Friday, July 29, 2011

Summer TV Watching

(As a bunch of heavy shit important stuff rattles around my brain and I contemplate how to deal with it/continue avoiding real life, I take this moment to give you a guide to summer TV watching.)

My mom, about 2 weeks after the "regular" TV season ends in May, will inevitably ask, "Why was ___ a rerun this week!?" I explain for the thousandth time how TV schedules work, September to May. I then curse myself for going through this again/forgetting that she didn't read Tim Goodman's Chron articles religiously when he was there. (I haven't followed him to The Hollywood Reporter because I'm the laziest human alive. A new link? Pshaw.)

Sunday, July 24, 2011

Warm Cookies

No, that's not a euphemism. (Could it be? I dunno. One of you would turn it into one, wouldn't you?)

I'm fairly convinced of the healing powers of warm chocolate chip cookies dipped in ice cold milk. As I just ate two of them. In that vein, today I offer my idiot proof guide to making chocolate chip cookies.

You know how you buy the dough, break them off and can put them in the oven? Yeah. That's for amateurs. You aren't an amateur, are you? No. You aren't. You like a solid, homemade cookie. And impressing people with your culinary prowess. Or secretly hoping to make them fat so you look thin by comparison. (No one does that. Nope. Never. Wouldn't dream of it.) So make these.

(As an aside: I kinda rock at the cookie making. I go crazy at Christmas time and make oodles of them and get rave reviews for all my different concotions. It's the closest I get, for now, to being a rock star, shoving cookies in peoples' faces. So trust this recipe. You with me? Good.)

This is basically the recipe on the bag of the bag of Nestle Tollhouse chocolate chips but I've modified it so that you need only one bowl and no mixer, thus making it that much easier, just right for you bachelor types. Trust me when I tell you that in the amount of time it will take you to open the package and break them apart, you can make a whole batch on your own. Okay, slightly longer, but the rewards in flavor and comfort level provided will be worth it.

What ya need:

2 cubes of butter
3/4 cup packed brown sugar
3/4 cup white sugar
1 tsp vanilla (Yes, buy this. Do not whine about needing it. I can imagine you now. Stop it.)
2 eggs
salt (a dash if your butter is salted, a teaspoon if your butter is unsalted)
1 tsp baking soda
2 1/4 cups flour
1 12 oz bag of semisweet chocolate chips

Large mixing bowl
Spoon or other stirring implement
cookie sheets

To make:
Turn oven to 375 (okay, really more like 365 works the best but if your oven has those stupid little hash marks, just do somewhere between 350 and 375). Slice butter into pats or chunks and throw in bowl. Microwave for a minute and a half or so (our microwave is old, thus takes a bit longer, probably killing me faster), until melted. No one anywhere recommends this but this works for me, so, screw 'em.

After the butter is melted (it doesn't have to be perfectly melted, a few remaining lumps of butter is fine), stir in the brown sugar followed by the white sugar. Dump in vanilla and stir again. Add eggs. They'll sort of float on top so whisk them together a bit, breaking the yolks and then mix in to the butter sugar mixture. Add your salt and stir again. Sprinkle the baking soda over the top and stir yet again. Stupid easy so far, amIright?

Alright, here's where it gets ever so slightly complicated: The flour? Stir it in about a 1/3 of a cup at a time. And make sure to really stir it in, that it's all incorporated before adding some more. Phew. Difficult, I know. Once you've mixed in all the flour, dump in the chocolate chips, stir in to batter. What'd that take, five minutes? Rock star.

Drop your cookies by heaping teaspoons onto a cookie sheet, spaced apart about 2". Put in oven. I initially set a timer for 8 minutes, but check it after about 7 to see how they are doing.

If you have an extra cookie sheet, drop the dough on that one and then when the others are done you can switch it out and have constantly rotating cookie sheets so that there is always something in the oven and you aren't stuck waiting in the kitchen all day. If not, no big, remove the warm cookies to a plate in a single layer to cool. (I'd say a wire cooling rack but I don't want to ask too much of you people.)

