The Inherent Inefficiency of Name Place Cards

Growing up in California makes you a bit laid back about social formalities. Most of us don't send thank you cards except when someone does an extraordinary thing, like donating a kidney or giving us CPR. We like to bypass the fussiness: we don't break out the fancy dishes for company unless it's a publicly recognized holiday, we don't put out guest towels unless more than 20 people are coming over, and we certainly don't use name place cards at a dinner party when there's only six of us.

Or so I thought.

Recently I went to a friend's dinner party. Great house, beautiful Michael Aram serveware and dotting the dining room table, six tiny cards handwritten with our names.

I was flummoxed by this and found myself thinking about it over the next few days. On the one hand, it's really a sweet gesture. On the other hand, it's a complete waste. It didn't matter where we sat. All of us know each other. It wasn't like we were at a wedding where you have to sit with strangers and need an ice breaker. One of the guests ended up spilling red wine all over her name card. Another guest, who is kind of OCD-prone, kept pushing hers around trying to find an ideal spot. Think about all the time the hostess put into making appetizers, dinner and dessert. She has to top that off by picking out paper, writing our names and hoping she didn't make any spelling errors? To add insult to injury, the cards are not meant to be kept, so it's yet another item that gets thrown out or crammed into the recycling bin.

Am I being an ingrate? Am I overly critical? I don't think so. Efficient entertaining is where it's at. Good food, good wine and good company is classy enough.

DUDE!

Facebook is a great invention but occasionally you are faced with a TMI moment. My first one was last year when someone posted that they were "finally" going in for breast reduction surgery. I don't see this person that often so I'm not sure I would have noticed the change.

Today, someone that I'm not really not super friendly with (so why are they in my FB network?!) posted an image of her recent fibroid surgery. She had about 10 fibroids removed. The photo proudly displays the tumor masses lined up in a neat little row. One of them was the size of a small tangerine, and all of them were covered in blood and tissue. WTF? Who the hell needs to see this? For a second I thought it was a joke until I saw all the posted responses, and more than one person was totally repulsed.

Is surgery photography the new social media trend? I just had an HSG exam, in which dye is injected into your hoo ha to see if your fallopian tubes are open. How cool would that shot be?!

Led Zep still turns me on

Last night J and I watched "It Might Get Loud," a fascinating documentary about three musicians and their take on the electric guitar. The film explores the creative process and how these artists (Jimmy Page, The Edge & Jack White) work to create their signature sound. The interviews and footage were great, especially the old concert clips of U2, but when the film cut to a few tracks by Led Zeppelin I just lost my mind. It took me back 20+ years to when I first heard the Physical Graffiti album and was astonished that a band could sound like that. There is something so perennially cool about Led Zeppelin, it affects everyone who loves rock music. It's best summed up by a scene in the film when Jimmy Page starts to play "Whole Lotta Love." Jack White and The Edge stare at him with rapture, as if they've just seen the most beautiful girl in the world.

It's been many years since Physical Graffiti - I've gone to college, married, had a baby - but Led Zeppelin will always reach under my skin, peel back the proper exterior and turn me into a screaming, unapologetic fan.

Juliette Lewis, stop singing

Remember the actress Juliette Lewis? Pretty good actor with memorable roles in "Cape Fear" and "Kalifornia."

So why did she give it up to front a rock band called, of all things, Juliette Lewis? I was doing laundry and J had the TV on. All of a sudden I heard what can only be described as a cat having all of its claws pulled out. The sound of flat, shrieking vocals permeated the air, backed by a trio of individuals all wailing off key. "What the hell?!" I said to J and he rolled his eyes and said, "It's Juliette Lewis and her band."

I made him turn the sound down so I could observe the show. I was amazed to see that a group of people had actually gathered to hear this cacophony of shit. (Or maybe they are all interns at her record label who were forced to show up?) Juliette pranced about on stage looking pissed off, pumping her fist and howling. Maybe the lyrics are actually good and inspired. Maybe her musicians are really accomplished. Whatever. Juliette Lewis should move to the spoken word format and stop freaking singing.

And I mean now!

I find it funny that

Several vice presidents at our company have their assistants record their voice mail greeting. Like they are too important to have their own voice greet the caller on the other end. It seems elitist and antiquated to me. The again, we still have people here called secretaries, for crissakes....

This CAN'T be good

Faithful readers of this blog will recall my bout with H1N1 in early November. I laid in bed for five days, alternately shivering and overheating, while simple tasks like sitting up or sipping tea were enough to put me in a coma. I thought I had paid my dues then, but life clearly has more ass-kicking illness in store for me. Now we're on to the Battle of the Severly Congested Nose, week two.

For two weeks, I have managed to eat, work, sleep and drive with one working nostril. The other appears permanently plugged up. I try to inhale and all I can hear is the faintest whiff of air trying to make its way inside. I started coming down with the congestion right before our vacation. I figured it would pass in a day or so and kept myself occupied by ingesting Sudafed, brewing tea and making squeaky nasal sounds. Vacation came and went. We visited The Magic Kingdom and SeaWorld and I chased after Magnus with Kleenex, trying to catch my breath. His nose was open and runny while mine continued on its strike, refusing to open up.

Today I woke up and I felt like the Empire State Building landed on my head. Pressure from all angles and amazingly, the nostril IS STILL plugged. So this is almost two weeks of nonstop congestion. Is it a sign? Am I left to face life with half a nose? A more rational and intelligent person would have gone to the doctor by now, or perhaps taken OTC meds more regularly, but somehow I have made it my destiny in life to suffer needlessly.

Tonight my mother will tip my head over a boiling pot of water and yell at me to "Breathe!" She threatened this in a phone call after hearing my warbled voice. Ordinarily I would fight her but I really would like to inhale oxygen like a normal person and sleep without elevating my head.

Is it my lucky day?!

My favorite time of day is

Early morning, between 5 and 6 a.m. Magnus wakes up early and I bring him into our bed for some quiet time. Often he curls into me and falls back to sleep. Other times he leans over and places his hands over J's face, reciting the new words he just learned: "Eyes. Nose. Mouth." Eventually we are all laughing and poking and tickling each other. I can't think of any other way to wake up than with these two, my most favorite people on Earth.

$300 for happy hour food?

Last week J and I celebrated our third wedding anniversary. I don't like to say we are foodies, as that term has many negative connotations for me, but I will say we like to cook and try new places. Our latest haunt was Jose Andres' The Bazaar at the SLS hotel. I was very keen to try this joint - tapas are its specialty, both traditional and modern. The LA Times gave it a rare four-star rating, plus they make foie gras covered in cotton candy and crushed corn nuts. Need I say more?

The food is uber creative and uber good. We had outstanding beef hanger steak that was so soft, you could slice it with a fork. There was watermelon nigiri - thin slices of yellowtail on top of a watermelon cube with soy foam and sliced jalapenos. I mentioned the foie gras (we had to do two servings, it was goooood) but did I mention the most amazing guacamole and jicama dish? It made you close your eyes and start speaking Spanish.

Then the bill came.

J was sweet enough to try and hide the amount from me but I was able to sneak a glimpse: $325 with tip. Three hundred bucks for nine plates of finger food, some margaritas and teeny tiny dessert plates. I haven't resolved my feelings on this one. It was a stellar dining experience, outstanding service and wonderful food. But you also felt on the drive home, you could have stopped at Fatburger to finish filling up.

I guess we'll be going to Souplantation on our next date...

I hate the word

Hubby. It's dorkiness of the highest level.

for REAL? part two

In so many movies, there is the typical scene where the female lead is asleep and wakes up and sees the male lead. No big deal until she sits up and without getting up to brush her teeth, kisses him full on the mouth. This to me is unbelievable, and gross. Nobody wakes up minty fresh and kisses the object of their affection with their mouth open. Could Hollywood please get a clue and make these scenes more realistic?!

For REAL?

Last night I caught an advertisement for a new movie featuring, according to the voice over, three of the "best actors of our generation."

They are: Natalie Portman, Tobey Maguire and Jake Gyllenhaal.

