Why I Loathe Country Music

I recently found out that one of the head honchos from my corporate office loves country music. This is the last guy you would ever think would rock Taylor Swift on Pandora in a crowded office and not feel one ounce of shame. One of my other bosses is also a closet redneck, to the point that his ringback tone is chock full of hee haw pride that I can never get out of my head whenever I call him ("I'm a lifetime sponsor of the FFA," Damn! Every time!). Even my girls in the Sally Tomatoes, who are educated, sophisticated, and classy broads all seem waaaaay too down with Carrie Underwood and the Dixie Chicks. Whenever we karaoke (which is often), one of them inevitably busts out the honky tonk, and they all sing along robustly whilst I sit sullenly by, nursing my vodka tonic.

This is not OK.

I need this shirt.

Country music is the scourge of the earth. I have very eclectic taste in music (other than hard core gangsta rap that doesn't even have a catchy hook you can sing along to and just kind of mumble and make up the words in between). But I cannot abide country music. Here are the reasons why:

1. I'm dead sick of it. When I worked at the grocery store in my sort-of hometown of Foresthill, CA (which is just about as hillbilly as you can get without the accent), I had to listen to nothing but contemporary country music over and over and over and over again. Seriously, my ears were bleeding after only a few months. The job itself wasn't terrible. But the music made it unbearable. To this day, I can't hear it without cringing.

Oh Wortons. Not-so-good times. And even worse music.

2. It's pandering to the sap in all of us. If I had a nickel for every time I started accidentally tearing up at some sickly sweet country song about some kid with a sick mother, or cheaply invoking 9-11, or a daddy singing lullabies to his daughter, or an couple growing old together and reminiscing about the good old days, I'd have MANY NICKELS! What's worse is that I know exactly how they're manipulating my emotions and yet it's working anyway. Damn them! The worst offenders: "Christmas Shoes," "Butterfly Kisses," "Oklahoma," and "Remember When." The only pandering song I secretly like, "Don't Take the Girl." But only because it reminds me of roller skating when I was eight years old. Not sure why.

Damn you Alan Jackson, making my parents tear up whenever they hear your song.

3. Steel guitars. There's something about the twang of a steel guitar that just drives me absolutely batty. I realized that it's racist against a guitar that can't help the way it sounds. But it just has a connotation of everything I loathe about country music that I throw up a little in my mouth whenever I hear one.

Poor, misunderstood instrument.

4. Redneck pride. There is nothing cool about being a redneck. Having gone to school grades 5th through 12th and being surrounded by a large population of them, I can say this from experience. Uber-tight pants, ugly cowboy boots, giant-ass belt buckles, and tucked-in t-shirts, do not spell sexy. So to musically boast about being one of these sad creatures is just unfathomable.

This man represents everything that is wrong with America.

5. Property damage. This namely applies to one particular song that always pops up on karaoke night. "Before He Cheats," by Carrie Underwood. Yes I understand that it's supposed to be the anthem of the wronged Southern woman. Designed to make girls who have been scorned feel some sort of cathartic, vicarious vindication. But all I can feel when I listen to the tale of this angry woman beating the shit out of a guy's expensive, souped up car, just pisses me off. Who is going to pay for that damage? And why are we encouraging women to inflict costly destruction when a man strays? This is not a healthy outlet and I do NOT support this song, no matter how catchy it is.

I sure hope she is willing to fork over for her night of vehicular massacre.

6. The lyrics. Who writes this shit? I know that not all lyrics are golden, but the worst ones seem to stem exclusively from country music.

That's just too many sequins for one little girl.

7. Taylor Swift. I know she's America's sweetheart, but I think she's the devil in a sparkly cocktail dress. She seems like a nice girl. But her music is terrible. And I saw her on Saturday Night Live before I had ever heard her music, and she was god awful live. (Though, to be fair, 97% of the performers on SNL are terrible live). Her stupid sparkly guitar and her middle-school lyrics and raccoon eyes. Ok, so I admit that she's secretly a guilty pleasure. But I refuse to ever download her music or openly admit that I've rocked out to "You Belong to Me" on Stan's speakers when no one can hear me. And I hate myself for it.

Oh Billy Ray. With a name like that, you never had a chance.

8. Mullets. Enough said.

I'm sure there are more, but I just had a large, fruity and delicious cocktail and my brain is feeling delightfully fuzzy. Let's just say, I effing HATE country music.

