First Day Jitters

The last taste of summer, Radiohead at the Bowl. Which was AWESOME, except for these bro-ey types Arsenio-Hall-style whooh-whooh-ing to Karma Police. Frat boys heart Thom Yorke? Fascinating. My only theory is that they once got laid to Fake Plastic Trees and have been fans ever since.

I’m way too ready for fall already: some plaid, maybe a fire in my fireplace, no more A/C, tights instead of leggings, red instead of white, some nip back in the air. And maybe cookies. Yes, cookies. Why isn’t it cold yet?

January may hold the actual New Year, but I’ve never lost that sense of fall as the real beginning of the year. Fall is a new wardrobe, a possible new me (never actually happened, always returned as the same nerd as before, just even shorter than everyone else) — it’s a time to remake yourself and make the nervous reveal to the world.

Growing up in Redding and Sacramento it was always still hot when school started. So you’d have bought all these awesome new sweaters and pants (stirrup, probably, eek!) and couldn’t really wear them yet but, not wanting to wear that same double-tank top with matching double-sock combo you worked all that summer, you would anyway.

The first few weeks of school were a sweaty, sweaty affair for everyone.

Especially for me. I am a nervous sweater. Fortunately (?) my nervous sweat is usually confined to one armpit, so I don’t end up wiping my brow or upper lip or anything. Just making several trips to the bathroom to take care of my one, kind of soaking underarm.

Anyway. Once out of school, there is no longer a definite annual unveiling date. There is no First Day, no post-makeover reveal. There’s just today and the next day and the day after that. Less sweaty, certainly, but also less exciting, right?

Enh, I’m still excited for fall, the possibilities, something NEW. It may still be 85 degrees in LA, but I’m wearing tights to work today, darn it! Hope no one thinks I’m crazy!

Anyhoo

I was telling a coworker tonight about helping my dad make an attendance sheet for his welding class, laughing about how a man so intelligent could have so much trouble with Excel, the same way my dad would laugh about how his college-educated daughter can’t figure out how to turn her parking lights off, and I think the sudden invasion of thoughts of something so warm, so familiar into a job I’m still getting used to and thus is so NOT warm and familiar, just completely threw me, and I’ve been thinking about my Dad a lot this evening.

My dad is incredibly supportive. He indulges my hypochondria, he listens to my troubles as best he can, and as a man of few but choice words, he has a number of old standards, phrases that he always comes back to that really convey who he is and what his values are, and that I really should take under further advisement:

“I Am What I Am”

My father loves to quote Popeye and/or God.

If you comment on his person in any way, positive, negative, just observational nonsense, this is his response, and I really think this is just what he believes. That he is. What he is. And he is fine that way.

HOW AWESOME WOULD IT BE TO FEEL THAT WAY? What if I was? What I am? And I was fine with that?

“Well, it keeps me off the streets and out of the bars”

This is Dad’s standard tag-on to when he describes what he’s been up to lately. As a retired dude, he keeps surprisingly busy, teaching welding, yard work, welding the neighbors a new fence or his old partner a frou-frou chimney topper. And whenever he concludes an account of a new endeavor, he reminds me, “well, it keeps me off the streets and out of the bars.”

And while I don’t think Dad has ever hit either the streets or the bars, I know what he means.

It keeps his mind and body occupied, keeps him interested in the world, doing for others, eliminates the need for meaningless distractions.

That is something I need to do more of.

“Yes, Dear”

I don’t know what advice my father gave my brother when he got married, but I assume it was similar to the advice he gave Allan back in the day we were poor candidates for marital bliss, which consisted mainly of advocating the use of the phrase, “yes, dear.”

And while my dad enjoys playing the long-suffering husband, considering his garage is 3/4 of the size of the house, I know he’s really talking about just giving as much as you can, when you can.

Something I need to do. Or rather, something I need to learn to do without begrudging the result.

“Anyhoo”

This is one of my favorite Southern-isms, the “anyhoo.” (Number one favorite? “Quit your caterwauling.”) While it might seem like a placeholder, an “anyway” a “so,” a “well,” really, it’s really a gentlemanly way to say: “I talked too long about myself, what would you like to say?”

Anyway, so, well, anyhoo, I talked too long about myself, what would you like to say?

Two Pizzettes, Two Vignettes

The Pizzettes

Can I share with you the easiest, awesomest pizzettes recipe EVER? I procured it at a super fun but appallingly titled Hip Cooks class “Cooking for One.” I highly recommend their classes if you live in LA, and that one in particular if you are one of those people, ahem, who have a hard time not eating Trader Joe’s buffalo wings every night (I have been truly afraid before that I would just wake up one morning covered in a thin layer of buffalo sauce, like I had BECOME a wing.).