CLEARLY this is an error. I hold no grudges against any of these performers but I am sorry, the best actors of our generation?? Ever heard of Gael Garcia-Bernal? How about Cate Blanchett, Javier Bardem or Don Cheadle? I'm no Johnny Depp fan but even he is a huge cut above Mr. Spiderman Maguire.

I am sure the studio behind the marketing blitz will realize they've overstepped their bounds mistake and immediately correct this glaring and embarrasing error....!!

The Tao of Roya

At the suggestion of a good friend, I went to see a doctor of Chinese medicine. For many months I have been dealing with fluctuating cycles and simply awful periods - I will spare you, gentle reader, all the horrible, clotty details. Suffice it to say, the time had come for me to face my fibroid head-on.

The appointment at Tao of Wellness could not have been more perfect. Dr. Dao is a master healer and a wonderful human being, so genuinely compassionate and caring. He greeted me with a huge hug and we sat in his office for a 45-minute consultation. He never once looked at this watch or tried to rush things along. He asked thoughtful questions in a measured and soothing way, never once sounding the alarm. He checked my pulse and then made a list of four things that he thought I could use help with, including my energy level, which has been seriously depleted since the arrival of Mr. Mags. He then took me into a quiet room and performed a 30-minute acupuncture treatment to get the energy circulating back to the uterus and reproductive area. I didn't even flinch when the needles were inserted, the process is that sublime. I just lay there with a goofy smile on my face, so thrilled that I finally took the plunge and came to see him.

Dr. Dao's partner, Dr. Chen, then came back with a long list of dietary restrictions. My heart sank for a second but then I did a double take. Did I really think natural healing would come about without some sacrifice and changes to my lifestyle? Sheesh. So for me to achieve more harmony and balance, I have to stop all consumption of dairy products, alcohol (sniff), caffeine, yeast breads and I have to drink beverages that are room temperature, not ice cold, which redirects energy in the wrong way. Oh...and then there's the tea.

Dr. Dao mixed up a bag of herbs for me that I need to boil and make into a tea and then drink it three times a day. It's on the stove percolating now and I know when J walks through the door he will flip over the smell. The scent makes me feel like we're in a hippy bookstore in Santa Cruz. I seriously should go find a headband and tie it around my face, it's that intense. But heck, I only need to drink the tea for six days. It's not like it's a lifetime commitment to stink.

I feel a great sense of inner peace having gone to see Dr. Dao and feel I am finally on the right path to health and balance.

And hopefully another little one. Let's see if I can suck down enough tea...

Nothing restores me

Like the sea. Whenever I've felt down or had challenges in my life, I drive to Dockweiller Beach and watch the ocean. Something about the rish and crash of the waves, the dappled sun on the water and the wind rushing through the palm trees gives me peace and the ability to understand the world. The sea is the world's most perfect drug.

Yesterday I was exhausted from fighting the flu. I bundled up Magnus and we drove up the hill and parked in my favorite spot overlooking the water. Magnus seemed into it, tossing aside his favorite toy monkey to look out the window and watch the waves. I talked to him about the sun coming out every day over the water and then falling each evening against a stunning backdrop of colors, and how lucky we are to live so close to such amazing beauty. He grinned at me and then drooled.

As we drove home I actually felt stronger than I had for several days. I was also buoyed by the notion that the sickness would soon pass and life would be restored to its natural balance. Just 20 minutes at the beach and my spirit was calm. That ain't something Tamaflu can do.

The swine flu really sucks

I always cherish being healthy but I especially cherish it now as I lay on the bed with my millionth cup of tea and a box of Tamaflu on the nightstand. J came down with the s-flu this weekend, lovingly passed it on to me, and we've been waging the battle together ever since. This is sickness and in health, folks.

I don't remember much of Tuesday, my worst day. I didn't really get up from bed and mostly floated in and out of a feverish sleep. My parents came and took Mags home with them to protect his tiny immune system. I missed him painfully but having him fall ill was not something J or I wanted.

The doctor confirmed I had the flu on Wednesday and prescribed rest and good drugs. It's been a marathon of sleep, water and endless pills. This flu is vivid in my memory. Its more acute than other strains I've experienced before. It's hard to draw a deep breath and you become exhausted at the slightest mobility, like sitting up. I am diligent about work and checking in but now, I can't even cross the bedroom to retrieve my Blackberry. If the New York Times called us for a front-page interview, I'd roll on my side and go to sleep.

At least we are not alone in our saga. I've confirmed three friends are also doing battle with the mighty virus - an unwitting Flu Club Society. Some folks have worse symptoms than we do and are pretty much living in their bathroom, so we remain grateful as we hope for a return to normalcy (especially regular food. If I see another bowl of soup I will commit murder.)

Stay healthy everyone!

Baby's First Halloween (in costume)

Tomorrow is Halloween (which the Vatican said in a statement is anti-Christian...more thoughts on that later) and we are dressing Mags up this year. We couldn't see a reason to stick him in a costume last year, at just nine months old. Plus I think we were both too exhausted to even get up and venture outside.

So we are making two stops for 09. The first will be at the multi-million dollar beach homes up the street and then we will take Mags to my parents house for endless photos and more trick or treating. Who am I kidding, it's not like we are going to let a 21 month old eat candy, and I don't think he has the foggiest idea of what's going on. Nevertheless, I am very excited to undertake this little tradition with him. He will be wearing a most clever costume (a black one piece with skeleton bones...it was the only thing that fit him at Baby Gap) and he's just learned to say the word pumpkin. The timing couldn't be better, LOL.

TMI!!!!

Our next door neighbor just told me she's expecting her second baby. In the same breath, she handed me a book on fertility and what I perceived to be a look of pity, but perhaps I am overly sensitive.

I decided not to go through the book in its entirety and just skim the most interesting parts. After J and I ate dinner last night and Mags was asleep, I let the book fall open to the middle section, which was devoted to cervical mucus. Photos, too. If that wasn't bad enough, there was a chart where the owner of the book could note the consistency of their mucus. I glanced at the chart and then gasped. The neighbor had written down every freaking consistency possible- slippery, cakey, dense - in addition to the color and odor of her cervical fluid. I shut the book and was overcome with nausea.

The worst part is I invited her and her family over for dinner in two weeks. I cannot look at her now without thinking about her slimy mucus. It's grossing me out. How can I eat a meal next to her and not gag? Why didn't she think to put a sticky pad or taped piece of paper over her freaking mucus chart? I'm already annoyed that she's pregnant after trying to conceive for only two months, and now she's given me mucus on the brain. Curses!!

Whoever thought smoky almonds were a good idea...

Is an effing idiot.

Fall is here!

For many years, I loved the arrival of spring. The time change, the fragrant flowers and the sunny skies just lifted my spirit. Having worked for several years in Duarte, possibly one of the hottest cities on the freaking planet, I now welcome the arrival of fall with open arms. I am sick of the heat, the heat, and the heat. And I'm going a little batty getting ready for the new season.

First, the sweaters. Who am I kidding? Do I honestly think there's a day when we will see sub-zero temperatures? No matter, it's fall and when it's fall, you buy big woolly sweaters. I picked up a couple of them over the weekend, only to realize I had some from last season stuffed way in the back of the closet. Well, they are last season. Can't be having that!!

And the socks. I own two pairs of plain jane white tennis socks. I loaded up on thick chenille-style socks, some of them adorned with snowmen and snowballs, the definitive symbols of the cold.

I also unearthed my rain coat and heavy pea coat, both of which have hung in closet limbo for a year and a half, and moved them within easy reach. The weather forecast calls for gray skies, so even though it will be 77 degrees, I can still bundle up.

That leaves mittens. I have one pair from 1992. I could wear them in our underground parking lot, which can drop down to 58 degrees.

Somebody help.

What I learned yesterday at Disneyland

Society needs more birth control.

AAAAAAAHHHHHH!

My beautiful, beloved and NEW car was struck today by an octogenarian. Nice lady, but a shitty driver. She was in the lane next to me at UCLA Medical Center trying to pull around a car that was illegally parked, and then BAM! I felt the bump and then the horrible skiding sound of her headlight peeling against the side of my poor, innocent RX. She could have stopped halfway but seemed to prefer scraping the car all the way to the front headlight.

