Eggnog totally weirds me out.

I've had a couple random ideas about what I wanted to post since it's December and the holidays and all, but I haven't had time to sit down and write anything.

Sorry, Santa, yes, that was a lie. I have the time but I just haven't felt like any of my ideas have been good enough. Someone once told me I needed to work on my self-esteem. I've also been told that I'm a narcissistic, intellectual snob who's smart but definitely not smart enough to be an intellectual snob about it. Thanks a lot, college, that's all I was using you for anyway. The point is that maybe I need to work on my self-esteem and maybe I'm a narcissist and a snob. I just don't know how to please you people.

Anyway, I don't really have any point to this, so I'll give you a ten minute sample of things on my mind this time of year.

Me: I feel like I should decorate my office a little for Xmas but I don't want to have to take it down if they move me.

MEH: Hmm, I believe you should decorate your cup with alcoholic eggnog while all that gets sorted out.

Me: I will take the cup of alcoholic eggnog without the eggnog.

MEH: Right, whiskey it is.

Me: I feel like eggnog is what chickens would lactate if they had nipples and alcoholism. It sort of creeps me out.

MEH: Wow.

Me: Sorry. Hope I didn't just ruin the 'nog for you.

MEH: Nah, I hate eggnog. I never thought about alcoholic nipples, although now I am, and I'm revising my perfect woman.

Obviously I just do not want to shut up about food.

I know that I've posted a few things about food on this blog and you guys are probably sick of me talking about it and want to hear something entertaining or juicy about the fellas, but this is sort of the wrong time of year for me because I'm usually running around like a hummingbird on Aderol trying to get all the holiday stuff done for family and friends and I just don't have the time or inclination to toss out some holiday-themed pick up lines and it's hard to wink at boys in bars all saucy-like if your eye is twitching from stress and too much coffee. I've been told it looks like I'm having a seizure when I try to do that, so point taken, gentlemen. Moving on.

Christmas is a time when my family gets even more excited about being in the kitchen than we normally are, especially my mom and EM and I. EM isn't much of a kitchen-lover, but you should see her tackle a batch of candy cane cookies. She will effing bake your face off. We stick to our family traditions, but a few years ago I thought it would be a great idea to get all fancypants and try to make some peppermint bark, because everyone in the entire world loves peppermint bark and if you don't I probably wouldn't ever really trust you completely, sort of like those people who don't like chocolate and bacon. It makes me think there's something wrong with you a little bit, and considering I just compared myself to a hummingbird on Aderol, that is saying something.

Anyway, I went and got dark chocolate and white chocolate and peppermint extract and candy canes and was determined to make peppermint bark so good that world peace really *would* have been a legit possibility because everyone would have been united by the deliciousness of my holiday candy. What happened when this candy was finished was something like a disaster of epic proportions meeting up with some kind of culinary angel magic. I don't really know how it happened. Maybe Jesus looked down from his Laz-E Boy in the clouds and took pity on my horrific cooking errors and was all, "That looks like crap. Maybe I'll help out and make it taste good at least, so that she doesn't have a Christmas meltdown."

Because oh baby, did it taste good. So in the spirit of the holidays and giving and Jesus and puppies and rainbows and all, I'm going to give you guys my recipe for one of my favorite edible holiday mistakes - Christmas Fark.

(Sounds kind of dirty, huh?!)

Christmas Fark was the frankensteined peppermint bark that sort of ended up with a softer side - not quite bark, but not quite fudge, but a wonderful blending of the two. Sort of like the texture of a Hershey's bar on an August day in SoCal, but less melty. It's not fudge, it's not bark, it's fark. Get it? Good. Here's how you handle it:

Crap You Need:

1 c. crushed candy canes (more or less depending on how pepperminty you like it)
1 lb GOOD dark chocolate (don't skimp out, the better the chocolate, the better the fark)
1 lb GOOD white chocolate (seriously it's gonna be so good omg)
1/2 tsp. peppermint extract
2 tbsp. heavy cream
A cookie sheet covered in plastic wrap or wax paper

Crap You Do:

So, the most fun part of this is crushing up the candy canes. Unwrap 'em and really go to town on them. You can take out all of your stress and holiday blues and "don't YOU tell me to ease up on the Christmas cookies, you dingbat!" on a Ziploc bag full of candy cane pieces until they're good and pulverized. It's cool to have a few big bits because it looks more festive or something.

