Dance little turkey, dance

The parents decided that this Thanksgiving they would grace us with their presence. Now that both of their lovely daughters are in the Golden State, the parents are willing to brave the airport and the pleasant SoCal weather.

While I have been calling sister’s couch home for only a few months, this would be the first time since sister moved here three years ago Papa Peach would make a trip out. Mama came to see her once. My parents rarely travel and opt for sending the prodigal daughter a plan ticket to the Midwest.

I of course, got very excited about the whole thing and started planning my first thanksgiving dinner. Sister broke out into a cold sweat.

Sister and I had very different approaches on how the Thanksgiving dinner would play out.

I wanted a traditional meal and the chance to see if I could produce an edible turkey without burning the house down. Sister wanted a fancy dining experience for a no muss, no fuss chance for her new man to meet our parents.

This conflict did not play-out nicely. We should have televised the brawl on pay-per-view as we shouted at each other over how to have the perfect, stress-free meal. Mike Tyson played a cleaner match.

In the end we both came to our senses, meaning years of training as the little sister made me apologize for yelling, but stubborn enough to get my way. Sister vowed to have nothing to do with the meal, except eat it and not be happy about the whole mess.

Victory is mine.

I turned into a regular Martha extraordinaire. Despite not having all the correct baking tools and no dining table to eat upon, we were going to have the best damn Thanksgiving meal I could muster and everyone better love it. Plus, mama said she would help me not fuck it up.

I fought through the crowds at Trader Joe’s to get the 14-lb. antibiotic free, vegetarian fed, free-range turkey of my dreams. They only had the kosher ones left, but I figured it could only be a bonus. To get out of the madness, I threw a few elbows and escaped with the turkey and my life.

I do want to say that even though I did the detox and claimed in the post previous to cut down on my meat consumption, in my book Thanksgiving doesn’t count. Especially, when I get to cook for my family that traveled so many miles just to see their daughters.

Plus, it’s kosher. That's got to count for something.

Warning: do not try to go out for one drink the night before Thanksgiving, even though it is the biggest bar night of the year, when there is a turkey brining-away in the fridge.

One drink turned into several and before I knew it I was jabbering away about my delicious dinner, while trying to beat some ass playing a video trivia game with fellow booze-hounds.

I did make it back to dump the brine after the allotted 6 to 8 hours. The turkey marinated in sea salt, molasses and cool water with crushed anise and cinnamon sticks for flavor.

This is after I let mama clean out the gizzards and I made its little body dance around for a while. Best. vegetarian. ever.

The best part about thanksgiving is not only preparing a delicious bird carcass for your family, but making after-thanksgiving sandwiches for weeks to come.

Each year I try to perfect the combination of white meat, cheddar cheese, cranberry sauce, toasted bread and mixed greens. This year I will incorporate cornbread stuffing as I recently became a fan.

I get weeks of turkey dinner leftovers to feast upon. Especially since, I spent all my grocery money on this free-range, loving life turkey. Lucky me.

The turkey turned out beautiful by the way. We did smoke-out the house and send the family running into the street for a bit of time. What’s a family gathering without a bit of excitement?

So what, if the rolls tasted a bit like smoke. Some people aim for that flame-kissed flavor.

I think it was gross negligence on the LAFD’s part who did nothing as smoke billowed out of the apartment. With a fire station just across the street, who are we to depend on for assistance in a real disaster?

Oh no, here come the meat sweats again.

Next year, I'll let someone else do the cooking. I'll bring the tofurkey.

Fraser, thank you for sneaking me a pumpkin treat when no one was looking. Sorry for causing that look of fear in your eyes.

After celebrating my birthday for two weeks, going to Vegas and eating more meat over the course of two days than this Veggie has eaten in months, I decided to go on a fast. This detox involves a regimen of lemons, cayenne pepper and molasses mixed in liter of water.

You drink this and only this for as long as you can survive it. I aimed for seven days.

Focusing on the positive aspects of removing toxins in my body, shedding any excess pounds, sleeping better and restarting a healthy eating plan at ground zero, kept me motivated for about three days. Then reality set in.

