ago, Chuck and the stepsis stood munching on handfuls of croutons, drunk, going "zooohmygod these are SO good nom nom nom." Croutons sort of make the perfect drunk food.

Since I have yet to open a bar with a crouton snack, I give away plastic jars or ziplock bags filled with croutons as gifts to my friends. And that's why I'm sharing this recipe with you now: if you need something a little different as a hostess gift this busy holiday season, might I recommend some homemade croutons? If you want extra bonus points, do that Martha Stewart thing and handwrite the recipe for the salad dressing on a card. Yeah. That's a bit much. But inventive, no? The recipe, as presented in the cookbook from which we derived it, is available here. That's the pared down version, obviously. The family version is as rambling as this post and I'm not ready to share it. Yet. Or likely ever. (Gotta have SOMETHING that makes me special, ya know?)

As with anything I've offered up a recipe to, these are stupid easy to make. The key is in the ingredients and patience.

What you need:
One loaf of sourdough bread
One head (bulb? I'm never sure on proper garlic terminology) of fresh garlic
One cup (or so) of olive oil

That's it. That's the entirety of making croutons.

Now: a diatribe about the bread. You need sourdough. And you need good quality, unsliced sourdough. For those of you not in the Bay Area, your average off the Walmart shelf sliced "sourdough" is not gonna cut it. Your Louisiana French bread is also not gonna work either, it's too airy. You need a dense, crusty sourdough. Seek out a bakery in your town and see what they have to offer.

I tend to use Acme Bread's sourdough batard. But their baguette is also great, as is the rustic sour. If you're in some remote area of the world where they don't make amazing sourdough, well, that sucks. But it's an environmental thing. Apparently the air in San Francisco, salty and damp and foggy, is what makes us have exceptional sourdough so it's understandable that you wouldn't have it available in other places. Boudin Bakery will deliver it to you direct from San Francisco. (Not to be confused with boudin, the Cajun sausage. Two very different things.) Yes, it's a bit pricey that way but worth it. Trust. This is not the place to skimp on bread since the entirety of this really IS the bread. (The La Madeleine's in Louisiana/elsewhere have decent bread if memory serves.)

Alright, you've got your amazing crusty sourdough. Preheat your oven to 200. Slice bread into about half an inch thick slices. Take the slices and cut them into cubes. (This is where the baguette is great, just cut into quarters and you're done. Everything else, you want bite size pieces. The large batard I cut each slice in half across and then in pieces.)

Put your cut up pieces of bread on a cookie sheet and place them in the oven. You want to lightly toast your bread first so that it doesn't absorb all the olive oil in the world. Leave them alone in the oven until they dry out and are firm to the touch. This can take as long as an hour. If you get impatient, turn up the oven to 225 or 250 but keep an eye out, you don't want to have your bread turn brown and crispy yet.

While the croutons are roasting away: pour your olive oil in the bottom of a large bowl. Ideally it is your wooden salad making bowl but I understand if you don't have one. Any large bowl will work. Now peel your entire head of garlic and mash all the little cloves with a garlic press into the olive oil. Let those two hang out together while the bread toasts. Have a glass of wine. Listen to some Sinatra. Dance around the kitchen.

When your croutons are just firm to the touch, take the cookie sheet out of the oven and dump the bread cubes into the olive oil garlic mixture. Toss them to coat. Make sure they are coated evenly. You might need to add a bit more olive oil, as all my measurements are approximate.

Place your coated bread cubes back in the oven and let them chillax there for awhile. Have more wine. Listen to Dean Martin. Dance around the kitchen. You will know your bread cubes are done when your whole house smells like garlic toast. It's kinda awesome. Check on them. Are they brown and golden and crispy delicious looking? They are done. If they are still pale, close the oven, turn up the temp the tiniest bit, continue drinking wine, but be careful not to burn them. Burnt croutons decidedly suck. They should look like this when done:

Nom nom nom nom. Let them cool a bit, which you will be unable to do and will walk by and noisily crunch on them. I forgive you. Once cool, you can put them in a gift receptacle or keep them yourself and eat them drunk at 3 a.m. Whatevs. Enjoy!

Thursday, December 8, 2011

This and That

Alcohol has this amazing way of at the time making you feel absolutely invincible and witty and fantastic. The next day, as it wends its way out of your system, it will make you feel like a giant ball of failure. I definitely feel the latter today. I somehow got accidentally drunk on a Wednesday night. Yep. Accidentally. Not my fault. 2 beers with the amazing and fantastic Linds, in town on a short jaunt from New Hampshuh, somehow turned into knowing vaguely that I went to a certain bar last night where I'm sure I had a beer but no recollection today of actually being there. I win at life. And I lost my credit card. Again. Geezus H Christ, Lisa, get your shit together.

Which is kind of funny because I HAD been feeling together. Probably the effect of NOT drinking and not going out. I need to go back to that. Thinking of a six month cleansing sabbatical after LSU plays in the National Title Game. I was applying to jobs, focusing on some goals, trying not to panic about not having any money at all. But I backslid into bad behavior and now I'm doing research for my "client" (I can't have a client. It feels weird. So quotes.) and feeling like I am never ever gonna be a good lawyer. That's amazing.

Anyway. I started two very different posts yesterday but could never manage to finish them and found them boring. One was on how no one actually understands the first amendment and how that makes me want to kill them and the other was a reflection on my dogs. You're welcome for not hitting publish. Instead, I have some random thoughts I'll spit out in list form.

1. Unsolicited endorsement: I don't consider myself a music person. I like pop music, I don't think too much about new hip bands, and I can't tell you the last time I saw a live show of any sort. My interest is very passive. But I was watching a TV show the other night and this song by a band called the Lumineers was played at the end and I fell in love. I've listened to it at least 2 dozen times, if not far more. I'll probably hate it at some point and never want to hear it again but for now it's on an endless loop. So listen and I hope you like it too and if/when they play here, I plan on going and being hip and listening to a live band.

2. About that TV show: I was watching Hart of Dixie. It's the sort of ridiculous CW fare that I am knowing for loving (though I was on the Veronica Mars bandwagon long before that was cool). I make no apologies. I even sort of think they are attempting to get a little bit of Southern culture right with the main hang out bar being called the Rammer Jammer, a reference to the University of Alabama. Rachel Bilson is freaking adorable. (Even if my college roommate tainted my view of her by saying that when they were in HS together she was a bitch. I still am a bitch so I won't hold that against her.)

Jaime King is also in this show where she plays the over the top kind of Southern girl that Hollywood gets wrong. She is never not in some floral patterned summer dress with so much mascara on she can't possibly keep her eyes open. Her focus is Junior League and other silly festivals, all of which she treats with the utmost importance. And something about this character just grates on me. That sort of over-simplified sorority girl thing that doesn't actually exist in the South. I also don't really get the characters motivations and why I'm supposed to care about her or why she's with the guy she's with (a major plot issue on the show) other than that's just the way it's always been.

After watching the show on Monday, I off the cuff tweeted how I was annoyed by the stereotypes of the character and wish she'd been more complexly drawn. Don't give it a second though.

Last night, as I'm half in the bag already because I was drinking and hadn't eaten since breakfast, a response tweet shows up. Jaime King has taken exception to my characterization of her character. First of all: my criticism is not of her acting. It's of the way the character has been drawn. I'm smart enough to know that she's not the one that writes the character, just imbues the words with life. Secondly, if I looked like Jaime King, what some bitchy insignificant girl in San Francisco thinks of my character while I get to be, ya know, JAIME KING, wouldn't matter. In the least.  Seriously. I WISH I looked like this, lived in Hollywood, was doing well in my career, made out with Scott Porter for work. (Actually I'd rather make out with Wilson Bethel but that's a different issue.)

But, in the way that I do, I've now been obsessing about what about the character bugs me and been thinking way harder about it, giving it far more creedance than I should because I somehow managed to upset Ms. King. So: the character is frivilous and silly and focuses on all these pageants and causes while absolutely ignoring those around her. I really, as mentioned, don't understand the relationship she's in and would like background on those choices. She is obviously in love with someone else so sticking with this current guy rings false and I don't like the lack of guilt at her cheating. Her hatred of big city living isn't well explored. I get enjoying small town life but the hatred of big city life just because is narrow minded. I do appreciate that she loves this small town and wants to protect. The constant gowns are silly and the hats and the...look, this is 2011. Let's not pretend all small town Southern girls are so stuck in a time warp. The Southern girls, the fierce Southern girls I know, are far more complex than is being portrayed. All that said, I think the character does have true heart and her love for her town and protection her family are admirable and interesting qualities. The mother issues and being conflicted about love even while rushing headlong in one direction are areas that have potential to be really interesting.

Yeah. That's a lot of words on a CW show. That I actually really enjoy. But, ya know, I, silly girl in SF, somehow managed to upset a Hollywood actress so I thought I'd attempt to clarify my stance. The internet is really weird you guys. But since this is apparently how it works: if Chris Evans would like to contact me and hang out, I'd be down. Also: I want to marry Brooks Laich. So. Let's make that happen, mkay, internet?

