Death and Taxes

Some things in life are certain.

If it’s two weeks away from finals, I’ll inevitably be doing the following:

a) Procrastinating via the joy of the innernets (via kottke.org). Seriously, The. Joy. I laughed as much as the baby did. Kan man ha roligare???

b) Procrastinating via holiday present planning, thank you Gloria! “In this era of the rejected, maligned fruitcake, few holiday traditions remain that successfully unite the kitchen, gift giving and hard alcohol.”

c) Thinking, I can totally learn Professional Responsibility in 11 days, right? I mean, just don’t sleep with your clients and you’re cool, right? (WRONG. You can TOTALLY sleep with your clients, AWESOME! (well, under certain limited circumstances that I can’t explain to you because I haven’t done ANY reading for that class, double AWESOME!))

In conclusion: Sleeping with clients? Maybe. Death, taxes, and staring into the maw of academic failure? For certain.

My Favorite Christmas Present, and One for You

It’s after Thanksgiving, so I feel it’s safe to start my wandering aimlessly down holiday memory lane. Laurie‘s already started.

Also, my mother called me tonight to get me to send her my Christmas list. I stopped making lists about, oh, 10 years ago and only re-implemented them at her request once I started law school (I’m po’, yo). I feel a little weird making one but I figure it’s OK since my brother will be making his until he is 60. Apparently that’s how long it will take him to update his damn blog, too, Jeffy!!

Anyway.

Here is the story of my favorite Christmas present EVER.

It was 1988, our first winter in Redding (remember the summer hadn’t gone so well?), and it SNOWED. Like a lot. We’d never seen snow before. Jeff and I slept out on the pull-out sofa bed, next to the totally-not-up-to-code woodburning stove, so we could watch it fall.

My parents were in the midst of designing our new house, so I was looking at a lot of Architectural Digest and House Beautiful. And I had picked out EXACTLY WHAT I WANTED FOR CHRISTMAS:

Yes, I know. I was 11 and wanted a Louis XV chaise lounge. Didn’t you?

I had mentioned to my mother how much I loved it and how I wanted it for Christmas, haha. Because who buys their daughter a chaise lounge? SUCKAS, that’s who.

And then, ’twas the day before Christmas, and this HUGE package arrived. I hadn’t thought about the chaise lounge for months, but I jokingly asked, “Is it my chaise lounge? Haha.”

Then, Christmas day, about 6 a.m. before the rest of the family awoke, Jeff and I headed down to get a preview. And I saw THIS:

What sound does a heart make when it simultaneously breaks at the sight of floral-cushioned wicker and sings because of the love of one’s parents?

Because that’s the sound my heart was making.

Speaking of sounds, that’s my present to you! A winter/holiday mix CD, my yearly tradition. And if you have been the recipient of one before, you know they come late and rarely, but that’s how it goes. If you want one, e-mail me at jen@sundayundies.com!

And anyway, I grew to love that wicker chaise. My best friend Melissa spent many a night there, wiped out from an evening of Swatch Twin Phone-ing boys and Seventeen‘s “Traumarama!”

I hope that even if a holiday mix from me isn’t your favorite Christmas present ever, it will grow on you as well. Like a fungus. Or a ficus. Which, as any afficianado knows, goes excellently with wicker.

Moldy Rolls, Minnow Water, Happy Tuesday!

It’s nearly a week after Thanksgiving, you know how it is. You don’t want to eat anything remotely resembling turkey again, like, EVER, and yet you want to cook something new even less. So, you’re still eating leftover dinner rolls for breakfast. Only this morning? You discover, AS YOU’RE CHEWING, that they’re moldy.

I ate a moldy roll this morning, happy Tuesday!

I didn’t really know what to do as I discovered mid-chomp that I was eating bacteria. It was still dark in my apartment and I wasn’t quite awake. What Would Joan Jett Do? Eat it, obviously. But I am no Joan Jett.

I am, however, certifiable. For some reason, I have agreed as part of my Belize winter break vacation with The Boy to stay in a place WITH NO TOILETS. FOR TWO DAYS. AND! And! Check this out:

“Our accommodations included a Swiss Family Robinson style thatched two story ‘hut’ perched out over a pristine waterfall. Water for brushing teeth and washing your face came via a bucket that was dropped via a pulley and rope into the pool at the bottom of the waterfall. (Be sure to check for minnows before drinking.)”

BE SURE TO CHECK FOR MINNOWS BEFORE DRINKING.

I’m not sure if you got that.

BE SURE TO CHECK FOR MINNOWS BEFORE DRINKING.

My friend Ali: “It’ll be like Survivor.” Me: “Except maybe I won’t survive.”

People, I cannot even check my own damn rolls for green fuzzy crap before eating them!

So if you don’t hear from me in 2007, you’ll know why. I’ve succumbed to moldy rolls, minnow water, a rare tropical disease contracted while making it in the bushes, happy Tuesday!

