Natasha's Complimentary Blog...You're So Pretty!

Natasha Hates the Rain

noreply@blogger.com (Natachacha) — Fri, 15 Jul 2011 23:16:00 +0000

It's official! I have a book coming out! Jeremy and I have joined forces and have made, what I hope to be, a super amazing and fun book that kids will love and parents can laugh at. With. There will be laughing, either "with" or "at." We will be selling at Comic Con next week, (holy oh my goodness, I can't believe it's actually that close!) Then after the convention, it will be sold via Etsy. So yeah, I'm totally gonna be one of those people. And I can't wait! The futures so bright, I gotsta wear shades!

Warm Mushroom Spinach Salad with Tempura Shrimp

noreply@blogger.com (Natachacha) — Fri, 16 Jul 2010 19:07:00 +0000

Have you ever made a salad so amazing that you didn't even need dressing? Ok, maybe that's the wrong question. Maybe your will power is superhuman. How about, have you ever made a salad so good that your French Dressing addict of a boyfriend said, "this is so tasty, I don't need dressing." Exactly... Now you see where I am going with this.
So in a quest to eat healthy, I bought a 5 pound bag of spinach. Nothing is healthier than buying spinach. Well, I suppose consuming it is. But 5 pounds?! Really!? I know. So now the goal is: how many things can I make in the shortest amount of time so the pillow of spinach doesn't go bad.

The salad ingredients are:
3 to 4 handfuls of Spinach
1/2 of a small red onion (I got a gargantuan onion and used 1/4 of it)
4 mushrooms
1/2 a jalepeno, seeded
3 green onions
cilantro, to taste (Personally, I could eat a salad exclusively made of cilantro)
garbanzo beans
olives
garlic salt
seasoning salt

The tempura ingredients are:
5 already made Trader Joes Tempura shrimps (I'm like Sandra Lee, ya'll! Minus the cocktail hour)

Heat oven to 400 degrees, toss in shrimp, walk away.

Wash the spinach and the green onion. Set aside. The magic doesn't happen there. Wash and chop up the mushroom, jalepeno, and red onion. Put about 1/2 a teaspoon of olive oil in a pan and set on medium. Once the oil heats up, toss in the red onion. Stir a tad so it looks as though every piece is uniformly coated. (The magic of sauteed onion is that no matter what you end up making, someone will always say, "Damn, something smells GOOD!" Seriously. Every.Single.Time.)

Once the onion is smelling up the place like you know what you're doing, toss in the mushrooms. And a dash of garlic salt. Stir the mixture until the onions start to turn translucent. Now, toss in the jalepeno. No seriously. Just do it. I promise it's not going to be as hot as you think. Keep stirring.

Open oven, flip shrimp over.

From here, the oil seemed to have been absorbed by the mushrooms, so I went to reach for my rosemary infused olive oil (that I made... Suck it Martha!) but instead grabbed the Bertolli. The Bertolli must've sensed my initial rejection, because the cap proceeded to slice my hand as if to say "how dare you worship other olive oils before me!" Bertolli is THAT kind of an olive oil. Anywho, once everything was all simmering in the pan and my bandaid was in place, I tossed in about a handful of the spinach and a quick dash of the seasoning salt. I have no idea why. But sometimes, you just gotta believe. During the time I was contemplating whether or not I made the right move, I chopped up the green onion and put it on top of the fresh spinach.

So once all the spinach in the pan was kinda wilted (which is what happens to cooked spinach, no big woop) I put this on top of the bed of fresh spinach and the chopped green onions. Then I added half a can of garbanzo beans and half a can of black olives. I tasted the salad and swooned, but felt as though it was missing something. So I rummaged through the fridge until I found it: CILANTRO! Toss that sucker up, opened the oven, and placed two of the crispiest pieces of tempura shrimp on the side. The whole meal was so full of flavor that we didn't need soy sauce or French dressing. And dude, salad for a meal... hardcore.

Curried dill turkey burgers

noreply@blogger.com (Natachacha) — Thu, 15 Jul 2010 19:27:00 +0000

In my quest to lose some pounds, I have been moonlighting with turkey. (with Bruce Willis and Cybil Shepard, obvi.) I've made some turkey meatball thing (the sight of white meat balls skivvies me out though) and have kind of been threatening to rock some turkey nachos. But before I get to that point, I decided that turkey burgers were the way to go.
You can't really mess up a burger. Or rather, I've never met a burger I didn't like. But then again, like Joey Tribioni, sandwiches, in any form, are my favorite food. Yeah, I said it.
So I was watching Rachel Ray (don't ask) and she was making open faced turkey burgers with some kind of gravy topping with peas and carrots and stuff on top of an english muffin. Blorf, right? But what she did say that stuck was that turkey dries out quicker than beef and that to maintain moisture inside the patty, it's crucial to incorporate herbs. Herbs are different than spices in that herbs retain their essential oils in their leaves and can be used fresh or dried. Whereas spices essenial oils are located in their pods, seeds, bark, etc and must be dried. In addition, you or I could grow herbs in any pot of soil we found, but spices are almost all cultivated in a land far, far away. (Thank you Alton Brown!)

So here is the recipe that I used/altered/ made my own:
2lbs ground turkey
3 green onions, cut to make lots of little circles (I'm sure there's an exact term. I just don't care enough to look)
6 or so branches of dill, chopped (disclaimer:my boyfriend and I love dill more than anything, so you may want to use sparingly)
Cumin
Turmeric
garlic salt
normal people salt (not rock, or pink or seasoned. Think like the salt of the 80's)

The reason that I didn't put measurements down for the powdery stuff is because I kinda just went with the flow. A friend once said that "cooking is an art, baking is a science." So I probably take more liberties with flavors than I should. Anywho, combine all the ingredients in a bowl and work it with your hands until the meat is uniform in shape. It wont be in color. But think like you're in need to put it all into a sausage. Or don't, whateves. Who am I to judge if you like your patties lumpy?

Ok, now here's the ancient Chinese secret: take a SMALL little nugget of your concoction, make a patty fit for a mouse, and fry that sucker up! Once it's all cooked through, taste it and see what it is missing. I did this about twice, and added more Cumin and more dill, respectively. This really is such a no brainer, I don't know why I didn't think of it before!

