So my first day as a Silicon Valley housewife is off to a good start. Put the offspring on his first ever solo flight (back to Austin). Cried. Dropped my Beloved off at the office. Didn't cry, but welled up a little. Now I'm back at the casa getting ready to clean up from the weekend and prepare for our first house guest in the new quarters. (Yay, Gardog!).
Looks like all I'm missing is a box of cheap chablis and a variety of prescription pills. Although i think I'm far more like Edina Monsoon than Neely O'Hara.
I'm chanting as we speak.
But I do like to sparkle now and again.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Tagging the Turd
Yesterday, I met the Mighty Mandrax and the Godson for breakfast. They had generously offered to keep the Offspring for New Year's Eve, giving both him and us a welcome respite. Not knowing what would be open early on the 1st of January, we opted for the Bob's Big Boy in Burbank. Huge menu with something for everyone. Sort of like an authentic prototype of the Cheesecake Factory.
After the meal, I dashed into the men's room. With all other receptacles taken, I was forced to use the handicap stall, which I normally avoid. Creeps me out for some reason. But today, it was obviously meant to be. For there, on the handicap railing, was a graffiti tag. You know, the scribblings that are completely indecipherable unless you're a retarded middle school dropout with a gun and a bandana and an anger management problem.
Tagging was originally the province of street gangs, who used the marks to claim their turf. Sort of like Columbus and the West Indies. But I digress. the marks were intended to tell a rival to steer clear of the area or risk great peril
But now, in a perfect emasculation of the entire phenomenon, someone had claimed the handicap stall as their own. Ohhhh, SNAP! "Watch out bitch! This is MINE!! Get the fuck out of the handicrapper at the Burbank Bob's Big Boy. I own this shit."
You're kidding right? I laughed so hard. What a nice start to the New Year. It was so misplaced and so juvenile. I just kept thinking it was probably some young LA Stephen Hawking type, trying to be street.
After the meal, I dashed into the men's room. With all other receptacles taken, I was forced to use the handicap stall, which I normally avoid. Creeps me out for some reason. But today, it was obviously meant to be. For there, on the handicap railing, was a graffiti tag. You know, the scribblings that are completely indecipherable unless you're a retarded middle school dropout with a gun and a bandana and an anger management problem.
Tagging was originally the province of street gangs, who used the marks to claim their turf. Sort of like Columbus and the West Indies. But I digress. the marks were intended to tell a rival to steer clear of the area or risk great peril
But now, in a perfect emasculation of the entire phenomenon, someone had claimed the handicap stall as their own. Ohhhh, SNAP! "Watch out bitch! This is MINE!! Get the fuck out of the handicrapper at the Burbank Bob's Big Boy. I own this shit."
You're kidding right? I laughed so hard. What a nice start to the New Year. It was so misplaced and so juvenile. I just kept thinking it was probably some young LA Stephen Hawking type, trying to be street.
Surrounded by Newness
So, I'm sitting at the dining table in my BRAND NEW APARTMENT in California. I've followed my Beloved to his new place of employment at the epicenter of the high-tech universe. We drove 1700 miles in 4 days, including a New Year's Eve pit stop with some of the LA peeps. Gracias para todos, y'all!
Based on what I've seen in my first 24 hours, I'm sure the blog posts will be coming fast and furious. Let's kick 2010 off to a big, fat stupid start, shall we?
Based on what I've seen in my first 24 hours, I'm sure the blog posts will be coming fast and furious. Let's kick 2010 off to a big, fat stupid start, shall we?
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Christmas Goose
Today, I took the dogs for the daily stroll through the giant park across from Chez O'Pine. One of the features of this park is an 18 hole disc golf course. There are always interesting Austin types throwing their discs around, occasionally quaffing a cold beer and even smoking the odd spliff now and again. Hey, it's Austin! Nothing really throws me off my game anymore.
But today I saw a gaggle of "golfers" being accompanied by a full-grown goose. It was just waddling along like part of the gang. It would stop when they stopped. Walk when they walked. I was completely blown away by this seemingly domesticated goose.
I assumed it must be their pet, since it was so obviously part of the group. But when I happened across a golfer in a different group, I asked if it was a pet.
"No," he said. "They picked it up at the 6th hole."
Just a park goose hangin' with some homies. And that's exactly the sort of thing that I will most miss about Austin.
