Mmm, effervescent

My brother introduced me to Kombucha when I visited him in New York last November. GT's Kombucha: I first tried the Gingerade, which is a combination of the miracle-stuff plus pressed ginger, and it tickled my innards so much that I've been trying to find it out here since I came back home. I finally found it at an LA farmers market, and today they were on sale... a branch of the stuff called Synergy offered my flavors of Cosmic Cranberry (sitting to my right, half-empty)... Guava Goddess and Gingerberry are chilling in the fridge as we write. I've got to say that I'm not the purest being in the world. I enjoy a decent-sized amount of corruption here and there. But with the guilt comes the detoxing, the fasts, the cleanses, and with that comes the Kombucha. I stick by the idea that one's body is a temple for sure, but mine is a nondenominational one - let the parties commence, just take care to leave it presentable when you're finished, or when there are visitors.

More importantly, the stuff now is added to a long list of things that I associate with my brother, which I like to call Comfort Quirks...

milk chews
pistachio nougat
french-pressed coffee
pomegranate sorbet
Jeeves & Wooster
yellow raincoats
green Doc Martens
red and black Pandas
and so much more...

I've a second birthday party of sorts to rest up for tonight. Steven and I got up and out of the house way too early this morning and crossed out of a lot of errands. At this point, I'm all for lazing about until at least 6:00 pm.

The weekend has only begun.

And no, there will not be any time to watch the Superbowl tomorrow.

Fall down, go 'Christ, that hurts!'

Some friends and I are bicycle fiends. We are attempting to do a century ride in Palm Springs next month - the Tour de Palm Springs - and apparently in the first 20 miles there is a hill that pretty much will test my strengths as a cyclist. So in preparation, I've been attempting to ride my bicycle up Reseda Boulevard in the San Fernando Valley to its top - officially known as Reseda Backbone and Topanga State Park (click). Last Sunday I didn't do so well. I stopped about six times and walked up part of the way. But this week I've been doing some training in the gym, and felt confident enough to try the hill again tonight. Well, I made it to the top; I only stopped once. The view of the Valley was gorgeous; I have great photos to prove it. On the way down, however, I noticed something wrong with the gears, and I positioned my hand to attempt to fix them. Big mistake. Two seconds later I find myself on the ground in pain after doing a front flip as a result of my hand slipping and hitting the front brake. I don't have a bruise yet, but my right hip and elbow got banged pretty good. Thank goodness for a sweet couple - Sam and Natalie - who were up also on the hill and came to see if I was okay. They even watched the bike with me until my housemate came to rescue me and hear about my fall.

So I suppose its official. I've fallen and I've got the to-be scars to prove it. I'm no longer a prissy cyclist. I have potential.

I hope I don't wake up all sore tomorrow. On the one hand, I'd be glad to take the day off of work, because Lord knows I'll be told that I should've stayed home. But on the other, I'll have to spend the morning in bed, when all I'll want to do is take my two-wheeled beauty out for a scenic ride around the lake.

I can't win!

Views of the city

I stood on the sixth floor and took advantage of the pseudo-panoramic view of the West Valley
I looked at the cars on the street below, zooming north and south, east and west
and wondered where the very cute cream-colored black-topped Mini Cooper could be headed at 3:42 in the afternoon
Why the hell am I so zapped of energy?,
I wondered while staring at my curls in the window's reflection
Mein eyes made their way down towards my shiny pumps... then up, then down
and for a moment the rare but elusive thought flashed through my mind:
'Perhaps my figure's not so bad'
I gazed to the left at the moutains towards Malibu;
gazed to the right, hmm, San Gabriel
The Hollywood Hills were somewhere southeast
but they were blocked by plaster and florescent lighting
The sun penetrated the weather-proof glass and ran its heated tongue across my forehead as the soda machine hummed an incompetent composition
Turning on my heel I noticed discarded pages of the Daily News, numbering the thousands having recently made the line to the unemployment office wrap-around the building...
...like a good girl, I headed to my desk

Run[ny-nose ]down

It's the weirdest thing having such a stuffed-up nose that I can't taste at all the vodka in my Skinny Bitch.

It's been a good day. Not only do I finally own a Coach purse (with plum lining), but I also had the honor of being complimented so sweetly by one Ms. Arden Kaywin.

Happy 31st, Mom and Pop.

A Charlie Brown recession anniversary

My folks' 31st wedding anniversary was yesterday, so I took Pop and my younger brother out for a Chinese dinner prior to Mom's return from Washington, D.C. today. Dinner on me was just the start of the celebration, as my family's tradition has yet to take place.

On the Saturday of the week in which my folks' wedding anniversary falls, we all get together and have our version of Christmas. Or at least that's what I like to call it. These days I celebrate Christmas; however, growing up as a Jehovah's Witness - a faith that my folks still cling to - I did not. So with this event of sorts coupled with glorious paganism, it's as if I get to partake in two Christmases in a matter of months. So we (which this year will consist of my younger brother and myself) will give them presents, after which they will take us out and we get whatever the hell we please - at their insistence. I'll want money. But I'm probably going to get something I don't need, like a hot pink sweater.

Despite all of that, I made a concerted point to get Mom and Pop substantial things to utilize as well as enjoy. In the spirit of prudence, I procured for them the following gifts:

a fine shiraz to toast to at least another 31 years of unity
tan moccasin slippers (for Pop)
navy blue slipper socks with a red cherry at their toes (for Mom)
a copy of Parliament Funkadelic: The Mothership Connection that I had the pleasure of reviewing recently (for Pop)
body butter, body splash, bath bubbles, and shower gel in Warm Vanilla Sugar from Bath & Body Works (for Mom)
and of course an obligatory anniversary card with bunny rabbits on it

(Of course I ended up treating myself a lovely pair of tan suede moccasins, and red pajama pants with white hearts on them. I really need to quit the spending on myself, really. After much struggle earlier in the evening, I did put down the InTouch Weekly and Coach purse that was on sale, and purchased toilet bowl cleaner instead. Shopaholics Anonymous much?)

