The San Diego Times

I Tired

Too tired type complete sentences. Two days in a row of kickboxing, thanks to the upcoming holiday. My body is tired and I crave bloody, red meat like it's oxygen.

We sparred a lot today, real hands-off, gentle sparring. Still, keeping up with a live person instead of a full-length hanging bag is a lot different. Did you know people have really pointy, hard, sharp elbows? And did you know getting one in the thigh when you're trying to kick someone hurts like a mother? Learn something new every day.

No kickboxing till Tuesday now. Run 6 miles tomorrow and 6 on Saturday and Monday.

Some day I might actually look like the machine I've become.

Stop With The Fondant

You know all these crazy decorated cakes you see all over the place, with fancy brocade designs and perfect flowers and chocolate figurines and so on?  Well, that smooth look and flexibility necessary to make such intricate designs is the product of fondant.

Fondant is, basically, inedible powdered sugar Play-Doh. It is made in such a way as to make it thick and doughy and awful tasting. In order to actually eat any of the cakes below, one must peel the fondant layers off the cake first. Oh, you could eat it if you wanted to, but it's really gross. Unless you have a hankering for food coloring and Elmer's Glue.

Yes, they are beautiful, but the process makes it impossible to eat. Might as well buy some plastic animals and fake flowers (ugh!) and place them on top. And don't you ever try to eat any decorations made of modeling chocolate. That's 80 percent beeswax. Eeeeeewwwww!

Once you know about fondant, why would anyone choose a cake covered in it? And you have to consider whether the cake inside would be any good, since the decorator was obviously putting all of his or her time into designing the crap you can't eat on the outside.

What's the alternative? There are many. If you really wanted fancy edible decorations on your cake, you might like marzipan. Not everyone likes the taste of it, but the Swiss like it. I prefer buttercream frosting. It's delicious. How can you go wrong with butter and sugar, eh? Only problem with buttercream is it doesn't like hot weather. Keep that puppy in the fridge -- maybe even renting a fridge just for the cake -- until it's time to serve or until it can get to some air conditioning.

One more alternative is to a whole other direction with the cake. I happen to really like croquembouche, the traditional French wedding cake. It is a pyramid of cream puffs filled with whipped cream or custard and held together with caramel. Sometimes they are enclosed in a spun sugar nest. Beautiful and delicious and unique, what else could you want?

Enough with the fondant. If people wise up about this crap, bakeries would stop making them, and we could go back to yummy cakes for special occasions. And you pastry chefs who are basing your entire business on rolling out Play-Doh and passing it off as food: Shame on you! Back to preschool with you!

I've attached some photos of major offenders. Pretty, yes, but so are Barbie dolls and I don't want to eat those either. The last three photos are croquembouche.

My Hottest Friend

Chrissy stars in this public service announcement. It's great, especially when the Taco Bell she had for lunch comes back to haunt her.

The cop makes it sound like she's under 18. Although she looks more like she's 13, she's actually 30.

http://www.sanluisobispo.com/vmix/player.php?ID=1967011&GENRES=00001888

Puppy Overload!

Here you go. Puppies for days. The darker-colored adult is mom Cameron. The lighter one is daddy Preston. Both of them were so calm and loving. Only one dog barked once the whole time we were there, and there were about 20 goldens there.

I have no idea how to pick only one puppy to bring home.

Now, sit back and enjoy the puppy show.

First Puppy Meet Today!

We are scheduled to finally meet mom and pup this afternoon. I am so excited! We're headed up to Fallbrook equipped with a fully charged camera, so I am expecting to post pictures very soon.

I don't know how the whole choosing thing is going to go. I don't know where we are in line to choose. Guess I'll find out soon enough. I am not too worried. All seven puppies look beautiful, energetic and smart; I don't think there's a lesser one in the bunch.

