Aprilbaby's California Life

I've Survived Retail Hell!

In May, I took a seasonal sales job at a luxury department store's men's furnishings section. My plan was to get dressed and out of the house, have fun meeting people, while also running my family businesses. Bad plan! It was hell.

Retail crap I won't miss -

• Talking about Gucci (or, as my daughter refers to the hideous G labeled clothing, Douchey). Yes, there are people who find these obnoxiously monogrammed clothing and accessories worth putting on their credit cards. Even if they live in apartments in Pacoima, plan on wearing the crap for a few nights, only to return it all on Monday. At least they felt "worthy" for a few days. And isn't that what's important?

 

• The cheap bastards who come to the men's fragrance counter, every other day (I swear!) to fill up sample bottles of cologne (or as we have to refer to it: men's fragrance). Is that bottle of Cartier's Essence de Bois too expensive for you? No problem, just drag your cheap ass over to the counter and fill up on samples as often as possible. Oh, Mr. I-Reek-of-Sample-Bottles-of-Aramis, do you REALLY wonder why I'm ignoring you? Here's why: It's your putrid cloud of '70s stank and your inability to cough up a few coins for it!

 

• Tantrum-throwing children, like the three-year-old who beat on my butt with a red helium-filled balloon as I filled his cheap-assed daddy's sample bottle of Bleu de Chanel.

 

• And the intense co-worker (hands shaking, far off stare) who, proudly in charge of men's underthings section, would growl, "Keep your hands off my underwear," with not one ounce of recognition of what he just said. So of course I replied, "Don't worry, I'll keep my hands off your underwear," laughing. He sneered.

• I absolutely won't miss that customer who explained to me why he buys only white boxers, and no other color. "So I can tell when they're dirty." Noooooooo!!! (In my head I'm screaming like Sam Kinison.)

• I won't miss the men (For lack of a better word; they have facial whiskers and Adam's apples, so I don't know what else to call them) who will throw mini hissy fits (tisking, eye-rolling, shaking heads, knees buckling, shoulders slumping and major whining) if you put their Eau de Imbecile in a "normal" paper bag and not a pretty shiny silver one with handles.

Wow... didn't pioneer men hunt moose & throw 'em over their backs to feed and clothe their families; built log homes by chopping wood... wrestled bears and stuff, only a little more than a century ago?

 

• And, of course, I won't miss the pervs who said things like "You're built for comfort," "Married? Well, does that mean you can't go out for dinner with me?" or (the most memorable line of all!), "About my penis, it's large. Very large."

Rant written after my last day:

When I got the idea to get a little part time job where I could get dressed up (since I wear jeans as I solder audio equipment in my family home business) to meet people (other than store clerks who ring up my groceries), I didn't realize that Nordstrom had a different idea of "part time."

Their idea of PT hours are: "You won't see daylight again, forget having a free weekend or listening to the birds sing - but, hey, we'll give you a day to recuperate from working til 11pm then arriving at 9am the next day. You'll never sit down. You'll go to war with co-workers you won't really get to know but who will smile to your face and gossip behind your back. You won't have control of your eating schedule (You'll eat 'lunch' at 5pm and dinner at 11pm and like it, damn it!). You won't be able to receive phone calls, will wonder what is going on in the outside world. You will lamely refer to drooling idiots with their pants hanging down below their boxers, wearing T-shirts that say 'Clothes, Money and Hoes' while asking the price of the Gucci belts, as gentlemen... Management will respond to your wondering why all they told you about your commission percentage was a lie - or 'miscommunication' - (and that when customers return items -as they often do - it comes out of your paycheck) with 'You don't fit in" to keep you in line. You will have customers so cruel they will do everything they can to humiliate you in front of others until you cry wondering how humans can be so soulless. But you will be reminded this bitter bitch spends the big bucks here so, basically, 'buck up and sell, sell, sell...' You will work until you can barely open your eyes, your bones ache, your muscles feel numb, and your brain is frazzled. Then on your last night we'll ask you for your key to the watches and wallets back, suspend your employee number, hand you a pay out of cash (so pathetic that you'll want to curl up into a ball and cry) and you will slunk out of the store - not through the employee door, but out the customer door... wanting to take a very hot shower."

See, we just had different ideas about part time.

Only today, after coming out of my retail fog, did I figure out they let me work my last two weeks without informing me I wouldn't get a cut of my commission  *and it was a really good sale week for me, my Now-That-I-Don't-Give-a-Hot-Damn-I'm-raking-In-The-Big(all things being relative)-Bucks-in-Commission week*.

Accepting that pathetic clump of cash, and skulking out into the night, I felt so nasty I would feel more respected if I were forced by gunpoint to perform fellatio on a traveling troupe of one-eyed, toothless acrobats suffering from leprosy and covered in mud. No offense to the one-eyed, toothless or those suffering from leprosy, mud fetishists, or traveling acrobats... but I think you get my point.

 

Time to Untangle the Christmas Lights & Curse, Again!!!

Here I go, again!! It seems like I just took down the Christmas lights. Now I'm about to get out the ladder, hang the outdoor lights, curse, fall down, get tangled, yell at my family... and then beam with pride at what an amazing job I did at making our house look sparkly and festive.

Now, a moment from my sponsor (Michele from Christmas Past) to bore my friends and family, a piece I wrote in '07 that still rings true for me: "Holiday Letters, Cheeseballs and Uvulas, Oh My!" 

 

Rantings of a Grocery Store Zombie

 
Hemingway had the Left Bank of Paris, Pamplona, Spain, Key West and Havana. I have the grocery store!

I just realized I've published a frightening amount of pieces with the grocery store as my background. Just last night, I sent off an op-ed about the shrinking size of grocery store products and rising prices.  It includes this line: "Soon I'll be a fifty-foot giantess crushing cities with my SUV-sized feet." I like to throw a little retro sci-fi movie action in many of my rantings. It's just a thing I seem to do a lot - zombies, giantesses and brain-eating blobs... Must've been from watching the late night horror shows on "Creature Features," as a kid.

Here are my other grocery store pieces:

Valley State of Mind

Supermarket 101

Technology Bubble

I have enough grocery store material, I think I may be working toward a collection. I can call it "Rantings of a Grocery Store Zombie," or "Why I Need to Get a Life." 

 

The World Feels Emptier

My husband and I lost a dear friend yesterday, Doug Fieger. The world feels emptier.

In happier days, Doug invited us to the taping of "Rock and Roll Fun House." We were in the audience cheering during this video shoot.

I believe we all come in the world wanting to make a difference in our own unique way - and Doug did through his optimistic passion for life, his music, his mentoring and friendship to many, and, in his final months, his extraordinary fortitude and appreciation for life.

Appreciate each moment and the people in your life.

Life's the road we ride upon, love's the hope we're hanging on, a brief time here a long time gone - Doug Fieger from "It's Not Me"

Stuffed with Turkey & Awkward Family Photos

I hope everyone had a really nice and un-awkward thanksgiving! My only cringe-inducing moment came while my husband sliced my perfectly bronzed, brandy-basted turkey and discovered that I had accidentally left the little baggy of gizzards inside the turkey as it roasted. He then pulled the bagging from my bronzed turkey in front of my horrified family. Oh well... at least this year there weren't any kitchen fires!

After sitting around with family, I did a little surfing on the internet and discovered my new favorite site: Awkward Family Photos. I looked through the photos for nearly a half hour laughing out loud, maybe because I could relate. What is it they say about tragedy mixed with comedy?

I sent the link to my sister, knowing she could relate. She then wrote back mentioning some of our own family photos that would qualify for the site. But my first thought went to this photo below of my just-out-of-the-navy father spending a little quality time with me.

Recently, I did a little Photoshop work (below) on the photo and emailed it to my dad. He still has a twisted sense of humor.

 

Ebook and Website for "Craving Normal" Coming Soon!

Gadzook-illions, incomprehensi-billions... New Numbers for Our New Economy

(

(That's my photo on the $100 bill.That's how worthless US $ has become)

Writer and Bargain Hunter, Julia Scott (the Bargain Babe), is a Facebook Friend of mine. She liked my Facebook status, where I mentioned my husband and I are busy thinking up new numbers (i.e. Gadzook-illions and incomprehensi-billions) since the Fed is printing money like toilet paper. So she posted about it in her Bargain Babe Blog. (photo from Julia's site).

Check out her blog! She's got lots of great money-saving tips!

Oh, here are more numbers I thought of:

What-chu-talkin-bout-Willis-ions

Can-never-be-paid-off-in-a-lifetime-zillions

I’m-a-slave-to-the-government-kabillions

Take-my-first-born-plus-an-arm-and-a-leg-trillions

Just-shoot-me-now-quadrillions

How Seahorses are Like Pizza and The Beatles

Recently, I got a call to audition for a new game show based on the Trivial Pursuit game, so I said "What the heck." I tried out. And what do you know, I passed the trivia test and went on to play a mock game on video. So I felt good about that. Even though, just after finding out I passed the test, a guy who didn't pass the test said to me before leaving, "Well, I guess you must be trivial." Ouch!

Trivia: of little value or importance

Thinking back to my last few days of conversations I've had with people, I think my fellow game show auditioner might be right. I am trivial. But these days (with rising food prices, sliding economy, warring nations), sometimes I crave those moments of little value or importance... as long as they make me laugh.
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While we picked our car up at the repair shop, my husband asked the mechanic why he had a bunch of tacks pinned into a wall-sized map. The mechanic said, "Oh, those are all the countries I've been to."

I said, "Wow, that's great!" and looked closer at the map. "Thailand?"

"Yep," the mechanic nodded. "Beautiful place. Wonderful people."

"Australia?"

"Uh huh, another great place."

"New Zealand?"

"Yep. Really beautiful, but cold."

"Kazakhstan, too?" I asked, seeing a tack in the middle of the country. That one really impressed me.

"Uh no. That tack is just holding up the map."
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With my phone to one ear and a pen in my right hand, I struggled to make out every letter of an extremely long email address I needed.

"Okay, B as in Bob? A as in Apple... (blah blah blah)... at U mail? Is that U as in..." I struggled to think of a word that starts with U. "U as in... underwear?"

Doh! Only after hanging up did I realized the "U" in U mail is for University, as in university mail.
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Because my husband and I have been married nearly twenty years, it's rare that I can tell him something he doesn't know about me. So when he mentioned a story in the newspaper about seahorses, I got excited. Seahorses!!  Now, that's a new subject for us, I thought.

"When I was a kid," I started to tell him, remembering trips to the San Francisco Aquarium, "I loooooooooved seahorses, was fascinated by seahorses..."

He lowered the newspaper and looked at me. "You and every other kid. Who doesn't love seahorses? Seahorses are like The Beatles and Pizza -everyone loves them."  
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So not only am I trivial, but I'm completely average. 

 

My Life in Lyrics

For Sunday Scribblings writing prompt - "Observations"

Ever notice how you can relate to whatever’s playing on the radio? Or maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m just an egomanic-drama queen who sees my life as a film and the music playing in the background as my own soundtrack. I mean, didn't The Beatles get together right before I was born just to write songs for me? Hey, they did sing "Michelle"... and that's my name, so I practically thought so.

It’s the morning of my eighteenth birthday. I’m driving my metallic-green VW bug to school. I turn on the radio. The Beatles are singing “They say it’s your birthday…” And I smile wide as though they wrote that just for me.

It’s a brilliant blue-skied June afternoon. I just got out of school and am driving to the beach in the same VW bug. The sun is landing like diamonds on cars that I zoom by. Wind whistles through my car’s little winged windows, whipping my hair around my face.  The guy I went to the prom with is sitting in the passenger seat. “Hey, can I drive your car?” he asks. I pull over and let him take the wheel. The radio is on. He pulls away from the curb as The Beatles sing “Baby, you can drive my car…”

An earlier summer, while cruising down El Camino Boulevard with my girlfriends, I see a cute boy driving in a car somewhere between Heidi’s Pies and the Hillsdale Mall. We meet, and spend the following weeks talking on the phone. On weekends we rendezvous at a McDonald’s on El Camino Boulevard. Then one rainy Saturday night, he and his friend Mark never show up to meet me and my friend Jackie. After almost an hour of waiting, we get back into Jackie’s Nova to return home to Pacifica. As her windshield wipers swish-swop, Phil Collins' voice pours out of her radio: “There must be some misunderstanding. There must be some kind of mistake. I waited in the rain for hours… and you were late…” Oh, as if my pain isn’t sharp enough, those lyrics make the night all the more tragic (because as a teenage girl, a boy not showing up is a tragedy).

Yesterday, I’m driving down the 101, taking my daughter to live on her own for the first time, to her very own college apartment up the coast. My husband is following us in a van carrying all of her stuff. We’re excited for her. Her future, like the ocean below the 101, is spread out and waiting. Sarah Mclachlan’s voice oozes from the radio, “I will remember you. Will you remember me? Don’t let your life pass you by… weep not for the memories…” My glasses get steamy. I’m such a mellow-dramatic sap. As the music plays, one part of my brain focuses on the road ahead of me while another part of my brain plays a transparent slideshow of my daughter’s childhood. The photographic-memories overlap on top of the dotted lines of the 101. There she is dressed as a kitty for Halloween, selling lemonade for 5 cents, graduating from eighth grade, carrying her surfboard down the beach…

Back in the Valley, just hours after moving our daughter into her apartment and returning the moving van to the rental company, my husband and I drive over to Brent’s Deli in Northridge. We split a pastrami reuben and fries. It’s a weird day. The sky is mottled-gray. The air feels thick and muggy. I munch on pickles and look around. There’s a rocker dude in the booth in front of us – jet black hair, goatee, tattoos up his arms, maybe a little eyeliner smudged under his eyes. He’s wearing a Joan Jett and the Black Hearts T-shirt. That reminds me of driving with my daughter earlier in the day. I remember a Joan Jett song came on the radio. I try to remember what song it was, but can’t recall. Guess I was feeling foggy.

Music is floating from the speakers at Brent’s Deli. Here we are, just minutes from Reseda, as Tom Petty’s “Free Fallin” plays overhead: “She’s a good girl, loves her mama, loves Jesus and America, too. She’s a good girl, crazy bout Elvis…Loves horses and her boyfriend too. It’s a long day living in Reseda…” And then I hear my daughter’s words in my head from the day before. “Welp, it’s my last day in the Valley.” Just the week before she told me how she was excited about leaving, and how she’ll miss everyone, “But, you know, it’ll be nice to get away.” I know. That’s how I felt twenty years earlier when I left home.

So… she’s on to her new life. And so are we. Before leaving, Lauren finally returned my guitar, so I’m going to pick up where I left off teaching myself chords, and playing mangling the few songs I taught myself, like “Mrs. Robinson” and “Moon River”…

Moon river wider than a mile
I’m crossing you in style someday
You dream maker, you heartbreaker
Wherever you’re going I’m going your way
Two drifters off to see the world
There’s such a lot of world to see

As The Beatles would say, “Obla Di Obla Da… life goes on.”  And I'm pretty sure they wrote that just for me, just for days like yesterday. Or does everyone think that?