A Very Long-Winded Update

Yes I am aware of how much time has passed and I have multiple bruises from the amount of times I have kicked myself for being lazy and not writing when I really had no excuse because I had plenty of time, energy, and topics and I am now writing this uber-sentence to prove how many words have been bottled up inside of me because I suck at writing even lame little blog entries even though they're really the only writing project I've stuck with because I can't finish anything to save my life and even starting something takes a Herculean effort on my part and I've never been a big fan of Hercules.

Unless he's played by Kevin Sorbo.

*BREATHES.*

So what has Hutch been up to these last several weeks? Well I will update you all in the form of a list: The things I meant to blog about but never got around to!

1. My painful inability to keep anything to myself, especially when it comes to boys I take a shine to. Namely, Sexy Jesus (no, it's not his legal name, but it damn well should be. He's the most attractive man I've ever seen in real life and he bears a striking resemblance to our lord and savior. If our lord and savior moonlighted as a latin-flavored Chippendale's dancer. Now that I would pay big money to see... Sorry I was waiting to see if I was going to be struck with lightening just then. All clear! But seriously, he's like the ridiculously attractive Carl in Love Actually that Laura Linney could totally have tapped and was like, no I have to go hang out with my brother who looks like a lumpy John Cusack and tries to hit me even though I'm trying to get the Pope and/or Bon Jovi to exorcise him, the ungrateful loon!)

"Rock me, rock me, rock me Sexy Jesus!" ~Hamlet 2

Holy Sacrilege...

Long story short, every single one of my co-workers, including the Big Boss Man knows that I am head over heels in love with Sexy Jesus (even though he's married and his wife is going to have a baby. Now I'm really going to Hell). I have got to learn to not blush, giggle, fawn, and in all other ways swoon over this man and any other attractive menfolk that walk through my door. But it's just not possible. Sigh. There's also the Nutcracker (so named because he could crack many-a-walnut with that ass. Not that anyone would want to eat an ass-cracked walnut. But still, impressive, right?), but he has since moved out, much to my chagrin. But everyone knew I had the hots for him too. Why can't I play it cool like Don Draper? Why do I lack any sort of mystery whatsoever?

2. The Downtown Pub Crawl with my UC Irvine/Bordeaux Study Abroad/Vegas Shenanigans girls. We discovered the second greatest Irish pub, called Casey's (A-MAZING, but still not quite as good as Maeve's), and the Library Bar (which is exactly what it sounds like. Super pretentious and hipster-y which we celebrated by drinking grapefruitinis and reading aloud Shakespearean sonnets to complete strangers.) We also unearthed a libation entitled the Pickle Back, which is a shot of Jameson followed by a pickle juice chaser. This made my friend Jessica who did it on a dare, promptly vomit moments later.

Have I mentioned how much I love Irish pubs?

The Pickle Back is not to be confused with the band Nickleback, which sometimes can have the same effect. This night was also momentous because I discovered that I could resolve my hatred of Downtown (most of which stems from difficult and expensive driving, parking, and navigating) by taking the Metro. Who knew? Of course the night ended when we decided to skip the expensive taxi and take the bus back to my friend's place. I must have been pretty drunk if I willingly agreed to take a bus, because not only did we trek super-far to the bus stop, but I did it walking barefoot on the nasty-ass Downtown streets in lieu of wearing my painful heels. Who knows what gnarly things have oozed, splattered, died, or crawled on those sidewalks....Not the smartest thing I've ever done, but at least I wasn't driving!

3. I finally went to an LA Kings Hockey game! I scored a deal on Living Social and it was glorious! Again, I took the Metro, which proved to be an excellent decision. Only we weren't sure exactly where the Staples Center was, so we just followed a group of burly guys in jerseys until we found the place. For a girl from Sacramento, it was super weird to root for the LA Kings. (I've been bred to loathe all Los Angeles-based sports teams, especially those that have the same mascot as my sometimes-beloved basketball team.) I consider myself a Ducks fan, though it's mostly because I love the Mighty Ducks trilogy, and that was the first (and only) game I ever went to.

It's a beautiful thing.

