hasta la vista baby

Our governator, Arnold Schwarzenegger, is packing his bags and hightailing it out of Sacramento this week. This gave me pause and made me think...why did we recall Gray Davis in the first place?

After the so-called "citizen's uprising" that removed Davis from his post (and truthfully, can you call the work of one congressman who personally financed the recall election a citizen's uprising?), we were assured that California was on the right path. Arnold Schwarzenegger, the body builder-turned mega-action star with no political experience and a penchant for grabbing the breasts of women he just met, would kick legislative ass. Our state's finances would improve, education would be reformed and there'd be fewer Mexican street merchants selling gum.

Let's flash forward to 2010. Aside from his series of embarrasing public comments ("She's either Puerto Rican or Cuban - I mean, they are both very hot"), Schwarzenegger did nothing to dig us out of our financial mess. Education did not get a significant boost. I continue to buy oranges from Manuel at the corner of La Cienega and Washington.

Gray Davis certainly wasn't our savior, but he couldn't have been any worse than Ah-nuld.

(Well, except for the off-color jokes. I'll give you that.)

is it really a good thing

To suppress your period with birth control pills? I like to think I am open-minded and far from traditional, but this concept eludes me. It seems like Mother Nature intended us to bleed monthly. Do we have the right to interfere with that? And what are the long-term effects of interrupting our natural cycle?

Faithful readers know I have a less than pleasant monthly visitor. I won't shed a tear once I hit menopause. However, I can't conceive of taking a pill to stop my period. I can't articulate why but it just seems like there is some reason - mystic or otherwise - that women go through this monthly.

Thoughts?

what to make of wikileaks

I've been a tad behind on world events and am just catching up to the uproar about WikiLeaks and its publication of American diplomatic cables.

Oh, where to begin.

Should someone assassinate Julian Assange, WL's editor-in-chief, as suggested by that standard bearer of ethics, G. Gordon Liddy? I love how there is zero outrage over illegal killings in Kenya, questionable Guantanamo Bay procedures or toxic waste dumping in Africa (issues all documented by WikiLeaks) but people want to publicly flog Assange.

Then there's the other side. Isn't Assange threatening our national security and diplomatic relations by publicly leaking unclassified cables? Perhaps, but our enemies had their beef w/ us long before WikiLeaks ever launched.

The most ludicrous claim has been that Assange is guilty of treason, since he's Australian. Sorry mate!

Where to land on this issue?

I would say that the debate is not about whether Julian Assange is irresponsible; we have to assume he is, although perhaps not as irresponsible as those individuals who tortured war prisoners at Abu Gharaib. Shouldn't the debate focus more on the the issue of journalism and what makes for investigative journalism in this age of the Internet? I read an interview with Assange and he mentions that WikiLeaks has released more classified documents than the rest of the world press combined. Isn't that a sad comment, when we look to journalists to raise issues and uncover things that are suppressed by governments, banks, corporations?

Very curious to see how this plays out...

holidaze

For all the talk about Americans being pro-family, there sure is a lot of animosity among kinfolk during the holiday season.

My immediate family doesn't have too much of this issue, although every year there's a bidding war about who will host turkey day, who is welcome and who is deliberately uninvited. My father likes to ice out my in-laws and make the day just about the Mohseni Clan. That's all good and well but we grow sick of each other in about two hours.

My grandparents are the tribeless lot, each year bounced from one offspring's house to the next. They require extra special care, including being fed and led to their car to drive home before its dark, so very few family want to deal with that. It's been a few years since they've been at my parents and I'm sure others will soon notice.

My good friend hates her step father, so she arrives just a few minutes before the family eats and then makes up a story about not feeling well. I don't know why they haven't caught on that she uses the same excuse every year.

My other friend has to drive 40 minutes to be with her family, then two hours to her husband's family, because the families hate each other. She is emotionally drained for the rest of the week and swears she will never do this again.

So much for being grateful for family...

my mormon dilemma

I just finished watching a harrowing documentary called 8: The Mormon Proposition. It chronicles the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints' campaign to ban same-sex marriage in Calif through the passage of Prop 8. I haven't been this pissed off in a looooong time. The film does what any good investigative documentary does (uncovers classified church documents and exposes the church's nefarious attempts to conceal its funding of, and overall involvement, in Prop 8.) but laces it with stories about Mormons who were personally affected by the church's beliefs about gays. Some of them were forced into unconventional therapy, others were shunned by their families. Far too many committed suicide.

There is no love in my heart for the LDS organization or for its members who set out to hurt people who have done nothing to them. Now I'm in a bit of a pickle. I've been asked to work with a colleague on some projects and I found out recently he's a LDS member - the tie-wearing, proselytizing kind. He's getting married in a month at the Mormon temple and he exudes all the creepiness of a mindless religious person - the starry eyes, faux politeness, the kind of Jesus -is-my-auto-pilot sensibility. I don't know much else about him but I loathe him. This is wrong, I know it's wrong, and I'm the first person to preach about the need to be tolerant. But how can I when he belongs to an organization that is deceptive - blatantly lying to cover its tracks - and that has destroyed so many lives in its desire to impose its will upon others?

Gawd help me. (Sarcasm)

california dreamin

It's the day after the election and it's a bit like waking up in an alternative universe. Nationally the GOP trounced Democrats, but California emerged liberal and green. Barbara Boxer will retain her Senate seat, voters shot down Prop 23 and best of all, Jerry Brown walloped Meg Whitman. I couldn't fathom a billionaire businesswoman who didn't register to vote until 2002 and who voiced contempt for the legislature really working on a bipartisan level for the greater good.

Importantly, we don't have to hear those pre-recorded "get out the vote" messages on our answering machines anymore.

It's a good day, Calif!

two things need 'splaining:

1. People who post stick figures of their entire family (and pets) on their car's rear window

2. People who include quotes from famous philosophers in their e-mail signatures (Even better, the people who do this but don't actually follow what the philosophers suggest.)

seriously? just one penis?

Now that I've got your attention....

I am perplexed by people who marry their high school sweetheart. Not people who date someone in high school, break up and then find them years later. I mean people who date in high school, continue to date in college and then marry as soon as they graduate.

Amazingly, I have met three such couples in the past year. I am intrigued and slightly repelled by them. Especially the men. Simply put, I can't believe they don't crave more vajay-jay.

But the women are not off the hook, either. Sometimes, especially when I'm in conversation with this one couple who hooked up when they were 16 and are now 29, I have to fight my urge to take the wife by the shoulders, point to her husband and say, "You've only had sex with HIM??"

Okay, I know sex is not the only thing that keeps a couple together. But longterm attraction has got to be tough if you never dated other people, or dated a relative few. The world is a big fat amazing place, with lots of amazing people. How can you be sure at 22 that you have made the best decision for the rest of your life?

I asked my psychologist friend D to weigh in on the issue. He advised that I was trying to wedge people into my view of the world and hypothesizing. However, when pressed, he agreed that marrying one's high school boyfriend or girlfriend was weird. (Or, as he phrased it, "potentially limiting.")

