One person's junk, another person's wine rack.

Between visits to wineries, Christmas gifts, and inspiration from the wine class I was taking, I've accumulated a wee collection of vino. About 15 bottles. (Sixteen after today - I was randomly at this Safeway in Berkeley/Oakland and found a bottle of this pinot noir we tried in the class, 2005 DeLoach, that's sold out like everywhere. So random. If you're in the neighborhood, grab one. The Safeway on College Blvd.) So I decided I need a new wine rack. (I'd been keeping my bottles in a box in my closet. My apartment gets down to like 45 during the week when I'm not there running the heater, so it's like a 600-square-foot wine fridge.) And I didn't really want to go to Target or Ikea like I did for all the other furnishings in my apartment. I have the luxury of time now, so I figured a little legwork would be worth it if I found something unique.


I'd heard about this furniture salvage yard in Berkeley that has decent stuff, so I went to check it out. It was a total crapshoot, because this place has stuff like doors, mirrors, light fixtures, all sorts of home decor. There are actually two stores, Ohmega Salvage and Ohmega Too. Ohmega Too is across the street and has more knick knacky stuff. They had the neatest metal fixtures there - a wire sculpture of a peeing dog and this fire truck without wheels for kids to sit in and pretend they're driving. How fun would that have been? And they also had ... a wine rack!



Isn't it neat? And it totally goes with my apartment, which has these dramatic wrought iron windox boxes. I'm not sure if I should repaint it shiny black. It's iron and it was sitting out in the rain, so I might have to sand it down. It was $20, which was probably how much one from Ikea would've cost, but the fact that this was a discovery makes it so much more fun.

First Uggs, then skinny jeans, now DUIs.

I've always been a late adopter. I'm afraid to hop on trend bandwagons because I always think I'll look ridiculous. Now I'm kind of glad.

It seems a DUI is the latest status symbol in Hollywood. The first, at least in the latest string, was Paris Hilton, in September of last year. Then her buddy Nicole in December. Then it kind of exploded - Eve (May 2007), Lindsay Lohan (May 2007), then Danielle Fishel and Mischa Barton just this month! (I know, the "Boy Meets World" girl doesn't really count, but she helps my case.)

I really don't get it. I take cabs, and I make in a year about one-tenth of what these chicks make in a month. (Or in Hilton's case, one-sixth of what she makes in one night.) So why doesn't she take them? Does she live so far out that a cabbie wouldn't take her? I highly doubt any one of those guys would turn down the potential for that tip and that crotch shot.

My greatest accomplishment (this month, at work).

I have done something I dreamed of but wasn't sure was actually possible - I bought alcohol with my boss' money. (Well, technically it was the company's, but it was authorized by my superiors.)

It was for a story, my latest, on cocktails for New Year's Eve. I felt guilty the whole time I was in Bevmo. I bought all the cheapest crap, and mostly just those tiny airplane bottles. But some of the stuff only came in big bottles, so now I have full-size containers of blue curacao, creme de cacao (totally disgusting), Triple Sec and Midori. So come on over. This is how I'm going to stock my bar - writing continuously about alcohol.

The worst part was having to explain myself when I turned in my expense report and when everyone saw the story. "So, what'd you do with all the extra?" "So, do you remember writing that story?"

The gel cocktails are actually pretty cool. You mix alcohol and gelatin and warm it up so it dissolves together, then pour it into molds, maybe with a little piece of fruit, and chill it in the fridge overnight. And here's a tip: Run the mold under warm water to release. I kept trying to get them out with a paring knife, and they looked totally mangled. You can kind of see it in those photos.

Today, I inserted a comma!

Even though my title is day desk editor, I'm a copy editor like any other, except I get to clean up after everyone else and stay late when shit hits the fan. Perks of being a manager. So if you're at all curious about my job or the kind of people I work with (or work to avoid), check out our new copy-editing blog. It will regale you with ... well, not much yet, but the first post was cute.

Arachnophobia.

I'm sure I've mentioned it, but my apartment is in the wilderness. When I first moved in, my closest neighbors were bugs, squirrels and the occasional friendly raccoon. (No joke, one came up the steps to my porch and hung out outside my front door for a minute once. It kinda freaked me out, because I figured if he came inside, he'd get scared and go into attack mode and eat me.)

This chronicle of "Gross Things Found in Food" reminded me of those times. (More the bugs than the raccoon.) Spiders were my biggest problem. They were everywhere: in my bed, in the windowsills, boldly marching right across the floor. And I hate to kill them, so that was a lot of scooping with paper cups. But the worst spider incident was the Coffee Spider.

I'm still not sure how it happened. I only make coffee every couple of days, and this was a second-day session. I poured it right into the cup without paying much attention, and tossed it in the microwave. I took my first sip, and there he was. In my mouth.

It still gives me chills.

I spit it out, thinking it was a clump of sugar or something. No such luck. I freaked out for like five minutes. I'm not sure if it was the microwave that killed him, or if he drowned. Poor little guy - what a way to go. So now I make sure to hold the coffee pot up to the light to look for foreign objects, and I always watch the spout as I'm pouring. Live and learn.

TP mind games.

So recently my parents decided to give up their Costco membership, because the two biggest consumers in the family hadn't been demanding muffins and Goldfish every week for a while.

This led to the Toilet Paper Dilemma. It's literally been 20 years since my parents bought toilet paper from anywhere other than Costco. So they got some Charmin from Target, after asking me like three times which kind is best, but my mom was like, "I'm just concerned it won't be as good." But it's toilet paper. No big deal.

Last week I took the last two rolls of Kirkland from the cabinet to stock my bathroom. These are easily distinguished from other kinds because they're individually wrapped. So this morning I used the last of the roll on the holder, and I went to replace it. But all the rolls in my cabinet were unwrapped. I was like, "That's weird that she'd go to all the trouble to unwrap my rolls. That's nice! Maybe she was on a recycling kick ..."

No!

It dawned on me that the rolls were smaller, too. So I went to her bathroom, looked in the cabinet, and found five rolls of Kirkland!! She totally robbed me! (Granted, I didn't pay for anything, but who does that?!) It's just hilarious because of all the forethought. She must have gone to the cabinet, seen only Charmin left, and decided to check the only other place there would be a stash.

They're slowly trying to drive me out.

What wine goes with ass cheese?

Do girls love to call each other fat because it makes us feel superior if we're skinnier than someone? It's the one part of our appearance that we can theoretically control, so therefore she who is the strongest is the thinnest is the best? Does it show weak character if you eat a cookie? I think part of it is we spend so much time beating ourselves up for being bigger than we want that we get pissed when other girls don't give a shit. Like, who are they to defy societal expectations? And why don't I get to do that too?

There've been a couple of public admonitions by tabloids of formerly skinny celebrities, namely
Tyra Banks and Jennifer Love Hewitt. Both were photographed in bathing suits looking nonairbrushed and thicker in the thighs than they used to be. (And Hewitt's ass kind of looks like mine does sometimes, which is one more reason I'm grateful I'm not famous.) And they both responded by telling off the media for requiring women to live up to an unattainable standard. Which is a little hypocritical considering both got rich off that standard, but whatever. It's a nice thought. (One thing that pissed me off about Hewitt's reaction, though, is that she said, "A size 2 is not fat!" What, then, is fat? A size 4? Why couldn't she have just said that her body is great, and so is every other woman's, no matter the size?)

I'm wondering how long this skinny-worship is going to last. It's just so slow to change. And I really think that it's a competition thing, and as long as women want to outdo one another (i.e., for the rest of time), weight is going to be one obvious trait that they use to determine who's the best. I would love to just say fuck it all and enjoy big pasta dinners every night. But then I see the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show and realize I'm not quite strong enough yet to fight all that.

I'm off to the treadmill.

Don't marry a doctor.

It's safe for me to date at work. What's the guy going to do, beat me over the head with his creativity? But if I were a scientist, maybe not so much:

A Superior Court jury found Larissa Schuster, 47, of Clovis, guilty of murdering Timothy Schuster with the special circumstance that the murder was committed for financial gain. His half-dissolved body was found a few days after his 2003 death in a barrel that was inside a storage unit that his wife had rented.