Chop up the dark chocolate and try not to eat a lot of it. I mean, a few nibbles are okay to "test the quality" but make sure most of it goes into the top part of a double boiler. You have to melt this chocolate gently and keep stirring it. Watch it closely, as if it is a beautiful shirtless man or a Christian Louboutin shoe parade. When it's mostly melted, add in one tbsp of the heavy cream and keep stirring until it's all incorporated. By this time, it should be pretty liquidy. Pour it out onto the cookie sheet and give it a wiggle to make sure it spreads out all even-like. Let it set up a bit, maybe an hour or so. It doesn't have to be super hard, just solid enough that it'll stay on the bottom when you pour the white chocolate on top.

Next, chop up the white chocolate and melt it slow like you did with the dark chocolate. Add in the peppermint extract and the other tbsp of cream and stir it up, little darling, stir it up. When it's looking liquidy, pour it on top of the layer of dark chocolate. Give it another wiggle so that it spreads out well, and then sprinkle the crushed candy canes on top. Let it set for another couple hours or so, until it's firm. Cut it up into pieces and keep them all to yourself. (Or wrap them up and give them away, if you're into that kind of thing. You know, whatever.)

Everyone is too fat for LA so you should just get the large fries and stop worrying about it.

This week one of my friends was talking to me about her diet and weight and such and how she wanted to lose 10 pounds or so. You guys should know that all of my friends are super foxy, so it was really ridiculous to me that my beautiful friend wanted to lose unnecessary weight. I told her she was full of crap and that we should go get drunk and eat fried things, she didn't need to lose a damn thing (except her current state of sobriety). She grumbled something at me about how I didn't have to worry about things like weight because I was thin and obviously ate whatever I wanted. Half of that is true - I do eat whatever I want 99% of the time because it's food and I love food so much sometimes I wish I could transform the idea of food into a man and then marry him and bear his food-children. And then I would eat them, because they would probably be delicious. Hang on, someone brought in doughnuts to work and I gotta go get my glaze on.

Okay, so. I told her that was not true, it's genetically programmed in all women to give a shit about their weight. I do worry about it. Obviously I want to be attractive to the opposite sex because I really like the opposite sex, and magazines tell me I have to look a certain way to do it. (Don't yell at me about that, that's an issue for another day. Wait, I'll just take my tongue out of my cheek here before I continue...)

Anyway, I came clean with my foxy friend about why I gave up on stressing about diets and being thin and squeezing into smaller sizes several years ago and just decided to go with the flow ('the flow' in this case being the steady flow of delicious calories into my face) and let the gaining or losing of pounds happen on its own.

According to The Industry, I am already too fat for L.A., so there is not much else I have to be concerned about. Here's the skinny. (Pun very much intended!)

When I first moved to Los Angeles a few years ago, I secured an editorial internship at an ass-kicking alternative music/girlie magazine. Punk rock and tattooed pinups all over the glossy pages and the editorial freedom do bring my own ideas to the table - color me "tickled pink"! Through this internship, I met a lot of cool people and did a lot of awesome stuff. Through a rather random series of events, I even got to do a bit of modeling (it was all PG, don't get excited) and had a blast because they paid me in beers and I think that is darn near everyone's dream. Fast forward a few months and one of my friends that had worked on this particular shoot ended up showing my pictures to a casting person at Spike TV when they were casting babe-types for the show "1000 Ways To Die" and they needed a redhead, I guess. Since I was temporarily a redhead and apparently passed the "cute" test, I got a call from the show's producer.

I said it would be fun to be on a TV show, and he just thought that was swell so the stylist would be calling me later that day to get my sizes for my wardrobe. Super. I went in to work and waited. When the stylist called, I had the suspicious feeling that things were not going well.