I've been waiting for a puppy for so, so long. I can't believe we'll be bringing him home in only three weeks! It's so much like expecting a baby. You read all the books, gather all the gear, baby-proof the home (which I am doing painfully slowly) and search like crazy for just the right name. And then, all of a sudden, there's the little bundle of joy ready for love and cuddling.

If you've got a good suggestion for a name, I'd love to hear it. Wonderful BF says the puppy will whisper it to me when we meet him.

Don't Touch My Shit

Dear Daytime Caregivers,

First of all, thank you for taking care of wonderful BF's mother from 8 to 4 on weekdays. It gives BF a chance to get some work done, and it gives me a break from seeing to her every whim. Such a thing can wear on a person, especially if the person who needs 24-hour care is a family member. And living in the same house. And keeping you chained to the house. And demanding. Well, you already know that. That's why you make $20 an hour.

I'm not here to tell you things you already know. ... Scratch that. I AM going to tell you things you already know, because these are things I've already told you many, many, many times. Still, I guess it's all that free food and TV watching and studying and time spent fucking around on the Internet while you're earning $20 an hour that can make a person forget things they've been told, things that are even posted on the refrigerator doors so you won't forget. You forget. What can you do? Except sit still while I tell you yet again.

Most important of all these things I've ever said is where I'll start: Don't touch my shit. I apologize for using such coarse language, but maybe it can help you see just how frustrating it is to find you've fucked with my shit Yet Again. Just don't touch my shit.

Let's go over some specifics, OK? Try to pay attention. I know it's hard when you're chatting to your buddies so loudly on the cell phone or, worse, the home phone. Just try putting in as much effort to listen as you do when washing your laundry over here, instead of at your own damn house.

 * Don't touch my grocery bags. If I put the reusable grocery bags in the hallway next to the front door, don't touch them. Don't put them somewhere I will never find them. I put them there so I can put them in the car next time I drive somewhere. When you move them, I don't remember to put them in the car and end up using those shitty, useless plastic bags, and I don't get my 5-cent credit for each reusable bag I use.

* Don't use my kitchen scissors to cut roses in the front yard. First of all, don't touch my scissors, of course. But if you need to use them for their intended purpose, please do clean them off and put them away when you're done. Oh, and don't crack the handle in two pieces and dull the blades by pushing down so hard trying to cut shit that the average sentient being would need a saw for. I can't use them for kitchen shit after that. I can't use them for shit. I had to throw them away. And use my teeth to remove a hard plastic loop from an oven mitt.

* Don't unlock the side gate so that you can sneak in when you're late or when you go to your car to have a fight with your girlfriend. I put that combination lock there to keep the really annoying caregiver from next door from coming over unannounced and unwelcome. Who enters someone else's house through the back door unannounced, anyway? The gate only needs to be unlocked to take out the trash (which you don't do) and to get the lawn mowed. Otherwise, it stays locked. Oh, and don't add your own pull-string so you can open the gate easily from the other side. If we wanted a pull-string there, we would put one there. It is not in your job description to add pull-strings to gates.

* Don't go into the rooms in which you have no business. There is nothing in my bedroom or the office or our TV room that you need. We have seen to that. We've gotten -- and continue to get -- every single thing BF's mom could ever want or need. We are unable to take vacations or even be gone from the house together for more than an hour at a time unless you are here, because we put BF's mom's needs first. The least we can expect is a tiny, eensy bit of privacy. This means having a few rooms in the house that are just for us. Please, stay the fuck out.

* Don't touch the DVDs. If you want to borrow one, instead of doing your job like, you know, you're being paid to do, ask me for one. I'll see if we have it and I will get it for you. If you say, "Oh, yeah, you have it. I saw it in there," I will know you are in one of the three rooms you have no business in. And that will make me want to knock you to the ground, step on your neck and spit in your face. And that would make you cry.

