Callafornia

Veep Selected 2

2008-08-29T07:55:00.001-07:00

He picked a woman! I knew it, I knew it, I knew it. I knew McCain was going to pick a woman. Its going to be a good old fashioned cockfight come November, ladies and gentlemen, and the Democratic primary all over again. Oh, politics. It's whether you win or lose AND how you play the game.

I Think...

2008-08-27T11:47:00.000-07:00

... NBC needs to never employ Cris Collingsworth again. He was the Living Smiley Face throughout the Olympics that found a way to insert himself into each storyline he covered ("Debbie Phelps squeezed my knee throughout the race!" "LeBron James told me that he might cry at the gold medal ceremony!" and actually said to Bob Costas "if there's one word that comes out of the Olympics for me, it's hope. For two weeks, people from all over the world gather and they get along in a way that is just chilling, almost, in many ways. And you say, if it can happen for two weeks, why not three? Why not a month, why not longer?" This guy used to play football? Gag...
... Kara DioGuardi is being brought onto American Idol to slowly replace Paula Abdul. And Paula should be concerned.
... Kath & Kim looks stupid. This is an Australian transplant. The Aussies tend to have that same dry sense of humor that the Brits have. Somehow they're able to make annoying people charming and funny. Americans can't. They're just annoying. I don't know why.
... that even though Hillary Clinton was just towing the DNC line last night, she did a bang up job in making me believe that she really does want party unity. At least until the next election cycle.
... about the Olympic torch. Whatever happened to it? Did they put it out? Did they hand it back to the IOC guy? I was so overwhlemed by Jackie Chan singing and all the flying people that I had to turn it off before the end. Was there an end?
... I'm a little in love with Nathan Sawaya. I realize this is wrong, but I'm kinda intrigued by a guy who channeled his Peter Pan Complex into a marketable ability.

Kareem

2008-08-26T17:25:00.000-07:00

Seen last night at Fogo de Chao. Kareem not The Rock. The guy is TALL. Seriously, you watch basketball and you know that they're tall. But they're all tall, so, whatever, right? But then, you actually see them and you can't help but to think that there is something wrong with the milk in this country. FYI: Dwayne Johnson is 6'5. Crazy.

A Stitch in Time Saves Eight

2008-08-25T12:24:00.000-07:00

Today, I'm wearing my $12 GAP skirt. It's a sweet navy blue wrap-a-round number with pleats that also happens to be machine washable. GAP, I love you. Of course, its manufactured as cheap as all hell, so it was never really worth the $30+ dollars they gypped a good number of hardworking females out of, but that's why most of us wait for the sale with the hopes that the size XX will still be available when it gets to wholesale price. I wore this skirt with little incident the first couple of times, but after a few washings I noticed that the hem was coming down. Amend: the starch that was originally put into the fold that was supposed to be a hem to get around actually manufacturing a better constructed piece of clothing and thereby saving the GAP the $0.25 in thread and Chinese manpower must have washed out and my faux-hem was succumbing to gravity. And no amount of ironing -- cuz, yes, I'm the last of the ironing women in the world -- was able to trick the faux-hem back in. See? $12 was just about right, wasn't it? I had two choices at this point, I could (A) pay the nice Korean woman at Jack's Dry Cleaners $8 to run it through her machine. Or I could (B) hand-stitch it myself. Since I'm blogging about it, you can safely assume that I chose B.

Around the age of nine, my mother sat me down to learn how to mend and hem clothes. I thought this was unnecessary as I fully expected to be rich when I grew up and therefore would just pay someone to do unpleasant tasks for me...like hemming skirts and cooking nutritious meals. But since I wanted to learn how to sew a sock doll, I acquiesced to my mother's domestic tutelage. I was Machiavellian even then. What was most pressing at the time was the easy whip stitch. My mother, however, knowing that she had a child who intuitively knew Princely machinations the way Jesus knew Talmudic studies, coerced me into believing that I needed to know the back stitch too in order to create clothing for said sock doll. (My mother was slick one.) I suffered through the instruction and after the doll was done -- not coming out nearly as perfect as she looked in my mind -- I abandoned all my knowledge and went back to believing that I would have no need of the information again. Oh, the arrogance of youth!

Flash forward to quite a few years later a Los Angeles studio apartment where I spent evenings whip stitching threadbare jeans and $10 Old Navy yoga pants that will ultimately be stolen from a dryer. But I hadn't hemmed since that sock doll mostly because if the item of clothing didn't fit, I didn't buy it, and the hem-worthy items I did purchase were usually pants and I just panicked at the idea of sewing one leg shorter than the other. Peace of mind comes cheap at the going price of $8 and a machine-sewn pant leg pegged by a Korean seamstress. However, here I was with a simply constructed skirt that really just needed a quick back stitch. I mean, com'on!, even I can hem a skirt. So, one evening, I decided to put in a movie and get out my needle and thread. I figured, by the time the movie was over, so would my simple task. Man, I suck at time management. By the time the movie finished, I was possibly 1/3 of the way through the hem which just proved to me once again that I need to lose weight because if I was a size 6 there would have been less fabric to stitch. It took two more of these movie/hemming episodes for me to finish the skirt. But after all was watched and done, there was a sense of accomplishment in the act of this "womanly art."

It is now lunch time and for the first time since I finished the hemming process I took a close look at my handiwork. I can tell where I stopped and where I started as the first few stitches -- maybe an inch worth each time -- are sloppy and a little all over the place, but then I see where I evened out and got into a flow. Here, the stitches are small and pretty much in a straight line. I'll never be mistaken for a Thai child leg-shackled in a sweat factory, but overall, I'm happy with the result. Thanks, Mom, for under-estimating my earning potential! I could have never done it without you.

Chick Flicks Exposed

2008-08-23T11:44:00.001-07:00

Because this is funny...and true. Could Sarah Haskins be the voice of my generation? Hmm.

Veep Selected

2008-08-23T10:23:00.000-07:00

He chose Biden. All is right in the world. Still...the text thing was just weird. Even if you did want to show you were in-touch with technology, text is just a bizarre way to go. And, may I just point out, the 18 to 24 year olds that you're trying to appeal to, aren't sending you $5000 checks or starting PACs. Just saying. Now I'm immensely curious over who McCain is going to choose. Wouldn't it be a riot if he picked Hillary?