D also pointed out that some people experience fear that they will never find another person if they break up, and that fear influences their decision to get married.

I shudder to think what would have happened if I married my high school/college b-friend. I recently blogged about running into him at a restaurant and being shocked by his bad taste in clothes. I definitely needed to have more life experience, and much better sex.

So in conclusion, I submit that it's better to date a lot and have life experience before taking the plunge into marriage. Or, to be blunt, have more than one penis before you settle into a life of just one penis.

can't help it

I just paid $200 for a lamp for Magnus's room. I know, I know.

But it's a sweet lamp!

cut my mutton chops and shut the hell up

I have to thank my parents for certain genetic attributes. I have really great skin, with half the wrinkles that women younger than me have. My teeth are excellent and cavity-free. And I'm naturally thin and with great metabolism. That's the good stuff.

The not so good stuff is the Hair Gene, courtesy of my father. If you've ever met a Middle Eastern person in your life, you know what I'm talking about. You would think being half Persian would mean I'd be less furry than the full-breeds, but I drew the short end of the DNA stick. Hair was omnipresent in my life, starting at an early age. In preschool and through high school, it was the unibrow. When I hit puberty and begged my mom to help me pluck, she forbade it, worried I would whittle it away and wind up looking like Jean Harlow. In junior high when I had to don those tacky blue gym shorts and start shaving my legs, the hair would return the next day thicker and nastier, almost like Audrey II from Little Shop of Horrors.

And then, the sideburns, probably the most unsightly of all Persian hair issues. How I wished, growing up, for the thin, wispy sideburns of my fair white girlfriends. They could wear their hair back in a ponytail and not be mistaken for a werewolf. I was not so lucky. At every haircut, I insisted that the stylist break out the clippers and tame my long Elvis chops.

This process worked fine until recently. I changed salons and found a great stylist. She had the audacity to go on maternity leave and refer me to Kelly, who is in the anti-clipping camp. Upon seeing my burns, she refused to touch them.

"You should go natural!" she chided me. "By cutting them, you are making them grow back even thicker!"

"Yes, but that theory also goes for shaving my legs," I retorted.

"I am not touching them," she declared, "and all those stylists who cut them were foolish to do so."

I couldn't believe it. She really wouldn't touch my sideburns. I asked her again at the end of the session to trim them and she balked and said she couldn't. She couldn't.

At home, I decided to give them a chop to shorten them. But I was distracted watching Magnus out of the corner of my eye, so what I thought was a straight clip was actually a bad angle. Luckily my hair is long enough to hide the boo boo, but I was still pissed. I'm the client. Can't you set aside your self-righteous opinion and do what I want?

Clearly not. I commisserated with a girlfriend who also has the sideburn issue. She said she's been told not to clip and to accept her natural gift of bushy, unsightly side hair.

It's a ploy, I think, to keep them all laughing at us.

blech

Crappy movie spoiler alert: if you haven't seen "The Killer Inside Me" with Casey Affleck, don't.

J and I sat through this film and aside from trying to follow a meandering storyline and mumbly dialogue, we were caught off guard by its violence. I'm not talking gory, slasher-style violence; I mean extended scenes of unflinching brutality. Affleck in one scene puts on gloves and punches Jessica Alba in the face until her eyes swell shut. Later, he spits in Kate Hudson's face and kicks her to death. I loathe stylized violence and watching two women being attacked on screen is unnerving, especially when the roles these women have in the film are thin to begin with.

There are film critics who will likely defend the film, who will say that those scenes are necessary because they show the character's psychological underpinnings and have to appear realistic, but I call b.s. You can convey a lot in a scene and not be exploitative.

I think its back to Pixar movies for a while.

ode to heavyweight boxing

What happened to my favorite sport of all time, heavyweight boxing?

I remember being a teenager and watching Mike Tyson clobber Trevor Berbick. It was 1986 and Tyson's precision, ferocity and lightning-fast jabs left anyone who watched him in complete awe. He was only 20 but he was already an icon, so much so that if you got wind of a Tyson match, you cancelled all social engagements, gathered around the sofa and didn't pick up the phone until the fight ended. It felt like a gift to see Tyson in action. I remember watching fighter after fighter get ravaged and hoping Tyson's career would never end.

But utlimately it did. Tyson made bad choices, lost his edge and seemed to lose his soul along the way. His fall from grace was hard but it wasn't solitary. An entire industry fell with him. Twenty plus years after the Berbick fight, nobody really cares about heavyweight boxing. The great American heavyweights are gone and no one has a clue if they will be replaced. Boxing has been eclipsed by ultimate fighting and been undone by aging champions who are just trying to inch one step closer to a title. If you truly loved heavyweight boxing, you truly detest it now.

I console myself by thinking that perhaps there is a contender out there who will help bring the sport back to its glory days, someone who will remind us of Tyson, of Ali, of George Foreman. I'm excited at the prospect of sitting around the sofa with my kids to watch the next great fighter enthrall us and rise to the ranks of legend, once again.

Please hurry!!

sometimes it sucks to be persian

I'm half Iranian and there are days when it's simply embarrasing to be a member of this ethnic group.

Take yesterday, for example. I was on an elevator in Century City and had to stand elbow to elbow with a Persian business executive in a shiny suit. He was on his cell phone screaming at Ahmad in both English and Farsi. "Dees vat I am telling you, ACH-MAAAD!" he barked. "Al booh afta HA EH AAAACCCH!" Poor freaking Ahmad.

Then today, headlines all over the place about the comments during the UN meeting by Iran's idiotic president, whose name I can't spell. Thank you for making all Iranians look like raving anti-Semites and pushing diplomatic relations back to 21 B.C. Really. Mamnoon.

Last weekend, J and I took a drive through the Westside and happened upon block after block of Persian Palaces. If you don't know LA, the Persian Palace is an unfortunate blight on the city's architectural asethetic. These homes are generally boxy and feature cornices and bronze Middle Eastern statues, typically of lions. They also completely dominate the land they are built on, with virtually no back or front yard. It's all stucco, marble and gold. An architecture critic once wrote in the LA Times that the Persian Palace has all the grace of a "Humvee in a wedding dress."

Don't get me started on Persian drivers. Please.

Tonight we will go to my parents' house for Persian food. Then something transformational happens. When you ingest Persian cuisine, be it a beautifully formed kabob, a perfectly broiled tomato or yogurt with cucumbers and dill, the embarrasment of your fellow Iranians just melts away. You gain the strength to handle them and their obnoxious conversations, comments and homes. You are proud of your culture and happy to be counted among them.

Until your next encounter, of course.

I'm no conservative

But I hope Christine O'Donnell wins in Delaware. This aspiring Senator, in less than two weeks, has been quoted on every salacious topic, from condoms to masturbation to homosexuality, and back to masturbation. I thought Sarah Palin was entertaining, but screw that. She can't deliver outrageous quotes like O'Donnell, whose latest statement showed us she understands all sides, like, you know, witchcraft: "I had a midnight picnic on a satanic alter ...complete with a little blood there and stuff." Of course all of this is regurgitated from old news clips and interviews, but let's be real. Based on her political platform and her logic-defying campaign statements, she hasn't radically departed from her high school belief system.

