Hey, news shows, can you please, for the love of all that’s holy, stop showing the GoDaddy commercial. It grosses me out. And you keep telling me that it grosses you out, but then you say “Let’s take a look at it.” STOP IT! Don’t make me go all Eric Sims on your arses.(And I’m not mentioning that ad anymore. Other than to say, I think the GoDaddy team really hates women. It isn’t just the “oh we’re so controversial” nudity and gross necking. Their GoDaddy.co (totally different than GoDaddy.com) ad featured nagging wives and a “sky waitress”. WTF? Also, I’ve used GoDaddy before and they suck.) Now that that is over, let’s talk advertising. Everybody and their brother Al has opinions on the Super Bowl ads. They are all wrong, here’s the only recap you’ll want to read. (In no particular order): Sweet criminy, I love goats! Granted, I’ve never owned a goat. I did used to feed them my bus transfers when I would stop by the petting zoo that was in the park next to my apartment in Chicago. They’re cute, and apparently smart as dogs. After the past few years of picking on animals in their commercials, I was glad to see Doritos give the goat the upper hand (hoof?): Screaming Goat Doritos commercial: Cute baby goats you need to see that have nothing to do with the Doritos commercial: Full disclosure, I hate Budweiser products. Ok, smarty pants, I know that Stella Artois is now made by the same people, but for some reason Bud, and any Bud derivative gives me an instant headache. To me, Bud Light seems like something I’d drink while smoking Marlboro Menthols. Thought you should know that before I told you that the new...

You inspire me. Several people I know have taken amazing journeys this year. Some are family, some are friends, some are acquaintances or old relationships tracked only via Facebook. Some are at a height of success in their ventures, some are just starting out. They all have one thing in common, they are sharing their accomplishments and struggles. Whether they do that by posting status updates, newly created blogs or sharing in person. You folks inspire me. The other thing I noticed from a couple of these adventurers, they wonder if sharing their story means anything. Sometimes writing about yourself feels self-indulgent at worst, or like you are echoing into an empty canyon at best. I can only tell you that you hooked me. Your example of persistance shines like a torch when I’m in the middle of dark doubt. My older sister is one of the best examples. When she was a little girl, Janet made up her mind to be a “travelling art teacher”. She always had talent, and smarts. Janet studied graphic arts in college. She married a year out of school and devoted herself to being a wife and mother to two kids, who have recently flown the nest. While she’d always been creative during that time, she has decided to re-engage her artistic self, and to share it with the world on her blog They Gave Me Sketchbooks. It’s scary to start up something you love after a few decades. It’s even scarier to push it out into the world for judgement. But she’s inspired me. Anytime I’m too tired to write, I peruse her blog and then get busy. Part inspiration, part sibling competition. Other inspiritors include: An old college buddy who I haven’t spoken to, aside from...

There are probably around a dozen books in my library that I either haven’t started or haven’t finished. It’s a shame, sort of. A few are loaners from family that I’ll get to when everything else around me is exhausted. Several I purchased because I love the author, and the premise sounded interesting, but I get distracted by shiny new stories, so I lay those older books aside, promising to pick them up at the soonest opportunity. And admittedly, there are a couple who I’m half-way through but found myself getting so overwhelmed or bored with minute detailing of history (I’m looking at you 1491) that I had to book mark them and cleanse my mind with some YA before even thinking of cracking them open again. A good number, of these neglected tomes, are books on writing. So my house is over-run with books. Also, I live with somebody who has lots of books of their own. If I mention wanting to buy a new and exciting book, he’ll eyeball the stack of unread novels and history books precariously perched on the nightstand next to my pillow. “Why do you want to buy another book when you still have these to read?” (It should be noted that this person always gifts me with at least one book on Christmas and birthdays.) Since I’m not made of money, and my storage space is finite, the library is my go-to book fix. Libraries are easy. Borrow a book and then hand it back once you’ve thoroughly examined it’s world. But some of those books affect me so much, I must own them. There is an odd power that story has over a person. When it really connects, it’s as if a piece of my soul...

The initial Poll on This Star Trek/Star Wars poll started a Facebook discussion on cos-play. It seems a lot of what solidifies your decision on your franchise favorite is how you’d get to dress up for the storyline. Since we nerds love to play in the costume scene, I’m curious to find out how you’d dress up for a sci-fi convention. I generally just wear the ‘gawking tourist’ uniform, but I do play dress up in my imagination. I would love to rock a Borg costume at some point. Let me know in the comments what your ideal (or actual) costume for Comic-Con would be or if you think grown-ass adults should stop playing already. [poll...

At the tender age of 8, I bought a vinyl album that had the story of Dracula on one side and Frankenstein on the B-side (kids ask your parents about B-sides). When Kim Gibbs had a sleep-over, Halloween party at her house, I brought the record for everybody to listen to. Of course, I had to run from the room in terror half-way through the Dracula side. I was an impressionable child and Dracula freaked me out. At around the age of 11, I read Salem’s Lot for the first time. We had a enormous lilac bush in our front yard, large enough so I could walk through the tunnel made by the growing plant. Now, I just knew that vampires were hiding in that tunnel and would come out every night to watch me through my bedroom window, waiting for me to let them in. Even though the thought of a vampire terrified me, they also fascinate me. It all made sense a bit later, with the introduction of the pure sexual hunger of the vampire, Lestat. Then Gary Oldman gave sensually seductive appeal back to good old Vlad the blood-sucker. The creatures showed another side of primal need. Now we have brooding Edward Cullen: The reluctant vampire. He doesn’t scare me at all. This generation of vamps is leaving a bad taste in my mouth. So I figured you might have an opinion too. Click below to weigh in on who sucks the most. And feel free to add your own fav versions of the photophobic in the comments below. [poll...

We’re starting up a weekly poll here at Fierce And Nerdy. We thought it would be best to ease you into sharing your opinions, by asking something familiar, something we all have strong opinions about. It’s Star Trek v. Star Wars. Some of you like both, but you know it’s not equal. So which is your favorite child of the two? Let us know by clicking below. Choose wisely. [poll id=”28″] Choose the Darkside (click the button above) The prime directive, click the Star Trek...

“What are you fellas staring at? I’m not a pole dancer.” growls cranky old Gus (Clint Eastwood) in a trailer for Trouble with the Curve. Eastwood is once again playing a grumpy old man. But wait a minute. In the middle of watching that clip, a lightbulb illuminated above my skull and I was overcome with the sudden realization that pretty much every character Clint has ever played has been a curmudgeon. He didn’t start this grumpy schtick when he got grey and wrinkly. Even that young, gun-slinger eating western spaghetti (did I get that right?) was a put-upon anti-hero with a hair up his heinie. Testing this revelation, I made a visit to IMDb, reviewing the work of Mr. Eastwood for any comedies he may have tried his hand at. Nothin. Well, maybe Every Which Way But Loose could be considered funny, but he was still pretty grumpy in that one. While I was laughing my ass off at his take on Invisible and Crass: The President and I at the recent Repub convention, I don’t think that show will make his filmography, nor do I think he shook the cloak of cantankerous-ness in that performance. Why do we love such a crusty character? And boy do we love us some Clint! Eastwood has been popular for 50+ years because we see ourselves in the everyman he portrays. Trust me, even the most perky and positive-zen-light among us have days where we wish those damn kids would just stay off the lawn/turn down that music/pull up their pants/get a damn job. Alternately, we want to be the one who saves the irascible lonely jerk from his own foul mood. Ya see, while Clint is cranky or difficult, he’s never downright mean. Sure he...