The Schusters co-owned a chemical lab and were in the midst of a bitter divorce.

Spray me baby, one more time.

Do you think Britney Spears ever imagined her perfume would end up being hawked at Rite Aid? It's being sold as one of those cheap-looking gift packs that emerge around Christmas, along with Cool Water and Xclamation! (Does a girl ever walk by and leave a trail of Coty Wild Musk and take you right back to sixth grade?) It's just sad, because all those wanna-be seductive commercials she did make her seem so serious about it, and were probably expensive to produce, and now it's $9.99. And Antonio Banderas has a cologne now! How gross! He does the whole Fabio thing in the commercial, which is funny because isn't the point to make men want to buy it? Or is he trying to make the women with the purchasing power believe that if they buy this crap for their husbands that the men will immediately become stallions? If that's the case, what he didn't think about was that these women wouldn't want their husbands to be greasy has-beens.

Party in the security line!

Chow.com has like five blogs associated with the site, and one, Tasting Notes, had a short entry on an example of a minitragedy:

Airport security worker, removing a bag from the X-ray machine: "Excuse me, sir, there seems to be a bottle of 1995 Cristal in your suitcase."

It's amazing how much can be said in so few words. And most of us can relate, because we've seen that bin after the conveyor belt that's filled with hairspray and wine.

Well, it seems one guy gave a big middle finger to the system and about killed himself. He had a liter of vodka in his carry-on, and decided to chug it instead of check it. Like, he drank the whole thing before putting his suitcase through. What. The. Hell. Didn't he figure that it wouldn't matter what he had in his suitcase, if he drank all that in five seconds that he wouldn't be flying anywhere? He must've been high already.

Blah humbug.

When did Christmas become more chore than cheer? The tree has been up in my house for like two weeks, and I haven't wanted to go near it. And it's dumb, because it only takes about an hour to decorate. (We're becoming more judicious in our choices of what goes up. This year mostly consisted of my mom holding something up, me sneering, and her putting it back.) So just tonight I finally acknowledged I was being an asshole and spent time after dinner putting up the ornaments. (I got out of hanging all the crap around the house, because mom did that over the weekend.) But once we got going, it was nice, because it really does remind you of stuff. There's the dough ornaments that I made in first grade, the little angel dog that we got when Cocoa died, and the ones I called really ugly that my dad apparently loves.

Unnecessary roughness.

Today I went and picked up the gingerbread house I'd commissioned for this story I'm doing. It was pretty impressive - more a gingerbread village, really, with people around the outside and a little pond with benches. But after it was photographed, what good is it just sitting around? So I brought it out for the enjoyment of the people who will eat anything. And while they did eat it, they also destroyed it, and put the poor little figurines into situations they never should have known in their short lives.

Bonding with Mom.

I was off work today, and I spent the afternoon with my mom. In a disturbing turn of events, we ended up talking about KY Jelly and Valtrex.

So we were watching TV, and she turns to me and says, "I saw my first condom commercial the other day on ESPN!" and then tells me about that Trojan ad where the pig turns into a guy. She was like, "You know, I guess I just thought some things were private. There's commercials now for everything, like Cialis! And why not? They have ads for Kotex all the time."

Good point.

So then she goes on about all the prescription ads she sees. "I don't need to see an ad for Valtrex! 'My partner has herpes, but I don't!'"

Oh my god. She knows about herpes?!

So then I told her about how Paris Hilton's storage shed was repossessed and there was a prescription for Valtrex in there. She was like, "I don't like her." Then she was telling me about how she was talking to my aunt about all this stuff, and how my aunt agrees with her, and that there shouldn't be ads for KY Jelly on TV. "It's not 'personal lubricant.' I know what KY Jelly is! It's the stuff the gynecologist uses when she puts in the speculum!"

I couldn't make this up.

Overheard

Outside Whole Foods:
Teen girl: "You show up at my school?! I said I didn't want to see you."
Teen boy: "But taking me off your cell phone? It's like you're deleting me from your life!"

Young love must be so much harder in the information age.

I think maybe, I think maybe ...

I was standing in line at the grocery store and noticed the man in front of me had duplicates of all his items: two Frosted Flakes, two pies, two cocoa mixes. I thought maybe he was having company with exactly the same taste. But then the cashier asked which bag he wanted, and he said, "Paper's fine. Paper's fine." Then I got it. He has OCD and has to say/have two of everything! He probably shops a lot of two-for-one sales.

Freedom has its drawbacks.

In Sunday's New York Times, there was a story about a man who spent 16 years in jail for a crime he didn't commit. But that's not the awful part. The real tragedy is what happens after he's freed. He has no technical or social skills, no friends, no understanding of how to live on his own. He was committed at 17, and in many ways he's still that age. And there are no services to help him. Parolees receive job training, but people who are freed from the justice system entirely aren't give the same opportunities.

This part of the story especially broke my heart:

"In his loneliest moments, when he scans the few personal contacts on his cellphone and realizes he has no one with whom to share his angst, Mr. Deskovic misses the predictability of prison life, where decisions were made for him."

I've done that, but not to that level. I've felt lost and alone, like there wasn't anyone who I could call to just hang out. But to be truly alone, to not have anybody you can even call to talk about your day, that breaks my heart. Even in my worst moments, there's always one or two people, or my parents. But what about people who don't have that? Prison isn't the only way people end up in that situation. Friendships grow cold, and if I didn't live with my parents I don't know how often I'd talk to them. Once a week, for an hour? Would that eventually taper off, too?

I guess this story just made me realize it's important to reach out to people. If there's someone who doesn't seem to have many friends, maybe I'll invite her to lunch. If I haven't talked to my mom in a while, I should send her an e-mail. It's important that these people know there's someone in the world who would miss them if they weren't here, who cares about how they're doing.

A squirrely character.

This is kind of gross, but whenever I pass roadkill, I wonder if the poor thing is really dead, or whether everyone just thinks it is, so no one cares. Like, if someone hit me with a car and smashed my leg, chances are I wouldn't be dead, but wouldn't be able to move very well, either. I've only stopped to check a couple of times.

Once, when I was living in Avila Beach, I saw a squirrel flopping around on the side of the road. He wasn't walking, but more like flipping from side to side. So I stopped and went up to him, to see if he really was hurt, or just rabid or something. And it looked like his leg was messed up, so I went back to my car and got a jacket, and scooped him up. Because it's not like they're wild animals.

So I got him in the car and kind of wrapped him up and put him on the passenger seat. I drove home, then went into the house to call a vet. Apparently they don't take wild animals, but they directed me to a rescue. The lady was really nice, and told me to meet her that night at this school in San Luis Obispo. So I went back to the car to check on the little guy, and he had escaped the jacket. He was now hiding under the seat. I was scared to put my face down there to see him, so I waved a hanger around on the other side of the seat, to trick him into thinking, "Danger! Go the other way!" Well, it worked, but then he ran over to the gas pedal and then up into that little hollow area that leads to the center console, where he got his head stuck with his ass still hanging out. So I had to grab his poor broken body and pull him back out, all the while saying "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" So I finally got him out, and he tore up my arm for like a minute until I wrestled him into a packing box (lined with the jacket for his comfort).

That night I met the lady and she wanted the squirrel but not the box. She unceremoniously put him into a garbage bag and thanked me. I still wonder if he didn't end up as her dinner.

I am thankful for alcohol.

Thanksgiving is not my favorite holiday. Food is a tricky issue for me, and sitting down to a table at which mass consumption is expected is a little irritating. But this year, it was pretty great. It was just my parents and me, which brought down the stress factor significantly. I have like five people in my entire extended family, so it's never been a big event, but this was really mellow. My day pretty much went like this: wake up, work out, ready Sunday New York Times (that's forethought!), do four loads of laundry, wash cars with dad, make stuffing, drink wine, eat! Awesome.

I love to cook this one recipe for stuffing I found online a few years ago. It doesn't have much fat, so my crazy stomach can tolerate it well. It's pretty simple, but it involves some chopping and mincing, so I get to practice. And my dad likes to help, so we have a little time to ... not talk together. He's not a big chatter.