I have zero confidence in O'Donnell becoming an effective Senator, and she's already lost three Senate races, but what a tragedy if she loses this campaign, goes back to her marketing career, and the rest of us have to listen to Palin again.

i love the homos...

...but there are just too many of these biatches on TV right now.

Despite my protests about watching a competition about baking, J convinced me to tune in to "Top Chef Just Desserts." The show features a plethora of cupcakes, many of them prepared by actual cucpakes.

One super-homo, who was on the bottom during the quickfire challenge, was brought to tears when told that his chocolate creation was favored by the judges. "It's just so, you know, emotional," he sobbed. "Making a pastry is like giving birth. You don't know how it's going to turn out. You don't know how people are going to react to your pastry."

Oh, cry me a Fire Island river. However, I have to say the other biatches are just as annoying. There is the pouty, prima donna Seth, with his muscles always on display; Tim, who resembles David Turtera, likes to make frozen desserts and calls himself the ice queen; and Yigit, from Turkey, who looks he came straight out of a bath house ad. What I would give for a Danielle Staub or a Teresa Guiduice-like baker, someone who could turn out a kick-ass brownie and go toe-to-toe, prostitution-whore-style, with these homos.

That would be true just desserts!

how about this:

Let's not build the mosque and community center near Ground Zero. Let's also not build a church, synagogue, a temple or any other house of worship in that general area. That way no one is offended, no one feels slighted and we can try to repair the rift that's dividing us.

I've done a bit of an about-face in the last week. A month ago, I was open to the idea of the mosque being built. I wouldn't say I was pro-mosque but I felt that perhaps it could open up dialogue between people and be a force for good.

Over the weekend I watched some You Tube footage of the planes hitting the towers. I'd seen it all before, but this time I couldn't get past the footage of people jumping out of windows to their death. One clip showed a man scaling down the side of the second tower with some rope. How he got his hands on it we will never know. The clip is about a minute long. He climbs valiantly for a few feet before the rope starts shaking. He loses his grip and falls to the ground.

Maybe its because I have a child now and I couldn't bear the idea of dying and leaving him, or of him perishing in some unthinkable way, but I couldn't get past the footage, nine years after the planes struck.

It all became clear to me in a New York minute. If my loved one had been killed in the World Trade Center, there is no way I could accept a mosque being built in the vicinity. It would just be an unfortunate reminder that a murderous faction of Islam exists. However, I also would not want any other religious group to move in on that turf. Their mere presence, however unintended, could suggest they are superior to Islam, or that they represent the majority of people who perished on September 11. There is nothing healing about that.

So let's put an end to all of it and have the community center relocate its proposed location. It's the sensible thing to do, in the wake of an event that makes no sense at all.

sometimes I want to be heidi montag

I have never seen an episode of the "Hills" but I am aware of one of its stars, Heidi Montag, via the incessant news coverage that she generates. She seems to like plastic surgery, shopping and living by the beach.

I want to be Heidi Montag.

I want to be blonde, willowy, and vapid. I want to shop and not think heavy thoughts. I want to get caught up in stupid drama and sip cocktails with people who also like stupid drama. I want the problems of world to wash over me and not cause distress. I want to be fixated on a single, attainable goal, like lip gloss.

Okay, okay, maybe being Heidi forever is too much to ask. How about just for a weekend? Just long enough to not care about what it's like to be homeless, why dolphins are killed, why Sarah Palin still gets quoted. What does being in that Hollywood bubble feel like, so removed from real life and real problems?

Just a day, that's all I ask.

more annoying parenting debates

I caught a commercial recently that advertised a truly revolutionary DVD that will teach your baby to read in no time at all. And you, the parent, don't have to do anything! (Well, except pop in the DVD).

Does Magnus need to read, at two and a half? We read to him every day and he loves nothing more than sitting in our laps with a pile of books. He is curious about the world, is sweet to other children and exerts happiness and self-confidence at practically every turn. Seems like he's doing just fine. Am I ruining his future because I think he should progress at a developmentally appropriate pace - ie, just have fun being a kid?

Parents can suck the joy straight out of being a parent. Our cultural obsession with milestone achievements, like whether Junior can recite all 50 states, pronounce foie grae and tell time, is like taking a handful of downers. Can we dispense with this kookiness already? As long as a child is secure, healthy and feels unconditional love and support from his parents, chances are he will do just fine. His ability to read a book at three doesn't seem like it will ensure a lifetime of emotional stability and high-paying jobs.

Or maybe I'm the crazy one.

I like old people

This weekend was the 30th anniversary of J's employer, Delicate Productions. The company's main office is located near the Camarillo Airport so they hosted a plane-theme event, taking advantage of an airshow that takes place pretty regularly at the airport. Folks sat in hard plastic chairs, donned binoculars and commented with a fair amount of expertise on the pilots' flying styles, or lack thereof. Meanwhile, the hosts passed out alcohol in blue plastic cups and offered store-bought carrot sticks and dip. It was the most redneck I have ever been, and I loved it.

We found ourselves sitting with a group of 55+ year olds who were an absolute hoot. The women wore halter-style tops and had their nails painted in the same color, which also matched the color of their purses. Too cute! The men pointed out things about the planes that I had no clue about and talked about their fly fishing technique. I was entranced. They were so at ease with themselves, with life. I found myself wanting to hang out with these old coots, and I never want to hang out with anyone. They didn't BS about their Blackberry reception, or which posh restaurant they just frequented, or which namby pamby preschool to send their kids to. There was a refreshing lack of pretense. If we lived nearby, they would seriously have come over to our house after the party for more drinking and conversation.

Old people rock.

score!

Finally landed an appointment with the fibroid folks at UCLA! They are recommending a saline ultrasound to check position of my stupid evil fibroid and feel that outpatient surgery could assist me in surviving my monthly visitor as well as improve our fertility, which I've not been working on as diligently as I should. Back on that pony soon!

we've hit an all-time low

There is now a TV show about cupcakes. Actually, there are two.

In one version, contestants compete in an elimination challenge to please a panel of judges. The producers mix it up by adding ingredients that aren't traditionally found in cucpakes, like bacon, and force contestants to be creative before the infamous "Time's up!" line.

Who watches this crap? Who can seriously sit in front of a TV for an hour watching people bake? I know I have my own issues with bad TV (see previous post about my odd Real Housewives of New Jersey addicition) but at least there's a semi-engrossing story line there.

You know a reality show about people who make donut holes is just lurking around the corner.

No Kogi Truck 4 U

This is funny, and also extremely sad.

Three times this week, we've tried to eat at the Kogi truck. For you non-LA readers (I believe there are now three of you), the Kogi is a Korean BBQ taco truck that cruises So Cal and serves up some amazing Korean/Mexican fusion food.

Or so we hear. If we could actually sample the goddamned fare we could judge for ourselves.