Once I was satisfied with the taste, I made a ball of the whole turkey/herb thing and then made a cross through the whole thing. Now I know I have the ability to make 4 equal patties.
I shaped them all up and then tossed them in a pan over medium heat. No oil. They ended up taking about 8 minutes per side. But that doesn't mean I didn't flip them more than once. I am all about rare beef burgers, but turkey is a dirty bird (see what I did there?) and like chicken, you need to cook them all the way through. I waited until the outside had a kind of hard caramelization. Then I cut them in half because I was so neurotic about whether or not they were done, but that's a story for a different time.

Once those little suckers were done, my boyfriend and I dug in. The bread we used was the almond rosemary focaccia. It could have been as though God himself made us dinner because it was SO effing amazing! Legend.......dairy! My BF said that it was so tasty that he didn't even want to put condiments on it. But he did insist on cheese. It's always something.

Almond rosemary focaccia

noreply@blogger.com (Natachacha) — Thu, 15 Jul 2010 02:44:00 +0000

So, in my lack of writing, I have started cooking... a lot. Thus far my specialties are weird casseroles, elaborate versions of tuna, impossible combinations of pasta sauces (lobster ravioli with a curry tomato sauce anyone?) My boyfriends favorite thing I make is over roasted chicken and broccoli. Any way, what I am getting at is, I'm going to start documenting my recipes and their aftermath. Was it yummy? Has it been requested again? And what tweaks would make it better.
Thus far I've made a meatloaf that would knock your socks off. And I have ideas for more. But as of right now, meatloaf is on a back burner. Because I am now in the mood for baking. So here is what is on the menu tonight: Rosemary and almond focaccia bread with a dill curried turkey burger. I know, right? Sounds fancy!

So here is where I am, focaccia wise. I put together all the ingredients, and this time around I am waiting the appropriate amount of time to allow it to rise. Because I didn't last time. I didn't let that bread rest for even one nano second! I was like a bully. (but it was still delicioso) Thus far, I've let it rest twice. And I'm having weird versions of Lucille Ball getting pushed up against the wall! My goodness, they ain't kidding when they say it doubles in size. SCIENCE!

This is the recipe:
2 cups warm water
2 tsp dry yeast
1 tsp sugar
1/2 cup (or olive oil)
5½ cups high-grade flour
1½ tsp salt
10 almonds (finely crushed)
about 3 twigs of rosemary, leaves only (do I really need to be more specific? Don't throw in the wood part)

I mixed the water, yeast and sugar in the bowl for about five minutes. As this was happening, I crushed the almonds and the rosemary with a SlapChop (best invention EVER!) I put the almond/ rosemary portion in the olive oil (it seemed like the right thing to do) into the water yeast sugar concoction. Then I put in the flour and and then got down and dirty with kneading a loaf, know what I mean?
Once I combined all the ingredients together by hand (cause I'm old school like that) and kneaded for about 8 minutes, I left it in a bowl and put plastic wrap over it and left it alone for 20 minutes (I didn't do that before.)
During this time I looked up stupid celebrity gossip.
After 20 minutes, I went to look at my beautiful loaf and it beamed back at me with pride. I floured a cutting board and kneaded it some more until it looks more like what you think it should look like. Like a raw loaf of bread that was smooth and not sticky.
I then shaped the bread and let it rest for another hour and a half. (yeesh! I didn't do this AT ALL the first time) Then I got the urge to write this. So this is where we are now.

Can you tell I didn't really believe the whole "double in size" thing?.

From here I tossed that puppy in the oven (450f) after slathering some olive oil on the top and sprinkled on some more rosemary. It's done when it sounds hollow inside (think Heidi Montage) and it should be golden brown.
Now, I understand that Focaccia actually means "flat bread" but I don't like flat bread. So I didn't weigh it down with any stones or whatever. And instead, what I got was a bread that looked so happy and proud to be alive that I almost didn't want to eat it. Almost. But when I did...it was totally worth making the apartment about 137 degrees.

Me and my friends!

noreply@blogger.com (Natachacha) — Fri, 17 Jul 2009 11:57:00 +0000

This is my best friend. Too bad he's in my tummy now!!! haahhahah!!

And here's me and my girls on my Birthday!

Well, Hello there...

noreply@blogger.com (Natachacha) — Wed, 22 Apr 2009 07:27:00 +0000

Don't call it a comeback, I've been here for years.

I just smelled last summer on the night air and it made me nostalgic for everything i don't want to go through again. Which is a very awkward feeling. I came across two very poetic stanzas (Tony Stanzas) in National Geographic that prompted me to write. I wrote "WRITE" on my hand as a reminder. And now, at midnight on a Tuesday, here i am, writing about a snake and an egg. full circle. Only Connect. I need a vacation. Mostly, to get away from myself.