The dinner was ham, stuffing, sauteed mushrooms and cranberry ice. The ice was my grandma's recipe, and involves a couple of hours of boiling cranberries, blending, adding stuff, blending more ... you get the idea. My mom and dad make a project out of that, and she's been trying for a while to make some that lives up to grandma's. Poor thing. But this year, it came out pretty well. It's like a sorbet, I guess, but not as sweet. And the wine, of course. This year, it was Trader Joe's Charles Shaw Valdiguie Nouveau. No idea. But I'm thinking it's like beaujolais nouveau. It was decent, and did the trick. I enjoyed dinner and was pretty bubbly. We lingered for like an hour and a half, talking about random stuff. At one point, I asked my mom if she'd ever had duck, and we ended up talking about parties my parents' friends used to throw, and how they at one time owned a share in a vineyard in Lodi. They sold it, and now have a car. That's something to be thankful for.

Overheard.

In a small bookstore in Manteca:

"Yeah, I heard they're going to make it into a strip mall, and put in some places to eat, maybe a Mexican place and some pizza."
"Oh, great. I was just thinking we didn't look enough like the Bay Area."

Right. Because adding two other generic food joints to a farm town is going to turn it straight into a cosmopolitan mecca of culture and fun. If only.

Girls gone wine.

I know it seems like I talk a lot about wine lately, but I promise I'm not becoming obsessed. After this post, I'll try to cool it a bit, maybe talk about beer.

On Saturday, a few girls and I went to Vino Piazza, a little outdoor winery collective in Lockeford. There's been big talk about this place for a while, and there's always events going on that sound pretty sophisticated. So we were surprised when we showed up at what looked like a big barn surrounded by dirt. My dad dropped us off (how cute is that? my own chauffeur, like in high school) and we kinda peered around trying to find the "entrance." We ended up just walking into the closest building, and decided to start with lunch.

This place, Gigolo's, totally understands that it's the only game in town. The food is fine, Italian bistro style, but a little overpriced. My penne with marinara was like 13 bucks, and the tomato sauce was pretty Prego. And Parmesan from a green can. Interesting choice. But the server was nice, and it was a nice primer for the day.

After that, we started out at Boitano, the only place I actually bought something. The other three girls were going to "expand their palates," read: inexperienced, so it was kind of like the blind leading the blind. I thought we should start with whites, but that table was overcrowded, so went to the reds. The one I got was a beaujolais-style sangiovese, fermented in steel barrels instead of oak, so there weren't any tannins. It was nice and smooth, and something totally different, which justified it for me. The other girls weren't impressed, so we moved on.

At the next couple of places, I got the impression that wine to novices is grody. I got this impression because of the faces that were being made during tastings. I think "grimace" would be appropriate. Or maybe "being killed slowly by strangulation." My feeling is, you know sort of what you're getting into, so be prepared that it's not going to be Kool-Aid. And please, don't do it in front of the winemaker. Because then they'll ignore us and we'll wait 10 minutes for our taste of muscat. And I love dessert wine.

At one place I was irritated by the server. One girl wanted to try the white port, a dessert wine, so she asked for it first. She hadn't had much luck that day. After she tried it, she wanted to taste the chardonnay. The pour came, but the woman said, "It's going to taste really sour. You did it in the wrong order." You know, I understand there's a protocol in tasting, but first, not everyone does, and second, her role is to teach, not intimidate. And who's going to buy something after they're made to feel dumb?

The last place, Pasos, was the best. We got to pick which olives we wanted the owner to open, and he brought out crackers, too! Snacks after drinking are always appreciated. So we sat there for a minute, but since dad was coming soon, we exited and sat outside and talked about boys while we waited. See, totally high school.

A blast from the past.

MySpace is crazy. You can find old friends, new friends, and people you were hoping to forget. And they can find you, too. Which is what happened to me recently (the first part, not the last part). My friend Jeff, who I haven't seen since my freshman year at Cal Poly, sent me a message, and it turns out he's living in Dublin, about 20 minutes from Walnut Creek. So we had dinner last night.

I was really nervous going into it, because, after nine years, who's to say we'd even like each other? Or have anything to talk about? Or what if he didn't have a sense of humor and I ended up causing a scene because I stuck a fork in my hand to wake myself up?

Thankfully, none of these were the case. We met at an Italian restaurant in downtown Pleasanton (p.s., which is totally cute - a little Main Street USA, all lit up and full of people), and I had no trouble spotting him outside. He looked exactly the same - tall, blonde, very All American. The minute we sat down we were both like, "Ohmigod, what, 10 years, what's been going on, who are you now?" And from there, we were fine. We started with him: international travel, move to Hawaii, sub-prime market crash, acceptance to pre-med at Berkeley. Me: I'm a good listener.

We started by talking about careers, then ended up discussing who we are in the world and whether we're happy. It's nice sometimes to talk with someone who understands things from exactly your point of view, and can offer some reassurance, or at least offer comfort that you're not the only one who worries about this stuff.

It's weird, because I had the biggest crush on him for a while in high school. He didn't quite return the favor. But I won, because I ended up dating a hottie named Jason who was totally more awesome. (No, I'm fine with it!) And now I'm trying to wrap my mind around whether new Jeff and I are going to be friends again, after all this time. Can boys and girls just be friends? Should I start thinking things about him saying, "You can get the next one?"

I'll keep you posted.

So, does a transgender's wait depend on pre-op sex?

Slate.com today shares a recent study that concluded women wait an average of 20 seconds longer than men for their orders at coffee shops. The researchers hung out in eight shops and noted that when the employees were all men, women waited longer (whether due to flirting or contempt is unknown).

While 20 seconds seems like hardly anything, the fact that there's a difference at all is disturbing. Why would it be acceptable to dawdle when preparing a woman's drink order? Because she's less likely to speak up? I know I wouldn't ever yell at a barista to hurry the hell up. But I also don't know many men who would feel comfortable doing that. The study was done in Boston, so maybe big-city boys are more aggressive.

Is it really still a man's world? I sometimes wonder, when I'm sitting at a budget meeting in the morning and see two other female faces at a table of 10. I don't know if fewer women are ambitious, or if they see family as a priority over their career, or they're just smarter than I am and not going to the meetings. Now that I'm a manager, I see the appeal in a route of less responsibility. Sometimes I wish I could have a set schedule, or not have to take responsibility for quality control. But I also love that I don't always have to ask permission to do something. So I guess it all comes out in the wash. And whoever does well at the end of the day, man or woman, gets to keep his or her job. Hooray.

There's trouble afoot.

Today I went to see a podiatrist because I've been having some pain in my foot, which started after I started to integrate running into my soccer-mom fast-walking workout. I haven't been able to do any exercise, which is really frustrating, especially when I was just starting to get into it. It turns out I have a neuroma, which is a thickening of nerve tissue between my metatarsals. I also have high arches and I pronate like a mother, which is the reason for my weird-looking feet. (Well, one reason. The monkey toes aren't related.) The pronation means my whole leg is out of whack, giving me knock knees and a bit of bowing in my tibia. Awesome. Throw in pigeon toes, and I'll be set.

The one great thing about this is that I got a podiatrist, on the record, telling me that I should be wearing heels. Flats aren't good for my arches. She didn't sign off on the stilettos, though, but chunky-heeled platforms are cute, right? Or maybe some Frye boots? I wonder if I can take a doctor's note to Nordstrom and get a discount.

Te amo, pinot.

I fell in love today. With a pinot noir, but whatever. If a woman can marry a dolphin, I can love a wine.

The Deloach 2005 pinot noir is the heartbreaker. At $25, I can't say it's a bargain, but it's worth the pennies. Today's wine class was focused specifically on pinot, which was made famous in the movie "Sideways." (It also panned merlots, which I happen to love and now have a complex about ordering in restaurants.) Five out of the six pinots were not anything I'd like to drink. It's weird, because the varietal is so built up, but the wines themselves must take a more educated palate than mine to appreciate. Most were tannic (give you a puckery feeling), thin and didn't taste like much. This one stood out, though. It was round (thicker, more syrupy) and had a great taste and no pucker. It would be excellent by itself. I'm thinking about buying one for Thanksgiving and one for myself. It may age well, teacher guy said, but why bother? It's delicious now.