Bumper Cars Driven By Drunks

Because I love to write as much as I love to eat and drink, I'm going to start adding recipes themed to my posts. So with that in mind, here's a drink I just made up I call:

A Bumper Car

8 oz. Coca Cola

2 oz. Rum (or more)

8 oz. Ice

1 Cherry popsicle (after removing sticks)

Blend well. Then drink while eating carnival food (corn dogs, chili fries or kettle corn, for instance), and then you'll wake up feeling like you've been hit by a bumper car.
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Sometimes my brain works about as smoothly as bumper cars driven by drunks. It's not pretty.  Here, I'll give you a glimpse of my writing process today. Believe me, you’ll feel much better about yourself once you have some idea of what’s occurring in my head.

I sit myself down to write and my mind conjures a million ideas. Again, imagine those whisky-breathed drunkards slamming bumper cars into each other. Or imagine every concert-goer at, say, Woodstock simultaneously raising hands and shouting, “Write about the time you spilled drinks on Ted Danson” or “Hey, no! Write about taking the wrong plane!” or “Forget those! Write about living in Greece with your pet octopus and tortoise!” or “No, you’ve gotta write about the car-thief-roommate you had put in jail!” “What about all the jobs you screwed up? You were a drink-spilling waitress, an overly enthusiastic aerobics instructor, and an over-the-top-gum-chewing-boa-flinging hooker on ‘Cagney and Lacey’.” Then, just as I’m trying to listen to these frenetic thoughts, my husband walks in and says to me, after seeing me stare at the computer screen, “Why don’t you write about that credit card guy from this morning?”

Here’s what happened this morning: First, you should know, I hate credit cards. I'm not one of those numb-skulls that waves around the card squealing "Free money!! Charge! it" But we needed a few things for our business... Anyway, I think of the little beasty-bills as landmines, landmines that will blow up if I pay one hour later than they are due, landmines that can change instantly from 0% to double digit interest rates if late.  Well, last week, I made sure (as I always do) to pay one of the bills early to avoid any sort of explosions.  Yesterday (Tuesday) I realized I paid the wrong one and left the one that was due before it sitting in my bill folder. That meant the one I thought I paid early didn't get paid, but it was due this past Monday!!!! so I hyperventilated. Then I called the credit card company, paid the late-bill by phone and was told I could call Wednesday (today) to reinstate my 0% interest rate, since I had proof I simply paid the wrong bill.

Cut to the phone call this morning:

Me: Hi, yes, a nice man I spoke to yesterday told me that I could reinstate my interest rate because I have proof I simply paid the wrong bill, when I met to pay the one that was due.

Creepy Credit Card Man: Well, not exactly.

And then in a weird twist -something similar to going to the doctor expecting to have a splinter removed and then ending up having a gynecological exam - the Creepy Credit Card Man began asking invasive questions about my finances: my income, my home equity, all about our business, whether I’ve made funeral plans… (Well, not quite, but almost)...  Whatever numbers I gave him were just some that I threw out to get to the reason I called.  Since he had the power to raise my rate, I thought I would be abnormally polite.  Normally, I would’ve told him this information was none of his business.  But I grasped that he was a little man in an uncomfortable suit with a tie strangling his neck. He needed to feel important. So I took pity and tossed him some phony numbers.

The Creepy Credit Card Man (after hearing my supposed financials) took a deep breath and blew into the phone as if he were really disappointed with me.  Yes!  He huffed.  He huffed as I used to when my daughter would come into the house covered in mud after I just mopped.

Me: (laughing) Uh… are you huffing on my account? You really don’t have to worry…

The CCC Man ignored me and (after feeling quite satisfied of his own self-importance) reinstated my interest rate.  

Sorry, folks, that’s about as exciting as it got for me today. Sad, I know.

I really do have better stories - full-written stories that need editing; partially written stories that need finishing, and then there’s the traffic jam of stories clogging the 101 and 405 junctions in my skull. It’s just a matter of kicking off the drunks, pointing the cars forward and going full speed ahead.

It's July and I'm Thinking About Christmas

Yep, it's about 90 degrees in the San Fernando Valley and 165 days, 4 hours and 54 minutes until Christmas and I'm thinking about the holidays already.

Here's why: I realized I can really relate to Ralphie from  "A Christmas Story." Yes, it's true, we each have eccentric fathers (Ralphie's dad and his leg lamp/my dad's suicidal Santa - photo below). But here's why I relate to Ralphie most - Ralphie, in " A Christmas Story," imagines his essay about his wish for a Red Ryder BB gun will thrill his teacher into marking it with A++++; he drifts off daydreaming about how ecstatic his teacher will become upon reading his stunning written work. It will be, he imagines, an essay so amazing his entire class can't help but cheer and chant his name..."Ralphie! Ralphie! Ralphie!"

That's how I felt yesterday as checked my e-mail. I'd sent a pitch letter to a big New York magazine only last week. And Like Ralphie, in the daydream bubble above my head, I imagine the straight-laced New York magazine editor becoming nearly unglued with joy upon reading my wonderful story idea; an idea so spectacular she says to her assistant, "Get this writer, Michele Miles Gardiner, on the phone immediately.  Tell her we love the idea! It's spectacular!!!" That's when I see her usually-unflappable assistant tripping over her desk to reach a phone to call me.  Unable to reach me, the assistant pounds out an e-mail with the subject line: "Your fantastic story idea - call us immediately".

Cut to reality:

I checked my e-mail to see it cluttered with spam:"Single and Lonely?" "Make Millions Working at Home" "Need your Organ Extended?"

Logically I know it may be months to get any sort of answer to my query letter... but I can dream. (photo below: I know I've posted this before, but, heck, why not post it again?  My dad built this Santa  and later stuck him on our roof with a gun to his head.)

Happy Endings

I'd read Sunday Scribblings writing prompt this week and had nothing... until I dove into my swimming pool.  It's 110 degrees at my home right now and I'm still dripping wet from swimming, but my "happy endings" snapped into my head the second I hit the water.

Happy endings...

Diving into a swimming pool - feeling the jolt of cool water - after sweltering in San Fernando Valley's heat.

An icy-chilled bottle of Sun Drop soda after a long, hot drive in the desert.

Finally receiving a phone call from my daughter after not hearing from her for too long.

Finding out something I submitted will be published.

Getting an email from my eighteen-year-old daughter, who is now vacationing in Ireland, that ends with "I love and miss you."

I'd write more, but chlorine is burning my eyes.

Driving in LA

Driving in LA, with our nearly constant traffic and the price of gas heading toward $5 per gallon, is stressful.  So in order to keep my blood pressure down, I try to entertain myself and avoid looking at my gas gauge as I drive.  Instead, I do other things... like listen to music and read bumper stickers. Here are some  recent ones that stuck in my head:

"People are no damned good"
"Aardvark.com for all your aardvark needs"
"What if the hokey pokey is what it's all about?"
H8MYEX (vanity plate)

Then there's this guy (see photo), with his foot out the driver window and making a peace sign, who doesn't appear to find driving in LA stressful at all.

But, for me, the only way I can avoid the stress of driving entirely is to head to the ocean.  There, with the salty breeze, soft sand and rhythmic waves, I completely forget the price of gasoline... almost.

From the Valley to Paris

My daughter Lauren is in Paris right now, living on my mom's boat in a port near the Bastille.  When I called this morning (my time) it was late afternoon in Paris and she was about to go for a run around the port.  As we spoke, I had a live webcam of the Eiffel Tower on my computer screen.  How cool is that?  I could see that it was a beautiful afternoon there - the winding down of a serenely sunny Parisian day.  Meanwhile, I was just waking up in the San Fernando Valley.

Weird.  Lauren had already experienced most of Monday, June 9th, and I was just sipping my coffee to begin my Monday.  And here my daughter is in Paris - the city of lights, the city of romance, the city where Ernest Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, Pablo Picasso and Josephine Baker once roamed -  yet Lauren asked, "So what's going on in the Valley?"

My answer:  "Uhh... it's hot."

Oh, to be in Paris.

(I copied this photo from a live webcam of June 9th, 6:45 p.m. Paris time/9:45 a.m. in California)

Sunday Scribblings: Writing - A Pirate took My Cookie and Other Stuff That Happened Instead of Writing

Updated Note: I forgot to mention, the skateboarding CEO who pissed me off near the end of this post is some loser (got tossed out right away) from Donald Trump's "Apprentice" show.

For Sunday Scribblings prompt:  Writing (officially my longest post ever, two weeks worth)

Here's a summary of what little writing I've accomplished in two weeks:

 March 1st, Saturday- I planned on writing after picking my daughter up at the train station.  She spent two days visiting a friend near Santa Barbara.  About 8:30 am, my daughter called from Santa Barbara to say she was just getting a ride to the train station.  I told her to call me when she's on the train.  The train was to leave at 9am.  By 9:15 am, I still hadn't heard from my daughter. 

I called her cell phone.  No answer.  She's always so good about picking up soon or calling right back.  So I waited.  But she didn't call.  I called her again and again.  Still, no answer.  About 9:40 I started hyperventilating.  My husband and I called her friend in Santa Barbara.  The friend told us that she took a cab and that she hadn't heard from my daughter either.  I then started to officially freak out (pacing, talking to the walls, mumbling prayers).  I called the cab company, spoke to the dispatcher and asked if any of their drivers have criminal records.  Do they check that sort of thing?  The cab guy snapped at me.  I snapped back. "Hey, I'm a worried mother."  My husband tried my daughter's cell phone.  There was an answer... oh, what a relief.  I finally breathed.  What?!  Wrong number?  He was yelling at a strange woman.  In short, more drama for another painfully long twenty minutes.  We finally reached my daughter.  She was on the train sleeping and didn't hear the phone.

My nerves were so jangled, I decided to write later.  I picked her up at the station, just happy to see her face.

Sunday - My husband and I went to the Los Angeles County Museum of Art.  Kandinsky. Miro.  Picasso!  They're all so inspiring.  In the evening, we watched "La Vie En Rose" about Edith Piaf's tragic life.  It's amazing.  Yes, I want to create something, too.  Tomorrow, I'll put off my tax preparations and write.

Monday - It's a beautiful day.  Morning sun is shining slanted through the floor to celing window in my office.  I decide to use the Time Machine prompt from Sunday Scribblings, and start rambling about the scent of Coppertone making all my sea-salty childhood summers tumble by like the ocean waves...  Then I hear my dog in a frenzy - growling, claws scraping the pavement.  I look through the window.  What's she doing?  I hear my little cat meow weakly.

Oh my God!!  My feet barely hit the ground and my legs feel like rubber as I run frantically through my house and into the backyard, screaming my dog's name.  She had my cat in her mouth and dropped her when I screamed.

My cat was a lump.  Her mouth and eyes were open in shock.  I grabbed her and wrapped her in a towel.  My daughter and I drove her to the nearest vet.

The morning went by in a blur; literally, I couldn't see through my tears.  Don't even remember driving home from the vet.  My cat had to stay there overnight in an oxygen tent.  The doctor warned that because she may be paralyzed, she might have to... I can't even write the words.

I cried.  No.  Just the day before I was admiring how nothing gets by my cat.  she takes nothing for granted - the trees are for climbing, bugs are for chasing, the sun is for sprawling.  I've even thought I wouldn't mind changing places with her.  She has no bills and sleeps half the day - who wouldn't want that life?  If only cats could get passports and eat in five star restaurants...

I never would've thought I would be so cat crazy.  At home, my daughter made me soup, vegetable with alphabet pasta.  I swear my spoon had the letters c-a-t.  Yes, I am officially cat crazy.  

Convinced my cat will get better, I try to write.  I can't.  I Google "Edith Piaf" to see photos of her.  If Edith could live through what she did, I should be able to function this day.  What's the first thing I see when I Google?  Her stuffed cat sitting in a Parisian window.

Tuesday - First thing in the morning, my husband and my daughter told me to call the vet.  I dialed as they stood there to hear the news.  "What? Her tail's moving and she can move one leg?"  All our shoulders relax.  Later, I pick her up and bring her home to rest.  Still, the doctor doesn't know if she'll ever move her right leg.

Wednesday - Ok, later I will do my tax prep.  But first a little writing, I tell myself.  No, first I'll check my email.  A while ago I sent essays off to Smithsonian Magazine and Geek Monthly (they sounded like my kind of people).  Nope.  Still nothing.  I stare at the computer screen.  I'm empty.  I wish I were like Jack Kerouac and all those other writers who use/used negative stuff as fuel.  Poverty?  Alcoholism?  No problem!  They pour out their souls on a scroll.  But me, all the urge is there, pent up inside - but there's so much swirling around, bouncing against the sides of my skull like bumper cars, lots of noise and slamming around, but the ideas don't go far... and like those carnival rides, once the cars stand still, the electrical sparks stop... so I go and make a sandwich to gather my thoughts.

Thursday, Friday, Saturday - Writing?  Not so much.

Sunday - I cleaned the yard.  It's a good excuse for having a cold beer.  Plus, I can think about writing.

Monday - In the evening, my husband and I planned to go to a classical concert downtown at the Colburn school of music, across from Disney Hall.  So I ran to Target to buy some lipgloss and other girly things I don't get to use when writing alone at my computer.  Because I am watching pennies, I took a long time picking items and using coupons.  After paying for all that stuff and some household items, I got to my car and realized I had none of my make-up and hair products.  I ran back to the store.  The cashier shrugged her shoulders.  I went to stand in the long customer service line and began worrying that I wouldn't have time to get ready.  After waiting nearly ten minutes, I felt a tap on my shoulder.  The man who was standing beside me in line earlier accidentally got my bag.  He didn't notice until he got home.  I patted him on the back.  "You are a good, good man for coming all the way back here."  I thank him so profusely, he must've thought "But it's only makeup, lady."  I just appreciate when people take time to do the right thing.  He could've just waited to return the items later.  I told his daughter, "Your dad is a really nice guy."  She smiled.

The concert was beautiful.  "Is this corny to say?"  I asked my husband.  "But the way the bass player is using his bow... moving so fluidly and cradling the bass, almost like he's holding  a woman, it's like a dance."

"Yeah, that's corny.  But you're right.  It is like a dance," my bass player husband said.  I just knew no other way to describe the movement.  Again, I am inspired.  I love watching people who are passionate about what they do and do it well.

Tuesday - Until this day, my cat has been dragging her leg and hopping on her others.  My family has started calling her tripod.  That makes me sad.  She should be jumping around.  Her limp foot is getting dingy from scraping the floor.  Not only am I not writing, but I'm not doing not much cleaning either.  But today she's putting pressure on the right foot.  I've been having to keep my dog separate from the cats.  From now on, I always will.

Wednesday - My writer friend, Donna, got me on the list to preview a new Nintendo fitness training game, called Wii Fit, she's writing about.  We were to meet at the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel.  I get there a little late, thinking it was going to be a large conference type deal.  I didn't see Donna.  The concierge gave me an electronic key and directed me to the elevator to go to the twelfth floor.  I push the button and get up to the 10th floor, where an English guy got in and we both went back down to the lobby.  "Hey, what's going on?"  I said.  He doesn't know.  Maybe I didn't push the button.  But I did.  "Oh well, at least it's a nice elevator," I said, and push the button again.  At the fifth floor, a group of young women got in. And back down I went.  What?

I got back in.  This time a hotel employee got in and told me I need to use the electronic key for the 12th floor.  Oh.... good thing.  I was beginning to feel like I was in some sort of video game myself, like Super Mario Brothers or Frogger..... up, down and spit back out again.  I lose!