Because ovens are finicky beasts, and mine runs hot, I actually turn the temp down a bit after the first round of cookies and decrease the cooking time by about fifteen seconds after each batch. I know, that sounds complicated, but just: 8 minutes somewhere between 350 and 375 and check at the seven minute mark. You'll be fine. (They might need longer, somewhere in the ten minute range, depending on how your oven runs.)

These cookies tend to come out thinner and crispier than if you creamed the butter and sugars together, which is how I like them.

Et voila! Homemade chocolate chip cookies! To dip in milk! Heaven! (Immmmaaaa be fat forever. Sigh.)

I even took a picture for you. Pretty! And delicious.

Thursday, July 21, 2011


I found myself in a bar in San Diego on a Saturday night with a guy who I didn't hook up with and wasn't trying to (really) and he just fucking nailed me with some truth bombs. And it was annoying. Because it was true. Fucking A. It was more annoying because it came through a thick midwestern accent and was all flipping folksy. I hate being leveled with truth bombs. I'm supposed to GIVE the truthy truthieness, not be the one receiving it.

Basically this guy said I was angry. Not specifically, walking around scowling, but like at life and shit. I tried to argue the point and be all, "No! No I'm not!" But I realized that I was just stamping my foot sounding ridiculous and quickly conceded that he was right. I wanted it to not be true but it was. So then I just drank like ten more Coronas to make it so that I forgot what he was saying and that it was true.

Except that I woke up and of course his truthieness was lingering in the back of my brain. There it was: You are annnngggrrry.

And it's still true. And I still am. And probably moreso now that it has a name. So, that's why the trip to San Diego, among other reasons, and why life in general, hasn't been written down lately. I've been taking some time. To try to not be angry. Or figure out what's making me feel this way (though being the self aware (narcissistic) person that I am, I know the answers there). I've been fucking emo. I don't want to talk to anyone. I don't want to talk. I don't want to move. I don't want. I don't...

Oh yeah, for added fun: staying at the Hard Rock hotel in San Diego will do WONDERS for your amazing self esteem. Fucking blond skinny big (fake) boobed chicks everywhere. Fun times!

On the plus side: I sat in the field club level for the game today (Sec 117 Row B), which is like the super exclusive seating and has it's own private everything and it's awesome and how we ended up there is ridiculously serendipitous so I'll file that under good San Francisco moments.

And now if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go watch crap TV on my computer since the OnDemand isn't working and I can't fix it and I'm, ya know, angry.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

When the Title is Apt

Sometimes I can pretend that SF isn't all that bad. It has its charming and fantastic moments. And then we hit a week like this where it is persistently grey, foggy, and windy wherein my summer seasonal affective disorder (I'm joking, this isn't real...or is it?) kicks in and I want to slit my wrists. Where being at the beach house isn't even a cure all like it usually is and Maverick climbing in my lap doesn't make me feel any better.

I fucking hate the fog. And since I follow a whole bunch of Southerners on my twitter feed who are complaining about it being 90 with 90% humidity at 11 at night, I really hate it. I'd trade all those people in a heartbeat. I should have taken the Louisiana/Florida/Alabama bar and been unemployed in those states. I maintain I am one of the only incredibly wacky native San Franciscans who loathes SF's temperate weather and thrives in weather mostly found in Southern swamps.

(I was discussing with my dad recently the love of swampy weather, as I am also not a fan of dry Arizona heat (anyone who says, "But it's a dry heat!" can go fuck themselves. I will take the sauna of Southwest Louisiana over desert nose bleeds any day of the week) and my dad concurred. I did not realize I wasn't the only one in my family to feel so strongly about stepping outside and having that heat blast on your face and your makeup immediately turn into pools.)

Anyway, I have Death Cab for Cutie on repeat and feel all emo as shit.

I'm headed to San Diego on Thursday where the weather better be something to enjoy. This is a family trip. My mom, stepdad, brother, brother's girlfriend, and me. I was dreading this for awhile as I don't exactly get along with my brother, but...the girlfriend is a good buffer and my stepsis is driving down from Long Beach to meet me and engage in our usual shenanigans so it'll hopefully all work out. Beside: it's not here. And not being here makes it a vast improvement. Having my own beach adjacent hotel room and only needing to show up for family sanctioned meals/events should also make it enjoyable. I do love a good hotel room.

