Kinda like where everybody knows your name... unless you never go. (Which I don't.)

The Husband and his friend, Jon, were in a shuffleboard tournament yesterday. And I'm a supportive wife so, despite the fact that it was held in a bar I loathe detest hate oh, forget it I was there to, well, support. And then I thought man, I really need to blog this. (Yes, I know I just used the word "blog" incorrectly, but you get me, right?)

Of course, after one drink, I think I need to blog everything. So. Here.



I am not a fan of dirty. I like clean and pretty and shiny and... yeah. Reason number one I'm not a fan of this place: the sawdust. Dude, it got all over my pants. Ugh. When I brushed at my jeans for the eighth time, The Husband gave me a look and said, "You are not that girl."

To which I said, "DO YOU NOT KNOW ME AT ALL?!" Because I absolutely am that girl.



The Husband talks to everyone and makes instant friends. When I sit and watch him interact with strangers with such ease, I can't help but simultaneously admire him and think wow, opposites really do attract.



Actually, no, this is the number one reason I'm not a fan: the smokers. I get that there are a lot of people who like to smoke. And there are a lot of people who like to drink. And then there are people who really don't consider themselves "smokers" but they are drinkers and once they start drinking they turn into smokers. Well, this is the place for them.

One half of the bar is supposed to be non-smoking, except there's no divider between the two areas so the entire place is one big room of lung cancer.



The blond happened to be "with" this guy in the picture below.





He cracks every single knuckle in his hands. And feet. Before bed. Every night.



The bar was crowded by the time red shirt guy came around. I kept thinking, don't any of you people have to work tomorrow morning? If not, they were lucky. I had to and I was tired. And Starbucks had a continuous line all morning and, as an employee, I have to let guests go ahead of me, which means I didn't get Starbucks today. I went for a sugar-free RockStar instead and, for hours afterward, I felt like I had just snorted coke.

Not that I am at all familiar with the effects of snorting coke, but I imagine a RockStar energy drink would feel pretty similar.



Number three reason I'm not a fan of this place: these girls. Who dress up. I don't get it. Don't get me wrong. Women who get dressed up to go out don't bother me a bit. But there's something about a girl who gets all dolled up to hang out in a dirty, smoky, sawdust-on-the-floor bar that makes me feel like a total... goober. I can't explain it. It just throws me off. And makes me feel inadequate.







No. Actually? Seriously creepy. Weirdo.



I know what you're thinking. What the hell is shuffleboard etiquette? And you know what? I have no idea. But I know The Husband kept muttering those two words under his breath every time he waited for his turn. Then he'd make eye contact with me and roll his eyes. And then he did this thing where he loudly makes a sarcastic comment to no one in particular so no one is really certain if he's talking to them.

It's kind of embarrassing, and kind of funny, because suddenly three people are all looking up, around, at him, confused and maybe insulted but they're not really sure.



It wasn't all bad. In fact, I'd probably go again just to see that look on The Husband's face when he looks over, meets my eyes, smiles and says, "I'm so glad you're here" in that happy/surprised voice as if he still can't quite believe it. 'Cause I never go to Goat Hill Tavern. It's just not my kinda place.

But, damn it, I'm supportive.

Chewy Chocolate Chip Cookies

I’ve made chocolate chip cookies before. Hundreds of times, in fact. Once here on this blog. And I absolutely love love love that recipe.

So, here’s the story. A couple of weeks ago, I wanted to make something rich and chocolatey. I found a recipe for these gorgeous looking Tri-layer Chocolate Oatmeal bars. They looked amazing. ("Looked” being the key word.)

They were a total disaster. They were seriously awful. I’m not usually a picky eater when it comes to chocolate and baked goods (Hello, hips? ‘Nuff said.), but after one piece, I never touched them again. And I cried. And the bars sat on my kitchen counter. I couldn’t bring myself to throw them away, but nor could I send them off to work with The Husband. That’d just be cruel. And, well, I have a reputation to think of.

So, there I was, feeling down. I knew what I needed. A sure thing. Chocolate chip cookies. I know chocolate chip cookies. Chocolate chip cookies and I? BFF’s.

Of course, I had to go and complicate matters. Ever since I saw the chocolate chip cookie episode of Good Eats (which I posted here) (you’re welcome), I’ve wanted to try all three different variations. I started with The Chewy. Why? Because of the three, I had everything on hand that I needed for this one. So there.

My oldest memory of chocolate chip cookies goes back to… hm… I think I was nine. (I’d ask my mom to correct me, but her memory? Nonexistent.) We were living in San Juan Capistrano and my mom had promised to make cookies with me.

Something happened (who the hell knows now) and she changed her mind… or was too tired… or something. I asked if I could just make them myself. “No,” she said, “you’re too young, you’ll burn yourself.”

“Then can I just make the dough?” I asked. She sighed and, in defeat, agreed. So, I made chocolate chip cookie dough. And we ate it. It was just the four of us at the time. My mom, my little brother, my older sister and myself. And then we all died of salmonella poisoning. The end.