I enter the room, and other than the Nintendo people who were expecting me - Ooops... if I'd known that, I would've left my house earlier - there's only Donna and two of her friends.  They're having a blast trying out the Wii Fit program.  It is extremely cool.  As Donna bends, the sensor on the foot pad can detect if she is out of alignment.  Apparently, you gain points and keep track of your weight and progress as you workout overtime. Very cool.

I try the downhill skiing game.  If I were really on skis, I would have been in pain from all the mogul flag poles I ran into.

Afterward, Donna, her friends and I left our cars at the Roosevelt Hotel and walked across Hollywood Boulevard for lunch.  We ate outside and watched tourists take photos of the Hollywood sign.  It was a beautiful day.  As we were leaving, I realized I needed to break a twenty dollar bill to give a tip to the hotel valet.  Donna suggested I buy a cookie at the nearby Tollhouse store.  I did.  I munched on it as we walked down the boulevard.  I noticed the Johnny Depp look-a-like (well, if you squint) pirate eyeing my cookie.  "Want some?" I asked, not thinking he'd take me up on it.  I mean, I did already bite it.  "Yes, I'd like some cookie," he said.  So I gave it to him.

"Hey, Donna, a pirate took my cookie!" 

"Well, there's your blog post title right there." 

We blog-writers are always thinking that way.   Anything can be blog-worthy, especially when it has a catchy title.

Thursday - My cat is now limping like Ratzo Rizzo from "Midnight Cowboy".  "Poor thing" I say.  "She's alive!" my husband reminds me.

I check my e-mail, still no love letters from Oprah Magazine for the essay I wrote about how one of my best friends is my husband's ex-wife.  I thought for sure, that was a match for that magazine.  I could practically hear Oprah whooping as she read my tale of an unusual friendship.  Is it possible her editors take this many months to respond?  Or should I consider doing something else for a living?  What am I thinking?  I know Oprah seems to run the world, but she can't stop me from writing... that is, from thinking about writing.

Whatever I'm doing lately, it's sure not writing.  I'm cat-sitting, crying, accusing and yelling at cab drivers, feeding pirates, skiing badly down electronic moguls, cleaning the yard and sipping beer, gushing over the kindness of strangers at Target, listening to music, watching movies and enjoying the art of people who may be dead but at least have created something.

What I'm saying is, I'm no Jack Kerouac spilling my guts in one long spew.  Lately, I cough.  I sputter.  I wonder.  But, write?  Not in the last little while.

So.... today - Well, I've been self-employed most of my adult life - except for a momentary period of cubicle asylum - but today I went on an interview.  I've been thinking it would be nice to get in some more income.  Extra money!  I love when I see ads that say "Would you like EXTRA money?"  Extra money is not something I can relate to.  As in, oh... what should I do with all this extra money?  Paste it on the walls?

So I put on a skirt and heels, grabbed my resume and portfolio, and went to a place in West Hollywood.  Things seemed to be going well until the CEO of the company came in wearing a t-shirt, shaggy hair and black rimmed glasses.

"In ten words or less, what perspective do you write from?" He asked.

"Well, it's my perspective... but if it's an interview piece, for instance..."

"Nuh uh... in ten words.  If you can't tell me in ten words, how can you convey what it is you write?

"Well, it depends.  I write non-fiction.  But if it's an interview, I'm not writing with "Me" or "I" usually, I am writing..."

"You can't explain your perpspective?"

(Now, if he had actually read my resume and portfolio I emailed, he would have seen my over-ten-word, but still concise profile, and saved me the gas, time and annoyance.)

"Well, whatever I write, it's from my perspective.  Like I say in my resume..."

"Uh uh... in ten words."

"... It's a fresh, offbeat perspective, I guess you could say."

"I still don't know what you write."

"Nonfiction: memoir pieces, op-eds, essays, interviews, reviews.  Sometimes poems, sometimes fiction.  Always with my own look at life.  I avoid what's already been said before.  For instance..."

"Mostly nonfiction?  Ok.  But I had to get that out of you."

Hmmm... I was frustrated and not hiding it well.

This is what I was thinking: Nonfiction is what I write.  It's not my perspective, which would be my view, my slant... And if he means style, well, If I always had the same style, for me, that would be like wearing beige everyday.  I don't get up in the morning and put on one-size-fits-all khakis.  Why would I want to write that way?  I write like me, me - a person who can be upbeat or cranky; motherly or flirty; practical or outrageous; sometimes optimistic, sometimes cynical.  I mean, who among us is mood-less?  I write in my moods, and those change often according to the writing material and the ideas I am responding to.  I can start an interview with an idea of the story, and then realize it went in another direction.  That's exciting.  Keeping my views the same is not.  So, no, my perspective isn't always the same.  My philosophies, my values, my experiences... those are steady.  And my style?  Well, that changes.  Try writing about September 11th with humor.  It doesn't work.  Try writing about raising a teenager without humor... it's painful.

When I write, I just want my words to always, always, come from my own honest way of looking at things.  But that wasn't the answer he was looking for.  I didn't care.

"Look, I can't say my perspective is always the same.  But I can tell you this, I see no point in writing what someone has already written.  That's what never changes." 

Not that I am making up new words and ideas, just that I make sure I say them in my own way.

The idea of coming up with a ten-word perspective for myself sounds about as appealing to me as wearing a big label on my ass that says "Suburban Woman".  Yeah, I'm a woman.  But not all women think alike.  Yeah, I live in the suburbs.  But not all Suburban-dwellers have the same views.  That's why I like to write about life in the California suburbs, because we don't all roam the malls and consider shopping to be a hobby.   

He started walking out the door and shrugged, as if to say:  Whatever, it might be good enough for you but not for me.  He was adamant I describe my "perspective" (a word which, I believe, we disagree about the meaning) in ten words.

"You don't like my answer, but I'm sticking to it.  The only thing that stays the same is that I don't want to write what I've already seen written." 

Again, he shrugged and went out the door.

I gathered my things, said goodbye to the others and left.  As I walked, I thought about this guy's need for ideas in ten-words, and chalked it up to Hollywood speak - where some guy (usually in a suit) wants to hear a movie pitch in one breath.

Screenwriter: "Rambo Goes Green.  Just think of all the product placements - rather than tanks there'll be priuses."

Suit Guy:  Eh... (shakes his head) That's over ten words.  Next!!

Before I reached my car, I spotted "the ten-word-perpective-CEO" rolling across the street on his skateboard.

Maybe I'm better off on my own.  Just me.  My computer.  My cat.  And all my bumper-car thoughts waiting to go for a ride.

Hey, I wrote something!

Here's my cat, June, the survivor!  Doing what she loves:  Sitting in a box with paper.  Good as new, with not even a limp.

 

Sunday Scribblings: Passion (Going over the Hedge)

The following is from Sunday Scribbling’s prompt: Passion.

 
Passion can be what drives me into the zone – that timeless, limitless, spaceless, bottomless, topless place where dancing never tires me. I am thumping on beats, floating on notes, writhing on rhythms.

It’s when I’m brushing thick, gloppy oils on canvas, almost unaware or maybe too aware… so aware that I am in the medium, I am down in the paint, swimming in the pigment – in cobalt blue seas, saffron meadows and azure skies.

It’s when I’m chopping, stirring and whipping as the aromas of garlic, olive oil, tarragon and thyme rise.

It’s when my writing fills the screen – one letter joins another, becoming a word. Words seem to almost link together by themselves, they flow quickly, becoming sentences - making nearly virtual what pours out the grooves of my brain.

Passion is what once drove me in my crazy-youthful-chaotic years to live in LA where I knew not one soul and the only thing I had was my 1950's amoeba shaped coffee table and my naiveté. It’s what had me dancing on tabletops, moving through every LA area code in a year.

Passion was once the only thing that fueled me.

Then I introduced my wild, insatiable Passion to logic and – as if pouring my fuel it into a funnel - I began driving myself in specific directions, sometimes getting lost, sometimes running empty…but it always there -

It was in my newborn daughter’s eyes, in my hope for her future, it’s what kept me going in those sleepless baby days-blurred-into-nights of crying, rocking, feeding; it’s what kept me up late over tear-stained homework and flashcards; it’s what let me be the “only parent in the whole world” (or so my daughter told me) who would dare create rules she found ridiculous, even when I was worn out from enforcing them.

It's what drove me to start a business.  It's what lets me think it's a good idea to write my words in public.  It’s what drowns out all the other voices so loud they become visible, like those cartoon word filled caption bubbles - from message boards, talk shows, and repetitive advertising to allow me to stick to my beliefs – no matter how hard, how unpopular, how un-trendy they may be. Passion is what makes life, to me, more than about surviving. It’s a flame illuminating what’s truly important to me. In the end, all I’ve got, beside the love of my family, are my principles, my philosophies which I've developed like a very slow Polaroid from a lifetime of experiences, experiences I’ve come by often due to my PASSION.

Okay, now that I've taken myself way too seriously...

*I think I'll blame PASSION for those times when I do things that aren't always sane.  For instance, in the photos below (taken at a friend's wedding) I was spinning on a slanted lawn (in my four inch BCBG platform shoes, may I add) overlooking the Palos Verdes coast.  I was a little giddy from sunset and the music playing in the background - all fueled up on passion and little sense - I spun right over a hedge and landed on my head. (photo 1: me spinning/ photo 2: That's my foot sticking up over the hedge).  It's not pretty, but passion got in the way and, of course, my husband was there to capture it on film.  Hey, it's life and I'm  still learning.  This is what I learned:  spinning on a hill in platform shoes - not good.

 

I Love LA!! But Then, Apparently, I'm Not Very Intelligent

Because I don't know when to stop, this is a continuation of the previous post, regarding Travel + Leisure Magazine Readers disliking Los Angeles traffic and the unfriendly, non-intelligent people.

I may not be intelligent and I may sit in traffic, but I'm not freezing my ass off in January, am I?  Nope.  As a matter of fact I spent an entire weekend, from Friday evening to Sunday afternoon, loving everything I experienced under LA's blue skies.  Here's a little synopsis accompanied by smog-less photos:

Friday Night - Friends invited my husband and me over for smoked jalapenos stuffed with shrimp and cheese!!! AND the juiciest, butteriest, most-tender Chateubriand steaks I've ever had!  Hmmm... He's from Oklahoma and she's from Minnesota.  Thank God they moved to this smog-filled land of the shallow, if not - my tastebuds would have never experienced such barbecue nirvana.

Saturday Afternoon- My husband and I needed to take a trip to Long Beach to repair his bass bow.  On the way, we stopped at MVP's Grill and Patio for tasty burgers.  People sat at tables outside in the sun, eating and laughing.  Then we passed through Belmont Shore - where people were lunching, skateboarding, bike riding and shopping - and drove through to the amazingly serene slice of paradise that is Naples Island.  (My mental note:  Make wads of money immediately.  I must live here.)  We walked along the walkway above the canal, as residents out enjoying the sun smiled and said "Hello!"  See, proof that there are plenty of friendly people in Los Angeles County beyond the traffic filled streets and Hollywood Boulevard.

Sunday Morning:  I opened the Daily News to see Sandra Tsing Loh, one of my favorite authors - an intelligent woman who hasn't fled LA - as a matter of fact, she lives in the Valley...And!!! She's even daring to raise her children here.  Can you imagine?  From what I read, she relishes that East Coasters and others find us shallow, it just gives her more writing material.  After reading the paper, I went to Encino Farmers Market.  If anyone wants to see smiling Angelenos (technically, Los Angeles County residents), watch us when were surrounded with fresh, colorful fruit and vegetables; or artisan breads and cheeses under the warm sun.  People were hugging, waving, sampling fudge, honey, tangerines, cheese and whatever else was available.

The man I bought my garlic cheddar from travels the country looking for artisan cheeses.  I revealed to him that one of my secret fantasies (beside living in Naples Island) is to travel the world trying the best artisanal foods and then getting paid to write about them and the people I meet.  We both laughed and he nodded enthusiastically, because that's every food-lovers fantasy:  to eat good food and get paid to do it.  I then met the best salesman at the entire market - he's only eight, but had me at "1 bag of nuts for four dollars and two for seven!" And then he gave me a long list of why my life would be lacking if I didn't walk away with some pistachios or barbecue almonds.  Okay, not really, but I was sold.  It might have been his sweet smile and his cute giggle when I asked if he knew where I could find an ATM (see photo below.)

Next, I went home and made lunch for my family with my farmers market bounty:  melted garlic cheddar on warm, fragrant garlic-herb bread, with the most amazingly sweet and juicy tomatoes, charred jalapenos, onion sprouts and Dijon mustard.   It was heaven on a plate!!   

Satisfied, I walked my beautiful dog, whose love I am not worthy, into the afternoon sun.  We stood at the top of Pierce College, looking over the rolling green hills with red barns, burly black cows and scampering goats, and all I could think is, Well, if I'm not intelligent for living in Los Angeles, I'll just have to deal with that.

Post Note:  It's true we have a lot of traffic and way too many paved over patches of green. That's why we, in Los Angeles, need and appreciate our state parks so much.  So it's disgusting to think that Arnold Schwarzennegger is threatening to close 43 of our state parks. Arnold, are you nuts?  These patches of green are our refuges!!  What are you going to lock up next, our beaches?   

Weird Moment of the Day

The other day my husband, Ian Gardiner - who used to play bass with Burton Cummings of the Guess Who - sent a little note to Burton on his Myspace page.  Yesterday, Burton mentioned it in one of his blog posts. 

Ian told me to go to Burton's Myspace page and read about Burt's first night in LA when he hung out with Jim Morrison.  I did.  Good story.  Then I read his post "Friends of Mine," which mentions my husband, only to find some of Burton's fans commenting that they thought my husband "had passed."

Creepy.

Nope.  Ian hasn't passed (shiver).  He's alive and doing fine... except for the hell I put him through.

(photo: Ian and Burton)

1970's Jug Wine = Good Times

While going through slides, I discovered a theme in many photos from the '70s involving my parents and their friends:  the ever-present (or nearly always present) jug wine - there it was at house parties, diving days, beach outings, camping trips... and even at a kiddie party at the San Francisco zoo.  No wonder whenever I see memories of the 1970s in my head, those bottles always seem to be clanking around there somewhere.

I guess you could say jug wine was to the 1970s what Scotch was to the 1950's Rat Pack crowd; what Martinis were to 1960's cocktail parties or what Bartles and Jaymes wine coolers were to the 1980's.  Yep, jug wine is just as '70s as mood rings, shag rugs and Pong.  The combo just somehow went together - like Sonny & Cher, the Captain & Tennille, Shields and Yarnell...  Okay, I think I've taken that whole thing too far, haven't I?

Hey, let's play Find the Jug O' Wine (You might have to click to enlarge in order to see... I guess the "wine" in each photo might give away the answers, huh.) -

 

A Cringe Inducing Moment with Ms. Tsing Loh

In my previous post, Marilyn, commented about her e-mail exchange with Sandra Tsing Loh, author of Depth Takes a Holiday and other work... which made me wish that my exchanges with the wonderful Ms. Tsing Loh could have been through e-mail.  But, no!  I had to make a fool out of myself in person.

Sandra had me hooked after I read her Buzz Magazine article, "The Joy of Temping,"  where she wrote about working as a temp in the North San Fernando Valley - a "land of flourescent lighting, faux hardwood paneling, olive-green carpet and gummy IBM Selectrics."  There, she was forced to wear nylons and eat lunch from the vending machine.  Of course, the story was way more hilarious than my second-hand telling... but she had me hooked.   I lived that temp life in the Valley!!   I knew just that color green carpeting!

