Something to Smile About (Or I Accept the Liebster Award)

Posted in Awards by

I just wanted to take a minute to thank all of for hanging in there while I turned Dogs Dishes and Decor into Dogs Dishes and Death for a minute.

You’re here for stories about sparkles, sprinkles, and glitter. Not sadness. Sorry about that.

It’s hard to switch gears from, “I’m so sad I want to smash things” to “Hey everyone, look at these super pretty Caitlin Wilson pillows!” Luckily, I don’t have to do that today.

See, Tracy of Bits N Pieces recently gave me the Liebster Award, and I’m really honored. So, instead of trying to make some awkward segue seem smooth, I can just say, “Thank you, Tracy.”

Seriously. Thank you.

The rules for accepting the Liebster Award can be found at the end of the post. Naturally I am breaking a bunch of them because I’m me, and well… I don’t do well with rules.

Eleven Facts about Me:

1. I had an eating disorder in college. My need to feed everyone and make them happy with food is my way of turning a painful obsession into something positive. The insidious thing about an eating disorder is that you can’t give up food like you can stop shooting heroine or huffing glue or whatever else people abuse. So dinner parties — and this blog — are about taking food back.

2. I think therapy is helpful… to a point. And then it’s time to move on. Nothing has been more profoundly healing for me than forgiveness. For real.

3. I think there are usually two sides to every story. Life is complicated. And sometimes it’s just a matter of shifting your perspective. Or changing your story if it doesn’t serve you. For example, I could look at my mother’s desire to redline my short stories and poems with editor’s notes as harsh and critical. Or I could look at it as someone who saw potential in me and wanted to make me better. Someone who took the time and cared enough to push me.

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I was not the Poet Laureate of Greenfield Parkway at 11, but this poem hung (proudly?) on the refrigerator with all of its editor’s notes.

4. I think life is about creating a dance floor where there wasn’t one before.

5. I don’t really like cupcakes. I just make them because other people love them and tell me I’m fabulous for making them. I do lots of things because I want people to tell me I’m fabulous. Who doesn’t? I’m human.

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I played cupcake fairy last weekend and delivered these to my friends just to say, “I love you.” Just ‘cuz.

6. People tell me things — like super personal things. All of the time. Strangers on hikes. Random guys on chairlifts. Coworkers. My sorority sisters. My family members. I know things I probably shouldn’t, but it’s probably because I believe we all need to let go of the shame associated with “shouldn’t.”

7. The first time I fell in love I was 15. It was a spectacular mess. But I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

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Love makes you do weird things. Like draw pictures of people.

8. I started another blog called This American Mess because I didn’t want Dogs Dishes and Decor to bring people down. I can’t shut my head off, so I needed to do something productive with the stuff that screams between my ears at all hours. (I’ve been an insomniac since I was four, but I’m not mad about it. Napoleon didn’t sleep much either, and we have the same personality. Or so says the Myers Briggs type indicator test.)

9. I always wanted brothers when I was little, so I tried to find them anywhere I could. For some reason I convinced the little boy next door to run away with me when we were four. We even told his mother about our plan before we carried it out, but she didn’t believe us. That was probably the last time either of our mothers failed to take us seriously. (He wrote his Harvard application essay about our adventure. He got in.)

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Family is what what you make of it. I have always tried to make my own everywhere I have gone.

10. Iron Eagle is one of my favorite movies of all time, and the producer used to call my office to speak to my boss when I worked on LOST. He passed away last year, and it’s a lasting regret of mine that I never told him how much I loved the movie. I really should have told him how much this scene speaks to me.

11. I went by Ana for a while in college because I was tired of people not being able to pronounce my name. Then I realized I wasn’t myself without a weird name, so I went back.

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This was the page I created for my sorority’s pledge book. I went overboard. Obviously.

Random Questions for the Nominees:

1. Tea or Coffee? COFFEE – espresso, actually.

2. Are you a morning person or an evening person? Both – I actually hate afternoons and think we should all embrace siestas.

3. What would be your ideal job? I’m doing it.

4. If you could do volunteer work, what would you choose to do? I used to be a sorority advisor at USC. Now I volunteer with the University of Michigan Alum Club.