Now excuse me while I get to peruse more legal jobs I am not qualified for and ponder the poor life decision that was law school...

Friday, July 8, 2011

Star Struck

I have mentioned this before but it bears mentioning again, and is applicable: I turn into a retarded bowl of jello around certain people. Let's add celebrities to the top of this list.

A few nights ago, the night of my birthday BBQ, I had a dream wherein I was best friends with Emily Blunt. I'm not really sure what precipitated this dream at all, besides a fair amount of booze. (I'm annoying in trying to trace the genesis of dreams. What you watched or saw before bed that led to you dreaming about certain things, etc sort of perplexes me. Shup all of you who say I'm just annoying.)

My most accurate description of this dream is an IM I sent Andy that afternoon, before it drifted too much from my consciousness: "I just remembered my dream! I went to see the Adjustment Bureau in an older movie theater during the day and Emily Blunt was in there too, sitting next to me, bawling her eyes out at a film she was in. I hug her to console her, in a friendly like way. We end up talking through the entire movie (the movie plot makes no sense in my dream, btw) and I find out she came to San Francisco to return a pair of shoes, that she was wearing, and I'm all, "I'll take you to return them!" But the whole time I'm thinking, "Holy shit! No one is gonna believe my new best friend is Emily Blunt! I HAVE to text Andy!" But I can't do it because we're running all over the place to return the shoes and escape the boyfriend who is awful or something...and the dream sort of devolves from there as we end up running around and sort of being IN the Adjustment Bureau? I dunno. But the I have to text you part cracks me up."

So I had this really vivid dream that Emily Blunt was my new BFF and we hung out. I woke up, and later tweeted, that I was a little disappointed that the dream wasn't true. I'd be an excellent bff to a famous person. But, as a general rule, famous people don't frequent SF so this is never gonna happen.

Ironically enough, I found out shortly after that dream that unbeknownst to me at the time of the dream, Emily Blunt was actually IN San Francisco filming a movie with Jason Segel called The Five-Year Engagement and continued to do so. Wha?! I made some offhanded jokes to my friends about, "Ha! Now I can make that dream come true! Emily Blunt and I are totally gonna be besties!" I was joking, of course. I live in The Sunset. I do not hang out at cool kid bars, I barely do anything exciting and certainly don't know anyone in the movie biz. So figured my me and EB (I can just abbreviate it now) besties scenario was never gonna happen.

Tonight my night took a couple of odd turns that ended up with me meeting Beth for a drink at Northstar and then meeting my dad at work. As you know, meeting my dad at work is one of my favorite things. We just roll and have fun. My brother and one of his friends met us as well, as they were looking for a ride to the Giants game. We all have fantastic bowls of pasta and discuss serial killers, roads in Alaska, and other myriad topics at our usual spot.

After dinner, we all hop in a police car and drop my brother and his friend off at the Giants game. We're driving back along the Embarcadero when Beth says, as we get near the Ferry Building Plaza, since she is in the front seat with a better view, "Oh! What are they filming over there?" I look and see a red ambulance thing and say, "AH! That's the Emily Blunt film! I'm dying to meet her!" And fill Beth and my dad in on the dream I had. (Yes, talking about dreams is quite possibly the most boring thing ever. But it's rare that a) I have a really vivid dream and b) have a dream about celebrities, especially a female celebrity. It wasn't a sexy dream about Matt Damon. Nope. That woulda made more sense. But a dream about Emily Blunt. So odd. Oh, and by the way, I haven't actually SEEN the Adjustment Bureau.)

Dad says, "Let's go see!" and makes the U-turn by the ferry building. We pull up next to the filming but out of the way and become more convinced that this is the filming for the movie with Emily Blunt even though we can't quite make her out. (I had heard Twitter reports of a food truck that was an ambulance that people were stoked on except that it wasn't an actual food truck. Someone else figured out it was part of this movie. I then found out more by following Allison Brie and Mindy Kaling's tweets. Yeah internet!) We watch them film for awhile, talking to the cop who was in charge of being on set and discussing that neither this cop nor my dad have any idea who Emily Blunt or Jason Segel are. And I'm getting all giddy and ridiculous and laughing with Beth and naming every last thing that they have both appeared in.

