What's your favorite type of cupcake?
Homemade buttery yellow cupcakes with thick and gooey chocolate frosting.
More about the importance of cupcakes in my cupcake interview.
My cards for the Postcard Swap are stamped and ready to go! I collaged each postcard individually so they are all unique and, at the last minute, I stuck them all in envelopes, which totally defeats the purpose of postcard. But hear me out. They say it never rains in Southern California, but it does and it was last night as I was addressing the cards, so I freaked out and gave each one an envelope raincoat just in case. We aren't used to the rain in these parts.
This is my Month of Softies submission for April. The creature does not have a name because I have no idea how to "name" a stuffed animal. This is where my friends who have kids come in handy. Can one of my mom friends give this softie a name?
Today, I went to the Post Office to mail a package and buy some stamps. Everything went just swell with the mailing of the package, but when it came time for the buying of the stamps, we ran into a bit of a snag.
Postal Lady: Would you like to purchase some stamps today, ma’am?
Me: Yes, please. What do you have?
Postal Lady: Flags or flowers.
Me: Flags or flowers? That’s it? You don’t have any, say, The Art of Disney stamps or American Choreographers Commemorative stamps?
Postal Lady: Nope.
Me: You don’t have any Isamu Noguchi stamps or Henry Mancini stamps?
Postal Lady: (obviously annoyed) No. There is not always a variety of stamps available.
Me: If I go to the other Post Office will I have more choices?
Postal Lady: There is not currently a variety of stamps available.
But there IS a variety of stamps available. Don’t think I am not on the internet all day at my job and don’t think that I am not AWARE of the actually very wide variety of stamps available. And if you don't believe me, please go straight away to The United States Postal Service Website to see the SIX PAGES of stamping options, including the lovely American Choreographers which, for some reason, the postal lady has no idea even exists.
So I just said: Oh, nevermind. Can I just buy two stamps for this letter I have to send?
And that LIAR straight pulled out a full page of Ronald Reagan stamps and pulled two off for me, before I even had the chance to yell, GOOD GOD, NO RONALD REAGAN!
One: I thought there were only flags and flowers.
Two: Ronald Reagan? Really?
Are you seeing that adorable doggy, Ella? Isn't she the cutest thing that has ever happened to my website? She is a world traveler. Do you see me with her? Do you see how I am with the world traveling, adorable doggy who HAS HER OWN BOOK?
We met Ella at the Festival of Books at UCLA. Will was not so impressed as to buy me the book that was autographed with Ella's paw print, but he was nice enough to take my picture with her. So there I am with Ella, the dog who has been to considerably more European cities than I have. Lucky bitch.
We ate lunch at Whole Foods which is the ultimate in grocery shopping. I get giddy in Whole Foods. I want to buy everything. I want to move in. They have an olive bar, shiny fruit, weird vegetables, cheese samples, a gourmet salad bar, an amaaaazing prepared foods section, lots of wine, and gorgeous pastries. As you can see, I got two desserts--berries with cream sauce and tiramisu. Berries shouldn't really count as dessert, anyway. Fruit IS a main food group after all. And the cream? That's dairy.
My friends want me to do a (so-called) mini triathlon with them. This means that they want me to swim 700 meters in Lake Mead (which is pretty disgusting—have you seen the fish they have in there?), get out of the lake and ride 12 miles on a bicycle (a bicycle which I will have to purchase for only $500 or so), and then, as if that were not enough already, they want me to run 3.2 miles in 90 degree weather. Because that sounds like fun.
Are they joking? No, in fact, they are not. Last night they gave me a training schedule. An actual schedule by which I should train. All I have to do today is swim for 40 minutes straight and keep my aerobic heart rate at 220 minus my age divided by how many milkshakes I had this week plus pi squared. Or something like that.
You know, I really love my friends and I would love to participate with them in this celebration of our dedication to physical fitness, so today I put on a cute gym outfit, put my hair in a cute gym ponytail, and put on my cute gym shoes.
And then, when I was all ready to hit the treadmill, I went ahead and poured myself a glass of wine and watched an episode of Friends. Atleast I looked sporty while I sat on the couch.
