The Rise and Fall of the Perfect Pumpkin

Happy Halloween!

I don't know if it was because I was somewhat deprived of Halloween festivities as a child, but I am into this holiday in a big way now that I'm almost 25. I'm embracing pretty much every Halloween tradition I can get my hands on, including dressing up and watching scary festive movies (because someone informed me that "The Craft", "Practical Magic"  and "Hocus Pocus"  don't actually count as scary films). By far, my favorite Halloween activity is pumpkin carving, though. I like it so much, that I actually went to two different pumpkin carving parties, two nights in a row.

 I spent pumpkin carving night #1 fretting over my pumpkin, turning it over in my hands, trying to get inspired, and mostly just watching other people carve theirs.

I was also watching Game 6 of the World Series, so I wasn't super invested in my pumpkin. It turned out out okay, but let's face it, it wasn't the most show-stopping of the bunch: It had my name on it. What my pumpkin lacked in creativity, it made up for in clear identification...

I don't like to admit failure, but the above was definitely my 'starter pumpkin'. Sort of like when Kim Kardashian married Kris Humphries (too soon?). The following night, I had a much clearer picture of the direction I wanted my pumpkin carving to go. I sketched out a design, and went to town carving the world's  most adorable pumpkin.

Okay, more accurately, I spaced out while watching a movie, and then this cute pumpkin idea just came to me. I didn't have any sort of plan. Which is exactly why my pumpkin turned out awesome. Because I let it happen naturally (and because I'm a gifted pumpkin carver).

  My pumpkin was a thing of beauty. Really. I developed a serious case of Pumpkin Pride. I probably don't have to explain what that is, but basically, I thought my pumpkin was the best. I didn't say it. But I was definitely thinking it.

 To be fair, I really did like the other pumpkins at the party, because they were diverse: Gaga Pumpkin, Kitty Pumpkin, and Little Ghost Pumpkin were also very good... but I was blinded by the aforementioned Pumpkin Superiority Complex (commonly known as PSC).

So I admired my pumpkin, and went to sleep that night, satisfied that I had done a fantastical job and had dreams of winning awards for my pumpkin carving skills... Unfortunately, strange things happen on the nights leading up to Halloween, and when I awoke, I was greeted by the following horror:

 

My precious pumpkin had been vandalized. And this is hard to talk about, but not by naughty children as you might assume, but rather, it had been brutalized by rabid squirrels. 

I didn't see the squirrels do it, but there were tiny bite marks and nibbles everywhere, and there was a pile of crumbs nearby.

The evidence is pretty damning. I spent an absurd amount of time being upset about my pumpkin the next day.  I considered borrowing my brothers' airsoft gun, and camping outside next to the pumpkin to wait for the culprits to return, but eventually I decided that wasn't the most effective use of my time this weekend. In the end, I learned a valuable lesson:

"Pumpkin Pride cometh before the fall. Thou shalt not think thy pumpkin is fairer than thy neighbor's, lest the woodland rodents (or squirrels in Santa Monica) devour your pumpkin."

That said, my pumpkin was pretty darn cool before it got ruined. Seriously though. Why else would the squirrels ONLY eat mine?

R.I.P. Pretty Pumpkin.

This is Why I'm Hot.

For the past few months, I've been making a concentrated effort to get into shape. This is for a variety of reasons, but specifically, the fact that it's summer, and that means bathing suits, I'm in a wedding in August, and I don't want to be "The Fat One" (I'm "The Black One"), and also because up until recently, I was dating a guy with 8-pack abs, and I have weird competitive issues.

Anyway, my diet and exercise plan was a mixed bag of elliptical workouts, beach walks, zumba, spinning, and limiting myself to only one helping of pasta at dinner as opposed to my usual three. I had some 'slip ups' (also known as cheese steaks and birthday cakes), but for the most part, it was going really well. To top it all off, I started getting into yoga. Initially I was reluctant about the whole yoga scene; the breathing and poses, and odd names (dead bug?) seemed a little weird, and I wasn't sure I was cut out for it, but the more classes I went to, the stronger and more refreshed I felt at the end of every session.