But today I saw a gaggle of "golfers" being accompanied by a full-grown goose. It was just waddling along like part of the gang. It would stop when they stopped. Walk when they walked. I was completely blown away by this seemingly domesticated goose.
I assumed it must be their pet, since it was so obviously part of the group. But when I happened across a golfer in a different group, I asked if it was a pet.
"No," he said. "They picked it up at the 6th hole."
Just a park goose hangin' with some homies. And that's exactly the sort of thing that I will most miss about Austin.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Maybe We'll Skip Marfa
So my beloved and I are embarking on a great new adventure. His part of the adventure involves going to work for one of the best companies in the world in a great job in a great locale. My part of the adventure involves the logistics of getting us there. You know, selling a house, buying a house, coordinating the move, getting the dogs and the offspring from point A to point B, a distance of a couple thousand miles.
Having plenty of experience producing things, I decided to treat the whole thing like a production. And until yesterday, I thought everything was going swimmingly.
Now, one thing that most people don’t know about me, and have never seen, is that I have a temper. It doesn’t crop up often, but when it does, it’s not pretty. And you might imagine that dealing with stupid people is like the expressway to the trigger. So yesterday I’m trying to book our hotels for our trip. I figured if we’re going to drive 10+ hours a day, we ought to try and make our overnights fun and in cool locales.
First stop? The Mystery Lights of Marfa. Now Marfa has developed a reputation as the epicenter of laid back coolness, and somewhat deservedly. It’s a pretty groovy little place. But really what makes Marfa Marfa is the people and stuff you do together. And that usually happens on the weekends when everyone comes in from out of town. During the week, it’s a bit of “hello! Is there anybody here?” kinda place.
So I call the groovy motel that I like to stay at and get what has to be the STUPIDEST receptionist in history. I really wondered how many times she heard the phone ringing and said to herself, “What’s that noise?”
At first it went well. It was the usual--date of arrival, date of departure, which room did I want, cost . . . everything looking good. Then I attempted to confirm that dogs were, in fact, allowed on the property.
“Um, yeah. Dogs are cool. There’s, like . . . a 50% deposit.”
“Oooookay. 50% of what? You website says it’s $50 per night for the dogs. So 50% of that?”
“And you’ll need to check in on the 28th. We’re all booked up on the 31st.”
WTF? That caught me completely off guard. I had said I wanted to spend one night there. The night of the 29th.
“Umm, no . . . I only need the one night. The 29th.”
“Well, there’s a three night minimum.”
And then I started to lose my temper. Because really, I all wanted was one fucking night at the cute motel in the cute town.
“BUT I’M NOT STAYING FOR THREE NIGHTS. I’M JUST PASSING THROUGH FOR ONE NIGHT. AND YOU TOLD ME YOU HAD AVAILABILITY.”
“Yeah, you’ll have to check in on the 28th, though.”
“I WON’T BE IN MARFA ON THE 28TH!!”
“But it’s a three night minimum.”
Cue the cartoon steam coming out of my ears. “Is your manager there?”
“No. Why?”
“BECAUSE YOU’RE AN IDIOT!!!!!! And I want to talk to someone who actually makes sense.”
Shockingly enough, this didn’t phase her in the least. She began again to try to explain to me that all I had to do was check in on the 28th and everything would be cool.”
I screamed into the phone, “YOU’RE CRAZY!!!!” and hung up.
My mama would be sooooo proud.
Having plenty of experience producing things, I decided to treat the whole thing like a production. And until yesterday, I thought everything was going swimmingly.
Now, one thing that most people don’t know about me, and have never seen, is that I have a temper. It doesn’t crop up often, but when it does, it’s not pretty. And you might imagine that dealing with stupid people is like the expressway to the trigger. So yesterday I’m trying to book our hotels for our trip. I figured if we’re going to drive 10+ hours a day, we ought to try and make our overnights fun and in cool locales.
First stop? The Mystery Lights of Marfa. Now Marfa has developed a reputation as the epicenter of laid back coolness, and somewhat deservedly. It’s a pretty groovy little place. But really what makes Marfa Marfa is the people and stuff you do together. And that usually happens on the weekends when everyone comes in from out of town. During the week, it’s a bit of “hello! Is there anybody here?” kinda place.