Does anyone know if the gym would object to me bringing wine in my sports bottle? Now that could be fun.
I am, like, so excited because:
1. Will and I totally got invited to a Quinceanera and
2. The 6 years of Spanish I took totally came in handy when I suavely translated the invitation.
Okay, so maybe my translating wasn’t so debonair, but hey, I got the date, time, and place figured out which means that on May 21st I will be shakin’ my thang at a birthday party for a 15 year old, a birthday party that is being held at a nightclub until 1:30 in the morning. A NIGHTCLUB. Can 15 year olds even get into nightclubs? Should 15 year olds be out past 11pm?
Based solely on the engraved invitation (which I translated!), I am guessing that this shindig will cost more than my wedding. I am so for that. Anything with food and drinks and dancing that I don’t have to provide is my kind of party. And, apparently there is going to be a $1000 dress and a tiara involved. It just keeps getting better.
I am, like, so into this. I am going to get a new dress. And high heels. And, if my mom says yes, I am so getting acrylics.
I think that our state needs to implement a new test in order to obtain a driver's license. It will be called the Rudeness Test.
Please answer Yes or No to the following questions:
1. Will you be the type of driver to make eye contact with one of your co-workers and then, because your life is so important, proceed to cut them off on your way out of the parking lot?
2. Will you be so obsessed with your car that you will feel the need to take up two spots in the Getty parking lot, thereby making parking all the more difficult in an already difficult situation for the rest of us who are just trying to admire some fine art?
3. Will you honk your horn at the people in front of you, even though you are stopped at a red light and there is absolutely nowhere for the people in front of you to go?
4. Will you throw your Taco Bell bag out of the window, because, by god, you are not having no trashy ass car, yo?
If you answered yes to anyone of these questions, your application to drive will be invalidated and you will have to walk. And no one will feel sorry for you. And the world will be better for us polite drivers. And all you Rudeness Test flunkeys can KISS MY TAILPIPE. Ahem.
About ten days ago I just went ahead and quit doing chores. Let’s face it: I’ve never been really good about picking up after myself, anyway. I leave lots of messes all around the house. I set things down where they do not belong and then leave them there for days or weeks on end. I never put my clothes in the hamper. I forget to put the dishes away.
But now, it has gotten pretty bad.
Four days ago, Will laid a pair of my khakis over the banister to dry, and they are still hanging there. Right in the living room. The coffee press is currently out of commission because it is in a pile in the sink. I have to wear a dress tomorrow because I am all out of clean socks. There is a half-made recycled monster on the dining room table. The laundry has mysteriously moved out of the closet into the middle of the bedroom floor. The bathroom counter is covered in jars and bottles and odds and ends.
My poor husband, who himself could be the next Mr. Clean should they decide to replace the old bald guy, has to live in this squalor. And I feel sorry for him. I really do. In fact, I feel so bad, that I am going to go off of my ten day cleaning hiatus this week and pick up my shit. This will thrill my husband to no end. He will walk around the house and say things like “we should really try to keep it this way” and “see how nice it is to have a clean house.”
And, yes, it will be. For three days. Until I drop the first of many towels smack dab in the middle of the bathroom floor. And then, for another week, I will have to survive on my good looks and charm alone.
Will went out drinking with two of his friends. We’ll call the friends “Dave” and “Leevon.” (We’ll call them “Dave” and “Leevon” because those are their real names and I don’t think that they are the type of guys who are surfing the World Wide Web and they certainly are not the type of guys who are on a website with the word “Pink” in the title. Also, I can stop putting their names in stupid quotation marks.)
As it turns out, Dave and Leevon go out drinking every weekend, and they have a methodical, time-tested system by which they operate at this bar that they frequent.
Dave and Leevon get a table that is centrally located and fully accessible to the viewing of all the ladies in the bar. When the first waitress arrives, they order one round of beers. Only one round and they pay for it with cash. When another waitress arrives they order a second round of beers. Again, they pay for the beer in cash. This continues until the prettiest (i.e. the bustiest) waitress arrives. At that point, Dave and Leevon order another round of beers and open a tab, thus ensuring that the prettiest waitress will continue to serve them for the remainder of the evening.
