Date Night - A Blog by Mari: Road Closed for 6 months

I’m on a mission.

Six months of celibacy. Clear all the crap out of my head from my previous relationship and get some perspective.

Luckily, a guy I dated last year called me a few weeks ago after 1 year of radio silence. We have a mutual non-interest in each other, therefore it’s the perfect situation to achieve my mission of celibacy. I call him Ventura Dude (VD for short).

This week Ventura Dude invited me to his parents’ place in the Ventura Keys to SUP board.

After I reached his parents’ street, I put my phone aside and began searching house numbers. When I arrived at 3864, I parked on the street and did as Ventura dude said:

“Go into the gate and it will be open. Just come around the side of the house, you’ll find us in the back.”

I walked to the gate, reached over and opened the latch.

“Hello?” I called, stepping across the threshold and closing the gate.

Two little yap yap dogs ran around the corner of the house from the backyard and began barking furiously at me. I tried not to show my fright (and also slight irritation)–damn that Ventura Dude, he said nothing about ankle biters.

I looked around the side of the house for a path out back, but there were kayaks blocking the walkway. I went to the front door, dogs nipping and barking, and I pressed the doorbell.

“Hello…?” I called, my voice beginning to crack as I sensed that the little butt holes at my feet were ready to break some skin.

The doorbell rang. I couldn’t see inside because the front door was solid and the windows were curtained. Venura Dude’s ‘rents were a bunch of recluses, I guess.

I tried knocking with a heavy fist and then waited, smiling at the peephole.

When no one answered, I dropped the smile and tried to be nice to the cute four-legged furballs who wouldn’t shut the fuck up.

I went back out the gate, then around to the other side of the house where I found another gate.

Maybe he meant this one?

I pushed the gate open about half a foot before it slammed into an old lawn mower. Beyond the lawn mower I was able to spy some shrubs and an overgrown path that was impossible to walk through.

“What the hell?” I asked myself, wondering what kind of freak Ventura Dude was, and who the hell his parents were to think a person could come through either of these passages.

I latched the gate again, looking down at my toes to make sure they didn’t catch at the bottom of the fence. When I looked down, I saw that the cement was marked with tiny hand prints and several names.

As I read the names, I noticed that Ventura Dude’s name was not among the little imprints. Then, I read: The &&&& Family. Wait a second… Ventura Dude’s last name wasn’t &&&&.

My phone rang. It was VD himself.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“I’m at 3864,” I replied. “Thanks for warning me about the GD dogs.”

“Okay,” He said, “Now come down a few more houses to 5864.”

My bad.

When I arrived at his parents house, a much nicer two-story Spanish style home with a manicured walkway and full access to the back deck, VD introduced me to his mother and her friends.

After a short talk with the ladies, VD and I walked down the ramp to the dock where our boards were waiting.

He helped me aboard my board, and after we knocked those puppies into gear, we started talking. Well, I mostly listened to him talk about his current (lack of) relationship status, and I tried to give him advice when dealin’ with… the ladies…

I was amazed that, after only a few minutes, I was no longer shaking and struggling. I was paddling like a pro, like those old guys you see in summer when the sea is as calm as land. Someday, I want to be one of those old guys–minus the hairy droopers, of course– with no purpose, but to find some sort of inner peace and relaxation on my board.

It’s amazing how quickly we adapt to adversity isn’t it? Yes, that had double meaning.

Six months of celibacy? Pfft. I can do this.

Peace of cock.

Cake, I mean!

Published by permission. Visit Mari's blog at http://www.mari-go-round.com/

Date Night - A Blog by Mari: The Soapbox Yogi

Yesterday, I ran 5 miles.

I started at my apartment on Poli and ran toward Seward. Music against my ear drums, blood throbbing through my veins, and junk–good and bad–going through my head. I stomped those sidewalks, nodding to other pavement smashers who breezed by. I passed Ventura High School and then the County Medical Center, I made an S through the Ventura College Campus, and I skidded to a stop when I arrived at Bryn Mawr.

This is where my friend Ventura Dude lives. The run was nuts, and I felt exhausted like fresh-squeezed turds, so I text and asked if he could drive me home. He said he would.

Ventura Dude is a bad ass. Too bad I’m recently broken.

