This is What Happens when my Family goes Wine Tasting.

Some people cringe when they think about the prospect of a family reunion, and come up with excuses like "I drank a foamy latte and now I'm all farty and bloated," to get out of going. Not I. I have three siblings and they're the greatest in the world. We never fight. We don't have drama. And I'm not just saying that. We've always had each others' backs completely, despite being four entirely unique individuals with differing values, beliefs, and opinions. So I was really happy to have my oldest sister come stay with me for a week during her two sons' spring breaks. And in the true tradition of spring breaks, she and I drove to Tijuana and sold ourselves to a Drug Lord.

That version would probably make for a more exciting blog post. But settle in while I pour myself a glass of Riesling--the real version is that we wrangled up my brother and my sister's 16-year old son and headed into nearby wine country for the day. Shout out to our other sister who wasn't able to join up on this trip, you're dead to us now. Just kidding, we still love you and missed you greatly.

We take wine tasting seriously in my family. I used to work for a winery in a tasting room, so even though I don't drink the red kool-aid due to headaches, I still know my grapes. And my brother is so serious I witnessed him on this trip pay $10 for a sip of wine that a specialty shop was offering. That's dedication. His verdict?-- "I've had better." He also records his tasting notes as he goes winery to winery on a little voice recorder, telling it things like, "This Pinot smells like a dark, German forest,"  and "It's like drinking a bacony, chocolate-covered orgasm." So needless to say, we roll up to a tasting room and people get a little uncomfortable. We're that good.

We stopped for lunch in Solvang, before we got our sip on. My nephew came along because he'd taken a recent interest in Sideways, and wanted to see some of the spots from that movie, so we stopped into Kalyra first, where he and I made a new best friend while my brother and sister were tasting inside.

Somehow (probably having to do with owning a hybrid and being a notorious lightweight) I got roped into driving on this trip, so my other two siblings were free to go buckwild and them some. Sadly, the only bottle of anything I bought on this trip was a bottle of truffle oil from a specialty shop. Did I say sadly? I meant awesomely. Oh me. Always the responsible one (unless I'm in Vegas, it's a holiday, I'm on an awkward date, I'm wearing a taco costume, or someone else is buying).

When my nephew commented on how beautiful the vineyards and rolling green hills were in the Santa Ynez Valley and stated that he would like to retire here, I felt I spoke for the entire family when I reminded him that he could live here a lot sooner than retirement if he just got a job working at a winery out here, plus he'd have a steady stream of hookup-seeking family visitors at any given time and would never go lonely. I'm going to keep working that angle.

Our next spot was a favorite of mine, Beckmen, where the grounds are beautiful and the Grenache is bangin. Then we made our way over to Gainey where the guy working the tasting counter told us how he just went full-blown ghostbusters on Firestone's alleged poltergeist's ass. The stories he told were spooky, and since I'm apparently a magnet for pervy ghosts, we opted out of that one and made our way to the Andrew Murray tasting room, our father's favorite wines. While we were bellying up to that bar, we waxed so emotional about Dad we got our tastings comped. He'd be very proud. <3

 And somewhere along the way, after tasting at several wineries, wine did as wine does and alcohol was clearly pumping through veins in the car. After my brother swore off the plastic bottle of water in the car, declaring, "I bet that water has already become cancerous by now!" our conversations got racy in a major family way, and my sister dropped this bomb:

"Did I ever tell you guys about the time Mom took me to Solvang by myself when I was 14 and ordered me a glass of wine in a restaurant and then tried to tell me about sex?"

Sista say what?!

"Yeah, she ordered two glasses of wine at the restaurant, gave me one of them, and then awkwardly tried to warn me about what some guys may try to do to me one day." 

Um, go on. No wait. Stop. Okay fine, keep going.

"I basically shut her down right there and let her know that I already knew about that stuff, to which she seemed both surprised and relieved."

Oh Mother. Way to always be a few years fashionably late on things. And way to get you and your first-born, teenage daughter liquored up just to be able to break the ice with her about the art of mating. At that moment I realized that I never experienced this talk--my best guess is because I started dressing like an overt slut at a really early age and I think my mom just kind of assumed the worst. In hindsight, I'm sad I missed that rite of parent-child passage, partly because the only story I had to contribute to this conversation involved admitting that I was a child who dressed like a streetwalker, but also because if suffering through an incredibly awkward talk with a parent as a minor had been lubed up by a chance to guzzle a full serving of alcohol, I'd have found it worthwhile back then to grin and bear it.