We're spying on the filming, trying to figure out what is going on and getting glimpses of them, but they're kind of far away. Until the transpo guy tells us we're perfectly parked blocking traffic for him as he's about to get the transpo vans as they break for "lunch" (it was like 7:30 at night, but they were planning on filming until about 4 a.m. with a couple other locations that the cop told us about, and I promptly forgot). Dad tells the transpo guy that we'll block traffic for him but only if we can meet "Emily". (My dad and her are on a first name basis now, apparently.) The transpo guy makes a joke about this, yelling over his shoulder, "Emily!" like she'll just come at his command but then walks away to do...whatever it is he's being paid to do.

We are now closer to the filming and can see them in the ambulance/food truck and the set up for the scene and them making out and can even hear Jason say, "We're closed!" at the end of the scene and then fiddle with trying to close the top of truck and failing and then saying, "Annnd this you can add later."

They were done filming. Jason and Emily walk to the tent far behind us and I'm still eagerly watching everything. Dad figures out that the stars are going to be transported in the Volvos parked to our right. I'm still just staring out the open window of the car watching all this going on and I'm like "AH! Jason's right there! He's walking by!" My dad yells out the window, "Hey! Jason!" like he's known his name for longer than five minutes. (The next parts are all super blurry and go super fast so forgive me, it's all a bit of a whirlwind.)

Y'all. The power of being in a police car and wearing a uniform. Jason Segel walks right up to the car and my dad says something, I don't even know what to him, and next thing I know Jason is reaching in to the car and meeting us and we're saying our names and he's responding with, "Hi! I'm Jason!" like we don't already know his name! AH! SO ADORABLE! And he was really sweet and told my dad thanks for all that the police have done to help them filming and how it's their last day of filming and they were really excited. I took a picture of him but because I am one of those people who HATES to be intrusive and ask for favors from obviously busy and tired famous people, it's a really bad shot of him just walking away from the car.

A couple minutes later, Emily walks by. And I lose my damn mind. My dad says, "Emily! I need to talk to you for a minute." Her, in fantastic British accent, "Oh no, what'd I do?" My dad says, "Nothing! Nothing at all. You just have some huge fans in here and I'd like you to meet them." I believe she shook all of our hands. Again, my brain went to crazy fuzzy place where it stops functioning. It basically just sounds like this, "AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAA!" inside my teeny tiny brain. She wipes off the guacamole on to her jacket (Stars! Just like us!) to shake our hand because she is hysterically eating the taco from the taco truck. (I imagine, anyway. It might have been from craft services. I like this story better if she is eating the prop food because she's starving and hasn't been able to eat as they've been filming all afternoon.)

I do remember my dad telling me, "Tell her what happened!" And I'm thinking ZOMFG! and say, "I can't tell her that! It's so embarrassing!" The level with which I now sound like a 15 year old fan girl is flipping ridiculous, I realize. To a FEMALE famous person. I now know that if I ever actually met a MALE on my Top 5 I would lose all power of speech and be the most useless glob of goo ever.

But I then proceed to tell EMILY EFFING BLUNT that I had a DREAM about her and that "I didn't even know that you were in town!" Her, "Well, what was I doing in the dream?" Me, "We were watching the Adjustment Bureau and you were crying." OMG. That's REALLY what I said. Without giving her any fucking context. Geezus, Lisa, could you BE more of a spaz? Probably not.

Do you know what she said? Do you?! No! Because you weren't there! She said, "At my own miserable performance no doubt." *dies, is dead*

My dad then says he's gonna take a picture and angles in to take one with her but I get all typically spazzy after getting out of the police car and push him out of the way and I take a picture with her. Me! With Emily Blunt! And do you know what she says to that? "Well let's get a picture so you can have more dreams about me." This sounds kinda bitchy. And that's likely a paraphrase. "So you can have better dreams" maybe? I dunno! Shit. I'll ask Beth tomorrow and get clarification because my brain was just...too many synapses firing all at once. I sort of hope it was that original thing. It'd be perfect if she said that in a bitchy way to me. But it didn't sound that way. It was perfectly adorable. So I have a horrible picture of myself on my cell phone of me and Emily Blunt. My dad then walked her across the street safely to her waiting Volvo. (Apparently her assistant or whatever had asked my dad to do this, my dad at first thought that person was being bitchy or facetious but realized she was serious in having my dad escort her safely across Embarcadero.) He does that and I am completely distracted by putting the photo in my phone and of course tweeting the adventure so  I miss anything else.