Up.

We dated briefly last year, and when there was no mutual love connection we stopped talking. No hard feelings. Then, out of the Hueneme grey, he called me. It’s like what Reggie said: somehow, they know.

When I arrived at his doorstep, he said, “You look like shit.”

I thanked him.

He grabbed his keys. Being in his Benz again sparked memories of an earring I lost during our brief dating stint. It looked bohemian, made of gold, with golden webbing across the center.

He opened his center console, and replied, “If it’s here, it’s probably stuck to used condoms.”

I had poker face.

He frowned, and said, “Jees, I thought that would at least get a response.”

Then I saw a twinkle. It was buried alive, but not stuck to rubbers. As he moved more stuff, I recognized the netting. It looked tarnished, but there it was!

I screeched, pushed past his hands like Charlie Sheen pushing through porn stars for the Vodka bottle, and pulled my earring to safety.

I held it to my cheek and sang Reunited by Peaches and Herb, then I gave it air-kisses. Little miracles.

And my run, well, that was a little miracle, too. Last year, while dancing at an 80s club in Hollywood, I did a stage dive in heels; when I landed, I heard a *crunch* in my right knee cap. The doctor said there was no permanent tear or break, but like anything badly hurt, it would take time to heal.

I used to run 15k’s, and this is the farthest and least painful run I’ve had since the injury.

Hear that?

There’s always hope for healing, it just takes time.

You would think I was hinting about the healing over my recent break-up, but this is where the story takes a Palm Street dip.

You see, last week I screwed up big time; and at the same time, someone screwed up on me me pretty bad.

My dad has a bad joke for every occasion. And this joke just fits right now:

“Did you hear about Sam and Kathy Wong and their new white baby?”

“No, Dad.”

“Yeah, everyone is saying two Wongs can’t make a White.”

I can’t tell you what my screwing up was, but I definitely caused pain to another being.

Badly.

And though I forgive others when they wrong me, I never expect to let others down, especially in such a way that is mean without question, or hurtful, or causes heart break.

The fault I feel for opening this Pandora’s box is the most regret-filled feeling in this world. And regret is like an envelope that smothers you, and you can’t breath for a while, and you feel like the world’s biggest butthole. I advise my friends to live without regret, because you own your actions and you should always act knowingly and purposefully. Advice that I was forced to swallow that on the night I totally F’d up.

So enveloping was this feeling, that I couldn’t see through the haze of my own screw up to remember how badly I was fucked over.

But I realized today, after Yoga, after I breathed an Om with the rest of the class and felt their energy radiate through me, and I was filled with this euphoric calm, that forgiveness isn’t just about pardoning the other person, it is about pardoning yourself, too. If you can’t even forgive the person you love most–you–you can’t possibly begin to forgive another.

Why is it important to forgive another person who hurts us?

I realized, during my drive home from Yoga, as my little Honda was hugging the curves of PCH and I was seeing the stretch of the Pacific–this open space that has seen and holds so many secrets, that exists and will exist much longer than my time on this earth–that anger, grudges, and that cruel handshaking is worthless.

You are not a robot.

If you can get to this point of universal forgiveness, and you can see Love and feel it from the inside and then 360 degrees around you, then you are a supreme being because you are an all loving being.

But lets be smart about it, too, and remember: forgiving and forgetting are two completely different ideas.

And maybe all this sounds corny to you because you came to Date Night to laugh, but instead you got a message from my spirit to yours. Well so be it. Stephen King does it all the time, after all. And, honestly, one of my favorite Stephen King quotes applies:

“I still believe in the resilience of the human heart and the essential validity of love; I still believe that connections between people can be made and the spirits which inhabit us sometimes touch. I still believe the cost of those connections is horribly, outrageously high, and I still believe the value far outweighs the price which must be paid. They are old fashioned concerns and beliefs, but I would be a liar if did not admit that I still own them… and that they still own me.”

A couple of nights ago while out on a monogamous date with Ventura Dude, and before my epiphany, I said, “I’m an asshole.”

Ventura Dude strained his fingers out in front of him, and he said, “Are you an asshole or a Bitch? Because you called yourself a Bitch 5 minutes ago, and you can’t be both.”

