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| Double Anal, Fake Tits, and a W-4Today, I started my first day at my new job. In porn.
Haha! I think I just love to see the look on people's faces when I say that I moved to a job in porn. NO, I'm not actually getting fake tits and doing double anal, I read about it all day. I'm a copy editor for a trade magazine covering the adult entertainment industry. YUP! I think I'll probably become increasingly more vulgar in person, but I'll try to keep the blog toned down. A coworker at my old job said, at my good-bye lunch, after I told him about my new job, "What are you going to be doing there?" I said, "I'm going to be a copy editor."
Apparently, I mumbled my words, because his reaction was, "A COPULATER??"
So far, it's been reeeeeally fascinating. I don't think I've ever been so new to something before. Even when I started at the fitness magazine, it wasn't like I had never heard of heart disease before. But I really did NOT know about girls getting it from machines! Yeah, I'm not lying. Okay, so for those of you who are regular porn consumers (and I now know almost everybody is, it's okay it's really not that taboo anymore), you probably already knew about it. I definitely did not. I mean, I've seen a good share of porn, but that was pretty shocking for me.
It's also pretty difficult not to giggle while trying to work. When you read press releases about butt plugs, your style guide includes the words "MILF" and "blowjob," and your coworkers talk about getting drunk in Vegas during conferences, it makes for a pretty rad job.
Ah...in other news, I am also moving. To Playa del Rey....right by the beach! I'll post some pictures once I move in. No more icky Valley, no more horribly sweaty nights, no more mean drivers (hopefully). I guess, this is the phase we call, "Moving from the juniors' section to the grown ass womens' section." Next I think I have to buy a house. Or is it buy a car? Or travel the world? Have kids? Start a porn website?
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| Cake for zeroThere are a lot of things I'm good at. Finding really great deals on lingerie and electronics, reading out loud, certain exercise formats like Dragonboat and yoga, getting someone's attention from across the street...some would even say I'm good at writing. Every once in a while, you come across something that you try. To see if, since so many people of your chromosomal nature can do it so well, maybe you can do it too.
But it's clear. I am NOT good at baking.
As you all know, Valentine's day was last week. I came up with the brilliant idea of making a cake for my boyfriend. I mean, it's sweet, and he likes to eat. So tell me you wouldn't eat this without a second thought of sugar content clogging your heart valves: a bottom layer of one big brownie, raspberry filling, another layer of one big brownie, vanilla icing with strawberries cut into the shape of hearts, and the words "Happy Valentine's Day, Honey Bear" written on top. Amazing, right?? And sooo easy, you just have to make two brownies.
WRONG.
This is what came out after two consecutive days of "baking":
Hahahahahahahaha...is that not the MOST PATHETIC CAKE YOU'VE EVER SEEN???
When I realized "Happy Valentine's Day Honey Bear" was obviously not going to fit, I thought I would shorten it to "Honey Bear." When that didn't fit, I tried "Honey." When that didn't fit, after I finished the "N" I thought, my god, forget it.
There are a couple things that could have contributed to this cake's demise.
1. I have no measuring devices. Except for one shot glass. So, using my cognitive math skills, I figured that since 1 cup = 8 ounces, then it's a simple matter of division to figure out what 1/3 cup of oil would be. That's 2.7 ounces. So, I sat there measuring out 2.7 shot glass worths of oil and water for the brownie mix. It's unclear how much 0.7 of a shot glass is, so that is a possible blame factor for the pathetic cake.
2. My oven is malfunctioning. The knobs were switched, so when I turned on my oven to 325 degrees, my bottom left stove turned on instead. I sat there staring at my knobs and turning them on and off to figure out which one controlled the oven. Turns out it's the second from the right. WTF? So, I had no idea at what temperature my oven was. I could only have it at "Low," or "High." Medium actually turned it off. So I left at at High, which was still pretty lukewarm. The package, which by the way, made brownie-baking seem so freakin easy, called for the brownie to be baked for 40-45 minutes. An HOUR AND A HALF later, the brownie was still a little soggy. So I said, Alright, let me work on this raspberry filling. It's already 11 p.m. on Valentine's eve and this damn bottom half of the brownie isn't even done.