And that's it. We pull off the Embarcadero, they wrap up their filming, and we go about our night.


I will likely never meet another celebrity again having been a colossal idiot around these two. Who were both incredibly sweet and fantastic to us and my star struck stupidity. Which when you think about how many people they likely meet at any given time is impressive. Also how tired they must have been as this was literally their last night of shooting and they got to go home soon.

(Also, I kind of wish I had had the presence of mind to flirt with Jason Segel. Not that it would have mattered or gotten me anywhere but he is so adorable. Something I have thought for a long time and was not at all disappointed by in person. Who was just making out with Emily Blunt. And makes out with Amy Adams in The Muppets movie. Ya know? On second thought, glad I didn't do that and saved myself any further embarrassment.)

(Additionally, when we returned back to the police station, I promptly fell out of the car and onto my ass. So. Still me.)

Monday, July 4, 2011

Teen Wolf

I watch a lot of really bad TV. It's sort of my thing. If it's focused at teens and has hot dudes in it, I'm likely to tune in.

This is how I find myself on this Sunday night, after drooling over Alexander Skarsgard in all his Nordic glory (I would do such bad bad wonderful things to him... I do not think this is an uncommon reaction), watching MTV's version of Teen Wolf. It's bad. As bad as you would expect. Actually: worse. Usually I just tweet these things, but this one sort of deserved more than 140 characters at a time that no one is reading.

First of all, it's set in California. That looks like...I dunno, the woods of North Carolina. (Oh! Close! Just looked on IMDb: Georgia.)

They are also all lacrosse players as the sport of choice. Lacrosse, despite me going to uber prep school where we had an awesome lacrosse team, is mostly an east coast sport. And they carry their sticks with them all the time. This is the sort of annoying detail that bothers me. If a guy was a baseball player, he wouldn't be in every scene with a bat. Or football with a helmet. You aren't taking your lacrosse stick to every class. It goes in your locker, you get it for practice after school. Like I said, my school has preppy ass sports. I NEVER saw a lacrosse stick in a classroom. We get it. They play lacrosse. Next? And seriously, lacrosse? Could they have picked a more hated sport? From stereotypes, lacrosse is pretty universally reviled, no? Go with soccer if you want to be edgy. How bout a werewolf water polo player? Tennis? Anything else.

The kid that plays the werewolf is AWFUL. They picked someone that looks vaguely Taylor Lautner-y. Because hey! That sells! But, despite a pretty decent resume, he can't act his way out of a freaking paper bag. His chest is also so smooth it's sort of terrifying. And of course ignores all sound advice offered his way and acts in direct opposition to it. "Hey! Wolf boy! Don't go play lacrosse because you'll put us all in danger!" But what's our wolf boy do? Plays lacrosse! Because he's a lacrosse player! Can't you tell? By the way he is constantly carrying his stick? (Not a euphamism.) And his singular one track focus on getting the girl is...well, probably about accurate for a teenage boy. Or at least that's what movies have taught us (the level of clueless I'm discovering I am w/r/t male female relationships is kind of ridiculous though so what do I know).

Then this fun tidbit: older, more experienced wolf shows up. He looks familiar so I pull up the IMDb on him. Oh, right! One of many people who spent many years not acting in 7th Heaven. (For all my bad TV watching, I was not addicted to this overly preachy bs. That doesn't mean I'm immune to having watched it.) But because he's cute, and I'm a sucker for cute, I click on the more info link and find this:
"Hit into the last out ever at LSU's Alex Box Stadium during the 2008 NCAA Baseball Super-Regional as a member of the UCI Anteaters." Wait, what? The actor dude who is now in this bad TV show hit into the last out at my baseball stadium? I was not expecting to find that information there. LSU won. (I actually don't know this but I'm gonna go with yes... Wait! We would have won because if he got the last out it means they didn't play the bottom of the 9th because the home team was leading and thus a victory for LSU. Deduction! Without just googling it! Yay, brain! (Though if it was in regionals...))