5. What is your favorite sport to watch? Football

6. Are you a cat or dog lover or neither? Dog lover. I feel used by cats.

7.  Who is your favorite music artist? I can’t pick one, but my short list includes Yeasayer, My Morning Jacket, Beyonce, Rihanna, and U2 (up to and including Zooropa. I even forgive them for Zooropa. For real.)

8. Do you have a bucket list, if so, what is one thing on your bucket list? I do. And it includes cage diving with Great White sharks.

9. Do you like to eat seafood? LOVE – particularly when it’s raw.

10. What is your favorite food to eat? I live for burritos, sushi, pasta, and all kinds of pig. LOVE pig.

11. What is your favorite smell? Maybe lilac, gardenia or mint, hmm. Can’t decide.

My 11 Questions for the recipients:

1. Chocolate or vanilla?
2. Favorite books?
3. Favorite movies?
4. Favorite albums?
5. Best concert you’ve ever attended?
6. Favorite artist (painter/photographer)?
7. Biggest fear?
8. Who was your first kiss?
9. Are you facebook friends with him or her?
10. Last thing you ate?
11. First thing you do in the morning?

The (not 11) blogs I want to recognize:

LindO Designs – I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Angela is seriously talented. You HAVE to check out her blog. And her Etsy store.

Hey Gorgeous – Not only does Rhiannon live in Michigan (give it up for the mitten state), but she creates some seriously lovely events. You MUST check out her blog. She glitters unicorns. I mean, really….

Peppermint Bliss – I haven’t missed a single post since I started reading Peppermint Bliss last year. In the rare event that Bailey takes a day off from posting, my life feels incomplete. She’s funny, and she is beyond talented. So beyond.

Yammie’s Noshery – It’s rare I make anything from another blog, and I make things from this one. For real. Besides, it’s delightfully written.

Cookin’ Canuck – Again, it’s pretty rare I find a recipe on a blog that makes me abandon my back issues of Bon Appetit, but Dara’s blog did it. Her fish soup is amazing. Make it.

Rules for accepting Liebster Award are:

1.      Thank your Liebster Blog Award presenter on your blog and link back to the blogger who presented this award to you.
2.      List 11 random facts about yourself.
3.      Answer the 11 questions from the nominator.
4.      Present the Liebster Blog Award to 11 blogs who you feel deserve to be noticed.
5.      Create 11 questions for your nominees.
6.      Leave a comment on their blog letting them know they have been chosen.
7.      Copy and Paste the blog award on your blog.

Remembering Kathy Fogg (Or My Stark Family Mourns the Loss of Our Matriarch)

Posted in Awards, Philosophy by

My friend Suzie* once said, “Some people are poems. Others are symphonies.” And I absolutely believe it to be true.

Both can bring tears — or elation. Both can move you beyond measure. Both have the power to transform. One may be briefer than the other but that does not diminish its impact. Not in the least.

My grandfather was my symphony, maybe the most influential and inspirational I’ve ever known.

Kathy Fogg was my poem. A poem that changed my life.

Kathy was the Associate Director of the Peter Stark Producing Program at the University of Southern California for 23 years, and during that time she launched (and nurtured) innumerable powerful Hollywood careers. She passed away on Friday, and upon learning this news I have been reflecting on all I have in my life because of her.

My grandfather gave me his DNA — and the family that made me the person I am today.

Kathy gave me a chance — and the family that has been by my side through the soaring highs and immeasurable lows of my career.

I first met Kathy in 2000 when I was applying to the Peter Stark Program. I still remember what I wore to our meeting that day. I still remember our conversation.

After telling me about the curriculum, we moved on to talking about ourselves. Amidst other small talk, she mentioned she had made a student film with George Lucas as an undergraduate. She smiled, shrugged rather nonchalantly and said, “He’s moved on since then.” Looking at the smiling faces in the family photos lining her bookshelves and her desk, I replied, “So have you.”

Not only did Kathy have her own wonderful family, but she also created the family feeling of the Peter Stark Program. (A program named for the late son of legendary producer, Ray Stark.)