Veep Selection

2008-08-22T09:08:00.000-07:00

Obama is going to announce his Vice President selection through text message at some point in the next couple of days. Are we all going to get it, or just CNN? Shouldn't he just set up a little press conference wherever he is and just say it? This is weird. And if he chooses Chet Edwards, I'm going to freak out. Just warning you now.

An Olympic Size Hang Over

2008-08-21T11:38:00.000-07:00

I need the Olympics to be over so I can go to bed at a decent hour. It used to be that I would just "catch" the Olympics. I only made a concentrated effort to watch gymnastics, and just the girls at that. But everything else was sorta meh before. So, I'm not quite sure what's going on this time. Am I older now so this kind of thing intrigues me? Kinda like how PBS used to bore me to stitches and now its one of my favorite channels (Masterpiece Theater, Colonial House, Antiques Roadshow!)? Or is it the roadside attraction of seeing Beijing and how a repressive communist society pulls out all the stops to impress the world, even if that does mean jailing their Opening Ceremony performers for months? Or is it just the American hype machine (Michael Phelps! May and Walsh! Nastia or Shawn!)? I don't know. But its all so incredibly exciting...and exhausting. Who knew that being an armchair cheerleader could knock a girl out? This is more addictive than a VH1 marathon of I Love the 80s!

Reading Makes Me Sick

2008-08-19T11:09:00.000-07:00

I have this habit of reading things that not only enlighten me, but make me nauseous. On my plane trip from hell, I finished reading an ARC that I picked up at BEA, The Ghost In Love by Jonathan Carroll (due out September 30. My critique? Starts off fresh then devolves into a confusing Freudian treatise without a satisfying resolution). I spent two days in Myrtle Beach hoping to get to a bookstore to pick up a new tome for the jaunt home, but never got there. Which left me with the Hudson News kiosk at the Myrtle Beach airport. Not exactly a wide range of books. However, they did have Naomi Klein's The Shock Doctrine: The Rise of Disaster Capitalism in paperback, so I picked it up. I'm 100 pages into the 598 page book and I want my mommy.

As is the case with most Americans, I'm hazy on any American history pre-WWII, and just about ignorant about American history post-WWII. And as for global politics? Forget about it. Is there any country other than the U.S.? I mean, there's England, Spain, and France. We know that because they are the three countries that founded this one. There's Germany who started all those wars and killed Jews. There's Africa -- which technically is a continent, but let's not quibble -- where we captured and enslaved people. There's Canada above us with some sort've pinko health care, and Mexico below us which should do a better job about keeping it's citizens within its borders. And there's Russia and China which are bad because they're Communists. Or were Communist? Or might still be Communists? But are somehow now making money...? I don't know. No one's quite sure. And there's Iraq. But don't ask me to point it out on a map. There is a very good reason for this blithe disregard for the past and the World Order. It's freaking scary, people! When you know stuff, there is this vague feeling that you're required to do something about it. That you're somehow responsible for trying to make it right. The Shock Doctrine is a book about economics and how political and natural disasters open up the door to implementing new forms of economic theory to take root. Basically, it's a great opportunity to use a real life society to test an idea that a computer model said could work...if all the variables went exactly like you told the computer they would (which is rarely the case when you put those fallible humans into the mix). Now, I'm not into economics. I know nothing about it and never thought I would find it interesting. However, I think Ms. Klein is just brilliant, and she's one of those people who is able to break down complex processes into understandable information. I appreciate that in my writers. And after completing the first 100 pages of this book, I know now who General Pinochet is (a name that would come up on NPR at times and I always assumed he as a dictator because, you know, General kinda gives it away) and what happened in Chile for the last thirty years. I may even be able to pick Chile out on a map. Thanks, Naomi! However, I'm now also in the know about FDR's economic policies, what the New Deal really was and how it helped fuel the American Dream of the 50s, and how Reagan and Bush2 systematically destroyed all of it. In money terms, we are back to the 1920s. You know? Back before the stock market crashed in 1929 and our inflation soared and unemployment hit an all time high? Those 1920s. Who said, "Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it"? Whoever he was needs to come moderate the next political debate...not Rick Warren. (What the hell was that about, anyway?) I'm also in the know about how our CIA was compromised by Big Business objectives in the 60s and how our military is cracking open the floor for American enterprise to expand into the Middle East now and how they will be required to stay there to protect the McDonalds and the Foot Lockers in the future. (Which I always suspected, but it's nice when a respected writer with a Ph.D. does the research and footnotes it.) Oh, globalization -- a game the whole country can pay for!

According to the reviews and the jacket copy, in the next 498 pages I will be learning about Russia and China and more about New Orleans which seems to have been economically raped after Katrina. By the time I finish the book, it'll be in time for the presidential debates. Can't. Wait. I'll be howling for blood and Madame Guillotine. Viva La Revolicion!

For an interesting, quick and easy economic policy read on the two presidential nominees, I suggest Robert Reich's blog on McCainomics versus Obamanomics posted July 22.

PTS

2008-08-17T11:35:00.000-07:00

I'm currently suffering from Post Transportation Shock syndrome. Its symptoms often disguise themselves as other less nefarious maladies: Fatigue, muscle stiffness, slight nausea, and the uncomfortable confusion of feeling like you just suffered through an amazing trauma but have no clear memory of being in pain. This must be what it feels like to be abducted by aliens. The only difference, of course, is that most of you know exactly what I'm talking about whereas if I told me that I was sucked into a space ship and had my orifices probed, you would think it was time to up my dosage.

Can I ask you: What has happened to plane travel? Seriously, I can't figure it out. The first time I was ever on a plane, I was fifteen and traveling to Germany on Lufthansa. It was an eight-hour, non-stop flight where they served not only peanuts and warmed face clothes, but a full dinner. I remember because it was the first time I had flan and I liked it. (Speaking of flan, they have a very good one at Casa Vega in Sherman Oaks.) I was seated in the middle section, aisle, and I fell asleep because the seats were actually comfortably spacious enough to do so. In the last two years, I have taken over a dozen flights. I have two more trips planned before the end of the year, both necessitating plane trips. I'm telling you, it doesn't matter what day you fly, what carrier you choose, whether you take a direct flight or a non-stop, or which airport you're coming in to or out of, you are going to have problems. I'm not talking delays due to weather. I'm talking about government placed restrictions, compounded by human error, in addition to overcrowded runaways, and bad weather. The demand is so high and the supply so damaged, that it's just falling apart at the seams. I pity businessmen. I truly do.

