Selective Eating Disorder

My brother just posted a link to an article about adults who are abnormally picky eaters, like most children. He basically refused to eat anything as a child, and as a result was freakishly skinny. We used to joke that we could basically see right through his rib cage to the other side. Something I have never and will never be teased for. Now he's discovered there's a name for his condition, Selective Eating Disorder (dun dun dun!). It sounds scary, but also made up. But as long as there's a term for something, it becomes legitimate.

Whilst reading the article, I discovered that I too have Selective Eating Disorder (in addition to Compulsive Overeating Disorder. In this case, God really did give with two hands. Bastard.) Only instead of avoiding spaghetti because it looks like brains, I eliminate whole food groups based on origin, seasonings/flavor, and basic principle. For someone who is obsessed with food as I am, I sure hate a lot of it.

1. 3 Billion Chinese people CAN be wrong.

And definitely are when it comes to their food. Yuck.

Here are the foods I refuse to eat:

1. Anything Asian (except dumplings and fortune cookies) Yes, this includes sushi. Disgusting in all categories of taste, texture, and principle.

2. Savory dishes with fruit in them (which is why the idea of orange chicken is appalling to me, and who puts raspberries in a non-fruit salad? Nutcases, that's who. And if you mention tomatoes, I may slap you.)

3. Foods with nuts in them (go ahead and giggle. I like nuts on their own, tee hee, but put them in ice cream, sweet potatoes, or anywhere else they don't belong and I get hulk-angry. They ruin the texture without adding any additional flavor and get stuck in your teeth.)

4. Soy sauce, teriyaki, wasabi, etc. (see #1. Please don't think I'm a food racist. I don't hate them because they're traditionally Asian. I hate them because they taste gross.)

5. Fried chicken, specifically KFC, makes me think of vomit. Because I vomited it up one time and it was not pretty. Same thing goes for Raisinettes. I'll never eat those again.

6. Indian food (counts as Asian technically, but all I think of is diarrhea. Sorry to stereotype, but once you put that image in my head, it's stuck like the opposite of diarrhea. Ew. Sorry for that image as well.)

7. Anything spicy, like authentic Mexican food. I have a hard time with even the mildest of salsas. I like bastardized Mexican, like Taco Bell, and Chevy's (if you've ever been to Northern California, Chevy's kicks ass). But real Mexican tends to be far too liberal with the peppers. I don't even dig bell peppers, man. So lay off the Tobasco and jalapeno.

8. Most seafood, especially crustaceans. Yick. I make exceptions for clam chowder (when placed in a bread bowl, this is ironically my favorite food, salmon, and tuna salad as long as there is no fruit in it)

9. Squash. Can't handle it. Not the texture, not the taste. And believe me, my mom has tried.

10. Butter and mayonnaise. I mentioned this before, but being able to visualize the amount of fat in something grosses me out. Doesn't stop me from eating high fat foods, but seeing globs of mayo on a sandwich, or the non-melted butter on toast makes me want to heave.

11. Sauerkraut, coleslaw, corned beef cabbage. Cabbage grosses me out. It reminds me of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory (the good one), when all Charlie and his family have to eat is cabbage water. Sad. So I avoid cabbage for Charlie Bucket (another bumper sticker perhaps?)! Also, it's nasty and I think I may be allergic.

12. Non-chocolate candy. I still eat it sometimes, but if you're going to eat candy, why not eat the best? Plus high quantity doses of corn syrup give me hives. Not sexy.

Droooool! Now if only they would leave out the clams,

this would be the perfect food.

I'm sure there are more specific, random, and nonsensical foods I avoid. But I'll spare you for now. I am often asked, "So Hutch, what DO you eat?" And the answer is mainly bland noodles, breads, dairy, fruit. Cereal, bananas, bagels, and ice cream are a big part of my non-dieting diet (I love carbs more than life itself). Mostly because I'm lazy, but also because I've eliminated the aforementioned food groups. As the man in the article said, I wish I was a more adventurous eater. I've traveled to many different countries and basically lived off of salami sandwiches I made myself from the grocery store (this was primarily for financial reasons, but also because I'm so picky). If I'm in a group and they all want to go to a chinese restaurant, I may protest, but I'll go. I'll drink water and steal fortune cookies, or make due with dumplings (telling myself they're just like sauceless ravioli, because I LOVE Italian food).

Maybe someday I'll overcome this dreadful, life-altering disorder. But in the meantime, I'll happily gorge on cheez-its, hot pockets, and raumen (again for financial reasons, but I also kind of like it. And it's not really Asian), and scorn all of you for your varied and sophisticated palates.