It. Rocked. My. World. I love Canadians. I love big burly Canadians. I love big burly Canadians beating the crap out of each other on ice. Hockey really is the greatest thing ever. Only we lost by three in a shut-out which was kind of embarrassing. Plus, there were no fights. LAME!! But it made for a great date, which was followed by a second visit to Casey's (conveniently within walking distance of the Staples Center!). Yes, I was dating someone for about three weeks (who knew that Plentyoffish would work out after all?), but it just kind of fizzled. No one's fault, but if the chemistry isn't there, you can't force it. But the point is, yay hockey!

4. My 24th birthday on October 15th! (Technically my birthday is October 16th, but since I spent the entire anniversary of my birth regurgitating bile in my very understanding friend's toilet, I'm gonna stick with the 15th). We celebrated with another one of our legendary Sally Tomatoes' visits to Gabe's, the karaoke dive bar extraordinaire since that tradition began on my birthday last year. You should know that I have very strict rules when it comes to drinking. These are my rules and a description of how I broke most of them (here comes a list within a list. Blow your mind just now, did I?):

a) Always eat a big carb-y dinner. I am currently on the South Beach Diet and carbs are in short supply. I didn't have time to grab real food, so I wolfed down a salami sandwich on that thin, round bread that resembles a whole grain hockey puck. It was not enough. And for some reason, I was trying to be good and refused to eat any greasy, starchy french fries that might have absorbed some of the booze and prevented me from tossing my non- existent cookies. (It occurs to me that I talk about vomit way too much on this blog. My apologies.)

b) Make sure you have a ride home. Thankfully my friend Eric took over designated driver duties and drove Stan and myself back to his place to crash. Not literally, because then he wouldn't be a very good designated driver.

c) Never drink sugary drinks. For one thing, they're bad for you. For another, the sugar is what makes you super-hungover. Every single one of my drinks, excluding the tequila shot, was a delicious, sugary catastrophe.

d) Speaking of tequila shots, Never never never ever mix liquors. Pick your poison and stick with it! I learned this lesson the hard way at my brother's wedding where I sample shots of every kind of liquor available at the open bar. But I ended up paying for it in vomit for hours on end afterwards. But since my friends were paying for the drinks, they insisted that I mix an AMF with a White Russian, with a Long Beach Iced Tea, etc. DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME!

Drinking anything this color is never a good idea.

Audios Motherfucker indeed.

e) Know your limit. I am usually very good at this. I know exactly how much I can handle to feel pleasant, but to avoid getting sick and/or sloppy. No one likes a sloppy drunk girl, even if it is her birthday. I was done, but the DJ who quickly became my best friend after high-fiving me for choosing "18 and Life" by Skid Row, bought me a vodka tonic. I'm a sucker for free drinks, but I should have 'Just Said No.'

f) Drink tons of water before, during, and after drinking booze. This one I actually followed faithfully, but I still was hurting so bad I could barely get out of bed until 5pm on the 16th. Not the best way to spend a birthday.

So that was my birthday. It was totally worth it too, so thanks ladies (and Eric) for the serenades and for not judging me for christening the toilet at Gabe's with low-carb stomach butter!

5. Speaking of my birthday, I got Target gift cards for gifts (always acceptable!) I finally bought myself a real dresser, since I had been using plastic and fabric storage containers for the past 6 years. I had picked it out and put it back for months before finally pulling the trigger. I put it together almost all by myself, a fact that I was super proud of. One month later, the damn thing is completely falling apart. It was expensive too, even with my gift cards. Stupid crappy Target furniture. One day, I'll own things that aren't terrible...

I was so proud when I took this picture.

Future Me laughs derisively at past Me.

6. Halloween and the Monster Massive that Wasn't. My big brother Scott flew all the way down here from Northern California to see Armin Van Buuren ("The World's Number One DJ" according to him as I shrugged in ignorance) perform at Monster Massive in Orange County. My friends have gone to Monster Massive in years past and from what I understand, it's a massive concert/rave/spectacular filled with tens of thousands of bedazzled club kids in crazy/slutty costumes. I was down, even though I didn't know crap about techno music. We were about to leave when we decided to check the website one last time. Monster Massive had been cancelled a few weeks before. Seriously. They never sent an e-mail, they just refunded the money without a word.

See, World's Number One DJ!

Which to me is like being the World's Number One Pole Vaulter.

It's certainly impressive, but it's still not really my thing.

He is rather attractive though, isn't he? No Kevin Sorbo, but still...