3. Speaking of shows: That season finale of Sons of Anarchy was total crap. You owe your viewers more respect than that, Kurt. It was such a poorly drawn, easy out on the season long storyline it was insulting. But Justified is back soon and that will make me forgive FX a little bit.

4. I'm putting this here just because I don't want to forget it and I have the worst memory ever, even though it feels braggy to me: Linds and I were having a heart to heart over a pint yesterday, first time we've seen each other since May even though we gchat almost daily and we're just talking about life and all things in general and Linds says, "You seem like you've matured a lot in the last few months." I said something self deprecating like, "Which makes zero sense because I haven't actually DONE anything." And Linds said, "No! You have. You're really takin this time to consider the kind of person you want to be and making changes. That's really important." And I thought, "Huh. There's probably some truth to that." It made me feel really good! I'm on the path to not being a total screw up, apparently. Then I got drunk and acted like a jerk so there is still mad work to be done. And I really suck at this whole "being a lawyer trying to figure out the kabillion things they didn't teach us in law school" thing. So. Yeah. Baby steps?

5. Linds and I were talking about one of our law school classmates who lives near her in New England. Linds said, "I can't hang out with her because she's too optimistic. Does that say something about me as a human being that I only like dark twisty people in my life?" The funny thing is that I knew exactly what she meant. I've known some sickeningly saccharine people in my life and I just want to punch them. I told her I didn't think there was anything wrong with her because it made perfect sense to me. When you're THAT optimistic it feels like a disconnect from reality. Sometimes shit just sucks, yo, and if you can't admit that then that's...weird.

6. Hey! The trailer for that movie that was filming in SF where I met Jason Segel and Emily Blunt is up! That's cool.

And that's all I got for now, kids. I'm gonna go fail at being a lawyer some more while staring at my red sparkly Christmas nails. It's kind of nice to have football wrapped up for a month so my superstitious nature gets put at bay and I can actually do something besides purple. It's the little things...

Friday, November 25, 2011


We did it. We're 12-0. A perfect regular season. Easily the most dominant team in college football. We beat 7 ranked opponents on the way to that record, including #3 TWICE and #2. If we haven't earned a trip to the BCS title game, I don't know who has.

Unfortunately, it's not over. We have to make a trip to Atlanta next week to take on the University of Georgia Bulldogs (a mascot that I cannot add to my menu, unfortunately. Though, maybe hot dogs?) to play in the SEC Championship game. Win that game and we punch a ticket to New Orleans for the national title game. Lose that game...and there is still, according to those who know such things, a chance that we can make it to New Orleans. The National Title being held in New Orleans almost makes it a home game. We've won it the last two times it was held in New Orleans. Ticket prices go WAY up (those futures available on Gilt look like a steal now, but you surely know that at the beginning of the season my superstitious nature won't let me purchase them. That, and even at face value, I don't have the money).

Monday, November 21, 2011


Know how pretty much every story from every Saturday in football season goes, "Went to bar, got drunk, LSU won, met a boy, sooooo hungover"? Yeah. Not this one. Other than LSU winning, it was the opposite of all that. Suckeh suckeh sucks. Actually, just listen to this:

Avenue Q pretty much sums up my life right now. And not in a good way. I'm trying to be positive and have a "YAY! CAN DO!" attitude. People, you should know by now I am not made for that sort of sugar coated bullshit attitude. Which means there is a lot of complaining after the jump.

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

Mashed Potatoes

I haven't posted anything food related on here in awhile and as I continue to avoid looking at my pathetic bank account, I figured I'd give you guys something to do on Thanksgiving that will make your parents proud of your ability to actually feed yourselves. Thus: Mashed Potatoes! I mean, how can you not love these? I am one of those people who takes potatoes over sweets 9 times out of 10 (with the body shape to prove it) so I might not be the best example but yeah, mashed potatoes are the best (well, next to french fries, and au gratin, and a loaded baked and scalloped...). It's fairly stupid easy but, well, I've had discussions with some of you about not owning the most rudimentary of kitchen utensils so we start with the basics.

And, in fact, for this being a stupid easy thing to make, potatoes surprisingly have a lot of their own tools. Just to get starches down our throat. I know, right? Also: if you are eating instant mashed potatoes, I don't want to talk to you. At all. Ever. It's an affront to the potato. And bad economics. A box of instant potatoes is, what, $3.99? A 10 lb bag of potatoes costs about that and yields way more. Don't EVER eat anything instant, do you hear me? There are just no excuses. If you're gonna kill yourself, if should be with real butter and cream and home cooked foods. /climbs off soap box  Minor exception: frozen veggies CAN be better than fresh, especially in the case of peas, but other than that: no.

(Oh! An aside! (you've missed these): When I moved from the all natural state of California to the deep fried state of Louisiana, getting used to their cooking habits took me a long time. And mostly I rebelled against them and tried to change their ways. Other than incorporating Tony's heavily into my repertoire, learning I would be looked at funny if I said "soda", and upping my spice tolerance, that is. Why in god's green earth does everyone in the south use freaking margarine? WHY?! It makes exactly zero sense. I'm pretty sure it's been proven to be worse for you than regular butter. My college roommate, smart, gorgeous, ridiculously popular, had it in our fridge when I moved into our room. "What in the hell is that?" I asked her. Seriously you guys, I'd never seen it before. Never. I'd also never heard the n word spoken out loud 'til I moved to Louisiana either, so, ya know, yay for being a sheltered Californian? I was unfamiliar with this weird tub of butter-like substance. It seemed, as I learned more about the South, to be a staple of every household. One that I to this day do not comprehend. If I'm going to kill myself, it is going to be with full fat, full flavored, full caloried butter. Not that imitation crap. So, just, yeah, BUTTER in your mashed potatoes.)

Large pot
Potato peeler
Potato masher

Cooking items:
Stick o' butter
Russet potatoes, 4lbs-ish, but really you can do this with any amount
cream, about a half cup.

Rinse the potatoes. This makes them easier to peel. I don't know why, just trust me on this. Take your potato peeler and peel the potatoes. Don't have a potato peeler? I think you're lame and should go to the store and buy one because they cost about $3 but if you insist, a paring knife will do. Just be extra super careful. If you're using a peeler, it's pretty self explanatory, take it and peel off the skin. I make this a competition if someone is "helping" me do this. I can get through ten pounds of potatoes in less than 30 minutes. If ever in prison, this skill will likely come in handy. If you're using the knife, you're going to take thin ribbons of potato skin off. I like to make a game when using a knife of how much I can peel off without lifting the knife off the potato. Yes, I'm well aware that I might need something like a life.

Alright, your potatoes are peeled. Rinse them again to get rid of the rest of the dirt. Cut them into 1 inch cubes (in half lengthwise, in half lengthwise again, run knife down to cut them into roughly uniform pieces). Throw potato cubes in a pot, add water to cover. Add a ton of salt. Place on stove on high heat. Wait for them to boil. Boil the bejeezus out of them. You should be able to stab them with a fork and not meet any resistance. I do want to caution against over boiling. You can leave them boiling forever, 'til they're falling apart and they'll still make a decent mash but they're much better, contain less water, if you make sure they retain their shape. So boil on high for about ten minutes and check them, then check them every five minutes until they're done. You are WAY better off overcooking than undercooking though. No one likes crunchy mashed potatoes. Err on the side of too much rather than not enough.

When fork tender, carefully remove pot from stove and strain potatoes.

Now, if you want to be fancy, you can combine the butter and cream over low heat in a sauce pot on the stove. All the chefs in the world would tell you to do this, but whatever, it's not necessary. Oh, and we're using cream. Yes, cream. It's actually called "Heavy Whipping Cream". It's Thanksgiving. Don't be the asshole who makes the healthy version of mashed potatoes with your 1% milk. Everyone will hate you. In particular me. Oh, and you can use more than just a stick of butter. Use all the butter you want. Pretend you're Paula Deen and butter those potatoes up. 1 cube was just a starting point. There's actually an inside joke in my family where we call mashed potatoes with equal parts potato to butter French mashed potatoes. This stems from when we were in France (pretentious anecdote alert) eating at Le Jules Verne. My entree came with a small copper pot on the side loaded with the most insanely decadent mashed potatoes ever. And whenever we eat at French restaurants, their butter/potato ratio still seems to be about equal. Thus: really buttery mashed potatoes are French mashed potatoes. Made funnier if my mom says it in an accent. (This is actually a restaurant trick for just about everything. Want to know why their food tastes better than yours? They've added butter all along the way, way more than you would ever dream of using at home, to make their food taste good.)

Once you have strained your potatoes, return them to the pot. Turn the heat back on low. You're essentially going to dry out your potatoes without cooking them. Do this for about five minutes, stirring them occasionally. (You are free to skip this step.)

Get out your masher. I recommend one that looks like this:

That's my preference. I like my mashed potatoes a little rustic and not perfect so that masher works for me. If you want super silky smooth mashed potatoes, run them through a food mill or a ricer. If you have to ask what a ricer is, get the thing pictured and don't be such a gunner, okay? For the love of god do not use a mixer. Whipping mashed potatoes makes them super extra starchy somehow and tasting like what I can only imagine cafeteria food tastes like so while that may seem like a reasonable short cut, it is not and the potato gods will know and smite you. Do. Not. Whip. Your. Mashed. Potatoes. Got that? This whole thing isn't taking you that long anyway, so deal with it. (The worst part is peeling. What can I say? Thousands of years of human evolution and a peeler or a knife is the best we can do. Yes, there is also the apple corer but it wastes a lot of the potato.)

