Jiffy Loser

I'm irritated that I don't know anything about cars.

I'm even more irritated that the guys at Jiffy Lube know I don't know anything about cars.

The worst part is that I can't even fake it. This is very disheartening for a girl who pretends to know a lot about a lot. Who can name every state capital and actually has a master's degree, but can't change her own tire.

Once in a while I'm reminded of how little I know about my trusty 11-year-old SUV.

Like today.

Today, I needed to get an oil change. My car (at close to 120,000 miles) was way overdue. Like, 3,000 miles overdue. The silver bullet's still got some miles left in 'er, but she needs some high mileage, synthetic TLC.

Before he left for work this morning, my boyfriend Rob, who happens to know and adore all things about cars (he's from Detroit), gave me some sound advice.

"They'll try to sell you a lot of stuff," he warned. "Just get the oil changed."
"Just the oil," he repeated.

$350 dollars later, I'm home from my oil change. Albeit with new transmission fluid and some radiator work, but $350 poorer nonetheless.

Mr. Lube explained what the car needed, and the total came to close to $500. I got it down to $350.

I thought I deserved a pat on the back. Or at least a cookie.
Well I just talked to Rob, still at work, and told him about my feat.

He wasn't as pleased as I was. Not nearly. He's disappointed that I didn't listen to him, and even more disappointed that they would "screw me over."

Assuming he's right, how do these people sleep at night?
The guy seemed nice enough. He commented on my dog. I thanked him when I left. He smiled.

I'm going to go forward believing that my car actually did need all and more than what I bought.

I'm going to pay my credit card bill happily, knowing that at least I'm practicing preventative medicine on the old girl.

That way, at least I'll be able to sleep at night.

Stories about love....

Terrified of marriage though I am, I've always enjoyed reading The New York Times Wedding/Celebration section. I love reading about the ways people met, the way they fell in love, and the extravagence with which they sealed the deal.

So it didn't seem too out of sorts to read the San Francisco Chronicle equivalent during a late evening slow time at work (shhhh...).

I won't make that mistake again.

It was a love story. Just two good looking, super bubbly college students who, despite a bad first date over underage cocktails, fell in love and finally became Mr. and Mrs. and just wanted to read a nice story about it in their hometown newspaper.

The story was sappy and kind of lame. It was. But it didn't bug me. If you don't like love stories don't read the wedding section, right? But it apparently pissed off the majority of the Chonicle's online reader base.

What attracted me to the story in the first place was the fact that it had 97 comments made about it. 97! 97 readers had something to say about Mr. and Mrs. Happy Newleywed.

I've included below a few of my favorites (and by favorites, I mean the ones that upset me the most).

"Yes, I suppose it is sweet to be young and in love and living in this city with the hundreds of civil rights you get to enjoy by being legally married. It's too bad that that same opportunity isn't available to equally deserving same-sex couples." Not place like someone else's wedding announcent to display your political beliefs.

"I just threw up in my mouth a little."

"Get back to me when he's bangin' his secretary and she's raising their five kids and is depressed."

Straight-up character attacks: "He looks gay in that picture" followed by "awesome funbags" and "nice rack."

And my favorite:

"This comment violated SFgate's terms and conditions, and was removed." Really? A comment was so bad that the staff had to remove it. Wow.

It would be sad if it weren't so ridiculously funny. And now, the count is up to 125.

Tahoe '10

Man, I love skiing.

I love everything about it. I love the speed and the smell and the views. I love the memories I have of skiing with amazing people in Colorado. I love the prospect of skiing with new people.

Fortunately, thanks to a willing boyfriend and a killer hotel discount, I've been able to make it to the mountains two times in the past couple weeks.

This is where we were:


It was 50 degrees. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. If heaven exists, I'm convinced it looks like this.

Rob loves skiing too, though he's not quite the die hard I am. Apparently, the slopes in Detroit's suburbs (built on old trash dumps--seriously) just don't quite measure up to the Rockies.

On our first day out, he said, "Can't you see how this would be intimidating? Propelling down a mountain with two skinny planks attached to your feet?"

I guess I can see it. There are trees and icy parts and random moguls and careless beginners and reckless snowboarders, all potentially available to put a dent in your day.

So the second time around, he asked for a bit of instruction.

I affectionately call it the "Andy School of Pain."

It's a simple regimen of pre-skiing Bloody Marys (for liquid courage purposes), yelling at the student on the hill ("skis down!" and "beach ball arms...pole plant!" are the most common), leading them down unexpected tree runs (exposed rocks and icy terrain add to the challenge), and additional beers at lunch (more liquid courage).

In essence, it's a combination of tough love and good old fashioned public humiliation.

Here we are during the 'barley and hops' portion of the training. Pupil is still smiling:


In my limited experience, I've found the program to be quite effective.

I noted unquestionable improvement in Rob's form. Being the modest and gracious coach that I am, I take full credit for said improvement.

Should be interesting to see if he re-enrolls....

Back in the saddle....

I'm sorry it's been so long since I've written! But it's so nice to know that you people somehow, someway miss me! Unfortunately, today I'm sick and the creative juices aren't necessarily flowing.

My joints and muscles hurt like hell and it feels like someone lodged a spiky golf ball in my throat. I'm reluctantly revisiting the days of unemployment on my trusty family room couch.

But in the spirit of optimism (inspired by tonight's State of the Union Address, notwithstanding boos from angry republicans), I thought I'd make a list of things making me happy while I'm sick:

Ocean Spray sugar-free blueberry (blueberry!!!) juice. Straight up deliciousness.

