tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19347966986035443552024-02-24T00:35:58.552-08:00Wine Will Fix ItGrab your bagged wine and stay awhilewinewillfixit@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00425733595292438029noreply@blogger.comBlogger82125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1934796698603544355.post-924850343179740382014-03-24T08:55:00.003-07:002014-03-24T08:55:25.701-07:00New cleaner, environmentally friendly websiteIf you're still reading this and by god, I applaud you for sticking with an inactive website, then mosey on over to <a href="http://www.winewillfixit.com/">www.winewillfixit.com</a> where Wine Wine Fix It has migrated. Thank you for all of your support. <br />
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Jenniwinewillfixit@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00425733595292438029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1934796698603544355.post-40436269326608392402012-11-01T15:16:00.003-07:002012-11-01T15:30:30.661-07:00Shameful High School Celebrity Crushes<br />
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="line-height: 115%;">Because I
was nerdy cool before nerdy cool was a thing, I spent my high school years believing
no one could relate to me in terms of what I was wearing, or reading or
listening to on my Sony Discman. BTW –
we’ve all forgotten about those handy devices.
Or atleast I had until <a href="http://knityourfaceoff.tumblr.com/">my friend</a> had the brilliant idea that she was
going to buy one before we embark on our motorcycle camping trip next weekend. She wanted to play music in the forest and felt a discman and portable stereos were a brilliant solution. And then it dawned her that Ipods can do the same thing. While she may be living in the hear and now,
her heart and soul would like the remain firmly in the 90s. And while I have been begging for a Nirvana
coverband for years, I recognize that some things that you used to cherish should
remain in the past, undisturbed, and never talked about again.</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 115%;"><u>On that
note, I give you the list of men I lusted after in high school who I should not
have (for various , surprising reasons)</u></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span><b><span style="line-height: 115%;">1) Pedro Zamora (of “Real World” fame)</span></b><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9WCr5xE0xao/UJL0NUxDiXI/AAAAAAAACRs/g_JgE4HWnP0/s1600/Pedro-San-Francisco_l.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9WCr5xE0xao/UJL0NUxDiXI/AAAAAAAACRs/g_JgE4HWnP0/s320/Pedro-San-Francisco_l.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">I'm staring directly into your soul</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 115%;">If you’re
not familiar with the “Real World San Francisco” let me catch you up to speed
on three </span><b style="line-height: 115%;">very</b><span style="line-height: 115%;"> important facts about
Pedro: (1) He was openly gay (2) He had AIDs and (3) he died. Those three facts did not stop me from developing
a fantasy life in my head where Pedro and I could be together forever. He was an AIDS awareness advocate who joined
the cast of The Real World to get his message about HIV and AIDs across to a
wider audience. And much more important
to me at the time – he was handsome, articulate and bilingual. These three things combined were enough to set
off a fire of desire in my belly. I
crushed on Pedro the way <a href="http://winewillfixit.blogspot.fr/2011/04/grandma-diet.html">my grandmother</a> crushed on Elvis, well past his death
and to an unnerving degree. The crush
was so </span><span style="line-height: 21px;">embarrassingly</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> obvious that my step dad gave me </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Pedro-Me-Friendship-Loss-Learned/dp/0805089640" style="line-height: 115%;">a comic book about Pedro</a><span style="line-height: 115%;">
as a Christmas gift when I was in college, 6 years after Pedro’s death. I laughed it off and then ran to the bathroom
to read it in its entirety. Death and
disease cannot keep soul mates apart, people. </span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span><br />
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><b><br /></b></span><span style="line-height: 115%;"><b>2) Liam and
Noel Gallagher (Singer/Guitarist, Oasis)</b></span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-n6KDymsX-7w/UJL0aAyHZvI/AAAAAAAACR0/kF_pwMqu2mA/s1600/liam+and+noel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-n6KDymsX-7w/UJL0aAyHZvI/AAAAAAAACR0/kF_pwMqu2mA/s320/liam+and+noel.jpg" width="286" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Look at my face, ignore my music</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 115%;">What. The. Fuck. This is a horrible band. And not Creed or Nickleback horrible but
offensively horrible. If you’re an
attractive male pop singer looking for massive audience appeal, I will nod in acceptance that you and I both know you have made
shitty music (cough cough Rob Thomas of Matchbox 20). But if you claim to be bigger than the
Beatles (as Oasis did in the 90s), there should be some immediate and swift
John Lennon style karma that falls in your lap and squeezes your
testicles. And not only should this
HAPPEN, I should be the first person in line at British Airways to get on a plane
and kick you in the junk. Ziggy Marley
proclaimed “Love is my religion” and I stand here letting you know that THE
BEATLES are MY RELIGION. And Michael
Stipe should have called me out because as soon as I decided to become obsessed
with Oasis, that was me in the corner, losing my religion. At one point I owned every. single. album.
Oasis had. I even had Noel Gallagher
collaborations with The Chemical Brothers (those songs are actually good). And I went to Towers Records in pursuit of </span><span style="line-height: 20px;">British</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> music magazines with Noel and Liam on the cover so that I could stare at them
before I went to sleep. I had Oasis geocities fan pages book marked on my
browser. It was </span><span style="line-height: 21px;">embarrassing</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> Now, if you are pro-Oasis (and I’m not sure
why you would be) you will argue that their first album </span><i style="line-height: 115%;">Definitely, Maybe</i><span style="line-height: 115%;"> is actually a good solid garage rock sound. But then when you bring a date home and you’re
sharing a bottle of wine on the couch, I’m going to sneak into your apartment
and play Champagne Supernova on repeat.
I dare you defend your love of Oasis now. </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 115%;"><b>3) Luke Perry (Beverly
Hills 90210 years)</b></span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vxNY8IsaAvE/UJL0sHRXVAI/AAAAAAAACR8/KxZudtHxvAo/s1600/luke-perry7%255B1%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vxNY8IsaAvE/UJL0sHRXVAI/AAAAAAAACR8/KxZudtHxvAo/s320/luke-perry7%255B1%255D.jpg" width="272" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">I will never. ever. wear a condom</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 115%;">The 90s were
a divisive decade. You were a Pearl Jam
or a Nirvana fan. A Chicago Bulls or a
New York Knicks Fan. And you were a Luke
Perry girl or a Jason Priestley girl.
And despite the fact that </span><a href="http://winewillfixit.blogspot.jp/2012/10/shit-i-loved-in-high-school.html" style="line-height: 115%;">I prided myself on going against the grain and not giving into horrible pop cultures whims</a><span style="line-height: 115%;">, I became victim to the superstorm
that was Beverly Hills, 90210. Despite
wanting to keep my trashy tv virginity for as long as humanly possible, I could
not be chaste when confronted with a man who made you wonder if James Dean and
Matt Dillon had a hot son. Luke Perry as Dylan McKay was my ultimate bad
boy. He had drinking problems, gambling
problems, fidelity problems and if we’re fair, acting problems. But I loved him nonetheless. My love of Luke Perry speaks directly to my
low self esteem and vulnerability at that age.
If I loved myself then I would love Jason Priestley for all of his
preppy, soon to be CEO looks and charm. But
the teenage heart wants to make up for a crippling sense of self worth and a fear
that you are not good enough for the boy with dimples who has a future. So you seek out the man who outwardly
represents the chaos that is in your inner life – Luke Perry on a </span><span style="line-height: 21px;">motorcycle</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> I rest my case. </span>winewillfixit@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00425733595292438029noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1934796698603544355.post-1635489079967027212012-10-18T14:57:00.004-07:002012-10-18T16:40:40.463-07:00Shit I Loved In High School<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">In the suburbs of Chicago in the 90s, the word “hipster”
wasn’t part of the vernacular. The cool
people in my family were going to Lollapalooza, hiding pot in their bed frames
(true story) and having sex. I was
spending eons at the Palatine library reading weird little short stories from
Native American authors and getting dropped off at Tower Records to listen to
BritPop from the 60s on oversized head phones (The Kinks anyone?). My parents attempted to make me a normal
teenager by driving me ALL THE WAY TO LINCOLN PARK to get cool clothes at Urban
Outfitters. But looking cool was way too
fucking oppressive for me. And besides,
I had a secret love of gingham. So I
adorned myself in <a href="http://winewillfixit.blogspot.fr/2010/12/relationships-outside-of-catalogue.html">wool sweaters from J Crew</a> that aged me about 20 years and got
horrible red highlights. Take that,
society!</span></div>
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<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sTpXSrHorXc/UIB8yhcMZ2I/AAAAAAAACQs/ViyUr1V60PY/s1600/jcrewsweater.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sTpXSrHorXc/UIB8yhcMZ2I/AAAAAAAACQs/ViyUr1V60PY/s320/jcrewsweater.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Fast forward to “adulthood” where all of my useless
knowledge of writing, music and (recently) food has made me someone that people
want to talk while drinking craft beers.
For years, my parents insisted that one day I’d be cool enough to rule
the world and it did not matter than no one was trying to finger bang me before
prom. And as long as patient, tortured,
awkwardly intellectual teenagers hold out for 12 years, they will one day be
cool (<s>as long as you live in Venice Beach</s>). So to
you children, I say REMAIN A SNOB. Do
not waiver on your disgust of your peers who love Britney Spears and think that
Stephanie Myers counts as literature.
Hold out a few more years and you will be banging bearded dudes in
Portland and waxing poetic about Intelligentsia coffee. Your snobbiness and
inability to connect with your peers is a gift I tell you!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And in the spirit of understanding that geeky things you
used to love will one day turn cool … I give you the highly edited list of
things I loved in high school:</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Supergrass “Alright”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/qUE4oDunYkc?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">This song came on at a french restaurant last week in Omaha,
Nebraksa and I about fell off of my chair. I told the chef “I love this song” to which he
replied “It’s Supergrass” like he was dropping some knowledge on me. Jokes on him when I sang the entire song to
him from memory. Also, didn’t Fun. just rip off these lyrics? Thank god Supergrass
was cool before Flight of the Conchords ruined sideburns and long hair. I forgive them, however, as nothing screams hipster
like loving New Zealand comedians. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nieAbHTn2lo/UIB9JcvLzBI/AAAAAAAACQ0/3lDroDbuDVE/s1600/FlightofTheConchords.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="229" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nieAbHTn2lo/UIB9JcvLzBI/AAAAAAAACQ0/3lDroDbuDVE/s320/FlightofTheConchords.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Christian Bale</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WKG8udVop6I/UIB6HMwydQI/AAAAAAAACQU/EewTHy5lY6Q/s1600/ChristianBaleWoolCoat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="210" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WKG8udVop6I/UIB6HMwydQI/AAAAAAAACQU/EewTHy5lY6Q/s320/ChristianBaleWoolCoat.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Did you know who Christian Bale was in 1994? Be honest.
If you saw Newsies, I’ll give you that but then you completely forgot
about him when you started crushing Jonathan Taylor Thomas from Home
Improvement. I, however, never doubted
that Christian Bale was the greatest thing that ever happened to me because he
was (a) British (b) beautiful (c) appeared to have talent and (d) seemed
like if you ever dated him he’d make
good on the promise to ruin you completely. I decided I loved him again in 1994 because “Little
Women” came out – which appealed to so many of my synapses I almost
exploded. Well known female author. Movie Adaptation. Characters with a fuck load of feelings. And Gabriel Byrne. Enter Christian Bale as “Laurie” and you can
bet that all of my future romantic fantasies would involve dapper wool coats.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Ben Folds Five</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/R7BUG8LOd8A?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I went to a Ben Folds concert in Los Angeles a few years
ago. I struggled to decide whether or
not I should mention that the place next door to that concert venue serves gourmet
sausages and craft beers, but why not.