Pour your melted butter/cream mixture over the potatoes and get to mashing. If you didn't melt those together, no worries. Just cube up your butter and toss it in the potatoes and pour the cream over the top. You might want more than my guess at an estimated amount of cream, depending on how loose you want your potatoes/how well they're holding up. You don't want them swimming in cream but you want the right consistency. As with the Supreme Court's ruling on pornograph: you'll know it when you see it.

Mashing them is very basic behavior. Just get in there and mash 'em up. Do it until you have the consistency you want. Like I said, I don't like mine perfectly smooth, a few lumps and a rough consistency is right for me. But it's up to you. You'll know. (I'm saying that a lot here, but just trust your instinct. You can always go in and mash more) Make sure you at least thoroughly incorporate the butter, cream, and potatoes.

You'll need to taste test along the way. Add more butter or cream as you see necessary. You might need to throw in a heavy pinch of salt. Because fun fact: potatoes don't really taste like anything. That's why you'll be covering these in turkey gravy later. So add more butter, cream, and salt until they taste perfect to you. Again: you'll just know when you got it right. This is a fairly un-fuck-up-able recipe. It may end up too salty, it may end up a little too creamy but they'll still be edible. 

You can make the mashed potatoes well ahead of dinner, just leave them in the pot and then reheat them on low heat while stirring. If you don't stir and use anything but low heat, you will burn the mashed potatoes and ruin Thanksgiving. Yes, ruin it. Don't do that.

If you want to be fancy, you can add sour cream for a little tang to your mashed potatoes. Cream cheese will add, well, creaminess. You can roast garlic (bulb of garlic, top sliced off, drizzle of olive oil, wrap in foil, place in oven for 1 hour at 375, smush out bulbs) and add it to your mashed potatoes. Fresh rosemary is nice, as well as other fresh herbs. You can do any or all of that if you want extra credit. But frankly? I'm a purist. Just the salt, butter, and cream for me. And then slathered in turkey gravy.

Can't wait for Thanksgiving...

Saturday, November 12, 2011

A Wedding and A Londoner

My good friends got married on Friday. Yes, they had an 11-11-11 wedding. And I was super happy for them. Their wedding on the other hand? Folks, I promise you if I ever get married and have a big fancy wedding (which it will be big and fancy because along with football fanatic, I am a princess), I will have a wedding planner to make sure shit runs smooth. You need to have someone take care of all the ball busting on the day of the wedding, to make sure people are in their place and things are running on time, because you're too busy being happy in love. Or whatever.

Monday, November 7, 2011

LSU v Bama

Did you guys know about the game of the century? That completely isn't, because we're only 11 years into the century? If you follow my Twitter account or my Facebook you did. You had to. Because it's all I could think/talk/comment about all week. If you are living under a rock and didn't read anything from any major media outlet in the week preceding it, let me 'splain: LSU, then ranked #1 in the whole country, was taking on the University of Alabama, then ranked #2, under the lights of Bryant-Denney Stadium in Tuscaloosa, AL.

This game was such a giant deal that CBS negotiated with ESPN to have the rights to broadcast it at night. People were selling tickets on Stubhub for obscene amounts of money.

I had actual nightmares about the game. In one nightmare I had my nails shellacked red at game time and I couldn't get it off in time for kickoff and panicked that this would cause my team to lose. In others I couldn't get to the bar or there was nowhere to sit at the bar and it all caused me lots of anxiety. I spent my waking hours reading about the game and thinking about how the pass protection would work and how in the name of all that is holy we were gonna stop the beast that is Trent Richardson. I had visions of houndstooth, which is becoming as annoying as creamsicle orange. I fretted and worried and was anxious. Football fandom: it's an illness.

My worries were not for nothing. Saturday was...kind of a disaster. I mean, we won, and that's awesome. We get to breathe easy for a moment before we don't overlook the Western Kentucky Hilltoppers and then face a current #9 Arkansas team the day after Thanksgiving, games that sandwich a road trip to Oxford to take on Ole Miss who would be happy to play spoiler. Get through those three games and then we play in Atlanta in the SEC Championship game against, most likely, Georgia. And though we're the number one team in the country that a) means you have a giant target on your back and b) you can get lax and slip up. *deep breath* Being a fan is really fraught for me. So much so that I almost cried when an hour ago I thought I lost one of my lucky LSU earrings. Fortunately I figured out where it was, but more on that in a bit...

Wednesday, November 2, 2011

Waves on waves

Yesterday, and today so far, were so much better than the emo bullshit filled Monday. (My dad is currently in surgery and I have to go pick him up in a bit, so there's still that.)

I got my nails did and then made myself walk the half a mile or so down the beach to check out the Rip Curl Pro by myself. I was glad I did. Ocean Beach has never felt more like the North Shore of Oahu or Huntington than it currently does. And watching pro anything is so much different than amateur anything. These guys, these professionals who do this for a living and points and money (first prize is $75k!), are amazing to watch. And hot. And that brings attractive people to the beach.

I followed surfing a bit in high school. I had magazines and such but I have never surfed myself (one of those things I am chicken about doing for fear of sucking. I need to get over that). I lived across the street from Ocean Beach since I was 13 and somehow was friends with a few surfer kids who would drop by and hose off in my garage. But when I moved to Louisiana, I stopped following it. There isn't much use for surf knowledge in South Louisiana, outside of it being an adorable quirk.

(My roommate, a Southern Californian, and I were once walking across campus in decidedly surfer style clothes, I was wearing boy board shorts a lot back then, she was in a bucket hat with braids, and some guy stops us and says, "I think you got lost on your way to the beach." So clever, frat boy!) (It's so weird to think of that being my fashion. Feels really far removed from now. Tons of Rusty and Quicksilver. I always wore long shorts, no daisy duke stuff, and I was all insecure then (shocked face) but I bet I looked kinda adorable walking around all California surfer cool in Louisiana, even when it was mostly guy clothes because no one was really making awesome girls clothes yet. Plus, ya know, skinny, not unattractive, completely unaware. Ah to be 19 again...)

Anyway, the surfing was amazing, the sun was fantastic, the crowd watching was also fantastic. I don't know quite how the schedule for this thing works or when it ends or how long it lasts but I want to check all of it out that I can. I'm a little bummed I can't catch Kelly Slater's heat later, as my high school/watching too much Baywatch self would very much like to check that out but such is life.

I ended up talking to my dad's best friend who was on the beach, as he came to check out the surf competition too. He wants me to consult on his landlord/tenant/contract dispute issue. I told him I would, once he got me some more information. The sheer fantastic irony of it is that dad's best friend is the 22 year old jackass's older brother.

I am a HUGE fan of the slow burn. Of revenge being a dish best served cold. The long con. I don't need to tell you go to screw off right now and angrily. I need to just be around to make your life miserable and ruin something later. I am not patient about many things, but being right, getting my way, and proving you to be the jackass that you are? That I can be patient about. Yeah, I'm kinda evil. You aren't surprised. (To clarify: me being around and having an opportunity to be present for anything that may happen gives me the opportunity to employ future revenge. Like when he, in a years time, wants to bartend at our family party and I get to vehemently say no.)

I was surprised when my mom kept making these cutting comments about my dad's surgery and being jealous that I've been over there a lot lately and I thought "Geez lady! Just. Let. It. Go." They've been divorced far longer than they've been married at this point. Twice as long, in fact. And then I had the ah-ha moment and went, "Oh. Ha. I guess that's where I get my own grudge holding as all get out nature from. Go figure." We're working on these things. I promise.

So: here's to more surfing, a continued uptick in mood, and oh yeah, an LSU victory on Saturday. And less emo bullshit. Muah!

Monday, October 31, 2011

Hate Having Feelings

One of my beloved LSU football players tweeted the title of this post. And I totally agreed. I hate having feelings too! But I do. They exist. Somewhere beneath my well-cultivated, but totally porous, exoskeleton, there they are. And I can't always bury them deep enough, as much as my repressed Irish Catholic self would like that. So instead I'm burying them after the jump. Because I can't afford therapy.

Sunday, October 30, 2011


I was all "Why is the internet so boring right now?" And I realized a) it's Saturday night and b) it's an absurd holiday weekend. Everyone is out dressing slutty because they aren't actually slutty and making out in bars. Boo, internet. I need you to dance for me!

I don't usually go out on big holidays. It's not my thing. I sort of hate...everyone. But especially crowds. And the downside of being from the teeny tiny hamlet of San Francisco, where everyone knows everyone, is that someone will inevitably see me act like the kind of jackass you act on these nights and it gets back to my parents and that's no good. Plus transport is a pain in the ass can see my general attitude towards it is why I don't go out on what are amateur nights. I prefer to keep my assyness to every other weekend on the calendar, leaving these festive type weekends to the young'uns.

I went to see Hair tonight. It was fun. It felt a little like a high school production though. Just really exuberant young people dancing around for 3 hours with very little plot. Not that that's a complaint (lots of shirtless pretty 20 something doods is alright by me). And I may be listening to the soundtrack now and dancing around the beach house. Maybe.