In prior years, I've gotten them presents that have merely been "cool": such as the one time I got them a personalized commemorative paving stone in the courtyard between Disneyland and Disney's California Adventure. I still don't even remember how that all happened, but my whenever my folks stop by to catch a glimpse of it, their eyes get all misty and glassy, as was the intention, and then I think how much it was worth it. While I'm certain that they won't react along the same vein when caressing their new slippers, I'd like to think that they'll appreciate the thought and reasonableness this year instead of a boatload of frivolous things, just trying to impress them.

Besides -- I think they can wait to see the Alvin Ailey Dance Company at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion until March, do you?

Whatever makes you brag

Sick and perverted is me.

My closeted guilty pleasure is The Hills on MTV. I'm not sure exactly why. Well, you've got the young and rich living in Los Angeles working in the fashion industry or working the front door at a night club or as an event planner, or working as a receptionist at a music label, whatever - and meeting at restaurants to not eat, yet to gossip and be seen. It's Los Angeles. It's the westside, it's Santa Monica, it's the Valley. With the exception of thinking one can make a sizable paycheck working as an intern or part-time in any big city, I'd say the depiction is close to accurate. Damn you, MTV.

This world that reality-whore Adam DiVello has created makes it so it's difficult not to envision CGI name tags following one at every eatery or club or nature spot, even on sunny SoCal-esque days. Now that it's most easy to, say, conjure a playlist of flimsily apropos tunes designed to bridge the redundant hours and moments of the day, it's all the more simple to fabricate one's own importance in this town. I wonder when it will all end, the fascination with beautiful people flawless nobodies.

Yeah. I'm thinking never.

Coming down off of a cloud

While my birthday weekend has come to a close, birthday season is far from over. Tomorrow is my friend's birthday, and towards the end of the month there is to be at least one more get together of comrades and such. But this entry is to highlight the events that took place over the last few days - in singular word/phrase form only, and likely with an abrupt ending.

driving up PCH towards Point Mugu Naval base
driving down PCH, pit-stopping at Paradise Cove
pineapple mango margaritas, crabcakes, and seared ahi
warm wooden chairs on the beach for hours
one pound of See's Candies Nuts & Chews
napping in dark sheets under a glow of red [curtains]
a custom-built specialized road bike ZOMG
stuffed grape leaves on a mediterranean plate
a birthday cake with 24 candles
and then the sun rises
25 miles around the lake on the road bike
the essence of warm water and almond hemp soap in my hair
sandwiches at the park with the chosen family and the baby
'good lovin'; I've got a truck load'
16-20 miles 'round Los Angeles with the alternative cycling community
twinkling rear lights coasting up and down hilly streets
jumping rope in the park with a messload of beer-infused youth
and then the cops came
home
sleep
heat-drunkeness at Fred 62 over coffee, Stacey, and conversation
pancakes with white cream and strawberries
afternoon delight with Hollywood
and twilight conversation in the Valley
"House",
leftovers,
Steven,
and sleep

Pre-birthday celebration

In my world, January is the month where a everyone has their birthday... coming along so soon after the holidays, it can be monetarily taxing and difficult to get everywhere and appease everyone, so a mutual friend threw four ladies (myself included) a joint birthday party at his loft in Pasadena. There were familiar faces, good nibblies, and cupcakes with candles. Fun stuff; afterward, we headed to NeoMeze to dance. I haven't been dancing in a few years, so it was just --- nice to be out with friends, wearing a swishy dress, and getting some well-deserved blisters on my feet from wearing heels. At a quarter after 1am, we headed back to the foothills, looking for the perfect fast food to soak up the alcohol bound to bite my ass in the morning. And after making safe passage through the front door to his living room, I found myself on the black leather couch, peeling gold-and-bronze straps from around my ankles, and apportioning fries and burgers while settling in to A Clockwork Orange until 3:00 am. Lovely. My birthday isn't until next Friday, but in cases like this, "a bit premature" is never a bad thing.

Happy New Year

After work, I went to the mall and set sights on a plunge-V-neck, calf-length turquoise number that complimented my already-had pair of violet faux-alligator heels perfectly. Steven and I went out to dinner with my housemates - a five-minute walk from home at most - after which we headed home to chill out and do a whole lot of nothing.

A few New Year's Eves ago I was out an about in Hollywood. There was Jesus freak on a bicycle and my cell phone battery was near-death. I'd had a pretty lackluster day, and apparently the forecast had called for rain. Of course I was under-dressed, somewhere on Sunset and Ivar. This was before the Red Line, so it was pretty miserable in thinking how I'd be making it back home. The night ended well, but I learned that ringing in the new year doesn't mean being in the heart of it all; it's being where your heart wants you to be. Not as deep as it sounds, really. This year I wanted to be at home, so there I sat in my beautiful dress, with the ones most closest to me. And as we all cringed with severe empathy at Dick Clark's face (it must've been superimposed, either that or it was a kabuki mask) as the clock struck twelve, I knew there was no place I'd rather have been.

The new year so far has been pretty satisfying: I've a couple of pies in the oven, and the only place I've been today was to Santa Monica, for pizza at Bravo. Not bad considering 2009 is only a little over sixteen hours along.