Thursday, March 26, 2009

Polaroid Model


When I was 19, I just knew I’d be “discovered.” For what exactly I don’t know. Just “discovered” and somehow whisked away from a life that was beneath me: The working class. An oxymoron. There’s just something about being 19 years old, skinny, blond, and from California that makes girls think their entitled to free stuff. For instance, when I was busted for parking in a handicap space in front of the supermarket, I just had to go on a couple of dates with the cop and voila! No ticket. When my car broke down, I’d just pull into the service station and go on a cruise to the Bahamas with the owner and my car would be fixed.

In my daily commute to my law office job, I had to sit in traffic on the freeway for an hour each way. This provided an excellent opportunity for me to find my Prince or Sugar Daddy or Handler. I was already dressed-up with my hair all 1980’s large with my bright pink lipstick and earrings the size of garbage can lids. I’d have in my Pretenders tape on real loud so he’d notice me. I’d just roll along with my windows down and wait patiently for the magic day.

I thought I should be granted a free apartment in New York or Los Angeles where I’d get all the free clothes, booze, and drugs I wanted. It didn’t matter that my skills consisted of typing 75wpm and disco dancing. I visualized a black New Yorker limo pulling up beside me on the freeway with an important man inside. He’d say something like “It’s her! I’ve found her! I can’t let her get away after waiting my entire life to find her!” But naturally I couldn’t just leave my Toyota Corolla on the side of the freeway like that, so I took a picture of myself with my mom’s Polaroid instant camera and wrote my name and telephone number on the bottom. That way I could just pass my contact information out the window. Besides, that seemed classier.

It was at least ten years later that I came across the picture in my memory drawer. The telephone number was worn off the bottom and my picture had faded. I was impressed with my stupidity, but not my marketing skills.

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

How am I supposed to be a good wife?


I'm working on 10 things to make you a better wife. In researching this topic, all I've found are articles written by a bunch of touchy feely women with "issues" and "boundaries" and all that psycho babble crap. But I think sensivity is over rated. To prove my point, I'd like to compile information from my readers.

Please ask your husband ...

"If there was one thing that a woman could do to be a better wife, what would it be?"
and then email their response to me sharon[at]bloggerqueen[dot]com.

I'm dying to know!

Friday, March 20, 2009

The First Hit's Always Free


Trader Joe's sample lady must have learned all she knows from a crack dealer ... the first hit is always free. She placed a tiny piece of fish stick into Dill and Jalepeno Tarter sauce and put them in a little paper medicine cup. "here's your medicine"

I'm having Trader Joe's fish sticks with Dill and Jalepeno Tarter sauce for lunch because my restaurant review theme is $10 and under. And while a nice, pleasant shit-together woman might do just fine with that, I require a hellavalota food. I have the appetite of a 17-year old boy (very different from an appetite for a 17-year old boy) so sometimes after I do a restaurant review, I have to come home and eat. In private.

I avoid trying anything I cannot have a lot of. I'm not interested in having a "taste" of anything. It's all or nothing with me. Window shopping: Can't do it. Why would I spend my day looking at things I cannot have? It's like going to model homes and then winding up at your own crappy house at the end of the day. It's never like: "Whew, I'm glad I'm finally out of that well organized, clean, matching decor, house and back into my rabbit cage I call home!"

I think my theory of "the first hit's always free" is a good reason why handsome firefighters should wear horrible Rodney Dangerfield masks and coat themselves with the most repelling fragrance for a woman: Baby throw-up. You know why? Because, you can't just have a firefighter whenever you want to. They show up at the grocery store or your house all nice and helpful in their cute "outfits" with all their "appliances" and then, just when you get used to having them around, bam, they're off on another life saving mission.

I'm just telling you all this for one reason: Stop visually cannibalizing my husband! He's MY firefighter. Go get your own. Do you know what I had to go through to land him? I had to act nice for like a year and a half. Ya ya, I know he deserves better and you're probably better than me, but too bad. I've put a lot of meals into this guy ... and other things ... so he's mine.