Which is a nice change from yesterdays attitude. See: I got "He's not that into you"'d by a 22 year old. Frankly, that's the height of absurdity. I spent a few hours pissed about it, then a day feeling all rejected and losery, eating all my favorite junk foods. Then I got real talk from my friends/stepsis and now I'm gonna dance around the beach house and drink leftovers from the party and he can kindly gfh because I'm awesome. I mean, I'm playing tug-o-war with the 90 pound pitbull while drinking beer with the windows open. That's AWESOME. And he could be here. But he's not. So screw him (figuratively, of course).

About that pitbull: I suddenly had the genius idea that I need to make him 2 other false heads and he can go as cerberus for Halloween. Why did I not think of that earlier? I always said if I got a dog as big and intimidating as him he'd be named Cerby. I geek out on mythology.

Anyway, all of that is a long way of saying, I'm gonna live blog the drinking. But frankly, it might be short because I'm kinda ready to just go to sleep. Alone. Stupid boys. (Drink 1: pumpkin ale stuff. Why does everyone love this? It's like drinking pie. I prefer to eat my pie.)

12:42: the 90 lb dog is laying across my lap. I told him he's not exactly what I had in mind to cuddle with tonight. Yes, I speak out loud to my dogs. Whatever, you do it too. It never ceases to amuse the hell out of me how something that's supposed to be so fearsome can be such a baby.

In other news: my workouts, while (somewhat) consistent, haven't exactly been pushing the limit lately. I'm gonna do the 7 mile walk/hike up through Land's End tomorrow as punishment exercise. I made a goal to be able to jog four miles by the end of the year. So I gotta start working on that. I really really hate being fat and it contributes to a lot of these boy problems, methinks. (Such a fatass. Drink 2: Heineken. After this is crap American beers leftover from party like Bud and Miller. Might switch to Jameson, rocks.)

1:13: I am still on beer 2. The hell? I am also listening to the entire Lost Boys soundtrack. And still resisting purchasing the movie for $4.99 on iTunes. Because I'm not sure I'd actually watch it that much but nostalgia dictates I should have it. There's really only one song to listen to on the soundtrack and that's the epic Santa Cruz bonfire/Jason Patrick sees Jamie Gertz/saxaphone heavy song I Still Believe. Okay, Cry Little Sister is pretty legit too.

1:21 Moved to beer 3, found an Abita in the fridge. Still listening to Lost Boys soundtrack.

2:04 and still on the Abita. Guess I'm not really into this drinking thing tonight. Keep pushing the pit off of my section of the couch. Started watching Real Genius but got bored with that so now just me and the dogs on the couch. Alright, I'm also half screwing around on stupid online dating site, that I had previously quit and thought I was all badass. I didn't even quit it for a month. Geezus. It's just, ya know, ME on the couch though and that's kind of a bummer. Think it's prolly time to call it a night. (Fortunately sober so not doing anything idiotic with my phone. But so tempted.)

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

Random Sh*t

I took the dog to puppy training class last night and it was one of the most traumatic experiences EVER.

We've owned various dogs throughout my life. The last dog I remember going to any sort of training class was our husky that we got when I was 9. Most of our dogs were pretty good with the sit/stay/come. Our American Bulldog had dog aggression and was never off leash and all our other dogs have their own little personality traits. The husky would run away for days at a time, but always come back and liked to kill small woodland creatures (he was part wolf, allegedly). But mostly just really good dogs.

This dog is the smallest dog we have ever ever owned. By a lot. She's about ten pounds. The dog we got a year ago had been the smallest dog we'd ever owned and he's now 35 pounds. My tendency is to just pick her up a lot, which means she doesn't listen. She's also at least part terrier and terriers are a stubborn and willful breed. So she really doesn't listen. Mostly I just need her to learn to come back so I can let her off leash to play.

We went to the SPCA to get our learning on and about half way through I was ready to cry. She was tired of being on a leash, she'd been paying such good attention but then was just over it. You're in a room with ten other dogs and they can't even play! She did sit really good for awhile and has FINALLY started to look at me when I call her but I didn't bring nearly enough treats and even those weren't a big draw once she figured out that the treats meant doing shit.

Seriously, I have not been that exhausted after mental stimulation since taking the bar exam.

And the dog has never been so traumatized. At one point during training, as I'm squatting down near her because she's tiny and I don't want to pick her up, she buried her face between my arm and leg because she couldn't handle it anymore. I felt so bad! Related: never ever having children.

She's still traumatized today. Usually she wakes me up around 7:30 to go out and chows down her breakfast. I woke her up at 9 and she won't eat her food. She also won't leave my side. Stupid dog training.

In other news: It's Halloween weekend! That's a sarcastic exclamation point. I do not care about Halloween. I started dubbing it slut-o-ween a few years ago, a term that either I subconsciously picked up from the popular lexicon or I invented (the latter). One year I joked about taking a mishmash of slutty costumes and just going as a slutty slut. Like a nurses hat and fishnets and a firefighter jacket and a goalie shirt. Ya know, just an amalgamation of ridiculous crap that has been sexualized for Halloween because that's what the holiday has devolved into. But I'm not the type of girl who should be dressing up as slutty anything so...

I'm also incredibly uncreative and lazy when it comes to costumes. Every year when I was a kid we went to the Jessica McClintock outlet, got some oversized dress, cut the bottom off of it and I threw on a tiara. Insta-princess. My mom is not a sewer so no hand made costumes for us. In college I remember donning all black, putting on a choker, a pair of ears and using eyeliner to draw on whiskers. Insta-cat. The most recent time I dressed up was two years ago. I wore Levi's jeans, converse all-stars, a basic black top, a scarf, carried a Longchamp purse, threw a baguette in it sticking out of the top and joked about being bitchy and dismissive to everyone, which I am anyways. I was a French woman. Ta-da!

This year, I have no plans to go out. LSU has a bye week and I have taken to abstaining from alcohol during bye weeks, which is actually nice. Less regretful decisions made that way. I'm going to see Hair on Saturday night with Michael and Cheryl is out of town. So no Halloween debauchery for me, thanks.

However, my mom bought those fake sleeve tattoos and came up with the RIDICULOUS idea that I should wear those along with a Ben Davis shirt, a pair of Dickies, basic Pumas, a baseball hat low that covers my eyebrows, and carry around a can of Skoal and go as my brother. I was immediately and completely annoyed by this idea. I couldn't quite figure out why this bothered me so much though. It's kinda funny in theory. And when I told my brother's friends about it at the bar the other night they thought it was HYSTERICAL. So why was I so put off by it? Then it dawned on me: I have a hard enough time in San Francisco being taken seriously as ME, going as HIM would just compound the problem. I would be inextricably linked, more than I already am, as his sister and guys would be even MORE afraid to go within a hundred miles of me. Yeah, no.

(In fairness: one year for lazy Halloween, I stole his old Marine Corp camos that he'd abandoned at my moms, made them as sexy as I could (black tank top, shirt undone), wore the hat and everything and may have ended up late night making out with someone. So it's kinda possible, I suppose, to dress like him and not be considered just his sister. Still. I'd rather not risk it with a full on little brother homage outfit.)

And in the last of other news: the stepsis is keeping me sane with some serious emailing back and forth as I navigate getting to know someone new waters. Which I HATE. I mean, why isn't it all just easy and me being the sort of brutally forward person that I am is just cool? (It never ever is.) She's supposed to come up here to run the SF Marathon which I think is stupid and am trying to convince her to just come up that weekend to party and to watch the Bama game with me. Because I've decided I'm judging everyone by how much they care about me caring about LSU Bama. Watching it with me? Bonus points. Not even mentioning it? (Looking at you mom) Crappy Christmas presents (which they will be anyways cuz I still ain't got no job). So this is my public plea to convince everyone to convince Kathryn to come up here to watch LSU/Bama and cause the kind of trouble only her and I cause together. It's been too long! (since July).

Oh wait! One last thing: I went to high school with these guys and they were just these TOTAL surfer dudes. Then when we were college aged they were the guys who worked some crap job and then took their money to go surf Indo for a month, came back, lather, rinse, repeat. The one guy, Marty, was one of those high school guys who did not appreciate my mouthy nature back then, but he turned out to be pretty chill (his brother is SO HOT, you guys). Then they started this clothing company and it's actually taken off, which is super cool for them even if I'm left scratching my head going "Those surfer slackers, wha?" Anyway, Marty lives around the corner from my dad and every single damn time I drive around the block to get somewhere, this hot blonde guy will waive at me and smile and I'll think, "Oh! Me?!" before it takes me fifteen seconds to process, "Oh. It's Marty being nice. Never mind."

That's all a really long way of saying: SF is getting the Rip Curl Pro this fall, which I guess is a big freaking surf deal? (It's been since high school since I paid attention to surfing. Not much need for it in South Louisiana. Yes, I had Kelly Slater and Laird Hamilton pictures on my bedroom wall in high school, what of it?) And Marty and Andy were called in to narrate the epic awesomeness that is Ocean Beach to get people prepped for the Pro. And now I'm gonna ponder SO MANY SURFERS across the street from the beach house. Suuhhweeet. (Brushes up on her surfer speak by watching Blue Crush.)