We EGGcept her...one of us

noreply@blogger.com (Natachacha) — Tue, 27 May 2008 04:26:00 +0000

When I was in middle school, I had a friend named Megan. She was like me: loud, funny, and smart. A lethal combination for parents and teachers alike. The only difference between us was that I was nice and she was mean. What I mean is, whereas Megan would stick her half sisters wet Barbie dolls in the freezer to make them shatter, I would secretly give her sister cheapo Barbie’s because I thought Megan went over the line. And the only reason they were cheap was because I was 14 and had to save up my lunch money to get them. Maybe it was guilt ‘cause I laughed at the shattering, but I thought doing that to a 5 year old was cruel. And yes it gets into her hatred for her step-mom and misplaced anger at the little girl. But that’s not what this is about. This is about the scar on my toe.
Megan’s dad’s kitchen had a linoleum floor. We never thought much of it. In fact, we never even cared about it until Megan dropped an egg. For reasons I can no longer wrap my brain around, Megan, rather than cleaning it up, stepped on the uncooked yolk and white matter. Megan commented on how slippery it was. Megan convinced me to do the same. I vaguely remember how slimy and cold it was. I really remember how slippery it was. Megan and I tried to spread the egg over more of the kitchen floor. We found a new game. When the egg could not satisfy how much we needed to cover the entire kitchen floor, Megan broke another egg. And then another. And then…well, Megan and I emptied out a whole carton. The floor of her kitchen was now essentially an egg skating rink. The smell was making us dry heave, but the fact that we were sliding all over was totally worth it. We started attempting triple sow cows, and double turns and spinning and all these stupid ice skating tricks that neither of us could do. I remember laughing so hard, mixed with this vomit inducing smell that I didn’t know if I should be more worried about horking or peeing. I laughed so hard at one point that I had doubled over. This now changed my center of balance. So I stood up quickly. That again made me unbalanced. At this point, I am now moving my torso up and down as if I’m pushing one of those old school railway cars. When my torso couldn’t handle it anymore, one leg went out. I tried to tell it to come back, and when it did the other jutted out just as fast. I ended up looking like a Russian dancer, with one leg quickly replacing the other. I’m sure if you got a video of it in slow mo, at one point both of my legs would’ve been off the ground. Like that old video about racehorses. And whether or not all their legs were off the ground at the same time. I was able to do this for about 60 seconds. And I honestly thought I would have been able to finally regain my balance. But mixing the laughing, with the dry heaving, with my newly found Russian heritage, I landed on my butt with a resounding thud. Upon my graceful landing, her stove bottom sliced my big toe. It wasn’t a bad slice. Just enough for me to have a scar. Not a ton of blood. Like a paper cut. What hurt the most was making it to her bathroom and trying not to leave a trail of pee there. Megan on the other hand, couldn’t make it that far. Plus, what I saw in my head, she saw in real life. Megan peed. I had made Megan pee in her pants. She walked to the bathroom defeated. After many many minutes in the bathroom, she finally came out, and couldn’t look me in the eye. Clean up might have been the worst thing I could ever imagine. We mixed lemon scented dishwashing soap with this raw egg yuck and now Megan’s pee. I think we told her parents we were trying to make a soufflé we learned about in cooking class. And even if they didn’t buy it, there is no way that they would have ever figured out the truth. I sometimes wonder if she ever told them. But more than that, I sometimes want to go egg skating again.

Oh finger, where art thou?

noreply@blogger.com (Natachacha) — Fri, 16 May 2008 03:36:00 +0000

Sometimes I do things that, when I look back, are quite possibly the dumbest things in the history of mankind. Take for example when I fought with a police officer about how not only did I NOT deserve a ticket, but that if he ignorantly insisted upon issuing one, I would fight tooth and nail that he receive five. (I didn’t get the ticket, and yes he walked away apologizing and repeating he would pay more attention, but Jesus! What the hell was I thinking?) And then there was the time that time in high school….or all the times in high school is more like it. High school is a story unto itself. It was too ridiculous to just be a blurb. But, I do believe that me cutting off the tip of my finger may be just about the dumbest thing ever.
Back story…I had 10 wonderfully rounded, super cute, super slender phalanges. Each one more perfect than the last. And all of them were mine. This, I suppose, is the story of how one went away. Or awry. Never to be seen again. GONE. AWOL. POW. (The tip of the finger I lost was apparently in charge of getting to the story without the uber long lead in, I’m sure it will be greatly missed.)
Ok, so Monday morning, I’m at work. I got there early. There was less traffic than normal. I made the most delicious coffee. I bought frozen waffles!!! The stars were aligned that it was going to be a great day.
I skip into work and basically share a diddy with all the nearby woodland creatures. It was going to be amazing.
I end up opening a box that wasn’t addressed to me, but you know what? I am helpful. I am there early. I have nothing to worry about. It was going to be a momentous day.
(Here is what I didn’t know. Some gnomes or trolls, I think trolls, changed my normal scissors with, what can only be described as, razor sharp ninja blades.)
So I’m opening this box on what is now referred to as the day that was supposed to be the greatest ever when… (Insert knife cutting into a tomato sound) my fingertip went missing. The pain wasn’t instant. In fact, it hurt a trifle bit less than a paper cut. I didn’t realize what happened until I went to the restroom to get a Band-Aid. That’s when I saw it. Or more appropriately, I didn’t see it. The blood was secondary at this point. And the fact that that amount of blood was secondary flipped me out. So I ran out of the restroom and sat at one of my friends’ desks. I said, “ Hey, I’m just gonna chill here for a bit. Just keep doing what you’re doing. You don’t even need to talk to me. Just look at me periodically to see if I’m cool.” Well, obviously my chill method (think Spicoli from Fast Times at Ridgemont High) fell on deaf ears, because she immediately started fanning me. Then someone else came by and gave me a cookie. And then it became, “what the hell happened to Natasha” day.
I went through seven Band-Aids. And by went, I mean I bled through them. And by bled though I mean completely saturated them. I layered about 3 of them at a time. And the brilliance of this whole thing was that I didn’t show anyone. So only I knew why my caged finger was singing. I didn’t think it was that bad, but when 5 hours passed and I was STILL bleeding like it was going out of style, the editor of Ms. asked to see it.
I thought she was going to hork.
I immediately got ushered out of the office and into my car with a ton of cotton gauze thingies and was basically reprimanded for not going to the E.R. earlier.
The E.R. was a joke. I was there for 3 hours and left with a Band-Aid and a tetanus shot. And I was STILL bleeding the next day. But, I did leave work early. And my parents DID meet me in the E.R. And we DID all go to dinner that night. And I DID get a ton of sympathy the next day. But man, I miss my finger. (And I think I damaged the nerve. Of all the nerve! ) (See, I decided to do a tap dancing routine and when I did the windmill thing with my arms, I got a weird sensation at the tip. But I guess that will be another post. By the way, this post was typed with only 9 fingers.) (Sad face)

(this made me laugh out loud)

I'm a jerk, I need to write more. I know it.

noreply@blogger.com (Natachacha) — Thu, 24 Apr 2008 06:46:00 +0000

Things I have come to know

The romance is over when he burps. Done, fineto, zim zam bang.

There was never a romance if I burp. Few have come to know the sounds of my bellowing intestines.

I am usually right. If I am wrong, not only will I not fight you on it, but I will want to know more about it. But ohhh doggy, if I am not backing down, it's because there is no reason for me to since you sir, are about to get schooled. End of story. Whoot Whoot.