<a href="http://www.bluepalmsbrewhouse.com/">Go knock yourselves out kids.</a> But
back to the story – I looked around at the audience assuming the theater would
be full of people my age that loved navy cardigans and went to liberal arts
colleges. But no. I was shocked to find actual TEENAGERS
jamming out to Ben Folds. Like people
half my age, who thought there were actually five members of Ben Folds
Five. I went through the twelve stages
of grief upon learning that one of my fave high school bands was relevant and
cool. For the record, if you look at my senior
year book you will see that my favorite song was listed as “Kate” from Ben
Folds Five. 90% of my high school class
wrote “Time of Your Life” by Green Day.
If you really hate me, figure out a way to play that Green Day song at
my funeral.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Costa Rica</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Bd-MvPNilRM/UIB7CTvDr7I/AAAAAAAACQc/O3WFJ5gL4y0/s1600/CostaRicaFrog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="143" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Bd-MvPNilRM/UIB7CTvDr7I/AAAAAAAACQc/O3WFJ5gL4y0/s320/CostaRicaFrog.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">There was a time and a place when if you told people you
were heading to Costa Rica, they assumed you were part of a missionary trip or
you were building houses. My high school
hosted a study abroad trip to Costa Rica that my parents paid for me to attend
as a graduation present. So that meant I
got to study abroad, with my high school, two weeks after I stopped being a
student. For those of you who haven’t
done the math yet, that meant that if I drank and slept my way through Central
America, I had absolutely no one to answer to (except my primary care
physician). So imagine my surprise when
I arrived, not in the third world wasteland that I was told about, but in
fucking paradise, surrounded by monkeys, active volcanoes, pina coladas and
famous soccer players. And tree frogs. Real poisonous tree frogs. Not the stuffed ones you buy while eating sliders at The Rain Forest Cafe at Woodfield. The trip expanded
my horizons and opened my eyes and all of that bullshit, but more importantly
it gave me the most BADASS STORY of my entire life. I nearly died on a white water rafting trip,
people. I was knocked off the raft and
dragged over boulders for miles as I struggled to stay alive. THIS ACTUALLY HAPPENED. You cannot remain uncool with this kind of
reality. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Wes Anderson</span></b></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gIHU7IXwlns/UIB-It4d_1I/AAAAAAAACQ8/xf85eZrFgwc/s1600/bottlerocket.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gIHU7IXwlns/UIB-It4d_1I/AAAAAAAACQ8/xf85eZrFgwc/s1600/bottlerocket.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">While you were tearin’ up your heart with N’Sync
I was watching weird independent movies.
When I was a little girl, my dad would take me to <a href="http://www.facets.org/">Facets in Chicago</a> for
an international childrens film festival where you’d see women breast feeding 9
year olds on screen. This to me felt
like a normal day at the movies.
Subsequently, I missed the boat on the movies you are supposed to love
as a 14 year old girl … basically anything that involves Meg Ryan. Romantic comedies confuse and anger me. And I call them comedies out of midwestern
politeness, not because I believe that they are funny in any way (next up: my
hatred of Tosh.O). Do you know what is
hilarious? Wes Anderson’s 1994 film “Bottle
Rocket.” It’s the first time audiences
saw the powerhouse trio of The Wilsons + Wes Anderson. It’s fucking hilarious. It’s so amazing, even Martin Scorsese named
it one of his top 10 films of the 90s. It
left such an impression on me, that I forced my dad to take me to see Rushmore
the day it came out. That puts me in the
same league as Portlanders who wear smoking jackets and eat macaroons. And to think – you were watching City of
Angels, trying to cop a feel on Tracy from remedial math.</span></span>winewillfixit@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00425733595292438029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1934796698603544355.post-74946167534873566002012-05-18T06:54:00.000-07:002012-05-18T06:54:13.872-07:00Dear reader, a foreward<br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<i><span style="color: red;">****This is stuff for the memoir******</span></i></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
When children are born I assume all parents share the same vague dreams for their future offspring. When you are an in the womb, mothers and fathers worry mightily about your physical health. Once it’s determined that you are not predisposed to a genetic illness they can safely go on hoping that one day you will lead a “happy life.” Then when there are financial and emotional struggles between the two parents during the infant through toddler years, they pray that your neophyte brain has not picked up on the turmoil and that you will, in fact, not turn out to be a junkie. You start kindergarten and they wish deeply in the middle of the night, that children will not punch you and tell you that you are ugly. And then at some point, when they realize that you seem to be a well adjusted child who has not is not a moving target for the sharp arrows of bullies – they believe that perhaps this is the time to breathe a sigh of relief. That is until, the day that school officials tell them that their child is gifted. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
Getting into the gifted program is one of the most destructive things that can ever happen to a child. I suppose that some people revel in the opportunity to consider themselves “special” and “above average.” But when you are me, this is not the case. To be told that you are gifted is not only an evaluation of your intellectual capacity and aptitude for academic success. It is indeed also (more importantly) an albatross that one must carry in the hallways of grade school as mightily as other children carry primary colored lunch boxes and oversized pencils. </div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
My grade school revealed their evaluation of my giftedness to my parents as dramatically and vaguely as an 11 year girl might announce she has a crush on “a certain boy” to her 6th grade class. My parents - penniless college students in education and psychology – were probably better equipped to receive the news than most. They had an understanding that children adjust to labels like Floridians adjust to the news that a hurricane will eventually destroy their home. That is to say, Floridians and children assume that everything will be exactly the same until the day that they see that everything they believed to be secure and absolute has been pushed through an industrial paper shredder. Armed with the fear that I might turn into a giant parental nightmare, they decided to deliver the information as swiftly and cryptically as possible. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
My mom announced to me, in the kitchen after school, that she had received a letter from my school. Next to a wooden napkin holder and a set of keys, there was an off white envelope resting on the built in table with my full name on the front. I knew two things to be true in that moment at the age of 7. One – that everything that I ever needed to know about myself was printed on beige paper and two – that my mom was never going to let me look inside. She said she had just received the results of my IQ score and she had to talk to me about them. And in a moment of cosmic lucidity she explained “the results suggest you are very intelligent. Much more intelligent than most. But if I tell you what your score is, it will change your life forever. So I won’t.” Her brevity on the subject was alarming. My mother has never been short of speech on anything in her entire life and certainly has never let my obvious levels of discomfort sway her from proceeding in embarrassing conversations. To date – she had already trapped me (during an innocuous ride to the library) in a conversation about the dirty details of intercourse and the strict definition of homosexuality. These were subjects she insisted I should ask more questions about if I ever felt curious. There was an absolute open door policy when it came to sex. But my confusion and fear about the envelope and the test score did not provoke more discussion. The entire conversation died the second after she declared “So I won’t.” And then that particular fact was never brought up again. </div>winewillfixit@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00425733595292438029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1934796698603544355.post-59787021946883952312012-04-29T09:04:00.004-07:002012-04-29T09:13:23.396-07:00Not a Travis<br />
<i><span style="color: red;"><b>Author's note: I'm working on a memoir so I'm going to throw out some of the excerpts. Your feedback is appreciated. And now you can stop telling me you're sad I'm not writing anymore.</b></span></i><br />
<br />
The Travis' had a lot of money. This I was certain of. The front room of the Travis home displayed oversized paintings with neon streaks on severe metallic backgrounds. There were soulless glass decorative bowls. Theirs was a house of cats. There were probably 6 of them but you only ever saw one - who would meow "fuck you little girl" as it walked over your face when you were sitting on the leather couch. Even at the age of 7, I understood that interior decoration and unfriendly pets were the accessories of the wealthy. <br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
I was best friends with the daughter - Nicole. Nicole rarely spoke and spent a lot of time painting dolphins and playing piano. I spent my free time inhaling books at the library, creating inoperable inventions and writing long winded plays. She often invited me to sleepover at her palace where her parents Bill and Hinda Travis and the alleged 6 cats lived.<br />
<br />
Her mom worked at a bank. She was very serious. You could ascertain the seriousness of her personality by the short length of her hair cut and her inability to smile. It was at this age that I decided that either women who worked could not have feelings or that banks are a very cruel place to spend your time. Her dad Bill sold dental equipment and was the kind of man who looked undernourished regardless of his food intake. He wore faded blue jeans with white tennis shoes and composed new age jazz music on the side.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GLdp5yqA3Ls/T51nqJJJMhI/AAAAAAAACI8/ZFZx74ehwog/s1600/uglywhiteshoes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GLdp5yqA3Ls/T51nqJJJMhI/AAAAAAAACI8/ZFZx74ehwog/s320/uglywhiteshoes.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Their daughter was a burgeoning pianist and had done actual things with her life. Real accomplishments before her breasts had formed. There were medals and concertos and strict piano teachers who insisted on keeping their appointments in odd minute increments - Nicole always left for a37 minute piano lesson and sometimes if she had behaved - they stretched it to 45. <br />
<br />
I had no interest in the piano. Perhaps because I'm not gifted musically and perhaps because it was the kind of thing that my parents couldn't afford. Having hobbies that required more than your imagination led a child down a dangerously expensive path - first there is the purchasing of the baby grand piano, then the weekly checks written to an 80 year old music teacher, then the gas used to watch the young daughter perform 2 hours away in a concert for the melodically and financially gifted. No no. I was not a Travis. My only hobby was my mind.<br />
<br />
Hinda Travis took a vested interest in <a href="http://winewillfixit.blogspot.com/2011/02/my-brief-musical-theater-career.html">my self invented theatrical career</a>. Hinda said she had a friend growing up who ended up on Who's The Boss. "She was just like you" - Hinda said. "A lot of personality and no fear." This woman had convinced me that I had what it took to succeed. It was hard to disagree with her authority. This was a woman who had a treadmill in her bedroom.<br />
<br />
Once while eating string cheese at their kitchen counter, Hinda asked politely where my dad lived. "The city" I said and kept munching. "What kind of place does he live in?" she inquired. "A studio" I replied. Nicole asked what a studio was. Hinda explained -- "it's a room as big as where we stayed when we went to visit Nana in Florida." "That small?" Nicole said. "That small," Hinda replied.winewillfixit@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00425733595292438029noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1934796698603544355.post-43622248518880614332011-06-22T16:58:00.001-07:002011-06-22T20:47:17.641-07:00The day I realized I had two good friends in California<div class="MsoNormal">It was a six hour drive to Mammoth. In the “perfect for road trips” kind of car. A large SUV with big open windows where one could watch the land change from urban sprawl to snow. The car was lived in enough to contain treasures – happy meal toys, scratched cds of bands we hadn’t heard from since the 90s, sun faded magazines and smashed granola bars. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sr8k9Sh7v2A/TgK3KxUnLNI/AAAAAAAABwA/CuI9j1I104w/s1600/IMG_0601.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sr8k9Sh7v2A/TgK3KxUnLNI/AAAAAAAABwA/CuI9j1I104w/s320/IMG_0601.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We left <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Los Angeles</st1:place></st1:city> as early as we could force ourselves to get up on a Friday. The “we” was Ashley, Mike and I. Although we never call him Mike, he’s a last name only kind of guy. Ashley and Mike lived together in college in <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New Hampshire</st1:place></st1:state>. In some kind of enginerd uber house. <a href="http://winewillfixit.blogspot.com/2011/04/glazed-ham-zombie-jesus-and-natural.html">Ashley</a> is sharp and no nonsense. Mike is funny and for lack of a better word, laid back. All of us had <a href="http://winewillfixit.blogspot.com/2010/12/guide-to-happyalbeit-chaotic-life.html">left the East Coast for some reason or another</a> for <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:state w:st="on">California</st1:state></st1:place>. We had bumped into each other’s lives like buoys in the ocean. Rising and sinking together against new tides. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">On the way to Mammoth, we stopped at Costco to pick up food and beverage. With churros and hot dogs in hand, we grabbed everything we saw. How many peanuts can hungry skiers eat throughout a weekend? Despite three masters degrees between us, we couldn’t figure it out. So we just kept buying. Large bags of meat balls. 12 cans of green beans. 5 carbon tubes of parmesan. Beer. More beer and liquor. And a case of wine. It’s better to be starving than suddenly become thirsty. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We were giddy and playful when we couldn’t fit our purchases in the trunk of Mike’s car. It’s fun to play Tetris with ski poles, overnight bags and the ingredients for ham sandwiches. And after we failed to pack everything, I happily sat in my seat with a case of beer on my lap, clutching bags of snacks with my sweaty palms. