Summer’s almost here, which for me means camping time! I know the weather’s always gorgeous here in California, but I’m a baby and think I’m going to get pneumonia at the slightest hint of a breeze so I like to reserve my camping trips for the hottest, sunniest, most mosquito-ridden months. With our hectic schedules lately, all Nate and I have planned for camping this summer is a tentative trip with friends to Catalina. We actually celebrated our two-year anniversary in Catalina a few summers ago, where Nate showed off his snorkeling skills and I clung angrily to a nearby life raft.

What? It was cold. I do NOT like being cold. And yes, that yellow thing on my head is my hair. I lived in LA and platinum was the thing to do. Both my hairdresser and I have learned from the experience. For those of you who live in California and haven’t been to Catalina Island, you should absolutely go. It’s a great place to camp and spend a few days doing family-friendly activities like parasailing, scuba diving and mini-golfing. You should definitely take a bus tour to the interior of the island, where you’ll see gorgeous canyon views and probably spot some wild buffalo and deer.

The last camping trip we took was to the Grand Canyon, where we slept in the truck bed. Literally. We blew up a bed and stuck it in there under the stars. It was beautiful. One of these days, though, we’ll need to actually invest in camping tents.

And last but definitely not least, our very first camping trip together was spent on Anini Beach in Kauai. Having lived in Maui and been to every single island, I’d say Kauai is the most beautiful island in Hawaii. There’s numerous waterfalls to visit (Kipu falls is the local favorite), the Hanakapi’ai trail with astounding views (many seasoned travelers have called it the most gorgeous place in the world), Waimea Canyon, kayaking on the Wailua River, and snorkeling in Queen’s Bath. Of all the picturesque spots, my favorite photo we captured was this one:

Heh. Heh.

Where was I? Oh yes, this post does actually have a point. First, if you’ve been thinking about camping this summer but haven’t made reservations yet, do it! A lot of campgrounds fill up months ahead of time and good spots are going fast. Check out Reserve America to find interesting campsites near you. Second, if you’re interested in going camping but haven’t been and are afraid you’ll have no idea what you’re doing…just go! I recommend staying at a campsite near a town so you can buy anything you may need last-minute. Don’t try to go backpacking deep into the woods your first time around. Reserve America lists each campsite’s amenities such as showers, restrooms, visitor center, as well as local attractions. The activities you plan to do (hiking, swimming, fishing, etc.) will dictate what you need to bring, but the only real essentials are flashlights, sleeping bags, water, toilet paper (in case the campground doesn’t provide it!), and something to eat. Tarps come in handy, as does a tent, and matches or a lighter if there’s a fire pit. Bug spray, sunscreen, and hand sanitizer are nice to have.  For food, some people bring a cooler with meat and hot dogs to roast over a fire or grill, whereas others bring camping stoves (available at REI or other outdoor supply stores) and small pots with pasta packets. I’ve been known to just grab some bread with peanut butter and jelly if it’s a last-minute trip. In my opinion, the best way to start camping is to just get out there and learn as you go.

I’ll leave you all with a recipe for my favorite camping meal: three or four potatoes + an onion + two bell peppers + two or three chicken breasts + several dashes of Lawry’s Seasoning. Chop it all up and wrap it securely with tin foil to take along camping (it’s best to transport it in a cooler, especially if you include the meat). Throw it on the grill or directly onto the coals for half hour to an hour and you’ve got dinner for the whole family, without having to fuss with pots or pans in the wilderness. Just be sure to bring some tongs to pick it up out of the fire.

We actually make this camping meal at home on occasion almost weekly as it requires little effort and even fewer dishes. Nate has dubbed it “Potato Log,” and we often make it as a side dish with the meat left out.