So we had to find something to do on a Saturday Halloween Eve in Los Angeles. Seems easy enough, but while there were a myriad of parties, costume balls, and other events of debauchery, all were either sold out, super lame, or really expensive. We ended up going with our back-up plan which was to see DJ Sasha (like the Number Seven DJ in the World, don'tcha know) spin at Club Avalon in Hollywood. I had never been before, but apparently Avalon is, like, super famous. It took us two hours and forty bucks each to get in and from the moment we walked through the door, our ears were assaulted with the loudest, most obnoxious music ever. Did you ever see that episode of How I Met Your Mother with subtitles? It was like that, only worse. There were costumes. And Asian tourists who push you around. I hate to be pushed around, especially when the floor is vibrating so hard my esophagus was shaking. But we had a good time nonetheless. After a while, we walked down Hollywood Boulevard and saw all the crazies out and about at 2am. Many of which were entranced by my shiny, silver, satin, sequined dress (that I bought for South Pacific in 10th grade. Nothing goes to waste in my closet!). That weekend, we fit in trips to the Hollywood Overlook, the Santa Monica Pier and Promenade, The Getty Center, and The Griffith Park and Observatory. Pretty damn good considering Scott was barely here more than 24 hours. It's nice having someone come to visit so you have an excuse to do all the touristy things you never get around to doing when you live here. Plus, Scott and I hadn't hung out just the two of us since I was 13 and he was 23 and he took me to an N Sync concert in San Francisco (what a stellar brother!). By the way, the Getty is the coolest place ever. Go.

7. Thanksgiving Vacation in Foresthill. I actually scored 6 days off in a row and had my first real time off in about a year. I got to go home to Foresthill and jammed literally 10 pounds of fun in a 5 pound bag. There was the Mountain Mandarin Festival (like the orange, not the Chinese), where I saw about eight people I used to know, most of which I tried to avoid, including the mythical Skank who stole my man in high school, that bitch. Then the reunion with my friends I've known since 5th grade and that I haven't hung out with altogether in about 5 and a half years (they have kids now! Weird!) There was also our annual visit to Apple Hill, which is this awesome apple orchard with delicious pies, beautiful views, and cheesy crafts for sale. It's the best way to celebrate my favorite season.

Post-Soggy Turkey Trot.

The morning of Thanksgiving itself, my friend Jenna and I decided randomly to do the Roseville Turkey Trot 5K for charity. Not sure why, since I usually hate running, doing good works, missing the Macy's Parade, and being outside in the rain, but overall it was a fabulous experience that I totally want to do next year! I came in 812th out of 997, badass! The meal afterwards was epic, and pie at my grandma's was even better. I loved being surrounded by the adorable mini-mafia that is my nieces and nephew. We started decorating for Christmas the next morning, before I visited with more of my best friends that I never get to see. Then I flew home and it was back to reality. Or as real as Studio City can get.

8. I guess I'll go ahead and toot my own horn too and announce that I have lost about 36 pounds since August 16th! Toot toot! Turns out that eating healthy and powerwalking every morning is a potent combination. I even survived the terrifying obstacles of my birthday and Thanksgiving, and managed to come out unscathed.

One of these days, I'm hoping to take the iconic,

"Look at how big my pants used to be!" picture.

Normally when I lose momentum, I can't get back on that proverbial horse for another 8 or 9 months. But I refuse to beat myself up about eating pie on Thanksgiving, because you can't deny yourself everything. You can't indulge every craving either. I'm striving for balance and so far it's working. But ask me again in a few months. We'll see. December is going to be a bitch.

9. Oh I almost forgot! I also survived the freaking delicious Sally Tomatoes Formal Dinner Pah-ty (you have to say it with a hoity-toity accent)! Survived as in I was strong enough to eat Dana's monumentally amazing food without going crazy on it. You can read more details and get recipes on her delightful cooking blog here!

So that brings us back to today when I had to fit in nine days worth of work into one since it is now my regular weekend. But at least I got to spend a good hour showing potential transfer apartments to Sexy Jesus (and his pregnant wife who is annoyingly delightful and normal looking so I can't even hate her). If you are still reading this, congratulations! You must have even less to do than me!

