Parking Wars

So I might have yelled at a grandma the other day. I might have called her a bitch, and told her to go fuck herself and then play in traffic. I might have a bit of road rage. I might not give a shit because I did grandma a favor. I mean, if she seriously thinks she can get away with the parking lot shenanigans she pulled with me last night, she's in serious trouble this holiday season.

First, let's go over some parking lot ground rules.

1. Please use your blinker to indicate that you're waiting on a spot.


2. Please pull as far to the right as possible so that other cars can get around you while you wait.


3. If you're going to slowly drive behind someone while they walk through the lot, ask them if they're actually going to leave. Not doing so is just plain creepy.


4. Once you've passed a space, do not back up. Deal with it, and continue to wait patiently.

Last night I stopped at Joann's Fabric on the way to my work event. I pulled into the small, horribly designed lot, and holy crikey was it packed. I was actually still sitting with the ass end of my car out on Lincoln Blvd, that is how crowded the parking lot was. So I'm sitting, and I'm waiting. The car in front of me, obviously frustrated, austin-powered around to get out of the lot. So I'm thinking, "Sweeeet, one less person for me to wait on."

I pull in so I'm not blocking the sidewalk, and luckily a woman walks out her car, the spot at the end of the parking lot. Yes, this could not work out any better. Oh I thought too soon. Crazy Grannie (who's waiting at the top of the lot) throws her car into reverse, skidding into a stop, blocking the car who's trying to leave. Then she sticks her had to wave me along. Excuse me? EXCUSE ME! I sat, didn't move, kept my blinker on. The lady trying to leave starts honking her horn. I'm all, "Dude, I'm not the one blocking your exit."

Crazy Grannie is all, "Well I'm not moving, I've waited 30 minutes for a spot."

Please see my diagram if you're having problems visualizing the situation.

Me, better the bigger person and all, decides to leave, but not without unleashing the fury on Botox Babs. This Christmas season, I hope she runs into her friend Silicone Sally who drives a Range Rover while trying to park at The Grove.

Doggy Sitting

So we watch boss lady's dog, a lot. Like, recently, at least once a month. And that doesn't count the times she "forgets" an important meeting/appointment/outing with a client, and, "Jamie, can you just stop by the house on the way home and take her out?"

No I am not joking. Yes, I advised her to get a cat instead of a dog considering her travel schedule.

So Boo* stayed with us this past weekend. She's just over a year old. Cute little beagle. We've always thought she was kind of dumb. Ok, maybe not dumb, but a bit slow. She's still not potty trained. Crapped all over my kitchen about an hour after we had just taken her out. Didn't even ask to go outside. This happens every time. We always give her the benefit of the doubt, until she fucks up, and then we start treating her like the ugly stepchild.

I want to love Boo. Really I do. I know it's not her fault, but rather boss lady's for not taking the time to give her enough attention and instruction. The fact that Jota and I were very diligent in training Duff only makes it more frustrating. By 4 months he was ringing a bell to go outside. No accidents in this house. No way. When Boo has accidents, we start at zero...crate training. At least she's good about not whining, and by Monday, I think she was actually understanding the concept of going outside. Too bad all of our work is being undone as I type.

* (name has been changed to protect the innocent pooch)

July's half over...

And I've got nothing to show for it. No new goal. Gained 5 lbs. Haven't been to the gym for more than once a week for the past month. Fuck fuck fuck. Fuckitty fuck fuck. Now that I've got that out of my system.

Seriously though, it seems I have no time for anything lately. I'm prepping my little ass off for Em's baby shower, and maybe if I didn't procrastinate in the first place, I wouldn't have to spend 3 hours every night crocheting. I have a freaking cramp in my right wrist, and pinch in my right shoulder, but I'm making the cutest baby blanket around for lil doo.

I've totally hit a wall with my exercising. I'm not exactly bored with the gym, just kind of not feeling like going. Em and I have decided that we're going to take up tennis once she has the baby. Should be fun, except I seriously stink at tennis. It's like there's a permanent hole in my racquet.

So with this lack of gym of course means I've gained a bit of weight back. Boo. I hates. I swear it's so easy to lose weight when it's not summer time. I wake up on the weekends, and it's beautiful outside, and I'm like. "Eww sweating. I want to go lay on the beach all day."

The majority of our friends' birthdays are also in the summer, so it's like every weekend is spent at a BBQ eating burgers and drinking beers. And I'm sorry, but I'm not going to be that girl at a party that doesn't eat because nothing is healthy enough. Fuck that. If we're grilling, I'm eating.