The big thing with this truck is that you have to check their Twitter page to find out where they are going to be on a given day. They don't park just, like, anywhere. So we made our first attempt last Friday night. J checked into it and reported the location as Abbot Kinney in Venice starting at 6:30. I had my doubts we would actually be able to drive into Venice at that time on a Friday, as it was already 5:45. But he was optimistic, so off we went.

We must have circled the parking lot where the truck was parked about five times. Not only was there absolutely no parking on the street or in any of the free and paid lots, you had to drive with one foot on the brakes to keep from hitting all the people walking and riding their bikes into the lot. The sidewalks were packed with people sitting down and gorging. The line for the truck stretched out for a quarter mile. It was clear that short rib tacos and sliders were not in our future. So we drove off for some Hawaiian BBQ, a poor substitution.

On Sunday, J looked at their page and said the truck was parked in the same lot from noon til 2 p.m. I thought it was odd that they would return so quickly to the same place and asked him if he was sure. He shot me a look that suggested he was.

We headed out once again to Venice. This time, there was ample parking on both the street and in the lot adjacent to where the truck was.

However, this time, there was no truck to be found.

After waiting 30 minutes, J broke out his Blackberry and hit Kogi's Twitter page.

"What day is today?" he asked.

"Sunday the eighth."

"Are you sure?"

I shot him a look that suggested I was. He tossed the BB on the floor and said, "I got the date wrong. Feel like Mexican food?"

Now I was pissed. We are both literate and college educated. Why did we keep screwing this up? Not to mention, diverting my taste buds was starting to become annoying.

Last night, J was more determined than ever to find this godforsaken truck. He looked up their Twitter page and also their Web page. "It's definitely tonight at 6," he told me. "We're leaving an hour early to get there and make sure we can park."

I grabbed my purse and stuck an apple in it, convinced he was wrong and we'd be starving and defeated in no time.

We made it to the lot, which was slowly starting to fill out, and waited. And waited. At 6:15, he grabbed his Blackberry, punched up their page and then screamed. "They changed the location! I looked it up and I SWEAR, it said they would be here today! I don't know what the hell is going on but this is goddamned bullshit..."

I had to tune it out, so sad for the tacos that had tormented me for three days . We ended up getting some pretty good gourmet hot dogs from another truck, but ultimately it was just another bait and switch, another substitute in our never-ending quest to sample what everyone seems to be eating so effortlessly.

J is now on a mission and is stalking the truck. I admire his determination but I can't get my hopes up. I've been let down too many times by the elusive street taco. Maybe one day our paths will cross. Until then, I will have to experience Kogi vicariously and, as Bette Midler sings, "From a distance..."

the raw milk files

I've been on the sidelines of the raw milk controversy for several months. Today, a 30+-minute watercooler conversation forced me to think more deeply about the debate. (Note: watercooler conversations at my office are frequently led by scientists, Ivy League grads and generally intelligent people, so I'm compelled to listen up.)

I remain pretty convinced that drinking unpasteurized milk is not a health benefit. Raw milk presents a greater risk of food-borne illness, and there are documented outbreaks to back up that claim. I also think the way raw milk is marketed (as a strength/vitality booster, as an improvement for digestion) is dubious. Think about it: there's no heating process to kill any pathogens. You are getting it right out of the udder, germs and all.

So: raw or no raw?

I'll do you one better. If you're an adult, why drink milk at all? Animals, once they are weaned, never drink milk again. Why do we? You can get the same nutrients elsewhere. Milk inflames sinuses, causes bloating and gas, and let's face it: it's not the most amazing thing you've ever tasted. You dunk cookies in it, you slosh it in cereal, you hide it in coffee and in other foods.

My two cents on this whole thing? Give up the milk as soon as you can. Replace dairy with soy products. You won't be getting a raw deal.

why did I wait so long...

To see "The White Ribbon?" This film - beautifully paced and shot to look like an Ingmar Bergman movie - has me hooked. I tried to describe the plot to someone and after a couple of minutes she looked flummoxed. I suppose the best way to characterize it is that it's about the origins of evil, but it's also deeper and more nuanced than that.

Go see it, if you haven't. I mean it.

doppleganger week

I've had run-ins with several look-a-likes this week. In some cases, however, these people are also in a similar line of work to the celeb that they resemble.

On Tuesday, I met with my gynecologist and a resident, who looked Dr. Kuni (the obstetrician from "Knocked Up."). It was really hard not to laugh.

On Thursday, I was in a meeting with a Deloitte & Touche consultant who looked and talked exactly like Oksana Grigorieva, the unfortunate girlfriend of Mel Gibson. I kept hoping she would shriek, "You are a maniac!" during the meeting.

Today I meet some random intern who bears a striking resemblance to Monica Lewinsky. I really had to hold it in and not laugh in her face.

With this kind of momentum, what are the chances that I will meet a Viggo Mortensen look-a-like??

my mel gibson theory

I was hoping Mel Gibson would be done with when he unleashed his anti-Semitic tirade a few years ago. We all know how that turned out. He did the mea culpit media circuit, made some crappy movies, and before you could say neo-fascist bastard, there he was on TMZ. This time, his profanity-laced rant was directed against people of color (African Americans and my Latino bretheren), and females.

As the Anti-Defamation League would say, oy vey.

People are floored by this latest episode. I've heard some suggest that his tirade is inextricably linked to his extreme Catholic views. That's certainly possible. However, I chock it all up to money. The dude has so much money - fuck you kind of money - that he's under no responsibility to act civil, fair-minded or hell, even human. Mel Gibson owns islands and probably lives very happily without the interference of other human beings. There's no impetus for him to be a nice guy and get along. He can be verbally abusive, racist, even admit to hitting a woman, and then sail back home to his island, to revel uninterrupted in his bigoted glory.

Let's be clear: I am not defending this a-hole. I hate his movies, and I think his opinions and his view of the world are despicable. You don't call my people wetbacks and get away with it, cabron. However, I think its too simplistic to blame his delusions solely on the fringe element of the church. Money can make people kooky, and big money can make kooky people kookier.

I'm going to make some enemies

By declaring that Bono is one of the most overrated rock personas of all time.

Anytime there's a media clip of him talking about a cause or issue, I cringe. Is it the sunglasses that have become a permanent part of his head? The flippy accent? I couldn't say for sure. I was a big U2 fan in high school and college but somewhere along the way, Bono's transformation from earnest lyricist/singer to posturing, self-righteous egomaniac became a huge turn-off, such that I almost feel ambivalent about the band.

I know what you're going to say: he gives so much to charity, he raises awareness about important issues, blah blah blah. He's not the only celebrity who is philanthropically inclined or has galvanized other celebrities into working for a cause. He simply gets the most press coverage.

I saw a clip on You Tube that I thought was a performance of "Atmosphere" from Joy Division, but inexplicably the video cut to Bono humming the song's opening lines and saying, "We all miss the genius that was Ian Currrrrtis." Sheesh. I can't escape this turd if I tried!

