For one, if you’re an outdoorsman … Redding is your kinda town.  You couldn’t walk five feet without stumbling across a hiking trail.  Nearby Mount Shasta means you can ski and snowboard to your hearts’ desire.  And if you’re really motivated, the ocean is only a short drive to the left.

Whereas the rest of California is a cultural melting pot, Redding is filled with white folks.  Pasty white folks.  I can only assume they’ve been shipped in from Oregon and/or Washington.  Immigrants, dontchaknow?  One night my crew was ravenous for Indian food.  When I asked the client to make a suggestion, she made a sad face.  Turns out the two Indian restaurants in town closed years ago due to lack of business.  (I assumed that meant Ethiopian food was also out of the question.)

Every town I visit has some sort of smell.  Pittsburg smells like coal and butane.  Colorado Springs smells like pine trees and Pine Sol.  But Redding is devoid of any smell.  There’s not even a faint hint of something … like when you catch the teeniest whiff of cologne or perfume.  I kept breathing deeply … all I got was clean air.  Good for my lungs, but bad for keeping my olfactory senses heightened.

Coffee shops, bait and tackle shops and gift shops run rampant in Redding.  Apparently, all anyone wants to do when they’re not enjoying the great outdoors is get a caffeine fix, a new fishing lure or some sort of present … or all three.  There are plenty of eateries around … so there’s that.  Although I did get quizzed by the waitress at the one high-end steak restaurant in town.  “You’re not from here are you?  I know that because you ordered the expensive bottle of wine,” she lamented.  (It was $38.)

So here’s to you, Redding … with your new fancy-schmancy Sundial Bridge and your pretty mountain vistas.  I’d love to go back and visit from time to time, but then I’d have to learn to kayak or something.

When we stumbled in to our hotel, we were greeted by the world’s laziest feline holding court in the lobby.  To be honest, it wasn’t really even a greeting – more like just a casual acknowledgement of our arrival.  We all did a double take … asking the front desk clerk if someone had lost a cat.  “That’s Jack … our lobby cat,” she said.  “He just kinda hangs out here.”  My crew immediately rushed over and started fawning over Jack like they’d never seen a cute, furry animal in their life before.

And Jack was pretty cute – for an oversized ball of fluff.  He looked like orange meringue with fur.

Jack took the attention in stride … feigning ambivalence with a muted, “Mew.”  That’s right … “Mew”.  He was so apathetic; he didn’t even have the energy to utter a full on, “Meow”.   After two minutes of my crew petting him, picking him up and nuzzling him, Jack ambled away and parked his butt near the hotel’s fireplace.

My crew – who were running on fumes from a long day of travel – suddenly had all the energy in the world.  They peppered the clerk with questions.  “WheredidJackcomefrom?  AreyouafraidJackwillescape?  WheredoesJackeat?”, they asked in unison.  The front desk clerk took a cue from Jack’s can’t-be-bothered attitude and responded, “I dunno – he’s always just sorta been here.  And his bed is over there.”  Of course, his bed was an impossibly cute pet carrier shaped like a mini-castle.

I’m not a cat person, but Jack’s lethargy intrigued me.  I would watch with wide-eyed abandon as Jack would have just enough energy to hoist himself up on to the hotel lobby’s counter.  He would then collapse and sprawl out – taking up as much space as possible.  It’s clearly Jack’s world – hotel patrons are just living in it.

Our photographer Penny lost her big orange cat about a week ago.  I think Jack sensed that … because he had a particular affinity for her.  Penny took several pictures of him while we were there.  I think he secretly enjoys the attention, but because rules of Feline-Dom state cats must look disinterested at all times, Jack was holding up his end of the bargain.

I wish I could go through life completely unbothered by anyone or anything.  I think I may take a few cues from Jack, the lobby cat.

If I’m with my crew, we always try to find the weirdest, most-out-of-the-way place.  A true Mom and Pop joint.  We’ll drive to a sketchy part of town just because we heard a rumor about a phenomenal vegetarian restaurant.  We’ll argue about which Indian eatery to try based on their menu offerings.  I’ve become quite the connoisseur of eating out.  My waistline can confirm this.

Last night, I hung out with my best friend Dre and her husband.  Her hubby suggested a swank restaurant in Sacramento called Grange.  It’s attached to an even swankier hotel, The Citizen, which helped inspire a renaissance in the downtown area.  Given that I visit SacTown 4-5 times a year, it was strange I’d never dined there.