3. My complete ignorance of the physics of corn starch. Now I know it's the ingredient that makes liquid turn into goo. The recipe for filling that I googled online told me to mix the raspberry juice, water, sugar and corn starch into a mixture and heat it. Apparently, I cannot follow directions. I mixed the raspberry juice, water and sugar on the stove while it was heating. As I was trying to measure the corn starch (also with a shot glass; did you know one tablespoon = 1/2 ounce?) the raspberry juice, water and sugar mixture had boiled. Meh, I thought, and mixed in the corn starch. What happened next dumbfounded me--the corn starch all clumped together into big chunks of hard corn starch rock. So I had sugar raspberry water with rocks of corn starch.
At 12:30 a.m. I was frustrated, covered in baking ingredients, and exhausted from the entire ordeal. My brownie had finally finished and was cooling nicely, so I felt pretty confident that I could bake the second half the next day, in the few hours I had before said boyfriend came over. So I went to bed, went to work, and came home on Valentine's night to a pretty solid brownie and started the process all over again.
I made the brownie mix, and put it in the oven. I made the raspberry filling and spread it on the bottom half. I took a shower.
An hour later, I thought my second, top-half brownie was done.
I took it out and let it cool.
When it looked good, I thought, heck yes, I've succeeded!
I started scooping the second brownie out of the pan and placing it on top of the bottom half.
Then it started oozing. First, slowly. Then, faster. So fast I couldn't stop it from spilling out over the bottom half brownie and onto the plate and onto the counter and dripping onto my kitchen floor!! So I freaked out. I poured the rest out, then screaming with frustration because I had now ruined the good brownie, started scooping the undone brownie back onto itself in the plate. I tried as delicately as I could, to spread the vanilla icing onto the gooey top, then started cutting out the strawberries. The strawberries were ENORMOUS. They took up the entire cake. There was barely any room to write anything. Just as well though, because apparently "icing for writing" is really "icing to make shitty looking cakes even shittier looking."
Nonetheless, it was a nice Valentine's day. Alex did still think it was sweet, despite his hesitance to eat the cake. Plus I learned a few new things. How to be industrious in measurement, my life is still ridiculous despite the normalcy lull, and most importantly: Material gifts sometimes are better than gifts from the heart.
And as Alex's dad later said, "It's not the effort that counts, it's the end result." Hahahahahahaha.
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| With my ever-increasing fascination of everything health + fitness, I've been frequenting my gym more frequently. I went to a shitty yoga class on Friday (I knew it was all downhill after I almost fell asleep during his speech about opening up your soul and following that with foot-slapping for circulation), I decided to hop on a stationary bike, to see what it's like to bike without the threat of being run over. So I'm cycling away, and I realize after like 8 minutes, that I've already done 3 miles. Now, this is shocking because, outdoors on a real bike, it takes me about 15 minutes to ride 3 miles. By 16 minutes, I'm already at 6 miles, and I am sweating like a fish. So I realized, that you can actually get twice the workout done in half the time if you do it indoors, at a gym. Therefore, you are actually SAVING time by working out! It's like how you MAKE money by shopping at a really good sale.
After I did 10 miles, I still had a good 20 minutes left of usual workout time, so I discovered that I can do 10 push-ups. Very strenuously. Also, I discovered I shouldn't wear tank tops because dudes stare at your chest/stomach a lot. Tomorrow, I have a "physical self-assessment," during which I'm sure someone will make me do push-ups of some sort and/or crunches. Maybe even a pull-up if I'm lucky. And by lucky, I mean I hate my life.
In other news...I've also rediscovered that Hermosa Beach is a ridiculous place for anybody to visit. The infamous (or really, just famous) "CB incident" occurred here last year, and while nothing of that caliber happened to happen this time around, there's still a whole 9 months left in the year. And a few CB visits to LA, for that matter. Derya and I met up w/ Darcy (yes, Taboo Darcy) and a bunch of her dude friends...and since I made it clear early on that I had a boyfriend, I got to watch Derya get hit on by 90% of the men in the bar. But it didn't stop one fellow from pulling me aside and asking, "Were you just upstairs?"