So I call the groovy motel that I like to stay at and get what has to be the STUPIDEST receptionist in history. I really wondered how many times she heard the phone ringing and said to herself, “What’s that noise?”
At first it went well. It was the usual--date of arrival, date of departure, which room did I want, cost . . . everything looking good. Then I attempted to confirm that dogs were, in fact, allowed on the property.
“Um, yeah. Dogs are cool. There’s, like . . . a 50% deposit.”
“Oooookay. 50% of what? You website says it’s $50 per night for the dogs. So 50% of that?”
“And you’ll need to check in on the 28th. We’re all booked up on the 31st.”
WTF? That caught me completely off guard. I had said I wanted to spend one night there. The night of the 29th.
“Umm, no . . . I only need the one night. The 29th.”
“Well, there’s a three night minimum.”
And then I started to lose my temper. Because really, I all wanted was one fucking night at the cute motel in the cute town.
“BUT I’M NOT STAYING FOR THREE NIGHTS. I’M JUST PASSING THROUGH FOR ONE NIGHT. AND YOU TOLD ME YOU HAD AVAILABILITY.”
“Yeah, you’ll have to check in on the 28th, though.”
“I WON’T BE IN MARFA ON THE 28TH!!”
“But it’s a three night minimum.”
Cue the cartoon steam coming out of my ears. “Is your manager there?”
“No. Why?”
“BECAUSE YOU’RE AN IDIOT!!!!!! And I want to talk to someone who actually makes sense.”
Shockingly enough, this didn’t phase her in the least. She began again to try to explain to me that all I had to do was check in on the 28th and everything would be cool.”
I screamed into the phone, “YOU’RE CRAZY!!!!” and hung up.
My mama would be sooooo proud.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Eye of the Tiger Storm
So the Tiger Woods tramp train rolls on. We’re now up to, what, 11 women who have come out publicly? First of all, let me say this. I don’t really give a shit about Tiger’s private life. And I don’t really think it’s any of my business. These are not people who are making their livings based on their character. (Although I’m sure there are a bunch of 80-year-old Buick owners who are losing their teeth over this).
This to me is such hogshit. Our “moral outrage.” Whatthefuckever. (Of course, I find the entire concept of “moral outrage” a ridiculous notion. It’s such a holier-than-thou kinda thing, and we all know how much I dig that.) Professional athletes have been poking their, um, nose where it doesn’t belong FOREVER! Anyone who is surprised that the world’s most famous athlete is too, is a sand breather.
But can someone please explain to me why the “other” woman/women are always such skanks? If I’m Tiger Woods, and I’m stepping out on the blonde goddess I have at home, wouldn’t you do it with actresses and models? Instead of Vegas cocktail waitresses, kino girls and truck stop parking lot attendants?
The other thing that cracks me up is how they’re all coming forward. All trying to cash that check. They’re talking about Tiger’s endowment. His prowess. They’re showing off their text messages and voicemails. And best of all THEY’RE JEALOUS OF EACH OTHER!!! They each thought their skanky ass was what Tiger truly wanted. And each feels she was “cheated on” too. BWAH HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!
Oh well, at least some good can come out of this. Saturday Night Live got some hilarious punches in. And Elin Nordgren is now a very rich woman.
This to me is such hogshit. Our “moral outrage.” Whatthefuckever. (Of course, I find the entire concept of “moral outrage” a ridiculous notion. It’s such a holier-than-thou kinda thing, and we all know how much I dig that.) Professional athletes have been poking their, um, nose where it doesn’t belong FOREVER! Anyone who is surprised that the world’s most famous athlete is too, is a sand breather.
But can someone please explain to me why the “other” woman/women are always such skanks? If I’m Tiger Woods, and I’m stepping out on the blonde goddess I have at home, wouldn’t you do it with actresses and models? Instead of Vegas cocktail waitresses, kino girls and truck stop parking lot attendants?
The other thing that cracks me up is how they’re all coming forward. All trying to cash that check. They’re talking about Tiger’s endowment. His prowess. They’re showing off their text messages and voicemails. And best of all THEY’RE JEALOUS OF EACH OTHER!!! They each thought their skanky ass was what Tiger truly wanted. And each feels she was “cheated on” too. BWAH HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!
Oh well, at least some good can come out of this. Saturday Night Live got some hilarious punches in. And Elin Nordgren is now a very rich woman.
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