I just need to invest in a little vacuum so that I don't pour half the bottle down the drain just because I'm a lightweight and only drink a glass every two weeks.

Ma and Pa editor are so proud.

Something pretty great I noticed yesterday and today was how excited everyone ELSE was about my food story. At the budget meeting, my supervisor made a point to let everyone know it was my debut, and when I was reading the page at my desk later, people kept coming by to look at it. Then after deadline, the managing editor brought the page over, and I thought he'd have some corrections. But he just held it up, and was like, "This looks really great." Then he laughed and told me not to look so worried every time he came over.

Then this morning, people kept saying how nice it looked, and that the story turned out great. And it was just a 6-incher with some art. But it made me really happy that a lot of people genuinely cared that I was doing something different that I was excited about. Colleagues really do turn into family after awhile.

Food debut!

http://www.recordnet.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20071114/A_LIFE/711140302

It's like wearing stripes, and everyone asks, "What, are you a referee?"

I love Target. I love their cute ads, commercials with good music, Michael Graves kitchen supplies. I don't, however, love the fact that their uniform has taken away a wardrobe option for me. I'm wearing khakis today, and I had two options for a top: red or black. I love the red/khaki combo, but I always feel like now it's outlawed. Is that dumb? I especially hate that I can't wear it on any day I want to go to Target, because then I'll be asked a hundred times, "Excuse me, where's the toilet paper?"

The apple doesn't fall far from the family tree.

This weekend, mom and I undertook another episode of "Organizing Piles of Shit."

We have a ton of photographs from our old house (we moved about five years ago) as well as many from the estates of three of my grandparents. (When I say "estates," I mean "closets.") So last week I was reading a local calendar in the paper, and there was an item on genealogy, and I remembered my mom was working on our family tree. So I proposed the idea, and she accepted. Or shrugged. Whatever.

The first batch was from our family mostly, and I unearthed some greats:

I had that deer-in-the-headlights look even back then.

Always an exhibitionist.

We also found some of my parents, in what was a weird "Wow. They had a life before me." moment.

My dad, on a ship somewhere, looking pretty cute.

We also found some evidence of hotness way back in the genes.

My grandpa, left, was quite the guy, huh?

Grandma Ruth was a totally betty, and always stylish.

All in all, not a bad way to spend a Saturday. It may be even better than a family tree.

If you can't take the heat, you're a journalist!

I love my new job! Well, the new parts to my old job. I did my first photo and video shoot today, and it's so nice to be doing stuff that gets me out of the office. And not just because I'm out of the office.

A little background: My first story is about main course alternatives to turkey for Thanksgiving. The ones I chose are duck, fish and venison. So I talked with local chefs and bought fish from one and duck from another. (No one sells venison, so wire photos stand in for that.)

First stop was the fish. I walked in, and the guy at the host stand was beau.ti.ful. No joke. Tall, tan, and shiny bald. I was so thankful I'd worn my big girl shoes and cute jeans. My first time out in the public, and I was being extra cautious. He wasn't chatty, which was a bummer, but maybe he was shy. I probably shouldn't be flirting on company time anyway.

At the next place, however, I got tons of attention. Unfortunately, it followed the story of my life: three dad-types getting drunk at the bar. After I explained I didn't want a job ("Too bad!") and I was there to pick up something ("A man?"), I finally found the guy I was looking for: chef Scott, who had prepared the most beautiful duck l'orange for me to take back. (That duck was my get-out-of-jail free card when I took too long in the photo studio, pushing back someone else's assignment. Best way to make amends: free food.) So I grabbed the duck, ran back to the paper, and stuck it under some hot lights for flattering photos.

An hour later, I went back to the second restaurant (with a clean plate - thanks Ian!) for a video shoot. If you've never been to the back of a restaurant, it's roasting. I know this seems obvious, but I never really thought about it until today. All those ovens and flames, and the chefs have to wear coats with sleeves. Lord. I was about to pass out in my cap sleeves. It's funny how people freak out over a camera. Chef was a minor celebrity for about 15 minutes ... everyone was oohing and aahing and laughing. But we got great shots of him explaining how to make the duck, and I think having a visual will add a lot to the story.

You can see all this online Wednesday at recordnet.com. Hooray!

Next up: Gift guide.

Breakfast of champions.

I'm reading "Why Do Men Have Nipples?" and it is full of random shit. Every page, I'm like, "I always wondered about that!"

The best one I've found so far: Is sperm nutritious or fattening?

The answer makes sense. Sperm is what we're made of, so it's full of nutrients. Well, as full as a teaspoon of anything can be. (I know, it seems like so much more when you're trying to choke it down.) It's about 5 calories, mostly protein, with some Vitamin C and zinc. If only it could be engineered to taste like cherries.

I think my mom has "Grey's"-dar

No joke, she can be dead to the world, and with 10 minutes give or take, she's back up at 9. I don't know what it is, maybe she's not really asleep and she's conscious of around what time it is each time she opens her eyes, but it's uncanny. I wish I had such an internal clock. Maybe I'd get my ass up in time to exercise in the morning.

Get pregnant or risk your life!

Your cholesterol meds can stop your heart. Red wine can be healthy, but not too much! Jog, but don't run a marathon, 'cause that can kill you, too.

Every day it seems, there's another story about conflicting health studies. Today the New York Times reports that birth control pills can clog your arteries when taken for more than 10 years. Crap. I've been on and off them since I was 16. (No, I'm not a hooch! I have really bad cramps. At least, that's why I first went on them. Now ...) And also that they double the risk of cervical cancer.

So what's a girl to do? There are other methods of birth control, but the side effects lists on those are just as long. Hormone-replacement therapy is linked to cancer, but it also reduces the possibility of osteoporosis. So how do you choose?

At this point in my life, it's more important that I'm able to escape the baby boom than avoid artery cloggage. I eat heaps of vegetables, I exercise ... shouldn't that good behavior allow me to have worry-free sex? And I know there are nonprescription options like the Sponge (do they even make that anymore?) or the IUD (sorry, but sticking something that looks like a metal barb up my vajayjay freaks my shit out), but those failure rates are way higher than the pill. And neither of them would clear up my skin.

But studies like that do get my attention, because after a while taking a pill becomes so routine that I don't even think about what it actually means anymore. It's like a vitamin. Except not at all, apparently.

Just call me Bizarrobin.

I sit next to a guy who writes about hip-hop, and he gets a lot of calls from rappers and managers. And they all have ridiculous nicknames. The past three calls he's gotten have been from:

1. Nsane
2. Nutso
3. Cigarface

Suddenly, Snoop Dogg doesn't seem so far out.

Craigslist makes me wonder.

I was looking on the Activities board on Craigslist, and there was a random posting: "Seeking a best friend...."

How sad is that?! The girl is a recently divorced transplant, which I can only imagine must be doubly hard, but it just sounds so desperate! I wouldn't want to call her up because it sounds like I'd be her only friend, and who wants that responsibility? Wouldn't it be better to say "Dance class partner" or "Running buddy"? I mean, even those are kind of offbeat, but I think you have to show you have something to offer if you're going to try to get people to hang out with you. I'd rather meet up with someone to go to a concert than just be like, "Oh, you're lonely and bored? Me too!"

Craigslist in general is just wacky. Like the "Missed Connections." Why would I want to sit around and browse postings to see if someone who thought I was cute but didn't have the balls to approach me now wants to talk about it? I know it's hard to hit on someone, and being hit on by nasties sucks too, but aren't the odds higher if you actually speak?

And this is to say nothing of the personals. (Yes, I read them!) Even the platonic ones are guys looking for dates. And the actual personal personals are too disturbing. They should all just have the headline: "Come over. I'm horny."

Do the kids even say horny anymore?

Go Gavin!

