Thank you thank you . . . . you've been a great audience!! I'll be here all week. Don't forget to tip your waitress.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Tons O' Pun!
I took a sleeping pill last night and now I have a major case of the Yawn (Ullrichs that is) . . . .
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
When you get caught between the moon and New York City
Hello America, where have you been all my life? The other day a friend was in town and had a little get-together of sorts and all his best San Fran peeps crowded into this hipster restaurant to hobnob and schmooze. We all ordered appetizers, vittles, and drinky-poos. Side note, don’t you hate it when you go out to eat with a big group of people and no matter how little you eat or drink you’re expected to pay a butt load because they split up the entire bill amongst everyone? That’s why I usually order at least eleventy of these:
word to wise, word to my thighs, don’t invite me to group dinners.
But I digress. . . mid-munch I realized the gnocchi I was wolfing down my gullet was wrapped in bacon - "inside a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, wrapped in an enigma" - You Winston you lose some . . . Churchill
Before I could projectile vomit, the little nugget o’ flesh was already swimming around in the old body cavity and my 16 years of meat celibacy came to a mouth watering end. Shockingly, I didn't keel over and die. Maybe it’s because I’m not a real vegetarian. I’m, how do you say in American, a non-eater-of-anything-that-has-a-face, unless it happens to be a delicious fish face.
People often ask me why I don’t eat meat and there are a few reasons:
I am a huge animal lover (i.e. I freaking hate small animals)
I have never really liked the flava flave of meat.
And finally, my mom was a vegetarian when I was a child.
Which reminds me, my mom used to take me and my brother to this place called Alive Polarity at Murrieta Hot Springs in Southern California when we were kids. It was this hippy dippy (aka CULTastic) au natural spa place out in the desert where they had these hot springs that smelled like eggs and they served only vegetarian foods and did yoga and massage and meditation and mud baths and child labor (I’ll get to the latter later . . . say that ten times fast, I DARE YOU . . . ok, ok, it's not that hard). My dad never went with us because he eats every kind of face . . . . and is a Republican. HEYO!
So the summer I was 6 years old my mom took us for an extended stay at Murrieta Hot Springs and enrolled us in their so-called Kids’ Camp while she marinated in fart smelling mud.
My first day at camp was weird because I realized that all the kids in camp were the children of employees of Murrieta Hot Springs and were extremely cliquey. The ‘camp counselors’ were strict, mean, masseurs making extra cash on their days off by supervising kids they didn't enjoy being around. They had this cultish way of talking and wouldn’t help me out in any way if I didn’t answer every question with the words ‘yes please’. Any affirmative response other than ‘yes please’ was strictly forbidden. On top of that, they didn’t tell me this rule and just ignored me until I figured it out on my own. I actually starved the first day of camp because whenever someone asked if I wanted lunch, I would simply say ‘sure’ unaware of the ‘yes please’ protocol. That evening I complained to my mom that I didn’t like camp and nobody talked to me or fed me or anything. My mom, most likely fearing her ‘Mom time’ was in eminent jeopardy, gave me the sage advice to walk up to one of the children the next day and introduce myself by saying “Hello, my name is Leslie, would you like to be my friend?” This sounded simple enough, so the following day I did just that. I waltzed up to another little girl and said “Hello, my name is Leslie, would you like to be my friend?” to which she responded “No. I already have friends.”
STELLAR ADVICE, MOM. Gracias por nada!
Crushed, I walked over to where my older brother Chris was playing and he pretended not to know me (most likely the result of being brainwashed into becoming a member of this veggie, yes please cult). I then tried to talk to one of the cult counselors, but was also ignored because I didn’t somehow work the words “yes please” into the following phrase: “Nobody will play with me. What kinda camp is this!??” To top this off, the main ‘camp’ activity was cleaning the resort’s hotel rooms. I kid you not, my mom paid cold hard cash-o-la for her children to clean hotel rooms unbeknownst to her (but knownst to me).
word to wise, word to my thighs, don’t invite me to group dinners.
But I digress. . . mid-munch I realized the gnocchi I was wolfing down my gullet was wrapped in bacon - "inside a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, wrapped in an enigma" - You Winston you lose some . . . Churchill
Before I could projectile vomit, the little nugget o’ flesh was already swimming around in the old body cavity and my 16 years of meat celibacy came to a mouth watering end. Shockingly, I didn't keel over and die. Maybe it’s because I’m not a real vegetarian. I’m, how do you say in American, a non-eater-of-anything-that-has-a-face, unless it happens to be a delicious fish face.