Snow Can Suck It

I hate snow. I hate it more than the Lakers, more than grammatical errors online, more than Asian food of any kind. And that's a lot. It's fun when you're a kid, and you can spend hours making giant snowballs named Big Bob Pataki (true story), or make four-foot deep snow angels during freak snowstorms. It's pretty if you get to stay home and watch it turn the world around you into a magical, sparkly wonderland. But if you have somewhere to go, or someone is coming to visit, snow turns into this dark, dangerous, diabolical entity disguised as a natural phenomenon. It turns a normally blissful twenty-minute drive on the beautiful pine-tree covered Foresthill Road into an exercise in terror. Especially if you drive a car like Stan who has only one sad headlight that does little to illuminate the pitch black forest from which deer, raccoons, and other creatures could sprint out at any second.



The 450ish mile trip from L.A. to my tiny hometown halfway between Sacramento and Reno went fantastically, if only because one of my best friends, Kelly-Bean hitched a ride with me. We jibber-jabbered like lady chickens, rocking out to my cheesy girl power playlist (Pat B., Kelly C., Aretha, and the Spice Girls mostly), planning our future weddings like the super girlie girls we so aren't. So even though it was dark and raining most of the way, the hours seemed to fly by, driving into the abyss. But once I dropped Kelly off at her house, I immediately started to panic. My mom had called to warn me that it was snowing on the Hill. I could have crashed (bad choice of words) at Kelly's, which probably would have been smart. But you know how it is when you just want to get where you're going and sleep in your own bed. So I forged on into the wilderness.



Luckily the roads weren't icy and treacherous yet, but there was a half-inch of snow and Stan does not carry chains. I had to drop my speed from the 55mph limit to about 30, but eventually made it home alive. I just had to trust that Stan would deliver me home safely to my mommy, and he came through big time. I could barely see a thing between the one headlight and the thick snow flying at me, reminding me of Star Wars light speed. It's been a long time since I've driven in the snow (having lived in So-Cal for the past five years), but I forgot how cool that aspect is. I was pretty much driving blind, but imagining that I was co-captain of the Millennium Falcon alongside Han Solo helped with the fear. Yep. Major nerd moment, but at least I survived.



So now that I'm back in Foresthill for Thanksgiving, I've decided to make a list of everything I like about being home:



1. TV!!! I actually get to watch television! What a concept! Specifically, What Not to Wear, which is my biggest guilty pleasure and one of the few shows I love that I can't watch online (believe me, I've tried) And it's on a screen that is actually bigger than my laptop unlike my own TV.



2. My dog, Jesus (don't be offended, I named him that because he's gentle, loyal and friendly and protects us from burglars, bears, and squirrels and loves everyone unconditionally)



3. My cats, Piccolo and Peter. Though they can be little bitches sometimes. Like most cats I suppose.



4. This probably shouldn't be this low, but seeing my family, obviously. Especially my baby nephew Ayvind who is pretty much the cutest little boy alive. I have proof.



5. My dad gives Stan a check-up to make sure everything is all right. Currently the back windows are stuck open which isn't a problem in balmy L.A., but when it's snowing outside, that's probably not a good thing.



6. Foresthill really is beautiful. It's a crappy town to live in, with an extremely sparse population of rednecks (imagine all Southern stereotypes without the accent), and an even sparser (?) selection of food and entertainment venues. But with the trees and the canyons and rivers, and wildlife, it's what a lot of people would call paradise. Not me. But you know, if you like that sort of thing.



7. While there is never any food in my parents' house, there is a current pool and hot tub in the renovated garage with a tv so you can swim and watch movies at the same time. Sweeeeeet.



8. Getting to see old friends, going out to breakfast at Awful Annies, Waffle Barn, or 2AM sausage and applesauce at Denny's (keep your fancy restaurants, give me Denny's any time)



9. Playing a real piano. Especially since I have to practice my solo of Rufus Wainwright's "Hallelujah" for the Sally Tomatoes winter concert. Ack! I must apologize to Rufus in advance.



10. This might sound really trivial, but the water here is frickin' delicious. Especially if you suffer from the floater-ridden off-clear murky suspect crap they pass of as H2O in L.A. I was dying of thirst the whole way home, but a) I don't believe in paying for water if I can help it. And b) I look forward to a glass of ice cold, crystal clear mountain spring tap water whenever I make the trip up to Nor-Cal.



In short, Foresthill is the kind of town you can't wait to leave, but love to come home to. As long as it's not bloody snowing.

UPDATE: Naturally as soon as I finished this post, the power went out all night which was just difficult and annoying. It is awfully pretty outside and today I'm going to the Mandarin (as in oranges not Chinese) Festival. I just hope Stan will forgive me for having the windows open and subjecting him to this frightful weather.