So for those of you who think Bono walks on water and can do no wrong, why don't you consider these extremely talented musicians who are equally passionate and get zilcho publicity for their good works:

David Byrne
Thurston Moore
Flea
Neil Young
Annie Lennox
Billy Corgan

Take THAT!!!

Things that are peeving me this week

1. People who refuse to use chop sticks while dining at an Asian restaurant
2. People who begin conversations with the sentence, "I am not a big drinker."
3. Limp handshake + greasy palm
4. People who ask you a question and become fully distracted by something else when you answer
5. My freaking fibroid

J rocks my world

This week has been super-stressful at work. Tonight I came home to a fully prepared meal by J, two loads of laundry done AND folded, homemade dessert, and he MOPPED THE FLOOR.

Somebody pinch me.

move on

Can we please finish up all this World Cup nonsense? I understand there are 2 billion fans of soccer, but it's possible there are 2 billion delusional people on this planet. How can anyone sit and watch a team kick a ball back and forth across a massive field for over an hour, with nothing significant happening? The goal is also huge yet it takes hundreds of attempts for someone to penetrate it. And can we talk injuries and overall clumsiness? People fall over like flies in this game. In basketball, players collide head-on but they instantly get back up. Soccer players trip over their feet and immediately get hauled off on stretchers. What the hell?

I won't even get into the strange noisemakers fans like to use.

Yes, I'm definitely over it.

The Bird of Peace Shit All Over My Apartment

I don't like to talk much about my first marriage or the extreme a-hole that I chose to be my husband. I am just thankful that our relationship ended and I went on to have the family that I have today. But I have no problem sharing amusing marital stories. So here goes.

Shortly after our wedding, my mother-in-law called from England and told my husband that we needed to buy doves and keep them in our apartment. Doves are good luck in Pakistan, apparently. I thought this was a nice idea and we set off to purchase three white birdies.

What the chap didn't tell me was that the doves should not be kept in a cage, according to this bizarre tradition, but allowed to fly free.

"Free?" I exclaimed. "They're going to shit everywhere!"

He insisted that if we lock them up in a cage it would be "bad." He never specified what bad meant. Fearing that if we caged the doves we'd unleash some sinister Pakistani curse, I agreed to let them fly around our house, unrestricted.

The first day, I came home from work and nothing seemed amiss. I climbed the stairs to the second floor and everything was in order. I breathed a sigh of relief and headed to the bedroom. I opened the door and almost died on the spot.

Two birds were flapping into each other, their feathers flying in the air. My desk was speckled with dozens of bird turds. The books in my bookcase were dripping in bird feces. The third bird was perched in a corner. I peered over him and he stepped to the side, revealing a fresh mound of shit.

"You see?" I yelled at the husband, who was working on the computer. "There's shit everywhere! I told you! What kind of tribal ritual is this?! Oh my GOD!"

"Hey, I'll clean it up," he assured me in his clipped British accent. "It's so nice that they can just fly and not be held prisoner."

"We're going to spend every waking hour cleaning this up!" I wailed, running to the kitchen to retrieve a towel and some 409.

He told me not to worry and went over to stick one of the doves on his finger. It released a turd into his open palm. He just smiled. Why this wasn't my first clue that there was something wrong with him is beyond me.

We argued for several days over the uncaged birds and spent nights wiping down the furniture and laying newspaper on the floor. I wish I had more muscle, but part of me felt bad that he'd left his whole family in the UK and didn't know anyone here. I wanted to please him and make him feel like I understood his culture. "A" for effort.

After a week of incessant scrubbing and vacuuming, he finally agreed to buy a cage for the birds. But something happened in that transaction. He no longer took an interest in them. He forgot to feed them and stopped speaking to them. Eventually he left the front door open and two flew out while I was cleaning the cage. Did he do it on purpose? I was never sure. About a week later, concerned that the lone bird would miss its mates, he walked with it outside and gently released it into the air.

And thus went our fist experience with owning pets. Lots of shit and eventually abandonment.

Just like our marriage.

I'm No BP fan...

But we all share the blame for the impact of the oil spill. Everyone, myself included, wants to hold the company, Transocean, Halliburton or someone responsible. But really, what do we expect? The population of planet earth is growing, so is our consumption, and the days of easy-to-get-oil are drawing to a close.

Don't get me wrong, BP absolutely needs an intense ass kicking. But so do we for our dependence on oil.

summer

I am done with this June gloom. In a sign of things to (hopefully) come, the sun came out, and stayed out, for three days this week. Thank gawd. I'm tired of the chill and my hair frizzing up whenever I go outside. It's time for grilling, fruity cocktails and lazy days at the beach. Who's coming?

So very glad...

I didn't marry my first serious boyfriend. We were friends in high school and we hooked up in college. (Well, I went to college while he surfed and worked at a computer company. He also cheated on me with a blonde with fake boobs, most likely while I was taking final exams, but I digress).

Last weekend J and I were at our favorite local Mexican restaurant. It was a busy night and we ended up seated next to a party of about 12 people. Suddenly I did a double take. There, at the head of the table, sat the old boyfriend. He was heavier and his hair was thinning. He had on a mismatched outfit and was wearing a red plastic Hawaiian lei.

I thought about it for a second and decided I should not ignore him. He had actually sent me a message on Facebook a month before asking if I was interested in catching up. I wasn't. But clearly, it was only a matter of time before we'd run into eachother.

Over the din of the diners I heard his goofy laugh and all of a sudden he was standing at my elbow talking to someone in his party. He still hadn't noticed me. I called his name and he jumped about ten feet in the area and clutched his chest. Not for dramatic effect, I think I really startled him. I extended my hand and he seriously looked like he was going to faint.

I introduced him to J and Magnus. He made some shop talk and I was instantly reminded what an idiot he was. How was I ever attracted to this person? Why did I ever consider marrying him? My mother warned me that my life would be a misery if we took a trip down the aisle. She said it had to do with the area of Mexico that his family came from. "Mija," she hissed, "They are the worse...los indios!!! If you marry him, you'll have ten kids and be cooking over an open fire every night!"

So as quickly as I initiated the conversation with him, I was keen to end it. While we said our goodbyes, I looked down at his feet. He had on adult Crocs.

I married the right person. Enough said.

The Elusive Pharmacist

Scientists are working hard to unlock the great mysteries of our universe: the origins of life, dark matter, LA traffic. I am hopeful that one day they can address another befuddling phenomenon: the turnaround times at the pharmacy.

One thing I have never understood is why you are given a 30-45 minute window to fill a prescription when all the pharmacist has to do is retrieve your medicine from a cabinet in the back of the room. Seriously. In most cases, the pharmacist isn't mixing the drug. He or she simply confirms the dosage and instructions and then picks up a box of pills to hand to you.

Yesterday I was reminded how insipid this whole process can be. I went to the local Walgreens at 11:45 to drop off a prescription. There was only one other person in line. Two of the staff were just standing around. The pharmacist reviewed my info, confirmed my address and then said, "We are running really behind. Can you wait 30 minutes?"