Anyway, I began buying Buzz Magazine just for her witty tales of life in the San Fernando Valley.

So, in the mid 1990s, when my husband and I went to a friend's party, and I saw Sandra Tsing Loh there - dancing in front of the band - I knew I had to meet her.  And, little did I know, our husbands, both musicians, know each other!

Somehow we (Sandra and I) ended up at the same table.  I don't remember how.  But it probably involved me skulking over there like a twelve-year-old fan.  I cringe to recall the entire exchange.  But part of it went something like this:

Me:  Yeah, I'm taking a writing class right now...

Sandra nods and smiles.

Me:  ...but my teacher, she smells a little musty - you know, she's a little artsy-fartsy...

Right then, I wanted to smack myself in the head.   I'd never, ever used that goofball phrase before.  What a dork!!  I meant my teacher was a little new-agey, touchy-feely, took herself too seriously for my taste.  Instead, I just blurted, "artsy-fartsy;" it's a phrase that might sound right coming from a 70-year-old woman who buys her living room paintings from Kmart to match her sofa.

Right about then, is when Sandra began looking around for her husband, the bathroom, a drink, anything.  I got the idea every new person she meets tells her about their dream to write, so maybe she just figured I was another writer-wanna-be, one who uses stupid phrases like "artsy-fartsy" and would just shame the writing world if I ever got published.

Well, anyway, that's what I was thinking she was thinking.  Sandra was actually really nice and supportive, leaving me with something like "Well, we need more women writers," before fleeing.

Still, I wanted to stick a cocktail toothpick in my eye.

The second meeting was more embarrassing.  I'll write about that another time.

My First Internet Related Injury

Very, very early last Sunday Morning -

Mom:  Oh, I don't like the sound of that.  I want you to go the emergency room as soon as possible...and don't walk around!

Me:    Why? (My heart starts pounding harder)

Mom:  Movement could cause a blood clot to break off and head toward your lungs.

Me:  Whaaaaa?!!

After a few restless hours of enduring a throbbing, tight feeling behind my knee, I got up out of bed.  I couldn't sleep due to the pain in my leg.  Naturally, I assumed the worst, that because I had been sitting for an excessive amount of time editing photos on Saturday, I might have a...thrombosis! (a blood clot that can form in the leg due to sitting too long, i.e., long airplane trips.)

By 4:30 a.m. I had sufficiently freaked myself out enough that I did two stupid things:  1) Looked up thrombosis on the internet - which gave just enough information to make me think I had it.  2) Called my mother in Paris at 5:00am our time, but 2:00pm  French time.  I wouldn't have called her if she were sleeping, but I figured since she was once a Registered Vascular Technologist and she could ease my mind.  She would tell me I don't have it, that I'm being silly and go to sleep.

But no!  After I explained the location of my throbbing pain, she made me think If I took one more step I was going to keel over.

Cut to:

Interior of Emergency room at nearest Valley Hospital.  It's approximately 5:45 am.  I'm in my own room behind a curtain, and wearing a backless hospital gown!!!  How did I let this happen?  A vascular technologist enters to give me a Doppler exam (an ultra sound scan of the veins and arteries of my painful leg).(Photo:  On the pain chart I was only a "4")

Me: (Rambling my silly story to the Tech)...And since my mom was once a Vascular Technologist...well, she convinced me I should come in to have it checked out.

The Tech raised my gown up to the top of my right thigh, and then walked over to turn out the light.

Me:  Wheeew...I wasn't sure how well I shaved my legs.  So the dark is good.  (He needed the room dim to see the monitor)

Tech:  (laughing) You're silly.

Me:  (He touches my upper thigh)  Whoa!  You're hands are cold.

Tech:  Oh, you haven't felt cold yet.

(And then he applies the ice cold ultra-sound gel up and down my leg)

He sits down and presses the scanner along the gelled area of my inner upper thigh. (Again, I'm wondering how it came to be that I have a strange man touching the inner part of my thigh.  I can hear my blood pulsing through the monitor... blub, blub, blub (he squeezes part of my leg)...woooooosh.

Tech:  (concentrating his eyes on the monitor) So you said your mom lives in France?

(I only told him that to explain why I would call her at 5am our time...I didn't want to sound like a complete hypochondriac nut-case who would call someone as they slept.  Nope.  I'm just a partial nut-case.  I called her in the afternoon France time.)

Me:  Yeah, on a boat...on a boat in Paris.

Tech:  Reeaaaaallly?

Me:  Mmmmhhhm...Anyway she's why I'm here.  And because I looked up blood clots on the internet.  Don't ever do that...look up medical sypmtoms on the internet.  My daughter did once and convinced herself for months she had a brain tumor.

Tech: Your family sounds like a lot of fun.

(I'm thinking, did he mean fun as in "crazy"?  And if he did mean crazy, I proved him right by rambling on about other emergency room visits.)

Me: Yeah, so...A chicken came to my door in the suburbs.

Tech: A what?

Me:  A chicken in the suburbs.  That's weird, right?  'Cuz who sees a chicken in the suburbs?

Tech:  Exactly.

Me:  Anyway, as I open the front door to this chicken, my husband is sitting on the couch laughing that maybe someone's cursed me.  You know, it sounds like a voodoo thing...sending a chicken to someone's door.  And then, only an hour after the chicken is at the door, while sitting in my backyard, a wasp stung me on my wedding ring finger.

Tech:  Oh no...seriously?

Me:  Yeah, so, I said, "Ow!" 

(Tech starts howling.  But, being the professional that he is, his eyes are still scanning for blod clots)

Me:  And I thought nothing more about it until about three in the morning when I woke up with a really swollen finger.  It was so swollen that my wedding ring was cutting into my skin.

Tech:  Eeeewww.

Me:  Yeah, so the next day I went to a pharmacy and held up my finger to the pharmacist.  By then my finger looked like a purple balloon.  I asked if he had something I could rub on it for the swelling.  The pharmacist's jaw dropped and he said, "I would run to the emergency room right now if I were you."  So I did.  And the nurse cut it off.

Tech:  Wah?!

Me:  I'm sorry... I'm tired.  I meant, the nurse cut off my wedding ring and said, "I never saw a finger that swollen."  He told me I almost lost it... my finger.

Tech:  Seriously?  (Still concentrating on the monitor, he squeezed my calf muscle - woooosh went the blood - as he watched for my deadly clots.)

Me:  Yep.  And a few years before that I raced to the emergency room when I nearly cut the top off the same finger while making potato salad.  (I shook my head remembering those bills) Oh no...this is going to be expensive (I said after realizing our major medical insurance doesn't cover these visits).  I don't spend money on manicures...I just rack up the bills on wacky emergency room visits.

Tech: (takes his eyes off the monitor) Uh... you might want to start getting manicures instead.

Again, he fixes his eyes on the monitor.

Me:  So, does it look like I'm going to live?

He's laughing.

Me: I'm thinking I am since you're laughing...I hope.

The nice Tech begins putting his equipment away.  I thanked him, and asked if I can take a photo.  We say goodbye.  He leaves.

After waiting alone in my little room, a very serious nurse with salt and pepper hair walks in and looks at my wrist band.

Nurse:  Has the ultra-sound tech come yet?

Me:  Oh, yeah.  I thought maybe you were going to give me the results.   (But she said nothing.)  So am I going to live?

The nurse ignores me as she places a red plastic band on my right wrist.

(What's that band mean, I wonder... I'm crazy?  I'm a goner?)

And then the nurse starts walking toward the door.

Me:  (Yelling at her back)  So?  Am I going to live?! (She exits)

I sit alone in the room, pretty certain I'm going to live.

Finally, the doctor comes in.  Tells me everything is fine with my veins.  Again, I explain the silly chain of events (the hours spent photo editing, throbbing leg, internet symptoms, ex-Cardio-Tech/worry-wart-mom in France...better safe than sorry dead). 

The doctor still wonders why I felt this pain.

Doctor:  Please, do a few squats for me.

I stand up in my completely backless gown, with my back toward the now opened door and do some pretty good squats for a tired person (all the way down and back up), only to turn around and see an ambulance driver - or was it the janitor? - saunter by.  There I was, my entire backside exposed to strange men early on Sunday morning. And then, with all the information I gave the doctor, he gave me my diagnosis:

PAIN DUE TO INACTIVITY

Oh the humiliation!!  And it wasn't even 7 a.m.
 

"Hey, You!! Turn Off Your Cell Phone...Sheesh! Oops!"

So last night my friend Donna and I went to see the AFI showing of Sunset Boulevard at the Valley's new Arclight theater.  It was a lovely evening.  We enjoyed salads and sandwiches in the cafe with a view of the 405 traffic rushing by, before the film.  Yes, we were having a real good time... until we went into the theater to watch the movie and then I almost kicked the seat of a stranger, because, well... I'll let Donna tell it.

Poem from my Past

While going through binders of my old writing, I stumbled upon a poem I did in a poetry class taught by the teacher I referred to in an earlier post as "Artsy Fartsy."  Actually, she got me thinking of different ways to create.  And because she'd give only minutes to write in class, allowing no time for hesitation, everything that poured out was very spontaneous.  This is a Sumi Piece about all the ideas in my head that I have a hard time finishing.

Hand VS. Mind

Bamboo brush is lowered into
noir India ink.
My hand hangs over the textured paper,
waits for a command.

Too many ideas
travel from my head
down the hand
that grips the moist brush.

My hand waits -
wants to move,
to create.
Frustrated, it lurches forward
and then stops.

My mind sees so many images.
Where do I begin?
Kandinsky or Miro?
A cactus in a barren desert?
Flames rising from below?

Cramped and tired
my hand begins to paint.
My mind disapproves.
Still the hand moves,
strokes black onto stark white
and leaves the beginning of an idea
without an end.

Exit Stage Left - Leaving Behind Roles

The other day, I read this article, "A Tale of Two Sisters," in More Magazine, written by sisters, Joyce and Rona Maynard.  Each wrote about why there has been distance, emotionally and geographically, between the sisters.  That I couldn't relate to.  I only wish I could see my sister, someone who I've enjoyed getting to know more and more over the phone - but we are separated.  My sister's in the South East and I'm in the West.  But I did relate to this: Joyce Maynard spoke about how the sisters' separation let them create new roles, new identities - rather than staying stuck in the roles they played in childhood -  Joyce as the happy one;Rona as the sullen one.

I've sometimes wondered why I was so adamant to leave Northern California for Los Angeles - a place where I didn't have a job or know anyone.  Yes, I wanted to experience warmer weather.  Yes, I love the Southern California beaches .  Sure, I grew up dreaming of life in the entertainment business.  But what the Maynard sisters' article reminded me of is this:  I wanted to leave behind the roles I had stepped into during my teen years.

While I grew up in San Francisco (except for the years traveling), I spent my entire teen years in Pacifica, California - a beachtown of approximately 40,000 people, about fifteen minutes south of San Francisco.  It had one theater and two high schools - both schools I attended - and is surrounded by rolling green hills that tend to trap in the fog.  It could be a nice place to live.  But after San Francisco, it felt like living in slow motion.  The language was different; instead of kids saying to each other, "I'm finna whoop yo' ass!" they'd say, "I call you down."  And no one had an afro or listened to Funk.  Heck, these Pacifica kids wore overalls and listened to Captain and Tennille!!! 

In Pacifica, there were only a handful of groups to hang out with  -  4-H Club, stoner crowd or surfer/jock group.  While I would've loved a horse, I didn't find any interest in raising goats; I grew up in San Francisco where the adults were stoners...so, no interest there.  I eventually squeezed myself into the cheerleader role... momentarily.  None of us ever fits these high school roles completely or know who we are entirely; yet everyone else has an opinion about us.  These are the titles I was given -

I was told I was a snob and stuck-up...I even had a group of girls spray paint "Slut!" on every locker I had.  So, apparently, I was that too.

More common than those titles were - space cadet and air head.  Even my US History teacher, who was also one of the coaches, called me "air head."  He laughed and made jokes about me right along with the jocks in his class.

The truth was I was just a confused, under-confident, near-sighted kid who drifted off dreaming about everything I wish I could be doing beside sitting at school.  And once people got to know me they realized I was just a goofball...which was a name I didn't mind at all.

I almost died a week before graduating from Terra Nova High.  At about 1am on a Saturday morning, after I dropped my friends off at their homes, I drove my VW bug alone down a steep and windy road.  I went to step on the brakes and the pedal went all the way to the floor without slowing at all.  My brakes were completely out.

My car began shaking as it picked up speed.  I pumped the brake pedal.  I tried to down shift.  I pulled up the hand brake, but the car kept going...so - sure that I was going to die - I thought of my options: hit the wall of the mountain; keep building speed down the road or go off the cliff.  I was desperate.  I even thought of jumping out. Then... there it was - hope: A fire hydrant.  I rammed my car into it.  The bottom of my car peeled back like an opened sardine can.  But at least I stopped.

The next Monday at school I told my friends, half joking, that I was so desperate I thought of sticking my foot onto the ground to slow the car.  I mean, come on!! I was desperate.  Within hours, I couldn't walk down the hallway without someone yelling, "Hey, Wilma!!"... as in Flintstone, because the cartoon characters stopped their stone cars with their feet.

After graduation, I'd run into guys I used to date at the market.  I'd wait on girls who thought I was a bitch as I worked at Rockaway Deli on Highway One.  Friends would still laugh about the "Wilma" story. 

So, yeah, the Southern California weather sounded nice.  But leaving a town where I knew half the population and leaving behind all the labels I'd been given since Junior High sounded just as nice.

Years later, as a pregnant and married wife living in the San Fernando Valley, Cindy - one of my best friends from San Francisco, who I'd known since I was seven or eight - came to visit me.  At the time, she was dating a comedian who lived in Hollywood. 

During our visit Cindy said, "You'll never guess who I had dinner with the other night."

"Who?"

"Rob Schneider," she said.

He and I knew each other in high school.  Hung around the same people.  Saw Prince in "Purple Rain" as a group.  Went to Hawaii, after graduating, as a group.  We even butted heads during Terra Nova's Senior talent show.  As the director, he wanted me to come to a rehearsal.  No matter how adamant he was, I refused.  I told him my reason, thinking then he'd understand the importance of my obligation.

"But, Rob, that's when I'm getting my hair permed!!"

Somehow he didn't understand.  Anyway, after moving, I hadn't seen him in years.

Cindy continued.  "Yeah, Warren and I had dinner with him and Dennis Miller at Canter's.  After talking, I realized you and Rob both lived in Pacifica, so I said, 'Do you know Michele?'  And he said, 'Oh, you mean... Wilma?'

Sometimes, no matter how many miles you travel, there are some things you can't leave behind.

*Photos from the Oceana High School 1980 yearbook.  Someone caught me drifting off in photography class.  And that was my favorite class.

Join My Delusion, Won't You?

LA Daily News published this piece of mine, originally titled "American Idol and the Deluded."

Yes, it's true.  I sang out in public without shame.  See this photo on the left?  I'm dancing and singing, as I often did.  And from the big hand gestures, I'm guessing the number I am assaulting everyone in my vicinity with is Age of Aquarius.

Being the delusional child I was, I mangled many songs of the 1970s: Olivia Newton-John's Have you Never Been Mellow; Minnie Riperton's Loving You, and so many more, including (as I mention in the Daily News) Debby Boone's You Light up My Life. 