Sometimes it is more important for the other person to believe they are right than it is for you to be right. They need the nod more than you do. I do this when friends are down. Sure, it's an apple, not a gorilla. You need this more than I do.

I have grass is always greener syndrome down to a fucking science! I got to leave early from work recently because of a migraine (I wish it was a yourgraine) and in driving home, I saw all these people seemingly happy and on the way to whatever the hell they were doing. And I didn't want a job. And I didn't want responsibilities. I wanted to go to the park. And then I remembered when I was home during the day and would have anxiety attacks all the time because what the hell was I doing with my life!? Why didn't I have a normal thing to do during the day? And now that I have it...I want to not care again. Grass is always greener.

Seeing kids doesn't make me want kids, it makes me wanna be a kid. Sorry mom.

I miss not living with my family. Yeah, my roommate is great bla bla bla, but I miss my family. I miss seeing my mom and talking to my dad and I've gone through a lot in these last 6 months. More than I ever thought I would need to go through. And sometimes, most of the time, I wish I was with my parents. Watching Persepolis did the opposite to help that.

I had an ex recently refer to me as an Ice Queen. Little did he know it was 99.8% his doing. I laughed it off and thought "he's scared cause I'm not giving in." Then I realized...ugh, and thanks a lot mom...I'm not giving in 'cause I'm scared. Self realization sucks! Sucio!

I'm hoping Cochella this weekend will help clear my head of all my stupid thoughts and feelings. Thoughts and feelings are lame. I would much rather be a robot. Kanye didn't help...Kanye, try as he might, is no Daft Punk. I was left with a feeling of, hmmm, there needed to be more Lawry's. Salty haters. Word.

Happy Birthday Day Dad!!!

I haven't felt it all in a while: next time I'll stretch

noreply@blogger.com (Natachacha) — Tue, 04 Mar 2008 17:54:00 +0000

Going to kid space with the nephews has made me walk like a goblin today. all hunched over and walking slow. I climbed an 80 foot "wisteria leaf" climbing thing and feel every muscle I have neglected for the past couple of years. at the time, I had a charlie horse in my leg that made me feel as though I was dragging a fallen comrade to safety. and at one point I totally got stuck and didn't know how to move. my Nephew Jackson kept yelling "come on Tasha, come on Tasha," so much that I had to yell back, "Jackson, I have a good foot of limbs more than you, I need to figure out what to do and where to put them." he didn't get it, but at least it made me feel better. I also have a bruise on my hand and a slight twitch under my eye from where Rory smacked me as he was falling down. I had to catch the kid. I just didn't realize it would be with my eye socket. ah, the nephews always leave me feeling something. this time, it's pain.

p.s. grammar and punctuation and capitalization don't matter when you hurt this bad.
And I am going to write more often, cause otherwise I will forget everything...HA, no I wont! I'm like a freaking elephant.

When do I get my first chip?

noreply@blogger.com (Natachacha) — Mon, 28 Jan 2008 15:45:00 +0000

Hello (clear throat) hi (clear throat again) oh my, hello.
Sorry, I’m a bit nervous. I mean, I’ve never admitted it out loud. And though I’m sure my friends and family have all seen the signs, I never out right said what I am.
So how do you start these things again?
Hi, my name is Natasha. And I’m inappropriate.
I guess if I had to pin point a start, it would be second grade. I know, young right? Although looking back, I don’t think I knew what I was doing. I was naïve. In fact, I don’t think that when I started I was inappropriate at all, but if I knew then what I know now, I would have never gone on this downward spiral. But I was 8. Someone should have taken heed. The warning signs were all there. Saying things without thinking. Quieting a room. Making other people feel uncomfortable with what I said. I was textbook. Telling a teacher that” nobody else likes you, but I think you’re okay” should have been the beginning and the end of my dabbling. I guess it was amusing for others.
I think I put the kibosh on it for many years. Or, at least I was so wrapped up in the whole thing, I didn’t realize I was inappropriate. I think that’s scarier. For a period of time, I was actually very P.C. But then something happened and I went right back on the inappropriate bandwagon. It started minor again, with me telling a Hasidic Jew something so vulgar I feel ashamed to repeat it. I distinctly remember the faces of everyone at the table. It seemed funny at the time, but looking back, I now realize I was the only one laughing. Seems to be the story of my inappropriate life.
I didn’t realize I had gone back to full force until about two years ago. When one of my friends died I made a ‘Weekend at Bernie’s’ joke that I didn’t even realize I said until I heard the collection of groans. But that’s usually the way it happens. I black out while saying it and then come to during the aftermath.
I guess my light bulb moment happened last week, when I realized that if I want to live, I need to stop. My boss said something to the effect of “That little dog has a cute little collar. It’s all pink and fluffy on the inside and black on the outside.” To which I replied, “Aren’t we all that way though, really?” I don’t remember saying it! I don’t remember thinking it! I just remember her face. Her poor shocked face. As though I had slapped her. When I realized I had hit bottom, I just turned around and walked away. This is my last straw. This is my Everest. I cannot live my life like this anymore. I WONT live my life like this anymore. I don’t want to be another statistic; I want to come out on the other side! I choose LIFE!!!

Say hello to the girl that I am, you're gonna have to see through my perspective

noreply@blogger.com (Natachacha) — Fri, 18 Jan 2008 22:05:00 +0000

Being that I have to write an actual important thing, this is just a spew post.

Coffee is the only thing I NEED on a daily bases. Probably more than oxygen in some cases. It’s the only constant in my life.

Bluetooth makes people look insane. I know there have been many observations on this, but yesterday I was at work and a woman was inside and speaking on it and I kept responding…to her…but she wasn’t talking to me…she was wearing that stupid headpiece.

Upon further examination at the blue tooth debate, I may have looked more crazy trying to involve myself in a conversation that I obviously wasn’t a part of.

When people say, “Oh, I love that song!!!” and then attempt to sing and get the lyrics wrong, it drives me bonkers. So I start to sing their favorite song louder than them to correct the lyrics and help them follow along to the song they love. I also do this at karaoke to help the singers. I’m very popular.