My response: "Um, no." (Pull my arm away from his grasp)
Him: "Yes you were. I just saw you there."
Me: "That's creepy."
To his credit, I was just upstairs. I'm sorry I lied, creepy man. I then pointed Derya out and said that she likes to dance. 
She's actually biting my face. Also, Darcy is the same as ever. Hahaha. "TO HELL!!!"
On Saturday, I had some delicious, bloody duck for lunch. We went to the best basketball game ever to be played in my lifetime, USC vs. UO. I had about 17 heart attacks, lost my voice, and ate probably 13 pounds of popcorn. The Galen center is really nice; maybe I'm just comparing it to the old sports arena, but either way you should check it out if you can.
Another weekend reaffirming that my life is still like college, but without the classes/exams/stress. No need to grow up!
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| I've decided that my dedication to a low-paying, no-benefits job has actually paid off. Last weekend, I took a press trip to Mammoth Mountain, all expenses paid, with my boyfriend. Because of the fact I knew the trip was all expenses paid, I assumed they would put us up in a little motel room with one twin bed and a quarter machine attached to it for a shake-massage.
Instead, I became aware of why the term "press trip whore" exists. They put us up in a million-dollar condo, with two whole bedrooms (one of them housing a gigantic king-sized bed), a full kitchen, a fireplace, a patio that looks out over the pool and jacuzzi, and heated bathroom floors. They also planned an itinerary including skiing, snowboarding (with free lift tickets, lessons and rentals), snowmobiling, cross-country skiing, 5-course dinners, a Snowcat ride, and most importantly of all, copious, copious amounts of wine (seriously, free alcohol?!). It was the trip of a lifetime, and absolutely the most ridiculous pampering I've ever received. I ate like a spoiled child. We get to a lodge and they serve us champage in front of a fireplace. We board this Snowcat machine that takes you straight up a mountain to a restaurant. We go inside and they serve us more champage. We sit down, and they serve us some wine, along with fancy people appetizer food, fois gras. It's duck and goose liver pate! I don't think I've ever even had pate before. Then they serve the next course (scallops and lobster), with more wine. Then the next one (duck with chocolate), with more red wine. Then the next one (practically bleeding it's so raw and delicious veal), with more red wine. Then the dessert course (I don't even remember anymore), with port. Aaaaahhh! It's very difficult to keep up...yet so enjoyable. I wanted to sustain my professionalism...but really, I think everyone just threw it to the wall. You're at 11,000 feet and drunk off fancy wine and high off fancy food. It can't be helped. Obviously, my favorite part about the trip was the food...but here are some pictures.
The drive to Mammoth from LA is very strange. You drive through, literally through, tiny towns. Like this one, which housed a goat/sheep farm right off the freeway.
The 395, Inyo County. IN YO COUNTY!!! That doesn't get old.
Goal: To live like this every day.
Alex, looking scared before snowboarding.
Alex and I with our snowboard instructor "John" a "fire-juggler" in his "spare time." For some reason we're looking extremely happy after a haphazard bout with snowboarding. Alex ended up with a partially broken elbow, and I ended up with bruised knees, looking inappropriately suspect for the rest of the trip.
I've never been more excited to travel at 55 mph.
Because you're on a fucking snowmobile!!
So, to sum up, look forward to an upcoming article about getting drunk at altitude, eating totally abnormal amounts of seafood and steak, speeding through terrain way faster than you really should, and maybe one or two sentences about cross-country skiing (really hard, especially when all you've had to drink is wine). BEST WEEKEND EVER!!! As Ferris would say, If you have the means, I highly recommend you go to Mammoth. And with a 66-year-old man who insists upon sitting between you and your boyfriend at dinner, a lesbian couple talking about "lipstick ring contests," and various other characters/journalists whom you could easily write entire books about.
Travel writing is clearly the right profession for me.
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