In the history of dreamy politicians, JFK obviously holds the crown. But Mr. Mayor of San Francisco, Gavin Newsom, comes in a pretty close second. Is it the preppy image, all suits and smiles? The bad boy tendencies (sleeping with his best friend's girl!)? The cajones to stand up to the right-wingers who believe the Bible should be law and declare City Hall open to same-sex couples who want to get married? All of the above, I think.

And it seems this love is shared by most everyone in the city, and everyone knows it, so few political rivals have emerged for today's mayoral elections. But the ones who have come out to challenge are worth mentioning:

"It's not that Newsom doesn't have competition on the ballot. In fact, there
are 11 challengers. But none is considered a credible rival.
They include a sex club owner, a homeless taxi driver and a nudist rights advocate."

It reminds me of the good old days of the gubernatorial election, when porn star Mary Carey and Gary Coleman were challenging Arnold Schwarzenegger, and no one knew who was serious and who was a joke.

Biting off more than I can chew.

I have a feeling that being food editor is going to be like a Sour Patch Kid. Really sour to start, then really sweet. (I don't have an analogy for the gummy part.)

One of my first "assignments" is to create an online database of restaurants in San Joaquin County. Oh. My. God. I thank the lord for the education that kept me from being a data-entry clerk. But it'll be worth it when I get to put on my resume that I created it from scratch. And didn't go catatonic. And it's frustrating, because there really is a lack of diversity in the Stockton scene. I mean, sushi is still trendy here. There's like four Thai restaurants and a million Burger Kings.

But it's fun to really have a say in what goes into the section. My editor is pretty laissez faire about the whole thing, so creatively, it's a great outlet. I want to start a column where people taste two different items and give them a review, like the Supertaster on Chow.com. And also, we're thinking about getting reporters and readers to submit their favorite recipes, and stories to explain why they love them. Like, "This was my grandmamma's best roasted chicken, and every Sunday before she got drunk on moonshine she'd show us how to carve it up!" Fun.

Oh, and I may actually get to expense alcohol! Doesn't that just seem wrong? I'm doing a story on cocktails for New Year's, and I asked if I could really make the stuff so we could do studio photos of the drinks, and my editor said yes! It's amazing how quickly they'll agree to forking over $20 for a bottle of vodka if it means they don't have to hire a new writer. Score on that one.

Wine gets nerdy.

Since I started my wine class, I've developed an interest in tasting and buying. But not so much drinking. I now have 12 bottles of wine, and they're just sitting there. But I love to buy the stuff! I was at BevMo the other day buying a birthday gift, and had to consciously restrain myself from buying more. I know it ages well, but I live in a studio, and it's just getting ridiculous.

I'm also getting into reading about it. Not so much the true highbrow take on it but more the fun, unpretentious gurus of guzzling. A columnist at Wired magazine recently came up with some fun gadgets that would make enjoying wine more accessible to the everyman. One of these is a Tooth-Mounted Flavor Sensor, which would send signals about a wine's flavors directly to a speaker in the ear.

"At last, you can with full confidence declare a glass of wine to have 'a wispy touch of pear and loquat, blended masterfully with a strong chord of pepper and cinnamon, all held together by COMPOUND NOT IDENTIFIED -- PLEASE CHECK FOR DRIVER UPDATES.' "

How awesome would that be?! Finally, all snootiness would be erased from the wine world, because everyone would have access to the same information. No single palate would be better than another. And sure, maybe it takes some of the fun out of the tasting, but you could also consider it educational. After a while, lose the earpiece and join the fun.

Accomplishing nothing around the Bay.

This weekend I had lunch with my friend Lindsey, who I used to work with at the Contra Costa Times. It's funny how after high school, you end up being true friends with people who are nowhere near your age. Lindsey is probably around 50, with a daughter who just started college. She and I have the same attitude about a lot of things, and she's just a sweetheart, so we've stayed in touch since I left the paper. We don't talk often, but checking in every couple of months seems to work. So we caught up on work stuff, and then she filled me in on her home stuff, including the recent disappearance of her kitty, Wally (age 17, may he rest in peace). I expected her to be upset, considering the cat had been with her as long as her daughter. But she was surprisingly pragmatic:

"You know, if he got caught by a coyote, it's instant karma. That damn cat tortured so many small animals in his life that this would be very fitting."

Well. So much for not speaking ill of the dead.

After lunch, I went into SF to go to the library (that building is gorgeous, and I feel more educated just walking around in there) to get a copy of a magazine article. I know, why not just go online? Because Gastronomica is the one magazine in the world without Internet access to articles. But small sacrifice, to trek all the way out to my favorite city. So after a heart-pounding trip up five flights, I got the article, then figured since I'd driven all the way out there, why not stick around a while.

I usually get lost in SF; this is just the first time it was intentional. I was looking for North Beach, the area I think I might want to live (come on, big money!) if I move into the city. But first I saw Fillmore, and figured that sounded nice, so I turned left and found the mecca. That street is full of adorable shops and cafes, and lots of cute people to match. I'd really need to step up my game. So I drove around a while there, then ended up near the Presidio, so I figured the fastest way back out was the Golden Gate. Kids, don't try this at home:

Such a better idea if you're a passenger. But fun.

Anyway, I went into Tiburon, because I had time and I'd never been. It's actually a really dull place. Like one road that winds around, and no views of anything except the bay. Which is fine, but when you're used to shopping emporiums and the like, it's a little lacking. But I knew I was out of my element when I looked around at a stoplight and there was a BMW and a Benz in front of me, and an Audi in the other lane. I was relieved when I saw a Ford truck, until I saw it was the pizza guy. I do love Marin, though, because it's pretty low-key. All the rich people are hippies. It's like, when you're about ready to give a buck to the homeless guy walking toward you in a parking lot, he gets into the BMW you're parked next to. But money can't buy taste:

Do you really love your dog so much that you'll defile a beautiful Porsche? The dog probably pees on the wheels every morning and she has no idea.

Overheard

One old lady to another, while unpacking slightly nontraditional Christmas ornaments at the animal shelter thrift store:
"That's a nativity! Don't you recognize the baby Jesus?"
Other old lady:
"Well, not with those slanted eyes I don't!"

Wow. I guess the fact that Jesus was born in Israel, which is pretty much in Asia, escaped her.

Can't we let Atkins rest in peace?

On NPR today I was listening to an interview with Gary Taubes, the writer of "Good Calories, Bad Calories," and cardiologist Ronald Krauss. The gist of "Good Calories" is pretty much the same as the Atkins ideology: that calories from different sources affect a person's health and weight differently, and that insulin (which is secreted in response to carbohydrates) is really what causes weight gain.

Taubes has a lot of science to back up his claims, having discussed this with many doctors and studied many cases. Basically, he says that poor science has led to the USDA and health organization recommendations on diet, and that people follow those guidelines blindly because there's a lack of another way. But it's a little scary to think about freely eating steak sauteed in butter and covered in cream sauce. It goes against everything we've been taught. And maybe that's not a reason to avoid it, but it sure looks more like something that would clog an artery than my Cheerios.

Refined carbohydrates are obviously not something the human body was built to handle. If it comes in a box, you're probably taking a chance. But once those sugars are introduced, it's hard to live happily without them. Taubes says this addiction is the reason why many people are still fat. It's not that low-carb diets don't work, but that people can't stick to them. Because they're not fun! A life without some bread or a cookie or even some freakin' Lifesavers seems set up for downfall into "To hell with your moderation! I'm going to bed with Ben AND Jerry!"

I respect Taubes for speaking out against the collective thoughts, but then I also believe guidelines are what they are for a reason. Maybe I'm naive, and maybe the federal kickback for wheat is why we're told to eat high-carb diets, but I really think that being conscious of what you eat, whether it be pasta or steak, is what really matters. Have a happy table, put some effort into your meal, and just enjoy.

Thursday thoughts.

• Someone should do a study on the correlation between women who wear high heels and kidney damage. I just realized I've been holding my pee for like 20 minutes because my feet hurt and I don't want to walk to the bathroom.
• Why do advertisers try so hard to be cool? Gottschalks' new ad features the slogan "It's a G thing." Really? You think some suburban mom is going to see that and think, "Oh, that's hip! I should shop there, because obviously they know what's trendy in tapered jeans."
• On "Good Eats" last night on Food Network, Alton Brown was making French toast, and he used an infrared thermometer to take the temperature of the griddle. Then, on "Girls Next Door," the girls hired a paranormal investigator to come to the mansion, and he used the exact same thermometer to test for signs of ghost activity. Hmm.