Later, bitches!

Monday, October 24, 2011

Melting My Brain

If you wanted to buy me this shirt, that'd be cool.

Hey you guys! Do you know that my football team is good? Like really really good? It is! And that's awesome! But it's also incredibly anxiety inducing. My already superstitious nature gets ramped up even more. I have two weeks to prep and freak out about the big huge giant game against the University of Alabama taking place on November 5th. Which CBS has mercifully made a night game. I say mercifully because these day games are killing my liver.

Yesterday we played Auburn at 12:30, west coast time. A gorgeous Saturday that I spent in the depths of a bar. Bar None to be exact. I eschewed going to the LSU bar just because I needed a change of scenery. In fact, I really wasn't gonna go out at all. I was gonna stay home and watch it. But everyone was at my house which inhibits my enjoyment of it. And I'm having some serious mom issues at the moment. Mostly she's doing that whole mothering thing, and since I'm at base still a 15 year old, I butt up against.

I thought about just watching it at the beach house but considering that the internet wasn't working last weekend there during party prep/the Tennessee game, I was wary of trying it again. (The party was amazing, by the way. More on that some other day. Or maybe not.) I also don't trust streaming live games. ESPN3 sucks. I wasn't sure CBS's site would be much better.

So off I headed to the Marina with Cheryl, who is always game for my crazy plans. Days at Bar None are pretty much empty, which is great. AND they had the sound on for the LSU game, which is a bonus. There were like five people in the bar, including the bartender. And they were all friendly and chatty. The boys all seemed to know each other and were talking about the spreads in the games because I'm gonna go out on a limb and say they bet on them all. I then became interested and kept asking for spreads because I thought it was an interesting marker of how a team should be playing against an opponent. It's fascinating to see how right on the Vegas spreads are too.

We ate crappy bar food and I smack talked an Oregon fan who was talking about our anemic early scoring when we busted out in the 3rd quarter and reminded him that Oregon lost to LSU. I got in an argument with a guy in a Notre Dame alumni shirt who was a lawyer later about there being a cause of action for misrepresentation if you tell a girl you'll marry her to get her to sleep with her and then go back on that promise. I mean, no one is ACTUALLY suing for that anymore, that's 1920s stuff, but IT EXISTS! And that Notre Dame didn't believe me pissed me, and my inferiority complex about "better" schools, off.

As we were the only girls in the bar for a long time, lots and lots of drinks were purchased on our behalf. Which Cheryl always loves. It's her goal when we go out to have boys buy us drinks. And they did. And I flirted with a guy from San Jose, gave him my number but he had to disappear to continue some birthday party pub crawl so nothing came of that.

We were gonna leave the bar. But then the Bama game came on and I wanted to watch the competition. Then Oklahoma and Wisconsin games. I was pouting about some boy stuff and told Cheryl around 7 that I really needed to go, the empty beach house and it's warm back porch and lots of free liquor from the party were calling my name but for some reason we ended up staying. And eating pizza from the place upstairs. And the night kept going and going.

I was introduced to Pinnacle Whipped Cream vodka at the beach house party by my brother's girlfriend. I made fun of it for being intensely girly. But really, it's straight vodka that tastes like drinking cake batter (though apparently there is also a cake flavored one too). And I was doing shots of it at 1 p.m. and then being bought MORE shots of it throughout the night. No idea how many. And Corona. We were drunkity drunk drunk. Because we'd been at the bar since 12:30 and it was now night time.

I finally decided enough was enough and went to close out my tab. It was an obscene tab. I do not have as much money as the tab was. BUT. Matty, the bartender, sorta loves me. Or just knows who I am related to (he knows because my brother stopped by the bar earlier when working and my last name on which I was running a tab is not common). He did love me independently though when we were smart-assing about naming all 120 college teams and he said "Name the MAC" and I went, "Uhhhh..." and he started naming the schools. As he did, I'd name the mascots of each school. When he got to Central Michigan, I said, "The Chippewas" which he was impressed by. Endearing myself to men with random football knowledge since the mid-90s.

Anyway, our tab was halved. And then I split that with Cheryl and considering we'd now been sitting our asses at the same bar for several hours, it really wasn't that bad. Except right as I closed out our tab and Matty offered us more free drinks, my brother's best friends showed up, who I consider my dear friends too and so then we stayed even longer. And then followed them to another bar where we know even more people. And then Cheryl and I drunkenly stumbled back to her place up a big giant hill that I do not remember at all walking up and had to text her today asking how we got from bar #2 back to her house. When she told me I laughed.

So yeah. A night kickoff is preferable.

On the upside, I'm too hungover today to really be anxious about the Bama game yet. But starting tomorrow I'll obsess about our chances of success and do my part to have some impact on the outcome even though I don't actually possess such power. Just don't tell my brain that, it believes otherwise.

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

Day Games and Steven Garcia

LSU has CBS day games for the rest of the season. People are pissed. "We play night games, dammit! You're cutting in to our tailgating time!" And let me assure you, my west coast living liver does not enjoy 1 p.m. kickoffs. See: last weekend.

Here's the deal: CBS holds the contract, we do what they say. I absolutely get that. We're beholden to the almighty TV contract dollar. ("LOL amateurism wut" here.) When I was at LSU, the student government tried to pass a resolution that we only play night games at home. I laughed and thought "That's adorable." Being on the big networks means big money and no school is turning that down, though we admire your plucky outlook, future leaders! (There was also a great joke made during this day game debacle that Huey P. Long would never allow no SEC home night games to happen. "He'd hold the CBS broadcast trucks at the state lines!" Louisiana political humor is the best.)

What I don't get is that people on the Twits and such are all, "Be glad you're playing day games! It means you're good. Would you rather be mediocre and play night games?" Obviously not. But that logic fails me too.

Why can't we be good AND play night games? Why is CBS preferring to put people in the midday slot? It seems that the competition is a lot fiercer with day game kickoff, as most midwestern schools kick off then. (Think about it. Want to be outside in Ann Arbor in November? Not likely. Outside in Baton Rouge in November is still pleasant.) Someone pointed out that CBS has only one night game slot a year, which they blew on UF/Bama and not holding out until November when LSU/Bama met, as it was a gamble that both teams would still be undefeated. And that may be true, contractually, that CBS only have the rights to one night game a year.

What I still don't get is WHY that's the case. Are you really drawing more viewers in prime time on Saturday night with 2 1/2 Men and CSI reruns (I looked, that's exactly what CBS has scheduled for Saturday night) than a marquee college matchup? And trust me, you air the SEC and people are gonna stay in or go to bars and watch it.

I'm not hollering about the fine LSU tradition of being blitzed on bourbon before (alliteration ftw!) kickoff at 7 p.m. I'm just saying it would seem logical to CBS's bottom line that airing a big time college football game at night with less key game competition that's presented with day games would be more beneficial to them than less, so telling me "Be glad CBS wants you on during the day!" loses something.

In all seriousness if someone can explain this to me, I'd be happy to hear it. I'm guessing that the big networks made some side agreement that ABC/ESPN gets night games and not CBS, but why the hell would CBS agree to that?

In other news: Steven Garcia was kicked off the University of Southern California South Carolina football team. (Seriously typed that wrong. West coast living!) What I take issue with in this is the high comedy the internet finds in Steven Garcia's plight. The guy has been suspended 5 times throughout his collegiate career and it seems pretty apparent has some sort of issues with the boozeahol. I truly don't mean to get all preachy but it concerns me that this is taken as a giant joke. Comments on twitter seem to be making fun of his love of alcohol, when if it costs you a college scholarship and a spot on the football team it seems much more problem than joke.

I'm just really concerned that no one actually watches out for these kids. I have been since I discussed the issue with my sports law professor and asked him who was looking out for the student athletes, as the athletic department and administration have their own agendas, and he said, "No one." Amateurism lolz aside, they are treated as commodities. Unpaid commodities. With Erik Ainge's recent admission of his issues with drugs and alcohol, even while at the University of Tennessee, you have to wonder how much close attention these universities are paying to the welfare of the student athlete off the field. On the one hand, they are adults who are responsible for their own decision making. On the other hand, they are 18-22 year olds living away from home for the first time and the school needs to be making sure they're actually okay, beyond being okay enough to play.

I'm following as much of the LSU football team on Twitter as I am aware of and I started retweeting some of their stuff with #emofootballplayertweets. They are adorable. However, it quickly became apparent that if I kept doing that, my timeline would be a constant stream of such RTs. 18-22 year old dudes are emo as fuck. And they should be! Good lord that time in my life... But it's the school's job to check in on that. Because what happened to Ryan Leaf and Erik Ainge and what seems to be happening with Steven Garcia should be more than just "boys being boys! Alcohol ahahaha!" stories. They end up being cautionary tales that no one actually listens to as they seem to happen over and over again. The parents have trusted the schools with the kids, and as educators, which is what football coaches and athletic department staff truly are, it's their job to check in on this. Now, can you babysit Garcia? Not likely. And if he's an alcoholic, you likely can't stop him. But shouldn't they offer him some help instead of just punishment, which after 5 times of doling it out, it obviously wasn't working?