I really wanted to choose my story about finally being okay with wearing glasses in public for best of FaN, but the column below needed to resurface because I can’t stop saying stupid stuff. People tell me that I’m an excellent listener. One of the reasons people think that, is that I’m keeping my damn mouth shut before I remove any doubt you have of my idiocy. I am always saying the wrong thing and I can’t for the life of me tell you why. Here is a little story I like to call “Ruining the Moment”: We are at an idyllic ranch in Wyoming. My extended family on Mom’s side; cousins, aunts, uncles, nieces and nephews, have all gathered for our every 5 year reunion. The property is lovely and the sun is melting into the pond and reflecting blues and purples and pinks that color the end of our warm day. My 23 year old nephew and his young wife walk into his Mother’s, my sister’s, cabin and asks the noisy crowd to leave so he can talk to his Mom alone. “Why!?!” I blurt, a little too loudly “Is it because you guys are pregnant?” Of course it was because they were pregnant, with their first child and he wanted to share a special moment with his mother. So do you know who has two thumbs, a big mouth and ruined that moment? This gal. That occurred in 2001. Normally I let go of the stupid crap I say, because otherwise it would weigh me down. That one was a biggie though, so it still sits on my head. Most of the time, I know immediately after the fact when I’ve said something idiotic. Take today at the animal rescue where...

My parents read books to me. They were pretty busy people, Dad was a farmer and ranch hand, working up to 22 hours a day, 7 days a week. Mom had five kids to care for out in the middle of the country, but they read to me. Since I was the fifth of those five kids, and a late surprise at that, I’m pretty sure my brothers and sisters read to me as well. It’s time to thank them all for giving me a love of story that has lasted my entire life. I don’t remember much about the first few years, but there is a tale my Mom likes to share of how I sat at my second birthday party and “read” The House that Jack Built. Because I had carried it everywhere with me and insisted that my family read it to me so many times, I had memorized the words and when to turn the pages. That might be a bit of a stretch of my Mother’s pride in an exaggeration, but I like that the legend has floated through my life with me, as a part of my origin myth as a reader. Most of my reading was unsupervised after the age of seven. I remember discovering Salem’s Lot when I was in the 4th grade. While it totally freaked me out and made me terrified of the dark forever (yes, still to this day) I got hooked on Stephen King. I read a lot of the classics too, but lost myself in the worlds that the horror master created. Until my early 20’s I bought every book he wrote on the day it was released. Around that time, I discovered Clive Barker. Clive’s work came to me the way...

So you went and saw The Amazing Spider-Man to witness Andrew and Emma fall in love. Sweet. A lot of critics, comic geek bloggers and my FB friends have been praising The Amazing Spider-Man, mostly for the relationship between Gwen and Peter. I whole heartedly disagree with all of you. There were about a gazillion critical story errors and the script was dull as clipping dry toenails. My one sentence review is: “I’m assuming it’s better than Battleship.” Reading positive reviews has me ranting at my computer screen, wanting to respond with all the reasons the film failed, when it occurs to me: I have a bi-weekly online column. I hardly ever post anything controversial or offensive, and I am inspired by this genius Promethius review, so I figured it was about time to express a contrary opinion (sorry to butt into your space On The Contrary). So here are the reasons The Ambianzing Spiderman super disappointed me and the people who saw the movie with me. I do address that relationship thing in my final point below. (yes I know it’s Spider-Man, but out of disrespect I’ve been calling him Spiderman in one quick blurt. Take THAT mysterious corporate movie production overlords!) WARNING: There are spoilers out the wahzoo in this piece. Plot Problems Once Dennis Leary makes Peter Parker realize Spiderman is just a vigilante (by chasing guys who look like his Uncle’s killer) they just DROP the whole “Who killed Uncle Ben?” thing. Did the writer/director think “Ok, well we’ve used that plot point to get us to here. We don’t really need to tie that storyline up do we? Nah…” How did Peter Parker get the “super tensile spider web” vials from Oscorp? Isn’t that stuff worth a ton of...

Yesterday was my 10th wedding anniversary, so I figured I would share one of the secrets to long-term marital bliss. You don’t make it through 21 years in a relationship without learning how to use the “C” word. My not so secret, secret? Communication. When I was super-young and single and really bad at relationships, I met Seen. We had some heated fights in the first few years. I’d screech and cry and he’d sleep on the couch. I would shut down rather than discuss problems or find a solution. My move was to steam in silence, waiting for him to figure out what he had done wrong. I wanted him to intuitively know what my mood was, why I was so damn grumpy and the cure for it all. TV shows and chick flicks showed me what perfect was. Women were rescued by a prince. You know, the guy who “got” her even though her current beau didn’t. That was true love and how to know your soul mate immediately. In my humble experience, I can tell you that TV, chick flicks, love songs and most fairy tales are full of shit. Being involved with somebody isn’t effortless, but it isn’t ‘hard work’ either. It’s about talking to each other. Not being an ass-hat helps, but mainly it’s the talking. For me, one of the hardest parts of this communicating thing, was actually knowing what I am trying to say. Sometimes I have to stop, think about what’s happening here and figure myself out before I start talking. Here’s a simple little example we just lived through: When making weekend plans, more often than not, Seen will say “We can do whatever you want to do.” which always made my hackles rise. I...

“My sole inspiration is a telephone call from a producer.”–Cole Porter Deadlines and I are frenemies. Without a deadline, even if it’s just a scrawl on my to-do list, I would never get a thing done. Having a deadline is a light at the end of my creative tunnel. Sometimes that light is the finished project coming out into the sun. Most of the time, a deadline seems like a train, carrying a cargo of procrastination that is about to run me over. Even when I’m super excited about something, say things like writing a bi-weekly column for this online publication, I put off the inevitable. Usually I start a bit of writing a few weeks before the item is due, committing myself to bits of research, looking at other points of view, digging up thoughts and memories. Then suddenly, somehow, it’s an hour before deadline and all I have are a few scratchy notes that that seemed much, much more comprehensive in my head than they do on that sheet of paper. Here comes that train, barreling towards me with little regard for my excuses, no matter how valid they sound. Time and tide wait for no man, or writer. This is not a new phenomenon. I sucked at homework. I can admit now that I was a fairly good student, but I would have accomplished a lot more if I had focused on history or geometry problems at the kitchen table instead of my chosen way of spending an evening; either reading a book or dancing around in my room play acting out little skits about how Gopher and Isaac the Bartender were both in love with me. Most mornings you would find me in the school hallway, about 10 minutes before...

Groupon had me climbing the walls yesterday. Every morning I wade through email offers from Groupon, Living Social, Amazon Local, Daily Candy and tons of other trickle down copy-cat sites. Today alone, I tossed 14 offers into the trash including: 60% off eye lash extensions, a reduced rate on a body-fat scale and discounted limo service. Lots of stuff I didn’t want, need or even look at. Back in November, however, one day after I had an extensive conversation about how rock climbing could boost my strength and temper my anxiety, a deal popped up for an indoor rock climbing gym. It seemed like one of those glorious, coincidental timing things. So this girl, who is usually only swayed by discounted massages, bought a climbing session. I printed the voucher, but the Groupon languished, magnetized to the fridge. Every time I reached for a snack, I was reminded that I was a total slacker who needed to climb. With only a week remaining before my deal expired, I called and made the appointment to do just that. Rockreation is tucked into a nondescript office strip mall in West Los Angeles. Walking in the door, I was struck that this is climbing practice nirvana, which happens to also smell a little bit like feet. Every wall is covered with hand holds and cliffs, some have overhangs that jut out at various angles, just like a real cliff. Climbing ropes were already hung on about 50% of the walls. In order to climb here, I needed to first fill in a waiver stating I wouldn’t sue Rockreation no matter how I managed to injure or kill myself at their facility. That pumped my anxiety a little, but I figured climbing nirvana was as good a place...

Two nights ago, someone said to me “I really don’t like most American-made cinema anymore.” I didn’t ask him to elaborate because: a. I agree and b. I’ve heard the same thing from a lot of different people. From the Transformers franchise, Battleship-type movies and most crappy romantic comedies, a lot of the mass produced, mega-million budgeted crap that emits forth from the studio machine seems like a bunch of rehashed dog biscuits. I’m all for being entertained, and can’t wait for to go see The Three Stooges re-do, but for the most part, Hollywood blockbusters suck. So I told this person, the guy who didn’t care for movies now-a-days, he should give Asian cinema a shot. The majority of sub-titled movies I’ve seen aren’t dumbed down for the audience. Most Chinese directors and writers know how to weave a story that is complex and relatable, while incorporating realistic, heart pounding action sequences Americans can’t seem get away with outside of Skywalker Ranch. I would point to the layered brilliance behind Infernal Affairs, which was remade by Scorcese, DiCaprio and company as The Departed (that won Scorsese his first Oscar). When I was reading The Hunger Games, I knew Suzanne Collins must have been inspired by Battle Royale, a Japanese movie that came out in 2000 about 9th graders made to hunt each other. (To cash-in on that Hunger Games cache, the Battle Royale producers are re-releasing the movie into American theatres in 3D. Or you can just borrow the DVD from me if you want.) Actors Jet Li, Andy Lau, Tony Leung, Stephen Chow have all captured my imagination in the past decade. Right now, Donnie Yen is a huge hit in Hong Kong Cinema. He’s handsome, tiny, brilliant and has bad-ass moves....