People often ask me why I don’t eat meat and there are a few reasons:
I am a huge animal lover (i.e. I freaking hate small animals)
Hi, I'm a total jerk!
I have never really liked the flava flave of meat.
And finally, my mom was a vegetarian when I was a child.
Which reminds me, my mom used to take me and my brother to this place called Alive Polarity at Murrieta Hot Springs in Southern California when we were kids. It was this hippy dippy (aka CULTastic) au natural spa place out in the desert where they had these hot springs that smelled like eggs and they served only vegetarian foods and did yoga and massage and meditation and mud baths and child labor (I’ll get to the latter later . . . say that ten times fast, I DARE YOU . . . ok, ok, it's not that hard). My dad never went with us because he eats every kind of face . . . . and is a Republican. HEYO!
So the summer I was 6 years old my mom took us for an extended stay at Murrieta Hot Springs and enrolled us in their so-called Kids’ Camp while she marinated in fart smelling mud.
My first day at camp was weird because I realized that all the kids in camp were the children of employees of Murrieta Hot Springs and were extremely cliquey. The ‘camp counselors’ were strict, mean, masseurs making extra cash on their days off by supervising kids they didn't enjoy being around. They had this cultish way of talking and wouldn’t help me out in any way if I didn’t answer every question with the words ‘yes please’. Any affirmative response other than ‘yes please’ was strictly forbidden. On top of that, they didn’t tell me this rule and just ignored me until I figured it out on my own. I actually starved the first day of camp because whenever someone asked if I wanted lunch, I would simply say ‘sure’ unaware of the ‘yes please’ protocol. That evening I complained to my mom that I didn’t like camp and nobody talked to me or fed me or anything. My mom, most likely fearing her ‘Mom time’ was in eminent jeopardy, gave me the sage advice to walk up to one of the children the next day and introduce myself by saying “Hello, my name is Leslie, would you like to be my friend?” This sounded simple enough, so the following day I did just that. I waltzed up to another little girl and said “Hello, my name is Leslie, would you like to be my friend?” to which she responded “No. I already have friends.”
STELLAR ADVICE, MOM. Gracias por nada!
Crushed, I walked over to where my older brother Chris was playing and he pretended not to know me (most likely the result of being brainwashed into becoming a member of this veggie, yes please cult). I then tried to talk to one of the cult counselors, but was also ignored because I didn’t somehow work the words “yes please” into the following phrase: “Nobody will play with me. What kinda camp is this!??” To top this off, the main ‘camp’ activity was cleaning the resort’s hotel rooms. I kid you not, my mom paid cold hard cash-o-la for her children to clean hotel rooms unbeknownst to her (but knownst to me).
Me, back row, 5th from the right.
On about the 4th day of camp I was walking to one of the hotel rooms and my mom just happened to be walking to one of her yoga sessions and our paths crossed. My mom was all “Leslie? What are you doing with that bottle of Windex?” To which I replied “My camp job”. Long story ridiculously long . . . that pretty much ended our relationship with Murrieta Hot Springs and we left the next day. The only good thing I remember about the whole experience was that the movie Arthur Two: On The Rocks was the only movie they played in the evenings and my mom let me watch it over and over and over each night until our dramatic exodus. Don’t ask me why, but the combination of Dudley Moore, Liza Minnelli and alcoholism is comic gold to any six year old.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
T Pain-cakes
Last Friday Potsey and I went for a run at Crissy Field and then we needed to get new tires put on the ol' auto-mo-beeel, so we dropped the car off at our trusty mechanic
????
"Houston, we have a pancake."
and were told to come back in 15 mins. Still dressed in my sweatfest outfit, we decided to keep the workout-a-go-go and speed walk around the Inner Richmond district for a bit.
Actual picture of my hair (not my body . . . I wish!) speed walking . . . . and yes, I spent $165 US dollars on that haircut
Whilst walking con mucho gusto, and the picture of pure determination on my face, some random kid
crosses the street and interrupts me mid speed walk with this little ditty:
RK (Random Kid): Hey you, where's the IHOP at?
Me: HUH? (breathing heavily as a result of speed walking a total of 2 blocks)
RK: YOU know. . . (hefty eye roll) The International House of Pancakes. Where's it at?
Me: Ummm . . . (to self "Can't he see I'M SPEED WALKING HERE?! I AM AN AVID EXERCISER, NOT A PANCAKE CONNOISSEUR!") No . . . . sorry I don't know.
RK: RIIIIIIIIIIIIIGHT. . . . . like YOU don't know.
????
SERIOUSLY, what do I look like people???
"Houston, we have a pancake."
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