Go eat a fish stick instead.

Monday, March 16, 2009

Behind the Scenes of "Warm Puppy" Review


The first restaurant review for Uptake was launched last week. I was as excited as a New Jersey cougar getting her first Bon Jovi tattoo. So far, I've eaten in more restaurants than I've reviewed, but don't worry IRS, I'm saving the receipts for you!

I'm going to give my Blogger Queen fans the "behind the scenes" so you'll know every little secret.

So, here's the first secret:

First Secret

I fucked up already. I didn't research any of my facts, I just wrote what I remembered. Total surprise, I got a bunch of things wrong. I hate facts, they remind me of math. I cannot be expected to fall inside or outside black and white, I just like to hover around grey. Here is an email I received shortly after the launch:

"Read your review of the Warm Puppy with great interest. Loved it. but wanted to correct a couple of inaccuracies...no "t" in SCHULZ. Also, Sparky's office wasn't upstairs, he worked in his studio across the street. The management offices were upstairs, and technically he had an office, but if he was at the rink he was either eating, playing hockey, or watching his daughters figure skate.
He usually started the morning with a light breakfast, and then would come back for lunch (usually driving/sometimes walking). After lunch he would frequently drive over to Coddingtown,buy a single scoop vanilla ice cream cone and then browse books at "books etc" and buy a book or two to add to his huge library.
(Avid reader). If there's any more you want to know, I'll be happy to share. Sparky was a dear friend, and I grew very close to him and his family.
LOVED your review...I still get a very warm feeling when I'm drinking hot chocolate with whipped cream from the warm puppy."


Second Secret

I looked like an idiot sitting there in the Warm Puppy cafe, by myself, taking pictures of a half eaten breakfast wrap. I realized after I ate a few bites that it would have been more appetizing had I not shoved it down my gullet before I snapped the pictures. I almost bought another one, but I didn't want people to think I have an eating disorder.

Third Secret

The person named "barbara" who commented on the restaurant blog ... yah, that's my mom. It doesn't matter how old I get, my mom still embarrasses me.

My new job is pretty fun, but telling you guys about it is even better.

photo credit: MTVnews

Thursday, March 12, 2009

Did you know I'm a pretty Big Deal now?


I do not have an articulated pallet, but I can still do the splits (its not related, I just love to brag about my flexibility). I do not have an advanced education in foodology either, but that didn't stop me from landing a restaurant critic job for Uptake.com. Its a travel website that searches over 5000 travel websites and 20 million opinions to bring you travel reviews like no other. It covers attractions, hotels, restaurants and everything else. There are maps and all kinds of tools for traveling. My first review - click here!

I have to admit, they made an excellent choice. Living in the California wine country for the last 15 years has provided me with a firsthand knowledge of local restaurants in every single category, from five star to four wheels on a taco truck. I'm adventurous with food and I love research and writing.

Why do I get to tell people where and what to eat? Because, and I quote, I'm "edgy". This means that I'm close to the edge and I may just snap at any moment. If you read my restaurant reviews and my blog everyday, you may be lucky enough to actually witness the epic event. I don't have it scheduled, I'll just know when it's the right time to blow.

I've positioned myself as the $10 Diner. I'm going to travel around Napa and Sonoma Counties, and some outlying wine areas too, to see what $10 will get you. That's not to say that I'll only go to cheap restaurants, that would be too easy. I'm going everywhere, to all the restaurants you want to know about. I'll throw down my ten bucks and see what they bring me.

FAQ

Q - Does $10 include tip?
A - Yes, if they deserve a tip I will allocate 20%, because anyone who tips less than that is a douche bag.

Q - What if there is nothing on the menu for $10?
A - I will review the glass of water, the front door, or I may have to steel food from other people's tables while they're in the restroom.

Q - Are you going to tell them you're a restaurant critic?
A - No, but I may tell them that I'm a famous actress and I'll make them guess what movies I've been in. Or I'll pretend I'm deaf and make them pantomime all the dishes to me. I would also like to portray a news reporter who's covering a local bloody murder and claim to have "stuff" all over my shoes.