This kid may be the worst werewolf in the history of the world. The new girl he falls for has a dad who HYSTERICALLY enough ends up being a werewolf hunter. And since this moron can't decide to hide his werewolfness, the dad is gonna figure this out in like five seconds. "But I have to play lacrosse! And no one is gonna question my amazing ability!" And he's also made an enemy out of one of his fellow teammate and his machiavellian girlfriend by being better than him at lacrosse. Magically! Unquestionably! I'm all for willing suspension of disbelief but COME ON! This kid just scowls through this whole thing. And he's so epically dumb. They keep acting like it's cool to be dumb on here. "That's the answer....riiiigghht? Oh whatever, who cares anyway? Being smart is stupid!" Ugh. In fairness, it's probably not the A students watching Teen Wolf on MTV so they have to let not smart kids know it's okay to not be smart. America! Where we value your stupidity!

So what is redeeming about this? Sidekick friend is sort of hysterical in twitchy sidekick way. "I don't want to be the Robin!" He also makes an Adderall joke. Because casual perscription drug use is hilarious. (I'm still bitter about not having a hook up for this shit for the bar. Or, ya know, life in general.)

The troubles are sort of adorably teen like, which is a change from the sexed up shenanigans of all my beloved CW Shows. (Oh don't act all shocked, you know I watch much bad TV. I could have cured cancer in the amount of time I spend on this schlock.)

The girl that plays love interest is all cute and doe eyed. The lacrosse coach is appropriately clueless.

But really? Here's what I just IMed a friend: "This kid is so dumb. Worst werewolf ever. I want him to get caught and killed to end this." Much like I wanted Tamzin Merchant to lose her head in The Tudors and end that misery. Oh! Aside!: I recently read that Tamzin was originally cast as Dany in Game of Thrones. Yeah. That would have SUCKED and I would not have watched. Other girl kills it as Dothraki queen.

Continuity issues! He has super powers but climbs a chain link fence? And this whole how he acts as a wolf thing is not at all consistent. You have no control but now you're coherently engaging in a fight with other wolf? And we find out there are types of wolves and he's a beta. So you're not even a badass wolf? You just lost me. There is also something about older wolf's family being dead and his siter was murdered in the first episode and we have no idea who made baby wolf or one cares besides me, huh?

Cute girl just ruined my adorable problems thing! First date, have only had one kiss and she says, "Think about me...naked" to help make him a better bowler. Because we're supposed to imagine that no one ever anywhere can bowl and that he would suck at the rolling of a ball down a lane for a not gutter ball. But a word from her and he's suddenly a 300 bowler. Kid, you have to play DOWN your skill for survival. Have you not watched anything else?

Worst. Indimidation. Scene. Ever. Love interest's dad just intimidated older wolf. Not exactly sure why. Or what purpose it served. They were at a gas station talking about keeping black cars clean so as to see things clearly and he washed the wolf's front window and then wolf taunted back, "But you didn't check the oil" and they smashed his window in. That just gets a straight up WTF. Yes, I am now thinking way too hard about this.

These kids also ALL snuck out of the house with no accountability for defying their parents. KIDS TODAY! This is what is wrong with the youths! Get off my lawn!

Aww man! Another sex joke. This time from the mean girl best friend dating lacrosse captain. "Stop pretending to suck just for his benefit." Solid advice, by the way. Don't play down to a man to protect his ego. But then this: "Believe me, I do plenty of sucking JUST for his benefit." Guh.

Oh great, 80s bad boy lacrosse captain has it all figured out without having anything at all figured out. Which if he wasn't so dumb he could actually figure out. Says, "There's something off about you" while HE'S the one with the spiked up sideways gelled hair. Yeah. Uh huh.

So our older wolf almost gets killed now by love interest's aunt who is also badass werewolf hunter. Young wolf now has to skulk through the episode trying to find the antidote in love interests house which mostly involves him doing his squinted eye thing not being stealth at all as he gets caught making out with girl. Whose mom magically appears out of nowhere? Wha? This episode was stupid. He plays grab ass with love interest while older wolf almost dies and sidekick has to take care of him.