I know I’m not the most loyal customer you have. I’m not always the most fashion-forward trendsetter, and I have a tendency to spill spaghetti sauce on the few designer outfits I do own. And I don’t like spending a ton of money on clothes since my wonderful fiance occasionally switches the dryer setting to High so that everything looks like it belongs on a Barbie instead of a normal size 6 (okay so I’m an 8, whatever) woman. BUT, when I set my eye on something and really want it, I get it. This is how I feel about your Gucci Rush perfume.

I’ve worn Gucci Rush exclusively since I discovered it in high school. For a high school student to develop that kind of dedication to a $70 luxury item really says something. To me, that much money meant two full days of babysitting my neighbor’s THREE children, who were each somehow less than a year apart. That’s how much I loved Gucci Rush. There’s just something enchanting about it. People have literally stopped me in the street to sniff me, insisting on knowing what I’m wearing. The unofficial Gucci Rush Facebook fan page has 957 fans. I’m sure somebody, somewhere, has dedicated a small shrine to Gucci Rush.

So a couple years ago when my friendly Macy’s counter girl told me that Gucci Rush was discontinued, I was devastated. She said all of the Gucci Rush had been mysteriously pulled from the shelves and sent back to the warehouse. No warning, no signs, no forwarding address. A loss like this calls for a billboard or, at the very least, a full-page ad. I hit up every boutique perfume shop within a twenty mile radius and spent my life savings ($322, to be exact) stocking up on the now higher-priced “discontinued” Gucci Rush. That supply (plus a bottle graciously tracked down by the afore-mentioned wonderful fiance) has lasted me until now.

As the last few squirts eeked their way out of that final red Gucci Rush box, I turned to the internet to see how much it would cost me to replenish my supply. “This stuff must be like gold now,” I thought, imagining how much the scent of heaven might go for on the black market. Oddly, however, I found it at Sephora. And on Gucci’s own website. And on Amazon…for half price. What the hell is going on here? Have I fallen into some sort of bizarro Gucci Rush mind-trap? Nope. Apparently, Gucci yanked the product from department stores nationwide only to later capitalize on the popular perfume through more lucrative retailers.

So I’m spreading the word. Hopefully the many women who have stopped me in elevators/grocery stores/doctor’s offices and exclaimed, “Oh my god, is that Gucci Rush? Where did you get that?! I’ve been looking EVERYWHERE” can now rest easy. It’s been a turbulent ride, my friends, but I truly hope that all the other Gucci Rush lovers out there can get past the overwhelming sense of betrayal/confusion and move on to what’s really important: Amazon. Where we can now get Gucci Rush for half price.

Last post, I left you all off with the harrowing tale of how I became a vegetarian at eight years old. Now comes the part where, after 13 years of being a dyed-in-the-wool animal-loving hippie PETA advocate, I bit into one of these:

See those flames in the background? Totally appropriate, because I felt like I was going to hell. And yet it tasted like heaven. Confusing, I know. The transition had a lot to do with this:

Those are red blood cells. Yes, they look like floating bean bag chairs. You see, apparently I’m severly anemic (which is fancy-pants talk for “there’s not enough iron in my blood“). Pretty much everyone in my family has this issue. It’s some weird hereditary thing. I KNOW your immediate response is “I have the perfect solution! Have you tried _____?” YES. Yes I have. I’ve tried everything. Big pills, little pills, weird liquid concoctions from exotic places, disgusting amounts of blackstrap molasses, you name it. Slow FE helped a lot but not enough. As a student doctor so delicately put it: “Your blood sucks. Your diet sucks. Put the two together and it sucks a lot.”

I wasn’t a very good vegetarian. I tried really hard, but I don’t like soy or tofu and really, beans can only get you so far in life (sorry kids, that Jack and the Beanstalk thing is a load of crap). So on top of already tending towards anemia, my body didn’t have enough nutrients in it to really absorb whatever supplements I took. I was constantly exhausted, cranky, dizzy all the time, and had the occasional totally embarassing fainting session. Mortifying. Especially for a high schooler.