I am sad to say I hadn’t seen Kathy since she retired, but I feel her impact on my life. Daily. She (and prolific producer Larry Turman) gave a girl from Michigan the chance to sit in a room with some of the biggest names in Hollywood. And she gave me the friends who have been by my side in a business not necessarily known for loyalty and integrity. The people who have given me jobs, hugs, support, and big bottles of wine — the people for whom I have done the same. The people who understand the moments of torment and triumph everyone experiences in the crucible of show business.

Kathy saw something in me. She believed in me. She made the call that changed my life that winter day when she told me I had been given one of the 25 coveted spaces in the program.

During the two years the 25 of us spent with Kathy, she made us cookies. She gave us hugs. She made us laugh. She helped us find the jobs and internships that took us to the next level.

The Producing Class of 1994 was so powerful it inspired a New York Times feature in 2002. And that powerful class? Still remembered where they came from. They hired three of us from the class of 2003. Because Family? Takes care of their own.

Some have called the graduates of the program the Stark Mafia. But isn’t a mafia just a really powerful family, anyway?

Larry Turman has often told me they select the people who would have been successful without the program, and that may very well be true. But, our lives are all much richer for having each other in it.

Kathy Fogg may not have had a Film Produced By credit on any Oscar-winning films. But she has countless Careers Produced By Credits. Lives Changed By Credits.

As I remember Kathy, I am grateful for the chance she gave me, but most of all for the people she brought into my life. Because I can say with absolute certainty that without those true friends and my faith I would have left this business long ago.

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Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to the batting cages to hit something. Hard. Because I need to do something with my sadness. At least today in remembering what Kathy saw in me, remembering the friends she gave me, I feel strong enough to hit balls by myself. Strong enough to hit a home run. Even if it is with tears in my eyes.

*Suzie is one of those true friends I wouldn’t have if it weren’t for Kathy. And Suzie said that when we were at SXSW with Melissa, another true friend and fellow member of the class of 2003. 

Someone Else’s Eyes (Or I Go All Introspective Again)

Posted in Philosophy, Uncategorized by

Sometimes we need to see life through someone else’s eyes. It’s important to remember your situation or perspective isn’t paramount. Our modern culture tells us we’re these amazing, autonomous, infallible beings with some sort of right to happiness and success. As if our masters degrees grant us a life without failure, rejection, or struggle. As if our size 6 jeans mean we won’t be left brokenhearted and sobbing on the bathroom floor.

Guess what?

Nothing protects you from the bumps and bruises of life. Not even a trust fund, a tiny waist, or a perky rack. Nothing. Protects. You.

We’re all going to falter.

We’re all going to fail.

If you haven’t yet, bully for you. Just hang on. You might be betrayed by your boss. You might lose the most important person in your life too soon. You might fall short of your dreams.

And guess what? It’s all going to be OK anyway.

The thing is, life can be painful. It can sting, but it isn’t an excuse to check out. It doesn’t grant you permission to shut down and shut everyone out. Trust me. I’ve done it. And it’s OK if you have too. Life is about forgiving yourself. Forgiving others. And moving on.

It’s about finding joy in the little things when everything is falling apart around you. Maybe it’s even fiddling while Rome burns*.

Whatever it is, life is a long, strange trip. And it’s filled with people who can help you… if you let them. Lately I’ve discovered that life isn’t a random accident. It’s really not. I’ve been having a crazy month where people are coming into my life (and also back into it) with questions for which I have the answers; they’re fighting battles I’ve fought before. Or they have been through some rough times that have helped me immensely on my path. I think that maybe we can be missing pieces in someone else’s puzzle. It doesn’t have to be a forever thing. It can just be a moment in time. Or it can be a great friendship. Either way, I think it’s our mission to help where we can… how we can.

I started this blog to express myself… and to talk about my favorite things: food, dogs, and design. And in the process I’ve found myself again — the me that gets buried when I’m getting paid to write someone else’s story — the me that gets paid to live a life that isn’t really mine.

So thank you for reading. And thank you for joining me on a journey that doesn’t have a destination.

Yet.

Tonight, I leave you with this: a photo me with my Bumpa, Harold Lawrence Russell. A kindred spirit. An inspiration. And one of the most amazing men I will ever know.