Q - "Will you take me with you and pay for my meal?"
A - No! Get your own damn free meal job.

Q - Will this go to your head or will you still be the adorable Blogger Queen we've come to love and know.
A - Straight to my head. I can barely even remember being one of you little people anymore. The Bloggerqueen.com will have lots of juicy background secrets behind my reviews. You'll get all the dirt, figuratively speaking.

Twitter me: bloggerqueen
Photo credit: http://hungryhedonist.blogspot.com/

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Self-Portrait of a Blogger Queen






Its just so hard, you don't even know, to find a picture of myself that matches my writing. My friend Alison says "you need an edgy picture." Oh sure, let me just dust off my dusty box of edgy pictures and find one that says just the right thing.

I want my picture to say:

I'm youthful, but proud of my age, so I'm not trying to look younger or anything. Just hip ... do they say "hip" anymore?

I'm really edgy and dangerous, but don't be afraid to pass this blog along to your sister-in-law.

I'm sexy, but don't get all freaky and make any nasty comments or I'll have to block your ass.

I'm so far ahead of the trend, but at the same time you can completely relate to me.

I have none of those pictures of me, nor can I imagine how I can get one. So I searched the internet and found some pictures that I feel describe the many factors involved with being the Blogger Queen.

Friday, March 6, 2009

Smiling at Strangers: Yes or No?


I'm going to stop smiling at strangers. I just think its better that way, lest my intentions be misinterpreted. I never used to smile at strangers because I grew up in a hostile city environment. We made a point of never making eye contact or speaking to each other. Eyes on the Ground was the rule. Then in my early 20s I moved to Seattle and all of a sudden I noticed women smiling at me and I thought "Jesus Christ there are a lot of lesbians here in Seattle!" I had never had anyone smile at me except for relatives or men who wanted to sleep with me. So, naturally I assumed that these women wanted to take me to a softball game and listen to Melissa Etheridge while we wore matching purple fleece pullovers.


Later I found out that people were trying to be "friendly". I was amused by their naivete; however, in an effort to always fit in, I made a concerted effort to start smiling at strangers and using the good manners mom taught me. It worked out for the good and the bad. But I'm now considering reverting back to my old No Smile Code because its just easier.

There's this guy who comes to the gym a lot. He's young, in good shape, and in a wheelchair. I passed by him today and smiled. Then my Shitty Committee started in on me

Shitty Committee: Did you give that man a sympathetic smile?!

Me: No, no, I just smiled, I swear!

Shitty Committee: You better not have, you know you're not so perfect either.

Me: I never said I was, Jesus, I just smiled at the guy.

Shitty Committee: Well, stop treating him different.

Me: I tried to look as normal as I could. I just smiled. Nothing out of the ordinary

Shitty Committee: Oh really? Then why aren't you smiling at every single other guy who you walked past? Hmmm?

Me: All right you caught me. I was trying to be nice. I'm not perfect either, its just that out of all the shortcomings I've been dealt in life, none of them have wheels. What do you want me to do? Wear a sign that says "I'm fucked up too!"

Shitty Committee: Yes. Meeting adjourned.

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

Fix the Economy with Coconut Pudding


When I told some friends about the authentic Hawaiian food at Hukilau, they had this sort of distinguished look on their face, nodding in approval, and saying “oh, poi and roasted pig?” and I said “Nope. REAL Hawaiian Food: Like a egg on top of a hamburger patty, on top of a bowl of sticky white rice covered with gravy! You know REAL Hawaiian food?” I’m a Spam lover too, but since I wanted to enjoy the coconut pudding, I ordered the chicken salad with the Maui Onion dressing on the side. It was super tasty.

I didn’t have time to eat my coconut pudding there; so I ordered it to go. I threw in a paper napkin and a pair of chopsticks. Fast forward one hour; I’m sitting in front of my gym (yes, the gym) with the container full of firm fresh coconut pudding and chopped pineapple and a pair of chop sticks. I gobbled it up while listening to the horrible state of the economy. But you know what? When I have coconut pudding, I don’t really care about the economy … for a moment.

