I would never kick this puppy

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Despite what might have been said, Gladys, I would only smother this puppy with love and kisses.

Next time I feel the need to punish my body and cry blood I will let you know

Spin was a bad choice. Punishing my body perched on a metal bike while attempting not to black-out is not my idea of a rewarding morning.

It is however sister's new past time. She wakes up at the crack of dawn to get in her exercise before work. She is kind enough to invite me every time.

This is a motivation that can not be aroused in my personal being. We have completely different exercise styles, which is not an issue for me. I go to yoga every week to lengthen, strengthen and be part of a community. She can hustle into the dark of morning and strap herself to a hard bike seat all she wants.

I decided spin at 10 a.m. was doable. Not sure why I thought a time change would make all the difference. Trying to push forward with "climb a hill" resistance still makes my heart want to explode just as much at 10 as it does at seven in the morning.

Dustin the spiky-haired spin teacher helped me adjust my bike as a first timer. He explained the general description of the work-out with a microphone already strapped to his face. I tried to look more informed and prepared than the other new girl next to me.

The bikes are cramped into a small concrete room facing a wall of mirrors. That way we can watch the pounds shed and the blood pour off our thick thighs. This adds the bonus of being able to watch the chunky girl in the corner sweat and feel immensely better about your own form.

Some skinny chick with Rambo arms glared at me from across the room. Not sure if she hated my sweatband or her life for coming to spin class.

Never thought I would ever be so motivated by a Ray J club mix. Dustin seemed extra pumped when the Mylie Cyrus remix and mouthed the words while he told us to "tap it up."

I started to hate him from deep within my burning core.

I tried to find the woman who kept woohooing upon every increase in resistance to give a death stare in the mirror. Instead I found the chunky girl again and we exchanged a mutual look of fear. It's the exerciser's friendly hello.

Tunnel vision brought the exits into focus. No way to sneak out and avoid a complete fail.

For all the times I complained as we moved from Warrior two into a twisted airplane, I repent. Yoga may cause my muscles to be weak and my knee to shake like a jackhammer, but it's nothing a bowl of great noodles can't solve.

By the time I could drown-out Dustin's voice and pedal to the rhythm of beat, the class was over.

I applauded myself for surviving and whispered threats to sister about taking her to see Bryan Kest at Wednesday night yoga. I almost fell asleep mid-step after his last class. I was on the stairs, so luckily that didn’t happen.

At home in the shower, I found a drinking glass I left full of a clear tea tree oil treatment. The glass had a lipstick mark on the rim. I almost slipped on my head from hysterical laughter. Sister does not want to know what I used that for.

Guess we can call it even.

I found the spot. I dreamt Carter was there and Sara and Bryan and Phillip, too.

A comfortable coffee/tea shop is to the writer what the perfect gym is to the health nut or the home bar to the chronic drinker. It’s the home where they don’t make you clean-up after yourself.

Still without an apartment to call my own, finding a spot that I can gather my ramblings and organize my thoughts is crucial.

In most cafes in the area the fight for an outlet or table space is a match to the death. I’m still seething about the owners painstakingly covering the outlets at the Intelligensia on Abbot Kinney. They really just don’t want people hanging around.

I do understand a bit after I almost punched a lady for hogging two outlets leaving me high and dry. Before the rage rose to scene causing levels, I left without saying a word. The heat waves coming off my head must have been visible to everyone in my path.

Named after the location, 212 Pier in Santa Monica however is just the place to sit and stay awhile.

The ample plugs and a free WIFI sign is a welcome view. The rows of bookshelves lining the walls do not detour visitors from grabbing a table bordering the literature. Although they are for sale, many look like they have and will be here for years to come.

Windows with peeling paint and broken hinges allow natural light to soak into the high ceilings. Precariously hung art covers the walls. Mismatched plush seats and tiled tables are scattered into a snug fit. Boys with disheveled hair and corduroy blazer discuss current topics with girls with tight jeans and flannels.

Dear Lord, The Shins just started to play. I might never leave.

I am almost transformed into my Kalamazoo workplace, The Strutt, where I was the counter girl listening to music of my choice, dolling judge on the decaf, non-fat, sugar-free lattes. There is a chunk in my heart missing without my trusted co-workers and favorite regulars.

There is even someone hammering near-by.

Right now at The Strutt I know my former boss is discussing the best way to remove the current stage and build one in the most challenging and impractical matter, tools scattered about in disregard.

In 212 Pier, I found a secluded locale on the deserted end of the loft. Not only do I have a bird’s eye view of the entrance and counter, but I found a leather office chair with a tall back. Everything in the space looks as though someone kicked it a few times.

My smoothie is fantastic made with soy, albeit not acai for they were out. The hip girl at the counter didn’t even tease me for saying it wrong. I couldn’t resist a delightful Christmas tree sugar cookie covered in sprinkles. Tis the season.

Now time for the real work. Let’s just hope the meter maid ignores the time limit for my ill-parked car. This might take a while.

Why must you mock me with your witty marketing and specifically designed font?

Stick a fork in me. I officially don't want to have to look at any more apartments to call me own. When the reports say this is a buyers/renters market this is no joke.

Trying to find an apartment to rent in Los Angeles right now is like trying to find a date in a sex-addicts support group. You score every time.

It's a free for all out here.

For now I will settle for a view.

For every listing that I find there are at least three or four signs posted along the way. I can afford to be picky even though I can't afford to pay the bloated housing prices of yore. The gravitational pull towards to ocean is a draw on the 'ol purse strings, if you know what I mean.

Refusing to settle is downright gluttonous. I can't even chose between detailed menu items or an extensive beer list, let alone a smorgasbord of housing units.