“I’m an asshole,” I said, shaking my head.

“Good. You’re an asshole. Now shut up so we can find a place to eat.”

Ah, Love that is rough is the best love to have.

I’m not really too much of an asshole, but I’m also not a robot.

Published by permission. Visit Mari's blog at http://www.mari-go-round.com/

Hop Head Said - A Blog by Curtis: Ladyface Ale Companie: Picture City Porter

Ladyface Ale Companie, located in Agoura Hills, is a Belgian-centric restaurant that features a wide range of their own handcrafted beers. At the time of this post Ladyface Ale Companie had no less than eleven of their beers on tap. Click here to see their current tap selection, which includes several guest taps.

Picture City Porter comes in two different versions: regular and bourbon-fied. It is my understanding that this is a limited edition (available in small quantities and/or for special occasions) beer so be sure to ask if the bourbon barrel version is available if you want to experience the beer in this review.

When you order a beer that comes from a bourbon barrel it is hard not to have any preconceived notions about the aromas and tastes you will encounter. Try to put any of those notions aside and dig a little deeper, you won’t be disappointed. Picture City Porter is a treat and a challenge to taste; and with a little digging you will discover a wonderful, complex beer.

Served in a pint glass, the traditional drinking vessel, Picture City Porter poured an opaque brown with a diminishing off-white head. I think it would have had better head retention if served in a less traditional tulip shaped glass. However, what it lacked in head retention it made up for in the wonderful lacing pattern it left on the inside of the glass.

Generally I don’t care for pint glasses as they tend to let the aromas dissipate too quickly (as well as the head) which can eliminate a layer of complexity that could be enjoyed throughout the session. However, this beer held its own against the mighty mouth of the pint glass. The bourbon aroma is a thick and unmistakable layer that floats on the beer’s surface and will greet your nose just a tick before each drink. While it does dissipate a bit, the bourbon aroma hangs around for the whole session. I love the bourbon aroma but the real pleasure in this beer is finding its hidden layers. If you “squint” just a bit you will discover an all but hidden layer of subtle earthy notes wafting just behind the bourbon. For me it was reminiscent of freshly turned soil with a mix of herbs sprinkled about.

My first thought as I tasted the beer was “Where is the bourbon?” The bourbon aroma was so powerful that I was certain that each drink would be overrun with bourbon flavor. Instead, roasty malts dominated the palate with a subtle burnt toast flavor that was mixed with a chocolaty sweetness. The dark malts and hops provide a moderate bitterness that keeps the sweetness in check.

As the tasting progressed I started to discover two more hidden layers. The earthy notes showed up again but this time in the flavor. My guess is that these earthy notes are a result of the beer being aged in oak barrels. Then from under the earthy notes a new layer emerged, almost as an afterthought. Spice. This layer can be easily missed if you aren’t paying attention because you won’t experience it until you exhale. After you swallow take a moment (your frites won’t cool down that much) and enjoy this final stage of tasting a beer that is so often overlooked. Exhale. Feel the spicy esters float to the roof of your mouth and then up and out of your sinuses. Was this spice caused by the hops or the oak or was it a magical combination of the two? I’m not sure but I AM glad it was there.

The beauty of this beer is in its layers. Its tough guy persona (the bourbon aroma) is just a façade that is protecting its more delicate almost hidden layers. Picture City Porter rewards those who stick around to get to know it. Do yourself a favor, pull up a chair and introduce yourself to this beer.

Published by permission. Visit Curtis' blog at http://hopheadsaid.wordpress.com/

Hop Head Said - A Blog by Curtis: Summit Brewing Co - IPA

If your travels take you to the Minnesota or the any of the Mid-West states be sure to try this beer. Its mild hop aroma, balancing sweetness and medium body make it an easy drinking beer. This IPA is a wonderful combination of the English and American styles.

Published by permission. Visit Curtis' blog at http://hopheadsaid.wordpress.com/

Hop Head Said - A Blog by Curtis: Mid-week Beer Goggles review

It probably comes as no surprise to you that my favorite beer style is the IMPERIAL IPA. I love beers with huge hop aromas and flavors and this beer has that in spades! Hopsickle lives up to it’s name and is one of my favorite examples of this style. However, this beer is a “pallet wrecker” (but in a good hophead way) and if you are planning on including this beer in a tasting lineup be sure to save it ’til the end.