Obviously, I need a new goal. I'm very short term goal focused, and it worked well for me in the past. My new goal for the remainder of July is to get my butt to the gym at least 4 days a week. Not starting this week though because Jota and I are going to see The Dark Knight tonight, and then tomorrow I have to bake a cake.

Are You Fucking Kidding Me?

First, Happy Friday! Boy am I ready for this beautiful weekend to start. Jota and I are biking down to Hermosa to celebrate three birthdays in what I'm sure will be yet another smashing good time. I will do my best to abstain from keg curls.

Mr. Jota had a rough Thursday, so instead of making dinner, I decided to take my baby to Naked Sushi over on Washington. With our seats on the heated patio, we had a lovely view of the drunkies bouncing between karaoke at the Whaler and 2 for 1 drinks at Cabo. In the middle of our people watching, I notice a girl standing in a metered space, blocking a car trying to park. Now this is Venice. I can tell you first hand that parking is a bitch. I've totally been that girl standing in front of my house waiting for Jota to pull around so he doesn't have to park a mile away. But this was different. This girl would not move. People are screaming at her, she's on the phone with her friends, and finally she moves out of the way to let the car park.

She doesn't stop there. The people in the car walk away, but this girl continues to chill by the car, presumably on the phone with her friends. She's nosing around, trying the handles, enough that the driver comes back over and has a few more words with her. All this time Jota and I are like, "Seriously? Doesn't this girl have anything better to do than be bitter about losing a parking spot? Where are her friends? Isn't she missing out whatever they're doing?"

So she sits down. Chats with some people. Laughs with some people. And then not one, but two fire trucks show up. And an ambulance. And a cop car. This fucking bitch called the cops, claiming she was hit by a drunk driver who broke her leg. The girl had one scratch on her knee that was scabbed over. They carried her off on a stretcher. At this point, I approached the girl driving the car and gave her my contact information to be used as a witness. Because seriously, I'm fucking livid that my tax dollars were totally wasted right in front of my eyes last night.

And yes, I just used "fuck" like 3 times. I'm pissed.

PS see my twitpic of one fire truck.

Mind your Potty Manners

Probably the only thing I will ever read in O Magazine...

Beware the Tinkler

Some girls in my office can't figure out how to flush the paper protectors after they use the toilet. Rude, rude, rude. And filthy. I'd hate to see their house, and that's saying something considering you can't see our bedroom floor right now because it's covered in clothes. We need to do laundry Jota!

An Almost Culinary Success

I try not to bitch about work, but having Byn come into town was an issue. Work is pretty lax about taking a day here or there, plus they give us the week between Christmas and New Year's off. So when I submitted my form two months ago and told my boss I would be in town, I thought it was no biggie. I was wrong. Evidently, disclosing my lack of destination meant that I wasn't really on vacation. Meaning that when my boss decided that we were going to fly a candidate in to interview all day Friday, I was expected to come in. When I refused, she pressed for me to at least come in to handle lunch. Fucking bullshit. I flat out said no, resulting in the most awkward and stressful week before vacay EVER. A full week later, and she's still pissed at me.

To solve the lunch "dilemma" I asked a co-worker to sign for the delivery, and make sure that it was actually one time. She awesomely also did her best to keep my staff on track with interview times.

As a thank you, I made her this beautiful recipe that I found on Smitten Kitchen. I did the basic lemon/blueberry combo, adding an extra 1/2 teaspoon of vanilla and lemon zest. I have these super cute cupcake boxes that Em gave me, so I made muffins. No pictures from me though, I forgot to rinse my wild blueberries, and ended up with the dreaded purple muffin. At least her kids will appreciate the color.

Little Ghetto by the Sea

 A year ago Jota and I moved from our cookie cutter, north of Pico, Santa Monica neighborhood, to beachy, artistic, and definitely eccentric, Venice Beach. A block west lies the beach, the Venice Canals are a block south, and just a few blocks east is Abbott Kinney Blvd, full of quirky little shops. Our quaint building is situated right on of the busiest intersections in the area for the summer. There's no sleeping in on a Saturday when a bike gang rolls up Venice Blvd at 8:00am.

My new hardwood floors lack shine and luster from years of sand being tracked inside, and I've all but given up trying to sweep up every last bit in the summer. While our shower has slightly better water pressure than my mom's house (read: a trickle), it's attached to a super deep claw foot tub, lovingly restored by our kooky landlord. Despite the kitchen reaching sweltering temperatures while I'm cooking, I've devised a pretty sweet cooling system using the oven vent, the back door, a baby gate, a swiveling fan, the front door, and both ceiling fans; allowing us to eat, play quarters, and sometimes sleep (Juan!) in our cozy breakfast nook. I wouldn't trade my new home for the world. Well, maybe for an additional 100 square feet, or a parking space.