Everyone should be a little more concerned for Steven Garcia, and similarly situated athletes, both pro and amateur, rather than just laughing at them.


That's the whip sound up there. And it refers to my brother. I was just on Facebook and his girlfriend's status is the following:

"My lovey is making me homemade chicken noodle soup and grilled cheese sandwiches for dinner! Just like his momma use to on rainy days. ♥"

Several things about that:

1. A year ago, before my brother was all involved with a girl, he couldn't boil water. He didn't have dishes in his house. He ate out all the time. I'm fairly certain he couldn't make eggs. Now all of a sudden he's making soup from scratch? Women be the greatest arbiters of change in men.

2. I seriously must be adopted. I have exactly zero recollection of that EVER being a meal that my mother made. I don't recall her making chicken soup from scratch when I was growing up. I remember Campbell's. Not that she can't make soup, she just more often made broccoli soup or mushroom soup. In fact, I'm the one that makes the chicken soup, not her. And I don't use noodles. Hysterically, I made that exact meal for my mom and I last week when I was sick. (Except I had the soup frozen from a previous batch I'd made, but still...) 

I'm not entirely shocked that him and I have incredibly different memories. As we get older and talk about stuff, what he remembers from our childhood and what I remember diverges significantly. He'll ask me about an event and I'll have no memory of it and vice versa. I do recall from my psychology of memory class in college that we all remember the same events differently and no one really understands the brain and blah blah. But still: never ever with the homemade chicken noodle soup and grilled cheese. 

3. I'll forgive the leaving off of the "d" after "use" but the heart? I think I just threw up a little bit in my mouth. 

In all honesty, it has been a massive sea change to see my brother in an honest to god relationship. He's like an actual human being. Not the jerk I was used to dealing with. I totally applaud his girlfriend, who I really like, for having such a positive impact on his life. I mean, he still has his moments, he will always be him, but our relationship, the way he treats me has improved greatly. So I hope they never ever break up so he doesn't go back to being a jerk face. 

Monday, October 10, 2011

Weekend Lunacy

You guys. It was...pretty epic. It involved doing shots of Crown Royal with the Canadian Navy (all of who were super ridiculously good looking. I mean, even their girls were really pretty. Like stunningly. Like way too pretty to be trapped on a ship. Gorgeous. And the guys were all tall and...Canadian.) It involved accomplishing a long held goal of sorts. It involved kicking the ever loving pants off the University of Florida in football. It was full of win. And then the worst hangover of football season/the year so far on Sunday which is kind of a loss. Oh, and it involved ordering a replacement credit card. So. Yeah.

Wednesday, October 5, 2011


Shit. What do I have to say to you guys? That's lame, right? That I can't think of anything? I went to this MCLE thing on Saturday...


MCLE means Mandatory Continuing Legal Education. Because paying an obscene amount of money to get a J.D. isn't enough, you are required to get 25 MCLE credits every three years to stay compliant with bar rules. MCLE credits can cost a ton of money. Like $500 for 3 credits in some instances. If you work at a firm, they usually pay for your CLEs (I think?). And I'm sure they are tax deductible as a business expense but I don't really know yet. ANYWAY. As they are expensive, my school was giving away 3 free to recent alumni. I had to take this offer. It just meant sacrificing my Saturday morning, in direct conflict of LSU playing (but it was only Kentucky which is a basketball school and thus should be an easy win though I never assume our wins will be easy (it was)...not that that kept me from whining incessantly on Twitter about missing the game), to earn them.

So I went and got 3 MCLE credits, that aren't even due 'til 2014 for me because of the group I am in, in how to be your best legal self. Or something. It was a lot of "network network network!" stuff. But some good actual information on what you could be doing as far as furthering your job search blah blah. And some silly, but helpful for me, visualization exercises. And I got to spend all morning with my law school friend Kelly and gossip so there are worse ways to spend time.

Part of that lecture was on blogging. Which, ya know, I kinda know what a blog is, thanks. (They were also really pushing linkedIn which...yeah, no.) But they did say that you should post consistently. Which is true. I can set my watch by when most of the bloggers I like will post. Me? Not so much. So I realized I hadn't posted in over a week and said nothing of value recently so I thought I should come here and post something even though I don't have much to say. Phew.

That was a really long explanation of why I am posting.

The news from here is that it is raining and I am sick. I gave up drinking from the Sunday after the West Virginia game until the Florida game. (Yes, we mark time in the fall by who the opponent is.) That was a mere two weeks of not drinking. As I should have known from undergrad, the second I take time off from drinking, my body goes, "Whoa whoa! WTF? Where's that boozeahol stuff we like? Mmm. Think we need to recharge. How about a cold then, to get back on track?" So I'm sick. And not happy about it. No going to the gym, lots of ramen eating and ginger ale, much bad TV. It's annoying. But at least I'm not missing sun. It's storming!

All I know is that this better freaking clear up (both my cold and the weather) by this weekend because in addition to a big, annoyingly scheduled day game matchup with the Florida Gators, it is fleet week. We'll call that my second favorite holiday. You should all be aware by now that my generally sane, rational, logical self (stop laughing. Stop it. I mean it!) loses her sanity in very few instances. The introduction of a large group of sailors, their ships and planes, into our fair city is one of them. The Blue Angels will buzz across the city, flying low across the bay, rattling buildings, and bars will be filled with guys on leave. Combine this with me drinking all the Abita (assuming I feel better) for a 1 p.m. kickoff and it should be a pretty great weekend. It is also Caps opening day, in what will be my first full season of hockey fandom, at 3 on Saturday. There is pretty much no reason, except for maybe getting food, for me to leave the LSU bar on Saturday. Except to go to other bars. I'm taking public transport that day. Not looking forward to a $40 cab ride back to the Sunset but better than the alternative consequences. Look at me! Being kinda sorta responsible!

Though really I'm most excited about the window rattling jets and hanging with my friends because the less idiotic things I do lately, the happier I am. Well, the less Sundays I spend doubled over in shame the happier I am, at the very least.

With that I'm gonna go chow down on Vitamin C, eat MORE ramen (since my favorite Chinese food joint, that was my go to place to feel better, closed 3 years ago and I'm STILL bitter about) and pound Dayquil. Or the generic Walgreens version of it because I am so broke. I have no idea what's in that stuff but it's magic.

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Momz Lolz

SF has rare sun and since I inherited a genetic ability to tan, I've mostly been in the backyard at the beach house working on looking like George Hamilton.

But a quick tidbits from the land of LOLZ Mother Daughter Relationships!

It is well established that I am an adult, in age if not in actual behavior. Unfortunately no matter how old you get, your mother will inevitably still treat you like you are five. This is particularly true if you are female though slightly true still if you are male.

We were discussing Europe the other day and I said that I really want to go back but that when I do I'd like to take in a soccer match. I missed going to a France friendly when I was in Paris and despite being in Eurocup cities while there, I missed that too. I figure soccer in Europe is like THE biggest cultural thing you can do. Sure sure, it's the church, museum, castle tour, as one friend dubbed it after walking through yet another one of Europe's gorgeous landmarks, but that gets tiring. Soccer is where you'd see Europeans be Europeans. It'd be the equivalent of me dragging some European on vacation to LSU/Bama game. I mean, why would you not, and me in particular, want to experience that? I want to chant and sway and drink pints and make out with soccer fans in London/Munich/Amsterdam pubs. That sounds pretty much like an ideal vacation for me, actually.

My mother flips out. It's like she's hit that age where she's reading Reader's Digest and if it was in there then it's gospel and we're all gonna die. One too many Dateline on the evils of college binge drinking and how your child is behaving features, ya know? Unnecessary panic at every turn. And maybe some of it is actually necessary panic but if you are anything nearing normal, the amount you keep from your parents should far surpass the amount you tell them. Considering she has no actual idea what I get up to a vast amount of the time, her worry is unwarranted. There are just these lines we keep that allow us to live our own lives and for our parents to only moderately worry about us, even when we're adults. I find this whole her freaking out thing even more comical because it's not like my mother is elderly. She's 21 years older than me, for those who feel like doing math. She likes sports cars and fancy restaurants and CARRIES A GUN FOR A LIVING. But something about me, her daughter, makes her all irrationally protective.

"You can't go to a soccer game! People die at those! They get trampled!" I point out to her that I spent the better part of my late teens/early 20s attending football in a 90k person stadium without incident but when arguing with your mother it is best not to employ anything in the realm of logic. "No! It's too dangerous!" This, again, is why we keep things from our parents. This is why we learn "It's better to ask forgiveness than permission." I brush her off and stop the conversation. I have no plans to actually be in Europe anytime soon so it's moot. Also: if I am in Europe I am going and there's very little she can do about it.

I didn't point out that I also backpacked around Europe for a month, 2 years ago, BY MYSELF and geezus the volumes she doesn't know about that... Again, the things we keep from our parents.