Did anyone ever smell someone's feet, THEN give them candy?

Happy Halloween! I pulled a big bah humbug this year and didn't dress up. It was easier to cut out the middleman by staying home and drinking and eating the candy myself.

I had some awful costumes when I was younger. My parents weren't very enthusiastic about the holiday, so I always ended up throwing something together at the last minute, which has carried over to my modern self.

When I was in second grade, I dressed up as a crazy lady. No joke. I had mismatched clothes, my hair was all ratty (uh, that was totally part of the costume) and one of the lenses was missing from my fake glasses. Yes, I thought of that all on my own. Why do you ask?

In sixth grade, I was a gypsy. There was a party and cute boys, so I had to be something attractive. (Whoops.) It was my mom's idea this time, I think. I had big hoop earrings, a crazy long, flowy skirt and a blousy top. Ridiculous. Oh, and lots of blue eye makeup. God, why didn't I take pictures?!

Then, a few years ago, I dressed up as a '50s girl. I am so cheap when it comes to this stuff, and I didn't want to shell out $100 for something for one night, so I went to the vintage store with a friend and picked out something there. Well, a group of us decided to go out instead of just to someone's house, so there I was, at a bar looking like a prude. I had a poodle skirt, a cardigan and a scarf in my hair. I looked totally hot next to the sexy policewoman and the sexy teacher.

So now I just cut my losses and hope Nov. 1 comes quickly. Maybe I can say that I'm secure enough that I don't need to become someone else for a night. Or maybe I'm just afraid of writing in five years, "Oh, wow, when I was 27 I dressed up as a sexy garbage collector ..."

I thought I was having a bad day.

You know how sometimes you look in the mirror in the morning and think, "Ugh. Can I call in ugly today?" Well, today Maxim magazine staff members took it upon themselves to make this judgment against five strong, intelligent, successful, LOVELY women who did nothing wrong except not strike gold in the genetic lottery. Which apparently means they're deserving of having their self-esteem ripped apart by Wizard of Oz-esque creatures who probably aren't beauty queens themselves.

Topping the list is Sarah Jessica Parker, who one writer called a "Barbaro-faced broad." The "Sex and the City" star is a favorite because she's fun, smart and has fashion balls. (I kind of hate her for those thighs, but after today, we're square.) So just because a girl's face is a little long, even though she's witty and worldly and interesting, no one wants to have sex with her?

The other four are: Amy Winehouse, Sandra Oh, Madonna and Britney Spears. The first two are totally unacceptable. But the second two I begrudgingly agree with. However, it's not because of how they look. If I have the body of either of them after poppin' out two kids, I'll join whatever red bracelet club they want. No, it's because of their attitudes.

Madonna has that constant "I'm entitled" thing going. I know she's had a million hits, but why do we still care about her? Because she kissed Britney? Because she wrote a children's book? I really don't get it. It can't be her acting skills.

And Britney also seems to have a personality issue. I don't know if it's the eighth-grade education thing, but after her interview with Matt Lauer, I just could not find any reason to admire her. At least back in the day she seemed friendly while being dumb. Now she's just clumsy and thoughtless, all the while popping her gum and demanding respect.

What is the point of a list like this? Why be hurtful? To get publicity? Who would write about ...

Oh.

There's a reason I'm so anal.

It's ingrained in my personality. On my DNA, it's written: brown eyes, brown hair, weird big toe, control issues. Or so says Myers-Briggs.

I took two "assessments" recently as part of my quarterlife crisis. I've been having "What the hell am I doing?" issues, and part of that is my uncertainty about my career. So I figured I could use a little outside help. I called the career center at Delta College and it turns out they offer career counseling in the form of two tests: the Strong Interest Inventory, and the Myers-Briggs personality test. I went in and took them both on a computer, and just got my results back.

First, the SII. I am an SAE, which, in order of strength, means I'm social, artistic and enterprising. This is really surprising. First, I'm totally ANTI-social. I don't like many people. Well, it's not that I don't like them, it's just that we don't click. But maybe I fake it well, so well that the test didn't even know. Hmm. I guess that's good. (But I promise, if you're reading this and you think you're my friend, you totally are. I'm not faking it with you.)

Second, the artistic part is also weird, because I love order. I like deadlines, a clean apartment, matched socks. But "artistic" on the test includes things like writing, so when I saw that, it made more sense. I guess artistic doesn't only apply to free-spirited painters.

And the enterprising part is a little weird, too, because I am the world's worst salesperson. I had a job when I was a freshman in college at a pet supply store. This was a really chi-chi one, with all sorts of shit that no dog really needs, and $600 cat scratching posts that look like trees, and biscuits that were made of such great ingredients that a person could eat them. (I did, too. The owner made us once so that we could sell them truthfully. And they were good. Plus, I had class right before I was supposed to be at work, so sometimes I got desperate.) Anyway, I got fired because I never got in anyone's face and tried to push her products. I never thought it was fair to assault customers when I know how much it sucks.

So that whole assessment was pretty eye-opening. It suggested I work in industries like health care (No thanks. I saw "Sicko.") or education, or mass communications (thank god). So I'm not entirely off track. Oh, and it also suggested culinary arts, so my recent move was up the right alley.

The Myers-Briggs test is more related to psychology. According to that, I'm an ESTJ, which means extroverted, sensing, thinking, judging. Basically, unemotional, rigid hardass. Which is kind of disappointing, but also a little true. The counselor said people with my type make good leaders, but they don't allow personal feelings to influence business decisions.

This test really helped me understand why I am the way I am sometimes. I like decisions to be made so I can plan accordingly. I like to know what's going to happen and when so there aren't any loose ends. I make reservations. I don't flake on plans. But I'm no good at being spontaneous or just going where the day may take me. After this, I resolve to be more easygoing in an effort to round myself out. So if you want to go to a movie at the last minute, give me a call!

Silence of the pumpkins.

I think this is just creepy enough.

I can't take credit for this idea - I saw it on the Extreme Pumpkins Web site. It was such a random idea that I figured I'd be the only one on my block with a cannibal pumpkin, and that was reason enough to make one.

It was pretty easy. I wish it looked more like he was actually crunching the little guy, but I didn't have a real-life model to help. So I just made the eyes look all slanted and evil, and measured the little pumpkin's height for the mouth. I do take credit for the little guy's look of surprise, however. Secret sadistic streak.

Close to home.

I was reading in the Chronicle today that Mill Valley (north Bay Area) is going to just about implode if anyone so much as sneezes while lighting a cigarette. There hasn't been a large burning up there in nearly a century, and all the narrow, winding roads would make it nearly impossible for fire trucks to reach homes at the top of the hills. That, and if someone breaks down on one of those roads, it's every man on foot for himself.

This got me thinking about my environment in Walnut Creek. My apartment is set back from the road up a long-ish driveway, and surrounded by brush and huge trees. It wouldn't be impossible to get out, but it would create some logistical issues. I only have one door, and all the windows are high off the ground and sort of surrounded by metal spikes. (It's goth, or something. Sounds weird, looks cool.) That kind of freaks me out.

I'm not good in disaster situations. There was a 6.5 earthquake in San Simeon when I was living in San Luis Obispo in 2003. My apartment was pretty much rotting away (I found piles of wood on my carpet every morning from some disgusting bugs chewing away at my walls and then pooping it out or something) and was built on stilts above a garage. It would sway in high winds, so this temblor nearly shook it loose.