A few weeks ago, I was hanging out with my friend Sarah D., and she invited me to attend a free yoga class that she was teaching in Malibu. She said it was Vinyasa Flow Yoga, and I'd done that before, so I figured I'd go right after work and check it out since I would be in Malibu anyway. A quick note about this particular girl friend: she is a yoga master. In addition to being really fun and nice, she is a gorgeous human. She's my 'thinspiration'. Sometimes I tell myself  "Don't you want to look like Sarah? Good, then put down the cookie."

And she can do this. Whilst standing on a cliff. 

Thursday morning, I threw yoga clothes in my car and headed to work. On my way there, I passed the yoga studio, and saw a big sign that said "HOT YOGA". Hmmm, I thought. I'd never done hot yoga before. I'd heard of it. It brought to mind images of sweaty heathens, hallucinations and the word "bikram". Not my scene. When I got to work, I texted Sarah.

Me: Hey. Is this class bikram yoga?
S.D.: No, its Vinyasa Flow.
Me: Oh, phew. okay, I passed a the sign on my way to work that said "HOT YOGA" and it made me nervous.
S.D.: Oh, no it's not bikram. You'll be fine.
Me: Great, see you at 5:30!

I proceeded to go about my day as planned, and ate Jack in the Box for lunch because I figured I could cancel it out later at yoga and eat a salad for dinner. When I arrived at the studio, it was crowded with girls in tiny spandex shorts and sports bras. I was wearing a cotton tank top and yoga pants. It struck me as odd that everyone was wearing shorts, but I dismissed it as a Malibu thing. I quickly made my way to Sarah, signed up for the class and went inside the yoga studio, where I was greeted with a surprise:

It was 105 degrees in there. This is not an exaggeration.

I reminded myself that Sarah had assured me that this was not Bikram yoga, and that I'd be fine. Sarah started the class by telling us how glad she was that we came, and that we  should be proud of ourselves for making time to do a little self-roasting take care of our bodies. She also said that we should listen to our bodies and that if anytime we got uncomfortable, we could always "go back into child's pose and rest" (that's yogi-speak for curl up in the fetal position and moan quietly).

The first three quarters of the class went great. It was hot, I mean really hot, but I felt myself moving smoothly through the poses, and I felt really stable and warmed up. Around an hour into the class I started to feel like I was a little past "warmed up" and I started to feel "well done". I noticed that I was probably the sweatiest girl in the class (everyone else wore shorts. duh), and there were points where I got a tad light headed. I pushed through though,  and found myself chanting the mantra "Don't pass out, you'll look like an idiot, Don't pass out, you'll look like an idiot." Surprisingly, that turned out to be great motivation. I finished up the class, struggling, but proud of myself for sticking it out.

I felt awesome. and accomplished. Like a million bucks. I got in my car and drove home.

Five minutes later, I experienced what I can only describe as the most God-awful hangover of my life. I was still sweaty, and shaking, and had a headache that felt like a midget with a tiny hammer was building a house inside my brain. It was terrible. I got home and stripped off my clothes and laid on my floor in Savasana pose (that's yogi-speak for "playing dead").


After a few minutes, I crawled to my phone and texted Sarah D. 


Me: Hey! LOVED class today! Is it normal to feel a little sick after this type of yoga?
S.D.: Hi! Well, not really, but maybe if you didn't drink enough water. 
Me: Huh, maybe that's it. I don't feel so hot. I might just have the flu. 


Sarah, sweet as can be, expressed her concern, and said I should continue to drink water, and to let her know if I didn't feel better soon. 


The next day, I dragged myself into work, feeling like 10 pesos. I sat at my desk and found the following  guidelines online for the class I had just taken:  

Wear something light weight: a tank top and shorts.*as opposed to pants. Duh.

Drink enough water throughout the day before you arrive at class. *This probably means more than 2 cups. And probably even more if you drink coffee by the gallon. 

Try to avoid eating anything for 3 hours before class. **JBox at 3PM was clearly a poor choice. 


The added warmth protects you from injury, builds stamina and burns twice as many calories as regular yoga. *which is why this class is 10 degrees hotter than normal hot yoga. 

Just be sure to drink water: adequate hydration is important. ***I am an absolute fool. 