My family was staging a mini-family reunion in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. At first, I refused to go. One of the major reasons was the flight. I told my mother that, at minimum, it was going to be a seven hour trip as there are no direct flights from California into Myrtle Beach. I was going to have to take a shuttle which meant a connector which meant huge margin for error. I literally couldn't stomach the thought. Every time I got onto Travelocity to quote prices, I felt sick. But then I really got to thinking about how I hadn't visited the Goodrich Grandparents since I was fifteen, and -- wow -- was that twenty years ago? Was I going to let my disgust with the airline industry stop me from experiencing an important family moment? That seemed like a huge mistake so I forced myself to stop thinking about the traveling and to start thinking about spending a few days with my family at the beach. So, I made the arrangements.

This time, I flew US Airways. I'm strongly considering writing a letter of discontent to the President of the company. You probably think I'm kidding, but I'm not. The major problem with plane travel is Passing the Buck. In this case, Passing the Passenger until the nice woman who boarded the plane at LAX is a shrill harpy in Charlotte, North Carolina. I thought I would get an early start. The itinerary was a 6:30AM flight from LAX to a Philadelphia connection to Myrtle Beach. I was supposed arrive at 6PM EST (3PM PST). Since I like to use Prime Time Shuttle ($64 round trip) versus driving the 405 and parking ($80+ minimum), I had to get up at 2:45AM for a 3:20AM pick up. We got to LAX around 4AM. However, US Airways does not open its Check-in until, well, I guess 4:30AM or somewhere around there because they came out around 4:20 and started to turn on computers and load paper into the printers. They opened the lines and I got through smoothly and was in the security line at 4:40AM. Except, TSA doesn't start their passenger checks until, well, I guess, 5AM, because they were all kinda hanging out, looking at the line forming and doing nothing. PAUSE.

Let me just insert here that I was a cop. I know this feeling. You're employed by the government; you are represented by a union. No matter how good you do your job, how far above the bar you go, it doesn't matter. Tenure matters. Passing tests matter. Keeping your nose clean matters. Come in. Do your eight. Get out. This is why it always cracks me up when people say that cops put on their lights and sirens to blow through red lights so they don't have to wait. People, if your job is to drive around town for eight hours waiting for someone, anyone to screw up, you don't get impatient. Someone is bound to screw up. Usually around red lights and stop signs. OK? Good. Anyway, I understand why the TSA agents were just looking at us lining-up. If their eight-hour shift starts at 5AM and flights don't take off before 6AM then there is no reason to start before that. Afterall, they are not there to help you, are they? That's not part of their job description, is it? PLAY.

I get through the Passport/Driver's license part and get into line to go through the metal detector. I get behind a young girl who has obviously never flown before. I try to help her, but its almost no use. She's got to go through three different times, and because I was trying to help her, I accidentally put my boarding pass into the bin and sent it through to the other side. And because its so earlier in the morning, they can be sticklers. I must have stood there for fifteen minutes while they were trying to sort the young girl out before they started to help me with my boarding pass. (I hate the TSA. More to come on this topic.) On the other side, everything is hunky-dory. They board us on time; it looks like everything is going to go smoothly...and then. One of our electrical boxes on the plane wasn't working. Now the pilot said that that meant that the TVs wouldn't work. Which, fine, right? It's a 6:30AM flight. Most of us are going to sleep anyway. So, can't we just go? I can live without watching What Happens in Vegas (our in-flight movie that no one paid to see in the theaters so why not make us pay for it within the price of our plane ticket) and the Coke commercial that basically tells us that if we want to drink on the flight, we must pay $2 for a can (no, really. No more free beverages. $2 cans of Coke. So they get to pay to advertise to us -- a captured audience -- and then charge us to drink their product because there are no other choices on-board. Am I the only person who is beginning to think that there is something gross going on in boardrooms across America?). However, if the pilot was lying, and say that electrical box also supplied the landing gear with juice, well, then, by all means, take your time! An hour and twenty minutes later, they deplaned us. Now, here's where it gets interesting. When we got off the plane, they were going to get us on other flights. They told us to "go away for an hour; maybe get some breakfast, and when you return, we will have your new flight assignments including any and all connections." Of course, no one wanted to do that so they crowded the desk. I, however, walked away and browsed all the shops. When I got back about thirty minutes later, I hear that they aren't going to rebook. The same woman said, "We aren't going to take the luggage off the plane, so you'll just have to re-board." In other words, "if you want your luggage to arrive at the same time you do, you'll get on this plane and like it." So they were holding our possessions hostage. But, what about us with connections? "Just get on the plane so we can get going. We only have a small window or we'll have to wait another hour. They've been informed in Philly about the issue so they'll have your connectors when you disembark on the other side." So, we were supposed to trust them. I opted for trust as all the other mistrustful souls were still stacked up at the counter and there was no way for me to make it through that line and still get off in Philly. Once we were finally back on board and pulling away from the gate, we were put in line for take off. We were number twenty. I think we were in the sky around 10:00.

Landed in Philadelphia, and sure enough, there were my boarding passes for my next two flights. Wait a minute. Two flights? That's right. I was going from Philly to Charlotte, NC, and from Charlotte to Myrtle Beach. Unfortunately, I didn't know what time I would be landing in SC any more, so I had to text my sister and tell her that I'd call her once I landed in NC then called my mother to tell her that I was not going to be making it to the family dinner that was planned. Day One: SHOT TO HELL. My two flights went semi-smoothly, though there was a little delay in Charlotte. I landed at 11:25PM.