I don’t worry about the present, I worry about the future. Like five years from now. It gives me anxiety attacks. I get anxiety attacks about my future mortgage payments and what school to get my, as of yet, unscheduled and un-had children in. Knowing that this is stupid and irrational doesn’t help anything. Please pass the paper bag.

I check my email and what not periodically throughout the day. If someone JUST sent an email as I’m going through my checking in phase, I debate if I should respond so I don’t look too finicky or eager.

When I was in middle school, I was voted class clown. (Didn’t see that one coming, huh?) My mother was so disappointed that she went to my school to attempt to change the title to something like, “Funny Girl.” It didn’t fly, so my mom didn’t allow me to be the class clown. And the original male class clown had just gotten expelled for…wait for it…wait for it…peeing in the corner of Foods class with Mrs. Tutt. So both of the OG class clowns had stepped down. They had to do a recount. I think about that a lot. My mom was much happier when in high school I was voted most likely to appear on Saturday Night Live. There was no debate there

I listen to “guilty pleasure” music without an ounce of guilt and with the utmost of pleasure.

I procrastinate and write other things rather than write what I need to read in front of 300 people. Natasha…go write what is important…

I do believe the term is liquid courage...

noreply@blogger.com (Natachacha) — Mon, 14 Jan 2008 09:46:00 +0000

I bruise remarkably easy. And not cute little baby bruises either, I mean those wondrous bruises that contain many different colors AND change colors AND have a physical bump under as well. I’m essentially a peach. So, it’s not noteworthy if I wake up one day and see a bruise that I have no idea where it came from. These sneaky bruises are now part of a daily experience and not striking. Now… I don’t know how normal people who don’t bruise as easily react when they see bruises, but I’m pretty sure it would be like the reaction I had this morning looking in the mirror.
Here’s the tiny back-story: Yesterday my roommate and I went to a pub-crawl F-Cancer beer drinking fest. I had stopped drinking beer recently (for no reason…or at least none that I can remember) and forgot how loud and friendly I was! I also saw someone from high school…that I didn’t recognize and looked like an ass…I need to go to the moon. So, being in this altered state brought my roommate and I to a party for one of our friends. At the party there was a girl that I knew, but had not spoken to in a while. This is where things start getting a little hazy and I am piecing the actual story with pictures that were taken at the time. At some point during the party, I decided that I needed bangs and that I needed them that night. And the girl that I was speaking to was a hair gal so by placing one and one together, I figured out three and ran with it. We documented the whole thing on her digital camera. I went into the restroom looking like me and came out looking like a hipster 16 year old. The girl that did it kept reiterating how awesome I am (like I didn’t know that!) and my roommate couldn’t get over the fact that this is what happens at parties I go to. I’m just glad there was no tattoo or piercing place near by. Lord knows what I would have done.
Flash forward to this morning: wake up, go to the restroom, wash face, FINALLY look in mirror and do a double take. I actually looked behind me, as though I had forgotten how mirrors worked. Thank God it’s cute and grows back. And at least I have a story. And this is my new favorite video of all time. Until next week, probably. I can only imagine how my hair will look then.

Adele - Chasing Pavements
Uploaded by slzaza

NAH-TAH-SHAH!

noreply@blogger.com (Natachacha) — Mon, 31 Dec 2007 02:07:00 +0000

When I was 15 years old, I broke up with a guy who can only be remembered fondly if I twist my memories around and think of him as an experience that I learned from…and what I would never do again. For whatever reason, he called me Natash. And looking back, it’s probably because he was too dumb to realize there was an extra “A.” After we broke up, I hated anyone shortening my name at all. It was a reminder of this moron that I dated. Well, lo and behold one fall morning at my high school. I was a sophomore and ready to learn (or ditch…maybe learn a new way to ditch? Yeah, that’s what I was learning!) and he, after a whole summer of us not speaking or seeing each other, insisted on talking to me. When he approached me, I felt like I was cornered. And we did that silly dance that you do with people who are walking in opposite directions, and yet constantly walking into the other one’s path. When I finally broke free, I walked down a stairwell…rather rapidly. And he was following me shouting, “Natash, Natash, I want to talk to you! Natash, I need to talk to you! Natash!” This shortening sent me into mega-mad overload and I yelled to him, “My name is Natah-AH you moron! It’s not like you’re so busy you need to drop one syllable!” That sidelined his progression to a halt. Don’t get me wrong, I would encounter such an episode weekly, and would even look forward to what I could yell at him. It became a game in fact. For the next 5 years or so, I insisted no one change my name or shorten it. I became lax about it when I met one of my best friends in 2001. He always called me Tash. When I got my tattoo (and that’s a WHOLE other story) he would yell to me periodically to make sure I was okay. “Tash! Tash!” When he died in 2005, again, I was apprehensive about shortening my name.
This morning’s revelation: for the last 8 months or so, everyone has somehow decided to call me Tashy. I don’t know if all my friends decided to have a meeting and decide on a new name for me or if I now exude the qualities of a Tashy they once knew, or if I exude the qualities of all the Tashy’s before me. What a conundrum. I’m sure a Sara never had to go through this. Their biggest name qualm would be along the lines of, “ No, there is no H. Sara with no H.” I guess we all have our crosses to bear.