Stylist: I need your shirt size, your bra size, your shoe size and your pant size.

Me: Uh. Medium?

Stylist: No, like numbers. What size jeans are you wearing right now?

Me: Oh! I don't know, hang on, I'll check my ass. These jeans say they're a size 9.

Stylist: (silence for a couple minutes) ...size 9? Really?

Me: Yep, that's what they say. Size 9.

Stylist: Are... are you sure?

Me: Yeah, size 9. The number between 8 and 10.

Stylist: Oh. Uh. Okay...

Me: Is something wrong?

Stylist: No... not really. So... size 9.

Me: Yep. My ass fits comfortably into my size 9 jeans.

Stylist: Oh, you know, I just remembered I have to ask Producer something. I'll call you back this afternoon.

Me: Word.

I definitely thought it was odd when she hung up. Was that weird? Huh. I didn't quite get it... they *had* my picture, they knew I wasn't a rail. I went home that day and told EM what had happened.

"I think she things my ass is too fat," I said, kind of giggling. EM agreed that it was weird. "I will seriously not be surprised if she calls me back and fires me." That's how showbiz is, you guys. Don't take it personally, but you are a heifer and we cannot even fit your blubbery butt in the frame. Thanks for playing. Later that evening, I did indeed get a call from Producer. He was very kind and said that he was disappointed, but they wouldn't be able to use me. Something about other babe-types on another Spike TV show being under contract and they had to be used instead of hiring new babe-types. That's how you get rejected in L.A. - they're super sweet about it because they don't want to be the ones to send you into a bulimic downward spiral into rehab. Fortunately, I am rather well-adjusted that way and laughed to Producer and told him that was fine, good luck with your show. He said he would keep me "on file" and I laughed again as I'm sure we both rolled our eyes.

That was my last foray into modeling and TV. Truthfully, I wasn't that invested in the project and at the time, I was perfectly happy with my shape, so the event passed rather humorously for me. These days it's a story I tell to people who come to me all worried about thick thighs and a beer belly, because it doesn't matter in the end. You're always going to be too fat or too short or too this or too that for someone, so don't you think it's a hell of a lot more productive to just accept the way you look and enjoy it?

Maybe I'm crazy. I probably don't belong in L.A. because saying such things is blasphemy in a town where everyone makes a living carving images. I suppose I'm guilty of carving my own image, as well... it's just that it has a size 9 ass.

Game On, Parking Ninja.

I think the Los Angeles Parking Enforcement officer who patrols my street is a ninja.
I'll cruise my street, scanning for empty spots, pull into the No Parking zone for a minute to wait for a spot to open up, blink and BAM! PARKING TICKET.

Where did the ticket come from? Where is the officer who wrote me this ticket? I don't see any Parking Enforcement vehicles, so how did this happen? Where are you, Parking Enforcement Officer? I'll tell you where. In the goddamn bushes in ninja camouflage.

My craptacular avenue is perpendicular to a day care/school thing and when I get off work, I'm often forced to contend for spots in front of my apartment in manic who-can-parallel-park-the-fastest death battles for open spaces with parents coming to collect their offspring. And I always lose those battles because I am a WOMAN and cannot parallel park to save my life. I'm sorry if you ladies are offended by my automotive sexism, but let me just stop and say that there are a lot of things that I'm good at and quite a few things that I can do better than most boys, (like getting a period [ha, sorry, kidding...]) but when it comes to getting in my car and driving my happy ass to point B, I'm already as good as lost before I even pull out of the driveway. I talk to other cars as though they can hear me, (i.e. "LET ME MERGE, YOU ASS-PIRATE!") I get lost almost every time I get in the car, I have no concept of directionality ('north' is up, right?) and you can just forget about parking. Sometimes I literally put my car in park and make EM's boyfriend do it for me.

What?! Don't judge me - at least I'm aware of my failings. Also, I have excellent boobs and I can't be good at everything, you know?

