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.

Crazy, Party of One

Who had a total mental breakdown last night? Me. That's right, I sat in the bathroom for 30 minutes or so and cried myself into a sloppy puddle.

Why you might ask? Oh because I was watching 20 Wedding Dos and Donts, realized I wasn't even engaged, so I better change that shit before J gets home. Well, then I felt guilty for lying to him (since when is omitting information lying...good question) so I fessed up to my new addiction to all wedding shows. Platinum Weddings, Whose Wedding is it Anyways, and my favorite, Bridezilla. I've also started watching the travel channel religiously so I can make sure to pick the sexiest, most delicious honeymoon location EVER.

WTF is wrong with me? I'm in no rush to get married. I mean, it's not like I've planned out the location, my bridesmaids, what they're wearing, what my favors will be, what my dress will look like, how I'll wear my hair...because I HAVEN'T. Of course I have my ideas, and if you get me drunk enough I'd tell you what my colors are, what song we'll dance to (not telling, you might steal them), and some other stuff that I've seriously thought about.

I'm officially wedding obsessed. And that's fine...as long as I don't start bringing wedding magazines home.

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...

I'm trying, really I am

Wow, I started this project as an outlet for my writing. Obviously I need to work on this more. There's some bitching, some half assed attempts, and some more bitching.
I feel like I don't have anything exciting to write about. I'm not living a crazy single life...I'm not even living a crazy couple life. I work everyday, I come home and take the dog for a walk, I make din, and I watch TV. Go ahead and say it, James = Lame-o.
So my new goal is to try and write about something new each week. Does this count?

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.

The Season is Upon Us!

And boy am I excited! The big night is almost here! This Saturday I'm having our 2nd Annual Ho-Ho-Holiday Party. Hopefully this year will top the outrageous antics of the last. In order to do that we must:

• Break the shower rod completely off this time, instead of leaving it dangling.
  


• Actually get out the door to go to the bars this year.
  


• Lots of making out under the mistletoe!
  


• Foosball Tournament!
  

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?

Where to begin?

In all honesty, I'm not too sure why I've decided to start this. Possibly out of boredom, maybe a little bit of curiousity, but probably because I think it will be fun. I've been going back and forth about how to get started, and feel that a typical get-to-know-me introduction is the way to go. A tad cheesy, but as many know, cheesy = me.

So I live in sunny, southern California. One dog, one boyfriend, no white picket fence because well let's be serious, real estate is insane out here. I love that I can walk to the beach. I love even more that in the spring time if the weather is just right, I can go skiing in the morning, and make it home in time to bask on the sand before the sun goes down. I work for a sports media agency, which makes my lack of interest in sports even more hilarious. I LOVE to cook and bake. I'm constantly making cookies, cakes, lavish dinners, and anything else I can think of that will fatten up my tall, lanky man. It still hasn't worked, but I don't think he's complaining about my efforts. I'm the captain of a kickball team, and while it's not exactly challenging, I find that I play significantly better if I have a party cup in my hand. I'm also making an attempt to go back to school. I say this only because I really don't want to be back in school, but I know I have to finish it. So while you're galavanting across town, I'm getting my quadratic formula on! See, I try to get excited, but I really think that school is totally interferring with my social life.

I moved here almost two years ago from Maryland, right outside of DC. I grew up on a cattle farm, a fact that I think some of my new friends still don't believe. While I obviously miss my family and friends, it's the little things that have really started to tug the strings to my little heart. Like when my little sister sends me pictures of the tasty, refreshing Yuengling she's drinking, or talking to my mom and hearing about the frost and the leaves turning. Or getting to ride my horse around when I should help vacinate the cows. I miss having a bar on the first floor of my office building. Nothing beats being able to take the elevator downstairs after a tough day, and drinking vodka tonics, eating lots of fries, and gossiping with my best friends.

Phew! That's a start. A bit all over the place, but I had to start somewhere.