Just a wee bit intoxicated

You may have noticed by my twitter, maybe not. Either way, I was drunk as a cute little skunk last night. Monday night. WTF?

Maybe it's because I'm hopping on the paranoid train with everyone here at the office. Seriously, I think I'm getting laid off this week. Last week was pretty rough in the office, what with 1/3 of HR out the door, with no announcement. IT tells us this week is going to be even worse. It's to the point where we debate sending out company wide "test" emails to see which ones bounce back. I mean, it's not like I would be upset if I lost my job. I think it's pretty obvious that I hate my job. I just don't like this feeling of uncertainty, and I certainly don't like the idea of no money.

Actually though, last night's drunken escapades were a result of a lovely evening with Jota. I made us the tastiest, easiest dinner ever (Balsamic glazed chicken and brussels sprouts with pecans), and then we sat in the nook peeled paint off the table, and listened to music. That is until I got bored and ditched him for Gossip Girl. Love you honey!

And seriously, dinner was so easy and great that I have to share. Enjoy!

Balsamic and Strawberry Glazed Chicken

4 chicken thighs
1 tsp french tarragon
1/4 cup balsamic vinegar
3 tbs strawberry jam
juice from 1 lemon

Heat olive oil in a skillet, toss thighs in and season with salt, pepper, and tarragon. Cook chicken through and remove. Put balsamic vinegar, jam, and lemon juice in the skillet to remove any bits of goodness. Heat through, and toss the chicken back in to coat. And you're done.

Brussels Sprouts with Pecans

1 lb of brussels sprouts (or like the bag from Trader Joe's)
1/4 cup of butter
1 tbs of butter
1 tbs maple syrup
1 tbs apple cider vinegar
1 oz chopped pecans

Chop brussels sprouts so they're all shredded. Melt 1/4 cup of butter in skillet, toss sprouts in and cook until wilted, about 3 to 5 minutes. In the meantime, combine other tbs of butter (I never said this was healthy) with maple syrup and apple cider vinegar in a small sauce pan. Heat through, toss with finished sprouts and pecans.

Working Girl

So last night my entire team ended up going to The Parlor in Santa Monica to watch the Lakers/Clippers game with our client. Fun, right? Or not. Boss Lady put me "in charge" of the viewing party, and by in charge I mean she picked the time, location, invitees, etc. All I really needed to do was get there early and make sure food and champagne was on the table when everyone arrived. Of course, she was nearly an hour late, meaning the apps I had ordered were long gone, and everyone was bored as hell, sitting around waiting for her so we could order dinner.

You'd think we would have been a more lively bunch. I mean here we are, sitting in a pretty decent bar, eating pretty decent food, drinking multiple bottles of pricey champagne; and people are more into watching the commercials and half time than the actual game. This is why I will never, ever, watch an NBA game with people from work again. I just wanted to scream, "People, enjoy the game! Stop bitching about AT&T this, Motorola that."

Ahh marketing. I hates it. The only good part of the night was my genius idea of absconding the unopened bottle of Veuve left on our table. Hello and welcome to High Class Halloween at the Jotas tomorrow night!

Ma Ma I gots the itchies!

Now that I'm a big kid who doesn't live with Mommy and Daddy anymore, I've become a bit of a baby. Well, honestly, I've always been a bit of a baby. I guess I never grew out of it.


For starters, I have a serious fear of needles. Like, complete, inappropriate fear, because really, unless it's a shot in the ass (or elbow) it really doesn't hurt. So ridiculous is my fear that I found it absolutely necessary to tell my new doctor in Santa Monica that if I was going to get blood drawn that I would probably pass out. Well, being the awesome doctor that he is, when I showed up at the blood drawing place, they made a huge show, in front of kids no doubt, "Oh we heard about you. You're the big baby who needs to lie down."


Don't get me started on the girly doctor. I stress myself out so much that I need to take the day off work just to get my annual Pap. Oh, and I've definitely had the doctor ask me to pop two valium before getting there.


Right now, I'm fighting a vicious battle with poison oak. At least I think that's what it is. Wikipedia says that poison ivy doesn't grow in California, Hawaii, or Alaska, and poison sumac doesn't grow west of Idaho. And of course it's true because Wikipedia doesn't lie, and everything you find on the internet is true.*


Anyways, I've got this wicked rash all over my left elbow (not to be confused with the keg injured right elbow), as well as my left calf. And PS, it is nasty. Like, can't even handle touching it when I put medicine on it nasty. How did I get said itchies you ask? I have no fucking clue. Did I go hiking? No. Did I come into contact with any type of bush? No, well unless you count the half dead ferns and wild flowers growing by my front door. Still not poison oak.


Have you ever looked up home remedies for poison ivy/oak? One is bleach. I thought, "Bleach?! Who is fucking dumb enough to put straight bleach on their skin?"


While I'm certainly not dumb enough, I am quite desperate. Thankfully, Jota got me some fancy stuff called Tecnu EXTREME.


"Dude, that is so not extreme."



Sorry, couldn't help letting that one slip. The stuff is amazing! It has these great little scrubbies that allow me 15 seconds of complete and total relief of the itch. Which I need. I hear the ocean helps as well. I guess I know where I will be this weekend.




* so maybe I'm generalizing a bit.

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!

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.

Good Idea, Bad Idea

Good Idea: Starting the week off right by hitting the gym.
Bad Idea: Forgetting how grossly out of shape I am, and completely overdoing it. I can't lift my arms over my head.

Good Idea: Making a list for the grocery store.
Bad Idea: Going to the grocery store after the gym when I'm totally starved.

Good Idea: Hitting up the salad bar. Lots of fresh veggies, beans, and chicken...yum!
Bad Idea: Hitting up the last bit of the chips and dip when the salad wasn't enough.