At the end of the day no one was hurt and no one was a jerk, except a lady in a Jaguar who kept bitching at me to move after we pulled to the side of the driveway cos she was in a hurry. So I'm grateful for no injuries, and grateful that Shitty Driver Lady also apologized and admitted she plowed into me. But what a pain in the ass now. I just got the estimate, now need to file a claim, meet with the claims adjuster, rent a car and deal with who knows how much paperwork.

And my poor car with such an unsightly injury! It is simply too fine a vehicle to be disgraced like that.

The Horror, the Horror

Yesterday I was in my office when a sudden and inexplicable flurry of craziness began. First, two vice presidents went running down the hall. They were followed by our budget analyst, then another VP, then some clerical folks. I heard someone murmur that the ambulance was downstairs. But unlike most of the looky loos who started coming out of the woodwork, I didn't budge. If someone was sick or carrying a loaded gun, I didn't need to be in the line of fire.

Ten minutes later I stepped out of my office for some tea. I noticed one of our leaders carrying a container of Lysol wipes and calling out loud every vicinity that he wiped: "Door handle. Desk. Door jam."

Okay, so now I'm a bit curious. "What's up?"

"Oh my god," he whispered. "C got really sick."

"Who?"

"The new writer. C."

Poor C. She's new, she just hurled and everyone knows, even if they don't know her.

"The bathroom is closed on this floor," he added.

As I made my way back to my desk, someone felt the need to add that C also shit her pants.

Now I'm beyond grossed out. My biggest fear is being next to someone who suddenly becomes violently ill. I retreat into my office and shut the door, trying to seal out whatever germs that befell the colleague I have yet to meet.

Thirty minutes later, an email goes out to our department. As most of you know, C became ill. Please wash your hands. Flu season is here.

Was it right for them to name her in an email that went to people who maybe had no idea what happened? I wrestled with that while taking the elevator up two floors to use the bathroom at the fancy law firm (nicer soap than we have). Also, how did they know so conclusively it was the flu?

I checked my Facebook page later that afternoon and another senior level person posted that she had to dial 911 to save her colleague from swine flu, and to please get your swine flu shot. For fuck's sake, people. That vaccine isn't available to us yet.

Today, our boss boss sent out a message that said while infection control is always good practice, yesterday's incident was not related to the flu and there is no risk of contagion. She cc'd the head of human resources.

So what did we learn, kids? We learned that in serious situations, most leaders turn into complete douche bags who are consumed by the drama of the moment and provide no leadership.

We also learned that I will never set foot in that bathroom again.

Ever notice...

That you don't meet anyone with the last name Hitchcock or Churchill? Hmmm.

Oh, Roman, Roman...

I am a huge fan of Roman Polanski. "Rosemary's Baby" is probably my all-time favorite film. I also adore "Repulsion," "Chinatown" and "The Tenant." But I am not blind to the fact that Polanski committed a pretty egregious act against a minor. So unlike the cadre of Hollywood directors and actors who are calling for his release, I believe no one, not even one of my favorite directors, is above the law.

I was bemused that Woody Allen was among the first to lead the call for Polanski's release. Perhaps not the best advocate, an older guy who took up with his longtime girlfriend's young adoptive daughter. And least she wasn't a minor, though.

Also kind of surprising that some actresses are lobbying for the Swiss to release him, like Debra Winger. If Polanski had given her underage daughter champagne, drugs and then forced her to have anal sex, would that change her opinion about whether he should serve more jail time?

I had the Roman Polanski documentary ("Wanted and Desired") in my Netflix queue and curiously, it should be shipping this week. Talk about excellent timing.

I guess I found this season's court drama, if the case actually makes it that far!

Patience is not my virtue

So J and I have decided that since we are decent enough parents, we should have a second child. Why raise just one, and why deprive Magnus of a sibling that he can torture, manipulate and steal toys from? Why not go through another year of no sleep?

Conceiving Magnus was frighteningly easy. It was literally two attempts. Sadly, our efforts to replicate that record have been thwarted. Just when I think we've managed to achieve goal, Aunt Flo shows up. Which has caused me to completely freak out, start drinking flax seed oil and ban poor J from the jacuzzi.

Mother Nature is an odd thing. Once we declared we'd like to have a second child, my cycle became highly unpredictable. Now I don't have a good handle on when Aunt Flo comes each month. My doctor, who is probably now sick of seeing me and my insides every other month, doesn't want to take any drastic measures because he is not convinced there's a problem.

Trying to convince me of that, well, that's a whole other story.

Now, after attempting conception for four months, I am distracted all the time. In meetings, my mind starts to wander and I end up thinking about my uterus. In traffic, I think about the drug Clomid (in bad traffic, I spell it out.) After we put Mags to bed, J and I sit on the couch and I tell him about all the fertility statistics I looked up earlier that day.

Patience is not something I am known for. With every period that comes, my impatience only grows. I wish I could remember the great lesson life taught me when my first marriage fell apart and the world seemed like it was ending: everything is for a reason, everything has its own timing, and you are in charge of none of it.

Blaaarh!!

I Hate Your Kid

As mentioned in a previous post, we enrolled Mags in a play and learn class at Gymboree. I agonized and complained as I normally do but am happy to report that it was a wise decision and I am finding the class and parents somewhat bearable. It's the little shit head kids that get me.

One in particular makes my blood boil. He is bigger than most of the toddlers (or he's older and enrolled in the wrong level) and looks like a dumb ass. I never took any notice of him until he stormed over to Magnus two weeks ago and yanked a ball out of his hand. His mom said, "Now Joaquin, give it back." He threw the ball on the floor, grunted and then ran off. I didn't think anything of it. Then the week after, Magnus was sitting on a rocking horse when Fat Ass came over, stuck out his hand and pushed Magnus out of the way. "Hey!" I protested. The mother came over and said, "Joaquin, you are being such a pain! Why are you such a pain today?" She didn't make him apologize or try to correct his behavior. I wasn't sure in this situation if it's okay to throw down with another parent in a play class, so I let it go.

This past Sunday, Fat Fuck was standing on a bridge in the class jumping straight up and down and shrieking like Chewbaca. I think I was glowering at him because J tapped my arm and said, "Why are you giving him the evil eye?" I whispered, "I HATE that stupid kid" (very softly of course). He said, "Honey, that's not nice," and I whipped back around and said, "He took Magnus's ball, he shoved him, he's stupid, ugly, annoying and I HATE HIM!"

This isn't one of those situations where you evolve your thinking after having some time to reflect. I've had a day to think it over and I still can't stand little Joaquin. Magnus is going to have an interesting journey with me as his mama, is all I can say.

How smart is Magnus?

Writer's note: I am completely, shamelessly biased when it comes to my 19 month old. If you haven't already met him, you would soon realize he is the most amazing, gifted child on the planet....!

So last night we were reading a book and he pointed to the cover and said "Shu-shee." The actual name of said book is sushi. I was floored. All by himself he did that! I thought it would be fun to count how many words he actually knows, not including the ones that are kind of blended, like "ba-loo-loon" for balloon.

Forty three. That's right. Forty three fully formed words come out of that boy's mouth at any given time. I have no idea if that means he's advanced or developmentally average, but I know I was impressed. I gave him a kiss and said "forty three!" and he replied "foh shee."

See? Genius!!!

Stop being a martyr (from a former martyr)

A colleague of mine, who I respect enormously, has been complaining for a year about all the work she gets assigned. She has a work ethic to die for. The girl takes stuff home on the weekends and edits copy late at night. The fine line between obligation and personal life is blurry to say the least.

Today she was ranting about having too much to do. For a moment she looked like she was going to cry. I was suddenly transported back to the worst period of my life, my second job out of college. I was an AE at an entertainment PR and marketing company. I will withhold their name, but suffice it to say it should have been Serfdom and Associates. Absolutely everyone was overworked and abused. People got to the office at 7:30 AM and stayed til seven or eight o'clock at night. They rarely came out of their office except to go to the bathroom or run outside and chain smoke a pack of cigarettes. People never went out for lunch unless it was someone's birthday or a farewell lunch for someone who had finally had enough and resigned.