 Somehow, I got it into my head that the word "Bikram" was synonymous with "Hot Yoga". It's not. Bikram is just one kind of Hot Yoga. Fun Fact. I basically dehydrated myself to the point of being a human prune. Not Smart. Having said all of that, I actually really enjoyed the class itself, and feel like it's a great way to spice up your regular workouts, and I have gone to more hot yoga classes since my near melting experience. It's an acquired taste, but with correct prep, you feel awesome afterward, and I can totally understand how some people do it every day. 

If you're interested, check out Malibu Sun Yoga. They're great, they have student rates, and really patient and helpful teachers. I highly recommend it. If you go, tell Sarah D. I said hi!

On Food, Love, & Life.

 "Cooking is like love; it should be entered into with complete abandon, or not at all." - Julia Child


Sometimes I'm afraid people read my blog and think my life is too good to be true.

Truthfully, its pretty darn good, so I can't complain, but its not perfect, and neither am I. To prove my point (in case you missed the last post about my dubious experience with criminals), I want reveal one of my many  flaws:

I'm an emotional eater/cook. Some people drink. Some people do drugs. I cook and eat. I cook when I'm happy. I cook when I'm sad. I sometimes cook when I'm angry, or jealous, or bored. It doesn't sound like that big a deal, but when you've had a hard day at work or a fight with a friend, and then you cope by purchasing $68 worth of groceries for one night's dinner, it can become a problem.  On not-so rare occasions, I've then gone home, prepared an elaborate meal that took 3 hours to cook, and a) eaten all of it in one sitting, or b) been too tired to eat more than a few bites. Neither one of these is a good situation (unless you happen to be my roommate in scenario b).

It goes without saying, the more upset or anxious or sad I am, the more intricate the recipe I will probably attempt to make. There's something about cooking that's therapeutic. There's something calming in knowing that even if I can't make my relationships turn out right, I can take 15 ingredients and combine them into something that's going to turn out perfectly. Or at least, its supposed to turn out perfectly.

But things don't always go as planned. Sometimes even the best planned meals burn, or turn out too salty or bland. And sometimes the ones that you throw together at the last minute with whatever is left in your fridge wind up being the best. And sometimes it just takes practice.

Practice reducing a sauce with heavy cream and wine so its not too runny, but also so it doesn't turn into congealed goop.

Practice searing a meat so its flavorful and done, but not dry and tough.

Practice makes food perfect. Except when it doesn't. That's when you sigh,  order thai food take out, and hope it works out better the next time.

There's not always a perfect recipe to make food turn out just right. There sure isn't a recipe for life and relationships.

You just chop, and dice, and sautee, and simmer, and cross your fingers.

And sometimes, just sometimes, its perfect.

                                                                          ~

Below is one of my favorite comfort food recipes, that I stole adapted from my good friend and ex-roommate Liz (she's the author of Twenty-Something). This recipe always makes me feel better. It's something about the richness of wine and heavy cream and the summer-y taste of lemons and artichokes. Enjoy!

Lemon & Rosemary Chicken in White Wine Cream Sauce

Open Letter to the Person Who Broke Into My Car.

Dear Would-be-Car Burglar,

I'm sorry you didn't find whatever it was you were looking for this morning when you went into my parking garage and proceeded to break into my car and dump everything out all over the place. I'm assuming the contents of my car weren't quite what you wanted, because you declined to take any of the following items:

- orange yoga mat
- Starbucks napkins and Jack in the Box straws
- left-handed baseball glove
- tire pressure gauge
- a note my grandpa wrote to me
- 2 parking access cards
- 9 shiny parking tokens
- parking pass (have you ever tried to park in Santa Monica?! or Pepperdine? All this stuff is like gold. Clearly, you're an idiot.)
- various sets of printed directions and lists
- blue beach blanket
- 8 years worth of mix CD's (including Lauryn Hill, Shakira, Paul Simon, and some embarrassing collections from my electronica phase in highschool) I would've given you some of these if you'd asked.
- my registration (I thought you would've taken this, but then I realized it wouldn't do you much good, unless you also planned to steal my hoopty. Alas, you are a petty car burglar not a grand theft auto wizard.)
- [clean] work out clothes
- two of my paintings (one watercolor, one oil. You didn't want to hang those up in your Den of Thieves? I'm insulted.)
- two pairs of black high heels (probably not your size)
- file folder containing records of my car's repairs (this is probably what deterred you from stealing my car.)
 - my stereo

I would actually sincerely like to thank you for not stealing the last item, even though it appears you may have tried. Honestly, this would've bummed me out more than anything else. I need that stereo. And the tape deck adapter.