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3zySP0uvMmc/TgK0hpJiStI/AAAAAAAABvw/5ugn-8rWXdg/s1600/IMG_0493.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3zySP0uvMmc/TgK0hpJiStI/AAAAAAAABvw/5ugn-8rWXdg/s320/IMG_0493.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yep. This is actually what we bought for the weekend.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">While on the road to Mammoth you may discover that you’re thirsty, perhaps for a bottle of beer that’s warming in the case stuck on your lap. The problem with smart people who are incapable of planning is that they tend not to remember beer openers for the car. Ashley got desperate enough to attempt to open beer bottles with seat belts. I considered smashing the bottles open against oncoming cars. Finally Mike pulled over to a gas station where we could purchase an opener. Inside the station, I saw a craft beer in the refrigerator case that caught my eye from Mammoth Brewing Company. There were two styles – “Epic” and “Paranoid” ale. I grabbed the Paranoid. Mike found me at the cashier and said “wait a minute, this could be an omen for the weekend – you should really grab the Epic instead.” Ashley and I popped open the Epic beers in the car. Mike’s hipster tunes circulated our vehicle. His grins could be detected behind his wayfarers.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-szduG0fkmOs/TgK005TB6WI/AAAAAAAABv0/bv-tBTGYMoY/s1600/IMG_0495.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-szduG0fkmOs/TgK005TB6WI/AAAAAAAABv0/bv-tBTGYMoY/s320/IMG_0495.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When people commit to spending a weekend with you then you can safely assume they like you. That or they really think you are fun when you’re drunk. Sometimes a friend and a drinking buddy are the same thing. And long road trips up the coast solidify that bond.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XQRQhKN_n-k/TgK2NgEzavI/AAAAAAAABv8/5KIQjusUoHE/s1600/IMG_0507.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XQRQhKN_n-k/TgK2NgEzavI/AAAAAAAABv8/5KIQjusUoHE/s320/IMG_0507.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The only IPA for an EPIC weekend.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><br />
</div>winewillfixit@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00425733595292438029noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1934796698603544355.post-65794403683776083532011-06-20T14:00:00.001-07:002011-06-20T14:00:04.988-07:00The most delicious of miracles<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There’s only one place to wash away your sins when you’ve abandoned your holier self. And that is Chipotle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Never has one restaurant been more of a comfort to me in the bowels of the worst hangovers of my life.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was there for me after my 22<sup>nd</sup> birthday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That night three friends, a bouncer and a cabbie had to put me down while I was shouted at hot boys and waived my princess wand. Then there were uncomfortable levels of nausea in my friends’ converted one bedroom apartment and eventually the glorious sleep of a woman who should have been declared dead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only thing that motivated me to leave the couch the next day (besides relief from the putrid odor of vomit) was that there was a Chipotle down the street from my friends.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When you are dragging from the previous night of heavy drinking, entering Chipotle is like crawling back into the womb.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You know you’ve failed as an adult and it’s time to give up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Grab a barbacoa burrito and hang your head in shame.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t attempt to shower.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t even put on pants.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Your mother’s womb and Chipotle serve the same purpose – to feed you at your most vulnerable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And whether you are covered in glitter or embryonic fluid – you will be filled with love in your state of nakedness and disgrace.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I consumed too much rum and beer this past Friday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or maybe the rum and the beer consumed me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And so I slept until well after most of the living world had finished their triathlon practice and <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I drove myself to the walkable Chipotle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stared at the board of delicious choices and resigned myself to a 1,500 calorie solution to a 2,000 calorie mojito problem.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I hid in a shady spot in an outdoor courtyard and consumed my tortilla of humiliation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And ever so slowly, with forkfuls of chipotle lime rice – I felt like Lazarus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I found my powers of speech, color returned to the landscape around me and my body could move in predictable ways.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That is to say – Chipotle is my Jesus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As it has the power to raise the dead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>winewillfixit@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00425733595292438029noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1934796698603544355.post-36517798313546594172011-06-16T20:06:00.000-07:002011-06-16T20:13:06.510-07:00We're all really just beginningI like to take beginner's yoga. It might seem strange considering that <a href="http://winewillfixit.blogspot.com/2011/03/if-you-dont-like-yoga-youre-probably.html">I've been at this whole yoga thing for a little while</a>. Besides me, everyone in the class is new. They're usually scared and confused. They don't want to look stupid. They're really afraid to fail. The teacher takes things slowly and thoroughly explain each asana. She is patient and never scolds. Beginner's classes require a lot of acceptance - about yourself and where you're really at. You're encouraged to take breaks when your body reminds you that you need them. You're often encouraged to smile.<br />
<br />
I like beginner's classes because it reminds me from where I started. A girl who could barely touch her toes. A girl who thought sanskrit was useless. A girl whose chakras were pretty closed. I'm always surprised when I stumble in beginner's class and my instinct is to chastise myself. Haven't I been at this for five days a week for months? Shouldn't I have mastered everything there is to learn about yoga's first steps? But unfortunately even master guitar players stumble on a few chords. And there will be tree poses that I won't hold.<br />
<br />
In life there is always room for you in the beginner's class. <a href="http://tinybuddha.com/blog/how-losing-everything-can-give-you-even-more/">Circumstances may force you back to the starting block.</a> And that's not the time to panic. Just start at the beginning with the basics. Figure out if you need to be where you are currently living. Decide if the relationships in your life are genuine. Find a job that doesn't choke you. Breathe. Give up the need to control.<br />
<br />
<br />
And one more thing - I highly suggest you try smiling.winewillfixit@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00425733595292438029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1934796698603544355.post-18265066742714276012011-06-13T20:31:00.000-07:002011-06-14T09:53:20.026-07:00The magic timer that lives inside of every manI spent a good two years trying not to care anymore that <a href="http://winewillfixit.blogspot.com/2011/04/year-of-crazy.html">my college boyfriend </a>cheated on me and subsequently broke my heart. The first six months post break up, I tried to ignore the feelings of utter despair and madness through drinking heavily and flinging myself at every available man roaming Lake Shore Drive. I also buried myself in my grad student work. This led to some low moments, such as falling drunk in a guy's bathroom and inadvertently peeing in his bath tub and high moments like kicking every single person's ass in class. It was during this time that I kept telling myself that it was a great thing that College Boyfriend had run away with his student and I was now single and alone. I even made a mental list of the positives in case reality sunk in on the train and I had nowhere to hide and cry. <br />
<br />
<br />
<ol><li>I didn't have to worry about the frequency of which I had to shave my legs </li>
<li>I would never have to hang out with his evil friend Charlton </li>
<li>I would never again be forced to go snowboarding</li>
<li>I no longer had to admit I was dating a Republican</li>
<li>I was free to revenge sex his old roommate (I never claimed to be a saint)</li>
</ol><br />
<br />
But regardless of the clear and evident perks, I still spent every night wishing he would magically appear in my sleep and all of the sadness would evaporate. Some nights he would call but nothing would ever materialize. Every conversation led to one of us remembering why there was an end. And then the calls became less frequent, my drunken escapades calmed down and I took an awesome job. I used the one trump I have for getting over failed relationships - I moved to a state my ex didn't live in. I started building my career, forming new friendships, figuring out what my hobbies looked like when they weren't shared with someone else. I attempted running and knitting. I spent far too much money at the mall. And somewhere between expensive denim purchases and long car rides listening to Ben Folds, my attachment to that old relationship melted. And I started to see myself as independent from the "we" that we used to have.<br />
<br />
And one day, whilst living in HIS dream city of Boston I got a call from College Boyfriend. He was coming in town on a business trip. He asked if he could see me for dinner. I think I gave him all of 4 minutes to talk to me on the phone. I had friends to see that weekend. I didn't have time for him. But the plans with friends fell through and I thought, what the fuck might as well see him. I knew the heart strings he once monopolized could no longer be pulled. And we spent all evening out in the city together. We went from cocktail bar to wine bar, to late night hot dogs in the South End. And at the end of the night he stayed over. Sleeping on the cold side of my bed while I was curled up on the other side and refused to touch him. I was finally immune to his charms.<br />
<br />
That was the last time that I ever saw him. And in two short years times had really changed. I went from a needy girl who missed him to a woman who didn't think he deserved the time of day. And yes - to answer your next question he kept calling. And I stopped answering.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">There is a magical device that lets men know to the second the day that you no longer care about him. This also marks day one of when he typically decides to come back into your life. Women also have a timer - it's the day that they give up on you and decide to move on and live their dream life. And if you're lucky, really lucky - you may make it before the buzzer goes off and find some space still in her heart that she's willing to share.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div>winewillfixit@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00425733595292438029noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1934796698603544355.post-76493711930488927842011-06-06T20:30:00.000-07:002011-06-06T20:32:54.301-07:00Life's little checklistsI'm not sure who was watching and who was taking score, but for a significant portion of my life I wanted to impress the judges. I wanted to hit those major life milestones by all of the appropriate ages. I wanted to hit my career stride by 25. I wanted to live in New York and have a nice rent controlled apartment. I wanted a boyfriend with a serious financial type job. I wanted to like jazz and get invited to exclusive parties. I've always been a good student. And in life, I don't like turning in incomplete assignments. <br />
<div><br />
</div><div>But this year I've realized that none of the deadlines that I've imposed on my life are real. Where I'm at is pretty much where I'm going to be and since I don't want to measure myself against the usual statistics I'm trying to figure out a new way to measure my growth. </div><div><br />
</div><div>There are things I've done this year that are probably pretty impressive professionally. And things that I've done this year that are disappointing personally. And when I look at the changes that I've made in my life I can't help but remember that I used to fucking hate mustard. Mustard was the enemy. It appeared everywhere on all of my favorite foods, even when I didn't ask for it. There is a pro-mustard agenda in this country. There is only one brand of ketchup and literally thousands of mustard companies. It is everywhere, infiltrating our picnics and our company barbecues. And one day they will figure out a way to preserve our dead bodies with it. Just to spite me for a lifetime of hating the yellow goo the rest of you seem to fucking love.</div><div><br />
</div><div>But the universe has a sense of humor. And one day this year I was at a nice beer bar with friends and ordered a plate of delicious sausage. And it came with an accoutrement of mustards. And I thought since I'm abandoning some old views of who I am I might as well go ahead and give the old bastard a try. And I shit you not, it's delicious. And I can't really explain why I hated it my whole life.</div><div><br />
</div><div>There have been so many changes in my life this year. And there are areas where I continue to stumble. And I'm not married and I don't have kids. I don't live in New York and I'm not that cool. But the fact that I've learned to like mustard after all of these years must mean something. Because I think I'm starting to look at the world with fresh eyes.</div>winewillfixit@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00425733595292438029noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1934796698603544355.post-5122468034975154622011-06-01T16:50:00.001-07:002012-10-18T16:45:33.421-07:00Anatomy of a friendship<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have a friend Matt who is both younger and smarter than
me. We met in high school. We weren’t
supposed to be friends. I was an
ambitious future East Coaster and Matt liked to write plays. I believed in the promise of a better life in
Cambridge or New Haven. Matt believed in
the power of his words. The only thing
we shared was a love of debate. At 16,
in an inarticulate suburb of Chicago, that was reason enough to become friends.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It isn’t easy to be friends with Matt. Mainly because if you really want to get a
hold of him there is no reason to call.