Then my sister reminded her son in the backseat that she broached the subject with him on a camping trip when he was 9, and a look of disgust came across his face and he ran off into the woods, probably in hopes of finding a wolf family that would take him in as one of their own and continue to raise him sans horrific talks of p-sticks and v-holes. My nephew suffers from the worst long-term memory ever. He doesn't remember entire trips to Hawaii, Yellowstone, even the majority of a trip to Thailand he took just a couple years ago. So I would assume the fact that he has not even a shred of memory about this conversation is finally a blessing instead of a curse. However, he let us know that he does remember learning about "hot dogs and donuts at school" when he was in 5th grade. We may or may not have slipped my nephew some sips of wine while people's backs were turned.

This is what happens when my family goes wine tasting.
 
So what is the takeaway from all this?  That it's never too early to have "the talk" with your child, or that if you drink enough, you'll start talking about it? Or maybe it's don't go wine tasting with my family unless you're a badass.

On that note, I think my Riesling is ready for a refill. 

Conversations with Total Psychos/Psychics

 If you know me well, then you know I’m a non-believer. But once in a blue moon, something will happen to where I think, “There’s got to be some deeper significance other than I just had a dream where I really had to pee, and then woke up wetting the bed--what is the universe telling me?!” For example. This past week was one of those weeks, so much so that I thought, rather than just throwing my hands up to the proverbial universe, I'd shout an assertive "Excelsior!" and go in for my first time for a psychic reading or two. 

It started with me waking up one morning recently, when I was supposed to go on a 9-mile run with this running club I dabble in, and the non-morning person part of me quickly vetoed the run and went back to sleep. During my extra hour of snooze, I had one of those really vivid dreams that’s so real, when it hits you post-slumber, you need to retrace steps to see if it was in fact, just a dream.  The dream was rather simple—my two cats were curled up side by side in little cat balls, and I was petting them remarking on what sweet little girls they were, when I looked to the side and saw my bunny curled up in a ball, too. This was a bunny I rescued off the streets last year, wondering how I would prevent the bunny from becoming my cats’ midnight snack. Turns out my cats adored the bunny and welcomed her into our home. Our time with her was bliss-filled, until one morning I went to wake the bunny from her cage, and it was clear something was really wrong with her that wasn’t the night before, and she died in my hands that morning.  

In the grand scheme of life and loss, this bunny was in my life for really just a fleeting moment, and I’ve certainly experienced greater loss, but this lil bun-bun left quite an impression and I miss her often. So in my dream, I exclaimed, “Bunny, you came back!” and picked her up. She had grown in her absence and was larger, heavier, and I could feel her weight and warmth in my hands as I snuggled her sleek brown fur before waking up. I immediately forgot the dream and went about my morning as usual and headed out the door on my run through Griffith Park, solo, since the running club did their thang hours prior. Around mile 5, the dream suddenly hit me, and I started crying as I thought about how real it felt and how nice it was to see the bunny again. I turned a sharp corner in the trail, and there right in front of me, sitting on top of the corner of a waist-high fencepost, was the bunny. I stopped dead in my tracks, and we locked eyes for a few moments. “Bunny, you’re here!” I reached out to grab her, and as bunnies do, she hopped off into the bushes.

Griffith Park is overrun by Wile E Coyotes, making a park bunny sighting, nay a bunny perched on top of a fencepost, akin to a winning lotto ticket. Cosmic significance? I’m not one to make that call. So instead I called a psychic. I got my reading from a lovely lady named Chassidy at this place.  If you go on Yelp and read reviews of psychics, you’ll see that for the most part the reviews are very vague due to the deeply personal nature of what’s revealed in readings, and I will mostly follow suit.  What I will say about this reading, is I believe this lady has a true psychic gift. With only being told my name and birthday, she brought up details of my professional and personal life that were spot on, and gave me guidance in those areas (like don’t leave LA—sorry mom!). I was hoping she’d psychically know to talk about the bunny dream, maybe that was wishful thinking. So I brought it up. She said for sure the bunny is my spirit animal, and that because I rescued the bunny, someone in turn will rescue me. Cue Sugardaddy? She also said the bunny keeps resurfacing to remind me to not paralyze in fear and keep moving when I’m challenged in life, which I think is sound advice, Bunny. 