Yesterday I took a walk on the beach alone. At dinner my mom asked me about it. I said I took the usual route (Noriega to the Cliff House), but that since tide was low I actually walked around the Cliff House point to the Sutro Baths ruins and back. "I hope you were careful!" LOLZ, WUT? "You shouldn't laugh at the ocean! It's dangerous." I'm laughing at you, not the ocean. You're being ridiculous. "Well the tide could have come back in!" In the ten minutes it took me to walk around the point? Yeah, no. "Well! I worry! It's not like I can get another one of you! It's not like you're a puppy!" Geezus lady, seriously? Just...chillax. I've been crossing streets fairly competently alone since I was about 5. Pretty sure I can make it around a small cliff and back without getting swept out to sea.

And then every so often, your mother will say something completely surprising. I mentioned that Top Gun had played in Dolores Park, a movie we should all know by now I am devoted to, but that I didn't go a) because football takes precedence on Saturdays and b) I hate sitting with hippies smoking pot outside. I get it, I live in SF. Everyone is allowed to blaze up wherever they damn well feel like it. Fine. Whatever. But personally? I HATE the smell of pot smoke. It gives me an instant headache. I also find annoying the sort of cavalier "don't give a fuck" attitude all the stoners have about it. God forbid anyone smoke a cigarette within 500 feet of another human being without someone obnoxiously making gagging sounds in this city but weed smoke wafts from everywhere. (I don't smoke cigarettes either, unless extremely drunk, but the hypocrisy of it is hysterical.) My mother is actually one of those coughing gagging "OMG cigarette smoke!" types. She was constantly fanning herself and complaining when we were in Paris. Mom, it's FRANCE. This is how they do. You need to adapt.

So I mention the thing about the weed smoke. Her response? "Really? You hate it? I LOVE the smell of weed smoke."

Seriously: LOLZ WUT? Momz.

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Nothing of Note

I am soooo boring. (Don't you love when I hook you guys with opening lines like that? I imagine every Catholic school English teacher I ever had telling me to knock it off. (Hi, Mr. (redacted)!) (I imagined him with a google alert on his name, because he wrote a novel, and there's probably fiction about high school girls dating him out there, and that'd be embarrassing.))

(Oh! Aside! Bartender at the LSU bar when I was watching the also boring LSU/NSU game a few weeks ago, I ordered a drink and said "please" and "thank you", told me I was incredibly polite. I told him it was because of all the years of Catholic school but really it's the uptight mother who values our manners like whoa. Which is a good thing. I value them too.) (See! I'm not THAT boring. I was at a bar! With people! So cool!) (And now I'm really just fucking with you with the parentheticals. Cuz I am that bored.)

Anyway, not much going on in my world. Job searching sucks my soul. Do you know what I, J.D. holder, am qualified to do? Absolutely nothing! *insane laughter* No, seriously. They taught us NOTHING practical in law school, for which I curse them regularly, and I didn't do enough internships because I am a lazy slacker asshole and now I'm completely unemployable. SO. AWESOME! Guh. My law school sent out an email recently asking "Do you know anyone thinking about law school? Send 'em our way!" To which my classmates and I unanimously, across the internet went, "BUAHAHAHAHAHA. No." One of my favorite bar conversations lately is when people say, "I was thinking of law school!" I respond that in a lifetime of bad decisions that was easily the worst. Seriously. THE. WORST. Unless you have the grades to get into a Top 25 law school: DO NOT GO. I know, I sound bitter and insane and maybe in five years when I'm making money and my student loans are a minor afterthought and every job isn't in insurance, I'll tell you it's a fantastic idea. But for now? No. (Sorry, I know this applies to some of you and I know you'll follow your dreams and be content and I wish you all the luck in the world if you do go. But please don't. Do something else, ANYTHING else, instead.)

Other than that: I got a puppy and that's taking up a ton of my time. Somehow she has become my dog. My mom keeps referring to me as her mom. I never envisioned myself as a little dog person. I scoffed at people who owned ten pound dogs and referred to them as dogs. We've owned a husky, a golden retriever, an American Bulldog and pitbulls over the course of my life. The smallest dog we've ever owned is the one we have now and he's still a good 35 pounds. And yet I have a pocket sized dog. I'd throw a picture of her in here but she's a dark brindle and since the only camera I ever use is my crappy cell phone one, she just looks like a dark splotch. She's incredibly cute and her name is Maya. Her name was Zoe but we previously had a dog named that so it wasn't gonna fly. She's ten pounds and has an under bite and she is currently asleep ON the kitchen table between my arms as I'm typing. It takes all my will power not to buy her LSU clothes but I will be damned if I dress this dog. I'm thisclose to crazy dog person. It's not gonna be a big leap, either.

The first step in my ownership journey was that I named her. Do you want to know how I got to Maya? Do you!? This is how my brain works: she's a chihuahua/terrier mix. Chihuahua is a state in Mexico. The Mayans were also inhabitants of Mexico (though I realize not the same state). If you take off the n... Yep. That is how I named my ten pound nothing dog.

And now we're having a battle of the wills in the training her to go pee outside. The family that previously owned her have her mat trained. Which is great. She doesn't pee on the carpet. She also doesn't pee outside. Well, she does, just not ALL the time. I was whining to my mother the other day that I can't get anything done. By the time I walk the big dog and make sure the little dog gets some exercise, the day is half over. It's ridiculous. My mom says, "It's like having a baby!" "Yes. But I'm the one who never ever wanted a baby!" Do you think this is my mother's master plan to get me to change my mind on children? I doubt she's thinking that far ahead and if she was, this experience would not have had the desired effect but the opposite. I also think this is my mother's grand master plan to make sure I never move out. My dad today said, "You should move to my house." Well now I can't! Because the dog! Will someone come kick my ass out of neutral? Please? I'm begging you. It's necessary. (But do it gently because I bite back.)

The big dog is also being a clingy needy asshole because of the introduction of the little dog's adorableness and that is SO annoying. I get not wanting to be displaced (apparently when I was 13 months old and they brought my brother home, the first thing I did was slap him. I also got a shirt 3 Christmas's ago that declares "Not Mom's Favorite" so...) but seriously dude, you're 35 pounds, you can not climb up on to me.

The little dog also ate the power cord on my Mac while I was at the gym the other night.

It's been a fun couple of weeks. Which explains why I get stupid drunk and all escapist on football days. Huh.

And I just spent more words on my dogs than anyone likely cares about. Think we've solidified the crazy dog person thing. Gonna go do something not dog related now... Like look for more jobs.

Is it football day yet?

Saturday, September 17, 2011

Football Hate

In case you haven't noticed, I'm a girl who knows a bit about college football. I'm relegated to living on the West Coast where such fans are not in abundance. Sure, there are the ever casual Cal and Stanford fans but hard core passionate fans? Not so much. So when I am rocking an LSU shirt the other night, am by myself and guys want to talk to me, they should say something at least mildly impressive. Like, I dunno, knowing the first thing about football would be a good start.

I was sitting at one of the back tables at North Star by myself, after Cheryl left. It's the 4th quarter and I don't plan on being there much longer. As the bar was pretty crowded at this point, I let these two guys, nerdy, hipster types, know that no one was sharing the table with me and they were welcome to sit. Geezus don't let me do that again. Because here's what they said:

"Is this, like, the LSU bar?" I nod assent. Resisting every urge in my body to say, "No. No it's not. They just have the game on every TV, the sound on, are serving gumbo, and people are cheering loudly when we do something impressive. Let alone the fact that MOST EVERYONE IN HERE IS WEARING PURPLE AND GOLD." Is this how people generally make small talk? I mean, I'm fine with the occasional stupid comment to start a conversation, am probably every so often guilty of it, but a) I'm intently watching my live football game and b) I'm sober. Leave me alone. This is my "don't fucking talk to me" face, unless you're gonna tell me how impressive our D is.

"Does LSU play Florida this year?" Me, "Um, we play Florida every year." "Oh. Do you know when?" "We play them October 8th." "Is it a home game?" Motherfucker, GOOGLE IT. (Yes, it's a home game. On the road to Tuscaloosa, at home for UF.)

An aside to his friend that I overhear, "Florida has this cheer, 'It's good to be a Florida Gator.'" Great, you insipid idiot. It's GREAT to be a Florida Gator. Think about it. It's more rhyme-y. And good? Just good? Doesn't someone want to be better than good? How do you...? Never mind. Stupid living in California. I'm going to guess by the hints of conversation that this guy was some sort of Florida fan through his family or something. This is why I hate UF fans. So many bandwagon hoppers who have never visited the state. And their SF bar remains Hooters. Without a full bar. Which still seems super amateur to me. How do you claim to be SEC fans and then not even drink all the whiskey in the world? Sigh.

This was my favorite interaction though. As I'm getting up to leave he says, "I have a funny story about LSU! I was driving cross country with my friend and we were in Shreveport, Louisiana and we were at a Crapple Barrel. You know that place?" "You mean a CRACKER Barrel? Yes. I'm familiar with them." "Yeah, so we're at the crapple barrel (seriously, he repeated this mistake) and there are all these people in LSU gear, which probably isn't that unusual for that part of the country, so I say to my friend, 'LSU must be in Shreveport.' I walk by this old guy, like really old, sitting in a rocking chair! I mean, he's sitting there in a rocking chair! And I walk by, I'm already past him and he says, 'It's in Baton Rouge.' Ahahaha! So now I know, LSU is in Baton Rouge." All my willpower to not trot out a "Cool story, bro" to this guy. Okay so many things wrong here: OF COURSE he was in a rocking chair. They are ubiquitous on the front porches that adorn all CRACKER Barrels, of which there are many in the country (god I miss $10 filling breakfasts at Cracker Barrel). Secondly: all you've managed to tell me is that you don't know a goddamn thing about this country's geography. You probably thought SF was next to LA before you moved here from wherever too. I meant to ask him where he went to school because his stupidity was overwhelming but he was a nerdy hipster type at my North Beach dive bar and really I just wanted to punch him. But as our game was finally over and I was out of beer, I just left instead. Oh: and that story wasn't even remotely amusing.