UPDATE: Said brother (for I have many) just reminded me that I also hate beer. I tried so hard, sampling beers from every country in Europe, and I still can't stand it.

Inspirational Montage

Having been out of a job for over two weeks now, I'd have to say unemployment is a lot less scary this time around. I've learned that the world is not going to end just because I don't have a steady income right now (though having my unemployment check be three times what it was last year helps with that fear, plus I'm not blowing my savings on a whirlwind trip to far-off continents). My skin is a lot thicker and my persistence is more persistent. I've learned to get over my fear of shamelessly asking what few contacts I have for hookups (job hookups, not the booty kind). That's the secret. As a woman, and a non-confrontational woman at that, I have a hard time asking for help. I don't want to be a burden and bother busy people. But it never hurts to ask. I've discovered that most people love being able to help. It makes them feel useful and validates that they've truly made it in their own careers. I only wish I'll be in that position someday to verify my theory.

Ideally me in ten years. The Mary of course. Or the Tina in my case.

"Do you have some sort of businesswoman's special?"

A former/current internship supervisor of mine called me today regarding an inquiry e-mail I had sent a few weeks back. I knew she was busy and didn't take it personally that she hadn't responded. In truth, I had forgotten about it. I'm a bit of an out-of-sight, out-of-mind type of person sometimes. But we talked for thirty minutes, which is hours in entertainment industry time. She didn't know of any positions in particular, but she was willing to pass my resume along to people who might. I appreciated that, like you wouldn't believe. Then she bestowed upon me all of her hard-earned pearls of wisdom about being unemployed in this business, never giving up even if you're forced to take a non-industry job just to keep a roof over your head, to network my ass off, and keep writing no matter what it costs.

A lot of which I sort of knew, and everyone tells me constantly. But to hear it from a mentor who knows exactly what you're going through and is willing to help, was just what I needed right now. Not to mention everyone needs a little encouragement and positive reinforcement from time to time. Right now I'm in a holding pattern regarding another opportunity. As my friend so eloquently stated, "My whole life is a holding pattern." We're thinking of making bumper stickers. But I refuse to count my un-hatched chickens or run around with my head cut off, putting all my eggs in one basket (so many chicken metaphors, why?) And even though it's not in the film industry, I feel better knowing that I'm not giving up by putting a roof over my head. I can always write no matter what I'm doing to pay the bills.

Me now.

So with her support, I'm going to do my damnedest to not let her down. I'm going to make a writing schedule, go to every networking event I can scare up, maintain every contact I have, and think outside the box regarding jobs I should apply to. Even if this particular job doesn't come through (and it might not because I have a tendency to ramble, and I discovered after the interview that I had lipstick on my teeth), I'll be ok. I can just picture myself now standing in front of a green-screened American flag waving as a John Williams orchestra crescendos in the background.

Not me at all, but you get the picture.

And hopefully the pictures livened up this admittedly dull post.

"Ellen Feeds off Your Energy"

I am simultaneously exhausted and ecstatic. Literally dragging my feet on air (if that's possible). I just got home from one of the longest and yet most amazing days of my life. Thanks to our friend Nicky being a total flake (which is why we love you!), I got to go to a live taping of the Ellen Degeneres show with my partner in crime (and by crime I mean obsessively quoting How I Met Your Mother among other things), Kelly Bean.

The queen of all things delightful!

I haven't watched the show very much to be honest. I'm not usually around during the day, and if I am, I haven't had even basic network television for almost two years now. But I love Ellen with all my heart and soul. She is a goddess. I worship at the altar of her witty yet relatively clean standup ("Gloria Estefan is the copper plumbing of the music industry!"). Her performance as Dory made Finding Nemo one of the few computer animated I absolutely adore. And of course there's her courage, kindness, and all around kick-assness that cannot be denied. Naturally I was so there it was insane. Not to mention I am a film geek and will look for any chance even to be in the same vicinity as the people who make movies and television. I would have been happy just to sit in the parking lot (which we did a lot of today...).

After waking up absurdly early to beat the surprisingly non-existent traffic to the Valley, I picked up Kelly Bean and headed out to Burbank towards the Promised Land (aka Warner Brothers). It was tough, with Kelly's bitch of a GPS guide (not so lovingly named Karen), mumbling orders seconds before they had to be executed, but we made it there before 9 am. We got our tickets, 287 and 288, and prepared to sit for 5 or 6 hours until the show started. Luckily the nice, perky show wrangler Kathryn (who looks startlingly like Rachel from Glee), told us we could skedaddle until check-in at 1:30pm. So we returned to Studio City to watch Arrested Development and eat pasta salad. Riveting, I know.