* Don't fucking rearrange the fucking pantry I took great pains to organize the way I like it since I am the only one who cooks damn meals in this damn house. This is a new one. I don't know what possessed you to decide that where I kept the baking soda and corn starch was bad feng shui. You moved and sorted and it took me a damn hour to get everything back the way I wanted it. Why would you do that? How is pissing me off part of your job description? Because you couldn't have possibly thought you were helping BF's mom by rearranging shit in a room she is unable to go in, since her wheelchair doesn't fit. I'm not saying you had a dark motive, but when I broke something as a kid, I would quickly "clean up" the room where my crime took place, in hopes my mom wouldn't notice the missing broken thing. Is that what happened? Because, if it is, I won't find out what's missing until I really need it, and that kind of uncertainty I need not at all.

There are so many other things you've fucked with, I really can't list them all. And I shouldn't have to. Just don't touch my shit. Don't mess with stuff that isn't yours and that doesn't somehow benefit the care of BF's mom. You're only here to take care of her, so do that I know just as well as you that she is a neverending font of needs and wants and desires. Fulfill them. Please. And Don't. Touch. My. Shit.

By the way, I still need to know where you put those grocery bags.

Dwell On The Positive

My daughter is driving me nuts these days. I can do nothing right in her eyes, though we are her only financial resource at the moment. How dare we tell her to get a job for two months during the summer!

She's so angry about having to work that she's taken to being a supreme weasel to me. She's at least nicer to wonderful BF, but she asks just as much from him. We told her she needed to get a job by July 1 or lose her car. You'd think we are threatening to rip out her eyeballs, for crying out loud. And I won't give her an advance on her allowance so she can buy clothes. If you only knew how much she is getting for doing nothing. And how dare I get up at 6 a.m. to take her to the dentist, sit there for three damn hours and then PAY for the appointment and the next five she still needs!

I know I sound like a Jewish mother, but she's a terribly ungrateful child. I resent her attitude, and it's stress I don't need. Especially from a kid who wants for nothing.

So, I am ending this mini rant with a photo from last week, when we took her with us to Disneyland and footed the $300 bill for lunch (special lunch at the club just for her). We really are the meanest parental units in the universe! Anyway, I wanted to end with this photo because it shows her being a good kid. She was a good kid all day that day. That's what I'd rather remember.

Go-Go Boots Steppin' Out

I was reluctant to post the photo below. It was taken by wonderful BF while he sat on the couch. I don't much like being photographed from a low angle. It's much more flattering to be shot from above. But, I figured I'd share the dress. Sixteen dollars total, baby!

The other photo is me with two old friends. I found out these two Ex-San Luis Obispans have been living down here for ages. One of them works about three miles from my house! It was great sharing beers and reminiscing with them.

Jesus Rode A Dinosaur

There's this awesome museum in Kentucky (Where else?) that takes history in its own hands and shows visitors how shit "really" happened. It's the Creation Museum, and they had help from a former Universal Studios special effects designer who made the Jaws and King Kong attractions in putting together what sounds to me like some very creative historical rewrites.

The best of the best display is the one that shows early man (early as in 10,000 years ago or less) working on stuff with his pet dinosaurs running around in the background. The dinosaurs are animatronic; how fucking cool is that? In one display, a triceratops is wearing a saddle. In another, a stegosaurus is shown aboard Noah's Ark.

I might be persuaded to pay the $20 and check this museum out ... IF I happened to be in Kentucky. The likelihood that I will just happen to be in Kentucky at any point is about as likely as me donning a big black Stetson, hopping on the back of the nearest tyranosaurus rex and busting through the doors of the Supreme Court and demanding that the burning of the flag should be punishable by death.

I am very proud of my big state today. Finally, intelligence and common sense have won out. Marriage is a contract between two people who want some legal rights in their combined lives. You don't like it? Just get married in your own damn church and stay the fuck out of my courthouses!

Puppy Pictures!

He's three weeks old now and starting to wobble around. The breeder sent us some photos, so here they are. They are absolutely adorable. I am so excited. Only five more weeks!