Yes. I did just watch all four available episodes of this OnDemand. So you didn't have to.

And ya know what? I'd still rather do this than sit through the Bachelorette talking about Bentley. Y'all that recap that deserve medals.

Sunday, July 3, 2011

On this day...

I was born. At 1:48 p.m. at St. Mary's hospital (native of a native). 26 years ago (lie). That my 26th birthday won't involve bawling in the hallway of a hotel after a wedding, like my 25th (lie), is a-okay with me.

That whole "I hate the 4th weekend" thing? It's a direct result of having a holiday weekend birthday wherein no one is around. This is what I tell myself. Chances that no one would likely give a fuck anyway and that birthdays are not magical days where you get to be a fairy princess who is a size six and married to Brooks Laich (man of my dreams) while riding through an enchanted forest on a paint pony, incapable of getting hangovers? High. (This, by the way, describes my ideal birthday.)

But! This year feels different. Because my beloved friends share a wedding anniversary with my birthday now, I checked in with them and discovered they were celebrating on the 3rd, but free on the 2nd. So I did a BBQ at my house yesterday and it was AWESOME. First of all: my peeps are straight amazing. Smart, funny, ridiculous. A perfect blend of highly educated and street smart. They spent a vast majority of the night working their way through a bottle of Jameson, making fart jokes and fake kung fu fighting on my back deck. They also took my dad's camera when he left it lying around and took pictures of their junk. It was like we were legally drunk 13 year olds. And it was fucking fun.

Later on my dad yelled at my bestie who ALWAYS gets mad at me for having too much random knowledge in my head, as I discussed the psychology of dogs. He got all finger pointy and my dad said, "You point your finger at her again, I'm going to break it off and feed it to Maverick!" Daddy's girl forrreeevverr. (He also rallied from his own previous hangover to clean up his house and make us ribs.) But that same bestie, who knows that my drinking speed is ON gave me a birthday card that on the outside says "Celebrating your birthday? Present the enclosed car to any bartender for your FREE BIRTHDAY DRINK!" Inside? A coupon that says "Excuse me, may I please have a glass of water?" This after getting us drunk on Happy Brooks Re-Signing with Washington Day! (Not a real thing, just us managing to go out on a Tuesday and get drunk. As good a reason as any.) He's all, "I'm ready to leave and here comes Lisa with two more drinks! Geeezzusss." *shrug* What can I say? I forgive him for getting mad at me for knowing stuff.

We ate a ton of good food (ribs, caesar salad, potato salad, chips and guacamole), drank a ton of beer and were all merry and fun for several hours. It rocked. The amount of bottles stacked on the counter at the end of the night made this place look like a frat house. I'm proud of us.

So basically I get to spend my actual birthday hungover. Which is alright. It's sunny here, I don't have to get really dressed and am gonna go fall asleep in a chair on the back deck in the sun. Except I don't have any Dr Pepper. It would take a four block walk to get some. I'm not moving. And then tonight I am going to the ever cheesy Tonga room for a mai tai and dinner with my mom and stepdad.

All that said, this is off to a pretty awesome start and despite no one being around, I got plenty of texts and tweets and the ever important facebook messages. (You don't know you're loved until it's declared on Facebook.)

Here's to 26 (lie) being the best year ever!

Update: My dad went to the store and got me Dr Pepper. Honestly? Best birthday present. I'm gonna be giving it up on Tuesday in an effort to actually honest to god lose weight so I can be that ever elusive size six (never gonna happen). This is gonna be super difficult. I love this stuff. It is my crack. But for now? Imma drink it all.

Friday, July 1, 2011

How to Pop Corn

More in the how to feed yourself in case of zombie apocalypse series. Though I think this one works  better for how to impress someone on an in home movie date.

Actual real IM conversation the other day:

Me: Yeah, but I ate like four cups of popcorn (after working out).
Him: Popcorn = not bad at all.
Me: Butter.
Him: You should read the back of the bag sometime.
Me: giggle
Him: Oh, right

Celebrate America

I sort of hate the fourth of July weekend for my own very specific, very self absorbed reasons.