Later, we headed back to Warner Brothers where Abercrombie Chad, the nice, cute, possibly gay wrangler helped us to get checked in. Meanwhile I grilled the security guard (who went to film school like me) how he liked working for the WB. Always networking, that's my occasional motto. Kelly and I played Crazy 8s and Go Fish with the tiny cards I always keep with me for just such occasions, while hoards upon hoards of people arrived. We got to see a few episodes of Ellen while we waited, which was ever so pleasant, and heightened the anticipation of seeing the Great One in the flesh. But as time wore on and announcements were made, it became clear that we might not actually get into the taping. They overbook the show like crazy, so most standby ticketholders end up watching the show from the aptly named Riff Raff Room.

Since awesome things like this rarely work out for me, I assumed that we would end up among the Riff Raff. I hate getting my hopes up just to be disappointed. "I bet they cut it off right in front of us," I wagered to Kelly Bean. I bet her the enormous sum of $3, which of course she now owes me. Yes. I was the very first person in line in the Riff Raff Room. We started the process before 9 in the morning, and here it was 2 in the afternoon and we weren't going to get in, despite Kathryn/Glee Rachel playing with our hopes. When the seats had all been filled, she looked at me and said "We have room for one more." Seriously? Well Kelly was the whole reason I was there, I couldn't just abandon her because I'd arbitrarily grabbed 287 and not 288. So she called for a single rider and someone else took the very last spot in the Cathedral of Degeneres.

While some mediocre comedian warmed up the crowd in the next room, Kathryn attempted to console the unwashed, unchosen masses with a raffle. Oooh lord knows I'd take a good raffle over meeting one of my idols any day of the week. But sure enough she called out '287,' obviously unaware that I never win anything. Part of me thinks she took pity on me being first in line and rigged it. But in any case, the winners were led into a corner to claim our prize. Which turned out to be "12 tickets." At least that's what I heard. I had no idea what that meant. Like twelve tickets to twelve different shows? Cool, I guess, but some of us (ideally) have work. But all the shrieking middle aged, big haired ladies informed us that she meant the "Twelve Days of Christmas" series of the Ellen Show. Apparently the first couple weeks of Christmas, Ellen gives everyone in the audience thousands of dollars worth of gifts. FUCK YES!! (Though I just know something is going to come up that will prevent me from getting my gifts and actually seeing the show being taped.)

At last it was time for the show to start. Eva Mendes was first. Eh. Then Flo Rida performed "Club Can't Even Handle Me" completely off-key but that song is a bit of a guilty pleasure for me. And it was awesome when he removed his comically oversized gold glitter bling necklace and bestowed it upon a lucky audience member. All this we watched from the next room by the Ellen gift shop, close enough to hear the audience clapping, laughing, hooting, uproariously. Kind of depressing, even though I scored with the Twelve Days tickets.

The last guest on the show was Mindy Kaling, who is another one of my idols. We didn't know who the guests were going to be until we got there, and I think I was the only one ridiculously stoked about her. For those not aware, Mindy is Kelly Kapoor from the Office, but she also happens to be one of the main writers (the genius who created Jim and Pam's epic wedding episodes), as well as an executive producer. Plus I follow her twitter and she is hi-larious! Mindy even has the honor of being mentioned in my inaugural Sporadic Sporkitudes blog. That's how much I adore her. Sadly, her segment wasn't terribly good, but she is still one of my role models.

Mindy along with fellow

writer/producer BJ (tee hee) Novak

During one of the commercial breaks, the lights turned up in the Riff Raff Room. Kathryn made everyone stand and turn towards the main staircase. Everyone was buzzing, "She's coming! She's coming! Oh my god, she's coming!" Which sounds kind of foreboding, but as I saw a shadow coming down the hall, I knew it was her. Ellen came down the stairs, not six feet from me, smiling and waving to the peasant folk below. She was so beautiful, with her brilliant blue eyes sparkling, and her smile genuine and gracious. Sort of like a lesbian Grace Kelly. Even if I hadn't won the raffle, that moment right there would have been worth the hours of waiting on the drafty parking lot bench area, and the disappointment of just barely missing the Cathedral.

The show was ending, and Kelly and I bolted to the door to beat the traffic of Ellen-sheep. But Kathryn halted us. There was more? Sometimes they film segments from different shows when they can and SURPRISE! Ben Affleck was there! Kathryn pulled me aside and said they had one seat to fill. I looked at Kelly, then asked, "It's only this segment, right?" So I headed up the stairs, totally pumping my fist the whole way. I got lost at first, but then they led me to a seat in the second row! I was in heaven. There was the set, the cameras, the real audience, everything! I tried to take it all in, but was overwhelmed.