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I have my grandpa’s eyes. I only hope I have his strength, his kindness, and his capacity for forgiveness.

When I’m ready, I’ll tell his story. For real.

*Side note: Nero, who is said to have set fire to Rome and then fiddled while it burned, was a crazy bastard who persecuted Christians and was tight with (and also related to) Caligula who was so whacked that he planned to elect his horse Consul. #truestory #youcantmakethisshitup

It’s Dark and Stormy Up in Here (Or At Least in My Glass)

Posted in Cocktails, Drinks, Recipes by

Sorry for the freak out on Friday. Whoa, that was unpleasant. (Thank you all for the encouragement. Sincerely. It really means a lot!)

Anyway, I’m fixin’ to tell you about the elephants soon, but first? We should talk about my love of Fever Tree Ginger Beer.

I adore ginger. Adore. It. I could almost live on it – particularly the pickled kind. I have been known to fight my friend Melissa for the last shred of pickled ginger on a sushi plate. We are obsessed. Like have to order extra obsessed.

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This is Melissa and me with our Long Lost Danielle in the middle. We need Danielle back in LA, like immediately.

So anyway, the other night I ordered a marvelous meat sandwich from the deli up the street and mixed myself a Dark and Stormy with some Fever Tree for a divine pairing that was sort of like au jus and rum nirvana. (For real.)

If you’re not familiar with Dark and Stormies, you should be. They’re a feisty, fabulous, little rum cocktail with a good gingery bite. I think the key to making the perfect Dark and Stormy is using the right ginger beer. Bars often make them with Bundaberg’s and that’s a’ight, but not tremendous. The drink is vastly superior when it’s made with Fever Tree. Trust me.

Fever Tree is amazing, and it even has bits of ginger floating in the bottle. (Heaven!)

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Check out this bottle of feisty goodness!

Technically, the recipe looks something like this:

Dark and Stormy

2 oz dark rum
8 oz ginger beer
lime wedge

But mostly I just pour it all in my glass haphazardly, add some fresh squeezed lime juice, and then sip it with a huge grin on my face.

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Gingery rummy goodness in a glass. Pirates would be proud of me.

Fever Tree can be tricky to find, but you can buy it here.

Now I’m off to the Thai Town Rotary Club Meeting to discuss a fire station fundraiser. I don’t know how I get myself into these things*….

 *Actually I do. Here’s how: last spring, my gorgeous British friend rather sweetly and not so subtly informed an entire fire station that I was a good cook and I’d be happy to make them pasta with spicy Italian sausage. This was overheard by the Rotary Club President, blah, blah, blah, etc., you get it. Suzie was trying to set me up with 14 firemen and now I’m planning a fundraiser. Or something. 

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Suzie is sexy with legs that do not end. She and I exceed at causing trouble together.

I Just Can’t Talk About Elephants (Or I Admit I’m Sad)

Posted in Party Planning, Uncategorized by

Right now I want to talk to you about this.

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It’s the elephant themed baby shower I threw for one of my closest friends.

And I kind of want to talk to you about this whole situation.

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Both the meaning of what’s on my wall and the massive home “to do” list next to it… but right now?

I just can’t.

Instead, I want to talk to you vulnerability. Yuck, I know. Totally monstrous. But hear me out.

About two weeks ago, I got into a car accident on my way to a nail appointment. I was all lost in my head about 14 different things (per usual), running late (always) and particularly stressed out about the being late part. See, the mani/pedi was a gift from my aunt and it was with her manicurist of 20 years. I am BY FAR the most disorganized, air headed person in my entire family, and I feel like I’m always letting them down with my general tardiness and scatterbrainity. (I should mention I was also three months overdue in scheduling said appointment.)

So anyway, I was checking my phone to see how far away I was when I crashed into the back of a Lexus. So that sucked. I had been planning to call the manicurist to tell her I was going to be 5-10 minutes late. Instead I had to call her and admit I’d just crashed into an LS 400 and was going to be more like 30 minutes late. None of this was awesome… and it’s only the beginning of my story.