if looks could kill I would be an uzi

noreply@blogger.com (Natachacha) — Tue, 25 Dec 2007 04:12:00 +0000

Last night we went to a bar, and I think I am the only person in the world not in the Christmas spirit. In fact, I was raining on everyone else’s hijinks too. But, to preface this, the guy totally deserved it. Ok, so we are sitting there, consuming internal sweaters and this dhu-runk older guy comes up to us. He starts talking to my friend and I just look away. This is what I do. There is no need to impede upon Mr. Drunk guy hitting on said friend. She can handle herself. So then Drunkie McDrunkerson (he was Scottish) insists on introducing himself to me. “What’s your name?” insert drunken hand shoved in my face. “Natasha.” “Mamasha?” “No, N as in Natasha.” “Mamasha?” “Yes fine. That’s my name. My mom had marbles in her mouth when she named me.” Insert me yanking my hand away from the over zealous drunk guy. He got the hint and went back to my friend. When he realized she wasn’t responding he staggered away. Ok, so now insert the guy that just makes me hope for Armageddon next week. And then I’ll go into my theory about him. This guy JUST witnessed the OG drunk guy strike out. Why he sauntered over, I will never know. But he makes his way towards us and goes into this whole “Hey man, what happened there? He had no game, huh?” Ok, at this point I’ve takes all I can takes and I can’t takes no more. “Why are you here?” “Well, I was just wondering why he left.” “Oh, do you mean the creepy drunk guy that had no chance whatsoever?” “Well, you didn’t need to shoot him down like that.” “Well, why don’t you two creepy ass drunk guys go conjure up a game plan over there? And when he starts creeping YOU out, then we can compare notes on how YOU left. Up until that time, you sir, also have no chance. Have a good night.” He walked away. Creepy drunk guys-0, Natasha’s verbal kick to the balls-2
Ok, so that may have been kinda harsh. But here is my theory on him. He is the guy that at 28…30…32…36 even was thinking to himself, “there is no way I’m going to settle down! I’m just going to sleep around and hit on girls at bars. And all my friends that got married are idiots. I get a hot girl every night.” Now, fast forward 20 or so years. He is alone, on a Sunday night at a bar frequented by people in their late twenties or early thirties. He honestly believes that he is amazing and hot and can still score. The sad fact remains that he cannot. All his friends that he made fun of are at home with their families during this holiday season. Possibly with children or grandchildren. This is more than a tragic tale. This is a Goofus and Gallant that is way more pertinent than “remember to not take the last apple.”

I wish, I wish, I wish, I were a fish

noreply@blogger.com (Natachacha) — Sun, 23 Dec 2007 23:48:00 +0000

Things remembered…the night I went to see Sweeny Todd with my friends, I apparently said something in the car that can only be described as “very telling.” Telling what exactly, I don’t know, but telling nonetheless. Let me paint a verbose picture for you. My friend picks me up, I am…how do you say…a sheet or two blowing in the wind, and my stream of conscience just would not shut up. She said she was over some sort of encounter and therefore no longer wanted to be a person. I told her she was preaching to the choir and I’ve been wanting to be a color for a couple of months now. The color thing is harder than it seems. To be just a color and wearing the color SO does not count. After I realized that I could be anything in this little game we made up, I decided I really wanted to be a fish. Now, here is where the telling part comes in. In my state of no judgment and speaking more to myself than to her, I realized I wanted to be an ugly fish so no one would want to keep me in their house. I also came to the fishy conclusion that I wanted to taste horrible so no one would want to eat me. I want to be an unappetizing ugly water creature. I don’t want to be studied, so the cool fish at the bottom of the sea that light up are out. A blowfish would be fun, except that everyone would want to scare me just so I will puff out. Jerks. Halibut would be awesome because they have two eyes on one side of their head and are constantly camouflaged on the oceans bottom. But…halibut are delicious, and therefore a no go. Sharks are scary and make a fine Chinese soup with their fins. So I’ve heard. I wont eat something that could potentially smell their brother off of me during the summer. Revenge is a fish best served cold. Whale, no. Jellyfish…no. (I also don’t want to be in a Sea World type place. And no to aquariums, too) People catch seahorses just to dry them out and pin them somewhere. Huge no. I need to really think about the kind of fish I wanna be. Ugly and unappetizing and no one will want to study. Just left alone to swim all over and do what I want…this has to be textbook psychology, right?

life goes on

noreply@blogger.com (Natachacha) — Sat, 22 Dec 2007 03:16:00 +0000

It has been a week of work I thought I would never have to experience. Death is easy for the dead, hell on the living. But in the past week, I have also had some really…bizarre situations. My new thing is falling asleep on the couch. I end up desperately trying to catch up on the day’s news events and end up zonked out by the first commercial break. My roommate usually waltzes in at an a.m. time and wakes me to then go to bed. My bed. Not my new couch bed. Another new thing that happened is my roommate and best friend got me a fish. I’ve wanted one for so long. My roommate and I feed it and just watch it eat…and then spit it out. I think my fish is bulimic. No, I really do. My fish has body dismorphic disorder. She thinks her fins make her look chubby. We need to go into counseling. Poor fat fishy. You’re not fat, you’re voluptuous.
Last night my friend’s and I went to see Sweeny Todd. My friend’s friend’s dressed up. It reminded me of when I was in high school and every weekend I would go to the Rocky Horror Picture Show and dress up. At first you think, “ Damn, I am so with it and in the know!!” But then during the movie…your dress starts riding up. Your shoes really start pinching. Was it this cold in here always? I wish I were wearing jeans. Would it be weird if I brought a blanket? Maybe I’ll bring a blanket next time. But then they’re really going to make fun of me. I should bring a poncho that way when they pick on me next week and squirt their water gun at me, I can remain somewhat dry. But knowing that jerk Jeff, he’s probably going to crawl over and shoot under the poncho. Damn, I hate Jeff.
But lucky for me, I didn’t have any of that thought process. Until right now, I mean. I was cozy and comfortable…until we went outside. May I just say I really am eagerly anticipating global warming. Last night was Siberian husky cold. What was the deal with that? Bone chilling. We live in Los Angeles for a reason!!! I mean, in addition to the occasional celebrity sighting and an array of venues to keep our minds from never having to actually think about the important things, we live here for the weather!!!!

Judith Meuli

noreply@blogger.com (Natachacha) — Fri, 14 Dec 2007 16:52:00 +0000

This morning/last night was single handedly the best/worst time of my life. My mentor in life and the reason for who I am passed away. I was bedside and got to hold her hand as she made her way out. She was a remarkable woman. She was one of the founding members of NOW and of the Feminist Majority. She hid it from me well for quite some time, but as I was working along side her, I quickly caught on. I consider her one of my best friends. But she was so much more than that. She was a confidant and an ally. She was a supporter and made my life into something I never thought possible. The last couple of weeks, I could see her deteriorating, but was really trying to be optimistic. It only gets you so far. Cancer is a nasty disease and all the optimism in the world can’t fight it. Last week we went to the UCLA Medical center and I insisted she play Scrabble with me while she get her blood transfusion. While her partner was out of the room (and Jude was still kicking my ass) she told me that this was her absolute favorite time ever at UCLA because she was just having fun and actually forgot what we were there for. That made my life. She was surrounded by people who love her. We were all telling stories and laughing and having a great time with each other and with Judith. We knew it was only a matter of time; I’m just surprised it went so fast. As she released her last breath I can swear I saw a smile creep across her face. And if it’s only in my head, so be it. But that’s not what the history books will say. Not if I have anything to do with it. I only hope I can have such a beautiful departure.