I spent two days in South Carolina and then it was back to the airport. This time, the gate clerk -- whatever her official title is -- says, "You are allowed two pieces to carry-on. If you have anything larger than a small backpack, please come up to the desk and get a gate-check tag." I went to the desk and showed her my Vera Bradley duffel and she said that it was fine. That I didn't need one for that. OK. The flight was delayed coming in, so we were late to board, and as I entered the plane, the flight attendant looked at my duffel bag -- which hadn't grown in the last thirty minutes -- and said, "Umm, I don't know. Uh. No.... No. You'll have to leave it right out there." And I said,"But the lady up front said it would be OK." Again the woman grimaced in indecision and then said, "No, I'm sorry. Don't worry, it'll be right outside when we get to the other side." Like she was pacifying some intellectual incompetent who never gate-checked before. But I had, so I said, "Even though I don't have a yellow tag?" And she said, "Yes, it'll be right there waiting for you when you come off." I'm pissed, but what I'm going to do, right? You raise a stink, and they'll chuck you off the plane. I put the bag out in the jetway, re-board, and fly to Charlotte. I get to Charlotte, and the gate checked baggage isn't in the jetway where it always is when you disembark a plane. I stood there a few minutes, but nothing. So, I go out to the guy standing at the podium right outside the jetway and ask him about gate-checked baggage. Right away he sighs heavily and in his North Carolina accent tells me that, "They'll be back at the other end, but I can't let you go back there now because you stepped out of the jetway." Like I'm an idiot who should know the TSA rules about jetways. And! People: I was literally One. Step. out of the jetway. I was still behind him. If the jetway door was to close, I would have been hit by it. "Just step out to the side and I'll go get it after everyone else has come out." So, you see, now I had to be punished for being so stupid. Everyone gets off the jetway. He asks what my bag looks like, and I tell him that its a blue duffel bag. However, it doesn't have a yellow tag. Now, I've done it. He's shaking his head at me like I'm one of those ignorant people who goes around mucking up the system due to basic human incompetence. If you would just do as you're told... "I can't give it to you if it doesn't have a yellow tag on it. TSA rules say that it must have a yellow tag on it." "I asked the woman at the other end -- " But he doesn't want to hear about that woman. I'm the stupid bitch who walked off the jetway. So he cuts me off, "I'll see. Maybe its there." He lumbers down there and, sure enough, its not there. Or maybe it is there. I don't know. All I know is that he comes back and asks me what my final destination is. These are the moments when I hate to have to say Los Angeles, because now not only am I the stupid bitch who walked off the jetway and didn't know enough to put a yellow tag on my bag, but I'm a stupid Hollywood bitch from my one of those elitist liberal cities. Great. He asks me my name. At this point, he's not even telling me what's going on with my bag. Finally, he hands me a receipt and tells me, "You didn't have a tag on it. You'll have to pick it up on the other side." So, I kinda lose it. "Excuse me, I'm not sure what just happened here. The woman said the bag would be fine back in -- " And again, the guy cuts me off like I'm a moron who doesn't understand basic TSA laws. "Ma'am, if you would just be quiet, I'm trying to tell you, that because you're bag didn't have a yellow tag on it, we cannot give it to. It's a $10,000 TSA fine -- " So, now I'm patronizing him. "Yep," I keep saying. "Great." He's telling me that he "appreciates" what I was told, but rules and rules, etc. And I keep my eyes nailed to the floor and repeating, "Yep...OK." Until he gets to the end of his spiel which wasn't very instructive in terms of WHERE MY BAG WAS, so I can say to him, "So, are you telling me that you just checked my bag, and when I get to L.A. its going to come out in baggage claim, and you didn't lose it in South Carolina?" "Yes, ma'am." "Great. Thanks." And I walked away. I swear to God, I would have demanded my bag if I didn't think he would have called security and had me carted away where they would stripped searched me, gone through my luggage and found my contraband 4oz bottle of saline, and had my name permanently etched on the No Fly list. And then, of course, the trials didn't end in Charlotte. There was a huge lightening storm, so we waited out on the tarmac for an hour before we able to take off. I'd tell you about the three ride share van experience, but let's just keep this to flying, shall we?

What have I learned from this experience? Other than TSA laws? Nothing. Because there is nothing I can do about it. Everything, all of it, was out of my hands. I would say that I'm never flying US Airways again, but that would be a lie. First of all, because I've already booked my Christmas flight and US Airways had the best flight times with the best prices to fly into Connecticut. Second, all the airlines suck these days. My sister took JetBlue out of Charlotte, and they were further behind in line on the tarmac than we were. It's bad. It's all bad. And I anxiously await my next trip in October. But not in a good way.

My Hair

2008-08-11T17:15:00.001-07:00

This weekend, I got my hair cut and colored. The normal cut and color which means the photo on this site is still relevent. Anyway, I asked my stylist to give me a few more layers. To give my hair a little movement. She did. And it looked good...when she did it. For the last two days, however, I've been fighting with limp, stick-straight hair. This is what I hate about new haircuts. It's like you have to train the hair all over again. Curl, gawddammit! CURL! On the other hand, my bangs look good. So, you know, the battle is not lost.

Mind Shedding

2008-08-08T16:41:00.001-07:00

John Edwards is a jerk. I don't believe him that it's not his baby. Have politicians learned nothing from Bill Clinton? Honestly.
I met a friend of my roommate's last night. After dinner, he and his boyfriend suggested that we all go to a gay club that they wanted to check out. Since I've done the gay bar scene before, I didn't think much of it. This gay club however had go-go dancers. It was also Middle Eastern night. I have encountered nothing more surreal than being in a bar where men who look alarming like Abercrombie & Fitch models gyrate on platforms in tighty whiteys and biker boots to Isreali disco music. It was like a weird dream.

My cell phone is dying but I refuse to buy a new battery as, according to my online account, I'm due for an upgrade next month. I know this is true as Verizon keeps phoning me. However, according to my online account, my contract isn't up until January. I vaguely recall re-upping my contract early once. But how is it that my phone is due for an upgrade but my contract is three months behind? Hmm.... I don't care anyway because all I really care about is the phone. I want a Blackberry. I was thinking about the Pearl, but my sister has the Curve. I may have to play with her phone when I'm in South Carolina next week.

Things to pack for South Carolina next week: iPod. iPod cord and jack. Digital camera. Rechareable batteries for the digital camera. Rechargeable battery jack. Cell phone cord. Sunglasses. Sunvisor. Book. And some other not-as-important stuff like underwear and shoes and stuff.

I wanted to see what the Americans wore in the Opening Ceremony of the Olympics, but there seems to have been a media blackout. You see NBC spent a few million and as they want everyone to tune in, so you're not allowed to know how the torch was lit (a man suspended from a cable who "ran up" the side of the cauldron) or what the U.S. team wore (white slacks, a navy blazer, and a white driver's cap). Media blackout? Not in the age of the internet, baby. Where there is a will, there is Google.

I need to go to Staples to pick out a new office chair. I work for a company that believes that I should have what I want. Isn't that weird?

