Wouldn't you know it, the very SECOND I open my gaping pie-hole about owning up to my responsibilities as an adult, I get tested. I don't believe in any kind of karma or universal smack down in general, but I do find it quite funny (and not in a "not unless clowns are funny" kind of way) that right when I tell the world (OK, when I tell you, Mom, and you, Unnamed Visitor #2) via my blog that I am growing up and kicking some Elvis-style-TCB ass, my car decides to go on strike.

Yes, 11 year old cars have a tendency to do this. And yes, I've kind of shirked some of my car owner responsibilities as of late, too (shocking, right?), so it's really not much of a surprise that it's my turn to have to deal with the unpleasantness of bending over for a mechanic.

Because I'm still teenager sitting (more on my fabulous weekend of zero sleep, Facebook status feed Olympic spoilers and stress-induced nerve damage later) I totally lucked out and happened to have said teenager's dad's car in the garage for my use. It does alleviate the pressure of having to pay for a rental on top of what I expect will be a pretty grotesque bill, so I've got that going for me, which is nice. But I really freaked out to myself when I initially sat in my car and it did nothing but grind and moan and tell me it was officially done with my ass.

PostedJuly 30, 2012

Authormelissa mcclure

Categoriessalad, vegetarian, appetizers and snacks

Tagsburrata, growingupsucks, poolside, bruschetta, Innercity Velvet, Jenni Jihad, appetizer, basil, snack, carpocalypse, Terror Teen

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A bird pooped on my head and down my shirt this last Sunday, which only further bolsters my long brewing animosity towards nature. I’m not a happy camper, quite literally, and I’ve never understood why sleeping outside of four walls and a roof is any more magical than driving out to a location well beyond the lights of the city to marvel at the stars and then returning to a place with a hot shower and clean sheets. I don’t need or have any desire to wake up, dirty, with a creaky back and caffeine withdrawal, only to hike back to my overheated car, no thank you.

Two of my fellow ‘paloozians had milestone birthdays within two days of each other this week, and though I will not repeat that scary number (scary at least to single girls with pet children), it rhymes with worty, which no one wants to be except Madonna who, in a fit of good Kabbalah luck was “enlightened” at worty.

Anyway, in an impromptu celebration of these two women, a few of our rag tag crew drove up north of Santa Barbara to a very beautiful state park and went glamping. No, that was not a typo; we went “glamorous camping”, which I would argue, is as much an oxymoron as jumbo shrimp. What exactly is glamping you ask? Glamping basically consists of a few steps. One: drive to a very nice campground in your Prius (for the record and as I stated earlier, the environment and I are not exactly facebook friends, so obviously the Prius belongs to someone else-- I prefer my cars to get less than 14 MPG) which will be weighted down with three ice chests full of such necessities as carrot cake, israeli couscous salad, artisanal goat cheese, truffle sausage and fig jam. Next, pay the nice lady in the log cabin the cost of a very nice piece of furniture for two nights, spend the next hour unpacking the car and then apply bug spray before settling in to your posh camp house, which is really just a re-branded mobile home made to look like a log cabin. And finally, after all this, order your BBQ kit consisting of hamburger, fixins, tools and ingredients to make s’mores, to be delivered directly to your fire pit for dinner.

PostedJuly 21, 2010

Authormelissa mcclure

Categoriessalad, vegetarian

Tagssalad, glamping, dried cherry, recipe, roasted beets, worty instead of 40, walnut, the great pothole of 39, blue cheese, beets, cabrales, not a friend of mother earth, Leggsy McGhee, a bird pooped on my head, Innercity Velvet, Maria-Hold-the-Eggs, Jihad Jenni

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It is true that the Duck Man has a pool. It is also true that I, in a very uncharacteristically brazen and aspirational way, declared to the Girl Whose Name Sounds Better Pronounced as an Indian Food Dish and to the Equestrian to Kids of the Stars at the Duck Man’s holiday party in December that we were going to be lounging by that pool (and grilling and drinking next to it) all summer. I imagined myself ten pounds lighter (with an extra couple inches attached to my legs for good measure) in a chic black bikini perched as the mistress of the pool, doling out invitations and kebabs with a royal, benevolent flourish.

I am an asshole. Once again, I have counted my chickens before they hatched into chicken nuggets and find myself somewhat short of a 3 piece order. I am hanging out in a loft/sauna with one pissed off cat instead of sunning myself next to a mid century oasis.

It is hotter than asphalt, so I am reminded of my great pool loss on this day, the day that it decided to be summer in SoCal. I guess I should count myself lucky; that I somehow managed to circumvent drawing out a “relationship” (if you could see me in person right now you’d witness the air quotes around that word, relationship) that probably wouldn’t have worked out anyway for a panoply of fantastic reasons, but that hasn’t in any way stopped me from bemoaning my pathetic, pool-less and utterly tragic fate.

simple bruschetta a la minute: saying something and doing something are totally different things

roasted beet, cabrales, dried cherry and toasted walnut arugula salad: rock out, whatever

red velvet ice cream sandwiches: don’t even pretend you don’t have pool envy

Why? Because soup is cheap, delicious and easy. Kind of like me.

a weekly attempt to eat well and to savor life. or to see how much food I can get on my clothes.