Thursday, August 31, 2006

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

l'amore, si chiama Italia

Sometimes I will glimpse a picture or read a few words that will literally make my heart ache for Italy. My second home, because home is where the heart is. I do not long with the same intensity for the shores of the Northwest, where the waves gently lap at the gravely beach.

Right now, my soul hurts with a desperation fueled by the dappled shade cast by olive trees and the chill of icey cold limoncello. Gazing across a blinding noontime Mediterranean coatline, questa paese ha il mio cuore.

Friday, August 18, 2006

Purrrrrr

Cat confirmed as 'normal.' The medical profession has a surprisingly broad definition of normalcy.

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

To see how smart I really is!

I am getting my cat scanned today. This neither excites nor scares me. After 48 hours of not eating (not by choice) I am fairly nonplussed. Dark rooms, praying to the porcelain God, they had better find something good in there. Maybe the Dead Sea Scrolls…

In other news, a bum asked me for change outside the store this morning. On autopilot ‘get-a-job-you-bum’ mode, I lied to him. “Sorry, no cash on me buddy.”

I scuttled by him, head down, as he answered, “That’s alright, beautiful, you have a nice day now!”

While waiting for my coffee all I could think about was how nice that hungry man was, patiently sitting outside the grocery store just hoping for some breakfast. What did I need with a couple extra dollars in my wallet? I am probably dying anyway.

So I headed outside to find him again.

“Here you go, friend,” I said, handing him some wadded up cash.

“Thank you, beautiful!” he answered, all smiles.

Hell, his early morning compliments were worth at least a couple dollars. Vanity, thy name is Bionda.

Wednesday, August 09, 2006

Consistently Blinded by Bright Shiny Objects


I am really nervous for my race. I have been training for a couple of months now, but just cannot seem to mentally break the 7-mile mark. Which is going to be a problem considering this thing is double that. And something has been going on with my right leg every time I hit the trails, namely a searing pain ripping across the outside of my knee making me limp for a full 24 hours after each excursion.

Maybe I am just a hypochondriac…or an ibuprofen junkie.

But I am still nervous.

Nerves are a pretty standard part of my pre-race regimen. At my first triathlon, I thought I would throw up just waiting for the start gun to go off. However every race thereafter was pretty routine. So this time, in order to qwell the building nausea, I started researching just what I am getting into. I clicked onto the race Web site and thoroughly studied the route map. I read up on the race day instructions, where to get dropped off, where all the water stations and (more importantly) the first aid tents are located. How long I have to make it across the finish line. Where to pick up my official finisher’s medal…

Finisher’s MEDAL?!

Suddenly my knee doesn’t hurt. There is a spring to my step. I am visiting local running stores on my lunch break and buying the latest in sweat wicking technology. I will earn this medal! I will hang this medal from my rearview mirror with pride! I will run another day!

Monday, August 07, 2006

Sunshine Girl

It’s Monday. I’m cranky. (Crankier than usual.) Thank you, City of San Diego, for that $47 treat you left on my windshield this morning because I illegally parked in the alley behind my house. Thank you, dear City, for not posting any ‘no parking’ signs anywhere in said alley. And thank you most of all, Weekend Job, for making me cocktail from noon to 11 p.m. on a Sunday so that I would be too tired to park anywhere but in that alley.

When a butterfly flaps its wings in one part of the world…

This weekend turned into quite the D List event. I am the girl who notoriously worked in L.A. for almost 2 years with nary a star sighting. Then just this weekend, I ended up going to a concert with a soap star on Saturday night, and waiting tables for a rock band on Sunday. Cosmic retribution.

Wonder who I pissed off to get me that parking ticket?

The highlight of yesterday's shift was probably this conversation between myself and the lead singer (a little-known celeb mentioned in a previous blog entry).

Rocker (handing me a wad of wrinkled 5’s and 1’s): Here, this is for you. It’s all I had left in my pocket. Thank you so much for taking care of us!

Cocktailer: Wow, thanks. So this has some lint and old bubble gum in it too?

Rocker: Hey, it’s probably a good 20 bucks in there! Plus, it was sitting next to my dick all day.

Cocktailer (swooning): Wow, maybe I’ll just auction it on Ebay then!

The band was entertaining to say the least. And it’s always nice to hear that I give ‘the best service in all of North America.’

Bionda rocks on.

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

Wake Up Call


I run into the store today to grab my requisite prework coffee. Nothing unusual, jostling with the other bleary eyed worker bees in line for our morning caffeine sting. In jeans and a tank top, I always feel underdressed on these early morning Starbucks forays, flip flopping in shoes given to me by one of my surf brand reps while everyone else in line wears some sort of polyblend suit and heels.

Went to bed after midnight again last night, so I’m keeping my head down as I joyfully suck on my grande iced coffee. Letting the glaze slowly fade from the corners of my eyes before I flip flop back out the door to my car. The cold coffee making its way too slowly to my foggy brain, I glance around the store, noticing only shiny shoes and slacks and trousers and…checkers?!

Checkers. Checkered pants. Checkered PAJAMA pants. Coming out of a pair of battered running shoes. Glancing up, I note a stained Hanes t-shirt completing the ensemble.

PJ’s. In public.

Now that is taking ‘casual’ to an entirely unwholesome level. It makes me want to walk up to Mr. PJ Pants and say: “Excuse me sir, could you please estimate the time it would have taken you to throw on the same pair of pants that you discarded next to your bed last night before traipsing down to this neighborhood Starbucks?”

No one needs to see your ratty pj’s. I bet even your family is sick of them (especially your wife, seriously).

Luckily for him, my caustic tongue is still occupied with my overpriced drink. Also lucky for him, I just so happen to be employed at a place where pajama pants and running shoes could be considered appropriate dress code.

Casual coffee run. No shirt, no slippers, no service.