Granted, if I wasn't a huge college football fan I might not know that LSU is in Baton Rouge. And honestly, the amount of times people assume it's in New Orleans and then I have to explain that it's not but that Baton Rouge is a mere 75 miles from NO is not insignificant. I know Iowa State is in Ames, South Carolina is in Columbia, which is also the city that Mizzou is in though obviously in a different state. KState is in the little apple, thus nicknamed for it being Manhattan, Kansas. So on and so forth. The capital of small African countries? No. But I can tell you that like the capital of Greece, the University of Georgia is in Athens.

I did point out to him that there is an LSU satellite in Shreveport but I don't think that was the point.

It's 11 p.m. at a different San Francisco bar. That means it's 1 a.m. central. I had the bartender put on the replay of the game for me because, why the hell not? I'm watching it again. Guy, "Good game so far, huh?" "Um. It's a replay. I already know we won."

Maybe I was just running touchy that night. Perhaps? Just...geezus, the chance to meet SOMEONE in this city who can have an actual conversation about college football would be nice. Bonus points if it's with a male and he's single.

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

Anything You Can Do I Can Do Better

The misogyny, and some women on women crimes, of the internet have been getting to me lately. It makes me want to shut it all down and never talk to anyone ever again (which, in fairness, I've actually sort of been doing). How can everyone be such assholes? It's amazing. And yet isn't.

I hate to whine about it because I don't know what to do about it. Whining alone seems unproductive and annoying to everyone, including me. But it started to occur to me that if I unfollowed anyone who made sexist comments I'd be left with nothing to follow on Twitter. If I stopped reading articles that made reference to women as sexual objects only or criticized women's looks as do many of the sports sites I read, I'd be left with a lot fewer things to read. (I'm actually about to bury myself in books because it's all become too much.) If I boycotted everything that called men "ladies" as an insult (the Deion Sanders DirectTV ads, for example) or relegated women to traditionally women's roles (Samsung commercial where women put up cute bear cub video to replace football game), I'd be left with nothing to purchase. And that made me angry. As this is my forum, I'll do the only thing I know how to do and write about it.

It started today when I read this by Frogs O'War. (It actually started today with a horrible customer service experience at Apple, but that's a different story...) I wanted to scream. But I try not to rage a 140 characters at a time because no one hears you. And besides, I'm just some harpy shrew who is upset she's not prettier. Or that's what the internets would shout back. But that article is infuriating. To sum up: Tom Brady is not manly for doing an ad for UGGS.

First off: screw anyone who knocks UGGS without owning a pair. I love mine. I won't even qualify that with "around the house". I do. I love my UGGS. Secondly, Tom Brady is a phenomenal athlete living a pretty damn good life. You married to a supermodel? No? Then your argument is invalid (even while that argument points to women as merely sex objects and part of the male fantasy. Ugh). How 'bout: are you a super bowl winning quarterback? No? THEN your argument is invalid. Lastly, I think it's genius for him to model for UGGS. He took something that he was being made fun of for and turned it into a marketing opportunity. And ably defended his actions. Because Tom Brady is not an idiot. (West Catholic Athletic League, represent!) He also knows who his demo is and part of his popularity is being hot and being Tom Brady and appealing to women. Women wear UGGS. Ergo, model UGGS.

Also: I take exception to that Y.A. Tittle would cry. Y.A. lives in the Bay Area. Not that it necessarily follows but that generally leads to a sort of open-mindedness not found elsewhere. He's also a businessman. I think he'd be all for Brady taking whatever business opportunity he could.

My second internet run-in was when I linked an article about one of the LSU women's soccer players taking snaps as a kicker for the football team. I actually got the link via a guy I follow on twitter who was all for it. A guy who is sometimes guilty of the misogynistic comments. But I found the article inspiring while dealing with my feelings of internet stabby-ness and so tweeted it. I was then shocked to get a response from someone who follows me, a female, that that would be a horrible idea. To quote: "all you need to do is look at what it did for CU Boulder's team to know it is a TERRIBLE IDEA and ruins football programs!!!" She was referencing the female kicker in 1999 at CU who was harassed and eventually left the team.

Now, I could make a LOT of comments about the bigger issues surrounding the University of Colorado at the time, that I think still reverberate in that program, but with a 140 characters I said that I hoped LSU would be more open minded, accepting, and nicer to a female on the team. Which so far it sounds like is the case but it's truly preliminary. Upon further reflection: I think the SEC is more concerned about winning than anything else and less concerned with what gender you are. At least I hope so.

This woman, who I do not follow and do not know, but is listed as a PR Professional and has many many followers to my not many, replied to me, "hmmm wishful thinking? girls and football? I'm a big advocate of girl power. Not when it comes to FOOTBALL"

You're kidding me, right? Maybe we should just go back to our place in the kitchen and raising babies too! Barefoot and pregnant forever, y'all! (Yes, I realize the ridiculousness in this argument and that it's one of those knee jerk responses that lacks actual logic but you're seriously kidding me with this shit, right?)

I am a Title IX kid. I was raised to believe that there was very little I am incapable of simply because I am female. I have a mother who does what is still considered a "man's" job. There were never any limits placed on me, at least not by those that truly love and support me. And there shouldn't be for any other women. You want to play football? You should get all the support you want. Science, math, engineering, languages, head of state, supermodel, professional athlete. Nothing should be off limits and no one should tell you otherwise. Never ever never. Not because of your race, gender, nation of origin. It's RIGHT EFFING THERE IN THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE.

Fine, it was a document to secede from an oppressive British government but we still hold it near and dear. We still find it's truths to be self evident. It actually says that, self evident. Here: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness."

Pursuit of happiness. There ya go. Whatever it is, you can pursue it. You aren't entitled to support, sure. But I freely give it. To all of you, to everyone. Climb mountains, sail seas, traverse canyons. DO IT. Break down barriers and cross borders. I hate to sound like a Hallmark card but good lawd am I so tired of people placing limits on other people, me included, with their words or actions. So to female kicker: more power to you. (And yes, I'm projecting a bit. The "no"s coming from those around me that I am hearing more than I would like and the limits I put perhaps unjustifiably, perhaps not, on myself getting to me more than I would like.)

Oh, and that same Y.A. Tittle that would cry at Tom Brady not being manly enough? He has something to say about women and sports, re: his daughter, who wrote a hero's ode to him in book form:

I'll tell you one thing. If girls played football, Dianne would be an All-American defensive end because of her tenacity and her vigor and her ambition and pursuit. She's just relentless, believe me. I can remember her playing soccer. She went after that ball so hard she didn't see nothin' but just that ball. One girl she kicked, she broke her shin guard.

Read more about Y.A. and his daughter here. (That article is old but really interesting and I am now gonna go pick up both his and her book. More on Y.A. here.) (It occurred to me as I read that, my grandfather, who had season tickets back when the 49ers played at Kezar, all the way to my aunt owning them still at Candlestick, likely knew Y.A. Grandpa is a legend in our family and I wish I could ask him these things, now that I'm a football fan, but he died when I was ten so I can't and that makes me sad. Stupid internet.) (Sorry for all the parens.) (Not really.)

Other Notes: The LSU soccer player in the article is on Twitter. I very rarely recommend following people but follow her because kick ass women make the world go round and she deserves your support.

The title of this post comes from the musical Annie Get Your Gun about the life of Annie Oakley. It's a song she sings. As I listened to it for this post, I remembered that Annie Oakley was the epitome of a kick ass female and the musical is based on the true love story she and fellow marksman, Frank Butler, of whom she surpassed in skill, had. He was never threatened by her ability and they have this amazing love story. Go read about her and him.

Quasi-related: A shock to exactly no one: I am stubborn. As such, my ex's love of Sports Night meant that I refused to revisit it, even though I have one of the worst memories ever and only hazy recall watching it when it was first on and had heard many good things about it since. But having run through every romcom available on the OnDemand, (the plot and dialogue of Something Borrowed is remarkably similar to a one act play I wrote in college and I need to do more fiction writing, apparently. Not that that means it was particularly good, but I could write stuff that I could make money on. In a fiction sense. Maybe. Should work on that...) I decided to revisit it. It is good. Like really good. A little dated, sure, but whip fast dialogue and well drawn characters and a reference to Harvey in episode 3 which makes me happy. And the strong female characters who are bosses and deal with men and like sports and aren't just girly a) give me hope and b) wish we had more examples of on TV.

I'm now cuddled up on my bed way too late with both dogs asleep at my side and feeling more content now that I got that out. More Sports Night it is...

Thanks for listening.