YAY!

Ellen came out in a new outfit, and introduced Ben Affleck. My 7th grade self was delighted to observe that in real life Ben is super tall (a particular fetish of mine), with super nice teeth, just as studly as he is in the movies. (Now that he's starting to take himself and his work more seriously, I can respect him again.) So I got to be an audience member for about 15 minutes. I thought it would be awesome to dance around and get my groove on. But let me tell you, it was AWKWARD. Especially since I was all by myself, kinda tired, and slightly self-conscious that I looked kind of rumpled with greasy long-day face (after I had applied my make up so carefully and selected the perfect outfit for my television debut). The comedian kept making us clap and shout way longer than was natural, and it was hard. Woe is me!

Catch Ellen's show on Wednesday to try and find me during the Ben Affleck segment. I'm sure I looked awesome. Even more awesome about getting to watch this small part, was that I got to win the stuff Ellen gave away! The Riff Raff Room does not get presents, it turns out. But I was entitled to a Flo Rida CD (woo?) and a $100 gift card to Victoria Secret. Personally, I'd rather just have $100. I'm not big on the frilly things, and I'm too big to actually wear anything from there. So I gave it to Kelly Bean so she wouldn't hate me as much for getting to see the set. Fair tradeoff? Sort of? Well she's my guest for the Twelve Day's show, so we'll both score then, hopefully. (I want a new tv, a laptop, and a pony Ellen!). They called me right when I got home today and we are scheduled for December 14th. Even without the gifts, I'll just be stoked to see a whole show. It is such a high, even though this is is really only the second live taping I've seen in my life. The first being a sitcom pilot that never got picked up though I enjoyed it immensely.

What else could explain her

youthful appearance and demeanor?

Sorry this is such a Russian novel, but one of the funniest things I noted was the oft-repeated wrangler phrase, "Ellen feeds off your energy." Meaning, dance, cheer, clap, etc. But the way they said it made it seem like Ellen is some kind of demon who literally feeds on your soul. The more you applaud, the stronger she grows. Soon she'll be UNSTOPPABLE! Why else do you think she dances so much? But if any one person has to take over the world, I'm glad it's going to be Ellen. But I am utterly exhausted, so I think she really did drain my energy and use it to stay so young at heart...

The Joy of Blogging: Julie & Julia

I just finished re-watching the movie "Julie & Julia" after finishing the book by Julie Powell in the last 2 days. I had bought the book for my mother last Christmas, but didn't even think about reading it myself until my persistent sister-in-law practically shoved it down my throat. I liked the movie well enough. Amy Adams may be the most adorable creature on the planet now that Meg Ryan's face has slowly been shifting like fleshy tectonic plates. And Meryl Streep is Meryl Streep. But I watched it on a four inch screen en route to Australia, so my mind wasn't really on the film. (I was imagining all the gorgeous, tall, tanned, sexy accent speaking man candies that awaited me Down Under.)

Wow, this picture is big. But aren't they just fabulous?

I do remember thinking about Julie and her blog upon this first viewing. I've always been curious as to how cooking can possibly be interesting enough to blog about. There are countless cooking blogs out there, Julie's being one of the most famous. But how exciting can it be to describe melting butter and burning stew? The answer is, not very. But after devouring Julie and Julia (the book, not the people. If I had to go cannibal, I'd probably go for Ben & Jerry first), I humbly apologize for my judgmental and narrow-minded thinking. For one thing, just because I don't give two shits about cooking, it doesn't mean there isn't a vast and varied audience who thrill over the latest kitchen appliance or method to zest a lemon. But I reached a more important realization as I raced through the pages, laughing hysterically, tearing up a bit, and relating to this 30 year old married woman obsessed with butter (not a butter fan, myself, if I can see the fat I'm consuming, I'm not interested) and Julia Child (a pop culture icon that I am familiar with, but never really glommed onto). It doesn't matter what you write about, as long as you have a passion for it and a unique voice.

The thing I loved most about Julie's book was how she captured the joy of blogging. Putting bits of your soul out into the universe and just hoping that someone will spare a few minutes to humor your narcissistic ramblings. Obsessively checking pageviews. That thrill when you get your first appreciative comment from a total stranger. The validation that you aren't completely wasting your time. Having something to look forward to even if you don't have a lot going on in your life. Maybe your job isn't as satisfying as you always dreamed it should be. Maybe you have problems with family or friends or significant others. Just knowing that you can lose yourself in a seemingly pointless yet oh-so-satisfying blog eases that frustration immensely. And reading other bloggers you've stumbled upon and developing friendships via the beloved comment section, that's just awesome.