I work at the french bakery and cafe. My job entails making coffee and perfecting each drink to Intelligensia standards. Throughout the shift I must adjust the espresso grind and taste the shots pulled to get the optimal flavor. This is serious coffee.

This is not possible on a detox. A few sips of espresso make my hands shake and my heart beat against my ribcage like a trapped rabbit. Not to mention, the edge I already have from an addiction to caffeine that I am trying to kick.

Standing in a sea of pastel macaroons, hazelnut cream puffs and a variety of fruit muffins and croissants that melt in your mouth, I realized that I had made a grave mistake. Dear lord, it's like inviting a sex fiend into a brothel.


The jumbo cupcake people, this is what I'm dealing with. This is not the first time we have met cupcake, now you are now my foe.

It's not that I actually felt hungry in the sense of an empty stomach. I just wanted to consume every pastry in a five block radius. All I could think about was food while standing among temptation in every flavor.

We also get a free meal with every shift. I had to sit and pretend like I was making important memos with my phone for a half hour.

By day four, I had to resist the strong impulse to punch everyone near me in the face, especially children. My eye starting twitching uncontrollably and I was ready to burst into tears at any given moment. Don't worry this is a good sign that I'm making progress.

This detox would be no problem if I worked at an office where all I had to do was resist visiting food sites on the computer and empty the mini-fridge in my cubicle. Instead, my boss decided to break into the latest pastry creations for the holiday season to share with all of the employees. I tried to ignore the bead of sweat forming on the small of my back as my co-workers each grabbed for a slice of a pumpkin ganache tart.


"Oh my God, this is orgasmic." Commence the yummy noises.

Thoughts of grabbing the nearest pen and gouging out someone's eye out, made me realize that maybe this is not the right time in my life for this. Best excuse myself. I sucked down a cigarette in the back alley like a convict in a prison yard.

Five days seems like a legit time to flush out some of the deep friend animal carcass I enjoyed so damn much. Instead of food deprivation, I am sticking to a healthy eating plan to keep my skin clear and my thoughts less vicious. I even will allow a minimal amount of carbs to keep me sane.

"Oh! Glad to see you eating croissants again," said a co-worker yesterday. She was in the process of moving all the ballpoint pens from away my station.

Glad to be back.

I want to go out in blazing glory or in a freak carnival accident where I am flung into a large crowd injuring many

Drunk driving is an issue in L.A. I prefer to stay closer to home when possible and stumble my way back to the homestead. Not only do you work off some of the alcohol, but you can meet some really interesting bums on the way.

Keep in mind that over 1.4 million U.S. drivers were arrested for driving under the influence of alcohol or narcotics in 2007, according to the Centers for Disease Control. Yet, this is less than one percent of the 159 million self-reported episodes of alcohol-impaired driving each year.

There was about 197,000 DUI arrests in California, according to the state. This accounts for 14 percent of the entire barrage of arrests in the country for hitting the sauce a little too hard. That's a lot of drunk people in a concentrated area.

It’s just common fact in the city how to take the back roads and to avoid the cops at all cost. I mean racial profiling is also a major reason to avoid cops, but that’s another topic.

To even find that statistic I had to scroll through pages of defense attorney links promising release from the long arm of the law. That means a lot of people using their thumbs as sight checks to stay between the lines as they swerve down the road.

It’s like in Montana where everyone drives around sucking down drinks in hand. They speed down deserted highways trying to hit mountain goats with beer cans. I heard this boasted from a very reliable and drunken Montana resident.

It’s kind of like that in L.A., but the exact opposite. There are so many things to do in this sprawling city that one has to fight herds of traffic to get downtown to see the really cool shit. This means either an outrageous cab fee or attempting to be sober sally with the stern grimace planted on your face the entire night.

Of course, chicks really dig guys that arrive in B.M.Ws as well. It can’t hurt.

This tactic is about as well thought out as the time I bought rope shoes at a music festival. At the time, I just wanted more comfortable shoes than the plastic flops that I was wearing. Not really sure in what realm of reality I thought rope shoes would be the comfortable choice. Calluses formed almost instantly on my abused feet.

Never trust a hippie chick that tries to sell you shoes while on hallucinogens.