Rather than approach my supervisor about a more reasonable work load and hours, I suffered in silence. One day I actually rose at 5 in the morning, freaked out because I had too much to do, and showed up to work at 6:30 AM. Actually, I did that twice. I was misreable and tired but I sucked it up for a year and a half, thinking that by proving my work ethic, I would realize a promotion and the title of Kick Ass. Finally, after being assigned yet another account with no help, I had a full blown Martyr Breakdown, which pissed off my boss. She summarily let me go a week later.

My colleague's boss is a reasonable person and I am unsure why she won't push back or talk to him about amending her priorities. I realize she is probably not going to say anything and will suck it up until she reaches her breaking point, which is too bad. There is no great reward for being overloaded and underappreciated, even at a company that doesn't operate like a sweat shop. Take it from a former martyr!

I am a freaking good cook

If you were at our house last night, you would have sampled some awesome bison chili. Slow cooked, crimson red and with that slow-building spice effect. It smelled so good your eyes crossed the moment you walked in the front door. I love cooking and there is simply never enough time to prepare all the meals I'd like and to learn new things.

Although I am crammed for time, I was able to prioritize for this week and here's what will be on the stove:

Lemon butter shrimp with whole wheat pasta and parmesan (tonight)
Chicken breasts with sundried tomatoes and shallots (tomorrow)
Beef tenderloin with grape tomatoes and thyme (thursday)
Salmon with mustard glaze and roast veggies (Friday)

P.S. I've cut out drinking wine this week so hopefully water pairs well with these dishes....

The Las Vegas Bug

I've visited Las Vegas several times but I've never had a deep affinity for the city. I remember being ten or eleven and on a trip with my parents. Sitting on the sidewalk outside Cesars Palace was a man, a woman and three kids. They all looked like they could use a shower and a nap. The father was eating shrimp cocktail out of a Dixie cup and passing it to his wife for a bite. The three kids were sitting on backpacks and looked misreable. They weren't into the shrimp (which is just as well, there was hardly enough for one person).

The next day, I saw a man yank at the arm of his girlfriend, who was trying to enter a casino. She shrugged him off and he implored, "I don't have any fucking money!" She said, whatever, and then marched in without him.

So my earliest impressions of this city were of sad families, fractured relationships and broke people. Things seem to have changed, though. I caught an episode of the new season of Top Chef and it takes place in Vegas. The contestants were cooking at Joel Bouchon's restaurant and I was amazed at how cool Vegas seems now. Major restaurants, hip nightspots and not such a desperate feel to it. Of course, now that I want to go it would be difficult with a toddler in tow. So my fantasy is to have my parents watch Mags, fly in with J, have dinner and drinks, play a card game or two, and then fly back the same night.

I caught the Vegas bug from a TV show. Oh, the humanity.

My Meat Contradiction

I have been thinking about the fact that while I eat meat, I have this very odd aversion to eating what I call baby meat (veal, lamb, young pigs). I came across a recipe for suckling pig and I just shuddered at the thought of a one or two month old pig being yanked from its mother and butchered. Which is total hypocrisy because I have no problem consuming a pig that's older. Maybe it's because the suckling pig looks too much like Wilbur from "Charlotte's Web?"

I haven't eaten veal in 15 years and I rarely if ever eat lamb. What accounts for this odd boycott and obvious double standard? I'll eat you, Mr. Animal, but before I do, enjoy your time on Earth....your days are numbered.

Hmmm.

Goddamn me

Faithful readers of this blog will know I have a deep affinity for engaging in conversations with strangers. ; )

So my latest odyssey: I had to run to Bristol Farms yesterday to pick up two ingredients. It was not a real shopping excursion. My strategy was to run in and run out in less than six minutes. And I was well on my way to accomplishing this goal when I was met by two college kids carrying clipboards while I was trying to exit the store. They murmured something about a petition and I mumbled back that I wasn't interested.

However, it didn't hit me until I reached my car that they were asking me to sign a petition to overturn Prop 8. My keys were almost in the ignition. Oh no!! What to do? Turn around and race back to the entrance, with some lame excuse that I couldn't hear them? (which is actually true, although I was so eager to bypass them I wasn't fully listening, either). Or drive away and not put my signature to something that I personally believe in?

I sat in the car completely flummoxed. Would they think I was some awful homophobe now? I glanced in the rearview mirror and several people were gathered around them smiling, nodding and so happy to be signing the petition. With great shame I put the car in drive and pulled out of the lot. I was super bummed and pissed at myself. I have definitely pointed the finger at friends for not doing the right thing or standing up for something they believe in, and low and behold, I turn around and do the same damn thing.

To repent, I am buying candy today from the kid who solicits in our office building. He will probably have a heart attack, as I always quicken my pace to dart by him too.

Perfection Is

Jason + Magnus + the beach

Running

Pink sunset skies

Me chasing after them

Laughter, all three

Why Buying Birthday Cards Officially Sucks

September is a bum month for me. My mom, brother, grandmother and sister-in-law all celebrate their b-days within days of each other. That means a mammoth trip to Hallmark to pick up the requisite greeting cards.

What should really be a 10-15 minute shopping excursion now takes 30-35 minutes. Why? Cos some a-hole decided that we need to have more categories of birthday greetings, which means more rows of cards now flood the already overstuffed racks. Happy b-day to my step-sister. Happy birthday to my son-in-law. Happy birthday to my mother (religious version). Happy birthday to my cousin's half-uncle. WTF? Where are the nicely designed, decently scripted cards that can be used for any person's b-day, whether they are a relative or not? Or, for that matter, where are the blank ones so I can write the greeting myself? I had to comb through every goddamn rack before I found four cards I could tolerate. And don't get me started on the cards that play music. Who wants to open a card and be blasted in the face with the Macarena song?

If progress is supposed to be making life easier (ie, GPS navigation to get you where you need to go), why are the already simple things getting more complex?

Shit, that HURTS!

Many years ago I had a small, barely noticeable mole on the side of my neck. When I was pregnant with Magnus it started to darken. About a year ago it started to grow in size. Now eighteen months later, I have a big chocolate chip hanging off my neck.

I went to the dermatologist today to get it examined. He came into the room and I said, "I have this mole here-"

"That's not a mole - that's a SKIN TAG!" he boomed.

I had being corrected, even by a medical expert. "Well, it STARTED as a mole and what I was telling you is that I was pregnant and it was small and then - "

"You want it removed?" he asked and then started scribbling in my chart.

He walked outside and came back with a small tank. "This is liquid nitrogen. I'll spray some, the tag will start to degrade and it will take about a week to fall off."

"Great," I said.

"And it really hurts," he added as he depressed the button and a sensation like burning ice coarsed through me. The jackass, giving me no time to prepare! I gulped as he continued firing away for what seemed like six months.

P.S. It looks WORSE now!!

I never understood the phrase

"Stir of echoes."

The Most Amazing Feeling in the World

Is Magnus running towards me and shrieking "Mamma!"

My Latest Trick

I'll do anything I can to avoid crowds (and people too). For years I've ridden the elevator in my downtown LA office building in total agony. There are six banks of elevators but at quitting time, only one seems to work. So you find youself stuck in a hot car with dozens of people who are either sweaty, pissed off or total weirdos. Once you get on the car, it inevitably stops on every floor as it makes its way to the lobby. This causes people to sweat more and grow even more irate. (It doesn't seem to affect the weirdos as much, natch.)

I think I've figured out a way to dupe the system and ride solo. Instead of pressing the button to go down, I press the button for up. The car comes roaring up to the 11th floor, so thrilled to meet me! I step on and then wait 30 seconds. This causes the car to realign, so when I push the down button instead of up, it accepts it without missing a beat. I tried this four times last week and the strangest thing, the car didn't stop once at any of the floors below me.

I've probably jinxed myself by writing this post and today my trick won't work. However, I think I have a back-up plan: the freight elevator. It's old and crickety but anything to save me from riding with a group of people is just fine by me.

Leave Your Guns at Home, A- Holes

I am alternately amused and angered by the recent spat of protestors who are turning up to President Obama's healthcare reform events carrying guns. I am uncertain of what their message is. Do you expect a horde of buffalo to come charging through the audience? Are you hoping to squeeze in some target practice before the President takes the stage? Or are you trying to intimidate the other side by carrying weapons in full view? If Obama were discussing gun control I could better understand your point. At one of the events last week, a conservative guy asked the President a question and felt the need to add that he was a "proud member of the National Rife Association." What the hell does that have to do with insurance premiums?