Then after the reading, I was hanging out with a friend, telling him how wildly moving the experience was, when we thought to go down the street to get a second, albeit much cheaper opinion from another psychic. This bitch was nuts. I thought at first that maybe we just got off on the wrong foot because the first thing out of her mouth was that she knows I had a mom who was really abusive to me growing up, which can't even be interpreted as true from any angle. Whatevs, I was willing to keep an open mind about the rest she had to tell me about myself. 

But no. We definitely got off on the wrong foot when she told me next that she's convinced I was raped by a ghost while sleeping. Oh yeah. I wouldn't kid. Never mind that what she told me following that was that I'll be moving to New York in a few years for a job with SNL, cuz I was no longer paying attention. Thank you, you total psycho psychic, I'll be having sweet dreams from here on out. Looking forward to all the ghostgasms.

I suppose this reading could have gone worse. She told my friend that he is miserable behind his smile and that a female in his life is currently sick, and that she'll recover but then promptly die. 

No, being a ghost rape victim is still worse. But like the recently released film I fell in love with, I was determined to find a silver lining. One thing she told my friend was that he has very healing hands and should be doing something with that. Did someone say back massage? Ding! So no, I would not consider this psychic reading a total waste since we had to put our money where her deranged mouth is and I got a free back massage out of it. 

Now if I could just visualize Patrick Swayze as my night lover instead of Freddy Krueger.

My Drinking Class has a Painting Problem

I'm not one to drink a lot unless I'm in Vegas, it's a holiday, I'm on an awkward date, I'm at a family reunion, I'm wearing a taco costume, or someone else is buying. But when I see or hear of an activity that involves boozing when typically not allowed, I'm a huge supporter. Just as a hypothetical (and amazing business idea), Binge Drinking Church Confessions. Now this sinner hasn't been dragged to confession since I was maybe 10, and I certainly don't intend to ever again in my life, but if I heard of a church that was offering Jaegerbombs to it's clients standing in line for confession, I'd be there in seconds, if not just for the sake of experiencing the hot mess of a party sure to be happening up in the congregation. So when I received a special offer to attend a BYOB Intro to Painting class from this lady, I did a double-take to make sure I read that correctly, and then promptly signed my artistically-challenged mug up.

A few days later, I stuffed a couple Hornsby's in my bag and headed into K-town--Koreatown, for those unfamiliar with the area. What I believe really set the tone for this whole experience is that I first noticed the art studio was located in a building right next door to a Korean all-you-can-eat named "Gangnam Style." So relevant. And as a total aside, someone please tell me I'm not the only one who originally thought the chorus of the song was "Open Condom Style," the unsafe sex anthem of our youth's generation. I digress and head up the elevator to the 14th floor where I anticipate shit getting real.

I don't know about y'all, but when I think BYOB-anything, I think of taking something normal, removing any pretention, uptightness, or morals, and then maxxing the party factor (totally convinced that if there were BYOB H&R Blocks, nobody would put off doing taxes until the last days of mid-April). So forgive me if the fantasy in my head about this art class involved hot soccer players doing keg stands against the LA skyline, while in the foreground scruffy shirtless guys in berets and paint-stained goatees held brushes at an easel in one hand and glasses of lambrusco in the other--it's my fantasy, dammit. The reality I walked into was more like a small, quiet group of menopausal women, all of which were either unaware of, or opted out of the BYOB part of the experience. Maybe this was partly due to it being a school night and there would have been a different crowd for the Friday night class, and had I recruited a few of my rowdy friends to come with me, the vibe would have been far different. Never fear, I busted out my cider and got down to bidness.

First I learned about mixing acrylics and how certain colors, when combined, cancel themselves out to black by making a color chart.