So Parking Ninja hides in wait for me. On days when I'm sick from work and can't move my car to the other side of the street for street cleaning between 12 and 2 pm, I'll groggily shuffle downstairs and regardless of whatever time I *thought* it was when I remembered to move my car, it will always be 12:02 and I will always have a ticket written at 12:01. Parking Ninja is nowhere to be seen, because he is a ninja and he is laughing his evil laugh from behind the bushes or in the storm drain or probably even from *inside* my car that he broke into with his Ninja Magic.

I think I'm being hunted and unfairly targeted by Parking Ninja. Fine. Two can play at this game. I will wear my own camouflage and lie in wait... patiently... patiently... patiently waiting for you to enter the 6-inch force field-activated Shitstorm of Velociraptors car alarm that I bought with all the money I saved by not paying the city of Los Angeles your alleged "parking citations."

And speaking of underwear...

Dear Victoria's Secret,

We've had a little chat before about these emails that you keep sending me about sales on underwear and things, and despite my best efforts to unsubscribe and relegate you to my SPAMbox, you have proven yourself a worthy adversary. Like some kind of email zombie, you keep coming back, clutching your saggy-ass bikini briefs (seriously, does anyone else have a problem with that?) and shaking them menacingly in my face, moaning "25% offff... 25% OFFFF! GRRAAAWRRR!"

I've given up on unsubscribing, because you'll just find a way to rise from the deleted-dead. It's fine. I just delete you now with barely a glance, until today, when you sent me an email with the subject line "What is Sexy?" and I felt compelled to respond to you. You did, after all, ask me a question.

Victoria, (can I call you Victoria?) we both know about my lingerie collecting. You've provided me with some excellent items over the years, and those leopard boyshorts are still in my top 5 favorite underwears. They look totally bitchin' with my hot pink hair. I thank you for those. However, we seem to differ on our definitions of "sexy" these days and I thought I'd take the time to explain why I have not shopped with you in some time, opting instead for things a bit pricier. (Agent Provocateur and I have become good friends.)

Here's a list of things that I think are sexy. Maybe if you could take these as suggestions when designing your next line, I would be more compelled to spend my money, as opposed to your incessant peddling of "I Love My Boyfriend" gear. (Not all of us lingerie aficionados are paired up, Vicky, [can I call you Vicky?] some of us just like to feel pretty underneath our jeans and tees.)

TAB's Sexy List:
*Chivalry and respect are sexy.
*Intelligence is sexy.
*Humor and laughter are sexy.
*Big, brown eyes are sexy.
*Creativity is sexy.
*A sense of adventure is sexy.
* These Guinness underwears are sexy. I need them.
That's it for me. I don't need anyone to buy me "I'm A Princess, Dammit" underwear. I don't need you to sell me skanky Santa outfits at 15% off, because WHAT THE HELL WOULD I DO WITH THAT?! I don't need you to sell me cleavage-boosting, squish-suppressing, can't-tell-it's-there garbage. Look, I've come to terms with my body type, and you probably should, too. It's kind of liberating. I don't need you to disguise my squishy parts, but maybe you could offer me something better to adorn them with. You know, less "I Love My Boyfriend" and more like, "I Like Camping" or "These Underpants Are Made With 100% Recycled Awesome" or maybe you could just sell me underwear with a matching cape, because that would save me the trouble of having to find a matching bath towel for when I want to run around in my skivvies like a half-naked superhero. And, when in doubt, go with black lace. A lady can never have enough black lace in her drawers. (ZING! SEE WHAT I DID THERE? Drawers?! Like storage places AND underwear?! You see that?!)

Feel free to use any of those suggestions, by the way. I'm trying to be helpful to you, Vicky. In the meantime, you can stop sending me emails. Or not. Whatever. This is my way of telling you I've moved on, but drop me a line if you feel that our ideas of "sexy" have meshed again.

I have excellent priorities.

Me (in a discussion about the 'Black and Bleu Burger' at Henry's Hat): I could write poetry about how much I love this burger.

Billie: I'm excited to try it!

Me: Like, if I had to choose between making out with a gorgeous man and eating this burger, I would have a really hard time deciding.