Sure, the $10,000 fine for driving under the influence does detour some of the wisest. Yet, I still have been subjected to white knuckles on the dashboard praying into my rosary. Just kidding, I don’t own a rosary.

I have experienced my fair share of road blocks that detour me on the way towards a happening Friday night. It delays my chance to get intoxicated, which is super annoying. Lucky for me I don’t drive drunk. Also I am a pleasant, little white girl driving a grandma Saturn with a damaged bumper.

If I can’t even fix my own car how am I going to pay their fines? I totally coast by under the radar.

I blame the celebrity tarts that make themselves infamous by getting D.U.Is and their names back into the news. This is not okay behavior. Lindsay Lohan has plenty of entourage to drive her drunk, fine ass wherever she pleases.

Most of the time, I just find another chump to drive. Which is why maybe I am having such issues with drunk driving, question mark?

In any case I am not judging, merely just speaking out of concern for the precious lives on the road. There are much cooler ways to die, anyway. Like saving a puppy from a burning building or turning into pink dust from an at home chemistry experiment gone horribly wrong.

Got to stay positive right?

While you're at it could you please solve hunger and give us all world peace?

My sister and I were born two years and three days apart. That means growing up we celebrated with joint parties, so my mother didn't have to deal with two days of screaming children hopped-up on sugar. Lucky for her.

Now living on the same side of this fine country, we get to repeat this tradition. I imagine it's the same treatment that people born around the holidays get. They cram their special day in with the rest of the hoopla and hope people don't try to make one gift stretch to cover two very separate occasions.

We planned to go to dinner with friends on my birthday. I was informed we would celebrate together since sister was going on a private dinner with her man on her actual birthday. Fabulous.

Being as I am new to LA and have no friends to speak of, I decided to buy myself a damn fine cake for my birthday. It's a lot less pathetic than it sounds. When it comes to birthdays, working at a delightful french patisserie has its perks.

Most of the eight mind-numbing hours I spend at work each day, I watch customers on the slick tile hoping for a sudden loss of traction ending in someone landing on their face for my entertainment. It's yet to happen, but one can dream.

Enter the jumbo red velvet cupcake, with delicate cream cheese frosting, covered in red sprinkles and large enough to feed ten. This is one serious cake and the perfect addition to my, excuse me our, dinner party.

Sister loves cupcakes. She loves them enough to ponder symmetrical cupcake tattoos on the nape of her neck. I can see the raining glory that I would receive once I arrived with said cake in tow. Plus, I get to devour delicious pastry for my birthday.

This is where I should mention sister's dream boyfriend. In reality, he is the perfect doormat that she has been waiting for. Boy did sister luck out on that one. Seriously though, he would go to the ends of the earth for her and I appreciate that. Plus, he has a gnarly mustache.

Through the grape vine I hear knight-in-shining-BMW may be preparing a cake for sister's big day. So I investigate. Meaning I text him asking politely if I should invest in a cake for our dinner.

He informs me that yes, he plans to bake for lovely sister. He wants to make something special for her, but don't worry there can never be too much cake.
I swoon a bit for her sake.

He goes on to say how he probably will make her a red velvet cake and maybe some cupcakes since she is such a big fan. Okay, hold the phone.

That's ironic, I tell him, that pretty much the same idea I had. I was going to buy a freaking jumbo red velvet cupcake for my birthday. Don't worry he says, he will make them for Monday and I can bring mine for Thursday.

Just great. After Martha Stewart here makes delicious homemade delights, I get to bring my store bought monstrosity to give everyone deja vu. Wow, I might be impressed, but boyfriend of the year got here first. Way to steal my thunder, bucko.

Where is Ashtin with his obnoxious trucker hat when you need him.

Then because he's such a nice guy, he offers to bake something extra for me since I am a loser who has no one to make such a gesture of baked goods. He even offers to scratch the idea and go with the jumbo. Dammit this guy is good.

Defeated, I admit that he must bake for sister since it's so cute I could vomit. I will come-up with something else. Why doesn't he just knit her a sweater while he's at it.

Turns out sister bought me a cake for the big dinner. I didn't see that coming.