To be perfectly honest, I was always a lousy driver. Less then a year after I got my license, I began my reign of terror. Side-swiping my Dad’s 1960ish green van, one of those behemoths that was made entirely out of Adamantium. After that followed a series of unfortunate events, the last happening just a few years ago when I totaled my SUV. Now I can’t drive at all. It started when I was a Senior in high school, coming home late from theater practice one night. I tried to park my tinny Ford Fairmont in front our house and ran up against Dad’s van front bumper. The back passenger door caved in and one of my hub caps knocked off and folded in two, like a PB&J made on one slice of bread. Dad’s van didn’t have a scratch. We didn’t report it, so my car never got fixed. That incident was followed by a series of one-car mishaps. I backed into poles, spun out on icy country roads and scraped garage walls. I’m thinking now that maybe it had something to do with depth perception. Or maybe there was a correlation with how often I hit things when I was singing along with the radio. In between accidents, I loved driving. My chosen college sat exactly 10 hours from my parents house and I would drive back home every few months. Ten hours, by myself, rattling across Kansas in my old Ford Fairmoni (the “t” in Fairmont had lost it’s top at some point, so my car was a unique individual) with only an AM radio for company. The trip was boring, so I popped into the discount store of my college town and purchased a few fake animal nose masks. It...

I’m going on vacation this Wednesday. Work has been overwhelming lately, so I’ve been eye-balling my vacation start date like it’s a big ole turkey leg and I’m a hungry cartoon character. Even though I’m excited to turn on my out-of-office and unplug from the world of stress and too many emails, worry sweeps over me about the upcoming days off. What if we get in a car accident while driving through the mountains: what if the ceiling of our apartment caves in while we’re gone: what if the zombie apocalypse occurs when we’re in the middle of Utah? That’s my role in the game of life, I am The Worrier. This is a title I’m trying to grow out of. Pointless worry brings stomach aches, shooting head pain and useless grumpiness. But I’ve been a worrier my entire life and this is not an easy addiction to kick. In some sense, I feel my worry is a wonderful preventative. I control the universe with my visions of trouble; either I’ll be ready for the worst or pleasantly surprised when all goes smoothly. Yes, I realize this is totally ridiculous, but knowing a superstition is ridiculous and internalizing it are two totally different things. After years of trying traditional methods of dealing with worry, and all the health problems it incurs, I decided to seek something different. This is where an acupuncturist steps in to fix me. I’m laying on a table in a wellness clinic. The legs of my standard black leggings are pushed up, over my knees and my socks are off. It’s really cold in here and I can hear the woman in the room next to me YIPEing every few seconds as she gets poked with needles. Normally anxious, my...

When I was around 11 years old, the local PBS station started playing episodes of Doctor Who. I immediately fell in love, with the show, The Doctor and his companions. When The Doctor brought Sarah Jane Smith (Elisabeth Sladen) on board, I was transfixed by her. The character was like no other companion before. She challenged him, refusing to be anything other than his equal. At 11 years old, I was probably to young to understand that her insistence that humans were just as important, intelligent, capable and brave as a Time Lord, given equal circumstances, was a metaphor for the female population standing up for their rights. Sarah Jane taught me to not be embarrassed by my brains, my wit or my own fear, but to embrace them and bravely charge...

This year I will have been married 10 years. It’s still a few months away, so save the congrats until we actually make it. Since we kinda eloped (I bought a dress, he rented a tux, we grabbed a preacher off the internet and got married on the beach about eight days later), I had the brilliant idea to throw a fun party for our 10th Anniversary. So it goes to reason that after a big shindig, we should take a second honeymoon, right? Let’s go to Paris! Other than a day trip to Tijuana for me, and some childhood visits to Southern Canada from WI for my hubby, neither my husband, Seen, or I have traveled outside of the United States. We haven’t been static by choice, just by circumstance, lack of finances and lack of time. We both come from money-poor, love-rich families so we didn’t travel much as youngsters either. For our original honeymoon, we took 10 days off work, drove to Colorado for a wedding reception with my family and then tooled back to California by way of various National Parks that dot the Southwest. It was a fun trip, but I’m aching to put my feet on foreign soil. I’ve polled my co-workers and friends who travel. For a first trip abroad, everyone recommends Paris. The romantic City of Lights, filled with visions of figures from history, literature, fashion and chocolát. There is a possibility I’ll hit up fellow F&N blogger, Gudrun, to show me where the best macarons are. As a cemetary-phile I’m very excited to visit the Père Lachaise Cemetary where Jim Morrison, among others, rest in peace. I want to see Mona Lisa in person, stroll along the Sienne and cower in the elevator on the...

Ernessa asked “Are you going to do a column on the Super Bowl commercials again?” I had a good time doing the reviews last year, so the only possible reply was “Hell, yeah! I get to watch TV and be judgmental?! Sign me up!” So here are my Ultimate Pronouncements on the Best and Worst ads of the game. (I totally didn’t see the pre-game. Let me know what I missed.) Everyone has been talking about the Ferris Bueller Honda CRV ad for the past two weeks, so I’m starting off our Super Bowl recap with my thoughts on that. (Please feel free to add your thoughts on any commercials, game action, Faith Hill’s sparkly pants, etc., in the comments below). I thought the CRV ad was clever but sad. Clever as an homage to a classic movie. Loved that Chinatown parade. Sad because only Matthew Broderick was a player in this show. Where were Cameron and Principal Rooney (is he still in prison?) and girlfriend Mia Sara (Sloane) and Jennifer Grey? If this commercial had been sprinkled with the original cast, it would have been a classic. It wasn’t. Now can we please talk about something else? The Good Ads – You Get My Vote/Money Vrooom: Maybe I’m a little biased, because I am a proud Hyundai owner (2012 Cherry Tucson y’all!), but I thought The Dude and the creative team working for Hyundai brought their top game to Super Bowl 46 (that’s right…no Roman numerals for me. Keepin’ it simple.) The employees singing the Rocky theme was awesome and inspiring. My fav part was the bumpy road-test singer: The surprise for the Cheetah trainer in their Veloster commercial made me happy. I always root for the animals! If I weren’t a happy...

I was always the vocal luddite who advocated for paper books and damned the e-reader. Then, in June, my birthday came on the heels of a week spent traveling around Colorado, my shoulder bag loaded with three library books. I came home from Colorado with a pinched nerve in my neck, from carrying around three big library books in my shoulder bag. Two weeks later, my husband presented me with my birthday gift, a Nook! (He’s an excellent gift giver, noticing my subtle hints, such as “My neck hurts sooo bad from travelling with books. You should get me a Nook for my birthday.”) When I flew back to Colorado in August, the Nook took the place of all books. My carry-on felt about one thousand times lighter. I loved my Nook! I loaded it up with library books and a few purchases from the BN.com site. An availability of titles at our local library was the reason I chose a Nook over the Kindle, they didn’t have Kindle ready files (then, they do now.) I just wanted the simple e-reader, (not the ostentatious tablet) so that saved us the expense of possibly considering an iPad. The Nook rocked my reading life. It went everywhere with me, especially to bed. I loved it so much, I tossed the original packaging, just to show how committed we were to each other. Then, for Christmas, I got the surprise of the decade when I opened a present to discover an iPad2 (3G no less). “Are you Freaking KIDDING me?” I stammered about 8 times. Just so you get the full effect, the present came via delivery about 3 days prior to the holiday, while I was on a very contentious conference call for work. You know...