Also, are we at such a stage in the national debate that armed resistance is required?

Some news media have reported that many protestors feel they are exercising their 1st and 2nd amendment rights. Okay. But I don't get the relationship between guns (2nd amendment) and health care reform (I guess 1st amendment right to speech?)

Then again, I'm not a gun-loving moron.

I'm Another Year Older

And only six months wiser! J threw me an amazing surprise b-day party over the weekend with my family and some of my bestest friends. I was truly shocked and instantly remorseful, as I chided him on Friday for what I thought were weak birthday plans. It was so great to see everyone and I was reminded how bad I am at seeing all my friends. I need 20 more hours added to my week, at least!

Future Career: Shampoo Marketing?

In my seemingly endless quest to find a shampoo I can come to love, I am trying a new brand, Vital Care. The packaging piqued my attention while I was at the drugstore: sedate green bottle, a DNA strand for artwork. I was also struck by the copy: sulfate free, bio technology, extract enriched. How could I not purchase a shampoo with this much science behind it?

Today in the shower I read the rest of the bottle and the last sentence caught my eye: minimizes nanoparticles. I don't believe that is technically correct. What perhaps they really want to say is that minimizing nanoparticles might reduce your cancer risk. But that might be a big downer if you are trying to hawk shampoo to the masses.

At the end of the day the shampoo was okay - nothing miraculous. But I've been thinking about how much fun I could have trying to write copy for it. I realize once again I am in the wrong line of work.

I Loathe Publicists

How I came to have a career in PR is one of the great mysteries of my life. I'm not into people and hawking celebrities or products gives me the creeps. My saving grace has been that I can write and I took enough journalism classes to know what reporters consider news.

The worst thing about being in PR is dealing with other publicists. This generally happens in a group meeting or conference call. I can spot them a mile away - the women in super tight skirts and impossibly high heels, the men in bad suits and the 1990s-style goatee. They lodge themselves so far up your ass during initial introductions, you want to swallow a bottle of laxatives.

I was on a call today with a gaggle of publicists from a big PR firm. They talked about their proposal and used the words "strategy," "integrated," and "SM" (for social media) more times than I care to count. Plus a lot of "you knows?" They gabbed a mile a minute and sounded completely rehearsed. As the call continued I grew more depressed. Most publicists are despised by journalists, mocked in the press and generally devalued by their clients. You can see why - many haven't read the magazines they are pitching or don't know how to find the angle on a story. Or they issue statements that so distort the truth, their credibility is forever shot.

I'll ask again: how they hell did I get into this Stepford Clique?

Next time I go to a press event, I want to wear a sign that says "I won't pitch you unless I mean it."

I Still Don't Get Vanity Plates

When I got my very first car (a gorgeous 1965 Mustang) I remember that vanity plates were all the rage. It was somehow important to tell the world about yourself through your rear license plate. It always befuddled me. You don't have a lot of room to spell anything out that's substantive so you have to use kooky abbreviations, which only diminishes your message. Kids at my high school went nuts for customized plates. You'd pull into the parking lot and see "2KEWL" or "MYRIDE" or "LUV4LIFE." I'd shake my head and hope that this inane craze would soon die out.

It hasn't. Twenty years later, I find myself surrounded by more lame license plates than ever before. Somehow they have multiplied. Today on the 605, a middle aged man in an Audi cut me off. To add insult to injury, his plate read "2FAST4U." What an a-hole. I pulled behind a truck at a stoplight and had to read "TIM + LISA." Yesterday in Pasadena, I was stopped behind an Infiniti with a plate that said, "LUVMYG."

Okay, I get it. You love your spouse and you love your car. Why can't you have a regular license plate? Having a DMV issued plate doesn't mean you love your car less, or that you will leave your husband. Think about it.

I think I need to make a stronger point to the world about this. Perhaps I can order a special plate that says "PLAIN."

Hmmm...

Mad at the Nanny

M the nanny has been with us a year. She's young, energetic and simply awesome with Magnus. She speaks to him in English and Spanish and as a result, whenever he sees the beach or his bathtub, he declares, "Agua!!"

So M the Nanny just revealed that she is knocked up. She is 21 years old. She is Catholic and thus will not consider terminating the pregnancy. The father has hightailed it back to Columbia because he feels there are more opportunities there, plus he misses his mother. (That should have been her first sign.) He also wants nothing to do with the baby and believes M was sleeping around. How convenient that he didn't think that when they were dating! M is nauseous and highly emotional. Today she tells me that she is going to move to Riverside with her brother because she can live rent free and also get away from her mother, with whom she has an acrimonious relationship. But she still wants to commute the hour plus every day to work for us. I politely responded that the pregnancy was affecting her brain. There is simply no way she can deal with being pregnant and that commute for what we pay her.

I know she's pregnant but I want to smack M in the head. Not because I need to re-hire for her position but because I believed she was capable of doing a lot more with her life. She expressed an interest in finishing college and majoring in child development. Now she will be just another single mother trying to scrounge by, forever at the mercy of an employer or a kind family member to help her. Looking at her bums me out beyond words. I wish I could give her a crystal ball to show her the future and how hard life will be. But anything I say will be in vain. This is her path and all we can do is watch her set it on fire. All I can think is loca, loca, loca, loca.

Shudder

I've been reading in the news the story about a 17-year-old girl who was abducted and killed by a transient. You hear these sad stories every day. What made this one more noticeable was that it took place three blocks from my office. We are located on an incredibly busy street that's jam packed with pedestrians and cars and construction workers. How this happened just before rush hour and no on saw anything odd has got me thinking.

I read a news report this morning and the girl was actually standing next to someone at the Bank of America ATM, where her abducter ordered her to withdraw cash, yet she didn't try to break away or signal that something was wrong. Conversely, no one noticed the odd coupling or thought anything was amiss.

The girl also called her parents from the ATM to ask them if she could withdraw cash with a credit card. They explained that she couldn't. A few hours later her body was found in her Volvo.

I realized I have walked past that ATM numerous times but never noticed it in a significant way. This incident hasn't caused me to be fearful, only made me aware that something dreadful could be happening to the person next to you and through a confluence of factors - distraction, indifference or fate - you will never know.

I Fear the Reaper

No matter that I have a loving husband, a beautiful son, a good job and wonderful friends and family. I seem to be thinking about death. A lot.

I don't think about death in the sense of how I am going to die, or when. The thing that causes me the most distress is not being able to see how things turn out. I won't ever know Magnus's grandchildren (probably) and what happens in their own lives. I won't be around to see people take annual vacations to the Moon or drive around in space cars, like the Jetsons. That burns me to no end. I hate being left behind!! It feels like I'm watching a movie and I have to leave before the ending and the credits.

I did some research to try and account for this fear of death. There are actually four types. One of them, the fear of non-existence, seems to sum up the anxiety I feel over dying. Why can't it just be like before I was conceived; I had no issue with not existing THEN! It also makes me think that death is just like the space before we were born. No air, no noise, no memories. It's as if you come full circle.

...Screw that. I still want to live forever!

The Perils of Condo Living

I love most everything about our condominum building. We have lush tropical plants, waterfalls, coy fish and if you are lucky, you may see a duck or two. It's tranquil and quiet and you rarely ever hear noises, be it from the TV, radio or even the residents.

But what lies beneath is a nefarious subplot. There are several families with babies and small kids and anytime we take our children to the swimming pool, that's when you hear the loud, roaring noise of the shit hitting the fan.

The HOA recently posted a sign in front of the two pools that guests are welcome (between the hours of 9 AM and 11 p.m.), please know how to swim, don't smoke, BUT....if you are an incontinent individual, either young or old, take your sorry ass elsewhere.

According to the many sources that J researched, the pool is a public facility that we all pay to use. So legally they cannot discriminate against people who want to use it. We haven't been privvy to this but some of the families told us they've been yelled at by a certain bunch of individuals (an older crowd who goes to bed early and never make any noise - kind of reminds me of the old folks from the movie "Cocoon") about how they are endangering everyone's health by having babies peeing in the water. Isn't baby urine less disgusting than the urine of adults, who like to cannonball while concurrently relieving themselves?