He is someone who has managed to live his entire life without picking up
the phone. So I’ve recognized that if
there’s anything important to discuss with him, its best done in person. He’s the oldest young person that I know.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I often worry that I am a bad friend to Matt. Bad because once when I visited him, I told
him that he needed to grow up and realize that life is about money and staying
one step ahead of your peers. Matt was
directing plays in North Carolina and taking care of prop pigeons on the
side. I was drowning in the weight of my
ego in Boston, anchored to the idea of corporate success. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes I can be a good friend to Matt. Like when he dated the vessel of a girl which
contained a body but not a soul. He
relied on me for direct communication with her after the break up. When delivering painful feedback, it’s best
to send in a heartless East Coast representative. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Matt and I spend the majority of our time together
arguing. We always argue about the same
thing. I am cynical about
everything. He believes in the power of
man. When I visit Matt I show him the
scars on my heart and ask him to examine them.
I want him to see what the world has done. I want him to show him evidence that the game
of thinking positively is a sham. The
problem is that when you’re around Matt the scars seem shallower, the wounds
start to heal over and your evidence disappears. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It seems profoundly simple to say that I have someone in my
life who believes in me. And it seems
crazy to suggest that having him in my life helps me become better at who I
am. But that’s the thing about
friendships. They’re rarely measured by phone calls or birthdays. But by the intent of the person sitting
across from you when you’re there. </div>
<br />
</div>
winewillfixit@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00425733595292438029noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1934796698603544355.post-64587437775605639822011-05-18T11:05:00.000-07:002011-05-18T11:11:33.399-07:00Into The Tea Leaves<div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dy3Ekugdq5c/TdQLDXFN4DI/AAAAAAAABus/Pa3Ufot0UBU/s1600/chai.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dy3Ekugdq5c/TdQLDXFN4DI/AAAAAAAABus/Pa3Ufot0UBU/s1600/chai.jpg" /></a></div><i><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal"><i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I taste cinnamon. <o:p></o:p></i></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Oh yes, there’s cinnamon.<o:p></o:p></i></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Anise?<o:p></o:p></i></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Hmmm. I don’t think so.<o:p></o:p></i></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It tastes like black pepper.<o:p></o:p></i></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> You may be getting close.<o:p></o:p></i></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal">Syed stared at a powder blue cup through the lens of his reading glasses. Each time his mind settled into steady concentration she’d ask another question.<i><o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Did you know that coriander is the seed of cilantro?<o:p></o:p></i></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> <o:p></o:p></i></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Yes, I knew that. I’m surprised you know so much about spices.<o:p></o:p></i></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Well, I like to cook.<o:p></o:p></i></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> I don’t know if I’d be able to pick them out after all this time.<o:p></o:p></i></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Syed didn’t move his gaze when he answered the questions. He was tired. Eight months of living in <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">California</st1:place></st1:state> and his bones had not adjusted. His muscle memory knew the humidity of <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region>. His skin was cracking in the dry heat of LA. <i><o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> You know <st1:state w:st="on">California</st1:state> is not <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">America</st1:place></st1:country-region>, Jennifer.<o:p></o:p></i></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What’s <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">America</st1:place></st1:country-region>?<o:p></o:p></i></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> <o:p></o:p></i></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Michigan</st1:place></st1:state>. The <st1:place w:st="on">Midwest</st1:place>. This is not <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">America</st1:place></st1:country-region>. <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Chicago</st1:place></st1:city>. That’s the greatest city in the <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">US</st1:place></st1:country-region>. <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Los Angeles</st1:place></st1:city> is something different. I don’t think I will ever get used to it.<o:p></o:p></i></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal">Syed lived in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region> until he was 17. A month before he moved to the <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">US</st1:place></st1:country-region> an older cousin coerced him into borrowing the family Jeep. He had told white lies to his parents to escape for the afternoon. Syed and his cousin went joy riding on a muggy road, dirt and gravel jumping like frogs in the path behind them. Muffled American songs playing on their rusty radio. Behind his silver sunglasses, Syed watched the moving land in the rear view mirror. <i><o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i> <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Cg7QmNrYx9I/TdQLTxJxCfI/AAAAAAAABuw/fYVfBPwwTQ0/s1600/VatsaMahindraClassic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Cg7QmNrYx9I/TdQLTxJxCfI/AAAAAAAABuw/fYVfBPwwTQ0/s320/VatsaMahindraClassic.jpg" width="320" /></a></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> I think maybe when you grow up with this food you begin to lose perspective on it. To me, it tastes like chai.<o:p></o:p></i></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It tastes complex to me. Each sip and I catch something different. <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region> is so lucky to have their spices. <o:p></o:p></i></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Syed tasted his drink. The sweet silk liquid trickled over his tongue. With more years of road in his rear view mirror, it had been a long time since he’d had to think about Indian food. He wondered how one can see a familiar world with babe eyes. <i><o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Jennifer, did you know the British promoted chai in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region>? To compete with Chinese tea. <o:p></o:p></i></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I didn’t know that. How much of Indian food is influenced by the Brits? <o:p></o:p></i></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> <o:p></o:p></i></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> It’s hard to tell. It’s hard to know what is Indian anymore.<o:p></o:p></i></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal">Syed tightened his face and tried to look inward.<i><o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i> You know I made my parents very angry right before I left <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Why?<o:p></o:p></i></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> <o:p></o:p></i></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> I was with my cousin. He was the cool one. He asked me to drive him somewhere. So I took my dad’s car. <o:p></o:p></i></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">That doesn’t sound like you.<o:p></o:p></i></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> My cousin was always taking chances. Once we got about 10 miles down the road he asked if he could drive. I think that made me sick to my stomach. But he was older so I could not say no. <o:p></o:p></i></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">How did your parents find out?<o:p></o:p></i></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> He was driving like crazy. He was so dangerous. I asked him to slow down but he crashed the car. I was surprised that I didn’t die.<o:p></o:p></i></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Why did you think he was so cool?<o:p></o:p></i></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> I don’t remember. Your mind changes things when you look back. Now that I think about it I may have been wrong.<o:p></o:p></i></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wrong about what?<o:p></o:p></i></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> I think he was jealous that I was moving to the <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">US</st1:place></st1:country-region>. I think he was angry that he would be left behind.<o:p></o:p></i></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>Syed opened his eyes and smiled.<i><o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Cardamom. That’s what you taste, Jennifer. Cardamom.<o:p></o:p></i></i></div></div>winewillfixit@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00425733595292438029noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1934796698603544355.post-12694295084714807612011-05-11T17:43:00.000-07:002011-05-13T13:30:39.162-07:00A thing or two about fine arts camp<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">I learned some special things about life when I was 11. That year I met a boy at <a href="http://winewillfixit.blogspot.com/2011/02/my-brief-musical-theater-career.html">fine arts camp</a>. I think he played trombone. He had a nice smile and a head full of bushy hair. Which made him an objectively attractive 12 year old. And somehow he had big enough balls to ask me out.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SI1CDckYDhg/Tctl_jWgDXI/AAAAAAAABuI/ob9AsINap_k/s1600/bushy+hair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SI1CDckYDhg/Tctl_jWgDXI/AAAAAAAABuI/ob9AsINap_k/s320/bushy+hair.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><span style="font-size: 18pt;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">Getting asked out when you are 11 is a big deal. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">1) Because everyone envies the girls that get asked out and </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 18pt;">2) because none of the kids going on dates have any idea what’s going on </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">At 11, I quickly learned that dating meant you had to constantly remind the world that you were taken. When girls get boyfriends at summer camp they are required to turn their name badge upside down. And when you are one of the badge upside down girls – everyone expects that you are a girl who makes out.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">The easiest way to traumatize a little girl is to ask her if she has French kissed. And if you’re never met catty 13 year olds – know that they revel in making you feel like shit. So they pestered me every day about which base I had gotten to with the Boy with the Trombone. At that time the thought of making out had me breathing heavily into brown paper bags and flinching at the sight of brass instruments. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aG5fyBq_zjo/TcsuU8sz0LI/AAAAAAAABuA/YBZsfLggQOY/s1600/mean_girls_movie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aG5fyBq_zjo/TcsuU8sz0LI/AAAAAAAABuA/YBZsfLggQOY/s1600/mean_girls_movie.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">I spent most of the summer paralyzed with fear that my new boyfriend might try to kiss me. But I was equally worried that I would be an old lady before I ever made out. So a part of me wanted the bushy haired 12 year old to seduce me. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">Growing up involves a lot of small terrifying decisions where you wonder if you’re really ready. And you’re also concerned that saying “no” means that you’re far behind. As an adult you watch your friends get married and buy condos. And you’re worried that if you don’t jump in, life will pass you by.</span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://nataliedee.com/" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="192" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HCDdDTp0asE/TctmaeM0RYI/AAAAAAAABuM/4gkDGDbcKl4/s320/gonna+die.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">www.nataliedee.com</td></tr>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">There's a couple things that I took from my summer at fine arts camp. Life doesn’t punish you if you don’t make out at 11 or don’t get married by 35. And it’s important to recognize when you’re not <br />
"there" yet. And a fear of a "big deal" type kiss corrects itself over time.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SEPA_ojP98U/TcsutZFRDVI/AAAAAAAABuE/2ZcYh7mYd9M/s1600/cute+kiss.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SEPA_ojP98U/TcsutZFRDVI/AAAAAAAABuE/2ZcYh7mYd9M/s320/cute+kiss.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;"><br />
</span></div>winewillfixit@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00425733595292438029noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1934796698603544355.post-19760391892678806602011-05-11T08:50:00.000-07:002011-05-11T09:01:59.723-07:00Playgrounds, work crushes and accountability<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">My friends get cringing reflexes whenever I tell them that a guy I work with his hot. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>And more specifically when he is both hot and married. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Despite the fact that my life has significantly improved since <a href="http://winewillfixit.blogspot.com/2011/05/what-to-do-when-youre-ready-to-leave.html">leaving my old job</a> – they’re worried about recidivism.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span> I understand that alcoholics stay away from bars to make it easier to resist temptation. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span> But it is very difficult to avoid hot married men when you have to go to work. And the problem is two fold. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>On the one hand I have an <a href="http://winewillfixit.blogspot.com/2010/12/relationships-outside-of-catalogue.html">affinity for older, powerful men</a>. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>On the other hand, they have an affinity for <a href="http://winewillfixit.blogspot.com/2011/04/im-buying.html">young, ball busting women</a>. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>And given my line of work, the powder keg and the match have frequent interactions. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span> Thus the “here we go again” look in my friends eyes whenever I mention an interaction.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6ZZ0ciAWywg/TcqwGmaPwqI/AAAAAAAABt8/THTLz7HPAAg/s1600/chrisnoth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6ZZ0ciAWywg/TcqwGmaPwqI/AAAAAAAABt8/THTLz7HPAAg/s320/chrisnoth.jpg" width="256" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">Last year I was driving a good friend to the airport and I told him “it was starting again” with guy at my new job and that I could see where things were headed. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>My friend told me I had to own up to my own decisions. And I told him he didn’t understand – that this just KEPT HAPPENING to me. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>And he was concerned that I’d have to quit my job again. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>I spent the whole car ride trying to get him to understand how hard this was for me. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>How the men who were my intellectual equals I tended to meet at work. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>And the men that I spent the most of my time with tended to fall head over heels for me. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>These attractions felt like an engine on a runaway train where no one could find the breaks. And he shook his head in frustration and got on a plane. I'm not the easiest person to <a href="http://winewillfixit.blogspot.com/2011/01/recovery.html">try to help</a>. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">He came back to me a few weeks later and told me to be careful when I was alone with the new coworker. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>I told him I’d be fine because he was "just a friend." <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>And then he said – well if he’s truly your friend you won’t make it hard for him to stay faithful. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>And I argued that faithful husbands aren’t tempted. And he said “trust me; just make sure you’re acting like a friend.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">I used to tell a story about my kindergarten years to male executives. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>When I was 5, I paid a boy to kick me. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>And then I ratted him out to the teacher for kicking me and got him in trouble. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>When a boy kicks a girl after she’s asked him – who is to blame? <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Deep down inside shouldn’t he know that kicking little girls is wrong? On the other hand – asking a boy to kick you isn’t being a very good friend.