I had just taken a shower when the shaking started, and at first just thought one of my neighbors was being an asshole and moving furniture or something. Then suddenly it got worse, and all my cabinet doors started swinging open. So I was in my towel and just ran outside. (Forgetting about my poor fish! I didn't remember him until later. But he was fine, just motion sick.) I didn't get in a doorway, or duck and cover, or anything else that's been drilled into us California kids since we were 5. So I see one of my neighbors running down the rickety staircase and scream "Wait for me!" Then the shaking stops, and I get dressed and go downstairs, and there's no one outside except for the two of us. And that seemed weird, because you expect people to walk outside and look around, bewildered, and then ask "Did you feel that?" That's the classic post-quake question. So we finally found one guy at the end of the alley and he was like, "Yeah, I felt it." Then we were satisfied. I called in to work and discovered it was the biggest shaker in about a million years in our area, so everyone was being asked to come in. We needed to save the day by ... writing headlines.

Anyway, even after that, I still don't have my earthquake kit, or a good escape plan, or an emergency ladder. Maybe that's what I'll do this weekend ... make a rope ladder.

That plonk is older than I am!

Tonight I drank a chardonnay that was 30 years old, a 1978 from Spring Mountain in Napa. It surprisingly was kind of gross. Apparently aging only applies to certain types of wines, mainly reds. The teacher said whites age best in two to three years, and this one was decidedly over the hill. But it was pretty awesome to have the opportunity. I'm not sure how much it would cost, but a 1978 cabernet from the same vineyard is $75 (love me some google).

We also tried some chardonnay (see the theme?) from Rombauer. That one was delicious. (Side note: My favorite chardonnay ever is the 2005 from Edna Valley.) It wasn't super acidic, which is when it makes you pucker or the sides of your mouth tingle. It smelled and tasted like butter. (At first I thought toast, but when someone else said butter, that made more sense.) That bottle was $30, but another "guess which one this tastes like" wine from Watts was very similar. Watts winery, not the rioting venue. (Hmm ... urban vineyard. Interesting idea.) That one was $14, so probably more likely to end up on my dinner table.

Something else we learned was that it only costs about $5 to make a bottle of wine. It breaks down about like this:
Grapes: $1/lb.
French oak barrel: $1.13 per use ($1,000 each, with about 885 uses)
Bottle: $2.54
Label/cork/packaging: $1.53

Isn't that crazy? I understand marketing and overhead factor in big time, but it makes me feel more secure about my purchase of bargain-barrel specials. It's like designer clothes - the markup is mostly associated with the name, not the quality. My Target jeans have lasted just as long as my Sevens.

Julie/Robin.

Today I finished reading "Julie and Julia," which was written by Julie Powell, who decided to undertake the project of preparing every dish in "Mastering the Art of French Cooking," by Julia Child, over one year. Originally it was a blog, but then she got a book deal. (Anyone hear me!?) And now I'm totally inspired.

I don't think I'd have the balls to do anything as committed or in-depth as she did (or as heavy on the butter -- good lord), but just the thought of cooking random recipes for fun makes me giddy. I used to get discouraged by my perceived limitations: being with someone who would rather go out to eat, or now, being single and thinking cooking for one is a waste, or suggesting something to my parents and having them respond with a serious lack of enthusiasm. But now I see it can be just for me.

My favorite excerpt is when Julie explains what the project taught her:

"Julia taught me what it takes to find your way in the world. It's not what I thought it was. I thought it was all about - I don't know, confidence or will or luck. Those are all some good things to have, no question. But there's something else, something that these things grow out of.

"It's joy."

One thing I've noticed about myself recently is that I'm reluctant to do something if there's not a point. But this blog is a step toward the realization that some things are fulfilling just because. And maybe doing something I want to, though it may be pointless, could be worthwhile just because it would make me happy.

Not Pointless Radio.

At work a while back I overheard someone talking about how he listens to NPR like every day, and he's a really cool guy, so I figured maybe it wasn't as bad as I thought. (My only exposure was that "SNL" skit with the two really boring women talking about Schweaty Balls.) I looked it up online and found the station, and I've been hooked since. I listen to it on my way to work so I don't just sit at the morning budget meetings with a vacant look on my face, and I also like the "Fresh Air" program, on which the host interviews random people from society. "All Things Considered" is good too, along with anything with David Sedaris. Highly recommended.

The other day I was listening, and the host announced she would be speaking with Kevin Sites, reporter and author of "Hot Zone." It's not often you hear on the radio someone with whom you've had dinner, so I kept driving just to listen. (Granted, the dinner thing was kind of a fluke. He and I lived in Avila at the same time - he was a journalism professor at Cal Poly - and I was friends with a supertalented guy named Ryan who actually was friends with Kevin, so it was just a lucky coincidence.) Kevin is the guy who was at the center of the controversy of photos of the marine shooting an insurgent in Iraq a while ago. And since then, he's been reporting from the war zone for Yahoo, and pretty much risking his life every day. Amazing stuff. But it turns out he's still alive and rockin' the long hair (I googled him ... I didn't just sense that through the speakers). So anyway, you never know what you'll hear when you turn off screamo rock.

Drive south, then go sideways.

This weekend I went to visit my friend James in Santa Barbara, and it was the first time I'd been back to the Central Coast since I left San Luis Obispo two and a half years ago. I'd forgotten how beautiful it is down there. It seemed stifling after a while, but with a fresh eye I have a new appreciation for why the tourists love it.

So I checked in to Chateau Foster around noon on Saturday. One great thing about going to school at a nerd farm like Cal Poly is that you make friends with people who are going to be very successful after they graduate. James is no exception. The house has four bedrooms, and he was generous enough to give me the master suite for my stay (with a walk-in closet!). So after I settled in, we took off.



Our first stop was the Los Olivos Festival. This was a big community event, and the town closed off its main street to traffic so vendors could set up shop. Apparently, crap is a big seller down there. And crap you make yourself or crap you buy somewhere else and resell is equally popular. It was nice, but the real highlight was the tea booth. I'm not sure if this car is actually driveable, but it made me laugh.

After that, we went to Sunstone Vineyards. James sprung for the reserve tasting, so we took our commemorative wineglasses (I now have four that match! These two, and the two we accidentally stole.) down into the cave. They had pretty good wines. The reserve room is all dank and dusty, which started the discussion about whether the dust was authentic, or they just used a big blower full of it. We stayed there for a while, but realized our time was running out if we wanted to make it to another one before 5, so we scooted.


Next up was Kalyra. This place rocks. It's very surfer-vibey, with bamboo and straw everywhere, and fun music playing. The servers there don't use the automatic pourers, either, so being friendly pays off. After tasting a few, we went out to the patio, then down to the vineyards. I have no idea why we thought it would be fun to pose with plants. The details are fuzzy. Which could also explain why we didn't remember to return the glasses.

Finally we got tired and decided to get some snacks and, of course, more wine for after dinner. And there was wine tasting in the freakin' store. A little counter and everything, with a whole room for wine. (P.S. - don't ever go to a place like that with a buzz and a credit card.) So we sampled and I bought some nostalgic wines (from local wineries) and stuff for s'mores. Then we went home, dropped off the stuff, got some dinner at a yummy flatbread place, and came back for roasting. I really, really wish I had a picture of that, but it's probably for the best that I didn't have my camera anywhere near the flames. But it was good times. I probably have some kind of disease now from all the carcinogens I ate.

(Side note: I had the weirdest dream that night. I was at a recording session for Peter, Paul and Mary, except it was two girls and one guy. I know it was PPM because they were playing "Puff the Magic Dragon." So they were talking about something, and one of the girls was getting really upset because she wasn't even part of the group's name. And she was like, "I want equal pay like everyone else, and I want you to stop making fun of me for drinking orange juice." What?)


Sunday morning we trekked out to BFE for breakfast at Ye Olde Cabine diner. So cute. Freezing, but cute. There was a real fireplace, and tractor wheels on the boards/walls. And we had to stop on the way back down the hill to see the bridge. When we first got to the restaurant, he was like, "Oh my god! Did you see that bridge? It was amazing!" So I was expecting some rickety old board-and-rope bridge hanging precariously across a canyon. No, just a normal bridge. That stuff is like soft-core porn for engineers.