I decided to stay put and wait it out. I walked up the dish detergent aisle, perused some magazines, compared mascara brands and prices. When my thirty minutes were up, I went back to the pharmacy aisle. There weren't any customers waiting. No one was talking on the phone, fielding orders. I stood on my toes to peer over the counter into the back, and whaddya know? The entire staff were gathered together yukking it up at some picture in People Magazine.

I must have made a lip smacking noise accidentally because the man who took my order smiled and said, "Hi, I'm just getting your stuff now!" Are you kidding me? You deal with sick people who require medication. You aren't the freaking DMV; people don't feel sicker because you are slow to take their driver's license photo.

Clearly this is a mystery that requires thorough investigation. We need our top scientists on this immediately. Who's in??

Body Image & The Food Network

I've been tuning into Everyday Italian and Barefoot Contessa on the Food Network. I get a fair amount of ideas from both shows. I am struck, however, at how radically disparate the hosts are, despite cooking very similar dishes.

Giada De Laurentis, with her model looks and omnipresent cleavage, puts sugar, cheese and bread in almost every dish. She can't weigh more than 95 lbs. Ina, with her haughty accent and monotone shirts, is also heavy on the sugar, cheese and bread. Ina resembles a weather balloon. Both of these women tuck into their dishes (Giada moans and rolls her eyes to show you how freaking good her food is) and clearly like to eat, so what gives with the drastic weight difference?

Post-filming puking by Ms. De Laurentis, perhaps?

For the record:

Diaperless potty training SUCKS!!!!

I'm a Bulls Fan

I don't mean the Chicago Bulls. I mean real bulls. I'm a fan of any bull that gets into a stadium with a man in a flouncy shirt. Hemingway called bullfighting art, but so what? He was a womanizing drunk. Bullfighting is archaic and I believe the only true justice is when a bull turns on the matador and kicks the living shit out of him.

Over the weekend a matador in Spain was stabbed in the chin and throat by his bull. There is footage of him gasping for air and staggering to walk. Perhaps this will engender debate about whether this "sport" could be outlawed. I understand its cultural but hell, so was owning slaves at one point. Maybe if the next matador gets gored in the groin, that'll do it....

Why are you my Facebook friend?

I've been noticing that my Facebook posts, even the most audacious, fail to elicit responses from a handful of people. These same people reached out to me and requested that I be their Facebook friend. A couple of them even went so far as to check out my photos and make comments as part of their friend request.

So they should be kind of interested in me, right?

Ahh, no. They never write one single comment. They don't even use the "like" function. I don't get it. Why are you my friend? I am sure I've made comments about things you can relate to. I am seriously tempted to write a post that says: "I was just diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor. Please pray for me," just to see if they will respond.

I guess the upside is that my real life friends give a crap and find me interesting....so screw you, fake virtual friends!!

Right now I'm crazy for

A little band out of Long Beach called Avi Buffalo. Unfortunately they just received some major press coverage so now everyone will like them. On one hand, I could loathe them because the band members are all of 19 - and I think one of them is still in high school - but on the other hand, how can you reproach such inventive, GOOD musicians? Just check out these lyrics:

I walked in on a plan to disolve all your wishes

But I couldn't help your mouth which I missed by two inches

Maybe I thought that you and I could run away alongside

But I didn't understand I was a cold tear in your eye.

Check out the photo. How cute are they??

mumps, whooping cough, measles, oh my

Today's Los Angeles Times carried a story about a resurgence of mumps in LA. I had to do a double take. Mumps? What the hell? Are eight track tapes also coming back in style?

Unfortunately, the diseases of childhood (mumps, measles and whooping cough) are still here. And rising. Unbelievably, two children died from whooping cough this year. I curse all the parents who refuse to vaccinate their kids because they are convinced they will get autism. That myth was widely disputed and eventually dispelled, morons. Meanwhile, you are enrolling your twerps in kindergarten and putting hundreds of elementary school kids at risk for mass outbreaks. Our local charter school in Marina del Rey seems to have attracted the most loons, with 40% of its student population unvaccinated. Thank you all very much.

Must move to remote island soonest.

It's not easy being green

For about four years now, J and I have been a Green Couple. Not the preachy, sanctimonious kind you try to escape at the market or bookstore, though. I was semi-organic when I met him and he was an organic enthusiast who bought produce at the local farmers market and used air freshner from Whole Foods. About two years ago we decided to use only environmentally safe cleaning products and buy eco-friendly toys and clothes for Magnus. Being green has given us peace of mind, but its also made us tired and nearly broke.

There have been days when I wished I was 21 again and thought nothing about eating at a fast food restaurant and buying strawberries from Raphs. Not only is it expensive to be green, its time consuming. You can't just go to the big supermarket and pick up everything you need in one trip. We start at 8:30 a.m. on Saturdays and go to our farmers market, where we buy all our fruits, veggies and our organic coffee. That'll eat up about $45. Then we drive 20 minutes to T-Joes for the majority of our supplies. $140 easy. However, they don't carry soy yogurt, chlorine-free baby wipes or Seventh Generation dish soap. So that's our third trip of the day, to Whole Foods, where we quickly drop another $30-$40. By noon I am completely exhausted and forlorn as I eye the last $1o bill in my wallet.

I realize we are lucky that we can afford to eat super fresh every day and that Magnus already knows what real food is supposed to taste like. I'm not complaining, just quietly whining. Could I get a coupon once a year, or a "Frequent Greener" break? Help a non-annyoing greeny out.

I Need an Intervention

I am proud to admit that I'm not a couch potato. Despite my hectic schedule, I still make time to read or go for a walk instead of plopping in front of the tube in the evenings. I work with people who talk about all the shows they watched over the weekend and am amazed they can process that much crap.

But it's not all good news. I have a deep and dark secret that threatens to undermine my credibility and the respect of friends and family: I am fast becoming addicted to the god-awful Real Housewives series on Bravo. There, I said it.

Before you start condemning me about what a horrific show it is, how it supplants positive images of women with stereotypes and could very well signal the end of the world, hear me out.

First, I KNOW how bad this series is. And you know what? I don't care. I know there are good shows out there, like Lost and Glee and the CSI franchise. I'm just not someone who watches them. Much more tempting for me to watch these insecure broads talk smack about their friends, bemoan their physical imperfections and plan their ice skating parties. Sue me.

The hard part has been trying to explain my fascination with the show to my husband, who is by all accounts rational, empathetic and open-minded. When he came home last week to find me watching the Jersey episode, the first words out of his mouth were: "No. Are you effing kidding me?!" Now when I tune into the show I feel like a drug addict, like I'm doing something so shameful and destructive that I should be banished to a transitional facility where I can get help.

I think the worst thing is that I cannot articulate what draws me to these women. I would never be friends with any of them. I don't respect them that much and certainly don't aspire to live their lifestyle. So what is it? The classic case of witnessing a horrible car accident and not being able to look the other way?

