I don’t care how people find my blog, I’m just glad that they do.

It’s a Blizzard Up In Here

Gracie is blowing her coat so badly that I can pick it off by the fistful. There’s so much that her hair balls look like a litter of puppies running around the house. She’s like a cat horking up her own fur balls.

On Sunday I took Gracie to one of those U-Wash Doggie places. I have a grooming table and professional drier at home, but this place is great because they have a giant tub raised to a level that saves your back from bending over a wiggling, wet dog. The other benefit obviously is that I don’t trash my own house when I’m splashing around with her in the tub, blow-drying her hair all over my yard and being smothered with wet towels.

I brushed and combed her out before rinsing her off to get off as much of the loose hair as I could. I thought I did a pretty good job until the drain got clogged up and I had to clean that out about a dozen times. But when I started to dry her off I realized she was still a hairy, shedding mess. It was so bad—white hair everywhere, circling through the store, covering my face and head and every available surface.

After about 10 minutes, the guy who works there told me I had to stop. I guess another customer didn’t really appreciate Gracie’s hair blowing all over her and her dog.

Now I can say I got thrown out of the dog wash.

Big Fat Nissan Fail

And speaking of wash…Saturday I decided to drive through the car wash. As I was just pulling into it and the water started to dump on my car, my driver’s side window rolled itself down. I scrambled to roll it back up, but it kept trying to roll down part way. I ended up having to hold the button the entire time to keep the window up. I just learned it’s a common problem with Nissan. Their window motors don’t work well, and although they’ll replace it (under warranty), they haven’t gone the extra mile to actually fix the problem with the motors. Kinda stupid if you ask me.

What I’m Reading

Because there are no episodes of The Real Housewives of New Jersey/Atlanta/Orange County, etc. this week, I’ve resorted to actually READING. I used to do that a lot, you know.

I just finished this book:

“Dogged Pursuit” is a memoir of a man who spent a year on the dog agility circuit and what he learned about himself from his dog. I read this book one night in one sitting because it reminded me so much of my experiences with Gracie on the dog show circuit. Dog people, scratch that, dog fanciers are a whole, um, breed unto themselves. I’ve been trying to write a post about dog shows, but I can’t quite get the right tone. This book is exactly that. Just swap agility for conformation.

And am now reading this:

I love Michael Connelly and I’m a sucker for a good crime novel. This is the blurb from Publisher’s Weekly:

“Bestseller Connelly comments on the plight of print journalism in a nail-biting thriller featuring reporter Jack McEvoy, last seen in 2004′s The Narrows. When Jack is laid off from the L.A. Times with 14 days’ notice to tie up loose ends, he decides to go out with a bang. What starts as a story about the wrongful arrest of a young gangbanger for the brutal rape and murder of an exotic dancer turns out to be just the tip of an iceberg that takes McEvoy from the Nevada desert to a futuristic data-hosting facility in Arizona. FBI agent Rachel Walling, with whom he worked on a serial killer case in 1996′s The Poet, soon joins the hunt, but as the pair uncover more about the killer and his unsettling predilections, they realize that they too are being hunted. With every switch between McEvoy’s voice and the villain’s, Connelly ratchets up the tension. This magnificent effort is a reminder of why Connelly is one of today’s top crime authors.”

For more randomness on running, video games and hemp, check out The Un Mom.

Not only have I not written here for about 10 days, I haven’t even looked at this blog. Is anyone still around? *crickets*

It’s been a brutal week. A week full of extreme ups and downs, family taking over my house, a business trip and insanely long hours at work. For the first time in a week, I’m starting to feel a little human. But just a little.

My parents spent Father’s Day weekend at my house. They’re older (my dad is 80, my mom is 76) so although they still travel quite a bit, there are no quick up-and-backs for them. They live two hours away, but it’s too much for them to drive up, hang for the afternoon and then leave at night. So for a Sunday afternoon barbecue, they arrived at about 4:00 Saturday afternoon. And as much as I love them, they’re not easy house guests by any stretch of the imagination. My mom just can’t sit still and relax. She’s not happy unless she’s into everything. Like a toddler.

I’d been under a lot of pressure the week before because I was getting ready for a business trip to Atlanta the day after Father’s Day. It was brutal. The stress was overwhelming. I was at the vortex of a shit storm day after day. It didn’t matter what I did, what I didn’t do, what I said or didn’t say, I just got hammered left and right. It was the kind of week that had me fantasizing about running away to a Caribbean island and becoming a bartender. So Saturday night when I started to come down from all the stress I just felt broken, old and beat up. I went to bed early, and Sunday morning after we went out to breakfast, I just wanted to nap for an hour before I had to start getting everything ready for our Father’s Day BBQ.

I went into my bedroom and closed the door and the second I started to doze off, there was a tap, tap, tap on the door. Without waiting for a reply (Hello! Welcome to my childhood!), my mom opened the door, saw me laying on the bed, immediately got all panic-y—What’s wrong? You aren’t feeling well? Do you need a Tums? Do you have a thermometer? She even felt my forehead to see if I had a fever. I told her I was tired and feeling achy and just wanted to nap for a bit. She agreed that was a good idea, but instead of letting me do that, she started looking around my room at all the clean laundry that was folded but not yet put away and started to make herself busy.