Recipe at the bottom of the entry. Makes two pizzettes.

Vignette One

I know what you are thinking: DUDE, “pizzettes?” Let’s just call these what they really are, personal pizzas, you BoBo freak.

I think that, too, sometimes, but pizzette sounds so much better than “personal pizza”…. that is, unless you’re talking a Personal PAN Pizza from Pizza Hut!!

Personal Pan Pizzas from Pizza Hut will be forever linked for me to this cross-country road trip I took with Mom, Dad and Jeff in, hm, 1983? In which Jeff had to pee like EVERY TWELVE MINUTES. Which I find fascinating because his last blog entry, OVER A YEAR AGO JEFF, is about forgetting to pee.

You want to know the saddest thing? My parents that summer dubbed me “Bladder of Steel” (k-k-k-klassy!). And because since birth I have been an incredibly competitive little mofo, I strongly suspect my little 6-year-old self held it in on purpose to outdo my 3-year-old brother, like, TAKE THAT, you little bowl-cut towhead who’s cuter than me, I CAN HOLD MY PEE IN LONGER.

Anyhoo, in addition to the fun of exiting the highway every 12 minutes, on that trip I threw a fit any time our lunch-time stop was not Pizza Hut. I mean, why would anyone want to eat anything else besides your very own personal cheese pizza with crust that oozed oil down your chin? Some unknown diner where they might have fresh, local ingredients? ARE YOU CRAZY?

Certainly my parents were by the end of the trip.

Which is why I feel so bad about the ending of Vignette No. 2.

Vignette Two

My family took a lot of cross-country trips, actually. One of my favorites was the one I took with Mom and Penny, I guess, holy crap, over 10 years ago now since I was 20. Penny was thus 12.

And, G-d love her, that girl refused to eat anywhere but Taco Bell. And you know, I was all TWENTY, and had practically GRADUATED by then, I ate SUSHI and was moving to NYC and HELLO, as if!, I was NOT eating Taco Bell. I. was. EXPERIENCING. LIFE. In technicolor, at local diners, with The People. Of Montana. And probably Iowa.

Oh, though I remember it fondly, there were some speed bumps on that trip.

By the time we made it back across the country into Portland, to see my dad race, Penny and I HATED one another. Like Montague/Capulet Hate.

And I don’t know exactly how it happened, but on the way to the race track, Penny was kicking my seat and I told her, through clenched teeth, to stop. She did not.

So what did I do? (Keep in mind, I am TWENTY at this point, not THIRTEEN, 20, and supposedly too darn evolved to eat Taco Bell) I reached behind me, dug my nails as hard as I could into her tiny little calves until she bled while she sheared the skin clear off my shoulder kicking me, trying to get me to stop.

Five minutes later we show up at the track, all cowed by our own violence and bleeding and bruised and looking extremely sheepish, with my mom near hysteria explaining what her TWO DAUGHTERS WHO YOU WOULD THINK WERE RAISED IN A BARN JUST DID, and all my Dad’s racing buddies trying to look concerned but I think truly taking obscene pleasure in that a two-week build-up of car-caged estrogen would explode into such a bloody brawl.

Luckily, in addition to amusing the menfolk, this story now amuses me and even Penny. In fact, when I told her tonight I was posting about it, she was all, “Oh yeah, that’s so funny…

I WAS JUST SHOWING SOMEONE MY SCARS.”

p.s. Finally painted my living room!

p.p.s. Quarterway through my bedroom! Still don’t have a bed! I am awesome!

The Recipe

I stretched this out over two nights but you can do it in one.

Night One:
1. Walk to Trader Joe’s.

2. Skip the bufflo wings. OK, maybe buy some just in case this doesn’t work out.

3. Buy the following:
a. Cheap-ass bottle of balsamic.
b. Pizza dough
c. Prosciutto
d. Chevre.
e. Red onions.
(Things you have to have on hand are olive oil, butter, brown sugar, cognac or brandy or red wine for the onions).

3. Walk home, throw maybe a half-cup of the balsamic into a sauce pan, bring it to a mild simmer then bring it back down and leave it at very low heat.