And if I had more room in the Daily News, I would've included how I, as a Freshman (who should have known better by then), sang Linda Ronstadt's Blue Bayou to my entire high school.  Yep, it was just me singing acapella - standing in the middle of the auditorium during a school rally... even blue-eyed-Dave-with-the-perfectly-feathered-hair was there to witness this event.  I know, because he mentioned it to me four years later.  Ugh!

So, yes, I was truly delusional... I say in the past-tense, while typing about my life into cyberspace as if anyone gives a damn.  Some things haven't changed.

 

Getting Into The Music & A Curb Your Enthusiasm Moment

We went to Molly Malone's last night to see our friend Fred play keyboard with Philip Sayce.  You know what I love about this band?  They all get so into it.  Even the drummer, Mike Leasure - who was great, by the way - sang his heart out.  I don't usually see that.  It was all pure passion for the music... something that all too often is missing, at least on the radio, these days.

Here's a video of the band playing a beautiful song called "Daydream Tonight," at Molly Malone's.  And I found this: Philip Sayce with Melissa Etheridge on Oprah.  Oprah loves Philip, too.  Not only does she "Whoooo!" at his guitar playing, but listen to what she says at the end.  It's so cute!

 

Last night's Curb Your Enthusiasm moment:

(So I don't embarrass anyone, most will go nameless)

There were four of us standing in a clump outside of Molly Malones: My husband, me, a friend (who will go by name “concerned friend”)  and another friend (a very serious, stoic, no-nonsense record producer). Only moments before, the producer was talking to my husband about some audio gear... maybe some sort of meter.

Our concerned friend stops whatever conversation is taking place to ask the record producer a question.

Concerned Friend: Hey, what about what happened to (80's rock star), huh?

Stoic Record Producer: What?

C.F:  Uh, you don't know?

Stoic RP shakes his head.

C.F:  You just worked with (80's rock star) didn't you?

Stoic RP:  Yes, but I don't keep tabs on him.

C.F:  Well, uh, he's... he's...uuhhhhmmm

The concerned friend, so concerned this news will shake up the record producer, hesitates to tell him.  He entered the conversation thinking the record producer had surely heard. 

I nudge the C.F's arm to say it already.

C.F:  Um... he's... no longer with us.

Stoic RP remains expressionless.

C.F:  He's no longer alive.   Dead.

Stoic RP says nothing.  His expression doesn't change.  He then turns to my husband and continues talking about meters.  "So what were you saying about..."

The concerned friend seemed certain the friend/record producer would need to be consoled - might even buckle at the knees upon hearing the news.  The build up to the punchline left me anticipating some sort of reaction from the record producer.  But no.  Nothing.  He was more concerned with meters.  It was such an odd moment.  My husband and I both wanted to laugh.  But it seemed so wrong.   

How We've Become "Them"

This is our new kitten. She was a little wild cat with a lump on her side and a fever. My daughter found her running around the side of our house and took her to the vet this past June.

So we decided to keep her and call her June.  The name works out well since our other cat is named Johnny - you know, like Johnny Cash and June Carter.

Anyway, here's how my family has crossed the line and become "Them": The Nutty Cat People - not that there's anything wrong with that.  It's just not a lifestyle choice we've ever thought of adopting. 

Here's what happened -

One family member (who shall remain nameless) walked into the living room and found the kitten, June, choking. This nameless person yelled to me, "The cat's choking on her toy!!" It's a little fuzzy pom pom with a mouse face on it and a string of yarn with a bell on the end for the tail. 

I ran in the room to see the FM (family member) sticking his/her fingers down the kitty's throat to pull out the toy. I jumped in for some kitty Heimlich thrusts. Nothing!! So I, too, stuck my fingers down her throat. What do you know!! She didn't like that. Not at all. So she ravaged my hand with her little kitty teeth and claws.

With my bloody hand I grabbed my car keys and with the other hand I grasped the kitten, and ran to the car.  My daughter ran behind.  We sped to an emergency vet down the street. The kitten was still breathing. Great. But the the object would be speeding its way down her stomach. We needed to move fast!

Stupid emergency vet! He couldn't see the kitty toy on June's x-ray. So in a huff, my daughter and I sped her over to a more trustyworthy vet. We told them about the silly vet who couldn't see the mass. They nodded their heads in sympathy, served us chai tea lattes and reasoned the best we could do would be an endoscope (sp?) (tube with camera) to find the object and pull it out.  So the kitten stays for the over night procedure.

1:35 am - Phone Rings.  I know it's the vet.  My heart races.

Me:  Hello?  How's my kitten?

Vet:  Sorry.

Me:  Excuse me. (My heart dropped to my knees)

Vet:  Sorry, you cut out...what did you say?

Me:  The kitty, how is she?

Vet:  Uh, fine.  But we can't see any object other than food in her stomach.

6:30am - I go to pick up the kitten.  She is to be taken, with catheter in tow, to our regular vet for further examination.

7:15 am - June the Kitten - who the vet assistant lovingly referred to as "Butthead" for her obstinate personality (it runs in the family) - and I drove (well, I did the driving and the kitten ran around the car clawing at her head cone) toward our vet.  Maybe the object was lodged too far down?

7:20 am - My cell phone rings.  I pull over from driving and dig my phone out of my purse.

Me:  Yeah.

Family Member who shall remain nameless:  I found the toy.

Yep, the kitten never swallowed the toy. We suspect that her tooth was just caught on her collar and so it looked like she was gagging.

I told the FM who shall remain nameless, after realizing we now can't afford to go on vacation due to the cost of this fiasco, "Hey, don't worry. Let's move forward. Think of it as making a deposit in your karma bank."

I really want to believe that, because a week in Tahoe would've been a lot of fun.  Anyway, apologies to the Vet we found to be lacking in medical knowledge.  I guess that degree on your wall does mean something after all.    

Confessions of a Procrastinator - Someday is Always Great

*This is just something I was thinking the other night when I couldn't sleep - and I just thought of it again when I was trying to talk myself out of working out.

I added this photo I tookof the Eastern Columbia Building in Downtown Los Angeles because I like it and it has a clock... its hands ticking foward, which is the way time moves, doesn't it?*

The day I look forward to -

It’s more exciting than any holiday and more thrilling than any vacation. The day I look forward to is… someday! It can be next month or next week. And occasionally it’s a year or two from now – but it’s always someday.

Someday is the day I will look really great in my jeans again and finish the oil painting I started two years ago. It’s when I will grow an herb garden. It’s when I will learn French beyond the minimum I now get by with – which is just enough to keep me sheltered and fed in a small village.

Someday is the day I will publish my fifth book - even if, for now, I have yet to send out my first book proposal.

Someday is when I will be sophisticated and fashionable – even if today I can barely walk ten feet without tripping or spilling something on my drugstore sweatshirts.

Thanks to somedays, I sleep well at night. I don’t worry about all the things I’ve put off – jogging, bike riding, learning to surf. I know that tomorrow, next week or next month, I will do it all.

Ha!! As if I've got a guaranteed endless supply of somedays piled up.

Reality is... someday isn’t going to greet me with balloons, confetti and an Emcee yelling into a microphone, “It’s here – the day when it’s all going to happen!  The day when you're really going to feel elated to put in all that effort!”

No.  Someday unceremoniously sneaks in a moment at a time.  Someday has been here waiting.

So if I write one page today and edit one tomorrow - a month from now I’ll be closer to a completed book.

And right now, though I really, really, really don't want to - I'm going to go work out, because my jeans aren't going to miraculously fit any better if I just keep sitting on this chair. 

Let's just say I can relate to this guy a lot.

 

 

 

Pears in ice cream?! Ugh. Bring Back Koogle!

One recent night, my husband said, "Hey, why don't I go get some ice cream?"

So, of course, I said, "Yeah.  Why don't you?"

"What kind should I get?"

"Something yummy,"  I said, thinking of swirls of caramel, ribbons of fudge, chunks of cookie dough.  Something with real Umpf.  You know, a real pay off to balance out the butterfat laden calories.  I wasn't going to instantly inflate my thighs for any old ice cream.  It had to be good.

We've been together twenty years, my husband and I.  I was pretty sure he knows what I like.  So I said (and, man, do I regret it!), "Surprise me!"

About twenty minutes later, he swings through the front door, a smile across his face, looking mighty pleased with himself.

Still sitting on the couch, confident he came home with a winner, I kept reading the Sunday paper.  "So... whaddya get?"

Then he said, "Carmelized pear and toasted pecan!"

"Huh?  You didn't just say pear - did you?"

"Yeah, pear...don't you like..."

"Pear?  In ice cream?"

"I thought you like pear?" He asked. 

So I start racking my brain trying to think where he got that idea.  It's the one fruit I never buy.  And I'll tell you why - because every time I do, they're lumpy, brownish and bruised, gritty and flavorless with a bitter skin.  I've tried to like pears because (oh, I realize why he thinks I like pears) I had one memorable experience with a pear at the age of five.  I remember telling him this memory:  It was a warm, sunny day in a village in Germany.  My parents rode my sister and me on the back of their bikes in child seats.  I think we were on our way to the Black Forest.  We stopped to pick up food for a picnic (Oh, I loved picnics!).  To stave off hunger for the ride, my dad handed me a pear - a golden, plump, frecked, slightly soft to the touch piece of voluptous fruit; its sweet juice dribbled down my chin as the soft breeze blew threw my hair.  And we rode to a new adventure.

Ahhh... the fruit had become entwined with that day.  Unfortunately, as hard as I've tried, no other pear ever came close to the one I ate that day.  They'd all left me disappointed.

Now my husband walks in with Haagen-Daz carmelized pear ice cream.  Yick!  But I'm no longer five, so I try to be open-minded and I walked over to smell and then taste the stuff.  Maybe I am close-minded, because it smelled and tasted more putrid than I even expected.

That's why I won't be surprised to find it in the freezers of 99 cent stores, on its way to being discontinued.  I predict It'll keep company with all the other food failures (beet juice cocktail, instant tuna salad in a bowl, Clam-n-Cheese Surprise) that now crowd the shelves of discount stores.

Seriously, I know some people must like this carmelized pear ice cream.  But so what?  I loved Koogle peanut butter in all its flavors: banana, cinnamon and chocolate.  I loved Squoze - mouth puckeringly delicious - instant drink mix.  I loved the lemon poppy seed Duncan Hines bundt cakes my mom made like crazy (but only during 1974).  I loved A&W teen burgers (juicy cheeseburgers with bacon).  But they've all gone away.

I think the reason why so few ice creams have used pear before is for a good reason - it's not a good combo.  Plus, any fruit that is so hit and miss that it takes almost forty years and going to an entire other country to find a good one, is not one I want to deal with. 

And, yes, it was very nice of my husband to pick up ice cream.  Yes, I should've been less of an ingrate.  But it's not like he's never suggested, as he pushes away a half-eaten plate of food, that maybe I might not want to make that dish EVER again.

So what's my point?  I don't know.  Maybe when ice cream flavors stop pushing awkward fruits (Oy...I'm going to get some strange Google searches with that) and start makig a Koogle peanut-butter chocolate ice cream I'll stop complaining. 

Who Are They, Anyway?

Are we (my husband and I) the only ones who experience this?  The amount of money you think of as a nice little bonus, is the EXACT amount your car will cost to be repaired.  This has happened so often to me, it can't be a fluke. 

When I just moved to LA my Grandma sent me off with a birthday check for $80.00.  I drove myself down the 101 from San Francisco to LA, only to have my car break down as soon as I reached the Valley.  My car's repair cost?  $80.00!!

Who is up there keeping track of these transactions?

This morning as I cleaned out my swimming pool, my husband came outside to join me.  Our conversation went something like this:

Him: (Just heard the weather report on the TV) Cloudy today, but sunny this weekend.

Me:  That's nice.  I don't mind these cloudy days when they mix it up a little.  When it's cloudy all the time...

Him:  They?  When they mix it up? Who are they?

Me:  (Nearly falling into the pool laughing as I realized what I said)  Uhhh... I guess the co-worker of the guy who decides our auto repair bills will be the amount we were counting on saving... and the guy who works next to the karma police.  That's who!

That's about as intellectual as we get around my house... especially in the morning.

My Mission Statement and How George Costanza Influenced Me

Why am I auditioning for a TV game show?  Why am I trying out for the roller derby?

Well, see this kid?  That's me on my 8th birthday in April of 1972.  I was blowing out candles and making a wish.  And whatever that wish was - whether it was for the  invention of a television-telephone or my future Hollywood stardom - I know I was not wishing for mediocrity.

Unfortunately, I feel like that's just what I spent my last month doing: Using my time and energy toward a mediocre endeavor... and without even realizing it.

Anyway, I remembered the time a friend lamented about her ability to choose good, undrunk men, and how I advised to her to try the "George Costanza" method of choice-making.  Did you ever see the Seinfeld episode where George has amazing luck doing the opposite of what he would normally do?  Well, that's the George Costanza method of which I speak.  And that's exactly what worked for my friend.  She did the opposite of what she normally did and found a nice, undrunk type of guy.  Though, in reality, she had too many years of "issues" to practice the Costanza method for long - so she eventually let the guy go.  But that's not my point.  Here's my point.

My Mission Statement:

For now on, I will put myself into situations I would not normally put myself into and then write about them.  All that can happen is 1) I will have a unique and surprising learning experience.  Or 2) I'll have great material to write about.  And then I'll submit these stories to an appropriate publication or maybe I'll just post them on my blog. 

My first self-given assignment starts on Wednesday.  I'm auditioning for a network game show.  I figure that might make for an interesting story, and - who knows? - maybe I'll even win some money so I can remodel my kitchen.  And on a scale of one to ten - ten being the scariest - auditioning for a game show registers only about a 4 in the discomfort factor.  So maybe one day I'll learn to fly an airplane (like my grandpa) or - you never know - jump out of one. 

Next I'm trying out for the roller derby.  Hey, I already bought my mouth guard and hot pink tights.

(For anyone who read my original rant - I removed it for two reasons 1) It sounded whiney and 2) the experience of which I ranted will have to just go onto my long list of mistakes I've made which I will have to learn from.)  It's time to move on.

Bad Drawings of a Great Steak Dinner

Friday night, my husband and I went to Ruth's Chris in Wooldand Hills for steaks.

The following is a sample of our dinner repartee. My excuses are 1) We were famished and 2) We've been married so long we need to entertain ourselves with whatever is on our table or surrounding us in lieu of date-like conversation -

First, the waiter arrived with my husband's martini, and then placed my glass of Pinot Grigio down on the table; it was in a massive wine glass with a small puddle - the amount of what appeared to be about four grapes - at the bottom. 

Waiter:  Is there anything else I can get for you?

Me:  (Looking at my huge wine glass filled with its relatively small amount of Pinot Grigio) Yeah, some more wine.

He laughed and walked away.

I tipped the huge glass back trying to sway the thimble sized amount of liquid into my throat.

My Husband:  Hey, there's Alicia Silverstone!

Me: (Head swiveling) Huh?

Oh, right, that was a joke.  We were in a steak restaurant and she's a vegetarian.  These are the things married people who also work together all day long say to each other over dinner.