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cYIC1Q9o1Q0/Tcqv6xm2NXI/AAAAAAAABt4/DgAzYlJ0NQo/s1600/mean+little+girl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cYIC1Q9o1Q0/Tcqv6xm2NXI/AAAAAAAABt4/DgAzYlJ0NQo/s1600/mean+little+girl.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black;">I’m starting to learn that very few things in life “just happen.” It’s easier to veer off onto the wrong roads when they’re well paved. And as a counter measure – whenever I find myself being too attracted to said coworker I pick on him. Because truly I’ve <a href="http://winewillfixit.blogspot.com/2011/02/awkward-things-i-did-in-high-school-for.html">evolved very little after 1st grade</a>. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>winewillfixit@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00425733595292438029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1934796698603544355.post-58025827213620126482011-05-04T15:26:00.000-07:002011-05-04T15:26:52.972-07:00What to do when you’re ready to leave (your job)<div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Don’t let anyone convince you that your reasons for leaving are stupid.</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whenever you’re thinking about jumping ship at your current company remember that everyone around you has made the decision to stay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you tell people at work why you’re fed up this will piss off most and irritate some.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is like trying to tell a room full of Catholics that you’ve stopped believing in Jesus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t expect a lot of sympathy from them. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They will try to guilt you into staying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://nataliedee.com/" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JxDYbZBgojw/TcHRyfI-hpI/AAAAAAAABtc/TKQH87CrSIE/s1600/poprah.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">www.nataliedee.com</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Take some time off. </b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I prided myself on working weekends until the day I left my job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was stupid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted to prove to everyone that I was still loyal to the cause until the bitter end.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And in the end I handed over my badge and got my last week’s pay check just like everyone else who had ever left.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My company got the better part of that deal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They squeezed more work out of me and the last piece of <a href="http://winewillfixit.blogspot.com/2010/12/how-i-signed-my-soul-over-to-satan.html">my soul</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I lost valuable time that I should have spent with family and friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And in the trade off between the people you care about, your soul, and a Fortune 100 corporation <a href="http://tinybuddha.com/blog/how-losing-everything-can-give-you-even-more/">you should think long and hard about which choice you make</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://nataliedee.com/" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vBoOz6uNWHw/TcHRWz4AbaI/AAAAAAAABtU/pGhJTUW3URg/s1600/quitter.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">www.nataliedee.com</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Don’t take the first thing that you’re offered.</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When you’re in a shitty work situation you’re like a starving man at a buffet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’re going to run for whatever will fill the hunger void, no matter how delicious it is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Naturally you’re not going to want to wait in line for the prime rib because you’re freaking starving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But once you’ve got a mouthful of soggy grilled cheese regret will settle in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Recognize that literally anything is going to sound better to you when your work sucks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had moments before I quit my company where I would dream of packing up my car, driving back to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Chicago</st1:place></st1:city> and working at Starbucks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seemed like a fantasy but it wasn’t a bad idea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead of giving myself some time to figure out what the hell I wanted, I dove head first into a nicely titled job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Never mind that it wasn’t the industry I wanted to get into and it wasn’t the type of environment I typically thrive in. It was an escape from my current shitty situation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now I realize that if I packed up my civic and headed home the world wouldn’t have ended.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Time would have marched on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People would have helped me get my life back together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And my mind would have benefited from a month unplugged from a blackberry, a boss and a deadline.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://explodingdog.tumblr.com/" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="280" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VnuqfvR9RiA/TcHSlAnJ_JI/AAAAAAAABtg/D5klQUlcaPM/s320/weekend+%25281%2529.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://explodingdog.tumblr.com/">http://explodingdog.tumblr.com/</a></td></tr>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Tell your mentors how much they meant to you because you’ll probably never see them again.</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The one smart thing I did on my exit was set up a face to face with anyone who had ever given me sound advice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And for those that weren’t in the area – I sent them a card or an e-mail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted to make sure that they knew just how much they had helped me in my career and how much they had shaped me as a professional.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some person from Monster.com or Yahoo! Hot Jobs will tell you to do this because it’s smart networking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m telling you to do this because it shouldn’t be optional.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People get rewarded in their careers for all kinds of crazy crap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rarely do people get recognized for the work they did on building the next generation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Take the time to let people know the value of their wisdom and while you’re at it send emails to old teachers that you loved as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aA1Zff6mWmI/TcHRgMBTHjI/AAAAAAAABtY/M_2ElgQ5e_8/s1600/Yoda_SWSB.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aA1Zff6mWmI/TcHRgMBTHjI/AAAAAAAABtY/M_2ElgQ5e_8/s320/Yoda_SWSB.jpg" width="277" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Figure out what you did wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>Because nothing is ever one sides’ fault.<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>Allowing myself to get to a point where I was well beyond miserable meant that I was a participant in my own demise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><a href="http://draft.blogger.com/winewillfixit.blogspot.com/2011/01/recovery.html">For a long time I had refused any help from anyone</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And in the end my friends and mentors rushed to get me what I wanted to stay at the company but it was too late.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Had I let them help me much earlier in the game, things may have improved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When you’re miserable, recognize that you were involved in <a href="http://winewillfixit.blogspot.com/2011/01/5-tips-on-how-to-have-shitty-year.html">some choices along the way</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>winewillfixit@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00425733595292438029noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1934796698603544355.post-26639777211882076172011-05-03T15:50:00.000-07:002011-05-03T22:20:00.076-07:00My very own Buddha belly<div class="MsoNormal">I have spent a significant amount of time hiding from my own body. I don’t shriek in horror after every mirror I pass. I do, however, think about how to distract you from my burgeoning midsection when I’m out in public. I have (for better or for worse) an hourglass shape. This comes with some genetic gifts (hooray boobs!). But with my child bearing physique came the hard cold truth that the universe has blessed me with a tummy. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--SzOTyx74O4/TcCF9dfdKqI/AAAAAAAABtI/3RkD53KC7bE/s1600/buddha_belly_brown_lg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--SzOTyx74O4/TcCF9dfdKqI/AAAAAAAABtI/3RkD53KC7bE/s1600/buddha_belly_brown_lg.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I have had a flat stomach thrice in my life. Once when I was <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Illinois</st1:place></st1:state>’ (and the world’s) worst female water polo player. The second time was when I had lost the will to eat (the key to the perfect body is having the love of your life fly off to <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Argentina</st1:place></st1:country-region> for the summer). And the third time was when I had a maniacal obsession with everything that I ate. And as my water polo career ended, <a href="http://winewillfixit.blogspot.com/2011/04/year-of-crazy.html">boyfriends moved on</a> and <a href="http://winewillfixit.blogspot.com/2011/04/hey-there-im-just-going-to-eat-food.html">my relationship with food</a> improved I learned a thing or two about the trade offs that come with life. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I believe that learning to love yourself the way you are is a life long goal. And not an easy one considering the constant pressure on both genders to look a certain way to achieve happiness. And as a one woman experiment – I can tell you that I have not been happiest at my skinniest. Back then I was a miserable person to be around. I was the girl at the fancy restaurant in Vegas pushing mixed greens and balsamic vinegar around my plate as my friends happily chowed down on beef and guzzled beer. It was a skinny life but it wasn’t life at all.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m generally happy somewhere in the middle of the depravation/gluttony spectrum. The middle is where I have the general health to move around in the ways that I want (i.e. downward dogs, high kicks on the dance floor, long walks around <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Santa Monica</st1:place></st1:city>) and the emotional freedom to enjoy the food and beverages that I like. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://nataliedee.com/" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="297" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hFeh4YNs5XE/TcCFw1dG_rI/AAAAAAAABtA/A0bB15DXqVA/s320/thats-just-unsanitary.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This past weekend I found myself living “in the middle” at a <a href="http://winewillfixit.blogspot.com/2011/04/how-did-i-get-here.html">yoga work shop</a>. The teacher had the class start off by rubbing their stomachs in a circular motion. For what felt like 20 minutes. Halfway through the process I realized that I almost never touch this part of my body. Not only that but I try not to even look at it. So I decided that this was not the time to launch into a self induced “you are fat and ugly attack.” It was probably the time that I had to grow up and put things in perspective.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://explodingdog.tumblr.com/" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" id=":current_picnik_image" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rHFyLYdMi4A/TcCGZ6kEbeI/AAAAAAAABtQ/72M6B1H4vzQ/s320/you+know+we+might+not+even+exist.png" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<br />
So I decided to rub my damn buddha belly and meditate on a few things ....</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Flat stomachs don’t define you.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Body parts don’t disappear if you avoid them. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal">And the body you have is the body you take to the grave so now is as good a time as any to be grateful for it. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://nataliedee.com/" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-V9uojI67g_I/TcCFupcZBxI/AAAAAAAABs4/hfoFTb2IAI8/s320/number-one.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div>winewillfixit@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00425733595292438029noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1934796698603544355.post-61621124445611999492011-04-27T09:00:00.000-07:002011-04-27T09:00:33.478-07:00The year of “The Crazy”<div class="MsoNormal">Psychology undergrads shouldn't enter into therapy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Especially if they’re undergraduates like me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My junior year of college I started to feel crazy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Crazy because all of the people who used to make me happy were starting to irritate me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Irritate me to the point that all of the sudden I started to hate them.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://nataliedee.com/" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3UrsXKwir8o/Tbg83BUHH4I/AAAAAAAABsQ/jdwHmxFehUs/s1600/allovertheplace.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">So enters into my life, my poor grad school therapist. Let’s call him Dan. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dan the therapist was a graduate student at my university (working in the exact department I spent most of my time).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He came free with the student health package.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s hard to reveal your soul to Dan when you’re consciously aware that he’s only a few courses of study away from you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is the attitude I had in talking to Dan which is why therapy with Dan didn’t really work. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Dan wanted to talk about why I was feeling crazy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted to talk about everything I knew about psychology.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted to talk about how much I wanted to be a therapist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And so I talked a lot about my research on sexual abuse in kids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I blurted out that all of the sudden I was starting to see male/female interactions through the lens of abuse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that I was becoming hyper aware of the guys that would use alcohol and pressure to get girls to sleep with them on campus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And laughable fraternity traditions my boyfriend engaged in, weren’t really so laughable anymore. And that when I tried to talk to my boyfriend about the things I saw that bothered me, he didn’t have the language or emotional capacity to understand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I told Dan that I was starting to hate the boyfriend that I loved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that I wanted to stop that because he was perfect for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And also that I was starting to hate all of my boyfriend’s fraternity pals. And how that wasn’t going to work because if I hated them AND my boyfriend, things were going to fall apart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that I was starting to care a lot about the guys in my psych classes who were sensitive to emotional pain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And since I’m a nice loyal girlfriend, this was also making me feel crazy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://nataliedee.com/" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-p4KLRQGwJjg/Tbg9II2ySBI/AAAAAAAABsU/0IWG50zm080/s1600/i-never-thought-i-would-win-anything.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">One evening a boy from psych class told me that he was starting to care about me as much as I was starting (but trying not to) care about him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then I ran straight to my boyfriend, crying, telling him I was starting to fall in love with someone else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And he looked at me and said “ok.