Good on you, Julie Powell. Livin' the dream.

Like Julie Powell, I have a hard time following through. As with most bloggers, I fancy myself a writer. But I rarely finish things if I start them at all. I have such ADD that I can only focus long enough to spit out a couple paragraphs about Stan, karaoke, or my running toilet. At least Julie stuck with a running theme and did it for an entire year. Now she has a book published, another one on the way, and a movie roughly based on her life with the most adorable creature playing herself. It's the dream. I was stoked that I just made it over the $10 mark on my ads (meaning hopefully I'll get a check and take myself out to Subway like I promised myself I would). I like that I write about different things every time. Keeps the bit from getting stale (one hopes). It just means that Amy Adams will never play me in a movie based on my life. If anyone plays me it would probably be Phyllis from the Office.

This is more my destiny.

So the long-winded point I've been trying to make is that even if you don't care about cooking or Julia Child, read this book, then watch the movie. I personally find cooking boring, time-consuming, tedious, too much work when you can just zap a frozen burrito, and causes an excess of dishes, my least favorite chore. Like baseball, if it's not any fun to do, how can it be fun to watch and/or read about? But Julie has such an effervescent yet down-to-earth voice. I can just hear her breaking down over a ruined roast chicken, or chattering excitedly about Buffy the Vampire Slayer (one of the few interests we actually share). I now plan on tracking down her blog and seeing if it's just as good as the book. Blogging gave her a sense of purpose, a "regimen" as she calls it. An exercise in writing, and in sharing your passions with the world. Or the few people kind enough to stop by. So this has given me renewed inspiration, especially since it was hard to keep up my work out while lounging about at home in front of the fire, playing with cute babies. Bonus.

A Thanksgiving Rant

I have been attempting so far to blog every day, but being home when there are so many fun things to do and awesome people to see (including meeting my four month old niece Sadie for the first time, yay!), it's kind of hard to even check my facebook once a day, much less keep up with a stringent blogging schedule. When I get back to L.A. I will try to maintain with my original goal. Anyway, on to the ranting.

I love Thanksgiving. It is my favorite holiday. I love it more than Halloween (which I actually hate because it requires too much effort, I am terrified of haunted houses, and I can never think of good costumes). I love it more than Easter (when you're too old for egg hunts and usually don't even bother going home, and are vehemently non-religious, it's kind of pointless other than eating festive candy like Cadbury eggs...mmm... what was I talking about?). I even love it more than Christmas (too stressful, expensive, and on some level always disappointing after it's over no matter how awesome it was).

I love the parade. It's cheesy, ridiculous, and often boring, but I love it. We usually put up our Christmas decorations while watching it, as my mom starts cooking and the whole house smells fantastic. I love the fall foliage in Foresthill that I so rarely see in Southern California. I love going to eat literally hundreds of pies at my grandma's or aunt's house that evening. It's a holiday soley devoted to food and family, two of my all-time favorite things. Plus it's an excuse for me to see most of my old friends who come home to stuff their faces as well. Not to mention leftovers. Thanksgiving to me is magical.

Don't blame this delicious turkey for our

jackass ancestors. He already died so that you might feast.

So why am I ranting? Because there's always that one person at dinner who brings up the Native Americans. What we did to them was real shitty. There is no denying that. But lots of great civilizations have sordid histories. It's terrible, but true. Our ancestors did it to their ancestors. No one alive today has been directly affected by those atrocities. I am not trying to justify or belittle their pain and suffering. All I am saying is, do we really have to bring it up EVERY SINGLE YEAR? It's like the one guy who always mentions 'tryptophan.' You're not revealing some startling new fact. We all know this. Can we just sit around the table, say what we are grateful for, eat our fucking delicious turkey, and not have our already formidable white guilt turn the meal that Mom worked so hard for sour in our bulging bellies?

With Facebook, this awful tradition has become global and therefore has increased exponentially. By updating your status with something about Native Americans, it doesn't make you seem intelligent and sensitive. It makes you a Debbie Downer. So please enjoy the day off from work, appreciate that you are not a culture that was shamelessly oppressed by another, and have another piece of pumpkin pie. And for that matter, anyone else who makes the oh-so-witty and original observation that Americans are gluttonous and mindless consumers should also be slapped.

Happy Thanksgiving everybody!

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.