Presents excite me. It doesn’t matter if it’s a gift for me or from me, I can’t wait to have the thing unwrapped and opened. There is a mystery under that red dancing snowman paper and the anticipation is killing me. I’m pretty sure the root of this impatience is all my parents fault. Every Christmas Eve when I was a kid, we would head over to Grandma and Grandpa Berg’s house. My Mom’s whole family of siblings and cousins, about 45 of us, loaded into the living room. We started the evening off with a round of Christmas carols, which always ended with Grandpa singing “Silent Night” in German (I still remember all the words to the first verse…Stille Nacht, etc…) After the, let’s be honest, really horrible singing, presents were handed around. Mom’s family did a name exchange, so everybody got two presents, one from the gift exchange and one from the grandparents. With 25 grandkids to buy for, I do remember the year we all got tube socks from Grandma. Then Mom and Dad would pile all 5 of their kids into the car and drive us 30 miles down the chilly country highway, back to our home. I remember looking at the millions of stars in the clear sky, singing more Christmas songs and wondering where Santa was at that exact moment. At home, we were scurried off to bed hastily. The bedroom door was left open a crack, so the flashing lights that wound around the tree reflected down the hallway and across the bunk beds I shared with my sister, Janet. Even though we were so excited for Christmas morning, all the sugar we’d consumed at Grandma’s party had us crashed pretty quickly to the sounds of our...

This is a beautiful apple galette. It was the first galette I’ve ever made and it came out of the oven so gorgeous, I could hardly contain my need to take a bite. But these simple, country pies were meant for the dinner party later that day. So I didn’t even nibble (ok, a little pinch of crust, just to be sure it wasn’t too bland or salty.) They smelled good, looked great and based on my nibbling, tasted yummy. But the success of these gorgeous pastries was undone by something as simple as a missing band-aid. These were made to impress our downstairs neighbor, who had invited my husband and I to her standing Tuesday night dinner party. Christina, the neighbor, is friendly and interesting. I had been building social circles in my neighborhood and this seemed like a great opportunity to make a buddy. In the building no less! Since baking makes me happy, but I only bake stuff to bring to other people, because if I ate as much as I wanted to bake, I’d weigh 4,000 pounds, this seemed like a good opportunity to get my bake on and feed my new friends. The recipe is super easy, especially as a galette, which is kind of free form so you don’t have to get too fussy. I adapted this recipe for apple pie cookies from Smitten Kitchen, into the galette form. I’d made the cookies for a dinner party earlier and they were a big hit, so I was confident the galette would rule. (You can see here that my cookies were a bit bigger than Smitten Kitchen’s. That’s because she had about 40 steps, which I was too lazy to follow. I also didn’t have various sizes of cookie...

Reading this book, I was reminded of being halfway through a bath; It’s warm, but cooling off, you’re already clean and at this point just sitting in your own dirty water. Ok, mostly it’s just the luke warm thing. I Married You for Happiness, a novel by Lily Tuck (who won the National Book Award for 2004’sThe News from Paraguay) is about more than just happiness and marriage. It’s about the depth and breadth of life itself. Even with that whole menu of experience to choose from, I found myself getting bored reading the thing. Let’s start with the details. IMYfH begins when Nina discovers her husband, Philip, has died very unexpectedly in the upstairs bedroom while she was making dinner. Instead of calling the police or for an ambulance, Nina cracks a window and sits next to the bed, where Philip has expired, and spends the night sipping her way through a bottle of wine. (Shock and grief make a person do weird things, so this actually does seem entirely feasible to me.) The book takes us through a night of her reminiscing about their entire life together, the highs, lows and the mundane. We are occasionally returned to the room where Nina sits and Philip cools, to see her current state, before she hops onto another memory stream and rides it for 8-10 pages. I really enjoyed the idea of this book. To travel through the life of a married couple in memory was like finding a new treasure each time Nina came to a new memory. Honestly, I liked the painful and dull memories as much as I did the happy ones. That was so very real-life. In my own life, I try to find the happiness in the day-to-day, because...

I was knocked loopy by the Pacific Ocean yesterday. But I didn’t let that big, sloppy liquid kingdom ruin my day. I got back on the horse (or the orange, plastic ocean kayak, in this case) and conquered that bitch! (By conquer I mean I managed to kayak for an hour up the coast and then realized I’d rather not do that again.) The short back story starts like this: The first time I kayaked, it was in the Oxnard marina. We saw sea lions, rowed close to pelicans, slid under gorgeous bridges and ogled million dollar channel mansions. Kayaking is relaxing, a get-away, mellow. I liked kayaking. When sporting good stores would advertise kayak sales, I’d eye the product, but couldn’t really justify the rather large expense for an occasional hobby. I planned on sticking to renting the occasional kayak. That plan was working fine, until we stumbled into a yard sale find. This yard sale was held in that fancy neighborhood between Santa Monica and Brentwood, where the houses manage to be huge, stunning and still homey. The guy had 2 ocean kayaks on his lawn and as we were walking up, my husband, Seen, had stopped so short that it took me a full minute to realize that he wasn’t hearing me tell him about the waffle iron that looked interesting. He was enrapt with kayaks. The guy was selling them both, together they cost less than the price of a normal used one. Aside from one missing a seat and hatch, they were in great condition. Even though we had no clue where to put them, or really how to even get them home, we couldn’t pass up that deal. They were now the Robinson kayaks. Once we figured out...

Let me start off by clarifying that the Bed and Breakfast I am referring to is lovely. The proprietor was very nice and her breakfast, consisting of platter bacon, two types of crustless veggie quiche and blueberry clafloutis was divine. The rooms were immaculate and the resident cat spent the night on the foot of our bed. We had a perfectly lovely experience. Now down to the nitty gritty, or rather, lack of any nitty or gritty. I’m not sure who came up with the idea that a Bed and Breakfast stay was “romantic”, but now I honestly think they were people who liked having strangers listen to them getting down. A B&B is cozy, yes, homey, sure, but romantic in a sexy way, no. The word romantic is so commonly paired with B&B, that it seems natural to just say “We’re going to a romantic B&B up the coast!” and when I made the reservations, that is exactly the thought that ran through my head. Me: “Ooh honey, this room has a fireplace and overlooks the river” Seen (the honey, sneaking a peak at a picture on the Inn’s website): “Oh wow, that looks romantic!” Me: “The place is all booked up except for this one room. Let’s stay here for our romantic night away!” This would be a much needed getaway. By both our estimating, we hadn’t had an overnight outting together, by ourselves, since December 2004. It wasn’t for lack of interest, just life kept taking over and getting in the way. After a few years of overwhelming family commitments and being broke due to double unemployment, my hubby and I lost that ‘we need time away’ mindset. But now everything has calmed down, and I decided on Friday afternoon that...

When I turned 8, I got my first pair of glasses. They were HUGE and I immediately felt self conscious in them. It was the beginning of my dorkness. As puberty hit, so did a bigger pair of glasses. My eyeballs only wanted to see things close up. So, as my nearsighted-ness worsened, so did the lenses. They grew thicker and thicker through my teen years. I was sure that I was hideous. I was sure that no one would ever find me attractive. I was sure that about 75% of my problems were caused by the fact that I had to wear glasses. (I’m now aware that my tendency to be over-dramatic, and towards depression, and that I lived in a small town where I fit in like a flamingo at a drag race, didn’t help. But mostly, it was the glasses.) So 10 years into the vision enhancement experience, my parents decided I could finally get contact lenses! Woo Hoo! Maybe now, boys would make passes at me, because as everybody knows, boys don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses. My nose might not be getting thinner and my boobs may never get bigger, but at least I didn’t have to wear those ugly-ass glasses! I remember breaking my contacts in. When I was 18, my summer job consisted of mowing lawns for old ladies. As it was a small town, the job options were few. The eye doctor said I could only wear the lenses for 2 hours at a time, and I planned those times when I would be out pushing a mower in high August heat. The sweat and dust totally got into my eyes, but the usual red imprint of sweat on my nose wasn’t there! Everything...