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told him I loved him and I didn’t want to fall for anyone else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And he said “ok.” And then the boyfriend never brought it up again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I had to tell Dan because these are the things you tell therapist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He wanted to know why I had feelings for one boy over my boyfriend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I kept getting angry because he was focusing on the wrong thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://nataliedee.com/" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="299" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3W0m3RueOwI/Tbg9jZ9TtlI/AAAAAAAABsY/-CjNbrFudIA/s320/malcontent.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The funny thing about therapists you don’t respect is that you tend to end up unannounced in their office when your boyfriend breaks up with you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Which is what happened a few months into therapy after telling my boyfriend I had feelings for someone else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted to get advice from Dan on proper methods for winning back boyfriends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told Dan technically it was a “break.” My (newly) ex boyfriend explained that a “break” meant we could both “<a href="http://winewillfixit.blogspot.com/2010/12/awful-truth-about-hooking-up.html">hook up</a>” with whomever we liked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that if I hooked up with anyone it was ok and he didn’t care.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To which Dan, the barely a therapist blurted out “he’s fucking lying.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And when your therapist says “fucking” and “lying” in one sentence it is very jarring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jarring enough that I said “Hey Dan, aren’t you NOT supposed to say things like that.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dan shook his head and said “why don’t you go back to him tomorrow and tell him you slept with someone else and see his reaction.” And this was the first time that I ever really listened to Dan.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d like to tell you that the sun parted that day and all of the Dan wisdom seeped into my brain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d like to tell you that I didn’t continue to chase after the wrong boyfriend for another two years after the year of crazy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d like to tell you <a href="http://winewillfixit.blogspot.com/2011/03/things-that-could-entice-me-to-leave.html">that I became a therapist</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I didn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can only tell you is it’s really hard to get anything out of therapy when you don’t want anything to change.</div>winewillfixit@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00425733595292438029noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1934796698603544355.post-54592275465390262642011-04-25T16:01:00.000-07:002011-04-25T16:01:08.600-07:00Glazed Ham, Zombie Jesus and Natural Disasters<div class="MsoNormal">In my former life as a Bostonian, I got tipsy at cocktail bar in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Cambridge</st1:city></st1:place> and had a vision.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I saw everyone I knew in pastel, feasting on Easter ham.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> It didn't matter</span> that practically everyone I knew was Jewish, that asking your friends to color coordinate is <s>kind of</s> silly and that I had never in my life made ham.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A part of me needed to play the role of my grandmother and tend to meat in the oven for hours for a room full of people I loved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that first easter, despite my friends' lack of Easter celebrating experience, everyone I asked complied.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m3iJMILUmVI/TbX8xA2nrAI/AAAAAAAABsI/5zZ-4tov-LY/s1600/athiesteaster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="235" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m3iJMILUmVI/TbX8xA2nrAI/AAAAAAAABsI/5zZ-4tov-LY/s320/athiesteaster.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The tradition continued when I moved to LA and I collected a new assortment of transplant friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first LA Easter was punctuated by an earth quake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My friends were on the top level of an apartment building, eating matzo ball soup (everyone I know is still Jewish) when the earth moved unpredictably.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>did nothing mainly out of lack of knowing what the hell you’re supposed to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We just sort of sat there, clutching bunny clad napkins hoping that we’d all be ok.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The irony is that I had ruined the prized Easter lamb cake the night before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ironic because I had ruined the structural integrity of the lamb by transferring the cake to a plate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the next day the earth was shaking and all of the food stayed perfectly in place. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But my friend performed her own kind of Jesus miracle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had stayed up long after I had gone to bed to work on my unnatural disaster.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(The key is frosting and strategically placed coconut flakes).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And on Easter I opened the door of her apartment to the sight of resurrected lamb.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had a special gift for putting the pieces of her friends and cakes back together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-J2qvGDQ8wqQ/TbX8huhDBVI/AAAAAAAABsE/OQM5--8swkc/s1600/lamb-cake-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-J2qvGDQ8wqQ/TbX8huhDBVI/AAAAAAAABsE/OQM5--8swkc/s1600/lamb-cake-2.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This Easter I woke up to an earth quake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although, I’m really not sure how real the earth quake was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had gone to sleep hoping to experience one and probably imagined it. I wanted an earth quake because it would mean it was a tradition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That certain things in life can be counted on every year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I woke at 4am feeling the earth moving beneath me and it made me ok. It made me wonder about why after years of living my life independently I began to grab people and seat them around my non religious Easter table.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And how much comfort it brings me to know that people will ring your door in pastel when you ask them to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that earth quakes, lamb cakes wrecks and loneliness can be survived.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-58MSQqGeL4M/TbX9BvIgaxI/AAAAAAAABsM/NRlonhHtyLY/s1600/easterbaby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-58MSQqGeL4M/TbX9BvIgaxI/AAAAAAAABsM/NRlonhHtyLY/s320/easterbaby.jpg" width="265" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br />
</span></div>winewillfixit@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00425733595292438029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1934796698603544355.post-65730799885759825872011-04-25T15:59:00.000-07:002011-04-29T07:23:14.915-07:00Hey there, I’m just going to eat food<div class="MsoNormal">There are two types of people in the world that I trust</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">1) Those who love to eat food</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">2) And those that love to cook food</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And in general if you believe in the joy of cooking you believe in the joy of eating. But not everyone is skilled in the kitchen. So the two types remain separate like the egg and its yolk. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://nataliedee.com/" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="304" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-avuXBhic-4w/TbieneoIghI/AAAAAAAABsk/2pbor5TwT3M/s320/hot+dog+yay.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">On principle, I do not like people who dislike food. I’m sure you’re thinking “HEY MISSY, everyone loves food.” But you’re wrong. And because the concept of true love of food is confusing I’ve provided a handy list of <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">signs that you may in fact hate food.</b> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Your refrigerator is full of lean cuisines.</b> You can spend all day talking me about the virtues of 400 calories lunches stuffed inside a cardboard box. But that crap isn’t food. And does anyone LOVE lean cuisines? Oh sure, the ladies who get to the mall at 6am to power walk think they love lean cuisines. But really they love donuts. Warm, mouth watering donuts. And they aren’t really walking in the mall, they are running from their love of all things fried. Every time they pass a krispy kreme they turn up their nose smugly and pat themselves on the back for slaying that dragon one more time and resisting deep fried temptation. Ladies, do yourself a favor and walk outside. And grab cute boys butt cheeks as you sprint around the neighborhood.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://nataliedee.com/" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="297" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-n9jIPmYQm6U/Tbie3qLq-DI/AAAAAAAABso/NzgZ06Hsyjk/s320/Enjoy-your-food.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Your industrial sized whey protein powder container is almost empty.</b> Guys, I get it. You want to look like body builders to get chicks. Chicks are hot and they smell nice. I actually know a body builder and let me tell you, the quality chicks were afraid of him. And despite the fact that he was kind of a gentle giant, his tanning bed and freezer full of chicken breast scared them off. And even if they did venture into his “stabbin’ cabin’” they eventually got sick of the fact that he could not actually have fun. What with his insane work out regiment, inability to have a beer and needless hours of shaving his balls. To be fair – there is protein powder on my counter. And it is 99% full. Because it tastes like balls and is not real food.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">You have completely eliminated an element of food from your diet.</b> This is one of the true downsides of LA. We have given up carbs, fat, meat, sugar and adding temperature to our food. What you are left with is a pile of grass and a case of depression. Please, I beg of you. Eat what you want. If you want fried chicken today I swear you won’t want it every day for the rest of your life. You will eventually want something else. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://nataliedee.com/" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="272" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-udIY2YD77M8/Tbifw3hlhqI/AAAAAAAABsw/40whWNkACP8/s320/hellery.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">You are unwilling to try anything new.</b> Do yourself a favor and peace out of life if you feel this way. Something slimy that may or may not smell like feet can rock your world. I swear. Just put that deer testicle in your mouth once. Just for me. And take pictures. But seriously - one day you’re going to come running back to me when you realize that you love wine that smells like diapers. And you know why? It’s a sign that it’s really rgood wine. Wine so good it will make you better at sex. See? Now you’re interested!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://nataliedee.com/" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="278" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Gw_T4K_L5Xo/TbieUujFRzI/AAAAAAAABsc/XaJxQP5LRGM/s320/all-of-that.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Here’s the thing. I get that there is danger lurking in everything we eat. Everything is going to kill us. And the nice thing about that is that WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE ANYWAYS. So every once in awhile I am going to love on a giant burger. And you may or may not want to be around because noises will indeed be made. And you know why? I’m going to love that thing like it’s my child. And then the next day I will be eating grilled artichoke. Because that’s also fucking good. And since I’m a functioning adult I can comprehend that if I eat hamburgers every day I will get fat and if I eat grilled artichoke every day I will tap into my urge to kill. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Capiche?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://nataliedee.com/" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fLUWEQaMUs8/TbifG0Fm1PI/AAAAAAAABss/Icym6tqzp7o/s1600/lemons.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>winewillfixit@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00425733595292438029noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1934796698603544355.post-84565189243943459862011-04-24T21:39:00.001-07:002011-04-24T21:51:20.652-07:00I'm Buying<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">You wanna drink?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">I'm fine.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Come on, I'm buying.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">I don't even know if they have a wine list here.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">They have wine here. It's for the wives.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Well, I'm not one of the wives.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">God, you just need to relax. You wanted to see what it was all about. Weren't you the</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">one saying you can handle strip clubs?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Oh, I can handle strip clubs.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">I can see that. Let me get you a bottle of white wine.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">God, these girls are gorgeous.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">There you go, see. Now you're having a good time.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">They're everywhere. It's like the playboy mansion.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">It's a mans heaven.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">What is it for women?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">A place where I'm going to buy all of your drinks. You're getting drunk tonight.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">How could you want to have sex with a normal girl after all this?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">What do you mean?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">I mean, it must be a let down. Jesus. I don't look like that.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">It's just a bit of fun. Come on. This is Vegas, the whole thing is a fantasy.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">I don't feel too fantastic.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Look. The most beautiful women in the world are here. Can't you drink to that?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">I like the night clubs better. I like it when men are competing to buy me drinks.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">So basically you like it when the shoe is on the other foot?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">I guess you're right. I like having the upper hand. I like feeling like I have a shot in hell</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">of getting picked out of the crowd.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">You'll get picked out of here. Men love women who go to strip clubs.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">What's the point? I'm the runner up to whoever is on stage. I'm just a projection of that</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">girl they paid to see.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">You're always a projection of whatever a guy wants you to be.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">That's comforting.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">That's life.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">I can't believe you told me I was attractive.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">You are.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Yeah but you spend so much time here.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">I don't.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Well you spend enough time here. Your bar for attractiveness is pretty high.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">These are girls at a strip club. You're a girl from the real world. You're attractive. All</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">guys everywhere want to fuck you.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">No, they want to fuck her.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">They want to fuck both of you. I'm sorry men are pigs. We have reptilian brains. We</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">like to fuck. You said you wanted to come to a strip club.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Well I'm here, aren't I?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">What are you getting worked up over? This is all fake. The women, the booze, the</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">lights. Vegas. This whole city isn't real.