Then, with the expert guidance of the instructor, I put it all to good use and created my still life masterpiece:

This was all done during a two-hour class. I will say, at the risk of sounding like a total asshole, that I generally hate to learn. I hate taking classes, and even when it's something that I think I'll enjoy like a dance class, I'm checking the clock every 5 minutes, agonizing over how long it will be until I can go home, wrap myself in a Slanket, and settle in for a Bad Girls Club marathon. In this instance, there wasn't a clock, and my cell phone was across the room, so I was pleasantly surprised when right around the time I was thinking that I must be halfway into the class and maybe I can peace out in time to watch a sloppy drunk Janae pop off at Valentina, the instructor announced we only had 5 minutes left of class. Sure enough, two hours had gone by like nothing. So, time flies when you're drinking and painting. 

Next time, I'll try my luck at the Friday night class.

What is love? (Baby don't hurt me, don't hurt me, no more)

Behold! A one-women Valentine's celebration with strong thematics of home-baked love and spousal abuse...

This year Valentine's Day was different for me than the norm because it was the first time in many years that I was single. Put your violins away, I was actually really looking forward to the experience. So much emphasis of this holiday is placed on having that special romantic someone, but I wanted to be able to celebrate loving myself and others I care about! So I started it off by giving myself the perfect Valentine's pedi, whilst mindlessly singing Kelly Clarkson's "What Doesn't Kill you Makes you Stronger," until I realized that song would probably subconsciously damper my Valentine juju.  So I started singing "All you Need is Love" and promptly stubbed my toe and chipped the paint job.

Then I got started on my big plans in the kitchen. Originally, I thought I'd make these homemade peanut butter cups and give them to my friends. But they were amazing and I'm not even gonna make it seem like I didn't eat all twelve of them myself within 48 hours, long before the 14th even arrived. So... sorry, friends deserving of homemade peanut butter cups, you lost out and I didn't. But what I did wait to do was make cupcakes. And to honor the hipster buried not-so-deep within me, I made them vegan and gluten-free. They were a hit with my various friends with dietary restrictions, and then I made sure I left a cutely packaged box of them on my next door neighbor's doorstep. My neighbor is awesome in that he has let me steal borrow his internet for the past two and a half years, and has literally saved me over $1000 bones, so I figured the least I could do was throw him this bone. And I'm pretty sure he was either thoroughly touched and/or creeped out by it.

 Then I allowed myself some quality me-time. I'm normally not one to read romance novels--coughfiftyshadesofgrey-- but when Nicholas Sparks' new novel "Safe Haven" arrived on my doorstep the day prior to V-day, I knew how I would spend my afternoon. And evening. And night while I should have been sleeping. And I didn't stop until the next morning when it was finished.  I started reading it thinking, much like his other novel "The Notebook," it would be the perfect love story for a day like Valentine's day. What it turned out being was a book about a young woman fleeing from a physically abusive marriage she was trapped in for years, and the aftermath of what it's like to try to hide from someone looking to hunt you down and kill you. And like most trainwrecks, I had to keep looking until I found out who lived and who died. So, Happy Valentine's Day to me.

I'm a one-time book reader, except for certain faves like my personal Bible "The Devil Wears Prada," so my copy of Safe Haven immediately began making a cameo here. And I will say that I thought the last couple chapters of the book were. JUST. AWFUL. Feel free to bid, despite my rave review. 

If anything, this book did allow me to reflect on some things I normally don't think about, like how lucky I am to still be able to use my original birth identity despite having one or two fucktard mentally unstable ex-boyfriends on my rap sheet. That the only black eyes I've ever received were given to me by myself from my own ridonkulous physical shenanigans, or simply drawn on with makeup for the many spun-out ho's I've played for the camera. Or the fact that I carry a can of pepper spray with me everywhere, but the only time it's ever gotten any use was from the one time I accidentally sprayed myself in the face. So yes, I did feel the love this Valentine's Day. Because I realized my friends, family, and home have always been my Safe Haven.

YES to Superbowl Sunday, NO to selling my goods.

I’m not going to remember this past Sunday as Superbowl Sunday 2013. I was driving to a friend’s house to snarf some homemade guac and perhaps watch a little football when I received this text from a colleague while driving west on the 10:

Tell me if this works for u or not.. But I found a guy for u. That will help u financially. He is not looking for nothing serious just sex once in a while. But will help you with whatever you meed.