You would think that no waitress in her right mind would want to serve these, uh, gentlemen. However, every waitress in the place is vying for the duty. And here is why:
Dave and Leevon frequent this same bar every weekend. Every weekend, the tab is billed to Leevon’s credit card. Every weekend, Leevon is too smashed to properly sign the credit card slip and hands it over to Dave. Every weekend, Dave signs the slip for Leevon and, every weekend, Dave leaves a 100% tip. As in a $100 tip on a $100 check. On his friends card.
Today at the face-painting booth at the California Poppy Festival, I tried to convince my friend Kathryn’s two-year-old son to get the balloon ($1) rather than the dinosaur ($4) on his face, in order to save my friend a measly $3.
And that is the difference between women and men.
This is my photo for Photo Friday. The theme was plastic, so I broke out my old Barbie dolls and took this shot of "Solo in the Spotlight" Barbie. This is her debut appearance after spending 5 years in a dusty plastic tub in my mom's garage with a dozen other Special Edition Barbies. I was certain that I would keep these dolls forever and ever and ever. Cross my heart.
Funny how things change. I think I'll sell 'em on eBay.
We had purple artichokes for dinner. I bought them last night at Trader Joe's because they were a lovely violet color, plus they had "less choke" to them. Whatever that means. The company put that on the packaging as a selling point, so I figured it must mean something really fantastic. As in: we got artichokes with less choke! Hurrah! Yay for the less choke!
As it turns out, the purple artichokes didn't taste much different from the green variety and they actually had much less edible flesh (perhaps having something to do with the less choke). Interestingly enough, the lovely purple color turned into pea green in the boiling water, making the whole purpleness factor practically pointless.
Will thought they were horrible and he will eat mostly anything. Such as clams from a tin can. If you can eat clams from a tin can, you shouldn't mind a little less choke. I mean, really.
Once upon a time, Spring Break was all about drinking. It was about keggers. It was about bar hopping and happy hours. It was about mixing up some sangria in a Sparkletts bottle and making wine come out of the Sparkletts cooler instead of water. Because that is tight, y’all.
This Spring Break I drank two beers and a margarita. And about 17 lattés. What in the living crap happened to me? When did I replace a good drink with a coffee? I don’t even like coffee. I don’t own a coffee pot. Whenever I have a party, I have to call my mother who will show up 30 minutes beforehand with a pot, filters, coffee grounds, and creamer in tow.
But now, suddenly, I am drinking coffee. And I am pretty sure that it is all Starbucks fault. They start you out with a delicious, creamy, cold milkshake-esque, whipped, frappe beverage, and before you know it—Bam! You are drinking an Americano.
I spent $10 on this snappy little travel press, so I can make my own coffee at home. I admired it in Barnes and Noble, broke out my credit card, had the press wrapped up, brought it home, and promptly forgot about it. It sat in the bag for four days. And I’d love to try it out today, but we don’t have any coffee. Or creamer. And there’s no way on earth I am drinking coffee without some vanilla-toffee-mocha-caramel flavoring added, because I have been spoiled by Starbucks and I believe that coffee should taste like a Werther’s Original Candy.
Damn you, Starbucks. Now, would somebody kindly buy me a drink?
Strawberry Margarita Pie
1 1/4 cups crushed pretzels
1/4 cup margarine, melted
1 can sweetened condensed milk, low fat
1 cup pureed strawberries
1/2 cup lime juice
1 tub (8oz.) Cool Whip
Combine the crushed pretzels and margarine in a 9-in pie plate, pressing crumb mixture firmly on bottom of pan. Refrigerate until ready to use.
In a large bowl, mix the condensed milk, pureed strawberries, and lime juice until well blended. Fold in Cool Whip.
Pour mixture into crust and freeze for 6 hours. Garnish with sliced strawberries.
We kicked off Spring Break with a volleyball game (Eagles v. Lobos), a trip to Barnes and Noble where I read all my favorite magazines, a movie (Because of Winn-Dixie) and the aforementioned pink pie.
Today: clean house, work on Slice of Pink's tricky bits, eat tortillas de papas (if Jose's mama will make us up some), and go to Costco.