However the neighbors, have got to go. Now, I don't mean Dave & Amanda, the other cute little couple from Maryland. Or Mykee and Jordan, with their little beagle mix Rainbow. Not even Saneechee (I spelled that phonetically), who is by far the coolest neighbor ever. I'm talking about the bums.

When Jota and I moved to Santa Monica from Maryland, we were shocked by the homeless population. But think about it...if you're going to be homeless, wouldn't you want to be where it's warm? These homeless people just go about their day, take their meals from the volunteers along Ocean Ave, shower down by the beach, and sleep on the sand.* Yes, you get the occasional nutjob that runs up and down the street screaming (or singing depending on the day), "Die bitch die!" No joke. But for the most part, the homeless in Santa Monica are a peaceful bunch.

Venice, is a bit different. They're younger, well dressed (ie clean North Face coats, Merrill hiking boots), beg you for money, weed, booze, and scream obscenities at you when you ignore their 'Will work for weed or sex' sign. They take off their shirts and play drunken fight club in the parking lot next to my house. They harass our neighborhood to no end, often resulting in police sirens and helicopter searches late into the night. They piss and shit behind our giant trash bins where my lovely neighbors who are lucky enough to have a parking space keep their car. So now we have to keep our trash locked in our common area. Our landlord had to cancel our recycling. There's no more room for another bin, because where would everyone put their bikes? And that is ridiculous. We are recycling fools.

Which is why when I checked the mail the other day, and noticed that one of these hooligans decided to stash his knapsack in the bushes by my house...I threw it away. In our garbage cans locked behind a 10 foot fence. I considered leaving a note along the lines of, "Don't leave your shit here", but decided that starting a turf war with the belligerent vagrants wasn't in my best interest.  

Those are Cheetos, Honey Bun, and Reeses wrappers left on my front stoop.  There were also Rice Krispies and Lay's wrappers in my shrubs.  I'm guessing someone scored their weed and got the munchies on my porch.  

*I know I am generalizing here, but I'm trying to paint a picture where there's a distinct difference between our experience in Santa Monica, and that of Venice.

It's the gym, not a peep show

I've spent the last two or three weeks working my ass off in the gym trying to reach my end of Feb goal. It's definitely paying off, and starting to show, to me at least. I've graduated to the treadmill, have increased my weights/reps, and oh you know, went down a pant size in a month.

I love the convenience of the gym in my building, not to mention the sweet locker room with amazing showers, a sauna, and whirlpool. 24 Hour Fitness Santa Monica, take note. What I don't love is the nakedness. I'm no prude; hello Big Bear '07 trip, but seriously ladies, put some freaking panties on before you bend over to lotion up your legs. Try a tank top, or at least a bra before you go to blow dry your hair and put your makeup on. Oh, and don't lay on the side of the whirlpool with your feet propped up on the railing so the first thing I see when exiting the shower is your nasty whoo-ha. It's called wax, use it.

And dudes who stand in the corner and actually POINT at my ass while talking to their buddies, fuck off. There are mirrors all the way around the free weight room. You think I can't see you?

With only one week left in the month, and three pounds to go, I think I need to be off the booze for the weekend. Unfortunately I don't think that's going to happen. Juan, aka John Martin, is moving back to New Orleans, and we're having a karaoke blowout at the Prospector in Long Beach tonight. You can't go to the LBC and not drink, or pour a little out for the homies. So I guess it's vodka sodas and lime all night long.

You know what really frosts my cookies?

When people are in a parking garage, specifically my parking garage; and they have to get a spot as close to the elevator as possible. They park their car in the middle of the lane, and I can't get by, and then they get all meanie head with me when I honk my horn. And these are the stinkers that go to the gym! Why can't their lazy bums drive 10 spaces down and WALK to the elevator? I mean that's an extra 10 calories or something, right?

I also can't stand when girls who are pregnant, refer to themselves as preggo and preggers. Do they know how white trash they sound?

"Aw well you know I got knocked up 'bout 5 months ago, and now I got this big 'ole preggo belly."

Do you even realize how uneducated you sound? Seriously, you sound like a country bumpkin that spends her entire day sitting around watching soaps and eating bon-bons. I mean, I'd love to loll around on my bum all day doing nothing, but I highly doubt that includes allowing my vocabulary to regress to that of a bonafide hillbilly.

Ok, that's enough...I'll stop now.