James has a house, but he also has grand dreams about what he's going to do when he sells the house. Which is why we ended up at the BMW dealership. He sleeps with the brochure for the 335, and wanted to spread the gospel. Those cars are amazing. We went into the showroom and sat in a few of the super-special models, like the M5, which has seats that adjust in every possible permutation to make you feel snug as a bug in a really expensive rug. So we took the 335 out for a minute, and holy crap. I'm still waiting for my skin to snap back. Zero to 60 in something ridiculous like 4 seconds. I think those cars are like drugs. Until you try it, you're perfectly happy without it. But after that you're screwed. So then we did a little shopping, but I had the slows from the previous day, so I hit the road soon after that.

I was going by Avila Beach, where I used to live, so I went to see how it had changed. Everything that used to be a big pit under construction (there was an oil spill there a while ago, so everything had to be dug up) is now boutiquey and charming. Or boring, depending on your view. Anyway, I stopped by my old apartment and snapped a shot of what my view used to be. Well, view after you walked out the door and turned right. Or leaned really far out the bedroom window.

And that was about it. Long drive, short trip, and my butt's really sore, but it was worth it. It's nice to rediscover friendships, because it widens your horizons, and gives you one more option when you're going somewhere and don't want to pay for a hotel.

Reading Chow.com isn't slacking off, it's research!

Hooray for me! I finally worked up the courage (sans alcohol! It can be done!) to talk my editors about playing a larger role in the food section. Actually, I was hedging my bets ... I wanted to stage a coup and take it over. But I thought I'd ease in slowly. So I approached my immediate supervisor and after finally working out of me that I wanted to write and oversee the section, he was all for it. So we went together to talk with our managing editor, and he said it was "A great idea!" (I put that in quotes only because this guy is one of the hardest to impress I've ever met.) And I even get money to do this!! Not money for me, but money to do stuff. I really didn't think that part would work out. These are lean times for any business, but newspapers are especially under the gun to cut expenses. I have no idea how much I'll get, but if I want to bake something, they'll probably pay me for the ingredients. And that's the part that's most exciting for me. I'll get to experiment, be creative and explore something that's a personal passion. Well, maybe not a passion, but at least a strong interest.

Our food writer left a few months ago, and it only dawned on me about a week ago that I might have fun filling in. I always read the food wires, watch Food Network (see previous posts) and love to bake. I'd probably love to cook regular stuff too, if it weren't for me being lazy, single and lacking any real skills. I hope to learn by doing this, and maybe make friends throughout the newsroom in the process. So stay tuned.

Nothing is as expensive as a woman who's free for the evening.

I went to Target yesterday, and it was a stock-up visit: hair products, makeup, underwear, medicine cabinet stuff. When I checked out, it was more than $100. That's crazy! And after thinking about it, it kind of pissed me off, because a lot of the stuff is only necessary because I'm a girl!

• Eyeshadow: $5
• Tampons: $5
• Bra: $15
• Leave-in conditioner: $3
• Foot file: $3
• Nail polish: $6
• Two kinds of face wash, morning and night: $9
• Concealer: $8
• Eye cream: $10

Granted, a lot of this stuff I buy because I'm vain, not a girl, but isn't it kind of the same thing sometimes? I really think guys get off easy in the grooming department. And this was just at Target. It doesn't include waxing, dye jobs, pedicures, 20 pairs of shoes ... So is it really so much to ask that the guy pay for dinner? How about this ... I'll pay if I can stop waxing. Think about it.

The blind leading the blind.

It's strangely comforting to hear the guy fixing our fax talking to someone in tech support and getting frustrated that they're not helping.
"No, the wizard isn't working! I think you're giving me the wrong number. No, I'm waiting for it to come back online. Ahh! Is Al there? He helped me with this before."

It's also a not-very-encouraging sign that the fax will ever be fixed. Why didn't they just send the tech support person out here?!

Ice wine baby.

I had wine class again tonight, and the topic was rieslings. German, not Californian, because apparently California wines have too much sugar. ("Blasphemy!" I say.) So there were lots with names even I, second-grade spelling bee champion, couldn't spell, so I won't try. But they were good, smelling mostly fruity (some had a touch of chlorine, and the teacher said he smelled diesel fuel) with tastes of pineapple. And the ice wine (made from apples!) was especially delicious, and tasted like apricots. Unfortunately, it was also the most expensive, at about $30 for 375 mL. But that's why tastings are fun ... you get to try all the stuff you wouldn't want to blindly shell out all the cash for.

The class was small tonight, nine instead of 15 people, so the teacher started calling on people because no one was volunteering. He had a sign-in sheet because he hadn't learned everyone's names.
"Cynthia?" he called out.
No answer.
We all looked at each other, because none of us knew anyone's names either.
"She's signed in," he said.
Still no answer.
Whatever, someone signed in for their friend who never showed. Fine.
So we move on through three more wines. Finally we get to the ice wine, and the teacher asks for a volunteer. An older girl near the front raises her hand, and talks about her impressions.
"Good," teacher says. "And what's your name?"
"Cynthia," she says. "I didn't want to say before."
Um, what? The entire class is sitting there for a whole minute waiting for you to raise your hand and speak, and instead of saying "I'd rather not," you don't say anything? And then, why not just be silent the whole class? She got away with it, and then blew it! It just doesn't make sense.
People confound me.

What a Pucker.

Wolfgang Puck is an amazing chef and a successful businessman, with the innovative Spago among his ventures. He also is apparently living in the 1950s and kind of self-important.

This is an excerpt from a Washington Post Q&A with him:
So what do you think of food TV?
It's going in a way now where it's more like housewife cooking than professional cooking. When I did it four or five years ago, they said, "We don't want celebrities; we just want to teach people to be in the kitchen and show them how to cook. (These days, the hosts) get a push-up bra and show a little cleavage and wear a tight sweater, and they think it's sexy housewife cooking.

Hmm. First of all, do we even use the word "housewife" anymore? Isn't it "domestic goddess" or "homemaker"? I'm not a fan of bending over backward for the PC pushers, but that seems demeaning. And the part about the bra ... he's implying that the chefs' skills aren't up to par just because they're hot! Please. Giada de Laurentiis studied at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris, and I've made a few of her recipes, and this girl is no joke. Nigella Lawson proves that you can have fun in the kitchen - that making delicious food doesn't require being uptight about it. And while the Semi-Homemade Cooking woman may be a little questionable in the originality department, she's still creative and talented. I think perhaps Puck's a bit jealous of their popularity (and beauty) and trying to bring them down to his level. But I applaud these women for showing that looks and intelligence are not mutually exclusive!

Run toward Giada's pasta!

I love having a treadmill at home. I was worried it would end up being a "throw your shit here" piece of furniture, but I'm actually using it pretty often. And it's so great not to have to go anywhere or worry about other people seeing me. I can work out no matter how raggedy I look or how bad my gas is. I get to watch the shows I want (is it weird that like 90 percent of the time I watch Food Network?) and the fan is directly over my head. It even has a remote! (Called dad.) I'm just worried about having to find a first-floor apartment wherever I move ...

It's like she slapped my boyfriend!

My beloved Cheerios are under attack. In this story on Salon.com, the writer expounds on the evils of packaged breakfast cereals. At one point, she advocates giving up cereal, and says a viable alternative is to “Pop a One-A-Day, mix yourself a glass of Metamucil and have a Krispy Kreme.” Yikes. But it wouldn't be nearly as delicious, right? And the daily donut would necessitate all sorts of cardio surgery later in life. Plus, Krispy Kreme keeps closing its stores, so we'd be back to square one.

One thing that surprised me was this: "A serving of Cheerios has 10 milligrams more sodium than a serving of Doritos." Eek! All this time I've been thinking that my little bags of cereal are a great way to get some vitamins and fiber, but really I could've just been eating oyster crackers. But at least Cheerios don't include the new American dietary evil: partially hydrogenated vegetable oil. So while my blood pressure may suffer, at least my arteries will stay clog-free.

And when it comes down to it, a couple of cups of Cheerios may not be as good a dietary choice as some broccoli, but life's too short to neglect your sweet tooth.

Overheard

At Safeway bank kiosk, woman to her toddler:
"Hey! Don't bite me! You know what happens when you bite me ... I bite back."

Even with dogs the only thing that works is positive reinforcement. So good luck with that "eye for an eye," lady.