When I told her to Stop. Touching. My. Laundry. (nicely), that I just needed to be left alone for a while, she got all hurt and cranky. She left the room only to return 10 minutes later to ask if I had packed for my trip yet. When I told her No, as a matter of fact, I hadn’t started because she was running me ragged, she, of course, offered to pack me.

“Nah, I’ll do it later.” (nicely)

“But you have to cook for everyone later. Do it now.” (Um, hello? Who’s house is this?)

“I don’t want to do it now. I want to nap because I DON’T FEEL WELL.” (Teeth clenched. Trying not to get angry here, but ohmyholygod.)

“Well, I can’t believe you haven’t packed yet.” (Translation: What the hell have you done all weekend? Lazy!)

Sigh. It was an overnight trip, I already had my suit dry cleaned (ever time I put on a suit I am so grateful I can wear jeans to work most days) and I just needed to throw together a few things. Apparently, I’m still 4 and not almost 40 and able to manage my time.

I never did get my nap. She kept coming in and bugging me, totally thinking she was helping when the only thing she accomplished was pissing me off. If I called her on it, she just pouted. (My mother is the queen of guilt.)

I got up and just started cleaning up and cooking.

By 9:00 that night our guests showed no sign of leaving so, wonderful hostess that I am, I got up, excused myself and went to pack before my mom (or I) had an aneurism and went to bed.

Monday morning I went in to work for about an hour, and then drove myself, my boss and another co-worker to the airport for our Atlanta trip. I knew this was going to be a fast turnaround, but I had no idea how much it was going to kick my ass.

First of all, traveling with people for the first time? Sucks balls. Everyone has their own style of traveling. Mine is the Be The First On the Plane style. My boss’? It’s more along the lines of Let’s Mosey And See How Late We Can Be. We finally pile into the car, and 15 minutes into the drive he announces that he left his suit jacket in his car. Back at the office. So I had to turn around and drive back to work. We were flying out of LAX so we had to navigate the 405 freeway, the busiest freeway in the country. Piece of cake, right? Not. By the time we got back on the road, parked, shuttled to the airport, checked our bags in, and walked 60 miles to the gate, we were so late that the flight attendant sniped that she was about to give away our seats.

By the time we got on the plane, the three of us were snarking at each other. It was so bad, we had to call a truce.

We finally settled in, and realized we were surrounded by about a dozen horrible little brats. One kid was so heinous that he’d smack his mom when he didn’t get his way and she didn’t say a word. At one point the little darling grabbed my smoking hot coffee off my tray and swatted it on the floor, splashing the guy across the aisle. His mother did nothing. I almost grabbed him and flushed him down the toilet and out into the blue sky. And I don’t think his mother would have cared. She probably would have thrown a parade in my honor.

We finally landed in Atlanta at about 8:00 p.m. or so, checked in to the hotel, and met for dinner at 9:30. We finally got back to our rooms a couple of hours later and even though I was exhausted, it was only 8:30 at home. And I was so paranoid about waking up the next morning that I probably only got 2 hours of sleep. When my alarm went off at 7:30 it definitely felt like 4:30 a.m. I was broken. I drank gallons of coffee (sadly, it wasn’t Starbucks. I didn’t find one until I was thoroughly saturated with caffeine) to try to get enough energy to go down for breakfast.

Our first meeting was at CNN.

And it was as intimidating as it was impressive. When we were waiting for our meeting to begin, the Reverend Al Sharpton walked by, and we could see into the various news studios as they pumped out hour after hour of news. I was hoping to run into Anderson Cooper, but no such luck. Maybe another time.

This was a news Hummer that CNN used for embedded reporters at the start of the second Gulf War. It's pretty bad ass.

Our next two meetings were across town, and by the time we were done at 4:00, we were all just dead.

By the time we arrived back in Los Angeles at 9:00 that night, we had been up, meeting and traveling for about 20 hours.

I was never so grateful to be sleeping in my own bed as I was that night. I was hoping to sleep in a little and take my time getting in the next morning, but because we had been out for two day, we were slammed. Three days in a row I was so busy I barely had time to run up the hall to the restroom.

Now? I’m (mostly) rested. And I have a short week ahead of me.

So back to our regularly scheduled programming.

Chill those glasses, stuff those olives and shake (or stir) that vodka because today is National Martini Day, boys and girls! And you know—there are few things we like better around here in the Land of Snark than a perfectly chilled martini.

The classic martini consists of gin and dry vermouth, but James Bond substituted vodka in his—“Vodka martini, shaken, not stirred.” Personally, I’m a vodka girl. Specifically Belvedere. As far as shaking vs. stirring? “Shaking cools a drink more quickly producing a chilly fog (by creating tiny bubbles) and creating a slightly different taste, but dilutes the drink more than stirring does” (so says Google). I shake.

I used to be an apple martini girl…

The Apple Martini

…and once in a while I’ll have a chocolate martini…

Vodka and Chocolate. Two great tastes that taste great together.

…but then I was introduced to dirty martinis and never looked back.