Yesterday a woman was talking to our upstairs neighbor (standing in front of our patio so we couldn't help but hear her) boasting about how she called the Department of Health and was told that all the families with kids are in the wrong, even if our children are wearing swim diapers, we are still posing a health risk. This woman, of course, never actually uses the pool. She was carrying a camera and yelling at the woman upstairs that she was going to start filming everyone who violates the incontinence policy as "evidence."

For what? I guess I missed the memo about a trial. J heard her, opened our sliding door and she started going off on how he and all the other thoughtless residents were causing harm to innocent, childless people. "I talked to the inspector herself!" she kept yelling. "Who is the inspector? What department? What is she in charge of?" J demanded. She started backing away and said, well, I don't have her name handy, but she said you are putting us at risk for e-coli.

More neighbors started peering out and the quiet, peaceful facade of our building started to crumble. One woman started yelling at another woman about the pool issue and others came out of the woodwork to hear the commotion.

Never trust the serene exterior, folks. It's like the plot to a David Lynch film.

The Miracle of (Other People's) Births

Last night I decided to watch a Discovery Health program on weirdo births. That wasn't the actual title but it should have been. The program focused on three women. One lived on a remote coffee farm in Hawaii 40 miles away from a hospital. She was going au natural: no drugs, a midwife and a makeshift birthing tent. The second woman had a baby in breech presentation but insisted on birthing vaginally, and preferably with a midwife. (Which is actually illegal in California.) The third woman worked in technology but was going to use Egyptian practices and rituals from 5,000 years ago, including accepting colored feathers from her wise teacher, to ease into her labor. Whatever works, folks.

All three women were fairly righteous and irritating but the woman who was hell-bent on delivering vaginally with her baby in the wrong position just blew my mind. She insisted c-sections were evil and caused trauma to the baby. Seems like your baby coming feet first, backwards, with little room to breathe and the chance of getting stuck might cause more trauma. But back to our story.

After trying in vain to turn the baby head down through acupuncture, she ran all over LA to find a doctor who would deliver the baby vaginally. She found a nice elderly pushover who cautioned her that a vaginal birth could run the risk of the baby not breathing, as the head can get trapped. By all means, have a vaginal delivery, you soy eating idiot. She also didn't want an epidural but the doctor was adamant in case they had to rush her off for a c-section. She actually wept. Give me a break! An epidural is perhaps the greatest medical invention ever. So her labor intensifies, she starts to push, people are yelling encouraging things and the baby comes out... but is quiet. She asks that the baby be placed on her chest. Hmm, why don't we make sure its breathing first? One of the attending docs started massaging the baby's chest and it finally let out a wail (as did I, in utter relief.) Then the program cuts to her holding the baby a few weeks later, all sanctimonious about her objectives with delivery. What if it hadn't gone so well? Is it really worth the risk?

The birthing tent mama, living so far from other human beings, went into labor fast and furious and the midwife didn't get there in time. Her husband (who looked like a young Charles Manson) yelled that he had the head, honey, just push! And woosh, out came the screaming youngster. The other two kids were perched on chairs watching the whole thing, then went outside to play.

I tried to be respectful of the ancient traditions enthusiast, but at a certain point it seemed pat. She went past her due date and her teacher brought her in for some stretches, meditation and smelly tea. They sat cross legged on mats and then the teacher starting grunting. "Ooooomph. Oooomph. Ooooooooomph." Three days later her labor struck with ancient vengeance. She was bent over a small pool screaming bloody murder. There was a midwife, her husband, a friend and some dude playing bongo drums. Are you freaking kidding me? When I gave birth I wanted no light, no noise and only J there. Somebody drumming would be grounds for murder.

Labor and delivery are such personal things. Everyone has preferences and different motivations. I try to be open-minded and not judge, but ultimately I can't understand how women try and deal with the worst pain they will ever know, with no relief, or worse, put their baby at risk by pursuing a path that experts say is dangerous for their child. You deserve a real ass kicking (after you heal from your delivery, of course).

Is there anything more holy...

Than a lemon drop martini?

No, there isn't.

Adventures of the Anti-Social Mommy

So I broke down and signed Magnus up for a play and learn class at our local Gymboree. There are several reasons for this. One, there are not many toddlers his age in our condo complex with whom he interacts. Two, I am terrible about arranging play dates with the few people I know who have kids close to his age. (I think its the phrase "play date." Sounds too contrived and forced.) And three...well, there isn't really a third reason.

J thought the class was a good idea and said it may help build Mags' confidence. He isn't a shy child but he can be reserved when he comes into contact with other children. I just chalk this up to him being super-smart and easily bored by others. The rub is that I have to go to this class and participate along with all the other kids and their mommas. There is nothing I dread more than meeting new people. I have my family and my friends and I don't need any more, thank you. Now, once a week, I have to put on socks, stand on a brightly colored mat and make small talk with a bunch of other mothers. Holy hell, what have I done to deserve this?

Last week at the pool, a couple with a one-year-old came up to us and started chatting. I felt my throat constrict. I was doing just fine playing with my kid, why do you have to come over and ruin it? Small talk is like a slow, painful death. Especially when the topic is nap time and diaper issues. Let me babble with my child, it's more interesting.

So does Mags really need the class to improve his interaction skills, or do I?

Gimps Need Love, Too

One of the best parts of living in Playa del Rey is the view of the Marina harbor. Every 4th of July, people in our community walk down Falmouth Avenue and gather along the edge of the fenced-off cliff to watch the fireworks. This year, J and I decided to drive and take in the festivities from the car. Mags was snoring in the back but as always, the slightest noise awakened him and it was as if he consumed 10 cans of Jolt cola - awake, awake, awake!

We arrived at 8:00 p.m. and secured a freaking awesome spot, directly opposite the harbor. There were a few other cars and some groups of people setting up their chairs. J was watching the crowd through their rearview mirror. All of a sudden he did a double-take, furrowed his brow and said, "Hmmm."

"What?" I said, delicately removing Magnus's finger from my eyelid.

"Behind us," he said. "That chick has a fake leg."

"That's not that unusual," I said.

"Well, she's on top of some dude."

"Nooooooo!" My head spun around like the kid from "The Exorcist." I had to see this freakiness firsthand. And I didn't have to turn around that far. Directly behind our vehicle was a long-haired woman, heavy-set, wearing a fringed black leather jacket, cowboy boots and a peach-colored prosthetic leg. If you looked hard enough, you could make out the figure of a man underneath her. Her real leg was wrapped around his waist and she was heaving up against him. No matter that dozens of people were standing around waiting for the annual fireworks display. This couple was dry humping fast and furious. It was only a matter of time. Once the sky darkened, it would be full-force screwing in the portable chair.

Never was I so ready for a patriotic fireworks display to begin.

Noooooooo!!!!

This morning I was changing the baby's diaper. He was babbling and I was talking to him, just like we do every morning. Nothing was amiss, until I looked down and was met with the most disturbing sight: an erect baby penis.

It freaks me out to even type the words "erect" and "baby penis." How could this be? In disbelief I looked at it again and it was still standing at full attention. I yelled for Jason to come into the room and check it out. He started laughing when he saw it. He assured me it was normal. "It's just the blood going to that area, honey. That's all." I was beyond horrified. Magnus continued to babble and kick his legs, completely oblivious to his protuding boner. I told Jason to finish changing him and I dashed to the computer. I Googled "baby erection" and was stunned by how many search results I got. One item was particularly funny. A husband, who was either English or Scottish, wrote on a blog that his wife was changing Henry's "nappy" when the lad's penis shot straight up, scaring his wife. Someone commented that it was a perfectly normal phenomenon, her lad's willy was also frequently erect, but he was a happy child so there is no need to be concerned. Another blogger wrote that her two-year-old son sprung wood at a family party but she threw a blanket over his lap and no one noticed!

I am dismayed. I feel Mags is already growing up way too fast. Now he's having erections, which I thought were years away. Damn you, Father Time.