Update

2008-08-05T09:10:00.001-07:00

It seems the owners of the box of clothes read my blog. The box and the clothes were gone this morning. Now I guess I'm stuck with my other game: Out of the ten houses being foreclosed on, which one would I buy?

Box of Clothes

2008-08-04T10:58:00.000-07:00

I've been walking in my neighborhood lately. I actually live in a very suburby section of the Valley and, let me tell ya, I'm just a middle class white girl at heart. I wanted to be fabu and glam and edgy and urban, but I'm not. I'm getting to the age where I can embrace my boring, Wonder Bread-ness. This is me, and it's OK. So, I'm completely comfortable telling you that I've been enjoying my Soccer Mom morning walks in my little hamlet where Porches are parked outside houses that look surprisingly like my grandfather's house on Candy Lane. However, do not doubt that just because I'm living in my comfort zone my imagination isn't still finding murder and mayhem around every corner. In my mind it's all a little Desperate Housewives: Season One. Case in point: The house with the mysterious box of clothes in front of it.

I started doing this walk about two, possibly three, weeks ago. I start off on my street, take a right, and end up on a private road. And there, smack in the middle of this private road, is a house with a very big fence around it. The fence is half concrete and half wood. But the wood is not slated like a picket fence, rather its placed horizontally, one on top of the other like a layer cake with nary a space to peek through. I'm assuming that the double doors that gate off the driveway -- also made of wood and also manufactured so that you can't see beyond it -- work on some sort of automated system. If the fortress-like fencing wasn't enough to keep prying eyes out then the big sign that says, CAUTION: DOGS ON PREMISES probably would. Whether these are German attack dogs or Bichon Frise, I'll never know. But it's all very secretive and intimidating and very, very curious. I probably wouldn't have thought twice about this house if it hadn't been for the box of clothes that has been sitting just outside the gate since the very first walk.

At first, I thought it was a homeless person that had curled up and fallen asleep there as some of the clothes were strewn about a bit. But as I advanced, I realized that it was just heaps of clothing. And this made me think, "I wonder what he did?" Because, really, it looked like some Woman Scorned got good and pissed, and went willy-nilly through the house dumping men's clothing into a box then punt kicked it outside the front gate before calling the locksmith. The box and the clothes stayed in this haphazard disarray for a couple of days before the the clothes were once again gathered up and dumped into the box. Two -- possibly three -- weeks later, the box of clothes is still there. The box is beginning to break down a bit, and the clothes look a little sodden. But no one has come to claim them. And no one has thought to throw them out. "Curiouser and curiouser!" Cried Alice.

I want to knock on this person's door. I want to ask him/her what happened. Was it a lover's quarrel? Did he sleep with the nanny? Did he lie on his tax forms and now the IRS is threatening to take the wooden gates and Bichon Frise and all? What is the secret of the box? Nosey neighbors want to know!

Of course, the answer is probably something ridiculous like they had a tag sale and these were the items that didn't sell. Or a friend was supposed to pick up the box on a random Tuesday morning when the owners were at work and never got around to it. Or maybe the clothes are free, but the idiot in the house didn't bother to post a sign. Don't know. And I will probably never know. But one thing is for certain, I'm grateful for the box of clothes. It gives me something to think about on those Soccer Mom morning walks.

Celebrity Sighting

2008-08-01T15:31:00.001-07:00

I've been seeing celebs these days. It's kinda weird because I'm never in-tune enough with my surroundings to actually notice anyone other than that really cute boy who is probably way too young for me now that I'm in my mid-30s. (Is it me, or is this next generation really good looking?) Who have I seen? I'm glad you asked.

I saw Tia (or was it Tamera) Mowry at Gelsons.

I saw Geena Davis at Ben & Jerry's ice cream parlor at the Galleria. (This is a big SCORE! If she wasn't so tall, I probably wouldn't have noticed her, but she is, so I did, and that's good.)

Ed Begley, Jr. in his electric car getting onto the 101. (I shouldn't count Ed because I see him all the time. He lives in the neighborhood and is super eco-friendly, so he's always walking around or riding his bike.)

And Gordon Clapp from NYPD Blue just now over at Trader Joe's. (I don't know why this picture is so small.)

Hmm. The stars seem to be aligning. I wonder what it means.

Earthquake

2008-07-30T18:05:00.000-07:00

Just an FYI for all of you on the east coast who emailed me and called me yesterday: I'm fine. It was a little weird, but somehow I survived. And so did my vanity mirror...which was the only thing I was thinking about the entire time my office building shook. Yes, these are my priorities. I never said I wasn't screwed up.

Panhandler

2008-07-27T15:25:00.000-07:00

Panhandlers are just a part of urban living. New York had an interesting array of them. Mostly druggies or alcoholics looking to score a couple of bucks for that next hit. That partixular breed would roam the streets of Times Square. They really hardcore ones -- the true homeless -- would huddle up in subway stations and in doorways. You wouldn't see them until the very last minute. These beggars had the habit of trying to grease you up a bit before going for the kill. "God bless you, Miss. You wouldn't happen to have a dollar to spare, wouldcha?" And the minute you said, "No, I'm sorry." They would sometimes mutter -- sometimes just plain out say -- "Bitch." Yeah. Thanks. After a few instances like that, any pity I might have felt for these poor souls blew away.

Los Angeles isn't much different. Though the homeless here seem to be psycho. No, seriously. Like, clinically disturbed individuals. I'll take a druggie over a schizo any day. The druggie just wants your money. The crazy could think that you're the CIA trying to read their mind. If the druggie pulls a shiv on you, just hand over the wallet. If the psycho pulls out a shiv, start praying and run like your hair is on fire. Aside from the obviously disturbed, you have the guys (and gals) at the bottom of the freeway exits. There's this one guy who works the Laurel Canyon exit off the 101 who, by now, could be a Foreman at a factory if he just put in the hours there that he puts in over at that ramp. He's got sign telling me that his wife's just died. I suppose she was the one who worked and now he's looking for someone else to support him. Namely people at the CBS Studios on Radford. The one that really disturbs me though, is the one that seems to work the 7-Eleven and the Bank of America on Laurel Canyon between Magnolia and Chandler. I'll call her Large Marge.