Clearly, you must be very disappointed with the lack of gold bullion, crack cocaine, and Rolex watches in my car, but really, what did you expect? You broke into a 2003 Honda Civic, for pete's sake!!! For future reference, I keep all the good stuff in my Bentley, which is in the 6-car garage at my Malibu Estate. You're welcome.   


Part of me also wants to thank you for making me take stock of how rich I am in intangibles and things that I don't keep in my car. Things like, friends and family, love, happiness, and sense of humor.

It might appear from this letter that I am very unfazed by this whole thing where you violated my personal space and touched all of my stuff (even though you didn't take anything), but you would be mistaken to think that. Let me be clear: I am pissed. But guess what? There are surveillance cameras in the parking garage. Idiot. I'm mostly annoyed because I love my neighborhood because it's quirky and fun, but it's people like you who give Venice a bad name and screw it up. You're the reason my mother wants me to move the suburbs. You scare nice families and their kids away.

Basically, you suck and I'm glad I didn't have anything worthwhile in my car for you to steal. You can't get me down.

Sincerely,

The girl you tried (and failed) to rob.

P.S. I noticed that you did steal my last piece of gum and leave the wrapper. Rude. You also left my interior lights on, Jerk.

A Tale of Heartbreak

There once was a girl who never had pets as a child because her family moved all the time. All of her friends had dogs, and cats, and gerbils and hamsters, and turtles and crickets and doves.

But this sad girl had no pets. Well, she had a couple of goldfish in college, but they were emo and one of them committed suicide. Anyhow, this girl went through 23 years of life with no pet to call her own, and the longer she lived, the more she realized that she wanted a pet, but she wanted a really special pet. Not a dog, cat, gerbil, hamster, manatee, a cricket or an emu.

Something really special. And one day, she found it.

It was perfect.  A Petite Lap Giraffe.

Through the wonders of the interwebs, the girl found out that these tiny giraffes like air conditioning, hugs and kisses and filtered water, all things which the girl also liked. She also found out they only grew to be about 30 inches tall, which meant it would be the perfect size pet for a girl who lived in a studio apartment in Venice.

The girl spent lots of time reading about Petite Lap Giraffes and trying to figure out how to get on the waitlist to buy one from a farm in Russia. She also spent time day dreaming about how happy she would be when she and her tiny giraffe could run around the beach and frolic merrily in the sun.

And then it happened: The girl saw a commercial with a petite lap giraffe in it! She watched the commercial excitedly, and showed it to her friends and her Mom too. For some reason though, her Mom seemed to doubt the actual existence of the Lap Giraffes. The girl scoffed at her mother, and quickly set about proving her wrong in the most efficient and reputable method possible: Wikipedia.

Unfortunately, that backfired, because she found that there was no wiki page for lap giraffes. She then employed Step #2 of the Scientific Method: Google searching "are petite lap giraffes real?"

From this point, a downward spiral occurred that left the girl reeling in shock and anguish. Several blogs pointed out that the pictures of Lap Giraffes were actually stock photos with giraffes photo shopped in. Others pointed out the the Sokoblovsky Farms website where the giraffes could be purchased was actually a website run by a media company that does advertisements for DirectTV.

It all fell into place with a crushing and terrible devastation. The girl's beloved lap giraffe, who loved filtered water, hugs, and bonsai trees, was a hoax.

This is a cautionary tale about the cruelty of DirectTV and the internet. Make no mistake, this can happen to you. Adults and children alike have fallen into this terrible trap of fictitious lovable pets, and so I felt it was important to let this be a lesson to everyone:

Lap Giraffes are not real, and Direct TV is no closer to gaining my business because of their dirty, dirty advertising tricks.