No, not really. While I certainly wouldn’t recommend eating raw cookie dough, I will say it’s one of the best things ever. And don’t sit there and try to tell me you never sample the dough. I won’t believe you.

But, back to these cookies. They were ugly. All wrinkled like raisins and dark brown. The devastation I felt upon pulling these out of the oven to find them looking totally defunct was painful. How could I go wrong with chocolate chip cookies?! I wanted to fall to my knees and curse the baking Gods. Why were they punishing me?!

Then I ate one.

And my taste buds sang a chorus of hallelujahs. These were quite possibly the best tasting chocolate chip cookies I’ve ever had. No freaking joke, peeps. The major player in this here recipe was the brown sugar and that set the stage to make these rich, chewy, unbelievable, God-is-smiling-down-upon-me cookies. Which is how they shall now be known.

It’s quite possible I effed up somewhere along the way, but I don’t think I did. At least, I hope I didn’t, ‘cause if I can’t recreate these little round discs of deliciousness, I will have to give up baking forever.

Amen.

(I know what you’re thinking. They don’t look so ugly in this photo. Peeps, I couldn’t bring myself to share the pictures that showed just how ugly they were. You’ll just have to take my word on this one.)


Ingredients
1 cup butter, melted over low heat
¼ cup sugar
1 ¼ cup brown sugar
1 egg + 1 egg yolk
2 tablespoons milk
1 ½ teaspoons vanilla
2 ¼ cups bread flour
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1 teaspoon baking soda
2 cups chocolate chips

Directions
1. Sift together flour, salt, and baking soda.
2. Mix together the butter and sugars.
3. Add eggs, then milk, then vanilla, mixing after each addition.
4. Slowly add dry ingredients.
5. Stir in chips and taste dough. I insist. Wait, I don’t insist. (I see a lawsuit in my future.)
6. Chill for a couple of hours.
7. Bake for, oh, 8 – 10 minutes. (I’d say “until golden brown” but they get pretty brown all over. Just don’t burn ‘em, okay?)
8. Eat.
9. Die happy.

(Click for printer-friendly version.)

A letter.

I'm doing this for her... and I need your help.

So, you know my sister, J?

She's in Oregon this weekend for a soccer tournament. She's a soccer player. Have I mentioned that before?

The team flew up yesterday... and they don't get home 'til Monday. (Sob.)

I got a few homesick text messages from her just a little bit ago and an order to keep updating my blog since it gives her something to do during downtime.

And, even though I have plans to see a movie with The Husband tonight, I immediately wanted to cancel so I could stay home and write... just to entertain her.

But The Husband, who's been giving me the stink-eye and tapping his watch for the last half hour, won't let me do that. He will now be known as The Grump.

So, peeps? I need you. I need you bad.

I need you to comment your ever-loving hearts out and help me keep her thoughts occupied.

Stories, jokes... whatever you got, whatever's on your mind. We want to hear it. Have you ever played soccer? Ever been to Oregon? Even been a homesick teenager? Give us the deets.

I tried to turn each of these things into it’s own post, but.

I asked The Husband for something to write about, as I’m currently drawing blanks, and he suggested writing about how cranky I am when I wake up each morning. But by “cranky,” he really means sweet with a sunny disposition, so that’s out.

I thought briefly of telling you about a certain individual who works in our human resources department and how I walk away feeling like a reprimanded five-year-old every time I’m forced to talk to her. But then I’d have to get into details about my job and, well, my job is uber boring and no one wants to hear the deets. I’d lose you in ten-seconds flat. Probably five. So, I’ll just say there’s a woman in HR who causes me a lot of angst and I very much dislike her.

And then there’s this:

I was going to talk in lengthy detail about the fact that we’re exactly six months away from the premier of New Moon, but I really have nothing to say except WE’RE EXACTLY SIX MONTHS AWAY FROM THE PREMIER OF NEW MOON. The caps should successfully convey my excitement. Amen.

I’d love to share the two recipes I tried over the weekend, but all the images are still stored on my memory card where they’ll most likely remain until I can freaking shake this reading frenzy. I’m still Nora Roberts-obsessed and just started the second book of one of her many trilogies. Actually, it’s gotten so bad that I’ve started purchasing books from (gasp) a book store.

This makes me cringe as I am morally opposed to paying full price for books (at eight bucks a pop, they ain’t cheap), but have depleted my stock of unread Nora Roberts books. Normally, I’d spend hours happily browsing the used book stores at the libraries where I can walk away without having paid more than fifty cents, but I just happened to finish my last book at nine p.m. on Saturday. (Yes, I was at home reading on Saturday night. Leave me alone.)

In my impatience to get my hands on some new reading material, Borders was my only option. And what did I buy? A book one. Which means if I wanted to continue the trilogy, I had to go back and purchase book two. And sometime in the next day or two, I’ll have to purchase book three. Sigh. If it makes you feel any better, I have coupons.

(Don’t worry, this too shall pass.)

I'll leave you with this:

My sister, J.

You be the judge. Does it look like she's floating or like she's a giant?

Earthquakes and munchkins and doodie, oh my.