Published by permission. Visit Curtis' blog at http://hopheadsaid.wordpress.com/

Date Night - A Blog by Mari: Happy VD

When I was a kid, I was on a skating team called The Anchorettes. We were sponsored by the US Navy, we wore little sailor costumes, and performed ridiculously easy routines to the beats of Whitney Houston, The Beatles, and The Carpenters

How odd for young girls to skate to the songs of romance?

Maybe not too odd if you had background on the team manager, a 50 year old man named Bill. Don’t puke up your Valentine’s day chocolates, but Bill was molesting half of the girls on the team. As the testimonies alleged, Bill would make the girls stand around him in a circle while he jerked off, holding a gun in his other hand, telling them, “If you tell your parents about this, I’ll kill them.”

Apparently, on an occasion Bill decided to play “ring around the rosy cock,” there was a new girl on the team, and she must have thought: “You can suck it, old man.”

She told her parents about the circle jerk, and the Anchorettes–as we knew them–became a part of Long Beach Naval Base history.

Anyway, the point of that not-heart-warming-at-all story is that I learned to do a little bit of skating on 8 wheels. Granted, it’s been about 2 decades since I’ve stepped foot into any kind of classic skate, so when Kristy and I went to the Skating Rink (off Victoria in Ventura) and I slid my toes into those many-times-borrowed rentals, I felt like a Virgin.

I laced up and came to stand slowly, as though I were on land mines. I started off like a sputtering car, and with flailing arms, made my way to the rink with Kristy close behind.

I touched my wheels to the edge and looked down at the shimmering lights, like stars, beneath me. Up above, turned a disco ball, surrounded by multi-colored, opaque bulbs, pulsating to the rhythm of each song. Kristy and I held hands like Thelma and Louise approaching the cliff, and took the plunge.

Kristy clung to the wall for dear life as we tried to find a momentum.

A child skated in front of me, and my hips jerked. Hula hoop without the hula hoop. Nervous beads of sweat formed on my upper lip.

“Do a few tricks,” Kristy said, knowing my history.

I glanced at her.

What an asshole.

After the first two or three laps, I was a little more comfy. Here I was: single on Valentine’s day. But why did everyone else look single? There was a birthday party, so plenty of kids, a couple couples, and more singles than what is tucked into a stripper’s panties.

Where were the especially young, under-aged couples? It seemed when I was a chubby little turd back in 1985, there were a lot more kids at rinks. What did they do on Valentines day, 2011?

At about 8:30, the birthday party ditched the rink. Then there were about 15 adults left to rock out.

I became more daring–I started doing quick spins. Coming up on my stoppers like Michael Jackson in Billie Jean. I went heel-to-heel and skated circles around Kristy. Suddenly, it was LBC circa 1986 and I was an Anchorette again!

I rocked!

Too Close by NEXT started bleeding out the speakers, and I felt the music vibrate through to my inner soul sister. There was a couple at the rink that night, an older black couple that stole the eyes of everyone. They were that couple you could tell had clocked some time together. They held hands, and their movements were in near-perfect sync. It was lovely, like two swans on a pond, and it caused me to long. For something Meaningful. Whether short term or long term.

That old couple made me happy.

Too Close moved me. I had the white-man’s overbite, I twisted my head from side to side–right, left, right, left– I pushed those skates to their limit.

I danced.

Recently heart broken? Fuck it. I was Jennifer Warnes and Bill Medley. I was having the Time of My Life.

No screwing around: Baby refused to be in this corner.

I threw one leg back and grabbed the ankle; I grabbed the back of my neck with my other hand. I was dancing. I was a festival… I was a parade.

Well, a Gay Parade because my skating went queer. I almost had a firm grip on that skate, but it slipped from my fingers, then my balance gave. I made a valiant attempt to stay upright, but the crash went through my right ass cheek; the impact sent a shock wave of pain up my ass, spine, and it ended in my brains.

One of the other singles, a girl, rolled to stop next to me. “Are you hurt? Are you okay?”