Billie: Dang.

Me: I know. I mean, if the burger came with a Guinness, obviously I would have to choose the burger.

Billie: That should be on the menu as part of the description.

Me: Unless the gorgeous man was offering me a Guinness, then I'd have to go with the makeout. But, that's not really fair because that's using Guinness to sway my opinion, and I love Guinness more than a lot of things on this earth. Okay, so if the guy was maybe talking to me about horror movies or comic books and was holding a Guinness and then was all, "Let's make out!", he'd win over the burger/Guinness combination.

Bille: Hahaha, is the Guinness necessary to wash down the burger?

Me: Noooo, on its own, the burger is definitely enough. Conversely, if there was a hot guy holding this burger and offering me a makeout sesh and then on the other hand there was a pint of Guinness, I'd probably pick the burger/cute boy combo and then after the makeout I'd be all, "Hey do you wanna go get a Guinness now?" and then I would have outwitted myself and won.

Alcohol Disguises Social Ineptitude. (But not really.)

This weekend was Halloween, which is proven to be one of the best holidays because you get to dress up like a maniac, get jacked on too-much-candy sugar and try to come down from said sugar high by countering with too-much-booze. My plan was to chase cupcakes with beer and then pee out all the sugar so that I'd be at some kind of idly inebriated equilibrium, because life is all about balance, kids.

I wound up at a party Saturday night with Billie, her younger brother and her roommate and began the drinking part of my plan. Half a bottle of wine and two cheap beers later, the three of us ladies surveyed the cute boy situation. Partly swaying with my wine bottle in one hand and my beer in the other, I made the command decision to indulge my inner nerd and scope out the Cute Boys in Superhero Costumes, of which there were a few. I figured we could at least bond over comic books, and then maybe bond some more by making out. Bow chica bow bow.

Sorry. I won't do that again.

Anyway, I dragged Billie around the sort-of-huge house on the hunt for Spiderman, who I thought was very cute but Billie said was too short. I said it didn't matter - he had lovely brown eyes and was wearing a Spiderman costume. We already had so much in common!

Milling about and keeping my eyes open for the adorable Spiderman, we ran into a Superman/Clark Kent who I also deemed attractive. We had a really romantic exchange that went something like:

Me: "Oh! You're from New York! What is it that you do?"

Superman: "I'm a comedian."

Me: "That's cool! More in the sitcom arena or stand-up type stuff?"

Superman: "I actually hate both sitcoms and stand-up."

Me: "Oh. :: awkward silence :: So, I really like your costume! Are you a big comic book fan?"

Superman: "Not really."

:: Crickets chirp. A tumbleweed blows by. Someone in the audience coughs. ::

Me: "So, how do you like L.A.?"

Superman: "I don't." :: Superman looks over his shoulder with a random, irritated look ::

Me: "Okay. I'm going to go stand over here now."

Obviously, I am smooth and charming, so if you'd like to know how to spend your next party like The Average Broad, commence as follows:

Chug some wine. Drink a beer. Coerce the girl dressed like Snooki to fist-pump for a photo even if she looks mad and you look drunk. Slow dance with Billie, her brother and her roommate all at the same time, a la "Romy and Michelle." Finish bottle of wine. Refill bottle with keg beer. Deem it to be undrinkable. Drink it anyway. Have slurring discussion with man in toga about the finer points of Arthur Miller's collected works. Hunt for Spiderman again. Realize Spiderman has left the building. Refill empty wine bottle with keg beer again. Apologize for bumping into the booty of a guy wearing white pants. Ask guy if he's John Travolta from "Saturday Night Fever." Call him John Travolta even when he says that's not what his costume is. Intentionally bump into his booty again. Decide that next year, you will dress up as Bill Lumbergh from "Office Space." Have another romantic exchange with someone dressed up as Antoine Dodson about who has the better costume. His comes with a catch phrase, so he wins. Finish second wine bottle full of beer. Decide you are ready to go home. Pass out on your couch watching infomercials.

It's hard out here for a pimp.