When I was 21, I finally made the leap and decided to start eating meat again. I learned quickly that jumping straight back to red meat was a really, really, really bad idea. Trust me. My stomach will never forget that experience. Ouch. It’s like coming off one of those natural food diets. You just don’t jump straight into tacos and pizza. Stomachs can’t handle that.

So I regrouped and started over, tackling the food chain from the ground up (well, not literally – that would required me to eat ants or something…gross). I started with tuna sandwiches, progressed to salmon and through the rest of the sea life, then made my way to chicken salad, chicken cutlets, fried chicken and then…BACON. Oh glorious bacon. And then ham, pork ribs and finally ground beef. I had my first bite of a cheeseburger a month ago, after four years in transition. I now understand why my fiance looks so lovingly at his food.

I feel better and don’t struggle with anemia anywhere near as much as I used to. There have been a few side effects from my diet change: I’ve gained a few pounds, and my skin and hair both went from extremely dry to a bit oily. I simply changed my shampoo and moisturizer.

For those of you who are wondering, I do try to buy organic free-range meat as much as possible. And yes, I do feel guilty. But my health is important to me. And there are certain animals I will always refuse to eat, including: veal, goat, goose, duck, lamb and rabbit. Because that’s like eating Santa Claus.

A few of my more domestically-inclined friends have expressed bewilderment over how the heck I made it to age 25 without knowing how to make a make a tuna sandwich or cook a chicken breast or, you know, generally fend for myself. It has a little bit to do with my refusal to listen to anything my mom ever said (she tried, she really really tried), and a LOT to do with a cow named Fred.

Cute, huh? Yeah…I’m not talking about that kind of cow.
Fred was THIS kind of cow:

Scary. I know.

Fred the cow was a bull owned by Rich, the man who lived next to my childhood home. Rich was an 80 year old farmer who would carve my sister and I’s names into pumpkins, cart us around in a wheelbarrow, and bring us peas, corn, carrots, and other goodies from his farm on a daily basis. He had arthritis and when the doctor told him that the strain of farming was taking too much of a toll on his body, he made himself a skateboard-like platform to lay on so he could tend to his garden by scooting around on his belly instead of bending over and hurting his back and knees.

My sister and I LOVED Rich and his cow, and immediately decided to adopt Fred as our pet. Rich let us feed Fred and pet him and take him on the occasional “walk” (in other words, we’d get to help wrangle him back in whenever he got loose from the fenced-in field). He’d wave at us with his little ears, flap his tail around when flies were bugging him, and occasionally stomp his feet if we pissed him off. We’d spend hours watching him chew his cud, mystified at the concept of cows having four stomachs and burping their food up just to eat it all over again. A couple times, we attempted to regurgitate our food like Fred, but that didn’t go over too well in our house.

One day, my sister and I were daring each other to touch Fred’s fancy new electric fence when two men tromped by us with shotguns. They were tromping in the general direction of Fred. “Mom!” I yelled, too intrigued to tear my eyes away. “There’s some men out here with guns…”

“Oh. Shit. Shit shit shit.” A couple more muffled expletives came from the nearby house before my mom burst through the screen door. “I totally forgot, I’m sorry, I…oh my god…”

My mom grabbed hold of my sister and I, tugging on us urgently. I looked from my mom to the gun-wielding men and caught a glimpse of their barrels. They were pointed at Fred.

“We have to go, we have to go. We’re going to…to church! We’re going to church right now.” My mom dragged us toward her old blue Honda, thrusting us into the backseat with the efficiency of a drill sergeant. We sped in reverse to the sound of a single gunshot. And then, what felt like an eternity later…a thud.

A couple days went by before our neighbor cheerfully appeared on our doorstep with a package full of steaks. My mom gracefully accepted the gift and thanked him before placing it in the freezer, where it remained untouched until the day we moved. That day, I vowed to never eat meat again. I was eight. I kept my vow until I was twenty-one.