I nodded and smiled. It seemed to sting all over: ass, head, and ego. Not to mention, well, you know, the old heart was already aching for peace.

When I was on my feet again, I rolled toward Kristy and dragged the stopper till I hit the rink wall. She was sitting at a diner table, sipping a slushy.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Yeah, guess I should wait before I attempt some shits like that again.”

It’s like everything, I suppose. Get the fuck up, dust off your bottom, and keep on keepin’ on.

I like that I was able to feel like a little girl again, minus the child-molesting team manager. Oh, and in case you were wondering: Bill was charged in California, then extradited back to Kansas where he was charged with more crimes. He was sentenced to 20 years back in 1987.

As for broken hearts, I think of all the months to be screwed up from a break-up, November through February are the worst. The rain, the snow, the couples snuggling, the hearts in every window with the words “LOVE” staring you down. Another thing, and this is going to sound trite so excuse this moment, but it is pure truth: there is nothing in the world like the True Love of amazing friends, especially when it forms a shield, like a protective firmament, around you to pull you along and protect you from any more pain… and gets you through heartbreaks of any sort.

Published by permission. Visit Mari's blog at http://www.mari-go-round.com/

Food in Life - A Blog by Jen: Waiting with Bated Breath

Valentine’s Dinner Off the Hook

Okay, I figured I’d better wait a few days so no one feels guilty or under the gun to try and compete with this on short notice… (BTW this is Jen's Mom writing this one) :)

For the last several years our husbands make up for any shenanigans they may have foisted upon us by planning some sort of Valentine surprise for us. We look forward to it with eager anticipation as it’s the one time of the year we’re totally pampered and waited on hand and foot by our men. The content of the event is a total mystery until the last minute.

It started with one of the guys making dinner for his sweetie and expanded to three couples. We’ve been wined and dined in the finest style, whisked away to the Awahnee Hotel in Yosemite, spa’ed at Ojai Valley Inn. One year they “stole” our cars while working out and had a limo waiting to drive us back home (a 10 minute limo ride) to a gourmet meal they’d prepared. And let’s not forget the Cajun Extravaganza that had enough delectable’s to feed a small zip code. We actually had to have a “day after” party to eat it all.

I should note that while we do love to travel and do the out of town thing, what really gets us giddy is for them to cook us a nice dinner. Did I mention that they won’t let us in the kitchen, they wait on us AND clean up the kitchen? I know I’m a lucky lady and I’ll re-up his contract based on this one special day a year.

This year we were told the day before to be out of our respective homes by 1:30 PM. Hmmm, 3 houses? Perhaps a progressive dinner? I’m the nosiest of the girls so I drive everyone nuts trying to figure it our each year. One day I’ll grow up. Maybe.

They instructed us to go have a drink someplace. As we didn’t want to be “on our lips” by dinner time we chose to do what any red blooded American woman would do. We shopped. At 4 PM we were summoned while resting our feet in the Macy’s shoe department. We were to proceed to Mary Jane’s home where the guys had been slaving away all day.

Oh yes… A five course feast with matched wines awaited. They made it all themselves (nary a Bristol Farm or TJ product on the table) outsourcing only the Crème Brule from Jen (Yes, the one who usually posts in this blog.) We’re still collectively sighing.

Valentine’s Dinner February 13, 2011

1st Course
Assorted Cheese and Fruit Platter Kiwis, apples, pears, blackberries, yellow and red raspberries Brie, smoked gouda, gorgonzola and crackers Wente Chardonnay

2nd Course
Seared Sea Scallops w/ lemon mustard crust Beringer Chardonnay 3rd Course
Marinated Shrimp and Avocado Salad Recipe Can be found at: Marinated Shrimp and Avocado Salad It’s a keeper! Kim Crawford Sauvignon Blanc

4th Course Grilled Salmon with Lobster Hollandaise, Roasted Baby Potatoes, Asparagus
Paraiso Pinot Noir 2008
Napa Cellars Zinfandel 2008

5th Course

The Best Crème Brule in the World (You’ll have to ask Jen for the recipe)

Tobin James Zinfandel 2008

Wow, huh?!!??! And there’s only 361 days until the next one.

Printed by permission. Visit Jen's blog @ http://foodinlife.blogspot.com/