That is the question I ask myself whenever I see a Hyundai commercial. Yes, I know that Jeff Bridges is a man, and The Dude is a character. But, when I hear that voice, I can’t help but think of how a new Hyundai would really pull the room together. If you look in my driveway tonight, you’ll see how compelling that argument really is. Our old Saturn, Blue, was falling apart. At 8 years old, she was way past warranty. The struts rattled incessantly, the Saturn dealer had told us that was standard. Ole Blue’s check engine popped on and off at random and the mechanic said it had to do with a part that turned the check engine light on, which is an expensive and unnecessary replacement. So we lived with it. Over the past two months, we’d been scanning other cars, checking them out in ads, looking them up on the web, sneaking glances at them while we drove down the street. It felt illicit and to be sitting in my trusty car and lusting after a new one. This blue sedan had ferried me back and forth when I lived in Santa Clarita and worked near LACMA (that’s about 50 miles, in LA traffic). She had moved us from the Valley to the Sea. Blue was the car that had carried sick Weasel and Munchy to their vet appointments. That was the backseat where I had curled into a fetal position on the drive home after getting food poisoning at a wedding in Northern California. There were traces of my eye-liner, mascara, lip-gloss and a variety of lotions and sunscreens wiped under the driver seat. She has a indentation in her hood from my butt, from when I thought the...

That is the item at the top of my to-do list today. So I spent the morning in the backyard, squatting in the blazing sun, gathering piles of dried dog doo and several pounds of fallen apples, into a giant garbage bag. Ya know – l.i.v.i.n. – livin’. Next on that list is that is ‘run to the cemetery’, followed by ‘biscuits, noodle casserole and cookies’. That may seem like a odd, and random, list of to-do’s, but life out in the country is definitely odd and random. I’ve been in rural Colorado since August 4th, staying at my Mom’s house and helping her recover from hip-replacement surgery. My mom has lived in this house for the past 34 years, things are pretty settled in here. The dog poop creator is a 14 year old blue-healer mix named Belle. Belle is mellow and extremely well behaved, aside from a little age-related incontinence (ya gotta watch where you step if she sleeps on the kitchen floor for over a ½ hour). Belle wakes me up at 5:17 a.m., on the dot, every morning to be let into the massive back yard, where she runs to the very back corner and does what dogs do in the morning. Then she comes back into the house and eye-balls me, weighing me with guilt, until I get her leash and we go on our run. In Haxtun, the cemetery is on the West edge of town, up against a corn field. That’s where everybody walks to and around in the morning. It’s where Belle and I head to before the heat swells up and takes over this tiny town. Once we get there, she is unleashed. In younger days, she would run, heady with freedom and in search...

When Spotify came to the U.S. scene a few months back, every one started jumping up and down about this genius, streaming music device that would change their dull and dreary lives. I gave Spotify a wary once over, but added my name to their list for an oh-so-special invitation and waited for my golden ticket to audio wonderland; while listening to MOG on my Droid. You see, this Spotify craze wasn’t that super exciting to me. Sure, it’s from England and has that dreamy accent, but it’s old news. I’ve been in love with streaming music for over 6 months. Way back in the early days, of November 2010, I upgraded from my old fashioned Sanyo 3810 flip phone to a Droid Incredible. It was one smart phone. After lugging both phone and iPod to the gym for 10 days, I decided to leave the iPod at home and try the Incredible’s free music app, Double Twist. It sucked. The app seemed to choose random songs to upload from my library to the phone. I had no control over what was selected and then, no motivation to go those 5 extra minutes on the treadmill after a soothing rendition of “Meditation for Sleep” came through my headphones. So, I started researching streaming music apps for HTC Droids. There were a ton of free trials available, after a Google search of the top-rated apps, I gave these three a whirl. First I tried Pandora. Pandora is an old friend of mine. The online radio station has been with me through several ill-fated office type jobs, soothing, in the background while a variety of bosses drove me insane. The Pandora app for Incredible is free, even after the trial. That sounded like a great price-point....

Captain Kirk and I have a date tonight. We’re meeting at a cemetery in Hollywood a little after sunset. Picard, Janeway, Sisko and Archer will be joining us, along with Kirk-2.0 (Chris Pine) under the Milky Way and on top of dimmed stars, to raise our Romunlan Ale and celebrate The Captains, an Original Documentary produced and directed by William Shatner. Sure, Kirk will be about 30 feet tall, and our conversation will mostly be him monologuing, but for me, it will be a dream come true. Thanks to infinite reruns, Kirk was my first nerd crush. Long before Dr. Who or Prince, Captain Kirk strutted across my 20” TV screen and into my pre-teen heart. During my dateless teens, the cocky space traveler was my Midnight date on quiet Saturdays. Since my parent’s bedroom was only 20 feet from the TV, the volume would be almost inaudible. Kirk’s swagger shouted over the whispering crew, loudly powerful and not so subtly sexual. Before I even knew what ‘sexy’ meant, I knew that Kirk embodied it. I would pretend to be the green painted alien or Yeoman Rand, bewildered at the power the Captain held over me. Resistance was futile, long before the Borg came into the picture. Each Captain who came after Kirk had their own, whole different kind of sexy. But none quite equaled Bill Shatner. I’ll admit to having a nerdy-fit before I saw J.J. Abrams’ reboot of the Star Trek legend. He was re-writing how Kirk and Spock met, he was using this pretty Hollywood actor who said he was happy to be in “Star Wars” during an interview. Clearly J.J. didn’t understand the love of the geeks! Of course I took all that back when I actually saw the movie. I...

I chose this as my favorite blog so far for 2011 because it was a cathartic blog for me. My genetic slant toward indecision is on full display here as I battle the demons of finishing a project or abandoning it. After writing this, I decided to move forward with the project, a choice I might still be weighing if I hadn’t discussed it here. Originally published 03/21/11 Great art often comes out of pain and tumult; Picasso’s Blue Period work, Hemingway’s novels, Rumours by Fleetwood Mac. My novel, The Year That Sucked, follows a year of multiple pains, but I need to decide; Could it be great art or am I just beating myself up? The book is driving me crazy, literally. So now I am wavering if the book should stay alive at the cost of my sanity or go into that dusty box of the Almost Finished that lives in the closet. The first draft of the memoir flowed out of me last November during NaNoWriMo. Aside from the occasional crying spell and self-medication with mid-range scotch, its birth was smooth. Now, as I work through the second draft, it’s getting a whole lot tougher. The physical manifestations of the stress I had during that sucky year are resurfacing. Today’s moodiness, anxiety, jumpiness and stomach issues will make for funny story some day, but right now just makes my husband glad we have two bathrooms. Do you think Lindsey Buckingham had IBS during that amazing recording session? It also brings me into a daily confrontation with mortality, often causing a deep depression. While the first draft was a race against the clock and calendar to build a framework of story with a minimal amount of words, it was basically fingers on...

6:00 a.m. last Thursday morning, I stumbled into the living room and popped on the TV morning news. There was a pretty newscaster breaking news that James “Whitey” Bulger had been arrested in Santa Monica. ‘Hmm’ I thought ‘Whitey Bulger, that name sounds kinda familiar.’ I called my husband into the room and told him that a gangster, Whitey Bulger, had been arrested. They then flashed his address and we realized he had been living one, singular block from our apartment. News trucks and gawkers filled Third Street and the old man’s picture quickly became a standard image on every news broadcast. I studied the image, had I seen him on my daily walks in our ocean front park? Had we passed each other while shopping on the promenade? Did he hog any of the cardio equipment at my gym? Through national news, we got to know our, now former, neighbor. He was serious bad news, a mob boss who, among a long list of nastiness, murdered of at least 19 people. Nineteen lives gone due to him. As a non-murderer, I have a hard time getting my mind around that. When the loss of one life is overwhelmingly tragic, the loss of 19 lives due to the violence of one man is hard for me to understand. That stuff isn’t mythic or romantic, it’s just effing horrible. All this got me thinking about who else might be living around me. Santa Monica is a friendly beach neighborhood, that is part of LA, but definitely it’s own town. Santa Monica creates a sense of community with fun and free activities on the pier, the beach, the promenade or the library pretty much every weekend. Locals tend to befriend each other with a proud camaraderie....