Large Marge is HUGE. Really. This woman is so obese that she's confined to one of those zippy wheelchairs that are usually reserved for quadriplegics. She looks like someone you would find parked in front of the nickel slots in Vegas. Big, round glasses, pink sweat pants, and a t-shirt pulled down over her stomach. There's something excessive about her and I'm not just talking about the puddles of fat. Honestly, I'm not lying. I can't even explain how upsetting I find her. Especially, when she's sitting outside my bank asking for money.

I want to feel bad for her. I do. I want to feel some sort of humanity when I look at her. "There for the grace of God, go I," and all that rot. But I can't. And -- this is going to be unbelievably cruel -- but I can't help but judge her and wonder what she needs the money for? Druggies need that next hit. Alcoholics need that next drink. And the homeless are pretty much one step away from being locked up in a state institution. And as much as I acknowledge that I'm an obsessive eater myself, there is a point where one has to start saying No. And all I can think of is: Isn't she on state aid? Where did that zippy wheelchair come from? And those rhinestone Elvis inspired spectacles? She's always clean. I'm assuming her medical bills are being taken care of through Social Security and Medicaid. Which means, aren't I already paying for her through my taxes? Why does she need more money? I'm not paying for her McDonalds supply. I'm more forgiven of the drug addicts! I completely admit that my prejudice is unfair. But I can't help myself. From a far, she disgusted me. And for that, I felt guilty. Awful. Awful that I judged her so harshly. And then, one day, I finally came face to navel with Large Marge myself.

Two weeks ago, I rode my bike down to Bank of America to deposit a couple of birthday checks. Large Marge was outside. I inwardly groaned. As is often the case, the panhandler did not talk to me when I went into the bank, but waited for me to come out. Because, you know, people have spare twenties that they just can't wait to give away. "Can you spare a dollar?" Large Marge asked. "No, I'm sorry," I answered. "I don't carry cash."

Large Marge looked at me and said, "Bitch."

Yeah. Thanks.

Appreciation

2008-07-25T12:00:00.000-07:00

There is one component of my birthday week that I deeply appreciate. I absolutely adore that my family and friends call or email or text or send cards to let me know that they remember me. Its like a great big tidal wave of love. Mostly fueled by estrogen. My grandma, my aunts, my mom, my sister, and my girlfriends. (And my stepdad. He is the token boy. Everybody has got to have one.) Its pretty terrific. So I just wanted to take this opportunity to say, "thank you. I love you, too."

Birthday

2008-07-23T11:26:00.000-07:00

So, today is my birthday. (Yes, yes. Thank you.) I've never been the type to lament a birthday. In fact, I'm often the girl that goes around telling everyone and anyone when my birthday is and how old I will be. And yet this year, I didn't really care. My mother warned me this would happen. There would come an age where I finally thought to myself, "eh." Who knew that the magic number would be 35?

I'm not sure why this is. Part of me fully acknowledges that I've never been a party person. Meaning, I'm not the type of girl that likes to dress up, go out and stay out until my feet hurt and my stomach heaves. I find this to be forced friviolity and have always despised it when it was done in my name. Instead, I'd rather just order in Chinese, pop open a bottle of champagne, and play Scrabble. Good enough. Happy Birthday. Another part of me is getting introspective these days. I'm trying to figure out what what I want out of my life. And the answer isn't clear. I find this amazingly distressing.

I'm a five-year planner. I tend to shy away from long term goals. I like to say things like, "I'm moving to New York to pursue publishing. I'll give it five years and then reassess." And whaddya know? I lived in NYC for five years. I reassessed and said, "I'm moving to Los Angeles to pursue a TV/film career. I'll give it five years and then reassess." Two years in and it's okay. I can't really complain. But these days I'm feeling a bit...I don't know. Done with it. I'm kinda done with pursuing a career. What does that mean? Hell if I know. There is a definite part of me that's saying, "Time to get married and have that kid!" While another part of me is telling me to stay on track. I know there are people who think you can have both, but I'm not one of them. I know waaay too many working mothers who are struggling to keep up. Career on one side. Family on the other. It's like Germany during WWII. Once the Allies were on the western front and the Russians started to push in on the eastern front there was only thing a body could do: Kill yourself in a bunker. OK, maybe not. But it's definitely a squeeze and there are a lot of women who would love nothing more than to just surrender. Remember that Calgon commercial? Um-hmm.

I have a pattern that I've been following for about ten years now: Get a new job, love it for two years, get dissatisfied, get a new job. Wash, Rinse, Repeat. And sometimes that job has been a whole new career. Maybe that's what's bothering me the most right now. At 35, I don't feel like I should be doing that any more. I feel I should have a career that I'm actively working on advancing, not looking for something new or different. At the same time, I'm kinda freaked out because, well, I don't want to be in California for the rest of my life! Pretty soon my sisters are going to start having kids. My parents are going to get old. And what if I do get married and have kids. My kids won't know my family! Who is going to tease them mercilessly and then tell them to "stop crying, you big baby" forcing them to learn how to repress emotion in the way only a true New Englander can? AGH! (I might be getting ahead of myself on that one. But, umm, these things do go through my head.)

At times like this, I try to slow down and get quiet. I also start going to church like the Second Coming is scheduled for a week from Thursday. I figure its best to be quiet where God might see me and realize that I'm being quiet for a reason. Ahem. Its hard, however, since I like to be a woman of action. "God helps them that help themselves." That kind of thing. But sometimes the best plan of action is to do nothing at all. To wait and be patient. Let it play out. Maybe something will happen all by itself. A man opens the door for me at the Jiffy Lube and proposes six months later. That job I forgot I put in for last month calls. I'm trying not to let my fear of aging drive me to into doing something radical. So. I wait...though not that patiently. And hope that an answer will present it self. In the meantime, I'm going to see The Dark Knight and, later tonight, pop a bottle of champagne with my roommate. No one said that I had to be sober while I waited.

Terrified

2008-07-21T17:25:00.000-07:00

I brought up this page to click on my links to everyone else's blogs and my boss walked in. He was very interested in the fact that I had a blog. Now I'm terrified he's going to find it on the web. I just Googled myself. Thankfully the only things that come up are the blind songstress and my books. However, I will be deleting blogs from MySpace that link to here. And I'm going to have to read through the posts to find anything incriminating...like the ones posted Monday through Friday during daylight hours. Ack!