The next morning I had to have this conversation with a guy that I was simply dreading, but I knew running away from it was a far worse option, so I made myself call. After leaving a message for him, I talked to my mother and she started telling me things that are going on with my family in Michigan that made me simultaneously devastated and relieved that I live 2500 miles away. (I will not get into it here because they are not my stories to tell. Suffice it to say, you would not wish any of it on your worst enemy.) She also said I should call my grandmother because her sister in Canada had just suffered a massive stroke. While this would be devastating news in and of itself, it’s only a fraction of what my grandmother is actually enduring. See, when Greta passes away, she will be grandmother’s third sister to die in two years. In those two years my grandmother has buried her husband of 67 years and her 25 year-old grandson.

I cannot even begin to fathom this sometimes.

I usually call my grandma on Sundays to chat but called her immediately to cheer her up. The guy called me back as I was wrapping up with my grandma, and I had the conversation I was afraid to have. By the end of it all, I felt like I had just gone 15 rounds with Ivan Drago hitting me in the face. And the thing is?

There was nothing I could do about any of it. Nothing at all.

So I blasted the Macklemore, made some soup, and danced in my kitchen. See, that’s usually how I deal with life. I dance. I do nice things for other people instead of asking them to help me. I cover shit with glitter, making it look all cute and fancy. I throw elaborate dinner parties where I flit around like a cheerful little bird in high heels.

And usually?

I smile when I want to scream.

Part of the reason I’ve been so absent from my blog is not just that I was working on a huge project for the Oscars that was taking all of my time. It was also because my usual I’m-happy-everything’s-fine routine has been feeling really false since my cousin committed suicide in November.

Most of the time I’m the dependable drone who puts her head down and gets the job done no matter what it costs her. Whether it means sacrificing sleep, my social life, or my sanity, I just do it. I’m the kind of person you want around in a crisis. I’m focused. I’m in command. And I’m moving 100 miles an hour. The problem for me is when the crisis ends. Or worse yet, when there isn’t a resolution for it at all.

What then?

I used to go the batting cages and absolutely beat the ever loving shit out of balls flying at my face when I was upset. It was a way I could deal with the rage I felt about the things I couldn’t fix. And today I’m close to picking up a bat and swinging at balls until I can’t lift my arms again. The problem with this option is that the guy who used to take me is 2800 miles away, married with two kids, and prepping for a huge trial. And I could go alone, but right now going to the batting cages without him might just be another reminder of everything in my life that is gone.

I was in Costco this morning (again with low blood sugar – WHY do I do this to myself?!?) and I was close to having a screaming fit because I couldn’t find the peanut butter or the V-8. I wanted to scream “WHERE THE FUCK DID YOU PUT THE FUCKING SKIPPY, YOU ASSHOLES? I’M STARVING AND I WANT TO PUT ALL OF THE FUCKING PEANUT BUTTER IN NORTH AMERICA INTO MY FUCKING CART AND GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!!!”

But I didn’t do that. My WASP roots prevailed and instead I silently, stoically, and methodically went up and down the aisles suppressing my rage until I found the Skippy stash. I did this when I wanted to go absolutely postal.

See, it’s easier to really let go and scream about the things that don’t matter like 32 pounds of peanut butter. It somehow hurts less to get upset about Skippy than the things that are really tearing you apart. It’s easier to scream “Where’s the stupid Skippy?” when you really want to scream, “Why was I up so late working that I missed my chance to say goodbye to one of the most important men in my life?” “Why did my cousin have to hang himself over a couple of bad grades?” and “Why does every company or project have to fold, get sold, or come to an end when I’m finally getting back on my feet?”

Why?

And the truth is, it doesn’t matter. Finding an answer to all the “whys” doesn’t solve anything anyway. Sitting with the pain does. Leaning into the pain instead of running from it — that’s the work. Telling someone how bad it really feels? That’s what matters. So I’m starting here. I’m admitting it here.

I’ve spent most of my life being strong. For myself. For others. And I think maybe what I’m learning is that in life…

You have to be strong enough to break.

Because that’s where the real healing starts.

Now you should totally watch this TED talk because it’s all kinds of amazing, and Brene Brown is much smarter than I am.

I’m off to blast Rebecca Black’s Friday because I can’t sit with the pain for too long. I need to dance in my kitchen. And maybe? I also need to channel some Ivan Drago and take up boxing… because no matter how hard it gets, I’m never going to stop swinging.