It’s always a good sign when the executive chef happens to be milling around out front and offers you suggestions on what to get.  Grange is a flesh-eaters paradise.  I had a rib eye the size of my head last night – complimented with a rich blue cheese béarnaise, spinach and gnocchi.  I thought I had died and gone to carnivore heaven.  So did Dre’s hubby – who scored perfectly executed pork chops.  The menu changes almost weekly which helps ensure diners are always treated to exquisite new recipes.  The waiter suggested an impossibly blissful bottle of Chardonnay to go along with our meal, DuMol Russian River.   (Yes, I know … red meat = red wine … don’t judge me.)

There’s something to be said about the dining out experience.  For a foodie like me, it’s hard to beat a great meal with friends – complete with sparkling conversation.  The perfect finish was the chef’s gourmet Butterscotch pudding.  Somebody tell me again why I’ve never eaten here?  I think I’ve reached Nirvana.

Imagine my surprise when “The Bar Method” turn out to be a killer workout … featuring – yep, you guessed it – a ballet bar.  Since I teach yoga, I thought this would be similar.  Again, woefully wrong.  The Bar Method is a specialized type of body sculpting … with a lot of the moves, stretches and isometric holds originating off of the ballet bar.

I went in with my head held high and left in traction.  Not only did I need coordination, the moves required fluid grace.  The only fluids I had were caused by insane sweating.  I was drenched by the end of the workout.  I’ve perspired less in hot yoga.

The owner of the local facility was Hoddy Potter.  She’s a powerful 6′2″ Glamazon who could easily pass for Xena: Warrior Princess’ stunt double.  She had a good natured, goofy attitude that I found refreshing … until that class started, that is.

At that point I started using muscles I didn’t even know existed.  There was stretching, pulsing, more stretching and an ungodly amount of bending.  Fifteen minutes in to class and I thought I had polio.  My legs were shaking so badly that I was getting dizzy.  30 minutes in to class, I pretended to have an epileptic fit just to get out of class.  No such luck.

Watch the story here:

The moral of the story is … you should always try new things. Just when you think you’ve done it all, along comes something else new to attempt. (You’ll note the smile on my face was taken BEFORE class. I was too tired to hand my camera to anyone AFTER class to get a picture.) Did I enjoy it? Yes. Did I enjoying getting a margarita at an actual bar afterwards? Even more.

Don’t tell Hoddy, though – I don’t want her on my bad side. Or my good side for that matter. In fact, if you could just keep her away from me until after I get out of this body cast … that would be great!

Last week, I got to a story on a local company that does a very specialized type of make-over.  They transform the average hausfrau into one of those iconic pin-ups from the ‘30’s, ‘40’s or ‘50’s.  And the weird thing?  The studio is within walking distance of my house.   Who knew?

The owners, Nikki and Candy, made an appearance at our company’s retro-themed holiday party … glamming up a few of my co-workers a la’ Veronica Lake or Betty Grable.  I was instantly drawn to both of them because they were so intriguing.  There’s cool.  There’s cool as shit.  And then there’s Nikki and Candy.  From the multi-colored hair to the multiple tattoos to the larger than life bosom … they were the single most interesting people I have laid eyes on in five years.  I was determined to make them my new BFFs even if it KILLED me.   I envision us doing cool things like going to the roller derby or getting high at a foreign film festival. 

Nikki started “Vixen Pin-Up Photography” several years ago after dabbling in the industry for a while.  She’s self-taught in the ways of vintage hair and make-up and can duplicate nearly any look.  She makes it look easy.  When I did the story she was busy pulling, teasing and spit-curling hair while maintaining her Chatty Cathy demeanor. 

Check out the story here.

The two friends who I suckered in to getting the make-overs absolutely loved the results.  When we started, they both gave me the ol’ “What have you gotten me into?” look.  But that quickly subsided after seeing some of the amazing before and after shots.

I think the thing I’m most proud of is that Vixen’s phone has literally been ringing off the hook since the story aired.  “And our e-mail blew UP,” Candy mentioned in an e-mail.  It’s always nice to know that people with a unique skill or talent are rewarded.  Both these gals do what they love and love what they do … and it shows.

Black pepper days were the worst, she’d say.  She’d complain she was coated in a fine layer of pepper dust.  I always despised when they were packaging curry at the plant.   In small doses, it’s fine.   Otherwise … blech!  Curry permeates and then permanently invades any airspace.   The aroma (read that: smell) would tend to linger on, near or around my mom no matter how many showers she took or spritzes of perfume she’d spray.  To this day, my dad can’t be near the smell of curry without cringing.