Senility

2008-07-18T17:11:00.000-07:00

I have got to stop moving around. I'm having one heck of a time remembering where I live. Earlier today, I signed up for a AAA membership and wrote the wrong street name. I confused my home street (Burbank) with my work street (Ventura). I'm trying to console myself by reasoning that it was an easy mistake as they are both cities in the L.A. area. But just a moment ago, I typed my address out again for a friend and this time typed Manchester (as in CT) instead of Valley Village (as in where I actually live).

This is happening a lot lately. For instance, last week I popped over to Trader Joe's for lunch (as I often do) and there, sitting to the side of the Entrance Doors (where she was not supposed to be) was a woman screeching about "animal rights!" So, I turned and looked. The woman was probably in her late-40s, maybe early-50s. A compact, wiry body. Short, curly blond hair. And an amazingly strident voice with a tinge of menace to it. And at first, it confused me, because I thought I knew this woman from New York. I literally thought, "Huh, I thought she was in New York." But as I entered the cool interior of the market, my over heated brain cooled and I remembered that I was right! I did know her from New York. She was the Crazy Cat Lady! Except there, she used to be in Union Square and would set up her table outside Petco. She would walk around with a huge Army issue backpack slung over her shoulders. And in the winter, she'd wear a big parka with the stuffy sticking out. So it was definitely New York. Weird, weird, weird. If she wasn't a nut job, I would have went over to her and asked her about it. "So, do you summer in L.A.? What's the scoop?" And for those of you in NYC who read this blog and know who I'm talking about, she looked good! Tan, clean, and she totally fits in with all the other zealots who chase you down in the TJ parking lot asking you for money...ahem.

Its getting harder and harder for me to remember how I know people. Connecticut is pretty easy: Family. High school gals. Police Department. I attribute this to long term memory. I've known them the longest and the most consistently. New York is a little more difficult. There was the magazine (Julie, Greg, and Kim). The bookstore (Marcy, mostly). The publishing house (too many to list) which is divided up between two imprints (compounding the situation even further). And the roommates (Claudine and Molly...and Daniel, but we won't go there). L.A. is probably the trickiest yet as there are a lot of NYC links. There's Rebecca who now defies category as she is not only New York, but Hoboken, Oceanside, and some of L.A. Don't ask. I know L.A. Amy from NYC Meg. Linda and Cameron are from New York and we talk about all things New York so it's hard to remember that we didn't know each other while in New York. L.A. Andreen is so much like NYC Janete that there are times when I think they know each other. To make matters worse, a few of my NYC friends have moved to the Seattle. And one New York friend, one Connecticut friend, and one L.A. friend have all moved to the D.C. area. Honestly, I'm getting to the point where I need to make a large color-coded flow chart to keep it all straight.

Two days ago, I applied to a new job. I won't say what. However, I will say that next to being a princess, it's my dream job. I really, really want this position. Except. It would require me to move. Again. And not to any place where I've lived before. Sigh. And while there is a part of me that wants this job with every fiber of my being, I'm really ambivalent because any move that might have to be made will probably have to be executed without my mind. It's getting to cumbersome to take with me.

And by the way, if I've blogged about this before (which I think I have) just let me apologize now. You're not going crazy. I am.

Google

2008-07-16T09:12:00.000-07:00

Google is Big Brother. I have a gmail account, and awhile ago I noticed that Google scanned my mail, targeted specific words, and then on the side of the text window proceeded to give me links to things that pertained to something in the email. For instance, if I wrote something like, "she had Princess Leia hair," suddenly there would be links to Star Wars websites, Star Wars merchandising, and Star Wars movies. It was a little creepy. Today, my sister and I were emailing about Disneyland park prices. Now, in a little blue bar above my email account, there is a sponsored link to Disney deals.

A long time ago, I read (or perhaps watched on 60 Minutes or some like show) that this kind of individualized marketing was going to happen. That the keepers of the internet would be able to specify its search engine to refine advertising strategy so that it knows exactly what you want and how to get it to you. Ultimately, it would be able to read your mind based on previous purchases. This freaked me out. I don't want to be consumer #456,687 who shops at the GAP, Trader Joe's, and Target, likes the color blue, and makes one big ticket electronics purchase a year, so maybe I'd like this new eco-friendly Blackberry in ice storm blue for the low, low price of $99.99. It felt like an invasion of privacy and -- worse! -- it felt like I was definable as a human being by my purchases. In the intervening years, however, this fear has been unrealized. Afterall, I often check out my "iTunes Recommends for you!" And let's just say that I like John Mellencamp and Bruce Springsteen just not as much as Apple thinks I do. Amazon is even worse. They're constantly saying, "perhaps you'll also like..." and I recoil in horror. These botched attempts have soothed me. But then along comes Google.

I like Google. There's something cool about it, and since it's what my generation has birthed to the world we can get that "Gen-X is nothing but a bunch of lazy slackers" label off our backs. (Thanks, Larry and Sergey!) It's a user-friendly informational tool that not only comes up with exactly what I want to know 99.9% of the time, its a terrific way to waste an afternoon at work by Googling all your friends' names. Because, yeah, Google is a verb now, identifiable by Merriam-Websters. Google is fun and makes me look all kinds of smart. Google is also reading my email.

OK, so it's definitely my fault. If I don't want Google to read my email, I should just go back to my AOL account full time and shut it. But, umm, I don't wanna. You see, it's almost like a personal relationship. AOL feels more like my high school boyfriend. Reliable, the It Guy at the time, but I've so out-grown him. While Google is like that cute gent at the pub that understands my needs and treats me like I'm valuable, but then tells all his friends that I sleep in Hello Kitty flannels and pop my zits. In the end, it's a trust issue in addition to my level of comfort with personal information being out on the web. And while there is a part of me that wants to howl in outraged indignation over an "invasion of my privacy", I blog just about every intimate detail anyway, so... really, who am I kidding? It just sorta weirds me out that someone out there might not only be privy to my personal life, but taking notes on it in an effort to depersonalize me and force me into a quantifiable category with marketable value. Not that Google is doing this. Right now, I think it's all computer programming, and as far as I know these links aren't gathering data on me to be sold to Coke or Wal-Mart, rather it's a crap shoot of information. However, I will say that if I wake up late one morning and my computer starts telling me that I might want to stop by the Starbucks to help get me through the day, I'm totally going back to AOL.

Paranoia

2008-07-15T12:52:00.001-07:00

Do you ever get the feeling that something has been said about you behind your back by a grouping of people who have agreed upon one aspect of your character? Then you go into a room, you open your mouth, and as you speak you notice that two or more of those people are looking at each in that "Umm-hmm" way that's not only annoying by unnerving. I hate that.