I was there on official secret business with Uptake and the Hawaii Visitors and Convention Bureau (promoting their campaign, “Hawaii: A Thousand Reasons to Smile”,trying to score on a free trip to Hawaii. Apparently I have just as much chance as everybody else. I entered their contest and I'm keeping my fingers crossed. You should enter it too!

Monday, March 2, 2009

"You're Fat"

I had a stirring deep in my belly like goldfish swimming in Jello. It was a funny tickly feeling that was pulling at memories from years ago. I placed my hand gently on my soft belly and noticed that, yes, it was larger and more smushy than before. I casually wondered if I had stomach cancer, because I always think I have cancer. For instance, when I'm tired, I think I might have a touch of sleep cancer. When I have a headache that feels serious, I consider brain cancer as a diagnosis. Then there's the lovely note I got after my very first mammogram "We have detected an area in your x-ray that is irregular" and then it goes on to say "Check back with us in six months for another x-ray" What?! I could be dead by then.

So a sea monkey in my abdomen sounds like either stomach cancer or a spiky green parasite that I must have picked from grocery store sushi. Either way, I'm screwed. So I went to the doctor. He was not my regular O.B. who looks like Professor Honeydew from the Muppets. This guy looks more like Herman Munster without the heavy pancake make-up and platform Doc Martens. He fully examines me on the table. We know what that means, right girls? He's quiet for a minute then says "Get dressed and we'll talk."

Like I said, I'm screwed. I don't know what kind of bomb he's going to drop so I'm completely unprepared for my dramatic reaction. Throughout my life I've rehearsed all my reactions to terrible news, just in case: The crying like a Baptist Minister's Wife; the stoic Angelo Saxon widow; off the deep end with drugs, booze, and men like Marilyn Monroe. But what roll shall I play today?

I'm dressed and waiting. A quiet pause from the doctor is accompanied by averted eyes and shifty body movements, like a 14-year old boy at a school dance. He finally says "Sharon, I have good news and I have bad news: The good news is that you're not pregnant. The bad news is that you're fat." And then I wake up.

I had that dream when I was turning 40. I had reached my largest weight ever and I had tried buying new shoes and more make-up, but nothing worked. So I got a personal trainer and he kicked my ass into a beautiful piece of art.

That was four years, one ass, and a spine ago. You see, after I competed in the triathlon last year, my back and neck have not been the same. My exercise has been very limited. Like, swimming only. I can pretty much just swim. That's okay for a while, but I've gained back almost all of my yucky weight. On Saturday I decided I needed to organize my nutrition so that the monster that I turn into at night, the one who makes me eat Napoleon Dynamite style nachos and frozen taquitos, will be beheaded. My personal trainer put me on a great program a few years ago. The only problem is that I HATE math. I also have no memory. I just want someone or something to keep track of it for me. Is that asking too much? I mean, I keep track of the girls' sport schedules, my husband's work schedule, both school's schedules, my daughters food allergies, and all the other things we all do. So for once, can't someone else just help a girl out?

I'm trying a free 7 day trial from Calorie King and so far, I'm pretty happy. What I already learned is that my night time feeding shark crazy sessions are probably due to the fact that I haven't had enough protein during the day. So last night I had some tuna and voila, I stopped eating. I have already lost one pound.

This morning I went to see my chiropractor and he asked me if I was pregnant. I was laying down on the Spine-o-lator, or something, and I turned my head like Regan from The Exorcist and said "What did you call me?" In a tone reminiscent of my teenage years as a bad-ass. He assured me he was just joking. You see, two of his other patients in the room were pregnant and we were all there at the same time. I had no choice but to go over his head and tell his chiropractor wife "Will you please explain this to him?" She gave me a nod of assurance. Boy, do I feel sorry for him. Well, not that sorry.

Bye bye fat wings!