Sometimes Mom had a spring in her step.  Those were vanilla extract or lemon verbena days.  She liked working there and made some good friends over the years.  And sure there were a lot of perks – like free spices from time to time.  Or random test recipes that somehow included 46 different spices in varying amounts.

I am forever adding spices to every dish I make.  It reminds me of my mom.  I don’t know if she would be proud … or appalled.  For instance … this morning’s oatmeal had a dash of ginger, a sprinkle of nutmeg, a healthy dose of cinnamon and a light dusting of something called Pumpkin Pie spice.

A tasteless meal is the work of the devil. I simply cannot handle bland food.   Call me Emeril – because it must have a kick.  Or else.  I think my mom’s palate has changed over the years – and not for the better.  She can cook up a storm, but rarely anything with a lot of spice in it anymore.   Case in point, even though she probably has a lifetime supply of cumin, she refuses to so much as try it.   One time my mom and I had a full blown argument about how much garlic I put in a dish.   She will, however, add a sprinkle of paprika to her deviled eggs though – so I know she’s still get a little boom in her bada bing.

So here’s to every chef or chef-in-training out there who goes a little nutty with the nutmeg or psycho with the saffron.  More power to you.  And if you have any ideas how to breathe  new life into my mom’s meatloaf … lemme know.  I’d be eternally grateful.

A recent check of my stat counter revealed hits from Tanzania, Australia, Spain … and, uh, Poughkeepsie.  I don’t know anyone in these areas … but thanks for checking out my site … even though you didn’t send me any feedback.

Speaking of feedback, I get a lot of commentary from my good friend Judith.  She wins the prize for most e-mails to me about this blog or that blog.  Dare I call her a groupie?  She’s wise beyond her years – so she’s allowed to say anything pro (or con) she wants.

When I started this website, I simply wanted it to be an outlet for my musings.  Whether or not people read it was secondary.  Then a strange thing happened.  People started reading it … and started giving me insight on my blogs.  (My dad chimes in from time to time … but, usually, he’s just giving me an update on life and not about the topic at hand.  Still appreciated, though.)

I just scored my most read blog last week. Maybe you read it? (Uh, everyone ELSE did.)  It was entitled “Top 5 Tips For Dating A Television Personality”.  It went viral and got thousands upon thousands of hits over a two-day span.  Traffic to my site spiked like it’s never spiked before.  And, yet, not one comment.  Not one “Ha!” or “That was a good’urn!” or even “Increase your website SEO capabilities by clicking here.”  The biggest blog of my writing career … and all I heard was crickets.  Oh well.  I guess that’s better than hate mail.

Which reminds me … I’m overdue for a crazy letter from a crazy reader.  My favorite last year was the guy who said my writing made “his teeth hurt”.  Apparently I dangled one too many participles or something.  Happens.

So just know that I read each letter that comes to my inbox (save for the superfluous spam) and respond accordingly.  I adore my adoring public.  And if I respond, “OMG! AWESOME!” – now you know that’s code for “I don’t know who the hell you are.”

My resolution in 2008 was “Avoid negativity at any cost.”  It remains my personal motto.  And a standard I live by every day.

My resolution for 2009, you ask?  Take more time for myself.  Needless to say, it was a wildly banal, boring year.  I ramped it up in 2010.  Smart choice on my part.  I’ll sleep when I’m dead.

In 2010, I challenged myself to be a kinder/gentler Michael Mackie.  I ended up having a stroke that year.  Clearly that was a sign not to go against the grain.  If you try to upset the balance of the universe, your brain will explode.  Figuratively and literally.

Last year I was in the midst of living my life like a mad-crazy fool.  After my stupid stroke I vowed not to say “no” to anything for 12 months.  So I didn’t have a resolution, per se.  I mean, other than stay alive.

This year is tough.  I’m thinking this is a year I need to be more introspective and spiritual.  I started going to church a few months ago – and it’s changed my perspective on a few things.  (Don’t worry … I’m not going to go all Jesus Freak or Pulpit Preacher on you.)  I’ve got a trip to India planned in 2012 – which is about as spiritual as it gets.  That will likely get me centered and ground me since I’ve been a little discombobulated for the last year or so.

My friends have tons of resolutions for me … far too many to mention here.  But here are a few doozies:  My friend Cliff thinks I should be more culturally aware.  (You know – like opera and shit.)  My friend Deirdre thinks I should write a book with her.  (She’s been saying that for five years now.)  And my trainer thinks I should lose twelve pounds.  (He’s been the bane of my existence for much of the year.)