Michael Jackson is dead

The world learned today that the King of Pop died unexpectedly at age 50. The news reports starting hitting early Thursday afternoon and by 3 p.m. it was the only story being covered. I read a few news reports but didn't give it too much thought. Farrah Fawcett died earlier in the day and it was a bit of celebrity death overload.

I got in my car to drive home and turned on the radio. "Thriller" was blaring and I remembered being in junior high when that album came out. It was the like the second coming. I switched to another station and it was the Jackson Five sweetly singing "ABC." When we first started dating, J burned me a CD of various songs and "ABC" was the title track. When I switched to yet another station, it was "Human Nature," one of my all-time favorite Michael Jackson songs. It suddenly struck me how much of his music served as the soundtrack for pivotal points in my life. I remembered riding the school bus and hearing the first cuts from the "Off the Wall" LP, which were so infectious and amazing. There hadn't been anything that sounded like that before.
As "Human Nature" played gently and sweetly, the tears came. Not for the passing of this artist, but in gratitude for the music he gifted to the world.

Ayatollah rock n ' rollah

I am encouraged but also pessimistic about what's happening in Iran. Kind of a weird emotional place to be. It's uplifting to see the public rise up and demand accountancy but if history teaches us anything, those damn mullahs will try to crush the people like grapes.

I've broached the topic with my father, who left Iran when he was 18. He has one sister who still lives there but he has not spoken to her in years, nor to his nieces and nephews. He has never taken a trip back to Iran and he doesn't actively talk about his life there. I called him the day after the election to express how saddened I was and he agreed that it was likely a rigged vote. "But those people, what can you do," is how he left it. I tried to incite him but he downplayed my sentiments and then conveniently changed the subject. It was maddening but later I realized that deep down the situaton bothers him deeply and he feels powerless, as so many people do.

I am still hopeful that a more moderate regime will assume power one day and that I can actually visit the country and meet the host of relatives I have never seen. Hopefully Pops will be around to see that day.

Life as a 5.5

It's challenging enough being short but what makes it even more tough is finding comfortable shoes. On top of being a size 5 1/2, I also have feet that are narrow and with high arches. I've walked this earth for 30+ years wearing shoes that never quite fit. They are usually too wide, or half a size too big or completely lack support. It's a miracle that I've not thrown in the towel and just resorted to wearing slippers. I own only one pair of shoes that are a perfect fit. They are five years old and about to break into small pieces but they are my lifeline.

I went shopping a few weeks ago and it seemed like only ugly shoes came in a size 5.5. Did all the women in Southern California suddenly sprout long, fat footsies? Is there some bias against us shrimps? I ended up leaving with nothing and feeling very mad. The experience made me think of an old friend, Debbie, who actually had it worse than me. She was 4'11 with massive boobs and size two feet. She looked like she could topple over face first at any minute, with nothing to help balance her. She had to buy her shoes from a kid's shoe store. How humiliating, to be in your 20s and 30s and 40s and never qualify for the adult section!

I guess I can live with the size six Charles David mules - as long as I don't really have to walk anywhere.

these musicians suck a---s

The fact that these artists get airtime eludes me:

John Mayer

John Legend

Corrine Bailey Ray

Pink

Matchbox 20 (especially Rob Thomas)

The Fray

these things make me nostalgic

Op shorts

Sunkist 

Vans sneakers

Feathered roach clips

Skateboards

Sun-In hair lightener

I think these things are obsolete:

Garlic bread
Napkin rings
Saucers
The Republican party

seeking: decent radio stations and a football team

There's a lot about LA that confuses me but what really gets me riled up is the fact that A) we have horribly bad radio stations (a mish mosh of Top 40, pseudo-alternative, Spanish language and country music) and B) no major football team.

How is this possible in an internationally renowned city? No good stations to get one's groove on? No team to call our own? I'm not a football fan but even I want a home team I can root for once a year.

This morning I drove to the office and I swear, it was like being transported back to 1993. KROQ played Alice in Chains, old Incubus, even older Korn and then a Nirvana song, for good measure. The new indie station was slightly better (Neil Young, Pretenders, Elvis Costello and Bob Marley, back to back), but even then, they don't play emerging artists.

Yesterday was worse: I actually heard the Human League's "Don't You Want Me," which took me back to my thick black eyeliner days.

Someone 'splain this to me.

where did all the skinny people go?

This past Saturday, J surprised me with a wonderful impromptu trip to the LA Zoo. We arrived pretty early but the crowds were already swarming. As we migrated through throngs of people pressed up against the monkey cages, it occured to me that once again I was among the thinner people on the premises (editor's note: I still have seven pounds of post-pregnancy weight that never melted off. I ain't a size zero.)

We hit the reptile section first. I counted nine motorized carts carrying overweight zoo go-ers (many of them eating ice cream while cruising) and at least 25 chunky women in shirts that were two sizes too small. In a couple of cases I actually thought they were pregnant. There was one incredibly rotund man and I had to do everything in my power not to stare at him. He looked like a small village.

There were hordes of fat children running through the petting zoo. They seemed to have a lot of energy, screaming their heads off. Their hefty parents stopped their adult conversations to shush them.

The next batch of fatties was near the giraffe exhibit. A very large woman actually stepped in front of me and completely blocked my view of the giraffes, along with the sun. I cursed at her silently.

We drove home about an hour later and I found myself thinking, most people think LA is the land of skinny, super health-conscious individuals. In certain areas of the city that is true. Occasionally I get my hair done in Beverly Hills and if you glued all the women there together you would still have a normal sized person. But somehow, in the center of the city, where people from different communities convene, you suddenly feel like you're in the Midwest.

I could lose a few pounds and tone up. I am not the model of perfect health by any means. It's scary to think that on that day in LA, I would be considered thin.

I'm done with you, Twitter

I am a very slow adopter when it comes to technology. I don't own an iPod. I use a Blackberry because I am forced to. I think I was one of the last people in America to join Facebook. So it was probably inevitable that I would eventually stumble onto the craze known as Twitter. My colleagues are doing it, friends are doing it - hell, Anderson Cooper is doing it.

After registering and setting up my Twitter profile, I found myself at a total loss. What the hell do I do now? I guess I am supposed to "tweet" about what I am doing in 140 characters or less. Um, I am staring back at the computer screen. I'll probably go to the bathroom in 10 minutes. Eventually I will eat lunch. Is that what I am supposed write about? People actually care? I decided to follow some friends and see what inspiration I could glean from them.

One person posted a link to a CNN story. Well, I do that every day, given that I work in PR and all. Another friend tweeted that she was going to get her nails done and she would "BRB" - I believe that is be right back. Good, because lord knows I would be sick with worry not knowing where you were for 30 minutes.

There was another tweet filled mostly with acronyms. My patience was running thin and I was in no mood to decode the message.

I abandoned Twitter for a couple of days to mull it over and think about something compelling to post. I decided to comment on the shooting of the abortion doctor and how archaic our society still is. I logged on and was met with about 25 tweets - but sadly, it was more of the same. More links to news stories that I'd read elsewhere, side remarks about how traffic stinks (also posted on Facebook pages) and something about a shoe store having a sale.

I know Twitter has captured the world's imagination but I confess, I just don't get it. I have a Yahoo account, my work e-mail, Facebook, BB and this blog. I get text messages on my cell phone from M the nanny and my boss pages me if I disappear for 15 minutes. I'm fully immersed in communications, all the time. Do I really need one more platform that at the end of the day mirrors more of the same comments, rants, needs?

I know a thing or two about relationships and I think my relationship with Twitter is dunzo.

Go the eff away

Despite living in LA LA Land, I try valiantly not to get caught up in celebrity news. It can be hard when the lead story on KNBC-TV has to do with Tom Cruise or the latest celeb spawn. But I really do make an effort.

However, having seen one too many photos of these folks, I am befuddled as to why they are considered celebrities in the first place.

Nicole Richie
Kimora Lee Simmons (Baby Phat? Try Phugly.)
Kim Kardashian
Spencer & Heidi something or other
Katie Price/Jordan

Do we really need "breaking news" stories about where these people go for vacation, or photos of them at a Coffee Bean? If the media insist on following celebrities, how about interesting celebs - as in good actors or musicians? I'd love a photo of Exene Cervenka or Om Puri here and again. Work with me, people.