Vanity

2008-07-14T16:29:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, Roomie and I went to the Rose Bowl. Every month on the second Sunday, the Rose Bowl becomes one massive flea market, and I went with high hopes of finding something I loved. I had no idea what that would have been, but I figured I'd know it when I saw it. I also wanted to keep my eyes peeled for a vanity as we only have one bathroom in the apartment and I've become extremely lax about getting up on time so there are mornings when Roomie and I overlap in our schedules. Totally my fault. So, I figured it would be a very good idea to get a vanity and place it in my bedroom so that I could just do my hair and make-up there.

I've been awful about getting my room into order. I've got boxes of stuff just sitting on the floor. My excuse is that I'm completely perplexed about how I want to decorate and, therefore, haven't made any decision about what I might want out and what should be stored away. I need a sense of style. A decor. This room just begs for something light and airy, like a home on the Cape. However, all my furnishings are black and urban as my last apartment just begged for something more citified. (What can I say? I'm a little bit summer house, a little bit LES tenement. Donny and Marie would understand.) And as I haven't made a decision about color scheme or wall art, my stuff is just about everywhere. This causes all kinds of anxiety because if a thing doesn't have a place then it can't be in it, and therefore I have not started to classically condition myself. One day, I found my hair brush with my purses. I don't know how that happened. However, if I had a vanity then the hair brush would be there because that would be its proper place.

A long time ago, my grandfather offered me my grandmother's vanity. I was very excited about this. I ran down the stairs to the basement and whipped off the sheet. The style of vanity was very popular in the 40s and 50s. It was called Waterfall and it was cheaply manufactured during that economic boom time post-WWII. Before technology over took our lives, furniture used to be crafted. It was expensive. It was not unheard of to inherit beds, dressers, or dining room tables. The stuff was made to last. However, after we become industrialized, manufacturers learned how to cheapen the process. In this case, they used plywood and got rid of the drawer coasters (this will be important in about a minute). Unfortunately, since my grandmother's vanity had been stored in a cement cellar in Connecticut, a place that dominates my memory as feeling coolly damp and smelling of mildew, it had warped on the bottom. I was sadly disappointed, and I've always felt the loss of that piece. So, I would be lying if I said that I wasn't looking for a very specific kind of vanity when we showed up at the Rose Bowl yesterday.

I'm not the greatest bargainer in the world. I admit it. I feel that its in bad taste to haggle and that you're inferring that the seller is dishonest if you try to negotiate the price. I also fear that I'm not as knowledgeable about antiques as I should be. For instance, what if I value a punch bowl at $50 and the dealer is asking for $65? I try to get it for $50, but they hold firm at $55. I buy it, because I love it, and then I go two stalls down and see it for $40. I'd slit a wrist, I swear. I had been looking on eBay and craigslist for a vanity for sometime, so I had a pretty good idea about the going rate for one in the Waterfall design. The trick was going to be to get one in good condition.

I found a vanity I liked right away. It was in great shape. It was a Heywood-Wakefield. But it was blond wood and I was hoping for something a little darker, like a walnut. The guy was asking $300 for it and I just couldn't bring myself to bring the hammer down within twenty minutes of walking into the place. So, I said, "Thanks" and kept going. The next vanity I saw was $100 and felt a little delicate. The wood hadn't been kept and it seemed to be splintering. It worried me so we passed. Finally, I saw a vanity that looked like Grandma's. It had the slopping edges and the big round mirror. The only problem was that it was painted white. "Shabby Chic." I had seen this a lot on eBay and especially craigslist. People buy old furniture and instead of paying for it to be refurbished, they slap a coat of white paint on it and call it "shabby chic." The idea is that it refreshes otherwise damaged pieces and gives them new life. Unfortunately, a lot of people don't know how to paint a piece of furniture. Most of them don't bother to sand the item down and the rest don't know to shellac the piece once it's been painted. You touch it and it has the dull uneven feel of a wall. More shabby than chic. We walked on.

For the next two hours, all I saw was 1940-1950 plywood painted white. Some people were obviously catering to the market, as they not only shellacked but would hand paint or stencil on the piece. Other people, just threw the white paint on. Drawers were hard to open as the paint got tacky in the summer sun creating a bit of a seal. The more I inspected, the angrier I got. While shabby chic is the trend of the moment, what happens to all this furniture three years from now? I didn't get wrathful until I got to a gorgeous vanity that had everything I was looking for. Round mirror, cascading lines, coasting drawers, interlocking wood. But it was painted white. The inside of the drawer revealed that at one time, the vanity had been a deep walnut or mahogany color. I wanted to lop somebody's head off. At this point, I realized that the chances of me finding what I wanted in the color I wanted in the condition I wanted was pretty minimal. I wanted to scream at all these shabby painters to "cut it out or I will exact revenge like the Greek Goddess of Furniture!" And there must be one because then...manna from the sky.

Right before we left, I saw it. It was blond wood, but had an art deco inlay design of walnut. The drawers weren't on coasters, but they slid in and out easily. It had Bakelite handles which tickled me. It was in very good shape and they they quoted me $195. I felt I had to buy it quickly before it too became a victim of the shabby chic movement which encroached upon it like the crocodile hunter before that stingray got to him. Roomie figured out how to get it into my car and we moved it into my bedroom last night. I felt like I saved an endangered species.

Oddly, even though all my furniture is different color and different design, I feel like I have an idea of how to set up the room now. Which is good. All I have to do is get a stool for the vanity. Now if only I could choose a color.

Family

2008-07-07T12:17:00.000-07:00

I have a slight obsession with all things old. I've always wanted to have a house where I've lined the walls with silver framed photos of my ancestors. These pictures speak to my vivid imagination. I think about the person who took the picture, the moment the picture was taken, who has held the photo before me, what memories it might have sparked for the occupant. I look for myself and my sister and my family relations in their faces. There is my uncle's nose. There is my aunts eyes. This process happened to me again this morning when my mother forwarded some photos her cousin has in her possession. The photo included here is of my great-grandfather, his siblings, their spouses, and a few unidentifiables. I love the turn of the century garb on his sisters. Grandpa Ed is standing on the far left with his hand on his hip. My uncle Ritchie looked like him.