Late night encounters of the third kind

noreply@blogger.com (Natachacha) — Thu, 13 Dec 2007 18:29:00 +0000

After a long day in which I learned the fate of one of my best friends, I needed a break. A major break. When I came home, I thought I was just going to go to sleep. It was an exhausting day. So my roommate and a friend and I decided to go to a neighborhood bar. For loud music that makes us not be able to think and drinks that fulfill the same purpose, obviously. So we go and have a great time. It was a much needed diversion. We played songs on the jukebox and sang and danced and end up having a ball. My roommate and I ended up having a discussion about why I was so emotionally detached from current situations and I explained my emotions can only go towards one thing at once. I totally won that round. Anywho, as we were heading out I hear a “HOLY SHIT, NATASHA!!!” And as I turn, I am hoping it’s someone I actually want to see. No such luck. It’s two, count ‘em, two, people that I went to high school with. “Oh my god, how are you?” “ Oh, I’m fine. How are you?” There was a guy that I have actually known since the second grade and a girl that I never really even seen since high school and don’t really remember her that well. The girl would not stop saying how much she missed me and my jokes. Really? I don’t remember even having a conversation with her. But apparently I leave a lasting impression. I asked if they go to the bar often and how I live about three blocks away and bla bla bla. So we have plans to meet tomorrow. I stopped going to malls so I don’t have to speak to these people. There is a reason I haven’t spoken to them since high school. There is a reason I never spoke to her in high school. Is there nowhere safe that I can go to not see people I used to know? I hate the world getting smaller when all I want is an island where I don’t know the people and don’t have to hear “holy shit, Natasha!” on a bi weekly bases. It’s good to be remembered, but things are getting slightly out of had. Maybe a visit to Dr. 90210 will remedy the situation

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas...so I hear

noreply@blogger.com (Natachacha) — Mon, 10 Dec 2007 08:59:00 +0000

When I came home today, my roommate was washing dishes and saw me at the window before I came in. His face was uber excited and I thought he was mocking me because it’s the face I always have. When I went to the door, I heard him running to open it for me. He blocked me from coming in and told me to close my eyes. Ok, I’m down for this game. So with my eyes closed he led me inside. I had no idea what I was in store for. He told me to open my eyes and lo and behold, he got a Christmas tree! A baby LCD light that you plug in, but it’s SO freaking awesome I jumped up and down and just started screaming. I think my reaction was better than he anticipated because he was speechless. It’s the little things…it really is. This is the closest I’ve ever been to having anything remotely Christmas since I was about 12. I’m not Santa just yet, but I’m not Scrooge either. WAIT!!! I may be the Grinch. Doesn’t he end up liking Christmas at the end? I don’t remember since I haven’t seen it or cared to since I was about 12. See above. My roommate can kick your roommates ass!

Talking to strangers is the new black

noreply@blogger.com (Natachacha) — Fri, 07 Dec 2007 09:32:00 +0000

Bodhi and I lost a member of our family…moment of silence. Please remove your hats. I returned Scooba. It was not that hard of a decision. I get to the mall and holy crap, it’s like St. Nick threw up on the place. I hate Christmas. That’s fine, I just need to get to the store, talk to the worker person, and walk out a ton lighter. As soon as I walk in I hear “MISS BAKODY!!!” Ruh roh. I turn around to see one of my former students that I had during my first year at Madison. “Oh my god, hi…. (I look down and thank god he had a name tag on)…John! You work here?” “Yeah! Do you need help with anything?” “Yeah, I need to get rid of this hunk of junk and return it. Can you help me?” “ Sure.” As I head to the cashier, I realize he is no longer behind me. I end up having to talk to one of the other worker peeps. “Hi, how can I help you?” “Hello, I would like to return this. I have all the parts and packaging and receipt and what not.”
Her- ok, lemme see
Me- here ya go…
Her- (uber long pause)…um, ma’am, you have used this.
Me- Yes, I know, that’s how and why I know it doesn’t work.
Her-Yes, but you used it…
Me- Well, I had to use it in order to see if I liked it, and I don’t so I don’t want it anymore. And I’m within my allotted time frame to return it.
Her- This is dirty.
Me- Yes it is. Its primary function is to remove dirt so chances are it would be dirty. Now see, if I was returning, say, a sanitary device that only was made to be sanitary, it would be clean if I returned it. But being that the Scooba’s main purpose for existing is to clean up dirt, chances are that it would be dirty.
Her- But you didn’t even clean it.
Me- I decided to clean up Scooba as much as he cleaned my floors: not much.
Her-(Rolling her eyes at my constant verbal backhanding) let me go see what I can do.
She ends up leaving for about 20 minutes. During this time my former student sashays up next to me, “So, how are you?” “I’m great thanks. Are you at Grant now?” “No, I’m home schooled.” “WHAT? WHY? You’re so smart. Why did you do that?” “I’m getting all A’s and B’s. I am doing well!”
And that’s when it hit me like a flash: I absolutely hated this kid! He was such a liar. He would look you dead in the eye and attempt to convince you that he was mayor. But he would believe it. I don’t know how many times he would all of a sudden walk around class and I would say, “ John, what are you doing?” His response was, “I’m going to the bathroom.” “Um, dude…you need to ask for permission” (and yes, I used to call the kids dude, amongst other things.) “But Miss Natasha, I did ask you and you said yes.” “John…was I asleep? Did you ask me while I was in a coma? Or, oh wait, were you asleep and this was a dream you had?” Every single day, the same freaking thing with this kid. What a douche! I honestly didn’t like him. Anyway, as I was flashing on how I always wanted to drop kick this kid, the lady came back and without looking at me asked for my card and receipt and completed my return. Oh happy day. I thanked her and wished her a happy holiday. Then, as I was heading out, I bid John adu and high tailed it out of there hoping not to see anyone else I knew. I walked out a ton lighter, my wallet a ton heavier, and my people confrontation skills a ton sharper. My new goal…no more malls till 2009. You never know which ghost from your past is likely to haunt you.

