My Fantasy Celebrity Harem (or) Yes, I find him attractive. Yes, sexually.

I frequently get called out on my quirky taste in men. I can't blame people; not everyone can appreciate the wonder that is Bob Saget. But my list is called into question often and I just thought I'd take this opportunity to compile a sort of visual defense. Now come on, tell me these men aren't gods...

Caprice of a Fickle Girl (or) Why I Have Changed My Blog Title

I realized I was focusing very little on "Delicious Things," however deliciously inclined my intent may have been. So, while I still aim to share various examples of delciousness, culinary or otherwise, I don't think I want to feel so restricted as to make them my focus. So there!

Adventures in Homebuying (or) You Want $400K for THAT?!?!

The Peanut and I are looking into buying our first home.

The timing seems right; we're bringing in a fairly decent income, house prices are dropping faster than Lindsay Lohan's panties, and we're reaching "that age."

Then why are my insides churning like vegan butter?

Is it the anticipation of so much financial responsibility?

Is it the hippie in me yearning to be free of material encumbrances?

Do I feel like this step symbolizes the end of my fleeting childhood?

Probably all of these. But add to it the impossibility of finding a reasonably priced home in San Diego, in a neighborhood that doesn't make you want to clutch your purse to your chest and carry a loaded weapon, and you have a recipe for potential homeowner heebee-jeebees.

And that, dear reader, is where you find me this evening: suffering from a severe case of potential homeowner heebee-jeebees.

The Peanut and I looked at quite a few homes this evening, and all of the ones even remotely in our price range were either minuscule (read: smaller than our current apartment) or in a part of Tijuana that they've managed to tack, undetected, into the heart of San Diego. But I guess this is the kind of stuff "grown-ups" need to deal with. I just wasn't ready to face it so soon.

Despite the pity-party I'm having for myself, I also encountered several people today who are simply waiting around to lose their homes. Here I am, thinking, "Gee, this place is so tiny. I'll hardly have space for my craft studio..." while a family of eight is struggling against eviction. That ultimately brought to mind the harsh realities of modern life and just how many of us won't ever be afforded financial comfort and stability. So really, I should feel blessed that buying a home is even in the realm of possibility for us. And, of course, I am grateful. But it doesn't make the process any less daunting or terrifying.

I've reached no conclusions on the issue. But this happens to be what is crushing my head (a la Kids in the Hall) at the moment.

We're going out again this weekend; perhaps things will be better. The Peanut says we should put our house options to vote on my blog. We'll see. Maybe things are about to get interactive!

Adventures in Burning (or) The Sun is a Harsh Mistress

I had a very difficult time climbing the (multiple) staircases on my trek to work this morning.

Why?

1. My butt and thighs are sore to the point of wincing with each and every movement. All this from a mere hour of handstands.

2. The backs of my legs are incredibly burnt (we're talking lobster grade) making bending at the knees a painful challenge.

The soreness is unpleasant, but welcome. It indicates to me that I succeeded in working muscles I evidently ignore on a regular basis, and that is an accomplishment in my book. The burn, however, is a throbbing testament to my stupidity.

I got cocky. That's the plain and simple truth. I wore SPF 15, applied only once, and expected the slight increase in melanin that I have accumulated over the past few years to handle the rest of the excess UVA and UVB rays. Apparently this increase is not sufficient to justify 4 hours in direct sunlight without taking necessary, precautionary measures.

Moral of the story: Wear sunscreen! Just do it. I don't care if you "don't burn." Excessive sun exposure ages you and will give you cancer. Sure, go out for the occasional 15-minute, sunscreen-free jaunt to replenish your vitamin D stores, but that is the limit. Take it from me, your crimson authorette. I am returning to SPF 50; friends and family will simply have to learn to cope with my blinding white legs and tactfully wait until I am out of the room before mocking them.

Other aspects of my beachy Sunday that are not sun related:

I went to Stephanie's Bakery in Ocean Beach (highly recommended, by the way) and got a much anticipated vegan pizza. I was slightly grumpy that I was having to order an entire pie to sit and eat by myself, but I was pleasantly surprised to find that they had a 10" option, so single diners need not look quite so gluttonous. Plus, I have lunch for today, so that's good news.
(Next time I go, I'll take pictures: This blog is severely lacking in the food porn department, thus far).

I got a lot of reading done. I am thoroughly immersed in Mark Danielewski's House of Leaves, (I'll tell all about it when I have finally finished it) and it is taking me for-e-ver. So I sat at Peet's all morning, then at Stephanie's and the beach all afternoon, reading. I am closing in on the end. Yay!