Alleve and all the other members of the pain-killing family.

The 3rd season of "Big Love." Gotta love that crazy family and their polygamist shenanigans.

Hulu and missed episodes of "30 Rock" and "Modern Family." By far the best sitcoms on TV.

Egg white omelettes with old friends who live far away (and tell you how you're "not learning to be sick very well.")

My new subscription to "The Wine Spectator:" making me more of a vino snob than I already was. And you thought that wasn't possible....

Thoughts of being up in Tahoe in a week from now with my amazing new boyfriend, skiing, eating, drinking, and repeating. My sore throat and achy muscles aren't invited.

And, for venting purposes, a short list of the things not making me happy:

The "homemade" chicken noodle soup from our grocery store that is slimy and tastes like it came out of a can that's been sitting on a pantry shelf for the better part of a decade.

The end of Brett Favre's season. That guy fought the good fight and came up just a bit short. Sad.

Does anyone else think that our vice president looks like Guy Smiley of Sesame Street fame?


Twilight.
That movie flat out sucks.

Bacon.

I wish I knew what transpired in my head to drive me to publicly pay respect in the form of an entire blog post to this unfailingly welcome addition to any meal.

But if you haven't played around with the term "bacon flavored" on Google, and you have some time on your hands, it's fun, and like bacon itself, a bit addictive.

Turns out there exists a Holy Church of Bacon, aiming to "promote consumption of, and unfaltering love for, the holiest of holy foods: Bacon." They abide by the "Five Baconic Laws," bacommandments if you will, and I love them so much I had to share them:

* Thou shalt not consider Bacon on the same level as any other food, as it is above all.
* Thou shalt not consume imitation Bacon.
* Thou shalt not stop pursuing Baconlightenment until it is reached.
* Thou shalt not forget to consume Bacon for ten days.
* Thou shalt spread the word of Bacon to all.

And now for a few enjoyable bacon things I found that I may or may not like to try someday:

"Bakon" Vodka: "clean, crisp, and delicious." Really? Some of the recipes look great, but clean and crisp are just about the last possible adjectives I would use to describe any pork-flavored alcohol.

A site dedicated to "bacon porn." Photos of everything from bacon cinnamon rolls to bacon lubricant to good old fashioned plates of cooked bacon. Bacon porn for every taste.

There's scarves, watches, underwear, wallets, mints, and toothpicks. And there's this:



Pretty awesome, right? That's a guy who loves his bacon and isn't afraid to show it. Bonus: it smells like bacon. Hopefully homegirl in the red enjoys cured pork as much as he does.

Christmas memories

Does anyone else find the day after Christmas vaguely depressing? It's always such a bummer, realizing I have to wait another 9-10 months to begin listening to Christmas music again.

Fortunately, I have copious memories of this Christmas with my amazing family and friends to keep me company until then.

I thought I would write a bit about a dream I realized this week: the dream of eating the biggest, most delicious pancakes I've ever seen.

While I agree that there is no need to elaborate further on my pancake issues, risking personal embarrassment and complete dissatisfaction on the part of you, the reader, I feel the need to share it with you.

Rapidly working their way into an elite premier holiday eating list that includes my grandmother's sausage stuffing, apple pie on Christmas morning, and triple cream cheeses that wouldn't warrant a gaze at any other time of year, I think pancakes of this magnitude may become a holiday tradition for me and my future family. If breakfast addiction is at all hereditary, my future kids are sure to grapple with similar breakfast pastry issues.

My pancakes this particular morning had brown sugar-baked bananas, caramel, walnuts, and streusel, all baked into buttermilk batter, topped with caramel, walnuts, streusel, and a portion of whipped cream that, if eaten alone, would be sufficient as a meal in itself.

We didn't eat until noon. We were hungry and I was getting grumpy (an inevitable and sure-fire sign of my hunger.)

Three pancakes come in an order. I ordered two (pancakes, not orders), and I ate about half of one. This is what it looked like:

It was an admittedly pathetic display of my "off putting pancake gluttony." But they were massive. Just looking at the plate as it arrived at the table began my journey to that familiar uncomfortable fullness native to this time of year.

I was so full.

A friend I spoke with on the phone a while afterward asked if I was having trouble breathing. Seriously.

Still, it was one of the best breakfasts I've ever had, and certainly the best (half) pancake I've ever eaten.

Bonus: each customer's coffee is individually french pressed. When it's noon and I haven't had coffee yet, I'd consider licking it off the floor of Grand Central Station. But great coffee is always a welcome addition to an already fantastic breakfast.

I'm not sure I'll ever be crazy about LA. But places like this certainly don't hurt the cause.

It's Onion Friday--a day late

Early Humans Finally Drunk Enough to Invent Dancing.

Even though it's The Onion, would this story really surprise you if it came out of the Smithsonian, Popular Science, or any similarly respectable publication?

Only when early humans consumed an adequate amount of fermented fruits and vegetables did they "develop the impulsive series of rhythmic movements known today as dancing."

While friends who think making fun of my dancing is a sport speak to the contrary, I imagine that my dance moves are no more graceful than those of early man.

I'm talkin' people who didn't quite walk erect or spoke strictly in monosyllabic grunts.

But the first step toward improvement, on the dance floor or anywhere, is acceptance or wrongdoing. Sometimes, in a desperate effort to avoid subsequent humiliation, I issue a disclaimer before getting down so that people aren't surprised by my unadulterated lack of rhythm.

Sometimes, if the drinks have been flowing for a while, I don't.

Which is why this story is not at all off the mark.