Check back next week to find out why I stopped being a vegetarian…

Ok people, listen up. A lot of you know me as a lot of things. A haphazard cook, a sarcastic commentator, a Twitter addict. Today I’m speaking to you as something else: A survivor.

Image credit: David Garzon

It’s taken me a long time to write this post. I’ve started it several times and deleted it, not wanting to come out and be “that girl.” That girl who was abused. That girl who was helpless. That girl who you feel sorry for. I talked at length with the fiance today about the negatives versus the positives of telling my story and it came down to this: I don’t want people to treat me differently. I hate that in the past I’ve been handled with kid gloves by people who know what I’ve been through. But in light of the recent Chelsea King murder, I also understand the power of information. And I feel that the “positives” of my story could be life-changing. Maybe life-saving.

Seventeen year-old Chelsea King went for a jog a little while ago in the hills of Rancho Bernardo, and she never came home. I know the area well; I pass by the lake where she was murdered every day on my way to work. I saw the news choppers and vans the day they found her body and I knew what must have been discovered. I pictured her last moments. I called it “disgusting” and terribly, painfully, “preventable.” I feel sick, I feel sad, angry and worried – I feel all the normal reactions to her horrific death. And then I feel something I can’t describe. Something personal. I see her murderer’s face on television and I feel regret. I feel a tightening in my throat because every time I hear a sickening story like this, I see the face of my own attacker and I know that could have been me.

From age three to age twelve, I was molested daily by a close family member. I was raped, I was beaten and I was discarded. I was made to believe that I was crazy, that it was my fault, that I deserved nothing better. I knew that it made me feel bad. I knew I wanted it to stop. But I also knew that he was my family member and that everyone trusted him. The very few times I did threaten to complain to my mom, he said that I would ruin the family, that without him we’d all live on the streets and go to hell and suffer from the “horrible, ridiculous leach” that I was. I understand now that it isn’t an entirely logical argument, but I was eight or nine and I believed him, so I didn’t say anything until I was 16 years old – long after a divorce had already split him from the family.

What does this have to do with Chelsea King? Actually not a whole lot, except that her murder has sparked a movement to warn children and inform them of the danger in this world. I’ve read, discussed, and heard a ton of thoughts on the topic. Children MUST to be protected. Your children need to know what’s out there. But please, I beg you to warn them of the risks that are everywhere. Not only among strangers. People they love – people you love – can do this too. The signs are usually there, but child molesters are excellent actors. They’re charming and they seem trustworthy. They’re your neighbor, they’re your soccer coach, they’re your real estate agent and fellow church congregator. Mine was all of these things.

You need to have an absolutely honest and blunt conversation with your children about boundaries and about what is right and what is wrong, whether it’s between a friend, a family member, a teacher or a stranger. It’s uncomfortable and it can be awkward and scary. But five minutes of awkwardness can save a lifetime of regret. Please keep an open line of communication with your children. And if you need any specific tips on how to broach the topic in your particular situation, just shoot me an email at somedayilllearn [at] gmail [dot] com. I’d be glad to help.

Oh trusty truck, I love you so
You haul and cart and move and tow.
You’re durable and oh-so strong,
Extended cab, real big and long!

Your built-in bed helps us view stars,
Through traffic jams we see past cars.
From big Grand Canyon to SF Bay,
Palm Springs, Phoenix, and LA!

I always count on your sturdy power,
Through night and day, at any hour.
You ease my life, you carry stock,
Oh trusty truck – you really rock!

What’s wrong with this dress? Aside from the fact that it’s crying out desperately for an iron, I mean…

Yep, the grease stain. I HATE grease stains. They’re practically impossible to get out. This keeps happening. After all the outfits I’ve ruined, you’d think I’d eventually stop cooking without an apron. And I love this dress…it’s super-comfortable, matches any pair of boots (brown, black, even my impossible to incorporate grey boots), and is even stomach-friendly for my “fat days” (you know what I’m talking about…).