So here’s to a fab 2012.  I hope I get to spend more time with all my dear friends and, of course, my family.  Without you guys, I wouldn’t be the well-rounded fake blonde I am today.  I hope the planets align for all of us.

Seems my folks do not appreciate their always-entertaining commentary and/or antics to be fodder for the blogosphere.  I would whole-heartedly disagree.  My parents are comedy gold and they don’t even know it.

My dad didn’t appreciate the blog I wrote about how he’s always cold and dresses like Nanuck of the North.  He keeps the house at a toasty 82 degrees year-round.  He would beg to differ.  “You exaggerate so much people will start to think that!” he told me.  When I threatened to take a picture of him sleeping under 14 different, heavy blankets, comforters and duvets, he hid my camera.  “I can’t even see the clock over ‘the mountain’ of blankets,” said my mom.

Mountain – that’s funny shit.

Speaking of my mom, I told her I was hungry tonight and asked if we had any frozen pizzas in the house.  She said no.  A quick search of the three freezers (two ‘fridge-sized and one industrial-sized) turned up nothing.  I did, however, find an endless array of any other frozen product known to man.  Some were encased in freezer burn so thick I’m not sure what it was.  I took a picture so you could be the judge.  It was either blueberries or green beans or human fingers … I’m not quite sure.  My mom is a frozen food hoarder.  I’m gonna nominate her for that show.

I’ve explained to them countless times that my adoring public craves updates on them.  They remain unimpressed.  When I reminded them they raised me to be a smart, witty, award-winning writer and they should appreciate my musings, they shot back, “But you make us sound like kooks!”

Well, for the record, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.  In 2012, I will let them write a blog about me … and will only edit for spelling or grammatical errors.  Everything else is fair game.  God help me.

Here are some things you may want to think about before dating us:

5) No, we’re not as important as we think we are … but we’ll never let on that we think that.  Here’s the deal:  Television is sexy.  It beats your job of sitting in a cubicle answering phones from 9-5 and being an office drone.  We get our hair and make-up done and say important things like, “We’ll be right back … AFTER THIS!”  And while that doesn’t make us Mother Teresa – it usually trumps anyone’s ace.  You need to embrace our sense of superiority because we’re not going to get over it – at least in public anyway.

4) If you lie about something, we’ll find out sooner than later.  Here’s a perfect example: my roommate is a bulldog investigative reporter.  If I want to get the low-down on you or any of your crony friends, all I have to do is bat my eyelashes at him.  Plus, I’m tight with countless Public Information Officers on the police force.  We all are.  It’s our job.  When you come clean about your weird foot fetish, we’ll act semi-surprised for your benefit, but we already knew about it weeks ago.

3) The ego has landed … at our doorstep.  The nanosecond we walk in the door to our house, we usually turn off our TV persona and become common folk.  Typically, I don’t want to discuss what famous person I met today or how great the photo shoot was because I’m too busy putting on my fat pants and eating Häagen-Daaz right out of the carton.  It’s pedestrian, I know.  And I wouldn’t want it any other way.   Let me decompress and then “I’ll be right back … AFTER THIS!”

2)  TV people, anchorpeople and on-air people usually gravitate towards one another.  That means unless you join our ranks, you’ll usually be standing around bored at a party while we engage in vicious shoptalk.  Journalists gossip, snivel, complain and kvetch.  If you’re dating us, you’ll soon learn which one of our brethren has a drinking problem, has packed on too much weight or wears so much make-up they resemble a clown.  You need to go to your grave with that information … or else it’s over between us.  Even worse?  We’ll likely shun you.

1) Anything you say or do … anything you may mention in passing or mumble in your sleep … becomes fodder for us.  Since we never know where the next big story idea is coming from, we’re usually all ears.  By nature, we’re inquisitive – so don’t act all high and mighty when we want to do a story on weird foot fetishes.  Of course we won’t feature you — duh.  As TV personalities, we want to keep our private lives PRIVATE.  But we will pick your brain on which one of your weirdo friends we can cajole in to doing an interview.

So there you have it, folks.  There are a lot of us TV peeps who are single and ready to mingle.  We bring a lot to the table – including our mega-watt smiles, perfectly-coiffed hair and the fact we always smell like sandalwood or cotton candy.   We’re typically passionate, exuberant and love sparkling conversation – provided we’re talking about us.  Feel free to ask us out.  I’m totally there.  I can only polish my five Emmys so many times before I’m bored out of my ever-lovin’ mind.