My apologies to the football/high-budget commercial/Destiny’s Child fanatics out there: February 3^rd, 2013 will now be known as the day I was propositioned to become a prostitute. A lady of the night. A strumpet. As I read and reread this text while trying to avoid rear-ending the car in front of me (yeah, I’m guilty—what.), many thoughts swirled through my head: First, I had the exciting realization that I had just experienced the elusive fragment/double-negative/spell check text trifecta. Secondly, yes I’m jobless and broke and desperate but seriously?! Third of all…exactly how much money are we talking about here? I didn’t respond for many hours because it took me that long to figure out what is the proper response to a text like that:

           “lol”?

This really wasn’t what I had in mind when I made the resolution to try new opportunities I wouldn’t consider under normal circumstances. But my current circumstances are not normal: I rang in the New Year by getting laid off from my job. I will say that I’m fascinated by stories of women like this earning thousands an hour and often wondered how does one become a pricey call-girl in the first place (like do most have to start at $25 handy-J’s and work their way up)?

This could be my ticket in!

What does it say about me that I was tempted to text back “How much?” rather than “No way in hell!”? I feel like a whore for thinking that way, oh, the irony. But I am a believer that we all have a price. At some point, for a certain amount of money, we would all sell ourselves.

“Would you eat this habanero for $1?”

No, but I’d do it for $20.

“Would you shave your head for $500?”

No, but I’d do it for $5,000.

“Would you give Larry King a Rusty Trombone for $1,000?”

No, but for $10,000 and a Fendi baguette you can call me the Sexual Glenn Miller.

Unless you’re one of these sisters, you’ll financially draw the line somewhere in terms of having sex with a stranger. Whether it’s for $100,000, for $500, or for an eight-ball and lift to the Circle K, there is an amount that we’ll agree to sell our bodies and dignity. And here I was, faced with the reality of naming my price. I could really demand anything. So I texted him back:

Hmm, doesn’t sound like it’ll work for me...But thanks for keeping me in mind. 

And much like a used rubber, I flushed the reality of my future as a wealthy escort down the toilet. I didn't think it would do the fantasy in my head justice.

My Inbloguration

That’s right. I just made a cyber pun. It’s not my first and it won’t be my last.

But this will be the last time I let another year go by while not living up to my maximum Jackass potential. Unless you've been living in one of these for the past decade, you're already familiar with the MTV grossout bromance show. So let’s take Steve-O as an example: If you’ve ever spent more than 5 minutes in a room with Steve-O, as I have had the odd fortune of doing, the first tidbit he’ll bring to the table is that he is a premature ejaculator. And that is a straight-up fact. Sure, go ahead and think I banged Steve-O--only he, my friend Heidi and myself know the truth. The second thing you’ll learn about Steve-O is that his comfort zone is when he’s doing anything outside his comfort zone: Drinking a mug of his BFF’s funneled sweat, locking himself inside a porta-potty and then launching said outhouse in the air via bungees to create the "Poo Cocktail Supreme" and butt-chugging a beer enema are all on his list of accomplishments. 

I wanna be like those guys. Only maybe I won’t shove a tube up my friend’s ass. But here and now I dare myself to step outside my comfort zone, try new things I normally wouldn’t and embrace challenges thrown at me.

How am I doing so far? The start of 2013 dealt me two significant life-changers: 1) I got laid off from my job, and 2) I got bangs. I’ve embraced the unemployment, yet the bangs just suck. I may never accept them. But I quickly realized that through joblessness comes boredom, which turns into desperation, which can then lead to inspiration. So for however long Uncle Sam’s paycheck lasts me, and hopefully much longer, I'll be recording my adventures in boredom and taking my trademark insecurities and pessimism and giving them a swift boot to the fanny. You are welcome to challenge me! I will genuinely consider all dares, reasonable or unreasonable.

My first challenge for the next week, despite being single and living in the most romantically handicapped city ever, will be to celebrate the heart-shaped pants off of Valentine's Day. Stay tuned for my findings--It’s time to get off my jackass and go out on a limb.