Let's go with that explanation for now.

the object of my rage: cycling gangs

The upside of living in del Rey is being walking distance to the beach. The down side are the self-righteous jerks who like to put on shiny outfits, wrap-around shades and peddle their bikes with a contigency of 2,000 other self-righteous jerks in the designated car lane near the beach. At least once a week I fantasize about smashing into them as I am forced to slow down and change lanes.

Don't get me wrong. Bicyclists are perfectly entitled to their space on the road. I mean just that: their space. I don't support drivers who deliberately anatagonize them or try to poke them with their side mirrors or even run them over (as a physician did in Northern California, ostensibly to "teach them a lesson"). But you gots no business clogging up my drive. Stay in your lane. You ain't Lance Armstrong, going for your twentieth Tour de France honor. Hopefully you realize that.

Today a smaller group of bikers cut across the street as several of us car folks were traveling 55 miles+/hour. Thanks for ensuring my brakes can slam to a halt, you a-holes. One of the dorks actually laughed out loud as we passed. Think that's funny? Next time you may not be so lucky. Next time you and your Lycra may end up like a pretzel under my tires.

Oh, fantasy is so sweet.

the c word

I'm afraid to even type it, lest I become associated with it. And I don't mean the vulgar reference to the female hoo-ha. I mean the dreaded c word: cancer.

In the spate of just two months, five people I know have been diagnosed with cancer. One of them is in hospice care with just a few weeks left to live. He is 54 and will be saying good bye to his wife and his two kids. My colleague and friend who bought a special dress to attend my wedding will soon undergo treatment for invasive breast cancer. She is 46 years old. My good friend's stepfather is battling brain cancer. He is 58. My cousin's dearest friend is getting treatment for invasive breast cancer. 42.

What the hell, life? Why are you striking down so many young, loving, decent people? In two weeks I will undergo my annual pap smear and I'm petrified that I will be the next name on the c-word list. Okay, probably not likely, but the fear is real. I have to undergo a mammogram and I'm wondering if they will find something I missed. I am busting J's balls about getting his regular prostate exam and feeding him extra tomatoes to protect his health.

Damn you c-word, and all the chaos you create.

had a baby, lost my mind

One of the things people don't tell you when you're having a baby (in addition to the fact that your male infant can sport an erection) is that with the birth of a child comes the unraveling of logic. Not a temporary situation, either. You pop out a kid and you can kiss good sense goodbye.

Here's what I mean. Last week we took a trip to the park. Magnus is feeling more confident about his physical abilities and decided to try his hand at the large slide. We called it the big boy slide. Who was I kidding? It was The Slide that Kills Kids. As he scaled the steps to the very top, grinning and giving us a little wave, I pictured him hurtling off the side and falling flat on his face. I was able to shake this terrible vision in time to see him sail down the slide and land safely on his feet. But this was just one in a series of incidents where I feel impending doom is lurking around the corner, waiting to harm my precious firstborn.

Take his baby tub. A month ago he was splashing away, happy as a clam. I stepped away for 14 seconds (I counted) to toss some laundry in his room. The splashing suddenly halted and my heart dropped to my ankles. I rushed back into the kitchen, convinced that he had slid underwater and was fighting for his life. (Never mind that he's actually too big to lie down and be submerged in water). Not so much. The child was momentarily distracted by his plastic car and had put the brakes on the splashing. What was wrong with me?

The latest episode of my utter insanity happened this morning. Magnus went to bed later than normal last night. When he hadn't roused by his normal 6:30 a.m., I rose to my feet and slowly made my way to his room. I wasn't quite sure what I was expecting to find, but "coma" came to mind. I almost collapsed with relief when I found him sitting in his crib, tugging on his blanket.

I am sure all moms have moments of dread or paranoia when it comes to the safety of their children. I'm just wondering if I'm one of those extreme cases that require medical supervision. Sometimes at work, I'll fret that Magnus managed to unlock my parents' front door and is running unsupervised in the street. Perhaps my guilt at being a working mom is kicking in and overriding the stability control function, rendering me a delusional psychopath. Sadly, I think these bouts of maternal kookiness are going to be around for a while.

Wait - do you hear that screaming? My bad, it's just the lawn mower across the street...

Me and the Wong

We have a new intern at work. While getting her settled into her cramped cubicle, I found myself thinking about one of my very first jobs. I was 20 and landed a summer position as the administrative assistant for Dr. Alfred Wong, an esteemed scientist who headed the experimental and plasma physics lab at UCLA.

What a jackass he was.

Most of the time I didn't see him save for Fridays, when he descended upon our office to confirm that people were working. He would walk methodically down the hallway and call out each postdoc by their last name before entering their lab. "Chu? Smith? Anderson?" You felt like the Supreme Court denied clemency and an execution was imminent. Sometimes there were debates that sounded like a foreign language film. "Electron diffraction?" "Mais no. Optical interactions of coherent radiation? Oui." But mostly the postdocs would say, "Yes, Dr. Wong. Yes," and run around like crazy people for the remainder of the day.

One day Dr. Wong emailed me about a special project. I was floored that he bypassed his main assistant and singled me out. Clearly he was taken with my organizational skills and can-do attitude. I went to his office with my UCLA-issued notebook and pen, ready for action.

Wong looked at me through his thick lenses, the way you would regard an ant at your picnic table. "There is my bag," he commanded, motioning to a gym bag in the middle of his office. "Can you please tidy it up."

I was momentarily confused. Tidy it up? Reshuffle his important papers and books, perhaps? I knelt down before the bag and was overcome by a mouldy odor. I unzipped the top and was met with a pile of tennis socks, a moist headband and a foul-smelling pair of shorts.

Tidy up your freaking tennis bag?

I thought for a moment. "Dr. Wong," I said, "Shouldn't we just put the bag in your car to take home?"

He didn't look up from his book. "But make it neat," he said.

Did he even know my name? My father was a chemist, I was going to UCLA to study history. I wasn't a physics buff and I was never going to get into Harvard, but I was definitely not a lowly serf who was going to clean up this a-hole's mess.

I hovered over the bag for a moment and then zipped it up. "All done. Is there anything else?"

He didn't answer, completely consumed by his book on energy conduction. I worked at the lab for another month and then left to start classes. He never said thank you or good bye. I actually passed him on campus two months later and he looked right through me. It wasn't as if he'd forgotten me. He just never knew I existed.

Ten years later I read a story that his funding had dried up and the university was longer interested in supporting his research. Karma? I'm not sure. People on staff said he was demanding and unkind. Perhaps he was so focused on outer space that he couldn't relate to people on this planet. Whatever the case, he taught me a lot about the kind of boss you shouldn't be.

However, if the intern agrees to pick up my dry cleaning, I'm not going to admonish her...

I'm officially old

Who the hell is Justin Bieber (sp)??

are we back in 1986?

What's with the sudden influx of t-shirts with kooky sayings? "World's Coolest Dad," " 'Don't Make Me Come Down There' - God," and my favorite, "With a shirt this awesome, who needs pants?"

damn these haters

Is it me or does it seem like we've experienced a three-fold increase in the number of anti-government militias? The latest example comes to us from Michigan, where a band of armed zealots allegedly planned to kill law enforcement officers as part of their battle against Satan (a plot I have trouble following but....)