4. Pour glass of wine, watch Stacey & Clinton boost someone’s self-esteem through the power of fashion, occasionally stirring the balsamic until it is reduced by half. Once it cools it will get even more solid, so don’t let it turn into complete goo. Pour it in Tupperware. Or a squeeze bottle if you super ambitious (I was not). Done.

Night Two:
1. Preheat oven to whatever pizza dough directions say to preheat it for.

2. Cut the red onions, like three maybe, into 1/4- or 1/2-inch rounds, whatever your poison. Put some olive oil and 2 tablespoons butter in a skillet until butter is melted, throw the onions in there. Cook them for maybe 20 minutes or more on medium-high/medium heat until you’ve sweated out a lot of the liquid.

3. Take Trader Joe’s pizza dough out of fridge, let sit for 20 minutes. Or forget to until step 6 and let it sit for 5, whatever.

4. Then throw in something to sweeten and really caramelize the onions — I used a generous handful of brown sugar, then a little more later, and some French brandy I had around. I cooked them for maybe 20 minutes more after I put the sugar and booze, until they were good and freaking gooey. I added salt just toward the end. Done.

5. Take the dough out of the plastic bag, plop it on a cutting board coated generously with flour, cut it in half. Work each blob into a round with your hands, just like they do on TV.

6. Put your pizzettes on a cookie sheet and brush with olive oil.

7. Put in oven for half time it says on pizza dough wrapper.

8. Take it out. Burn yourself. Oh, wait, that’s just me.

9. Pile on the caramelized onions, the prosciutto (just rip it into pieces, very satisfying), some globs of chevre (also very satisfying to squeeze out).

10. Put it back in for the rest of the time, or until cheese is slightly browned. (If you, like me, are super paranoid, you can scatter corn meal on the cookie sheet to make sure the bottoms don’t burn). Remove from oven.

11. Drizzle that balsamic-y goodness over the pizza.

12. ENJOY. Dude, I am salivating just thinking about that pizza.

Oh, and day 3? LEFTOVERS!!

My Hands Would Like to Make Sweet, Sweet, But Ultimately Unfulfilling Love to You

It’s generally par for the course when the gym smells like cologne, especially in the weights area. So much testosterone and low self-esteem to mask.

But PEOPLE! People of 24 Hour Fitness!

THE HANDSOAP IN THE LADIES’ LOCKER ROOM??

Seriously, I can’t smell my hands without suddenly feeling the intense urge to take myself out to dinner at Buca di Beppo and finish the night off with some Sambuca and a meaningless tryst under a scratchy, pilled-up comforter my mom bought me in 1992 and I haven’t washed since 2006.

I have just confused myself with pronouns.

Do you think it’s too weird to bring your own handsoap to the gym?

Because really? It’s not healthy to spend your drive home debating what music the man who wears the same scent gracing your hands listens to when making love to a woman.

Oh, smell-o-net, where are you? I wish you could answer this for me.

In lieu of technological advances, however, I am going to give you my top 5 choices for what this man might listen to.

1. Creed
2. Gin Blossoms
3. Live
4. The Pretty in Pink soundtrack (ladies love that sh*t, yo!)
5. Post-1995 Red Hot Chili Peppers

And, as a bonus, I give you a top 5 list of the whoppers I have been treated to over the years. You know, if I had ever passed the state of driven snow.

1. Pink Floyd (duh, college boys are SO DEEP)
2. Congolese music
3. Massive Attack (duh, post-college boys are SO DEEP)
4. ENYA. Yes. I repeat: ENYA (WTHF????).
5. Not music, but such great comedy hits as “Stripes,” “Spies Like Us,” and my personal favorite, the way to every woman’s heart, Eddie Murphy’s “Raw.”

Happy 2008!

So what if the end of 2007 was rough? So what if I got dumped, couldn’t go home for the holidays because I had to work the whole damn time and spent Christmas day, my one day off, cleaning my apartment because I hadn’t been able to for a week? Who cares if I spent New Year’s Eve sleeping on the couch because I ordered (and constructed) the wrong size bed?

It is 2008, man! And I am so excited!!

Every day I wonder that the above is truly my view.

And Saturday, Neeta came over and we made my first fire in the new place.

And today, I accomplished a few of my ringing-in-the-new-year fun items, including yoga, a walk, blogging, and making dinner plus lunch for the rest of the week.

Dinner, which was Coq au Vin minus the coq basically, SO GOOD:

And the soup is still going, but I got to use my new, handy-dandy page holder Christmas present from my parents:

And for the rest 2008?

I have high hopes, as it sounds like a lot of you do out there in the blogosphere, yay!