But my stomach was empty and the wine fumes must've been getting to me, because I laughed.  My face was surrounded by the huge wine glass goblet.  I tried to tip the wine toward my face.  As I laugh, the sound bounced off the inside walls of the humongous wine glass.  The whole restaurant can hear..."Hawwwww awwwww aaaaaah aaaahhhh... Hawwww awwww ahhhhhhhhhh."

Me:  (clearly in need of something to do to get my mind off my hunger, I grab the lacey paper doiley under my salad plate)  Hey, a hat!

The bus boy is trying to clear our table for dinner.  Very seriously he says, "Uh... Okay.  I was going to clear the table but you can have that as a hat."

I hand over the doiley.

The busboy looks at my husband who is still eating his salad.  "Can I take your salad plate, sir?"

My husband said, "No, thanks.  I'm still eating it."

There were about four big bites of salad on his plate.  The busboy stood over my husband watching him eat, waiting. 

My husband stared at him and stopped eating.  The bus boy got the hint and left.

The chopped salad was great, but we wanted what we came for:  Sizzling, juicy meat.

We then hear that familiar sound - the loud sizzle. And we smell the aroma of melting garlic, butter and meat.  A cart is set up in front of our table.  My husband and I, both smiling, enthusiasically grab our forks, ready to pounce. 

The male server looked at my husband, "Looks good, huh?"  My husband nods and so do I.

The server then takes the sizzling plates of food and hands them to the table next to us. 

What?  That's not our food?  "You tease!"  I yell to the server. 

Then my husband and I discussed the situation.

Husband:  It didn't look like a steak anyway... think it was chicken.

Me:  Yeah, those weren't potatoes.

We realized we were like Pavlov's dogs - Sound, smell... time to eat!!!  Even though our eyes were conveying a whole different message.  Rather than our steaks and potatoes, they were actually plates of chicken and some other vegetable entirely.  Our senses were so overwhelmed they had overloaded and our messages became crossed.

The next time the server arrived and placed a sizzling cart before us, we both paid careful attention with our eyes.  Two sizzling steaks?  Check.  Fluffy, garlic mashed potatoes?  Check.  Ours?  Please!!! This time, Yes.  And, man, they were good!

(Drawing above - an original work done by Yours Truly.  I call this "Massive glass with little wine, confusing meat and lacey doiley that becomes hat") *Note - doiley hat drawing (right lower corner) can also be interpreted as my husband's salad

Ode to Robbie Benson

I Googled Vroman's in Pasadena to see if they carry the new Pasadena Magazine I've been writing for - and what do I find?  Robbie "Ode to Billy Joe" Benson's blue eyes staring back at me.   

Apparently, on August 29th he's signing his new book, "Who Stole the Funny?"  - humorous tales from behind the scenes in the TV industry.

As an eleven-year-old, I saw "Ode to Billie Joe" and cried my eyes out for the saddest tale of love-gone-tragic I'd ever seen - okay, other than "Romeo and Juliet," "West Side Story" and maybe "Gone with the Wind" - and so I became ga ga for Robbie.  Every boy I had a crush on after that had dark hair and blue eyes. 

So the eleven-year-old in me would love to drive to Vroman's, buy his book and have him sign it.  And, anyway, I love humorous, behind the scene Hollywood books.  Industry people are hilarious without even trying to be.  And, hey, I've got an entire collection of author signed books.  I could just consider this another part of the collection.  I could justify attending his book signing, make myself sound completely rational.  But, in reality - even after all the justifications - I know that I would revert to my eleven-year-old self and say something that might even top all of the other foolish things I've uttered in my foot-in-mouth-filled lifetime.

But, man, if he hasn't gotten even cuter...  See, I just sounded like a preteen.  At least I didn't say he's a real fox.

My California Writers Club Bio

My California Writers Club bio (Michele Miles Gardiner) is now posted, thanks to the club's president, Carol Wood, and her Webmaster husband, Glen. (Photo to the right shows me in front of the address on my library card - 2669  23rd Ave., which was my grandparents' house.)

The bio covers my early love for books and writing, so I thought I'd post this photo of me "reading" Grimm's Fairytales to my baby sister before I could actually read.  I just made stuff up...not that my sister seemed to mind.

And to prove my early passion for books, I posted my first library card.  It was so important to me I managed to hang on to it for over three decades. 

Meet Exotica Gooch, My Alter Ego

So this morning when It was too early to get up, but I couldn't sleep and had plenty of important things to think about - like the writing assignment I'm supposed have done this afternoon and the bills I need to pay - this is what I thought instead:

Oh my...gawd!  I just missed living my life with the name Exotica Gutch (sounds like Gooch), instead of Michele Miles.

See, my father was raised by his step-father, and even took his last name:  Miles.  My dad's mother told him his biological father had died.  But then, when my dad was in his thirties, and I was around thirteen or so, he bumped into someone (a family member or an old neighbor) and they got to talking...and, well, it turns out his "original" dad was not only walking around quite alive - but lived only blocks away from my where my father grew up.  Anyway, after this discovery, there was much catching up to do, so we made many visits to this newly discovered Grandpa Gutch...his last name is German.  So that means Gutch would've been my last name too if things had worked out differently.

But before knowing I Should've been Michele Gutch and not Michele Miles, my dad liked to tell me about how his mother insisted before I was born I should be named Exotica.  This, I'm positive - knowing my dad - would've been fine with him.  So if my mother weren't so strong willed and my father's biological father wasn't thought dead, today I would be - EXOTICA GUTCH.

What would my life have been like - or be like now - as Exotica Gutch?  Would I have naturally gravitated to singing lead for a Punk band?  Would I have been even more picked on in school and thus dropped out to join some traveling troupe of misfits in a painted caravan roaming Bulgaria and Yugoslavia?  Would I be a wallflower who'd work at Wal-Mart by day and come home to eat my microwave food alone in the dark while watching re-runs of Soap Operas, envying the characters with "normal" sounding names like Jill Brookstone or Kate Heathcliff?

Oh...the thoughts that haunt me when I should be sleeping or thinking other things.  I have only Exotica to blame.  She's the little oddball who has never really left me.  I am her and she is me.  She's the one who causes me to write down my strange thoughts as if anybody on the planet cares. Damn you, Exotica Gutch!   

(Photo:  My father, my sister and me at the top of the Statue of Liberty - 1969)

Taking Care of Business

Well, I've been staying out of trouble.  It's hard to cause too much harm while sitting on my office chair organizing receipts for tax time.  But if I meet anyone interesting, over hear any conversations worthy of printing, or if I annoy, bore or accidentally insult someone, I'll post it here.

Anyway, in the mean time, I wanted to post my new business cards.  I love them!!!  I went ahead and ordered some because every writing event I go to, I'm the only one dragging out a wrinkled and coffee stained napkin from my purse to scribble my e-mail address.  Not real professional. 

So now that I have real business cards I want to run around handing them out.  But since I'm up to my collar bone in bank statements this week and can't leave my desk, I thought I'd hand them out virtually.  I did blur my phone number.  The last thing I need is someone calling me after reading what I wrote about little dogs in bags or anything else someone might want to yell at me about.   I've got a teenager, I don't need anyone else yelling at me.

I'm Either a Time Travelling Fool...

...or I'm crazy. 

I was sure this was going to be the first year I didn't ONCE write the previous year on my checks.  I've written check after check this month without having to do this:01/01/06 Nope.  Not once.  I was very proud - Until, I re-read a letter I faxed six days ago, on which I typed January 4, 1907.  Ugh!!  Well, at least I got the last two digits right.  I just screwed up the century.  So now I'm worried craziness is creeping up on me; it's one of my greatest fears (beside being completely zipped inside a mummy sleeping bag, like my uncle once did to me.)

Or maybe I'm just a crazy, time travelling fool.  See!  (Okay, this photo was taken at a Sixties costume party, so that explains the clothes.  But what's with those eyes?  There is no other explanation than I am absolutely crazy.  I can't imagine what was taking place that I needed to react like that.  Yeah, so I'm pretty worried that it won't be long before my daughter will have to wipe cream of wheat from my chin.)

Oh, and while I still have some working brain tissue I should defend my uncle.  He had a perfect right to zip me completely (the zipper went all the way around my head, like a cacoon).  You see, before that I jumped into his car and hid in the back seat while he drove (without knowing I was in the back) to go pick up his girlfriend.  I popped up in the back seat yelling, "Surprise!"  So I deserved to be zipped.

A Saturday Night, After 18 Years of Marriage

Last night, my husband and I thought about going out to Silver Lake or Venice Beach, but we didn't.

So we went out for some sushi - one rainbow roll, two crunchy rolls and two sakes - and then went to Border's and bought some magazines.  For him, a magazine for bass players; for me, a Writer's Digest. 

Ian turned on the TV, and we both sat back and read.  Neither of us really noticed the channel was on a PBS program about the making of the Lawrence Welk Show.  I remember watching it with my grandma back in the 1970s.  I even kinda liked the tap dancers, Sissy and Bobby.  But I was a geek even back then. 

Anyway, too involved in our magazines, we let the show play in the background.  And then I poked my head over my glossy pages to see Lawrence Welk, circa 1969, walk out onto his stage dressed like a hippie.  He even danced and made the peace sign.  His girl singers crowded around him and said in unison, "We protest!  We protest!" in response to his new funky-chic threads. So off came the wig...off came the freaky outfit, revealing the Mr. Welk Americans know best.

Yep, I took a photo of my TV.  My husband shook his head. "Well," I said, "I have nothing better to do."

We really need to get out.

What a Funky Week: The weather and How I Stunk Up the Joint

Let's see...Southern California experienced hail, ice and snow in places as odd as Malibu Beach this week.  And now the weather is gloriously clear, warm and sunny.  So the weather was about as odd and funky as my week.  

Take last night for instance...Please! (Ba dum bum!)  I'd like to take it back if I could.  It was my first less than fun open-mike experience at Border's Books in Canoga Park.  Until last night I was having so much fun reading. 

In September, I read "Eat It, It Won't Hurt You," true and frightening frugal tales of living with my father, the cheapest man I've ever known; a man who got our family held at gun point when he refused to pay for the "ridiculously" priced gas in Belgium, after filling his tank.

The next month I read, "Craving Normal," tales of feeling less than normal as I ate my father-made lunches - of wheat on cheddar and browned apple slices - in transparent produce bags, while most kids had Twinkies and Wonderbread sandwiches in real lunch boxes.  Those kids wore cardigans, while I came to school in lederhosen and an embroidered sheepskin coat...and other humilating childhood experiences of growing up with parents who said "Far oooouuuut" way too often.

And for the holidays I read, "One Twisted Christmas" about the December of 1967 when my father horrified our suburban neighborhood by placing Santa on his back on top of our roof, with a toy gun in his hand pointed at his head.

People loved those tales.  They loved them so much that Matt, the open-mike organizer, asked me to read first last night, and even introduced me as the California Writing Club's "Own Michele Miles."  Nobody's called me their own before.  I walked up to the microphone with my shoulders back.  And then my ego quickly deflated.

I read "Like a Rolling tomato," my experiences of feeling like an alien in a corporate job.  I read about the culture of jargon-filled memos, mandatory nylons and ties, angry and cliquey female co-workers who preyed upon anyone with an inkling of joy.  And how I managed to leave so I could spend time with my daughter, start my own business and once again have a life free of cubicles and corporate manuals.  I escaped like the cherry tomato I plucked from the deli platter that rolled out of my fingers, toward a CEO who droned on during a meeting about financial projections, as I fell asleep.

I was sure this was a story others could relate to, could chuckle at, and maybe find an inkling of inspiration...no such luck.  As I read, I could tell by the quiet of the audience (which was larger than usual due to the announcement in the Daily News) that this story wasn't working.  I couldn't read fast enough.  I just wanted to get back to my seat and away from the microphone.  The only thing I was thankful for is that my husband didn't come to see me.  It was horrible.

"Nah.  It was probably better than you thought," my husband said, trying to make me feel better.

"Uhhhh...no.  I'm pretty sure I stunk up the joint.  Especially after I saw what the older woman in a pouffy circa 1958 hair-do seated in front of me wrote in her note book: "Michelle...tomato...not interesting to me."

Yep, it was a funky week in many ways - the weather was odd, and my open-mike night was worse.  But, hey, that's in the past, right?  The sun's shining now and I'll just learn from my mistakes and persevere.  Arrrrgghhhh...I'm trying my hardest to be positive, but I'm even annoying myself.

Yodeling, Lederhosen and Jingle Bell Dancing

Why I Don't Go To Many Parties
Our friends Mark and Steff invited my husband and me to a party at their recording studio.  Once there, I struck up a conversation with a man from Austria.  We got right into the deep topic of yodeling and why Gwen Stefani should leave that to the Austrians, followed by a discussion on lederhosen and how wearing the leather shorts often leads to chafing.  Something, unfortunately, I know too well.

(photo: me in lederhosen, sans shirt) My sister recently reminded me how our parents were constantly running after us with those damn things, "Wear the lederhosen!"  Along with missing Rocky and Bullwinkle and the lack of Velveeta Cheese in Europe, wearing lederhosen was not one of my favorite parts of travel as a child. 

That horrifying bit of party banter (yodeling and lederhosen) was followed by my confession to coupon clipping, which left a small crowd gasping.  "No!  You don't.  Tell me you don't."  Steff pleaded.  What?  Is that so weird? 

Look, I confess, I don't go to many parties these days, so maybe I'm rusty in the party banter arena.  In a previous post I mentioned how I told a group of men, as we discussed the greatness of Top Ramen at another recording studio party, "I bloat after eating it...from the salt."  Once again, not a great party topic.

And then out came the bells
Later, Steff and Mark broke out all the instruments - people played guitars, a bass, the harmonica...but a lot of us were left empty handed.  So someone came in with a box of tamborines, maracas and a big bunch of jingly bells.  I got the bells.  I shook those bells through Beatles' songs, Rolling Stones' songs, the Eagles...and then took a break.  A woman ran out to get me in the hallway, "Hey, we need you in there!  We need bells!" 

Huh?  Someone actually NEEDS bells? I thought as I ran in. A guitar player called me over. 

Him:  What's your name?

Me:  Michele.

Him:  Hmmm...Michele on Bells?

(And then promptly serenaded me, "Michelle, My Belle...," which left me staring into his eyes until he abruptly stopped playing.) 

Him:  Why aren't you shaking your bells?

So I did the only way I know how, by banging them on my hips.  I discovered a while ago when learning the guitar, all my rhythm is in my hips.  I can dance. But play the guitar?  Not so good.

So when my husband walked into the room, he found me pounding the bells on my swaying hips in a rousing rendition of "Jingle Bells" before a crowd.  Once it ended, I put down my bells and dashed out of the room wondering what the heck I was thinking, as I passed a woman in the crowd who asked me if I belly dance.  Oh my Gawd!  I thought.  Was I throwing my hips into it that much? 

And that's why I woke up to my husband saying, "Hey there, bell lady."

Things My Grandma Still Teaches Me

This Thanksgiving, my Grandma taught me something, even though she's no longer alive. (On left, Grandma holding my baby sister - 1966)

Our friends Jenny and Fred invited us over for Thanksgiving dinner.  Jenny called me about three weeks before to ask if we could come.

"Yes," I said.  "But can I..." I paused.

"What?" Jenny asked. 

"Can I cook some things?"

She laughed.  "You're asking me if you can cook?"