Since my Dad passed away in 2009, Father’s Day has become a weird sore spot on the calendar, reminding me that I’ve been orphaned by the male part of the my parenting team. This day in mid-June makes me miss my Pop and riles up my urge to go fishing. Though I hadn’t been fishing with Dad for about a decade, I love that his passion for the pasttime created a big piece of my childhood. Dad loved being on shore, or out on the water, with a fishing pole in his hand. One of the big reasons for his affinity was that he so rarely had free-time, and he loved being a Dad and husband, so taking the family to the lake and sitting with all the kiddies on the beach fishing was fun and relaxing for him at the same time. My earliest memories in life are standing on a grey sand beach, at the Jumbo reservoir in Julesburg, CO with a fishing pole staked in the ground by my feet. Probably around my 6th birthday, I finally got my own rod and reel. It wasn’t anything fancy, just something from Gibson’s, enough to catch small, oval pan fish or the catfish that seemed to have taken over the Jumbo. It was a deep brown pole and about double the height of me. Dad patiently taught me how to cast the hook overhand out into the water.  He would try to get me to pierce the slimy, pink night crawler onto the hook, but that was a little too icky for me at that point. It still is. Yuck. The night before any fishing trip, Dad and I would traipse around the backyard, through long grass made dewy from an hour under the...

One week ago I was blissfully unaware of how UPS was going to drive me completely insane. Picture a happy lady, skipping through a green meadow, a collection of wildflowers in one hand, wide brimmed hat bouncing to the beat of her joy. Hell, I could have been in a feminine hygiene commercial, that’s how blissful I was. Then, on Wednesday afternoon, I received a postcard in the mail from UPS, with my correct name and address, stating that they couldn’t deliver a package because, and I quote “A correct receiver or company name was needed”. Cue puzzled look. If the name on the postcard was the same as the name on the package, wouldn’t that be the correct receiver? I called the 800 number on the postcard. “Yeah, my name is on the intercom out front, which is right next to the front door. I’m not sure why the driver said a correct receiver was needed, when the correct receiver is here and obvious.” Operator at UPS – “Ok, they’ll redeliver tomorrow before 7:00 p.m.” Thursday night, at 7:15 p.m., we decided that UPS either wasn’t coming or they could leave the package in our lobby, which they have done a million times before, without ever telling us a package was here. After leaving a post-it note on the front door explaining the driver should look to his right, dial the correct entry code and deliver the package, the husband and I decided to go out for a lovely dinner. Thursday at 8:30 p.m. we returned from dinner to find, stuck next to my bright yellow post-it, one of those delightfully dingy brown and yellow post-it notes on the building’s front door with a hand-written scrawl “Buzzer not working”. Now, you should know...

I am suffering from a little something I like to refer to as Captain Tripps, but the rest of the world calls Walking Pneumonia. It sucks, I’ve been in bed for almost a month. I’m tired of everything in my apartment that could possibly entertain me; the TV is annoying, I’ve reached the last page of the internet, and the novels I’ve been reading since Easter have all jumbled together so that the Nazi’s of Heidegger’s Glasses were somehow ordering around southern maids in The Help. Sleep is illusive as well, every time I start to drift off into snoozeville, here comes a big, fat coughing fit that wakes me up, scares the cats and almost rouses my husband from his deep, enviable slumber. Since I haven’t done anything for a month, I can’t be entertaining or as clever as usual, I thought I’d just show you the coolest thing on the internets for American music history buffs. (I’m not exactly a “buff”, so apparently this site is really cool for us casual American music history listeners too.) The Library of Congress created a jukebox of select recordings between 1900-1930. The songs are searchable by a variety of criteria. Let me just say there is a nice selection of yodeling. There are lots of fun and funny songs that you can play, create your own playlist or listen to their sampler. You can find it at http://www.loc.gov/jukebox/ That is my bequest to you, should I not see the other side of this (cough) mild illness...

The felines have taken over my home. We currently have 6 cats in our 2-bedroom apartment. They outnumber the people now, 3-1. I know what you’re thinking but, no, this isn’t the beginning of my audition tape for Animal Hoarders; Seen and I have become kitten foster parents. It started about 10 days ago. The no-kill rescue kennel, Lange Foundation, where we volunteer every Saturday, put out a call for people to help foster kittens. The founder, Gillian Lange, heads to the local county shelters daily to rescue dogs and cats that are scheduled to be put down. She brings them to the Lange kennel (either in West LA or at their beautiful ranch in Canyon Country) where they are safe and sound until adopted. As it’s kitten season, due to overpopulation in shelters, kittens are often euthanized when they are too young to be adopted out and get sick easily at the kennel. Stats are grim for animals entering an animal shelter, according to the Humane Society, four million cats and dogs—about one every eight seconds—are put down in U.S. shelters each year. While a big solution to this problem would be convincing everyone to spay/neuter their pet, immediate action to save animals in danger now rests with rescue groups. With foster parents, more kittens can be rescued into the Lange family. Attached to the call for fosters was a picture of 5 fluffy, orange kittens with a note ‘These 5 kittens were scheduled to be put down, but now they’re safe with a foster family until they can find their forever home.’ That was like bait and I was the sucker for such adorable tactics. After a few conversations with Seen, my kitten-loving husband, we decided to let the staff at Lange...

As blog comments go, the comment Ernessa left on my blog about giving up finishing my memoir, The Year That Sucked, was pretty intense. I’m not saying it’s the only reason I decided to keep on trucking with the novel, but it did sway me. Draft Two just went to my writing group for their feedback. Sending my writing for feedback is almost as scary as being chased through abandoned woods by a hockey-masked psychopath. Almost. If anybody in my group insists on wearing a hockey mask to give feedback, then I might be equally as scared. Every single time I share writing, whether aloud in a class or here with you folks, I feel an intense and overwhelming desire to add qualifiers. When I sent the second draft of the novel to the group, I wanted to write about 40 different things in the email about “I know I need to do more character development for Bubba…” Or “Some of these scenes are just rough sketches, I know I need to fill them in more.” Basically, a qualifier is saying ‘I know this sucks, oh and here are the areas that I know that suck. Just so you know that when you realize it sucks, I’m with you on that one!’ I hate that I use qualifiers (even stating that is a qualifier)! My desperate need to add qualifiers reveals my tender lack of self-confidence. Realizing that, I fight the urge to qualify, I think I’m successful about 70% of the time. I would love to display the sense of pride I have in my work all the time, but sometimes the neurosis wins. At its most basic, sharing creativity is displaying your inner-most thoughts, feelings and desires, which is something most people...

The year is 1985. My hair is feathered, my glasses are big and I am a scrawny, awkward teen.  But on this warm September night, I’m cool, because I’m at the town dance with pretty much everybody in Haxtun.  The lights are low in the high school gym. The paper streamers draped over the basketball hoops are the HHS colors of cherry and black. The DJ is totally whipping the crowd into a frenzy. I’m dancing with a senior, which adds to my cool points and is almost unbelievable, as I am a first class nerd. We’re jumping and sweating and singing along with Eric Clapton.  The entire population of the gym is belting out the lyrics, “She don’t lie, she don’t lie, she don’t lie…” and then I yell out “OK!” My dance partner looks at me with a smirk on his face and asks: “What did you say?” Awkward, and suddenly realizing I should be embarrassed, I don’t answer. “You know that line is ‘Cocaine’? Right?” Nope, I didn’t know that. At that age, I probably didn’t even know what cocaine was, aside from a reason for Crockett and Tubbs to shoot somebody in Miami. I ran home shortly after that little scene. That was my first experience with publicly messing up a song lyric.  It was pretty embarrassing. Now, at a distance of a few decades, I think that’s hilarious. That little dorky kid, finally letting go and having fun, yelling “OK!” while pumping her fist in the air.  I couldn’t stop myself from being nerdly. That certainly wasn’t the last time I heard the wrong thing in a piece of music. There are some songs where I believe that singers are actually messing with us, trying to get us to...