My main resolutions center around my health and getting myself out there, but there is one real personal one I would like to work on: Getting Rid of the Guilt.

I think I’ve written about this before, the constant shadow, weight of guilt tainting the everyday. I know I’m not the only one. I shouldn’t have said this, eaten this, done this, thought this, ad nauseum.

One lesson 2007 has taught me, though, was a hard one. Guilt isn’t just something you suffer through internally. If you are like me, you vocalize it. To your friends, your family, your significant other(s). You seek forgiveness, even if it’s just for a wrong you did yourself, not them. And most often, they tell you it’s OK and help you move on.

But sometimes they don’t. Like elephants, they remember, they hold onto what you’ve admitted you suck at, or want to work on. Whether they’re your coworkers, your friends, your lover, your family, sometimes they remember and bring up later as evidence that you yourself believe you are lesser, so why shouldn’t they?

Thus my two-part goal for 2008. Lower the Guilt Level to yellow, and go radio silent when it comes to vocalizing it.

Anyway, I am super excited, and am looking forward to some travel, some getting out there, and some healthy living, all with a minimum of guilt this 2008.

Which, me being me, I inadvertently started out with the most decadent mushrooms you can imagine (for which, of course, I feel no guilt!), and the scrumptious recipe for which I share with you now, Coq au Vin, minus the coq:

Sauteed Mushrooms with Thyme

2 tablespoons butter
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 small shallot, minced
1 1/2 lbs small white mushrooms, halved
Coarse salt and fresh ground pepper
1 teaspoon minced fresh thyme
1/4 cup dry red or white wine (or water)

1. In a skillet over medium-low heat, melt the butter with the oil. Add the shallot; cook, stirring, until soft, about 5 minutes. Raise the heat to medium. Add the mushrooms; season with salt and pepper. Cook, covered, until the mushrooms release their liquid, 5 to 6 minutes.

2. Uncover; raise the heat to high. Cook, tossing, until the liquid evaporates and the mushrooms are brown, 3 to 5 minutes. Add the thyme and the wine (or water). Cook until the skillet is almost dry, 1 minute. Serve hot.

Serves 4.

Snipe Hunting, Anyone?

Did anyone else get duped into snipe hunting at camp? I can’t tell you how many times I went hurtling along well-worn paths at YMCA summer camp in search of the elusive snipe. Other campers figured it out more quickly than I did (I didn’t figure out Santa Claus wasn’t real until the 4th grade, sheesh), but even once I knew, I still loved the snipe hunt.

In Argentina, we were in El Palmar National Park, just outside Colon, hanging out, keeping warm with the occasional swig of yerba mate, goofing off:

Me Jane, you Tarzan.

When suddenly our guia caught wind of the elusive CARPINCHO.

And we were off! In what I really thought was an elaborate snipe hunt, designed to give foreigners a thrill and our guide/taxi driver a good chuckle.

We were off-trail, The Boy, me, and this very nice Argentinean woman, following our guide zig-zagging along the banks of the river, quietly dodging branches and bramble. We’re all trying to move swiftly yet silently along the banks of the river, all the while having to sidestep the MASSIVE piles of CARPINCHO poop.

Mmmm, peanuts.

I have not had that much fun in a long time, even though the most exciting wildlife I expected to see were some fire ants. I was tiptoeing along, trying not to lose an eye in the brush, and I’m embarrassed to admit I spent a good half hour imagining myself as some master tracker, invisible to my prey (as every branch I stepped on gave a resounding crack of course, but it’s hard to hear when you’re breathing so hard, so I was able to keep up the illusion).

So I was shocked as all get out when we finally stopped along the river and saw that our guide (and we) had successfully tracked THIS:

Pardon the fuzziness of the photo. The Boy doesn’t have the steady hand of a seasoned peeping tom apparently.

A real live carpincho, the largest rodent in the world! barking! like a seal! at us. Can you believe that is just a giant rat and not, like, a BEAR or something?

AWESOME. Finally, I found my snipe.

Two First Kisses

I don’t know if you read, but Laurie lost Roy on Tuesday. And because he was such an awesome, regal cat, I feel the need to share my own Roy story.

Roy was a hard one to win over — not as hard as Bob, who is still half-feral almost (although sometimes I can fool him by using Laurie’s super-secret pet name for him. He’ll finally let me pet him only to look up and realize, but wait! you are not my mommy! Bob is adorably gullible), but a hard nut to crack nonetheless.