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">I'm real. You're real.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">You and I. We're trying not be real tonight.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">So I'm going to pretend that I'm the girl that goes to strip clubs. You're going to try to be</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">pretend that you're not my boss.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Once we cross state lines, honey, I'm not your boss.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">I think I'll take the chardonnay.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">What?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">The wine. I'm sure they have it. I bet the wives who come to strip clubs get chardonnay.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">How many of these girls have had sex?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">All of them.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">I don't mean fucking, I mean sex. You know, with someone who cares about them?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">A couple of them, maybe. Probably none.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">So then I guess I have one leg up on the strippers</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">You have more than just one leg up.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Well now she has her legs up.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Ha. See there's that wit. You haven't given up on me yet.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Given up on you?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Yeah. Given up on me because I'm a dirty old man.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Well right now you are. Why did you want me to come here?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">You said you wanted to see Sapphire.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Oh. I get it. This was all for me.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">No. It's obviously for me because I'm a pervert. I'm everything you think guys are. At</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">least I'd admit it.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Doesn't it weird you out to be here? I mean, you had to come to Vegas for a funeral.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Isn't that a little weird? There's someone in a coffin and there's someone in a g-string.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">There's always someone in a coffin and someone in a g-string. I'm in Vegas. I like</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">strippers. Monday I'll mourn.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">What about your daughter? She's about the age of these girls.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">How many drinks do I need to buy you before you stop asking these fucking questions?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">13.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Alright. Here's $200. Get whatever the fuck you want.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Thanks Daddy warbucks.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Don't spend it all on one girl.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">I'll stick to the wine.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">You can get wine all over California. Have a little fun. Get a lapdance. You're not dead</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">yet.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Neither are you but you're acting like you're going to die tomorrow.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">We're all going to die tomorrow.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">We're all going to die. We're all going to end up in a pine box. What the hell is the point, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Mike?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Only you would ask me about the meaning of life at a strip club.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">You invited me.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">I thought you'd be drunker. I thought you'd have fun.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Why did you bring me here?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">I wanted to see you.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">You always see me.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">I wanted to see you outside of work. I wanted to see you having fun. Why are YOU</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">here?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Same. You really think all of the guys in this room would want to fuck me?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Yes.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">All of them?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Yes. You're the office girl by day. And at night you're the one taking off your clothes on</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">top of a bar. You like to pretend to be an angel but you're not.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">You like to pretend to be the devil and you're not. Maybe we need shots?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Whiskey shots. Everyone thinks I'm the devil, might as well be the devil.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">How many girls has the devil slept with?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Wait. Sex or fucking?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">I don't know, I'm getting drunk.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">16. No. 17. And the angel?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">6. Any strippers?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">No. I think one was a dancer but it's hard to tell. Women say things when they drink.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">So do men.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Who was that guy you were talking to before?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Which one?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">The one at the bar.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">I don't know. He was from Australia. I was just being friendly.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Friendly. Was he your type?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">No.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Point to a guy here and tell me which one is your type.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">I don't think my type of guy is here.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Oh he's here. Every type of guy is here.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Do you think the Australian would have bought me a drink?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">I know he'd buy you a drink. What do you need drinks for? I'm buying.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Maybe I don't want to get drinks from my married boss.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Ouch. Sometimes you can be so mean.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">I'm not being mean. I'm telling the truth.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">I don't want the truth tonight. Do you?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">How much are these girls going to make tonight? More than my salary for a week?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Probably.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">I should just quit my fucking job. Become a stripper.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Well we can put you on tonight for amateur hour.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">You wouldn't be able to handle it.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Neither would you.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">This isn't my first strip club, you know.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Who took you to your first one?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Took me?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Yeah. I assume you didn't walk in by yourself and fill out an application.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">I actually took my ex boyfriend to one. At the end of our relationship. I thought it would</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">help to save it.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">How's that?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">I don't know. I wanted to be the girl who was cool enough to take her boy to strip clubs.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Did he buy you a lap dance?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">No, he bought me drinks.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Why did it end?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">He cheated.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">DId you cheat?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">No, never. Have you ever cheated?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">No. It's hard enough to keep one woman happy. Let alone two.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">You may be the angel after all.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">I know. I'm hoping you're the devil.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">What does the angel want the devil to do?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Nah. I'm not going to tell you. It will spoil all the fun.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">We're having fun?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Your empty empty wine glass tell me we are.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Your empty wallet tells me we are.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Your ex boyfriend, he had good taste.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Oh, you know that girl he fucked?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">No, I know the girl he had sex with. The girl he fucked. She was just easy. Low self</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">esteem. No fuss.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">And the girl he had sex with?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">She was intimidating. Smarter than him. Beautiful. Gave him a hard time for</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">everything.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">She only gives people she loves a hard time.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">He loved her. He was just young. He wasn't ready to settle down. Once he was ready he</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">begged to get her back?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">He did. But she had moved on.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">She doesn't think about him anymore?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">No. How does her story end? When all of the guys are going for the girl to fuck?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">No. She doesn't need to worry about that. She's amazing.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">She's drunk. I forget which one she's supposed to be. The angel or the devil?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;">Whichever one she wants.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">For you <a href="http://winewillfixit.blogspot.com/">WWFI</a> fans. This is a follow up to <a href="http://winewillfixit.blogspot.com/2010/12/relationships-outside-of-catalogue.html">this</a>. </span></i> </span>winewillfixit@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00425733595292438029noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1934796698603544355.post-76627976623021917632011-04-20T16:48:00.000-07:002011-04-20T16:48:22.081-07:00Ways to celebrate 420 (for non stoners)<div class="MsoNormal">Do you ever feel like you are missing out on life by not being a complete waste of life pothead?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well you too can feel the joys of being stuck in another world, losing your ability to focus and complete tasks!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just complete the following steps</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Consume hot dogs like you’re jabba the hut.</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eat one and feel immensely proud of accomplishing something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then completely erase the taste, texture and feeling of satiety from your memory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Repeat hot dog eating cycle until you’ve determined “whoa dude, I’ve eaten too many hot dogs.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_dMRFuJ2tnk/Ta9vkQomi1I/AAAAAAAABrs/M3gyoZLjMJo/s1600/jabba-the-hutt1-300x264.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_dMRFuJ2tnk/Ta9vkQomi1I/AAAAAAAABrs/M3gyoZLjMJo/s1600/jabba-the-hutt1-300x264.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Lay down on the floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>Wiggle your ass back and forth on the ground and pronounce “I’m a mushroom. I live in the ground.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zQBcpeHTZ04/Ta9wZS6WlWI/AAAAAAAABr4/6Tnq1DHslWw/s1600/shroom3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zQBcpeHTZ04/Ta9wZS6WlWI/AAAAAAAABr4/6Tnq1DHslWw/s320/shroom3.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><o:p><br />
</o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Think about how fucking crazy the concept of e-mail is.</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Words that don’t actually exist in the physical form are floating through space to your friends on other parts of the globe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instantaneously.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Think about this idea until it has consumed the entire part of your brain devoted to understanding the concept of paying rent.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-j8TMNpdtAQM/Ta9wmyJoUQI/AAAAAAAABr8/RACLRQJPpgk/s1600/CW-the-cat-needs-an-intervention.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-j8TMNpdtAQM/Ta9wmyJoUQI/AAAAAAAABr8/RACLRQJPpgk/s320/CW-the-cat-needs-an-intervention.jpg" width="270" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Know, instinctively, that the cops are on their way.</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even though you’re an upstanding, tax paying adult – they will bust you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even if you live in a state where marijuana is legal, they’re going to find a reason to club your ass and send you to jail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Tell everyone you know “how fucking high” you are.</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Really, do it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because everyone is curious and dying to know.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WX0_TNxuwq0/Ta9v6l1JK3I/AAAAAAAABrw/u46sItWZwk8/s1600/thishigh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="290" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WX0_TNxuwq0/Ta9v6l1JK3I/AAAAAAAABrw/u46sItWZwk8/s320/thishigh.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Discover an unnatural love for jam bands.</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t know what a jam band is?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just ask yourself “does this song have a 20 minute guitar intro” … if the answer is yes, you’ve got yourself your fucking jam band.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And if you actually realize that 20 minutes have gone by, know that this is a sign that you are not actually high.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Scrunch up your face really tight to see if your brain explodes.<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br />
</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zVMTWbLdn1U/Ta9wwRE8lqI/AAAAAAAABsA/3H-CMsysJRg/s1600/angry-cat-in-pink-rabbit-costume-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zVMTWbLdn1U/Ta9wwRE8lqI/AAAAAAAABsA/3H-CMsysJRg/s320/angry-cat-in-pink-rabbit-costume-1.jpg" width="299" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br />