I wanna sell out

noreply@blogger.com (Natachacha) — Wed, 05 Dec 2007 09:09:00 +0000

Reasons I’m glad I’m not famous:
I went to the bank by our place wearing my yoga pants that say, “get lucky” on the butt. I didn’t think anything of it until I started getting catcalls and what not. I had no idea what was happening until I realized what I was wearing and thought… ”ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh, I deserve it.” If I were poor Brit Brit, it would have been all over TMZ and Perez.
I rap in my car. And when you rap, you have to do the arm movements. I’m glad it’s not photographed.
At home, Bodster and I make up lame games when watching TV and when one of us gets it right, we crazy high five each other.
People come to our place at all hours on Tuesday’s because they know we’ll be home because we made a crazy TV schedule. We can only speak during the commercial breaks. If we were being filmed…oh boy!
I leave bars…unlike Natasha.
I get excited over little things but in a big way. I embarrass those around me. But not me. I make me happy.
If I don’t know you, don’t be surprised if I ignore you. If I don’t ignore, expect an inappropriate joke. Thank God it’s not being recorded for posterity.

I still want the Waffle Maker though...

noreply@blogger.com (Natachacha) — Tue, 04 Dec 2007 07:13:00 +0000

I blow out speakers on a regular bases. I listen to music too loud for my own good. The reason: I don’t really know. I like not being able to listen to anything else, my own thoughts included perhaps? I realized it when I was listening to an album on my comp and it sounded better turned down which totally sucks. In my car, same dealio. I still blast it though. It makes me feel gangsta. Just kidding. Or am I, son?
So today I went to Target for some retail therapy. I think it may have made a dent in my current state. I purchased a Hello Kitty water dispenser for my room that is so cute it makes you wanna puke! I also got a five-piece Hello Kitty bowl-plate-cup-silverware set. It was between that and the Transformers one. I decided on the Kitty because I wanted my roommate to question his sexuality if he used it for his num nums. I also got an owl jacket that was made to be worn by a 12-year-old girl. It fits like a glove. I don’t know if that’s sadder for 12-year-old girls or for me. When I was a baby, Clash of the Titans came out and apparently I used to run into things just like the owl in the movie. My dad started calling me owl and it kinda stuck. Well, more than kinda. It totally stuck. Tomorrow my roommate and I are going to the light festival because we are both encountering pretty heavy emotional issues and I’m hoping that seeing a bunch of lights will help. Wait, why the hell would looking at lights help? Oooo, shiny...life doesn’t seem so bad. Wow, check out Santa! I’m in a better place! Look at those reindeer! All is right with the world! That sounds so manufactured and ignorant. If lights helped I would have illuminated everything I encounter. Maybe we’ll just stay home and watch House.

Dear God, make me a bird. So I can fly far. Far far away

noreply@blogger.com (Natachacha) — Sat, 01 Dec 2007 05:38:00 +0000

My mentor in life, work, and the feminist way is sick. Terminal. Painful. But for whatever reason I keep thinking she’s going to pull through. And I keep trying to convince her partner that she’s going to make it too. I mean, this is one of the founding members of NOW and the Feminist Majority Foundation. Is cancer really going to wipe her out when she is such a fighter? Maybe it’s my naïve youth that is making me the optimist. I thought I was right until I went to a feminist dinner tonight. People that have known her since the 60’s came up to her partner and I during the dinner and told us this is the worst she has ever looked. WHAT??? Why would you say that? What on God’s green earth would possess someone to be so…realistic? Is it maturity that makes someone more realistic? And is being that realistic a form of pessimism? I think so. With maturity comes having to deal with more of life’s trials and tribulations. I get that. I sooooo get that. But here is my question that I have been asking myself for the last year or so of working with her: is it better to know that the person is going to die well in advance, or is it better to be completely stunned and have no warning at all? Almost three years ago one of my best friends killed himself. Talk about no freaking warning! I had nothing but anger towards him for about 6 months to a year. I had to go to therapy because of it. But I got over it. Well, maybe not over it, but I got used to the idea that he wasn’t coming back. But with my mentor, I’ve know she’s been sick for 3 and a half years and it is NOT getting any easier. It’s put me in the foulest mood and I hate talking about it ‘cause it makes me overly emotional and instant salty discharge factory but not talking about it is giving me an ulcer. So I think that writing about it may be the closest to cathartic purging that I can muster up. Sorry to be all Debbie Downer and whatnot, but these are the things I think about when I have mindless work. My mind goes into overdrive and wont shut up because it doesn’t need to focus on anything. And on that note…ciao.

I'm never going to laugh again

noreply@blogger.com (Natachacha) — Thu, 29 Nov 2007 23:34:00 +0000

Last night was my roommate’s birthday. And because of this we ended up walking to a bar. (Joe and I thought it was the funniest thing ever to speak Farsi half the way down. Poor Bodster) I started doing this really weird thing recently when I walk anywhere. I start thinking my eyes are a camera lens and my thoughts are the narrative and any sound we hear is the soundtrack. This has only started happening though when I am walking. I am officially the best cinematographer ever. I’d like to thank the academy.
Side note: I counted 52 moles on my right arm yesterday. Holy Moley! So, in lieu of playing pin-the-mole-on-Natasha, my roommate and I have decided to “give” every person who comes to our party a mole. And being that there are 52, which is the same amount of cards in a deck, we were thinking that instead of writing names on me, we can just write the card number/suit. Like having a star. (I always thought that that was in and of itself the cheesiest/most romantic thing ever, buying a star.) Then, at the end of the night, we can pull out the card that corresponds to the mole/person out of a hat and they win a new…ladle? Some stationary? A pen? We don’t know what to give yet.
Side side note: Bodhi has written B’s on all his groceries, so I decided to fill them in with “akody.” I also wrote all over the eggs and milk and nonsense that I’m Awesome. I think I was either bored or I figured out something that I thought would pass the time and he’ll laugh at later. Everyone else that has seen it has laughed. I think I should stop doing things just cause they make me laugh. See dad, maybe I am growing up.