But after a few times over at Laurie’s, back when she was still with Mr. X, one morning after a night out at The Mayan, Laurie was treating our Negro Modelo-soaked livers to the soothing combo of bacon and eggs. And Roy figured out that perhaps I wasn’t going to be able to finish mine. And he came up to me, right on my lap, and pushed his handsome little face right up into mine, right up to my lips, inhaling the bacon fumes with one eye on the leftovers.

He was too polite to just start chomping down on my leftover strips, but he was just, you know, hinting, that MMMMM, that smelled good and wouldn’t it be nice if I gave him some? Now?

That was my first kiss from Roy.

***

Also, LG asked me a question: the circumstances of my first kiss (from a boy, not a cat, I assume).

And as I owe her a meme and loved her own post about kissing and the accidental accrual of more kissed boys than we can name, here we go!

My first kiss didn’t come until the summer after NINTH GRADE. I was a Nerd, people. That dork in your class who won every single award, INCLUDING P.E. (not because she was at all athletic but because she just tried SO DAMN HARD)? Me. I in fact won “person whose homework you’d most like to copy” in ninth grade in a school newspaper survey, but because I was co-editor at the time, I figured I better make it look like a clean fight and listed #2 as tying me.

Anyway, I was a nerd. But somehow, there I was, in the Cinemark 8 with Joe, my best friend Melissa, and her “date,” Mark, watching “What About Bob?” After my mom had dropped us all off in the Toyota Previa. Yes, my first kiss memories feature Bill Murray taking baby steps, and a Toyota Previa was the vehicle to love. That is my life.

Joe and I were sitting next to one another, and things didn’t seem to be going anywhere for 3/4 of the movie. But then! suddenly! Richard Dreyfuss was having a mental breakdown and gum was being passed around! “Fuuuuuuuuck.”

That is what I thought to myself. “Fuuuuuuuck.” This is really happening.

And then it did. One quick lean over, and suddenly I was exposed to Joe’s dinner (which included some serious garlic, he was italian), and also more tongue than I thought was possible to find in one’s mouth. And more tongue of mine than I thought was possibly to clumsily shove into someone’s else’s maw.

It is not very romantic, this story.

Perhaps because my relationship with Joe was horrible, and scarred me for life. That a-hole made me keep our relationship a secret for THREE YEARS because apparently I was too nerdy to be seen in public with. And also because he was cheating on me.

It took a long time to get over that crap.

But now! I see the box for What About Bob? in the video store, and it only reminds me of those sweet moments of anticipation, before the crap, before the heavy influx of garlic only slightly masked by Extra Winterfresh, when I wondered, OH MY G-D, HOW IS THIS GOING TO WORK HE IS INCHING CLOSER IS THIS A SIGN IS IT GOING TO HAPPEN???

It’s much easier with cats.

When they move in for a kiss, it’s probably because you’ve just eaten bacon.

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.

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!

Snuggles for Everyone!

Back from NY, ready for NaBloPoMo! A few tidbits:

1. Breakfast with Kates and our NY friend Jason. Jason covets Kates’ cup o’ Joe in the 50-degree NY morning. Who volunteers to head outside in his shirtsleeves for a photo op for me? Jason does, that’s who! Also, when did Kates start glowing?

2. I had forgotten about how fun it is to walk around a real city. LA is a city, yes. But you don’t walk in LA. In NY, you peer into a new restaurant or boutique, contemplate the vibe and perhaps add it to your mental list of places to try next weekend. In LA, you see either a nondescript building or a big neon side, wonder what it is and investigate online. There’s no pleasure of instant discovery on your own.

3. Oh look! It’s me in a state of semi-inebriation! Like I was the entire damn weekend. Be still my aching liver. Also, I may have to invest in one of these.

4. I have already mentioned that Brie is the most fashionable girl I know. Seriously. I want everything in her closet. Except maybe the lobster hat she tried to get me to wear to a Halloween party.

5. Brie is just as distinguishing in her taste for her girlfriends’ boyfriends as she is for her clothes. This is why I was shocked and awed that she actually liked The Boy, whom she met at dim sum. Really, I nearly keeled over when she gave me the thumbs up.

6. Do you think there is a hierarchy among dim sum carts workers? Like, someone always gets dibs on the pork buns while someone else is always stuck with the fried taro? My new idea of hell is to be stuck for eternity pushing a cart of rejected Chinese snacks around tables of oblivious patrons.

7. Best part of returning from a long weekend and finding that it’s suddenly fall in LA? Cats are snuggly.