She then brought home the most adorable little lovecakes that boyfriend created. The red velvet cupcakes were actually dyed purple, as it is her favorite color and sprinkled with gold pixie dust, since it's her golden birthday.

I tried to eat one, but I choked on all that they stand for.

Maybe tomorrow I will clean the dishes that are starting to support life

I was so productive today it was stupid. I managed to not only switch shifts to accommodate the much anticipated band I wanted to see tonight, I got out early so I could run some errands.

I work a fixed schedule of 2:30 pm to 10:30 p.m. every Monday through Thursday. This presents an awkward schedule for someone that work best at dusk. My best hours are spent pretending be productive.

Getting out at rush hour presented some strategic difficulties, but I think I managed to take the most inconvenient routes due to traffic congestion and pit-stop locations. Still learning the ropes of the road around Los Angeles.

To heighten the suffocation of the all consuming traffic, I drove for blocks stuck behind a truck with a rusty metal pole precariously thrown into the bed. It looked ready for launch and impalement upon the nearest sudden light stop.

I think I’ve seen too many of those “I narrowly cheated death and now it lurks behind every corner in the aim to kill me suddenly and seductively” movies. Those movies were a hit with the kids for a while.

Taking another crowded side street in the vain attempt to find my bank and avoid death, I realized I was without gas. I tend to wait until the last minute and hope I don’t run out of gas in the process.

So far it’s been an efficient system.

My vehicle has yet to see a carwash under my ownership. The layers of dirt and bird poo can attest to that. Living in Southern California does not offer much cleansing rain either.

Moving here from a swamp land it never occurred to me to wash my car before. In fact, it was a known fact that if you wash your car then it automatically rains. Thus rendering your wash useless, leaving you with dirt on your car and mud in your face.

Standing there bored waiting for my tank to fill with precious fossil fuels inspired me to squeegee off my windows and even some unsightly dried on shit stains off the hood.
Close enough to a bunch of guys running around cleaning off your car.

Sister called upon me to supply the household, meaning her, with Q-tips or more generically called cotton swabs. This calls for the 99 cents store. Not only is it one whole cent cheaper than the dollar store, well actually that’s the only difference.

I must proclaim how much I enjoy finding random junk and sometimes necessary items to buy at the 99 cents store.

I found hair ties, bobby pins, paper towel, chewing gum, wire clothes hangers, because they were the best deal compared to the plastic ones, and managed to resist a bag of chips that was much too small for 99 cents, despite my desire for it.

I got to laugh all the way down the isle saying, “NO MORE WIRE HANGERS!!!” in my best Joan Crawford impression. Other patrons avoided eye contact. My sister used to claim it was one of her favorite movies growing up.

This always slightly disturbed me.

As it turns out, today was Teach Your Children How to Silently Walk Behind Moving Cars Day. That sure raised anxiety back to nerve shattering levels.

I even managed to grab my clothes from the fluff and fold ensuring clean undergarments for tomorrow. Having someone else clean your clothes is not a cop-out. When you don’t have time to sit at the laundromat yourself, I need someone to make sure creepy men with their hands down their pants stay away from my panties. Plus, they will match your socks and fold your panties into little swans.

Turns out, I could have bought a kidney on the black market for about the same price. It’s based on weight and apparently my clothes are heavy enough to sink a ship. Maybe not an oil tanker, but a least a fine yacht.

Alas, even if I would have come across my correct bank branch it was well past five when I retrieved my underthings. All those bank slackers had closed shop.

This being said, I worked at a credit union and remember almost having a nervous break-down and heart palpitations by the time 5 o’clock rolled around. I really do pity the fools.

To top it all off, I even managed to get some writing done. Not on the news assignment that got returned to me for “necessary corrections” due to my broken spirit, but writing none-the-less.

Of course this is all after eight hours of work, but who’s really counting.

This is Bat Country: IV Edition

We climbed out of the tent in the cool of daybreak. The morning view did not disappoint.



First thing we jumped into the lake enjoying our first taste of shower the entire trip. Clay slid between my toes and I sank into the foreign muck. Adam floated on the surface to avoid the squish.