Frustrated, I contemplated tossing the dress. And then I had an “Aha!” moment.

This pin has been in my closet for probably five years and for some reason, I’ve never worn it. Now it can get some use and my dress can live another day. And no one will ever know the difference (except of course, all of you guys – but you won’t tell, right?).

Tip: After I went to the effort of covering up the grease stain, someone sent me to this page chock full of grease-fighting tips. I haven’t tried any of them (and I actually think the dress is way cuter with the new addition), but I’ll definitely be using some of these tips on my next stain!

A few months ago I boldly phoned my future grandmother-in-law and asked what may be the biggest favor I’ll ever ask anyone: Will you help me make my wedding dress?

Of course, she responded with nothing but eager enthusiasm and willingness, even when I sheepishly admitted that by “help me” I really meant “do it all for me since I don’t have the slightest clue how to operate a sewing machine.” She took me to the garment district in LA to pick out fabric and pored over various pieces of different patterns until we got the PERFECT dress. Last weekend, she had me come out to her place in Palm Springs to do a fitting and start piecing it all together.

What, you didn’t expect me to actually posts pictures of my wedding dress before the wedding, did you? My fiance DOES drop in here on occasion.

While visiting, I got to spend the weekend lounging around the pool and catching up on a kajillion little wedding details. Apparently when Nana and Papa got married, she told him she would live anywhere in the entire world with him – from the country to the mountains to “a refrigerator box” – but she would never, ever live in the desert. She must have changed her mind along the way, because the pair are now happily retired in Palm Springs.

I have to say, there is just something about the home of grandparents. My grandparents on my father’s side passed away before I was born, but I’ve always been really close to my grandparents on my mom’s side and their house is AWESOME. It’s full of collectibles from their numerous world travels. They have one room completely dedicated to all their really fancy stuff. I call it the museum room since it’s all kind of look-but-don’t-touch, although my grandma insists it’s technically called the “sitting room.” Whatever grandma, it’s pretty impressive either way. Nana and Papa’s house, of course, also have all the obligatory grandparent trinkets.

Yes, that is a pig sculpture with a handkerchief. And that’s their cat Elsa, who’s held a teensy grudge against me since I tried to pet her stomach two years ago (my cat loves a good belly scratch…apparently not all cats feel the same way!). And it seems that the home of just about everyone born before 1960 has one of those wooden ducks in it, but there’s actually a pretty cool story behind this duck in particular. Papa used to work for a company that distributed these ducks, which are hand-carved by famous artist Tom Taber (these things go for like, $400-$1000!). They’re remarkably detailed. Anyway, Tom and Papa got to know each other and on occasion, Tom would hand Papa a duck to keep when he was picking up a delivery. Today the wooden birds can still be found dispersed throughout their home.

Nana also teaches me a new dish every time I visit. This time around, it was Manicotti with fresh crepes. Apparently, Manicotti doesn’t always come in noodles! And yes, these are the very same kind of crepes used for breakfast and cheese blintzes. The recipe is from the Fannie Farmer cookbook – one of the original reproductions, none of this fancy-pants Anniversary Edition stuff!

In the midst of all the work and life and wedding planning stress, it’s so nice to be able to escape to such a comforting and warm place with someone who I can openly ask anything that pops into my mind, from “Why does the thread keep bunching up in the sewing machine?” (answer: tension) to “How the heck do you make a marriage work for over FORTY years?” (answer: pick your battles).

Remember my rant the other day about how Valentine’s day is a bunch of corporate nonsense? Well, this is an edit to that. An addendum of sorts. There IS actually one thing about Valentine’s day that I very much look forward to: a care package from my mom.

I should preface this by saying that my mom and I are rather different. She’s always very well polished: makeup done, hair blow-dried, perfume applied. When I was a kid she started working as a flight attendant, which suited her perfectly. Whenever she was away at work and I missed her, I’d open her closet and plow my face into her perfectly-hung jackets and skirts. I loved her smell. That mom smell.