I need to meet this gaylord

I had the annual dental appointment this morning and took 3rd Street to head back to work. I was driving along, feeling very minty, when suddenly I realized I was passing perhaps the gayest house in America. It's a large lot on 3rd and Muirfield that used to be owned by Nat King Cole. The current owner has placed 18 white statues of Michelangelo's David around his driveway. Each statue is slightly distinct from the next. There is a huge wrought iron gate that actually has the name of the manor, Youngwood Court, etched right into it. A brightly colored orange and yellow SUV sits on the driveway and there's more iron and fencing than the former East Germany.

I went online and found this image, which gives you a sense of how the house morphs during Christmas. I wonder what kind of parties this guy throws. I consulted the LA Times and apparently the owner put up one statue first, which pissed off his neighbors, so he kept adding them. He sure loves him some David.

I suppose it's better than ringing your driveway with those annoying ceramic gnomes...

Now THIS is what I call sports

The final round of the Scripps National Spelling Bee is this week. You can keep your Laker playoffs, your NFL draft picks and your Dodger bobbleheads. There is no finer sport than the all-American spelling bee (although heavy weight boxing is a close second).

Call me a dork but I've kept a list of some of the most random words that I've heard from past competitions. I often fantasize about using them at a fancy dinner party or even a family event (ideally when I'm upset at my father and then I can trounce him by using a word he can't even repeat). Here are some interesting ones:

Minuend
Chaffinch
Urceolate
Quodlibet

I don't have a competitor whom I root for in particular, but if I see a Latino contender I get excited. Happy that there is diversity in this sport but I'd love it if someone besides an Indian or Asian kid would win.

Does that make me too doctrinaire?

Stop growing baby!

Yesterday was a cause for tears as I bundled up several sets of onesies and bodysuits that Magnus no longer fits. He was standing next to me wearing only a diaper and I can see he is on the cusp of becoming a little boy. The baby flab is gone from his face and his legs are longer and slimmer now. I bit my lip and my eyes welled up with tears. Where the heck has the time gone? I just want to package him in bubblewrap and keep him as my baby forever. (Well, 20 years anyway).

Better get chugging on making another one.

Slightly better than castor oil?

I am taking an inventory of my diet and flaxseed oil has piqued my interest. For some reason, the mere name conjures up images of screaming young children being force-fed castor oil. Clearly I am projecting childhood insecurities on this poor derivative.

Consider the range of ills that flaxseed oil can help: sprains, high blood pressure, bruises, clots, asthma, psoriasis and dandruff.

Some researchers believe flaxseed oil can also help reduce cancer.

Can it help get me pregnant? Now that would be the clincher.

I Love me the Bookstore

I swear, nothing can get me giddy like walking into a bookstore (although a shoe store is a close second). On Sunday we went to Barnes & Noble so I could pick up "The Reader," as threatened in a previous post. I also was curious to see if Magnus would sit still for the children's book hour that they feature. Not so much. That boy loves to run and topple things over.

So of course I couldn't buy just one thing and ended up walking up and down every aisle. I spent the most time in the literature section gazing over all of the titles, analyzing the book covers. It took forever to decide on another novel. Finally, after much agonizing, I selected "Slowness" by Milan Kundera. One, he is one of my favorite writers, and two, I hadn't read any new works by him in at least four years. (Unless he went on hiatus and just stopped writing for a while...). Plus, Kundera is so great about how he structures chapters. They are generally never more than a page long, so you can read ten chapters in five minutes and feel like you have done something with your life.

I noticed a heckuva lot of fat people at the bookstore. Not the "you need to lose 40 pounds" kind of fat, but the kind where they were driving those little motorized carts to get around. For the first time in a long time, I felt skinny. Hmmm. May need to hang out there more.

Billy Bob Thornton: Ne'er Do Gooder

Most people, when they think about Billy Bob Thornton, probably think about how convincing he was in "Sling Blade" or what a creep he was in "Bad Santa." When I think about Billy Bob, I think about all the actors who died after they starred in a movie with him. They include:

John Ritter: Sling Blade, Bad Santa

Heath Ledger: Monster's Ball

Bernie Mac: Bad Santa

Charlton Heston: The Apostle

Billy Bob also kills the ladies, romantically. He is rumored to have dumped one wife for Laura Dern. They became engaged and then he dumped her for Angelia Jolie. He married Angelina Jolie but had sex with a therapist, which ended their marriage.

I am not sure what his next movie is, or who is in it, but the poor actors oughta beware.

You Suck!!!

So it's the Friday before a three-day weekend and the Company has declared that it is business as usual, aka, no leaving early.

Allow me to define: leaving early in our nonprofit parlance would be 3:00. Not noon. Not 12:30. Three o'clock. I'm talking walking out of this building two hours ahead of when we would normally leave.

Many of us work really long hours, sometimes weekends, and we are never allowed to get that time back. Comp time doesn't exist. You will show up and work like a slave and YOU WILL LIKE IT!!

I'm so unnerved. I think I may need to fake an embolism and hobble out of here early.

Like 4:30.

Yeah, I'm Rocking It

I am cranking 80s tunes on my computer and I don't even care that people are walking around covering their ears.

the old library

By some coincidence on Tuesday I found myself near the library where my mother took me every summer when I was growing up. I was pulling round the corner and the familiar yellow and gray building emerged to greet me like an old friend. But I was soon sad to see that a chain link fence bordered it and the grass had grown into tall weeds. The lovely neighborhood library where I discovered Walt Whitman, Ernest Hemmingway and Louisa May Alcott was gone.

Of course, there is a nicer and more modern library near our house which I have yet to visit. I just really love the old haunt. It was on a busy corner so there was always the buzz of traffic, pedetrians and car horns; walking in, you felt like you were retreating into another world. And that old leathery book smell, you could sense it before you actually pushed open the front door. There were high windows and in the afternoon, the sun made slats of light across the floor that warmed your skin. I remember vividly that some of books I loved, especially Paul Zindel's, were stashed in tall red racks that creaked loudly when you turned them. I always expected an annoyed look or the classic "shush" but it never came.

What will become of the old library? I wonder if the books I read found their way to the new location, or if they ended up discarded because they were already so old and falling apart when I first touched them. I wonder if the building will be torn down or turned into some symbol of modern life, like the ubiquitous juice bar. I long for that old feeling of leaving the world behind and running into the enveloping arms of authors and books. That's not something a Jambajuice or Starbucks can give me.

Yo go, Emma Thompson!

I have been an atheist for the better part of 15 years. Looking back on it I think I started out agnostic and atheism was a gradual evolution. Religion did not play a role in my upbringing, which is ironic given that my father hails from Iran and my mother from Mexico & both came from families with a good amount of religious overtones. We had the Christmas tree every year and ran around looking for Easter eggs but it was always about celebrating family vs a religious tradition.

It can be an alienating experience when you're asked about your faith and you tell people that you believe there is no supreme deity, no heaven or hell. I get perplexed stares. I suspect people want to believe that I'm rebelling against a strict religious upbringing. When I tell them I was never baptized and never attended church (minus going to weddings, funerals, and the couple of times when my mother probably felt guilty for raising a sinner and dragged me to a service), they simply can't believe it. "Are you sure?" a friend of a family member once asked. Um, pretty sure, yah.

I've learned to mind my tongue when people talk about their most recent church outing or baptizing their baby or their annual trek to the synagogue. I don't say anything when colleagues write passages from the Bible and post them in the kitchen or worse, in the bathroom stalls. I am not the slighest bit curious about their faith, nor am I keen to turn around and pitch them on the glory of atheism. Just tone down all the fervor so I can nuke my bagel in peace, please.

So I was super excited when I came across an interview that Emma Thompson did and the subject of religion came up. She is not only an atheist, she is anti-religioius, which takes it to the step I always tacitly avoid. She remarked, "I'm an atheist; I suppose you can call me a sort of libertarian anarchist. I regard religion with fear and suspicion. It's not enough to say that I don't believe in God. I actually regard the system as distressing: I am offended by some of the things said in the Bible and the Qur'an, and I refute them."

Preach it, girl! : )