Following suit, I watched the clear blue sky fade behind the jagged surroundings. My toes sparked with anticipation for salt water.

Driving in Vegas, there was not one Nevada license plate to be seen. Instead California plates repeatedly enclosed us on the strip. With a sea of tourists, I ignored my usual anxiety for blocking traffic to make a turn or one again taking the wrong street.

No one knows where the fuck their going.

We arrive at the expansive Venetian. This is Vegas on Labor Day weekend. The line to check-in looked like the wait for Magic Mountain. The entire place was crawling with people.

Avoiding the throng of people near the fountain, I go to a check-in booth off to the side. The woman informs me that we are in a VIP suite, would I like to follow her into the designated VIP check-in.

Yes, please.

Try to remain calm. Did I mention this is my first time to Vegas?

Inside are families sipping on coffee and perusing the snack bar. I wait for our bags to arrive via Adam and sip on iced tea. He and I giggle all the way up the mirrored elevators.

Vegas hotels are mazes to keep their guests trapped and confused. They are designed to keep you boozed and spending money, while you have no concept of time or location. I would proceed to get lost in my own hotel on several occasions.

The decadent hallway is suggestive of The Shining with blood-red carpeting and a sense of lingering debauchery. We arrive at the presidential suite.

We push through the double doors and I stifle a scream.



My sister’s entire apartment could fit in the living room. Floor to ceiling windows light the living room complete with full-dining table and grand piano. A remote powers the hidden television, surround sound music and the drapes.

I run into the master bedroom to find an overstuffed bed and more couches for lounging. This gives way to a marble bathroom, walls covered in mirrors. I stop to admire myself from all angles at once.

Vegas exploits narcissism.

The shower can easily fit eight comfortably with a perfect view of the action from all the mirrors.

This connects to the sauna and another dressing room with plenty of closet space for my bags. There are of course TVs in every, single room.

I am still screaming.



Running through the living room to the other bedroom, yes the other bedroom, I find Adam in disbelief. There are two double beds and yet another full bath with another Jacuzzi tub. The shower is too small for me, so I claim the master bedroom.

The space screamed decadence and sex in every way you would want it to.

Adam and I enjoy our separate rooms and the luxury of having a real shower. I laugh the entire time. Naturally, I utilize both shower heads and the steam just because.

I jumped on all of the beds for about twenty minutes wearing the provided hotel robe.

We counted five toilets, two showers, two Jacuzzi tubs, three beds, six TVs and one grand piano. I could have never left the room and been completely content.

The afternoon was ours for the taking.I took multiple showers and a bath.



We head up to the pool deck that spans across the roof of the Venetian connecting to the adjoining hotel, the Palazzo. Chairs cover the entire place literally stacking people on top of one another with wading pools scattered about.

Despite the heat people are piled into hot tubs. A suggestive blow-up doll is thrown into a tub crowded with children. After no personal success, a pleasant pool attendant finds us chairs to lie in. We got drinks to celebrate our luck.

It pays to have a sister with connections.

Due to the holiday weekend, none of the provided VIP passes would get us into the secluded pools for free. At least not Adam.

Tempted by the famed Tao Beach, I leave Adam to fend for himself and guard our things. Walking-up to the line I bypass a collection of bare-chested men waiting for entry.

“I can just get in for free?” I ask as the doorman straps a bracelet on my wrist.

“Girls get in free. Welcome to Vegas.”

If Facebook were an actual place, it would be the pool deck at the Venetian. Half naked twenty-somethings filter around cabanas staked with booze and bikini-clad girls dancing on their lounge chairs. It’s all about status.

Finding myself without any purpose, I go to find Adam and continue to soak in the sun.



Adam snoozed while I went to pick-up sister from the airport. I got lost both ways with sister getting very frustrated on her iPhone’s lack of help on directions.

I almost hit multiple pedestrians wandering about and sipping on tall souvenir drinks.

My favorite part about Vegas is you can drink everywhere, including the streets. At the liquor store the cashier asks if I want to open my beer before I leave, pointing to the chained down metal bottle-opener. Of course.

Back at the suite, Sister and I run around the room laughing and screaming some more.