Despite having a job that required her to be gone on occasion, my mom made a tremendous effort in every aspect of motherhood. She constructed Easter baskets, she drew pictures on the napkins in my sister and I’s lunch bags, she wrote us little notes to open any night she was away. She baked rhubarb pie and had long conversations with our 85 year old neighbor. She cut out hearts for valentines and wrapped things in pink tissue paper.

She still does that last part, in fact. A bundle of pink and red and white inevitably makes its way to my doorstep in mid-February. It’s usually a shirt or a dress or a book that she picked up somewhere along the way, nothing too big as we’ve never had a ton of money. But it always makes me feel loved. 

Perhaps that’s why I don’t enjoy the hyped-up flowers-and-chocolates-and-jewelry Valentine’s Day that everyone else raves about. It could just never compare to pink tissue paper and hand-written notes.

In honor of this so-called “romantic” holiday, here’s a post dedicated to love. On a side note, I think Valentine’s Day is crap. Setting aside one day to pressure people into demonstrating their love seems entirely backwards to me. I think anyone who needs to be motivated by a holiday to express affection is either a robot, a workaholic, or perhaps has alexithymia. I also hate that all my favorite restaurants switch to prix fixe menus on V-day so I can’t order what I really want, service sucks because the waiters are totally overwhelmed, and everything costs twice as much as it normally does.

Where was I? Oh yes, love. So I’ve been talking with some friends lately about their “relationship statuses” and their high-pressure weekend date plans and the world of love in general, since everyone seems to throw themselves into a romance-seeking frenzy as mid-February approaches. I’m the first among my friends to get married, but everyone (thankfully) still regales me with stories of their hilarious, touching, and – at times – tragic dating adventures.

A few friends in particular have had some rocky experiences in relationships lately. The other day, one was describing to me how her on-again off-again back-on-again and then finally off-again boyfriend wailed to her that he loves her but “can’t be in a relationship” because he isn’t “the relationship type.” This relationship-phobia is something I’ve heard a lot about, and it seems to affect men as well as women.

Something about these relatiaphobimaniacs forces them to run away (usually screaming and/or frantically flipping through their proverbial blackbook for a booty call to quickly harden their softened hearts) at the first sign of commitment. I presume that their condition develops during childhood or as a result of a traumatic experience. Whatever the case, they lure perfectly nice, normal, feeling people into a faux relationship and then balk at the idea that this ongoing dating charade would ever lead to any sort of future. Or, they hint at the “potential” of a future while complaining about some temporary complication that hinders their ability to act like a decent human being.

The person on the other side of this messy debacle often makes excuses, explaining that the relatiaphobimania developed when the person once had their heart broken, or they’re really focused on their career/education/workout regimen at the moment but as soon as they recover from their narcissism, they will be the PERFECT match.

I suggested to one of my friends that perhaps love shouldn’t be a back and forth painful quest. Maybe love shouldn’t be this hard. To that she shook her head and explained to idealistic little me: “No, Chelsea. Love IS that hard.”

I thought about what she said. About my relationship and the relationships of those close to me. None of us live in a fairytale but honestly, I am certain that love is nowhere near the hardest thing that we encounter. Death is hard. Unemployment is hard. Mortgages, illness, and time management are hard. With our busy lives today, it’s hard to make love a priority. It’s hard to fight for love. It’s scary to set our pride aside and risk being hurt. But love itself is easy.

Everyone has their ups and downs. I’m not saying you’ll always LIKE the person you’re with. There have been times when I truly thought Nate had lost his mind. Or that I was going to lose mine. But no matter what situation we’ve found ourselves in, no matter what stupid fight (or serious fight) we’ve gotten into, I’ve always, always loved him and he’s always loved me. Because love is easy. It’s all the other stuff that’s hard.