This week we find your Tall Drink of Nerd wandering in the wilderness, continuing a personal Zenquest. It all began a few weeks ago, in an effort to shut up the internal vulture voices of self-doubt, the “mullygrubs”. When last we met, I pondered on the search for peace in a perfect yoga class. What follows is the tale of how my failure at yoga led me down the path to the forest. Emboldened by my own navel-gazing blogumn of two weeks ago, I bravely ventured forth and attended a class at a local studio. I quickly discovered 3 things: 1. I am out of shape. I almost hurled after the first series of simple, quick-paced poses. My shoulders are still sore and the class was 5 days ago. 2. This teacher/class wasn’t for me, so my search continues. I’ll practice yoga on my own, but keep looking for a group.  When engaging in any activity surrounded by people, I usually try harder and do better. This also happens to me every single time I take a writing workshop, I’m usually surprised by the depth of stuff I create. When I do Yoga in my living room, I don’t push as much as I do in class.  I don’t think its entirely competition or showing off, either.  There is something about being in a group with people who are all trying to attain a similar goal. The collective energy elevates me. 3. Yoga is nice, but my mullygrubs are easily bored. I need more than one outlet to keep them occupied. So today I pulled the next chill-out tool from my trusty, tried-and-true box of unguents and curatives.  I went for a hike. Over the years, my husband Seen and I have visited several...

Last night, I was really, super mean. My mind spewed so much nasty venom, spite and vitriol, that it’s embarrassing. No use trying to shine it up, I was a downright bitch. The victim of this bile was me. Fairly quickly I realized that I was beating myself up for no logical reason or lesson to learn. I did what I usually do when the mental record starts to skip on “Amy Sucks,” I cranked up the smoky sweet maple, vocal styling’s of Sarah Vaughn, cracked a beer and started to cook something yummy for dinner. Singing with Sarah and cooking can usually chase my mullygrubs away, but last night, they had grown gargantuan, stomping around, slinging mud. They were very persistent. I knew it was time to yoga. When I first moved to Los Angeles over a decade ago, I tried my first yoga class at the 24-Hour fitness in WeHo. It didn’t deliver the Zen mellowness I was expecting. In a class of 20 people, I turned competitive, trying to show off how stretchy and flexible I was. My mind was not on my own mat.  I kinda missed the point and didn’t go back. The PMSy evil voices stayed secure in their snippy lair. My second attempt at yoga was about 3 years later. I picked up a VHS of the Buns of Steel Yoga workout. My life consisted of a full time day job, trying to be an actress and producing a play in Hollywood. I also lived in a house with my boyfriend of 8 years, 3 of the members of his band (all male) and the drummer’s girlfriend. My stress level was rapidly scooching upwards, the mullygrubs were nipping at my heels. This time, without the distraction of...

Some people yell at coaches and players on the TV during the big game, I yell at commercials when they are stupid.  Because I’m planted in front of the TV on super Sunday, I’ll take this opportunity to fill this issue of Tall Drink of Nerd with my visceral reactions to Super Bowl XLV’s commercials. Let’s see if these ad agencies can convince me to patronize their clients. Groupon – Good to see Cuba Gooding Jr. working.  He’s a talented guy.  Why is he not working more, or in film.  This guy won an Oscar, right? Who is his management? (I already use Groupon., so Yes I will some more.) Living Social – That was possibly the best use of “Change Your Life” I’ve ever seen.  The sequence actually addressed what the service does and the variety of things Living Social covers.  The reveal made me laugh out loud.  Really liked the “Star Trek lighting” they used in the final shot (basically a box of light across the eyes, check out old Star Treks it’s in every single episode on Kirk or his lady friend of the day.)  Yes, I will Teleflora: If you got flowers and the card said you had a terrific rack, is it the thought that counts? Yes, I would.  (How many girlfriends are gonna get that exact card this Valentimes Day?) Movies Just Go With It – Not going with it. Not going to it. Battle: Los Angeles – Aliens invading LA?  I’m totally in for this movie.  It looks kick-ass.  But since they’re invading LA, I’m thinking that the aliens are going to have a treatment for a movie script of a pitch for Real Housewives – Mars. Cowboys and Aliens? Holy Crap! Yes, please! Oh Michael Bay…I,...

I understand why men hate shopping for clothes.  It’s a pain in the rear cushion to find a combination of anything stylish and affordable.  This is one of those times when I am super happy to be a woman, except when shopping for a clothing gift for my husband, then I just wish he would like a pretty necklace or scarf. Ladies, we are so lucky to have fashion options out the wahzoo.  Finicky men, like my husband Seen, are basically screwed. We went shopping for him today, to buy button up shirts that he could wear when meeting clients. We live a few blocks from a major outdoor walking mall and a newly opened high-end mall.  Finding some clothes for the guy shouldn’t be too tough.  He knows what he wants; button up, collared dress shirts that he can wear to client meetings with a bit of style to them.  Oh and we can’t afford to spend $200 for one shirt.  This proved to be a difficult search.  I’ve started referring to Seen’s wardrobe as the Snipe.  To replenish it we must catch the ever-illusive Snipe. Over the last two years, most men’s dress shirts, aside from the basic oxfords, have had little “V”’s sewn onto the shoulders and pearlized buttons.  They effectively look like cowboy shirts.  I think that bit of fashion whimsy came from hipster bands buying old cowboy type shirts at the Goodwill and wearing them on tour.  This season, every stinking dress shirt has epaulets.  OK, maybe not every one, but like 95% of them had epaulets.  So Seen would either look like a cowboy or a soldier.  He is not a fan of epaulets. Maybe you like cowboy shirts or soldier shirts, but they are both a tad...

A few nights ago, a man in his early 60’s stopped me outside of Michaels Craft store. He wasn’t drunk, didn’t appear to be high.  He was clean-cut, in chinos and a button up shirt, and looked very similar to our tax accountant, actually.  The man was asking for money.  While talking to my husband, Seen, shaking his hand several times and making a point of repeating Seen’s name, he told us his tale. The money was for his rent, he was $75 short and facing eviction.  His story-telling technique was disjointed, contained the occasional mathematical equation and included repetition of the phrase, “I moved from Seattle and don’t have my ID” about 20 times.  From his speech patterns, and his agitation at any bus that drove by, it was clear that this man was suffering from a mental illness. Earlier, before we had left the house, I removed all the cash from my wallet, a single $10 bill, and folded it into my back pocket.  I don’t like carrying a purse in my touristy beach town.  I’d rather keep my money and ID in a pocket and away from would-be thieves.  I especially don’t want to be whipping out my wallet in the middle of a street when somebody asks for money. After about 10 minutes of talking with the twitchy accountant in front of Michaels, I said “Look, we live on unemployment, but I’ll give you all I have on me right now.”  I handed him the folded 10-spot and extricated myself, and Seen from any further conversation. Inside the Michaels Craft store, amid t-shirt paint and teddy bear cake molds, Seen, told me that he has seen the beggar inside of the grocery store a few times.  The guy is always...

It’s 4:00 p.m. on Sunday afternoon and I have no frigging idea what I could possibly write about for FaN.  Normally, I have something sketched out the week before hand, even if it’s just a few random words thrown together, it’s an idea.  Then I fill it in with all kinds of genius wittiness.  Today, I got nuthin, nada, pfft.  My mind is like a giant sand pit of a desert, empty of all ideas with a hot wind just blowing some dust around. This morning, when I didn’t have even the faintest clue of what to write about, I figured I would take my usual cure for writers block and go for a walk.  Guess what happened; I got some exercise, possibly a little bit of a tan.  Those ideas weren’t in the mood to let me catch them. I came home and started to write about my new Droid phone (which is totally awesome) but that ended up as an Andy Rooney type ramble, about how I wish we all still had crank phones and couldn’t bother each other with stupid text messages and email alerts when we went on our creative-healing walks. Not wanting to be negative, I tossed that into my computer trash and ate a banana. Spoiler alert:  The banana did not help me get any ideas on what to write. As this is my last blogumn of 2010, I wanted this blog to be all sparkly fireworks and zen wisdom.  I wanted to lay down some deep shit that y’all would be quoting to your grandkids and the like.  Instead, my mind is giving me a finger.  I’ll let you guess which one. I asked my husband, temporarily playing the part of The Muse, what I could write...