</b></div>winewillfixit@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00425733595292438029noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1934796698603544355.post-69728074599360794472011-04-19T20:20:00.000-07:002011-04-19T20:22:41.045-07:00How did I get here?<div class="MsoNormal" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">This Sunday I felt like I was in the “Once in a Lifetime” <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I1wg1DNHbNU">Talking Heads video</a>. I was quite literally looking around and thinking “well … how <s>the fuck</s> did I get here.” One day you’re drowning in unlimited mimosas on the beach and next thing you’re at a nature center, listening to a dude named Davinicus bang a gong during savasana.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-collapse: collapse; clear: both; font-family: arial, sans-serif; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JB9wQkbje-g/Ta5Om3zo6tI/AAAAAAAABrg/u0gipxo0TUI/s1600/savasana.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JB9wQkbje-g/Ta5Om3zo6tI/AAAAAAAABrg/u0gipxo0TUI/s320/savasana.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Let me back up. The transition from beach trash to yogi did not happen overnight. And it pretty much happened despite my best intentions to never become “this kind of person.” People who sit on rubber mats in the middle of the woods, listening to a yoga teacher from Iowa preach eastern philosophy – seem pretty ridiculous. I get that.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-collapse: collapse; clear: both; font-family: arial, sans-serif; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GRTDA0CQTw0/Ta5PCG_z-JI/AAAAAAAABrk/NxmhdaJE3i8/s1600/fuckit.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GRTDA0CQTw0/Ta5PCG_z-JI/AAAAAAAABrk/NxmhdaJE3i8/s320/fuckit.png" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">But I’ve had first hand experience with “these people” before. My first job out of college was a summer internship in DC. My boss introduced me to a young couple she knew that needed a tenant for their extra bedroom. Mandy and Rob offered me a place to call home. They were kind, sweet, loving hippies. They had a compost heap in the backyard; ate an abundance of soy products and would stare at photos of Jupiter projected on their basement wall. They would get stoned and eat all of my groceries. But they were the idealist brother and sister that I never had. They were the kind of landlords who spring for a keg of Yuengling for your birthday and lend you their car to pick up your boyfriend from the Baltimore airport. And they were the kind of friends who listened endlessly, loved unconditionally and believed in all of the hopeful possibilities of my life. They challenged me to think about all that I wanted to get out of life at 22 – an impressive career, fancy home and revenge against all of my enemies. They raised an eyebrow at a boyfriend who left me in tears on my more days than I care to count. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-O423BQRSZfo/Ta5PfsglvhI/AAAAAAAABro/fN5GPyGYh3U/s1600/yuengling.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-O423BQRSZfo/Ta5PfsglvhI/AAAAAAAABro/fN5GPyGYh3U/s320/yuengling.jpg" width="239" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">On my last day of residence in their home, they hugged me goodbye and told me that they had seen my soul emerge. And despite their “summer of love” jargon, I believed them. I trusted their vision of me more than I trusted my vision of myself. (Theirs being by far the kinder).</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">And so it seems that years later I found myself on a yoga retreat, surrounded by the West coast versions of Mandy and Rob. And I think I'm at the same cross roads that I was years ago - I have done some hard work on the inside. I've paused a lot and listened. I've stopped trying to prove that the world is out to get me. And I've tried (really hard) not to judge those with a happy outlook on life.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">So bring on your gongs, your feathered hats, your raw food dogma and your tantric love. I'm "here" and I'm not fighting it. </span></span></div>winewillfixit@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00425733595292438029noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1934796698603544355.post-86815113173132092892011-04-15T11:20:00.000-07:002011-04-15T11:21:53.618-07:00The only people in the world you want to knock on your door<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Handsome ex boyfriends: with <s>flowers</s> a 6 pack of craft beer, begging to take you back –</b> only if he’s gone to therapy, gotten his shit together and took it upon himself to start washing his pants. Cue the rest of your life in happy marital bliss.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">A crazed kidnapper</b> – sure, those twelve hours trapped in the bottom of a sea faring vessel chained to a heater will suck but every once and awhile the romantic notion of someone …. Anyone …. Taking you against your will away from it all is appealing. Until you get thrown into their van full of McDonald’s wrappers and you think “not cool bro, I want my fancy apartment back.”</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JEILBhkxKZ4/TaiMIkooLcI/AAAAAAAABrA/KI3RHMyOxlM/s1600/freecandy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JEILBhkxKZ4/TaiMIkooLcI/AAAAAAAABrA/KI3RHMyOxlM/s320/freecandy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">My parents, carrying cleaning supplies, wads of cash and endless praise.<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The “you’ve been served” dude</b> – no one likes getting a subpoena. That is unless the alleged crime involves “being too sexy.” I’ll gladly take THAT slip of paper from the court of law and walk around the neighborhood triumphantly in my underwear.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The pizza guy</b> – bringing enlightenment to millions with his heat sealed bag of delicious meat, melty cheese and tomato goodness. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vBNS92KS55w/TaiMVfejhVI/AAAAAAAABrM/NC8R0cVrfVs/s1600/pizzadelivery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vBNS92KS55w/TaiMVfejhVI/AAAAAAAABrM/NC8R0cVrfVs/s1600/pizzadelivery.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">A fairy godmother</b> – finally! Haven’t we all been waiting for Angela Lansbury to arrive at our doorstep and allow us some fucking wishes? The only downside is that in my excitement I would probably blurt out “give me unlimited amounts of cheese” and the world would be stuck without me wishing for the end of hunger and suffering. Although, technically I could solve their hunger with my cheese.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PEwKPxIG2Y8/TaiMO6JgNUI/AAAAAAAABrI/HYhaUThquhk/s1600/fairygodmother.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PEwKPxIG2Y8/TaiMO6JgNUI/AAAAAAAABrI/HYhaUThquhk/s320/fairygodmother.gif" width="285" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Dave Grohl</b> – he’ll just be wandering around <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Los Angeles</st1:city></st1:place> one day, hear his new album on my mac book and decide to knock and say hi. He’ll share his deep dark inner secrets, forging an impenetrable bond with me forever. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DTWxOEiJ9_g/TaiMLW6sdmI/AAAAAAAABrE/fjoPO-CxYZA/s1600/dave-grohl-parenthood.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DTWxOEiJ9_g/TaiMLW6sdmI/AAAAAAAABrE/fjoPO-CxYZA/s1600/dave-grohl-parenthood.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><o:p><br />
</o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">A walrus in a Hawaiian shirt looking for a luau</b> – coo coo ca choo. </div>winewillfixit@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00425733595292438029noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1934796698603544355.post-37900035363187933322011-04-06T15:30:00.000-07:002011-04-06T15:37:27.952-07:00Oh I'm sorry, was I supposed to stay perfect FOREVER<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was a good kid. And not the – I only stole my parents car a few times, smoked a few joints and got drunk twice in high school kind of good. I was like Leave It to Beaver good. I know this wasn’t because I had a reverence for parents and authority figures that other kids didn’t have. It was because I pretty much believed that I was smarter than everyone else around me including those who had raised me. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tH68mSMU1gM/TZzp6BjjBAI/AAAAAAAABq8/uRg_pIqlcgs/s1600/daria.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tH68mSMU1gM/TZzp6BjjBAI/AAAAAAAABq8/uRg_pIqlcgs/s1600/daria.jpg" /></a></div><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My reasons for being “good” were complicated … a) I was obsessed with going to college and leaving my home town forever b) all of the cool kids had sub standard IQs and c) I really was full of myself. Of course, we all really wanted to be cool in high school but I wasn’t and my defense tactic was to be holier than thou. I treated school like a coveted middle management job – taking on ungodly amounts of “highly visible” projects and eschewing having a life. It didn’t bother me too much to miss out on nights of passing around a bottle of Hooch and letting a 15 year old boy with frosted tips put his hands down my pants. I was keeping my eye on the long term prize of getting the fuck out.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XK6NIgZ8CY0/TZzpJyBydqI/AAAAAAAABqs/bDH3s8jwU0g/s1600/college.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XK6NIgZ8CY0/TZzpJyBydqI/AAAAAAAABqs/bDH3s8jwU0g/s320/college.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">But once I got into my top college I didn’t really need to have laser focus on the future. And all of my smart friends were starting to let loose and enjoy what little we had left of our senior year. And that’s when my all too naïve parents decided to go out of town for a week. Up to that point, I’d been a saint and they had no reason to believe that I wouldn’t continue to behave like one. But now that my fate was sealed at Northwestern, I wasn’t anxious anymore about being perfect. And now, it seemed, was my chance to get drunk and grope someone. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-m-s-KY6GAFo/TZzpimZH1BI/AAAAAAAABq4/CwjcII8lbqw/s1600/devil-drink-header.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-m-s-KY6GAFo/TZzpimZH1BI/AAAAAAAABq4/CwjcII8lbqw/s320/devil-drink-header.jpg" width="268" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So I decided to “let it be known” that my parents were out of town and just see what life would hand me. No one in my AP classes really cared because for my most part, those boys were still waiting for their balls to drop. But the guys in my mandatory physical education class (whose life long aspirations were to get stoned and listen to Phish) seemed very intrigued. And all of the sudden kids who had never even blinked at me were giving me advice on stealing kegs, bribing local police and stock piling on contraceptives. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The story burst like an adolescent ejaculation throughout the school. My AP Calc teacher confronted me at one point in the hallways with a “scared straight” talk about how his buddy threw a party in high school and ended up destroying the chalice of Jesus Christ himself (which was hidden in the basement) in the fury of party rage. “Don’t do it” he said. “You could be destroying not only your future, but the future of the world as we know it.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MVjxfNmn_ac/TZzpTa7KE_I/AAAAAAAABq0/CP8pwwjna8M/s1600/holygrail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MVjxfNmn_ac/TZzpTa7KE_I/AAAAAAAABq0/CP8pwwjna8M/s320/holygrail.jpg" width="183" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And that’s the funny thing about high school. At any moment kids are foaming at the mouth to destroy your family heirlooms and anxious adults are trying to convince you that life as you know it could end if you make one bad decision. I’m here to tell you kids that I broke a rule and survived. And to be honest, the parties were MUCH better in college. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-N_5BqSJDgsg/TZzpN1eXS6I/AAAAAAAABqw/xFymHMyrpNA/s1600/old-school.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-N_5BqSJDgsg/TZzpN1eXS6I/AAAAAAAABqw/xFymHMyrpNA/s320/old-school.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mamakatslosinit.com/" target="_blank"><img alt="Mama’s Losin’ It" src="http://i913.photobucket.com/albums/ac331/mamakatslosinit/workshop-button-1.png" /></a></div>winewillfixit@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00425733595292438029noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1934796698603544355.post-31797153946758457132011-04-04T14:49:00.000-07:002011-04-04T14:49:55.648-07:00The Grandma Diet<blockquote><br />
</blockquote><div class="MsoNormal">One of the preeminent healthy eating mantras you hear is “eat what your grandmother would recognize as food.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Obviously these well meaning health experts never met my grandma.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My grandmother was a woman whose body ran off a strange mixed bag of food ideas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her diet was the hallmark of a woman who was extremely busy, extremely stressed out and consistently thin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And since we Westerners pride ourselves on one day achieving enlightenment through jobs that stress us out to the point of heart attacks, schedules that permit little to no time for deep thought and bodies that could barely withstand a gust of wind …. I present to you – <b>the real estate tycoon Grandmother’s diet:</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">A bath tub of diet coke every day<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">If I close my eyes and try to picture the woman, she is most likely in her Cadillac racing from one appointment to the next, clutching a large diet coke container from McDonald’s with her lipstick imprinted on the straw.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She firmly believed that bottled or canned sodas were the wrong flavor – she would only swallow that which came from a soda fountain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This meant that she spent at least 15% of her day waiting in line at McDonald’s to get her $1.09 fix.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She thought McD’s food was actually disgusting but never mind applying that logic to her favorite drink</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rNAJIb1AFR8/TZo8nGGm4iI/AAAAAAAABqc/qSQE7MdRupo/s1600/drivethru.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rNAJIb1AFR8/TZo8nGGm4iI/AAAAAAAABqc/qSQE7MdRupo/s320/drivethru.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Solve all of life’s problems with Vermouth<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">To say my grandmother knew how to drink is like saying the Dalai Lama knows a thing or two about Buddhism.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I realize this means I’m basically saying my grandma was the Dalai Lama of martinis (which is probably true).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was the kind of woman who was infinitely more excited about my grad school graduation after learning that there was a cocktail reception.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Considering the weight of the world on her shoulders (family, business, diet coke addiction) I’m not surprised she decided to escape the stress of every day life in a high ball glass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And despite her consumption, her high tolerance meant that I never really even saw her drunk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although I have heard legendary stories about my grandma dancing on tables at a weddings and playing poker until 6am.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Suffice to say, that the woman knew how to drink and have a good time.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-odgsvfzyIRk/TZo8qnnWB2I/AAAAAAAABqg/cCeW3pdppjY/s1600/vermouth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-odgsvfzyIRk/TZo8qnnWB2I/AAAAAAAABqg/cCeW3pdppjY/s320/vermouth.jpg" width="220" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Opa!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s Greek salad time<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In case you were wondering – you don’t need to be Greek to enjoy the Mediterranean diet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And by Mediterranean diet I mean iceberg lettuce, chopped olives, feta cheese, liberal use of salad dressing and a small chunk of bread.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While my grandma knew her way around the kitchen, the business kept her away from home for 90% of the day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This meant she raced to the nearest restaurant (because fast food is disgusting) on the way home to pick up dinner for my grandpa and herself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And since she wanted to maintain her physique, she would eat the only salad on the menu (almost all of the restaurants in the <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Chicago</st1:place></st1:city> suburbs are run by Greek families) and sip her martinis in until Grandpa’s steak was ready for her to take home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DZNnGnJTZXA/TZo8tKk6tkI/AAAAAAAABqk/Jr2sMr7FcUg/s1600/GreekSalad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="216" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DZNnGnJTZXA/TZo8tKk6tkI/AAAAAAAABqk/Jr2sMr7FcUg/s320/GreekSalad.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">And lastly, to maximize calories the grandma’s diet does call for exercise.<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She was (literally) a master gardener (certified by my Alma Mater) and cultivated zucchini’s that would make a virgin blush.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you are a city dweller without a backyard, I recommend that you spend all of your weekends on all fours crawling through dirt to simulate the same experience.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QKvbGcG2nyI/TZo8vVopakI/AAAAAAAABqo/ZB2oW6c_iEI/s1600/Garden.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QKvbGcG2nyI/TZo8vVopakI/AAAAAAAABqo/ZB2oW6c_iEI/s320/Garden.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: red;">Please note, any resemblance to the author (her granddaughter) is coincidental.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t keep a basil plant alive, I’ve only ordered a Greek salad once in my life (I hate olives), and I have never danced on a table at a wedding (yet).<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>winewillfixit@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00425733595292438029noreply@blogger.com2