"I know it's weird.  I'm one of those fiends that spends days in the kitchen.  But I get all zenned (is that a word) out... you know, the house smells good, the radio's on and I'm in my zone.  Thanksgiving's probably my favorite holiday."

So I begged Jenny if I could just make some specific things:  Apple-sausage stuffing, orange-cognac cranberries and Madeira-shallot gravy that my mom and I have been making since we found the recipes in a 1982 Bon Appetit Magazine.  All the recipes are so good my mom has been making them in the town of Roanne in France.  I know, Thanksgiving in France?!  And with people from all over the world no less.  But they all love it.

Then I asked Jenny if I could make a dessert.  "Maybe a carrot cake?" 

She laughed again, as if she were Tom Sawyer tricking me into white-washing her picket fence.  "Sure, carrot cake would be great."

But I love to cook.  I'm nuts that way... and in many other ways too, but this is how I'm nutty about cooking.

Just before Thanksgiving, my mom called from France to say that she would be unreachable due to heading from Paris to Roanne to cook her Thanksgiving feast in the little French town.  "I just made Grandma's Applesauce-Spice cake... you have to make it!  It's so good," she said to me.

I remembered it, of course.  Grandma would often make it for special occasions.  "I don't know.  I kind of had my heart set on carrot cake." 

So when I sat down to make my shopping list and to find my carrot cake recipe, what recipe should I find in my messy book of special recipes?  My Grandma's Applesauce-Spice cake AND the cream cheese frosting recipe that goes with it, right there in front of my stacks of recipes.

Naturally, I had to make it.  I think I even bit my lip at the thought of making a cake from scratch.  As bullheaded as I am about taking the long way with everything else, I always resort to box cake mixes due to my few scratch recipe cakes turning out like tasteless boulders.

I wrote down the ingredients to Grandma's recipe -  Raisins?  Eh, I'm not crazy about them.  But I'll get them for Grandma.  Nuts? They're good, but in cake?  Oh well, I'll get them.  I need a sifter?  I sift like I iron - never.  Alright!  I'll buy a sifter.

After an entire afternoon cutting french bread cubes, dicing apples and marinating sausage in cognac, sage and nutmeg... and everything else, I was tired.  Still, I had to make the cake (which I made into cupcakes).  So I sifted the flour before measuring, to get the flour airy.  Next, I sifted the flour once, twice and (Ow!! My hand's cramping!) three times to mix in the cloves, allspice, cinnamon and other spices.  But I almost cheated.  I almost just dumped it all into the bowl.  Who would know? No wonder I use box cake mix! I thought, as I was worn out and covered in flour.

I took the cupcakes out when browned, cooled and iced them.  Then my husband and I each tested one out - and, man!! They were the most airy, moist and perfectly flavored cakes I've ever made.

Her whole life, my grandma never once lectured.  She simply did.  She only spoke kindly about others (Yeesh, if I could only say the same!); she was patient; she was generous - from helping to raise her younger siblings after her father died to helping care for one of her sister's children to volunteer work with the handipcapped and letting my sister and me stay over many, many weekends - yet she never complained (not that I heard, anyway).  In that way, her life was a lesson for me (not that I come even close to living up to any of that) -  But I aspire to.   

So following this recipe to Grandma's Applesauce-Spice Cake was another lesson (or reminder):  That putting time and effort into things is always worth it.  Even if the cakes had burned, I would have known at least I tried my best.  But if I would have sifted any less than recipe called for, left out the raisins or the nuts, I would have never known just how good they could be.

Thanks, Grandma!

And thanks Fred and Jenny for inviting us over! 

PLACES IN L.A. THAT HAVE GONE AWAY

Lived in L.A. awhile?  Then you've seen a favorite place disappear, right?

Sadly, there are too many places I hear people talk about but I never took the time to visit:  The Ambassador Hotel, Schwab’s Pharmacy, Chasen’s and C.C. Brown’s, to name a few.  For more "extinct" restaurants, check out L.A. Time Machine's list.

Now, here are a few of my own memories of old Southern California Used-To-Bes:

The Pike – from 1902 to 1979, A Long Beach amusement park, right on the water.

Many of our family trips through L.A to Mexico required a stop at the Pike.  The last time I went there, in the mid 70s, my family and I just came back from a scuba diving trip in Mexico.  Earlier that afternoon, I filled myself on cheese enchiladas in Tijuana; yet, there I was on this crazy ride – a large cylinder which spun fast, then faster, and then so damn fast the centrifugal force pinned bodies to the walls.  The floor dropped.  Plastered to the wall, unable to lift my head, I felt like...

(Warning! If you have a weak stomach, skip this.) So I spent my last day at the Pike bent over a wooden railing as I watched my churned Enchiladas splatter on the ground. (Sorry for that.)

Disneyland's Old Tomorrowland -

As a kid enthralled by the future - waiting in anticipation of television phones, flying cars, and kitchen robots - I found Tomorrowland fascinating.  It was bright-white, sleek, space-like... and oh so forward-thinking.

One favorite of mine was the Adventure Thru Inner Space ride. My first time on it, I thought I was really getting “miniaturized,” after seeing the huge eyeball looking at me through the microscope. That completely freaked me out.  Jumping and running seemed like a very real option.  And there was the General Electric Carousel of Progress, spinning to this happy lyric: “There’s a great big beautiful tomorrow,shining at the end of every day.”  I watched in awe as the human-looking robots demonstrated the wonders of electricity through the 20th century.  When I was sixteen, Tomorrowland was still fun, but I met a musician in one of the Tomorrowland bands I liked even better.  We made out in the food-court. 

From my first visit at three to my adult years, no matter how much time passed, our present never looked as futuristic as Tomorrowland.  And then... it changed. (photo: I followed Pluto to the employee exit and accosted the poor dog)
 
The newer look is more Jules Verne or H.G. Wells - a style that was considered futuristic in the early 20th century, but hardly forward thinking for today.  So what are the Disney executives saying?  There's no hope for the future - you've already seen the best innovations that the human mind can imagine...but here, we dredged up this refurbished look?

*UPDATE: The Tomorrowland Submarine ride is coming back in 2007 as Finding Nemo Submarine Voyage.

Martoni’s Restaurant: (1538 North Cahuenga Boulevard, Hollywood)

Many record contracts were signed and movie plots scribbled on napkins at Martoni's...or so I've heard. One quick Google search reveals that it's apparently one of the last restaurants singer Sam Cooke went to before he was shot to death, and that supposedly Sonny Bono wrote "Laugh at Me" after being kicked out of Martoni’s for his wild attire.

But more than that, Martoni's was an all around great Italian Restaurant.  It became a favorite dating place for my husband and me from the mid '80s to the early 90s.  We liked the warm and simple decor - Chianti bottles and red leather booths.  No pretensions.  At Martoni's, the scampi was exquisite and the service even better.

And then there was the '94 earthquake. I've heard, though I'm not sure, that Martoni's suffered too much damage to open again. Martoni's closed its doors forever.

The Malibu Colony Coffee Shop - PCH and Webb Way, Malibu

I don't really remember the food.  I do remember the building was cool and round.  My mom always took my sister and me there for breakfast before heading out for a day of sight-seeing in L.A., whenever we were on vacation in Southern California. 

The last time we ate there we were on our way to Hollywood.  It was to be my first trip. Sun streamed through the restaurant's windows.  The smell of bacon filled the air.  And a whole new exciting day spread out before us.  That morning in the Malibu Colony Coffee shop, Hollywood was still a glamorous idea.

Charlie's - a multi-storied thrift store emporium - on Sunset Bl, Silverlake

Back in the '80s, my husband and I used to visit Charlie's as often as possible.  It was like raiding the attic of a crazy aunt who happened to have really great taste.  There were two entire stories jammed from floor to ceiling with all kinds of dusty and strewn collectibles.  In the midst of the jumble were jewels; downstairs, stuck under some lesser junk, I found a Charles Eames designed Herman Miller aluminum framed chair in near perfect condition.  I got it for $40!!!  Man, I miss Charlie's.

As Joni Mitchell said, "You don't know what you've got 'til it's gone..."

Glimpses of a Weekend Without Any Emergency Room Visits

Overheard at a liquor store:
Twenty-something woman:  (speaking into her cell phone while looking into a glass case at a $299.00 bottle of tequila) Uhhh...It's almost three hundred dollars.  I like him and everything.  But not that much.

Overheard at a department store:
Blonde teen girl:  (resting her weary body onto a circular clothing rack, her head heavy in her hand) I mean, like, he's so ridiculous.  Did you see his Myspace page?  It's covered with dollar signs.  Who does he think he is, P. Diddy? (and then without taking a breath she jumped tangents) Oh my Gawd!  I've gotta get my eyebrows waxed.  Seriously!  There's a jungle growing here.  I'm talkin' monkeys are swinging from my hairs.
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Saturday night we went to a birthday party for our friend, Rick.  (I figure since I link just about everything, I should do it to promote friends' work, too.)  He, like all our musician friends, has actually been my husband's friend for decades.  But I tend to usurp all my husband's friends as my own...bwa ha ha ha!  Because that's the sort of person I am.

Anyway, back to the party - Not long after arriving, a guy broke a bottle of Champagne on the kitchen floor...for once it wasn't me!  I told him, "That's okay, I once broke fifteen Champagne bottles at once," and I saw his face relax in relief as he said "Really?"  So I felt good about that, because I know how lonely and humiliating it is to be the only one in a room breaking things or tripping or falling down when everyone is standing perfectly up-right.

I have a thing for trees.  And since this camera is new - I'm still learning the settings (as you can tell by some of the photos) - I tried out the manual features on this hundred year old cherry tree.  It was so beautifully gnarly and bent.  A guy I met said it reminded him of something from H.R. Puf-N-Stuf.

Me: What year were you born?

Him: Sixty-three.

Me:  Oh, you're my people! (I said to him and his girlfriend who remembered H.R. Puf-N-Stuf too)

Him:  What about the Banana Splits?

Me:  I loved them!

Why was I so excited?  Because it seems everyone I know is at least ten years older than me or ten years younger than me, so our pop-culture knowledge doesn't translate often.  For instance, when my husband saw what Rick was wearing (a turtle neck shirt under a suit jacket, see photo on left), he quipped, "Who do you think you are? Ilya kuryakin?"  And then had to explain to me that that was a character on a show called the "Man from Uncle."  And then there's my friend Lisa, who sat with us, and had no idea about HR Puff-N-Stuff.  She was a kid in the "Smurf" and "My Little Pony" era, aka the '80s.

So to meet someone who grew up with "HR Puff-N-Stuff" and "the Banana Splits"...wow, I could hardly contain my excitement.  It doesn't take a lot to get me excited I guess:  Trees, 1970s era kid shows and watching someone other than me break Champagne bottles.  I'm easy.

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The weekend ended in a vibrant sunset, perfect background for more of my tree shots.

We Met Lorraine

Saturday night, my husband and I were planning to go over to the corn maze at Pierce College, but the parking lot was packed.  So what did we do?  We went to eat, of course.

Back to Cafe Carolina we went.  It was there that we came face to face with Lorraine.  Same hair style?  Check.  Same glasses?  Check.  Polyester pants pulled up to her chin?  Check.  Normally I wouldn't have bothered to comment on her clothing.  I mean, hey, if someone wants to wear stretch polyester she's free to do so. 

I actually didn't even notice this woman until... she swung around, stuck her face practically in my husband's gnocchi and said, "Ahhhhhhh....so thaaaaat's what that stuff looks like?"  Her face seemed to hover over my husband's plate for eternity.  My husband's mouth hung open.  My mouth hung open.  And the waitress standing behind her looked mortified.  I wanted to laugh out loud so badly, but I held it in.

Then she swung back around and interrogated the waitress:  "What's that again, huh?... and that - what's that?  Eewww... and what's this sauce with the bread?  Isn't there any butter?  I want butter.  Bread needs butter!"

My husband and I couldn't eat we were laughing too hard. 

As we drank our coffees at the end of the meal, Lorraine prepared to leave.  And this - for some reason - required her to bend over many times placing her polyestered butt in my husband's face. 

So I think I know where Mad TV's Mo Collins got her inspiration for Lorraine - and she's probably somewhere in Encino wearing stretch polyester right now.

Sheltered and Shallow In The Suburbs

(Please click on photos to enlarge)

A life in the suburbs:
The cement world of ticky-tack houses in which I exist, where my muscles atrophy and my brain becomes flabbier each day.  I am a suburbanite, a San Fernando Valley dweller - as suburban as you can get west of Levitt Town, and I'm embracing the fact that I am sheltered and shallow.

With only enough energy to lift a Sun Drop soda to my lips, and hold a paperback in my brittle wrist, I introduce to you - The San Fernando Valley outside my door!

I'm an Imperfect Parent

I wrote this piece titled "Kid Sense" for Imperfect Parent, about how adults (including me) too often lack the good sense children have.   

While I am an imperfect parent, here's a little of what I've learned now that my kid is a teen:

*Newborns are quiet and angelic at the hospital, but are likely to turn into red-faced, screaming tyrants once your foot hits your own doorway.  If I could do it again, I'd listen to the wise pediatric nurse who said, "You really should stay in the hospital a few days longer; it's the only rest you'll get for a while."

*I like this quote from writer Anne Lamott: "Having a baby is like suddenly getting the world's worst roommate, like having Janis Joplin with a bad hangover and PMS come stay with you."  So true.

*The first time you see your toddler's diapered butt scurrying down the crib bars, making her escape - realize that sitting down for ten minutes in the evening is just a dream.

*When out in public with a toddler, know that she may say and do anything.  Be prepared to apologize profusely to strangers, run as if a life depended on it and carry lots of wet-wipes.  She may just wipe her chocolate ice-cream covered hands on the back of a clean, white t-shirt of the man standing in front of you in the grocery store line;  or she might take all of her clothes off and run out the door of a boutique, while you're half-dressed in the dressing room, when you fantasized she would calmly sit in her stroller beside you.  My daughter has done both.

*If you're making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for your five year old and her friends, and then realize you haven't heard a sound for a few minutes - run very quickly! They just may have climbed your trellis and be on top of your roof.  That's where I found my daughter and her friends.

*If you want your child to be calm, patient and never raise her voice, make sure you do the same.  If only I could go back in time...

*Your four year old may insist on wearing her yellow raincoat every day for months, but the day it actually rains will be the day she decides to never to wear it again.

*There may be a time when your toddler can verbalize how she truly feels about you, like the time my daughter yelled  "You're the wierdest mommy I ever had!"...and you may try to do your best to stifle a laugh while still feeling offended. 

*Watch your words, small children take things literally, like when I said "Sorry, Charlie!" to my daughter, she threw a fit thinking I forgot her name.

*Be consistent.  Kids never forget that one time you gave in, and will cling to the hope they can get you to change your mind one more time.  Believe me on this one!  I've been paying for that mistake ever since.

*Remember that you are your child's teacher and guide to the world.  This position should not be abused; such as the time my husband - while on a drive alone with our seven-year-old daughter - somehow came up with the tale that computer keyboards would no longer have the letter "O."  For at least fifteen minutes my daughter was in a state of panic.  Once home, she ran toward me, "Ma ma!  How will I write 'I love mommy?' on the computer without the letter O?"  Poor child, didn't yet realize how twisted her father is.