I was home alone Sunday night when the earthquake hit. I was bundled up on the sofa, computer on my lap, in the middle of You've Got Mail for what had to be the thirty-eighth time, when there was a loud thud above me as if our upstairs neighbors had just dropped a Dodge on their living room floor.

Stupidly, I looked around and waited as my heart kicked up it's rhythm in my chest. After what felt like a full sixty seconds, but was really just a fraction of one, the shaking started. I stood up, laptop in hand, looking around while Luke bolted from the room. The brief thought that the little bastard should have warned me crossed my mind as I tried to figure out where to stand, what to do.

Are you supposed to get under the desk or just next to it? And if it's under, then I'm shit out of luck as it'd take more time clearing the junk out from underneath as it would to just stand there like an idiot and ride it out. WHICH IS WHAT I DID.

After the shaking stopped, I could hear my neighbors, those above and those to the left, laughing and asking if each other was okay. I stood there for a moment thinking I am so unprepared for this, then slowly walked back through our apartment to make sure everything was as it should be.

Earthquakes scare me. The unpredictability of them terrifies me. I hate not knowing how strong they'll be, how long they'll last, how much damage they'll cause. The Husband hates earthquakes, too, but will dance naked in the streets during a tornado. Go figure.

You get no warning with earthquakes. At least you know when a tornado is coming. At least you have time to prepare yourself. You know a tornado isn't going to randomly land on your head and suddenly take you for a windy ride Dorothy-style. Except worse 'cause there'd be no munchkins or ruby slippers. And, you know, you'd die.

I'll tell you this, though. I was really disappointed to realize that my cats will be absolutely no help in this situation if and, unfortunately, when it happens again. I'm not really sure what I expected. I mean, I sort of hoped they'd, I don't know, stand up and say something along the lines of, "Excuse me, Steph, but we're sensing a 4.7 earthquake to hit in the next three minutes. Everything will be fine, so just go ahead and continue your movie. Oh, here, let me get you some more chocolate as I see you're running low."

To which I'd reply, "Why, thank you, Luke. More chocolate would be lovely."

'Cause, you know, more chocolate would be lovely.

So, what natural force of nature scares the doodie out of you?

The possibilities were endless.

But then naps took up most of my free time.

(I love our kids.)

It's amazing how one 4-day weekend can mean traveling, seeing the world, experiencing new things... and another can mean naptime. I've spent the last three days doing just that: napping.

Oh, I've made an appearance here and there. Lunch at the beach on Friday and, later that night, drinks with friends. Yesterday, I caught up with my mom and my sister. And today we went out to watch the Lakers game.

It was interesting to be in the middle of this huge crowd and all of us cheering for the same team. The Husband was born and raised in Minnesota which means he is a die-hard Vikings/Twins/Timberwolves fan. Usually it's him against the sports bar. And me? I'm a whichever-team-Tom-Brady-plays-for fan.

In southern California, this means we're the minority.

My feelings for the Lakers are a bit tricky to explain. I remember when Kobe joined the league. I was sixteen and thought he was so cute. And I fancied myself in love with a boy who passionately hated the Lakers, so, naturally, I had to watch so I could trash-talk discuss intelligently.

Then there was the "rape scandal." Peeps, I don't think he raped her. Yes, I think he had sex with her and yes, I think that's disgusting. Needless to say, some of my former fan worship faded after that, but there's definitely an interest to see how he continues to perform. I've followed the team for years and I'm a local. I can't help it.

The only reason The Husband was cheering for the Lakers is because he wants to see them play the Celtics, and lose, in the finals. He's twisted.

The truth is, if I hadn't married a man who loved, first and foremost, sports, I'd never have a clue what games were taking place or who was playing. Oh, I'll sit and watch games with him and listen patiently as he rattles off stats in my ear... but I'll have my nose buried in a book and I probably can't tell you the final score.

Your turn. How do you feel about sports? Do you have a passing interest? A favorite team? Do you get crazy and paint your face and wear costumes? What about your spouse? I need to know.

The WTF post.

I'm a procrastinator. I might even go so far as to say I'm the world's very best procrastinator. But who wants to hold that title?

There's this THING that's needed my attention for a long time. I'm talking years, peeps. YEARS. (I told you I was the best.) I finally made an appointment to take care of said THING which means that, as I type this, wheels are in motion. And you don't know what a relief that is.

Oddly enough, I feel wretched. In fact, after receiving The Husband's incredibly supportive e-mail (in response to mine which briefly explained the details and "I know this is going to cost a bit of money, but please be supportive."), I cried. No, I'm not sitting here flooding the office, but there was definite leakage of the eyes.

I don't know why this makes me so emotional. Wait. Yes, I do. Because this THING has caused a lot of embarrassment and anxiety since I was a teenager. And because I'm going to be thirty soon (soon enough) and dealing with this as an adult is somehow even worse. And because The Husband's e-mail, while, again, totally supportive, just made me realize that I've been a complete fool for thinking I was doing even a remotely sufficient job of controlling the situation.

It makes me sad to know I've treated myself this way.

I'm not ready to share all the deets with the WWW, but I will say this: as soon as it's done (which will most likely be an entire year from now), I'm totally going camping. IN A TENT.