"More hardwood floors please and extra closet space if you have it. Oh, and definitely go easy on the security deposit, they never sit quite well with me."

This search is becoming an obsession. As a Scorpio, I need to be able to find security and comfort within my living quarters. This is an vendetta to find the perfect space for two, albiet tiring.

Two is the perfect number as it turns out. Listings are being thrown at us. Not only do I get to live with a rad chick who boasts a near complete wardrobe, but we get to save loads of money compared to the single chumps living in a closet.

Although I did almost sell my soul for a "two bedroom," or shall we say a glorified hotel room with a stow-away, for the closest I will get to an ocean-view for many years to come.

Somewhere my sanity is out there. Despite severe repulsion to haggling paired with an inability to commit, we will find a place to rest our weary heads. Persistence, my friends is key.

Thinking about what I will do once I strap myself into a lease without any furniture or plans for the future almost made me vomit in the middle of Anthropologie today.

Surrounded by a gaggle of stoneware mugs, clever wall hangings and decorative cutlery I realized that I couldn't afford to furnish the humble abode that I so dearly sought after. Curses.

Once I get the place, I can then agonize over each piece of furniture that enters the threshold. Since I don't anticipate any financial benefactors any time soon, the place will probably be complete by the time we move out. Eight months seems about right.

What's wrong with shacking-up with an air mattress for a while? I can create a nest in the corner with old newspaper and use cardboard for warm. I'll just wear an extra pair of socks to bed.

One thing at a time people, one thing at a time.

Trapped in a steal box of emotion

Trying to entertain my parents is like convincing a cat that bath time is a leisurely activity. I love those two, but if allowed they will sit inside a hotel room only to emerge for a short walk before bed.

Grandma Peach has a pacemaker and two bad knees and still has more chutzpah than these two.

Sister and I decide to plan activities for our parents' big California visit. If you organize a day then parents feel obligated to participate.

The Getty is a fine way to show the beauty of LA and cater to our parents' taste. Pops loves to look at static, yet historic monuments. Mama digs scenic walks and when pops is content. Perfect.

Thank you sister for swallowing your distaste for all things ancient and historical.

Poor thing got taken to the Getty Villa on some cruel joke. The place is chocked full of statues of men throwing discs with leaves covering their dainty junk. This person obviously had never met my sister.

This is also the perfect opportunity to play papa-paparazzi. I am in possession of a fantastic film SLR camera that has only been collecting dust.

So we pack ourselves into sister's car and Pops and I sing along to the Beatles while sister tries to ignore the vein pulsating in her forehead.

We wander around the grounds on the pristine day. The skyline was actually visible due to a surprising lack of smog. I shoot every inch of it pretending to know how to adjust the lens.

I haven't used a film camera since about 1995. Pops is a former professional photographer. Now he is just the most anal person to ever take a picture.

He helped me find the right aperture and didn't even make fun of me for loading my first spool of film wrong. So much for documenting my trip to the Japanese gardens.

The Getty is beautiful.

There are some solid impressionist pieces, my personal favorite. The traveling exhibit was phenomenal. Irving Penn is a rad dude. Anyone that can see a photographic opportunity with an overweight man selling chamois in the street is alright in my book.



Now that I set the scene for our lovely outing, let me say we tried to leave the Getty at 5:00 p.m. Sister wanted to jump on the 405 to get home.

For those of you who don't realize what this foolhardy attempt means, I would rather wait in line at the DMV all day than sit in bumper to bumper traffic with my darling family.

Driving with Pops as a passenger is like bringing a seven-year-old on a road trip.



This is where things go downhill.

I tell her to avoid the 405. Dad starts babbling about needing to find food as soon as possible. Sister yells that she doesn't know how else to get home and that we will be meeting her boyfriend in two hours for a nice meal. Dad informs her that he must eat something now. Mom backs him up talking about low-blood sugar and needing sustenance.

The pitch in sister's voice starts to escalate.

Jill the trusty BMW guide leads us to a closed entrance ramp for the 405. Sister has the navigation system, so she never bothered to learn the streets anywhere in the city.

Sister's voice starts to rise. I sense the tone.

sister: "I don't know where we are, so if you want to tell me side streets to get home, then tell me."

me: "Tell me where we are and I will tell you how to get home. I own a map."

sister: "I don't know where we are, Katee."

Dad (clicking away on his phone): "Hey, I found a Burger King nearby. We can get food there."

sister: "Dad, I need to figure out where we are going."

me: "Dad, not the time."

Mama tries to calmly explain that we will find food after we figure out how to get home.

We navigate through a quiet residential neighborhood. We maneuver through busy streets. Jill leads us into the thick of traffic. The flow of traffic gets denser. We pull onto the thick of traffic on Centinela. We are stopped.

Damn you, Jill.

Pops starts to complain about stopping anywhere, just any gas station for food. Mama warns sister to not make a turn around in this heavy of traffic, voice strained. I am looking at sister. Her voice is tense. I apologize for not telling sister to take Barrington as we sit in traffic. Sister tells me to fuck off. I hum to the Beatles. Dad gets antsy about his food choices. Mama goes on once again about low-blood sugar.

me: "I swear, if you two make her stroke out and we have to be in THAT car stopped in the middle of traffic, I am going to be more than pissed."

Sister stops at 7-eleven and we all evacuate the car. Sister dials boyfriend alone in the car.

me: "Hey dad, I want these chips okay?"

Pops (to the cashier): "How fresh is your hotdog?"

We made it home in about an hour and a half. Glad to say we made it home safely and in time for dinner.

sister: "Is that what you guys are wearing?"

Needless to say, there were no more excursions for this visit.