The Roof, the Roof is On Fire (Or I Attempt to Fry Chicken)

Posted in Recipes by

So, LA is beyond weird. I mean, look at this madness.

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We ran into this bizarre little pony and his goat friend on our morning hike recently. They were apparently part of some strange movie being shot in our neighborhood. We also encountered a battered and bloodied Girl Scout running out of the woods wearing a bad beret, and that absolutely freaked Woodley out. She started barking like mad which probably ruined the shot, but that’s what people get for making unsavory low budget films when I’m trying to hike in the morning.

So anyway, I mostly embrace the madness that is LA, but there is a part of me that longs for something sort of homey and normal-like. So tonight in an attempt to keep things real, I made some fried chicken.

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I nearly set the place on fire and Albus had to retreat to the window for some fresh air, but it mostly turned out well.

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It’s probably safer over here.

I riffed off of this recipe from Miss Paula Deen (naturally). I used a mixture of mustard powder and onion powder instead of garlic powder, and it totally worked.

See?

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It was kind of awesome — even if my plating isn’t.

Later this week we’ll discuss last night’s Indian dish. And the state of my bedroom walls, ‘cuz that conversation is LONG overdue.

Now I’m going to crank up the Divine Miss Beyonce and attempt to get the grease off of my stovetop.

Lord. It’s a mess.

Costco, Rotisserie Chicken, and Spicy Margies (Or How to Make a Jalapeno Margarita)

Posted in Drinks, Recipes by

So, I went to Costco on Sunday. When I was starving. After yoga.

#epicfail

I consider it a personal triumph that I didn’t walk out of the place carrying 42 crab legs, 55 pineapples, and 14 rib eyes. The fact that my only unplanned purchases were a rotisserie chicken and a pink polka dotted beach towel is nothing short of remarkable.

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Coscto is so amazing.

I’ll be honest — the whole outing was sort of a mess. I mean, I was that cranky sort of hungry that makes me violent inside. Plus everyone in the store was extra fat and slow, and they were all letting their nine-years old push the double wide cart, which never goes well for anyone. I mostly held it together, though. (I think.)

As long as I’m being all truthful, I should also probably admit that I nearly tore into that unplanned rotisserie chicken the minute I got into my car like some sort of savage, but I thought better of myself and opted for a can of V-8 instead. (Those rotisserie chickens are greasy. Truth.)

Aaaanyway, I now possess more canned tomatoes than any single person should, so I thought I’d make some chili. This turned into I-should-also-make-quesadillas-and-salsa-verde. Oh and jalapeno margaritas.

Who doesn’t love a spicy margy?

I mean…

Since I had to rush off to USC for this fabulous TWIN PEAKS retrospective, I decided to start marinating my jalapeño slices in tequila before I left. (BTW, If you don’t know about Bob and the Black Lodge, get on that s#*@ now. You can thank me later.)

Of course the SAG Awards were on campus the same day as the TWIN PEAKS screening, so it was an absolute nightmare getting to my event. Every entrance onto campus from Fig was blocked off, there were cavalcades of Escalades and town cars converging from all directions, and I had to park absolutely miles away from campus. I may have even had to run in riding boots, but I made it the theater before the first bar of Angelo Badalamenti’s moving score.

Meanwhile, my margies were marinating at home.

So that was my Sunday. Truly riveting, right?

Aaaanyway, if you like a little kick with your drink, here’s how you can make a spicy margy.

Jalapeno Margaritas

6 oz tequila
4 oz fresh squeezed lime juice
4 oz triple sec
1 fresh jalapeno
Ice cubes

Slice one fresh jalapeno into thin slices.

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Jalapeno slices. Riveting.

Place the slices into tequila and allow the chiles to marinate for a least one hour. (The longer you let the chiles sit, the spicier your margy.)

Strain the tequila to remove the seeds and jalapeno slices.

Pour the tequila, fresh lime juice, and triple sec into a shaker. Add ice and shake vigorously. Pour into a glass and serve. Garnish with jalapeño slices for a little flair.

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Drink. And repeat. But not too many times. You probably have to work in the morning.