But. This year Imma make the best of it. We don't have a lake/beach/river/weekend house to go to and BBQ and drink and wear bathing suits and flip flops all weekend. Which is sort of disappointing on its own. Why don't we? Why haven't any of you people invested in this yet? We need a place with a pool and a hot tub dammit! (I sometimes pondering sneaking into my ex-stepmother's house and using hers. Her house however is in the far East Bay, through the tunnel. Cringe. No one should be forced to go out there for anything ever. Suburban hell. (Stepsis will confirm this, won't ya?))

Well, I mean, we have the beach house but that's just our regular every day live at house that happens to be across the street from Ocean Beach. Ocean Beach, for those of you unfamiliar, is not some sun drenched California beach where scantilly clad bikini babes run up and down all day. That shit happens in Southern California. This is Northern California. The differences between the two are stark.

Actually: digression: When I was in college the amount of people that thought San Francisco and Los Angeles were within spitting distance of each other was startling. Had none of you people ever looked at a map? I should have lied, but amazingly enough I wasn't as snarky then. "Yep. I go from Hollywood to the Haight in a matter of minutes." Then I read this description of our geo-centricness and realized it was hysterical and accurate. I used to drive my ex crazy by referring to pretty much everything South of Santa Barbara as L.A. "I did not grow up in L.A.! I grew up in Huntington Beach!" There's a difference? It's gotta be completely slight, right? My other ex was from Ohio. Do you know what states border Ohio? ME NEITHER! Nor do I care! He'd insist he wasn't from the Midwest. How he thought Ohio was not the midwest is a testament to that he was an idiot. But even if he was right, I grew up on the West Coast. If it is not that coast or the Eastern one, ya know what it is? MIDWEST. Nevada to Pennsylvania? Midwest. And you know on a map when all the Eastern states get squished together, unlike our Western sprawl? I usually waive my hand dismissively over the map and refer to places as "being in there somewhere" whether Rhode Island or New Hampshire. So I'm just as bad as the Southerners that assumed I grew up in the cliffs of Malibu by thinking of L.A. as next to SF.

Anyway, despite the firm belief by the rest of the country that the beach across the street from my house resembles Baywatch on a daily basis, it doesn't. The main difference at our beach is that it does not have lifeguard stands and people swimming because you're a moron if you are swimming at our beach in anything less than the thickest wet suit you can find and aren't a surfer. You will die.

However: I have already scheduled a BBQ for the beach house for the July 2nd. It should be good. Me, dad, Ange, about 10 other carefully chosen people. And amazingly enough, the weather here is forecast to be around 70. Summer sun! In the Sunset! I won't hold my breath on that actually coming to reality. It'd be great if it did, but I'll still plan on needing a sweatshirt.

I also am going back to my college self after my mom had one of the Sirius country stations on in her loaner car*. I came home and created a Pandora station with some country. I'm not one of those outright country music haters. There is some later Brad Paisely stuff with god awful lyrics that make me want to shoot someone for ever thinking those were acceptable to make. This stuff, so far, has clever lyrics. Nothing like listening to country music makes me want to throw on Daisy Dukes, cowboy boots, a gingham top and drink beer outside. (I'm joking. I wouldn't be caught dead in Daisy Dukes or gingham. I do own cowboy boots. That I love. And the shorts are more about hating my thighs than being against them as a thing. Plus I'm on the far side of 25. I know better.)

Seriously though, it all reminds me of JR trying her damndest to teach my California punk loving, completely uncoordinated self how to Cajun two step while she played Kenny Chesney's "My Tractor's Sexy" on repeat and being at Apartment 4 where they had a kegarator and my Cajun ass friends sounded not unlike the cast of Swamp People after a couple beers (one of them does hunt gators for money now).

Point being: I was in a major funk yesterday. MAJOR. Shit just...ya know? Reality is hard, y'all! But I went for a walk at Crissy Field, had a good dinner, took a break from the internet for most of the day, am now jamming country while writing, and it doesn't seem quite so awful anymore.

So a weekend of good friends, beer, good food, and country music seems like it is in order.

*Someone rear ended my mom's sports luxury SUV? Whatever. Poor dude. The amount of money to fix the not even dented but just scraped bumper of a fancy car? Yeah. You don't wanna know. So while that's getting fixed, she has a loaner car with sattelite radio.