Three Days Later: Still Thankful, Still FULL

My first time hosting Thanksgiving, and I am thankful:

1. Everyone took full plates, a sign that the food at least looked edible.

2. All eight of us fit into my tiny apartment and at my dining table.

3. The massive spread of food was such that I think my family probably thought I was trying to stuff them to death. It took some serious rallying after the hors d’oeuvres and eight hours of pre-dinner cookie-eating to power through the meal.

4. My friends and family are the coolest.

The Menu

Hors d’Oeuvres

• Parmesean-stuffed dates wrapped in bacon — I did half parmesean-, half goat-cheese-stuffed; goat cheese went over much better, which The Boy has been gloating about ever since because that was his suggestion
• Cheese straws

The table

• One mother-freakin’ awesome turkey
• Roasted Sweet Potato Spears with Bacon Vinaigrette — BEST EVER
• Cranberry Sauce with Dried Cherries and Cloves
• Garlic mashed potatoes — p.s. POTATOR RICER. YOU NEED ONE NOW.
• Stove Top stuffing — why mess with the best, really?
• String Beans with Ginger and Garlic
• Amber’s awesome traditional candied sweet potatoes

Dessert

• Costco cheesecake and pumpkin pie, a family tradition and way better than anything I could make
• Martha’s chewy chocolate chip cookies and butterscotch blondies, courtesy of Penny

I was in a constant food coma for about a day and a half. Yummy!

Hindsight Is Legally Blind

Saturday night I spent studying and puttering around. I rewarded myself for finishing 1/4 of my Copyright outline with some serious crafting.

First, I made Martha placecards for Thanksgiving:

Then, I made myself a wine box (on top o’ fridge), last year’s Christmas gift:

Then, I made some Pumpkin bread, still expensive but cheaper than Starbucks, and GOOD.

Finally, I made a bird’s nest, inspired by a Katie Brown episode, like, eons ago.

And you know? It is UGLY. It is less ugly than it appears in this photo because I fixed the big ole hole in the front and it will be even less ugly when The Boy returns and I can make him clip the scraggly wire I can’t reach, but it is still Ugly.

Part of this is because I didn’t have enough copper wire (tip to the occasional crafter: always blame your tools). Another bit of ugliness can be attributed to the fact I’m not tall enough to hang it properly.

And then of course there’s the help I get from Fred & Ethel.

The largest part of this Travesty of Grapevine, I blame on nostalgia.

Because you see, I made this damn thing once before, four years ago, for another holiday season. And I’d forgotten about what a pain in the ass it is to make. And about its sure-fire Love Connection with Ugly.

It’s like the time I went to Coachella. I came back from it complaining endlessly to poor Laurie about the heat and the crowds and the lines for the bathroom. I told her I was TOO DAMN OLD for that shiite.

And the next year?

Me: “Ooh, Laurie, The Cure is playing at this year’s Coachella. Wanna go?”

Laurie: “Uh, Jen. Remember last year? Do you remember how you told me you were too old for any venue where the line for the port-a-potties was 75 deep?”

Yeah.

So I now have this ugly thing hanging above my TV armoire. But I don’t care. It took me over an hour to make dammit, and it’s STAYING.

In fact, I’ll probably make it next year. But only because I’ll imbue its making with fond memories of the time my family will be spending with me next week.

And I say fond memories because, well, we could spend 3/4 of the weekend yelling at one another, but Thanksgiving 2007? I’ll be hankering for more.

Bring It, Microbes

I’m heading to Belize (woohoo!) over winter break and have to get a bunch of vaccinations, very reassuring. My Tdap innoculation (tetanus, diptheria and pretussis) has kicked my left shoulder’s ass.

On the upside, I am now free to frequent bathrooms sans shoes a la Britney.

Maybe not.

Marion the Contrarian

I don’t know about you, but I make a lot of decisions about what I need to do. Things I need to do better, ways I need to be better, whatever.

But if someone else advises me? My immediate impulse is to retreat into my twelve-year old mind where I WILL NOT EAT THAT BROCCOLI! I WILL TOO EAT THAT KIT KAT BAR. I will not take that exit, I want this exit, and I like to store my vegetables that way and DAMMIT, I don’t wanna (spoken in plaintitive whine of a small child).

Please tell me I am not the only one who reverts to childhood at the slightest hint of instruction — whether from my best friend, my mother, my boyfriend. Please tell me I am not the only one who houses a pre-teen soul in an almost 30-something body.

Comfort Levels

My family is coming to LA for Thanksgiving this year, and the issue of where they’re going to stay has caused some hurt feelings. Mine, specifically.

I guess hurt feelings might be too strong a phrase. Slight indignation morphing into resignation might be more apt.

Because, well, it appears that my neighboorhood is just a little too ghetto for my family.

My mother didn’t mince any words in refusing my recommendation of the hotel right down the street from me. “I don’t think we want to stay in your neighborhood, Jen. It’s just not safe.”

I didn’t say anything, but I did harumph later to my brother about it.