I am The Girl Who Translates Stieg Larsson Movies for Her Husband.  After stumbling across the first movie, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo on Netflix Instant queue, I got hooked into the intricate storyline and decided to read the last two books.  From Larsson’s prose I found out the people of Sweden are: horny, kinky, buy things from Ikea and spend 18.45 kronor on 6 Billy’s pizzas, a pint of orange juice and a copy of the paper. Also, did I mention they swing and are horny? My feelings on Larsson’s writing are complex; love the story, dislike the writing style.  I waded through the dry, detail heavy prose wondering if the original Swedish version was this stiff or if the translator had burnt the prose to a crisp.  The important part, the story was uniquely compelling, dramatic and humane.  The story kept me in a book that, normally, I would physically toss across the room to punish it for wasting my time. (It begs the question; If it was this dry before translation, did this book get a pass from editors because ole Stieg was dead when it was published?  How does one collaborate with a dead author?  Do the Swedes just really get into minutia?) I could have waited for the next Girl Who… movies that were coming soon, but the majority of movies that I’ve seen made from novels leave out so much.  In order to get the whole experience, I needed to push through heavy novels filled with minute details of how much a cheese sandwich cost and lengthy lessons of Swedish political history (I started to skim through the extraneous bits).  Persistent reading was rewarded with rich characters, a LOT of rich characters and a plot that got...

I’m so sorry that I don’t have a blogumn for you today.  I’m currently under the Rhino. It’s day 15 of NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) and I have, for some reason I can’t recall (which now seems crazy), decided to write a novel in one month.  This madness is known in our house as ‘Nano Rhino’, due to my mumbling and my husband’s hearing affected by sinus allergies.  My life has been overwhelmed by a tiny rhino. At this halfway point, I am convinced that I am probably the worst writer in the world.  At 23,162 words (almost halfway to the challenge of 50,000 for the month), I am spent.  I have been averaging about 2,000 words a day and my brain is having a hard time with the English language.  I have never been so hyper aware of how many words I am typing in my entire life.  About 5 minutes after I wrote this paragraph, I got a pep-talk email from the NaNoWriMo team that stated “at this point in the process, you might be thinking you are the worst writer in the history of the world.”  It’s a psychic tiny rhino! The goal of NaNoWriMo is to get writers writing.  If it wasn’t for deadlines, I doubt I’d ever get anything done. The challenge of 50,000 words in a month allows precious little time to think and no time to edit.  It also gives you no time to futz around online or really any other distraction.  Oh, but I have found myself procrastinating, like writing this blog or feeding the cats in the middle of the day or IMing with my sister for way too long.  The one thing I excel at is futzing. Thing is, I imagined the writer’s...

There is a restless spirit in my Mother’s house. It dwells in the dark under my old bedroom.  As a kid, I felt the haunting, but tried to convince myself if was only my vivid imagination.  Recently, my niece Katie told a story about her run-in with the ghost that kept me awake, hair standing on end, when I stayed at my parent’s house. The basement in that house has always made me uneasy.  It’s cold and musty, because it’s not insulated or finished beyond the dark wood paneling hung on concrete walls.  The only light comes from a bare bulb clutching a cobwebbed cord. Creaking raw wood stairs lead straight down into the earth, bordered tight on each side by unfinished drywall.  Long after I moved out, I learned that my bedroom was directly above the spot where the previous home-owner had died of a heart attack . Being alone in that bedroom always made me uncomfortable. At night I would hear whispering, off in the distance, impossible to make out what was being said, but clearly someone was talking.  I used to think that’s just what happened when you fall asleep.  Now I know that it doesn’t happen anywhere but that room. In 2009, due to my Dad’s cancer, I spent more time than usual visiting my parents, staying in my old room every 2-3 months or so.  During a random conversation with my, now grown, niece, I told her that I still get creeped out sleeping there.  Then she told me about her encounter with the spirit: Shortly after I had gone off to college, a 9 yr old Katie, her sister Jennifer and 2 other girl cousins had a 2-day sleepover at Grandma and Grandpa’s house.  They all piled into...

The less money I have, the more I fantasize about what I would do if I won the lottery. Because I’m financially challenged right now, I’m currently avoiding situations where I have to spend money.  So I’m at home, working, writing and yes, getting sucked into cheap cable shows like “How the Lottery Changed My Life”.  Hello lottery fantasy fuel!  It’s like gambling porn! Surprisingly, the ratio of people improved by the big cash is high, according to this show. Yes, buying a lottery ticket means paying the Idiot Tax, but seriously, I absolutely know that I am destined to be a lottery success story.  Here is what I’d do, just so you can hold me to it when it happens: 1. Charity – Yup, for real. Winning the lottery always enters my mind when I am on my way home from volunteering at the animal shelter.  I know, I know, people say “Oh I’d give money to charity” all the time, but I have the recipient and ideas on what I’d like that money used for already.  Plus, there is that whole tax deduction thing that charity helps with. 2. A Jet – It’s a good investment, I could rent it out to corporations when I wasn’t using it, donate time on it to charities and fly directly into my home-town to visit my Mom whenever I felt like it. 3. Trip around the world – Being broke/poor I’ve never been anywhere.  After I win the lottery, you’ll be getting postcards, from me and the hubs, from everywhere.  The Jet will come in handy here too. 4. Family – Yeah, you guys would get some of it.  The amount depends on how much you love me and how good your story is.  Seen (my...

Skinny but cranky, I can’t eat anything and it’s my doctor’s fault.  Around a year ago I told you how I was going gluten-free (GF) and what a pain in the keister that was.  I had no idea that my dietary life was about to get much more challenging. After a year of countless visits to my MD, to find the cause of/cure for high anxiety levels, chronic fatigue and recurrent vertigo, I decided to make an appointment with an Osteopathic specialist.  She was recommended highly by more than one friend. Her staff extracted various fluids for a battery of tests.  Two weeks ago, we received the test results. First, I discovered that I’m allergic to peanuts and soy and chocolate.  Boo! (It’s Halloween-time, and I am denied mini Reece’s cups?  Not cool.)  Secondly, she told me about the yeast (Candida-like yeasts) present in my body, which was over-abundantly reproducing.  The yeast was causing havoc and needed to DIE!  Since yeast feeds on sugar, all sugar had to be cut from my food roster.  And by all sugar, she meant fruits and sweet vegetables (including yams, which I am madly in love with).  Bye-Bye to most grains.  So long to dairy.  Arrivederci caffeine.  Booze is blacked out and beef and pork stroll off into the sunset.  This left me with the question; ‘Aside from chicken breasts and brussel sprouts, WTF can I eat?’ Turns out, the answer is, basically, I get to eat chicken breasts and brussel sprouts.  This is not hyperbole.  Alright, it might be a slight exaggeration.  Green veggies and lean proteins are what I’m down to.  I’m rocking the avocado and quinoa every now and then, to avoid total boredom. My thought was, ‘this is going to be tough, but we...

Can working from home cause insanity?  When I discovered that I could work from home at my current job, a little Homer Simpson popped up in my brain and exclaimed “WOO HOO!”  Not only would I save money on gas and bus fare, I would get 2-4 hours of commute time back in my day. Sweet! Well, I’ve been working from home for a little over 2 months now and there are plenty of perks:  I control the temperature of my workspace, get to eat food out of my own fridge, walk to the beach at lunch, use my own bathroom, scratch things that itch, listen to music at inappropriate volumes or do leg-lifts during long conference calls.  My cats alternately love that I’m home to give them mid-day treats or wish I would stop waking them up all day long. Not working in a conventional setting has also been a psychological adventure of contrasts.  The first thing I noticed is, it’s a little too quiet in here.  In the various office jobs I’ve held and the variety of co-workers I’ve worked with over the past few decades, one thing has been fairly constant, socializing.  Whether it’s talking about weekend plans, new clothes or babies before a morning meeting, or shoehorning 7 people into a car for an afternoon ice-cream run, socializing on a daily basis makes office life fun. Keeping in touch via IM with co-workers and friends is okay, but working from home can get a little lonely.  Working with bosses and co-workers only through email lacks a human connection.  Empathy and sympathy can fly out the window and there is little time or need for small talk or socializing.  There have been moments where I catch myself talking, out loud, to...