I found my profound lack of desire to have children further solidified with every sand-kicking, water-dripping, boogie board-dragging tot that went flying by (or over) my towel. In order to raise civilized, mannered children who respect the space of fellow humans, you need to be the killer of fun. "No, no son, please have a little less childlike joy and walk in a controlled manner to the ocean's edge. And your squeals of excitement? Perhaps they are disturbing our fellow beach goers who are attempting to relax in their sun comas." I don't know. That just doesn't sound like fun to me. And if doesn't sound like something I'd want to do, I should certainly not add myself to the excessive list of unfit parents in this world.

And finally, I realized how much I have changed in the way I fuel my body over the past couple years. There was a time when my diet very strongly echoed that of the average American (much as I hate to admit it) and now, there is little to no resemblance. The starkest contrast is my desire to have the food I eat be as close to its natural state as possible (i.e. whole foods). The difference here being that much of what the average person consumes never had a "natural state." This was exemplified yesterday by the conversation I overheard drifting on the ocean breeze from the family next to me.
"What do you want to drink?"
"Juice."
"Ok, I have Gatorade. Do you want red, orange or yellow?"
"Red. And chips!"
"Ok, do you want red or blue Doritos?"
Since when are red, blue, and yellow flavors? Many people have given up pretending that anything they eat even comes from the earth. They have embraced the chemical status quo.
Gross.

Yesterday was kind of a strange day.

Eating RedVines at 3 Am (or) Go to Bed for God's Sake!

Fact: I am eating RedVines and drinking Brisk at 3 o'clock in the morning. (Is that where the apostrophe goes in o'clock? I'm never sure...)

Why? Because I had them left over from a Cohen Brothers "Cinema Under the Stars" extravaganza and I am not ready to relegate the thoughts of today to the hazy fog of my memory. Therefore, I must record them for posterity before diminishing the vividness by rendering myself comatose via reruns of The Office (goddamn Darryl is dreamy).

At any rate, step one in super fun day: Go to the beach in street clothes. Eat vegan ice cream out of a carton. Talk to good buddy. Talk to strange stoner dude self-named after a particularly wild breed of canis lupus.

Step two: Go to dinner with interesting people at local Mexican bistro. Eat adequate guac, but feel saddened by the fact that the black bean and kabocha soup amounts to little more than a disappointing mass of refried beans. Watch fellow vegetarians pick chunks of meat from supposedly vegetarian tacos. Add said bistro to list of places one does not need to visit again.

Step three: Attend a screening of "Raising Arizona" at local outdoor movie theater. Laugh hysterically. Make movie mate laugh hysterically by snorting unexpectedly. Contemplate your strange and fascinating physical attraction to one John Goodman. Consume copious amounts of sugar and artificial dyes.

Step four: Track down a park where cops won't ticket you for being out after 10. Spend an hour perfecting your mad handstand skills. Laugh at yourself because after an hour you still come nowhere close to having mad handstand skills. Laugh again at the fact that you have now twice typed "mad handstand skills" (that's three!)

Step five: Drive in a generally eastward direction till you come to a campground where there is a supposed waterfall. Walk 30 yards before determining that waterfalls are best seen during the day and when there is a slimmer chance of being harassed by park rangers.

Step six: Go to local dive bar. Have a pint. Discuss the importance of beards, their ability to create chins where no chin exists, and to render interesting otherwise pointless faces.

Step seven: Go home and avoid the inevitability of going to bed and the possibility that tomorrow just won't be as good.

Here is to making each day better than the last.

Cheers!

(Insert RedVine straw into bottle of Brisk. Suck heartily.)

Motivations (or) Why write a blog?

The subject is indeed important! For the human mind is capable of being excited without the application of gross and violent stimulants; and he must have a very faint perception of its beauty and dignity who does not know this, and who does not further know, that one being is elevated above another, in proportion as he possesses this capability. It has therefore appeared to me, that to endeavour to produce or enlarge this capability is one of the best services in which, at any period, a Writer can be engaged; but this service, excellent at all times, is especially so at the present day. For a multitude of causes, unknown to former times, are now acting with a combined force to blunt the discriminating powers of the mind, and, unfitting it for all voluntary exertion, to reduce it to a state of almost savage torpor. The most effective of these causes are the great national events which are daily taking place, and the increasing accumulation of men in cities, where the uniformity of their occupations produces a craving for extraordinary incident, which the rapid communication of intelligence hourly gratifies. to this tendency of life and manners the literature and theatrical exhibitions of the country have conformed themselves.
-William Wordsworth "Preface to Lyrical Ballads" 1800

That's why.

Ok, so maybe this isn't a fair assessment of what is to come. You'd get the impression that I was trying for high art. Or even midrange art. Not the case, really. Not art at all. But I am certainly not here to shock, amaze, or otherwise cater to the needs of the modern man with his blunted discriminatory powers either.

I think my goal is simply to present a life gratefully lived and hope that it may inspire readers to embrace reality in the spirit of art, rather than seek out the extraordinary to escape their reality. Life is not something that warrants escaping. And if you think it is, no offense, but you're doing it wrong.

Love, peace, and cupcakes.