We were to go to XS nightclub and had to be promptly ready at nine to get in. Sister’s client not only hooked us up with the room, but put us on the list.

It turns out that meant we could get in, but we would pay 50 dollars for girls and 200 for guys. Oh, hell no. We scramble for plan b.

Kelley, a friend of sister’s, entered the room disgruntled and stressed. She was our fourth in the room and had an entourage of antsy ladies that would be meeting us for the evening.

Adam and I got ready much too early, so he was sent out to get pre-drinks. Left to my own devices while the girls finished their faces, I dance circles around the piano, the furniture and end-up shimmying in front of the windows with a view the Vegas strip before my eyes.

We are about to pronounce Adam dead and leave without him when he finally gets back with the liquor. He explains his wild goose chase to a “nearby” liquor store down the street. He ended up going so far, a nice group gave him a ride back to the hotel.

We haven’t even started the night yet.



The front desk put us on the list for Tao, a nightclub inside the hotel. We wait in an impossible line outside in the heat. Looking at the crowd was like watching an elaborate still life painting melt before your eyes.

We get up to the front and the doorman scrutinizes Adam’s shoes. His black suede sneakers just will not do. He won’t be getting in with those things.

No one warned me you don’t bring boys to Vegas.

He of course has no other shoes, despite my no so subtly telling him to bring nice clothes to go out in. I didn’t even think about shoes and apparently he didn’t either.

I hate to say it, but we left the man behind.

Our herd of ladies, pushed inside. Rented sectionals flowed over with paper thin girls and muscle men too wide for their arms to rest. We were not allowed to even sit near the furniture.



While we danced the night away, Adam created entertainment.

He explored the casino prowling blackjack tables posing as an international Scottish music sensation. I must admit his accent is damn good. He actually convinced some girls that he was legit.

Bringing them up to the nicest room in the hotel didn’t hurt. He serenaded them giving the piano the most attention it’s probably ever gotten.

Us ladies got separated. I got blisters from walking the entire length of the Palazzo/Venetian. The trip ended with a locked room and me without a key.
The repeated doorbell failed to gain any attention.

Devastated, I started to walk back to the front desk in hopes to gain entry. Exiting the elevator on the main floor, I found a triumphant sister and Adam came stumbling my way. They had valiantly gone looking for me.

Our troupe lumbered down the gilded hall and back to our Tara. Adam and I watched the sunrise over the Vegas strip sitting before the immense windows in our hotel robes.

Morning came and Adam I go to raid the VIP lounge for food before taking him to the airport. Women overstuffed with collagen wearing string bikinis and stilts for shoes, saunter by.

Guests shift their eyes at one another like competitors at the craft table. A concierge brings fresh sandwiches out and the guests attack. I approach an empty display in a matter of seconds.

A petite Asian woman hobbles past me, plate overflowing.

Once more to the airport. Again I got lost there and back.

The strip is a feat of its own. One must fight through bodies and vendors to get anywhere. Drunken crowds stagger through the streets grabbing pamphlets about the best hookers in town. I secretly felt dejected for never being offered a flyer.

Massive complexes are themed to be exotic locations from around the world. Distraction and perplexity are key. Light shows over man-made lagoons stopped crowds in their tracks making it that much harder to get to your destination.

The girls waited for me a restaurant sharing a hefty salad that I mustered-up the courage to partake.

A slight girl to the right of us dined alone. She breathed in a salad, bread and an impossible bowl of pasta to our disbelief. She shouted at the shocked waitress for the bill before half of ours was enjoyed. Exchanging a look with the waitress, we finished our joint meal.

Another night of indulgence food, drinks and dancing. Confetti fell from the skies and bodies moved together to primal beats. Strobe lights cut movement into still photos.

We all fell in love at one point that evening, even if only a fleeting moment.

You know what they say about Vegas.



I managed to get back to the pool the last day and enjoy as much of the desert sun I could stand. Kelley and sister flew back together, leaving me to end the last portion of my trip alone.

This is way it always ends.

Exhausted and besieged by the strip, I drove towards the city of angels. Another life of success and decadence. Of sun and sand and surf.

Images of water danced behind my eyes as drove home.