Me: “Can you believe that?”

Jeff:

Me: “I guess I should lay off on those stories about the homeless sleeping in my stairwell, yeah?”

Jeff:

Laurie tried to be more diplomatic. “Well, Jen, you have to understand, I mean… well, remember after your birthday when I went outside to find someone trying to break into my Jeep?”

Hm.

I tried to elicit support from Gloria, but she laughed and reminded me about the homeless people having sex in the parking lot across the street.

It’s funny. I like living in Hollywood most of the time — I’ve lived here so long that I don’t even really notice the filth and vague danger any more. Occasionally I fantasize about a SARS outbreak in LA so that the tourists won’t clog my streets with their Chrysler Sebrings and their total inability to make a left turn across traffic, but most of the time I’m OK with where I live.

In any case, the wide gulf between my experience of my neighborhood and my friends and family’s experiences surprised me. At first, out of defensiveness, I decided everyone I knew was either an old fogie or a snob, but then I realized that I am often a big ole crotchety snoot so that couldn’t be it. I mean, I relish my creature comforts. I find anything less than Quilted Northern unacceptable. Yet I don’t really mind seeing the occasional vagrant taking an early morning piss in the alley next door.

So I decided, as I often do, that people are weird. We make odd choices about what we let bother us and what we ignore. For instance:

I don’t mind:
– A TV so covered in dust you can barely see the screen
– People with social disorders, unless they’re mean
– Giving people rides
– Kids on planes who kick my seat
– Generic paper towels

I can’t stand:
– Dirty dishes
– People who stand too close to me in line
– Sharing my Coke
– People on planes who talk to me
– Generic Rice Krispies

Is there really any sense to that, I ask you? No. But I’m sure you’re the same way, right? Can’t stand two-buck Chuck but love you some PBR? C’mon, I know you’re a weirdo, too.

About a Boy

Last night The Boy and I were getting ready to go see Lee “Scratch” Perry (rockin’) at the House of Blues, and I was perusing my web referrals.

Me: “Oh. My. God. Not Martha linked to me!”

The Boy: “What? Who?”

Me: “Not Martha! She is so cool!! She is the one who does the marble magnets that I’ve been telling you about and that you’ve been kind of ignoring me about in that way that glassy-eyed way that men do when you start to tell them about craft projects!”

The Boy:

Me: “This. Is. So. Awesome.”

The Boy: “Hm. Well, I think your readers might like to hear about this character called, ‘The Boy.'”

So, here are 10 things about The Boy.

1. He’s tall.
2. He’s real good to me.
3. We go to school together.
4. He’s younger than me. I am a cradle robber.
5. He’s made me watch “Robot Chicken,” which I have to admit I kind of like. However, I cannot bring myself to watch “Harvey Birdman, Attorney at Law.” A girl’s gotta draw the line somewhere, especially when SOMEONE has TAKEN OVER your DVR and you found yourself deleting an old UFC episode so you could make room for “House Hunters,” which you’re kind of embarassed to admit you love to watch so much, but whatever, most of America watches “Two and a Half Men,” so try to judge me now, suckas!
6. He didn’t get weirded out or make fun of me when I cried because my homemade pizza was half raw. Hate you, faulty pizza stone.
7. He does, however, make fun of me when I sometimes accidentally snort when I laugh.
8. He loves his Starburies.
9. He thinks he and Fred have a special bond because they’re Men.
10. I won him that tiki doll up there at the Port of Los Angeles Lobster Fest, at which he ate three entire lobsters within 20 minutes, I swear. The tiki doll is really ugly, and Fred and Ethel have both made the sweet love to it at one time or another. And yet it continues to sit on my bookshelf.

Assimilated into the Borg

Yesterday, Laurie and I were buying holiday decorations at Michael’s. We’d been there maybe 45 minutes, wheeling our dinky cart (Well, Laurie was wheeling the cart. She rocks/is a control freak that way.) through aisles cramped with glittery floral arrangements and everything you need to scrapbook the hell out of your life.

It was after 10 minutes of debating the merits of various spools of holiday ribbon that Laurie said we had to get out of there, like, NOW. I think maybe it was my, “Oooh, it’s reversible!” that did it.

We’re standing in line at the check out counter, and Laurie explains:

“You know, it’s like when you’re at Ross, and at first you’re discerning, but if you’re there too long, everything starts to look good. Even stuff you knew was ugly 15 minutes ago.”

I look at the contents of our cart, and realize we’re lucky all I have to put back is some truly atrocious Christmas plaid ribbon. It could have been worse. I could have almost purchased some Holiday Fruit Coordinates.*

*p.s. No offense if you like sparkly fruit decorations. I’m sure you have a chic and artistic way of displaying them (maybe with some Holiday Elegance Birds? Ack, must stop but the names are so funny!). To me, they just remind me of Grandma Crystal who bought everything she owned from the Lillian Vernon catalog and whose everything she owned included a toilet paper roll that played Jingle Bells.