Olives, a twist or cocktail onions are all acceptable garnishes. My personal favorite is a dirty martini with three olives.

Dirty Girl Martini

6 parts vodka

2 parts dry vermouth (I prefer actually rinsing vermouth in glass and dumping it out)

1 part olive brine (or my personal favorite Dirty Sue)

Cocktail olives

Combine liquid ingredients in a cocktail shaker with ice and shake well. Strain into a chilled cocktail glass and garnish with olives.

Dirty martinis are fun to share with friends, too…

Lesley and I have a long history of drinking martinis together...

So mix up a batch, grab your friends and loved ones, make a toast and drink up!

Cheers!

PS: Some sources claim National Martini Day is today; others say tomorrow. I think it should be both. In fact, it should be a four-day weekend.

PSS: No alcoholics or martini glasses were harmed in the making of this post.

…because every person I know now has signed up for Facebook because of this post!

However, I’ve sort of screwed myself because I haven’t been able to play for two days.

Chowing Down

I had one of the best meals evah! This weekend Bill and I drove down to L.A. to eat at Mario Battali’s Pizzeria Mozza and it was day-um good pizza. It’s not like that Domino’s crap or even Pizza Hut. It was even better than John’s Pizza on 44th in New York City where I have eaten entire pizzas by myself once or twice. Mozza’s crust is thin and airy with just enough weight to hold whatever is on the pizza, but not so much that you get a face full of dough. The toppings were amazing—proscuitto, house-made sausage, you name it. Clearly, Mario knows good food.

Further Proof (as if you need it) That People Are Stupid

So the Lakers won the NBA Finals on Sunday night. That’s exciting and all, but winning seems to bring out the worst in this town. Exhibit A:

Asshole (Photo courtesy of the L.A. Times)

Really? What makes you ever think that throwing a garbage can on an LAPD patrol car is ever a good idea? Especially, when you’re doing it in front of the cameras.

What I’m Reading

I just finished The Beach House by Jane Green…

and just started Handle With Care by Jodi Picoult.

Yeah, it’s kind of chick lit, but they’re both very well written. Picoult’s books always tackle headline-worthy topics with gripping storytelling. Years ago I read My Sister’s Keeper and I think I cried the whole way through. Last weekend I watched the trailer for the movie. I’m not sure I’ll be able to get through that—not without 16 boxes of Kleenex. Jane Green is new to me—I think I found her through one of those “Readers Who Bought XYZ Also Bought…” on Amazon. I will totally make my way through her other books. Here’s their synopsis:

Sixty-five-year-old Nan Powell has lived comfortably and happily in Nantucket since the suicide of her husband, Everett, so she is thrown for a loop when she learns that she is in danger of losing her beloved house. After weighing her options, Nan decides to turn her home into a bed-and-breakfast. The guests she gets for the summer are all at a crossroads in their lives in one way or another. Daniel has just separated from his wife and is facing something he has denied for years; Daff is recovering from the heartbreak of a divorce and getting a much-needed break from her anger-filled 13-year-old daughter; and Nan’s son Michael is on the run from a disastrous affair. Nan finds herself opening up to her guests and enjoying their company, but she is shocked when she discovers a person close to one of them has a startling connection to her. Peopled with likable, flawed, realistic characters and moving seamlessly between them, this is Green’s best novel in years, a compelling, unputdownable read.

There’s That News Van!

This morning on my way to work I got caught up in what, to me, is typical Los Angeles. Apparently, a robbery suspect is holed up in a storm drain on the 405S freeway—one of the busiest freeways in Southern California. And my main route to work. All lanes except the carpool and the left lane were closed. There were no fewer than 8 firetrucks, a half dozen California Highway Patrol cars, a dozen  LAPD patrol and undercover cars, paramedics and a full contingency of Department of Water and Power trucks. I’d estimate there were about 60 people standing around a storm drain looking down, chatting and drinking coffee. Meanwhile, Channel 7 reporter Leo Stallworth was reporting from the side of the freeway, most likely saying the same thing he had been saying since 3:00 a.m. when the whole thing started. Like traffic on the 405 isn’t bad enough…

Dear New Neighbor,

We haven’t met yet, but I don’t like you already. You’re clearly new around here, so let me clue you in to a few rules.

1. Though shall not park in front of your neighbor’s driveway, blocking them from entering their own property. Ever.

1a. If you do, even temporarily, do not shoot me dirty looks when I want you to move so I can pull in to my own garage. Asshat

2. Though shall not park 375 cars on the street. This is not a used car lot. This is where we live.

3. Though shall not covet your neighbor’s space. You live three doors down and across the street—claiming the space in front of my house (and everyone else’s) isn’t cool.

4. Though shall not drive 2 inches off my bumper while driving through our neighborhood.

5. Though shall not try to pull around me when I’m turning onto our street. Especially, when you clearly don’t see the 20 three-year-olds running around.

6. Though shall not drive down our cul de sac at 60 mph.

Follow my rules and we’ll get along just fine.

Signed,

The Bitch On Your Street

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For more Randomness, grab a martini and head over to Keely’s at The Un Mom.