Good Idea: Having friends over for a few beers.
Bad Idea: A whole bottle of wine.
Badder Idea: Riesling, gross.
Worst Idea: Two beers on top of that.
"Hello, gym? I know we had a great thing going earlier tonight, but I'm so over you."

Had a dream about Sprite last night, as in soda. I don't drink soda. Ended up stopping at CVS to picked up a two liter. What my subconscious wants, my subconscious gets.

How Rude!

Location: Trader Joe's on Pico in Santa Monica
Props: One lemon, one jar of pure desert honey, and one container of mascarpone cheese.

Stupid Checkout Dude: Uhh, so are you like, getting over being sick?

Me - no make up, glasses, ponytail, on my way home from work: (sheepishly) Yeah, that's it.

PS - Thanks fucker. I made the best damn banana muffins with mascarpone honey frosting. What do you say to the girl who gets tampons and vodka?

PPS - I broke out the contacts and mascara today.

A River Running Between my Breasts

Yoga last night was quite possibly the most cumbersome exercise I've done in like the past...since I've moved here. Em, Kel, and I started taking classes on Mondays and Fridays at Power Yoga in Santa Monica. There are two studios, and both run on a donation system; which is great because while most yoga classes are $20 a session, I'm paying around $5 - $10.

Our class is with Mister Bryan Kest himself, and a line forms around the corner of the block, filled with people waiting to get in. They pack the old loft with upwards of 50 students, creating a sauna like atmosphere that makes your sweat glands start to work as soon as you ascend the stairs. About 30 minutes into the 90 minute class, you're sweating buckets, and praying that the man next to you doesn't douse you with his nasty, stanky sweat during the next asana (that's pose).

Last night, after 60 minutes of cobra, down dog, and warrior poses, I realize Mister Kest's voice has an uncanny resemblance to Adam Sandler's in Billy Madison. In addition to the Billy impression, he uses fuck and shit more times than I do. Which I mean come on, that's a really fucking difficult thing to do. However, I noticed last night, that in addition to the impersonation, and the cursing, our amazing yogi rhymes EVERY SINGLE SENTENCE for the entire class! It's like taking yoga with a foul mouthed Dr. Seuss.

Love it!

Off the Booze...For Serious

So I may have gained some weight since moving to LA. And maybe by some I mean 20 pounds. Twenty freaking pounds on short little me, does not make a hot James. No, it in fact makes me want to stick my tongue out at cameras because if I'm going to look fat, I might as well look angry too.

Indeed, James has gotten so pudgy that even Grandpa-pa pulled her aside and said, "I think you need to start watching what you eat."

Tangent - Why is James referring to herself in the third person?

Watch what I eat? WATCH WHAT I EAT?

OK, so my jeans are a little tight, my abs aren't flat, and my ass is grande. (Who am I kidding, my ass has always been grande.) I may have fallen off the gym wagon, but seriously it wasn't walking distance once I moved, and I'm not about to pay $3 to park on the Promenade. Yes, I would pay to park there for shopping, but not sweating.

Let's do the math shall we...If I go to the gym 5 days a week (like I should), how much will I spend per week? Per year?
x = $3 for Promenade Parking
y = $$$ that I can spend on more important things, like new jeans.
v = a varied amount of $$$ I may spend per gym visit at Jamba Juice & Anthropologie
y = 52(5x) + v
y = 260x + v (Yeah, distribution property!)
y = 780 + v
Ok, so $780 a year on parking alone...That's like 4.8 pairs of Joe's Jeans, and not even the ones I like with the trouser pockets. That's not even including the cute Ella Moss and Susana Monaco dresses that I adore at Anthropologie, or the Passion Berry Breeze (with Fiber Boost!) that I will most definitely reward myself with for a sweat well done. Plus another $600 for my membership. Essentially, I saved myself over $1400 a year by quitting the gym. Go me!

No booze for serious, at least until J's parents come for Thanksgiving...

Did you see that?

Saturday night was nice and quiet. The boy had a soccer game on Sunday, so we just went to the movies (finally saw The Departed, it was good.) Walking home, you would have thought there was a tornado going through Santa Monica. The wind whipped around as we walked, and pieces of palm trees were crashing to the ground right in front of us. Needless to say but I'm going to say it anyway, the walk home from the Promenade was no fun.

So we're sitting on the couch, me reading, him playing FIFA, when I hear, "It's a beautiful day..." Stupid U2 is blaring. Just some background, we live in an apartment that is right on a street, not a busy street, but the noise definitely took some getting used to, seeing how we'd moved here from the middle of nowhere.

I'm thinking, "Wow, the person at the light is really rocking out." And the music just keeps going. The next song starts, and I'm no U2 fan, so it was quite annoying. J's not bothered at all, but my curiosity got the best of me. I walk out onto the patio, and peek my head through the bushes. My innocent eyes were not ready for what they saw...

A nice Mercedes, parked directly in front of my apartment was the culprit. Headlights on, windows up, and a forty-ish couple going at it like a bunch of teenagers. "HOLY S**T J! Get out here and check this out!"

Yes, my boyfriend and I totally spied on this couple. Pervy I know. We go back inside, and try to ignore the NC-17 love fest that's right out front, but the damn U2 gets even louder. Are these people freaking deaf? Or do they really, REALLY get turned on by Bono?

I decide, no more of this. I "need" to take the dog out. I put the little stinker on the leash, and stand two feet in front of the windshield with my hand on my hip, tapping my toe for a dramatic effect. The two finally surface for air, lipgloss, whatevs, and see me staring them down. Mean? Yes. Something my mom would do? Definitely.
But seriously U2?