*Be prepared to answer questions of a curious mind.  With every new thing learned come more questions.  When my six-year-old and her friend rode in my car's backseat, I heard the following conversation:
My daughter:       "Lesbian?
Daughter's friend: "Yeah.  That's two girls who love each other."
My daughter:       "The way I love my mommy?"

*Beware!  Children have no filters.  They just say it as they see it...which is why my daughter wrote in her class bio, "My mom is a klutz,"  and made me a mother's day card, complete with accompanying artwork, that said, "My mom is good at sleeping." (see photo)

 

*As they get older, be honest with them about their talents.  Guide them toward what they seem to do well, or give them classes in something they're interested in , but don't mislead them with misplaced praise in order to give them self-esteem; you may just end up with a kid mangling a beautiful Stevie Wonder song with piercing screeches on "American Idol" before millions of viewers, who then states, "But my mom says I'm the best."   

I'm not a perfect parent, but I have raised a confident, yet not cocky, child.  She has confidence in the areas where she does have talent, yet is realistic about what she doesn't do so well.  And I'm proud to say she always comes to me first to get advice, knowing I'll tell her the truth.  So when I compliment her she knows I really mean it.  And when she sings off-key and I turn up the radio to cover up her warbling, we laugh.  She can thank me for her singing talent. 

*Don't be surprised when your teenager behaves as though you don't exist when with her (or his) friends.  Don't worry.  Your Teenager will acknowledge your existence when they need a ride, money or their birthday or Christmas is near.

*Understand your teenager will know everything and you will know nothing; like the other morning when I said to my daughter, "Get ready for school.  It's six-fifty (6:50am)," And she said, "Nah uh!  It's ten to seven!" 

*If your eyes are heavy, your mouth's dry and your throat's scratchy from reading her favorite book over and over again - just keep reading.  Soon your child will be a teenager, and you'll wish you had the opportunity to read that book to her just one more time.

*For anyone who wants to see the world brand new again, have a child.  You'll have to explain things like ants, sand, waves, rain, spinach - all those things you've taken for granted will be seen by them for the first time.  There is no better mind-altering experience than having a child, in my opinion.  And then, there are the times you might consider running away to France to get drunk off wine and eat lots of runny cheese rather than continue parenting.   

To be updated...

Help! The Suburbs Are Killing Me!!!

I decided to put "living in the suburbs" into the exact phrase portion of Google advanced search - I now know from the information that I pulled up that...

The suburbs are killing me!!!

The suburbs have made my brain flabby.  Now I know why, as if on auto-pilot, I head to McDonald's every night.  Morgan Spurlock's documentary "Super-Size Me" deserves an Oscar because he was right, McDonald's has taken over my brain; I can't resist.  It's beyond my control.  Whenever I see those golden arches, I impulsively turn into the drive-thru and order a super-sized meal.  Damn!  Morgan's a genius - he must live in a city.  This stuff makes you fat.  Who knew before Spurlock?   Don't I remember seeing the logo of the golden arches at the base of the food group pyramid? 

Well, I think this Spurlock has proven that our huge array of fast-food is all part of the suburbs' sinister plot to fatten us up until we're unable to run from it.

But what's a poor suburbanite fool like me supposed to do? Where am I to find organic foods, uncanned vegetables and foreign fare in this sprawl?  I do love Velveeta. What? that's not foreign? The name sounds so exotic.  Anyway, ever since Swanson's Hungry-Man meals came into my life, I realize even if my gas-guzzling car can't carry my fat ass to the plethora of fast foods I have available, there are always T.V. dinners.

Help me.  I'm weak.  The suburban sprawl has taken over my muscles' abilities to function...and what few brain synapses still firing...are being fried rite now....help!! Pleez.. iii neeeed ur hllp.gsfdp[h$hhhmmmm....ughggh...phhhhhhhtt.

My Momma Doesn't Wear Combat Boots...And Neither Does My State

Yesterday, as I dragged my groceries up my driveway, a man in my neighbor’s driveway pulled luggage out of his Missouri license plated van.  Before I could hustle my way into my house, the man hollered at me.

Him: Hey! What’s for dinner?

Me: That would be leftover spaghetti.

We both chuckled in that…and now what do we say? sort of way. And then, feeling kind of friendly, I went and did it…I continued with the small talk, rather than do the smart thing and head inside.

Me: Visiting from out of town, huh?

Him: Yup...and wow! You folks in Los Angeles have a lot of traffic.

Ah… no, no…please don't go on about the traffic, I thought. Then he continued on about how he could never live in California. He’d miss his seasons: snow, colorful leaves, blah…blah (I zoned out about then, thinking to myself… Ha! We have seasons. They’re just more subtle. And! I can - and have - sunbathed on the beach in January! Now, those are my kind of seasons)

Of course, every now and then, I complain, too, about Los Angeles.  It's just another thing to do here...like ogling mansions in Beverly Hills and surfing.  I whine about the traffic, the mini-malls, the Valley heat…but you know what? They're my city and state, so I can complain if I want to…but how dare Mr. Missouri come to my home and whine to me about it.  And I would have said that, too, but I was too busy smiling and nodding my head. 

I don't doubt that Missouri's a wonderful place and that the seasons are as exquisite as the California-maligning man said. Yes, it wasn’t just Los Angeles he complained about.  He also said that he just came from San Francisco - where I grew up, where I skated in the parks, where I rode the muni, where I swam in the frigid Ocean Beach waters, and where my father taught me to drive a stick-shift on hills so steep I leaned back staring at the sky sure that I'd slide backward.  Yep, Mr. Missouri just came back from San Francisco, and, well, as you can imagine, he could never live there. The reasons are too, too many.  Though he did go on about the real estate prices, which I agree are ridiculous. 

Him: Do you know what kind of spread you can buy in Missouri for $750,000?

Me: Oh, I can imagine. (But inside I was thinking…Yeah, great! A big house no where near the Pacific Ocean…no way!!!)

There I was, standing on my own little patch of California in my driveway, feeling defensive of the city I grew up in and the one I live in now. I felt like I did when I first moved to L.A.and a surfer I just met at the beach said, when I mentioned I was from San Francisco, “Oh, you’re from the land of fruits and nuts.” I felt kind of like I did when some kid yelled “your momma wears combat boots!” to me in elementary school.  Don't you dare talk about my momma, my cities or my state…or…or…I'll...I don’t know, I guess I’ll write about you on my blog.

I don't know...I can’t imagine living anywhere but California.  I've only threatened to leave at times, like after big earthquakes and the '92 riots, but when it comes to reality...I just don't think I could do it.  Even my mother, who lives on a peniche (a barge) in the canals of Paris, sometimes wonders if someday we might consider living in France. All I can say is…”And leave the Pacific Ocean?”   Even if I can't see it from my window...I know it's only a short trip away.

   

 

Yesterday, as I dragged my groceries up my driveway, a man in my neighbor’s driveway pulled luggage out of his Missouri license plated van.  Before I could hustle my way into my house, the man hollered at me.

Him: Hey! What’s for dinner?

Me: That would be leftover spaghetti.

We both chuckled in that…and now what do we say? sort of way. And then, feeling kind of friendly, I went and did it…I continued with the small talk, rather than do the smart thing and head inside.

Me: Visiting from out of town, huh?

Him: Yup...and wow! You folks in Los Angeles have a lot of traffic.

Ah… no, no…please don't go on about the traffic, I thought. Then he continued on about how he could never live in California. He’d miss his seasons: snow, colorful leaves, blah…blah (I zoned out about then, thinking to myself… Ha! We have seasons. They’re just more subtle. And! I can - and have - sunbathed on the beach in January! Now, those are my kind of seasons)

Of course, every now and then, I complain, too, about Los Angeles.  It's just another thing to do here...like ogling mansions in Beverly Hills and surfing.  I whine about the traffic, the mini-malls, the Valley heat…but you know what? They're my city and state, so I can complain if I want to…but how dare Mr. Missouri come to my home and whine to me about it.  And I would have said that, too, but I was too busy smiling and nodding my head. 

I don't doubt that Missouri's a wonderful place and that the seasons are as exquisite as the California-maligning man said. Yes, it wasn’t just Los Angeles he complained about.  He also said that he just came from San Francisco - where I grew up, where I skated in the parks, where I rode the muni, where I swam in the frigid Ocean Beach waters, and where my father taught me to drive a stick-shift on hills so steep I leaned back staring at the sky sure that I'd slide backward.  Yep, Mr. Missouri just came back from San Francisco, and, well, as you can imagine, he could never live there. The reasons are too, too many.  Though he did go on about the real estate prices, which I agree are ridiculous. 

Him: Do you know what kind of spread you can buy in Missouri for $750,000?

Me: Oh, I can imagine. (But inside I was thinking…Yeah, great! A big house no where near the Pacific Ocean…no way!!!)

There I was, standing on my own little patch of California in my driveway, feeling defensive of the city I grew up in and the one I live in now. I felt like I did when I first moved to L.A.and a surfer I just met at the beach said, when I mentioned I was from San Francisco, “Oh, you’re from the land of fruits and nuts.” I felt kind of like I did when some kid yelled “your momma wears combat boots!” to me in elementary school.  Don't you dare talk about my momma, my cities or my state…or…or…I'll...I don’t know, I guess I’ll write about you on my blog.

I don't know...I can’t imagine living anywhere but California.  I've only threatened to leave at times, like after big earthquakes and the '92 riots, but when it comes to reality...I just don't think I could do it.  Even my mother, who lives on a peniche (a barge) in the canals of Paris, sometimes wonders if someday we might consider living in France. All I can say is…”And leave the Pacific Ocean?”   Even if I can't see it from my window...I know it's only a short trip away.

Yesterday, as I dragged my groceries up my driveway, a man in my neighbor’s driveway pulled luggage out of his Missouri license plated van.  Before I could hustle my way into my house, the man hollered at me.

Him: Hey! What’s for dinner?

Me: That would be leftover spaghetti.

We both chuckled in that…and now what do we say? sort of way. And then, feeling kind of friendly, I went and did it…I continued with the small talk, rather than do the smart thing and head inside.

Me: Visiting from out of town, huh?

Him: Yup...and wow! You folks in Los Angeles have a lot of traffic.

Ah… no, no…please don't go on about the traffic, I thought. Then he continued on about how he could never live in California. He’d miss his seasons: snow, colorful leaves, blah…blah (I zoned out about then, thinking to myself… Ha! We have seasons. They’re just more subtle. And! I can - and have - sunbathed on the beach in January! Now, those are my kind of seasons)

Of course, every now and then, I complain, too, about Los Angeles.  It's just another thing to do here...like ogling mansions in Beverly Hills and surfing.  I whine about the traffic, the mini-malls, the Valley heat…but you know what? They're my city and state, so I can complain if I want to…but how dare Mr. Missouri come to my home and whine to me about it.  And I would have said that, too, but I was too busy smiling and nodding my head. 

I don't doubt that Missouri's a wonderful place and that the seasons are as exquisite as the California-maligning man said. Yes, it wasn’t just Los Angeles he complained about.  He also said that he just came from San Francisco - where I grew up, where I skated in the parks, where I rode the muni, where I swam in the frigid Ocean Beach waters, and where my father taught me to drive a stick-shift on hills so steep I leaned back staring at the sky sure that I'd slide backward.  Yep, Mr. Missouri just came back from San Francisco, and, well, as you can imagine, he could never live there. The reasons are too, too many.  Though he did go on about the real estate prices, which I agree are ridiculous. 

Him: Do you know what kind of spread you can buy in Missouri for $750,000?

Me: Oh, I can imagine. (But inside I was thinking…Yeah, great! A big house no where near the Pacific Ocean…no way!!!)

There I was, standing on my own little patch of California in my driveway, feeling defensive of the city I grew up in and the one I live in now. I felt like I did when I first moved to L.A.and a surfer I just met at the beach said, when I mentioned I was from San Francisco, “Oh, you’re from the land of fruits and nuts.” I felt kind of like I did when some kid yelled “your momma wears combat boots!” to me in elementary school.  Don't you dare talk about my momma, my cities or my state…or…or…I'll...I don’t know, I guess I’ll write about you on my blog.

I don't know...I can’t imagine living anywhere but California.  I've only threatened to leave at times, like after big earthquakes and the '92 riots, but when it comes to reality...I just don't think I could do it.  Even my mother, who lives on a peniche (a barge) in the canals of Paris, sometimes wonders if someday we might consider living in France. All I can say is…”And leave the Pacific Ocean?”   Even if I can't see it from my window...I know it's only a short trip away.

St. Patrick's Day in The Valley

Since I'm half Irish - both my maternal grandparents' families came to the U.S. from Ireland in the mid to late 1800s - I thought I'd make a little effort to celebrate our holiday.  Here's a photo (on right) of my Irish Grandma and Grandpa Joyce, taken in the early 1940s.   Grandma made corned beef and cabbage every St. Patrick's Day, yet I'd never once made it myself.

So this St. Patrick's Day, I stuck my corned beef in a crock pot and then headed to the St. Patrick's Day Parade in Canoga Park.  There were leprechauns, jugglers, kilt wearing men with bag pipes, a Mariachi band that played "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling" and Rip Taylor, who I remembered from the Gong Show!

Pet Peeves

What makes me peevish - in no particular order:

*Writers who get paid to use clichés, like "a sense of place" and a "sense of otherness"...I just read an article in the L.A. Times that had both of those phrases within two paragraphs.  Ugh!  I think of these clichés as the Garanimals of words.  Remember Garanimals?  Back in the '70s Mervyn's and other stores sold children's clothes where you simply matched the Giraffe labled top with the Giraffe labled pants and - Voila! - you had a coordinated outfit.  No thinking involved.  That's what cliches are like...fill in the pat, over-done, meaningless phrase into any sentence and - voila! - you have a sentence...no thinking involved.  And what exactly is a "sense of otherness?"  Writing is about communicating, right?  Sense of otherness...please!  This writer communicated to me that she wrote that article on a stomach full of wheatgrass and fell asleep on her yoga mat.

*Irritating cell phone users: Loud talkers, people who open phones in darkened theaters, people who discuss who they "hooked-up" with while blocking my access to the potatoes in the market produce aisle, and those who drive slowly and poorly because they're too involved in their phone conversations.

*People who carry their little dogs around in bags, as well as those able-visioned/non-disabled people who take their dogs into stores, restaurants, movie theaters (as I mentioned in a previous post), or any other place a dog shouldn't be. P.S. I love dogs!!! Just not near me when I'm eating or shopping indoors.

*People behind me in line at the market who begin loading their groceries on the moving conveyor belt even as I'm still loading my groceries. When their pork rinds begin to slide into my avocados, I'm left trying to push their crap back with one hand while pulling my groceries out of the cart and on to the belt with the other.

*People who have doors opened for them by others, then enter without saying "thank you" to the person who held the door.

*Space invaders!! How many times have I stood in line at the post office or grocery store and the person behind me stands so close I feel their breath on the back of my head? A lot! The only recourse I have, other than actually telling them to back off, is to kick one of my legs out, toe pointed, like a bicycle kick-stand, so that they can come no closer than my tippy-toe allows.

*People who go out of their way to move somewhere... and then complain about the place constantly.  Here's an idea - move somewhere else and stop telling me about it.

*Drivers approaching on my left, who don't let me know that they're turning. I would have known I didn't have to wait for you if only... you put on your damned blinker!!! What do you people think that little blinking light is for? Those lights weren't installed for Christmas decorations - they're there to alert other drivers of your driving intentions. Got it?