Last week it was revealed that there were 10+ death threats made against members of Congress because of the health care vote. Some dude was also arrested this week for making death threats against a senator. I'm feeling kind of nostalgic, folks. It's like being in the Clinton era, when we saw armed resistance groups building bombs, moving into tents and decrying the evil forces of the FBI and the federal gov't.

I simply cannot relate to the fear and paranoia that is driving these crazy bandits, especially the inbred-looking Hutaree Christian group. You really think Satan is arriving at terminal one and preparing to do battle with humankind? And it's necessary to slaughter law enforcement officers, to boot? I also wonder how the people who start these groups are able to increase their membership, especially when they state that the government is going to impose martial law, seize their weapons and conduct mass executions. On what do you base that claim? And people actually believe you?

Daaaaamn.

Really?

Reggie Bush and Kim Kardashian breaking up really has to be reported in today's LA Times online??

YES!!!

I am officially back to my pre-pregnancy weight of 124. Yee-haw, ya'll!

escaltor goes up, IQ goes down

It never ceases to amaze me how stupid people are about getting on elevators.

At least once a week, I have the privilege of watching an idiot board our office elevator. I am usually heading towards the lobby when it happens. The doors open to reveal an individual standing with their mouth semi-open. The individual looks at us, looks at the top of the elevator bank and says, "Down?" Yes. Down. You can see we are going down by the downward-facing arrow. If we were going up, Einstein, it would be pointing the other way.

I used to think this was a phenomenon specially reserved for this office building, but today at the doctor's office, some dunder head was struggling to figure out how to get to level one from the basement elevator. I actually slowed my walking so I could hear the whole conversation. "The entrance to the medical plaza is one?" she cried to the person next to her. "So I have to go up?" Where the fuck are you going to go? We're in the basement, you moron. GEEZ!

bombs are falling

I read a newstory today about a suicide bomber in Iraq. It occured to me that before the U.S. invaded Iraq, you never read much about these kind of attacks. I am sure they occured but likely not at the frequency that they do now.

Today, you hear at least one story a month about a suicide bomber taking out large groups of innocent people. I used to be incensed but sadly, over time, my senses became deadened. Random acts of violence are just a reality. There is no emotional room to respond to them anymore. It's like we've come to accept them in the same way we accept reality TV: you don't really like or respect it but it's there and it's not going away.

I can't decide if the bombing or the lack of public outrage is worse.

binge eating at Disneyland

On Sunday, we took advantage of the break in the rain to head south and visit the happiest place on earth. (Again.)

We are fortunate to have annual passes and we probably make 5-6 trips a year to the Magic Kingdom. The baby is now old enough that he recognizes some of the walk-around characters and can go on the smaller rides. Family fun knows no bounds.

Something happened on Sunday's trip. Maybe it was all the walking, or maybe it was all the dieting I've been doing to achieve my pre-pregnancy weight and tone up. Whatever it was, I was suddenly consumed by the insatiable need to eat EVERYTHING in sight.

It started with the pretzel at 10:30. I needed it. No, you don't understand. I needed it, with every fiber of my being. J offered to split it with me and I was supremely annoyed by that.

An hour later I bought some pineapple spears from a corner vendor. J probably would have liked a taste but I had a wild animal look in my eyes. He let me be.

Thirty minutes later I was famished and made poor J stand in a 15 minute line for burgers. I should have had a salad and called it a day but my sanity and willpower had completely left me. I didn't even talk, I just lowered my head and attacked everything on the plate like a lion eating a deer.

At 2 p.m. I had the munchies again. We passed a colorful sign that featured corn dogs. I turned to J with real pleading in my eyes. He sighed, pulled his wallet out of the stroller and headed to the line without a word.

As we exited the park later that afternoon, we passed an ice cream stand. How can you visit D-land and not eat the famed Mickey Mouse ice cream sandwich? You can't.

I really should have been in a food coma by now. But I was energized and bizzarely, still hankering for more. As we drove home, I mentally listed all of the horrible foods I had consumed beginning that morning. I was mortified, but only briefly. Incredibly, my thoughts floated back to the many delectable items I had missed: frozen bananas, slushy lemonade, barbecued meats on a stick. Mmmm.

Unbelievably, I still had room to eat at 7 p.m. We got home, put Mags to bed, and then I popped open a can of my favorite sardines from Spain (marinated in a spicy tomato and olive oil sauce), cut up a cucumber and opened up a pack of salami and mortadella. I looked up and J was staring at me, partially amused and partially horrified.

That is a disturbing look, folks. I decided to skip dessert and just go to bed.

I mean, I have to execute some control.

the weekly near-death experience

Every Tuesday at 2 p.m. I face my own mortality.

I sit across from my boss and for 30 minutes, methodically read off every line of my status report. I actually send him the report in advance of our meeting but he never reads it until I enter his office. He keeps his eyes focused on my Excel spreadsheet and makes little notes in the margins. He rarely looks up and if he does, he usually interrupts me to ask about something we already covered in box #3.

I mentioned to him last month that the structure of these meetings was killing me. I loathe meetings anyway but to sit for 30 minutes, or sometimes an hour, and read off a project list (which includes a field marked "Completed") is like having the life force sucked out of you. He got nervous and said he understood, but he really, REALLY needs my updates.

I offered to send him my status report a day in advance so he could have time to digest it before we meet and then we could talk about projects (or even brainstorm ideas) instead of me reading out loud. He doesn't have much time to do this, he said.

So here I am, prepping my Excel document for another weekly session of Spoken Word Updates. At 2 p.m., I will enter his office, close the door and wait for the life to drain out of me. It's like facing the wrath of the zombies, only this zombie is corporate and wears a suit.

The horror, the horror.

loving life in the kitchen

For the first time in many weeks, I spent most of the weekend cooking. I was a bit tired from work and the Magnus Schedule (that would be our son getting up at 5:45 a.m. for the second week in a row) but somehow I was able to get a second wind and whip up a plethora of good eats. We had steak with heirloom tomatoes, capers, fennel and parsley on Saturday and a wonderful chowder with bacon and cod on Sunday. I always struggle with lunch, as I'd rather save my energies for cooking dinner, but I was able to devise a pita humus sandwich with fresh herbs in 15 minutes. Screw your 30-minutes, Rachel Ray.

While prepping Saturday's meal I was reminded of my fifth grade class, when the teacher asked each of us what we wanted to be when we grew up. I had the hardest time answering the question. What do I want to do for the rest of my life? Basically, read, write, travel and see good movies. I had no real sense of what my career was supposed to be. For me, the important thing was making enough money to pay for the things I loved to do.

As I was pulverizing my garlic cloves, I realized that while I've suffered through an identity crisis with my career for 15 years, it actually has enabled exactly the lifestyle I want. I read, I write, we travel and take in movies. And I cook.

You've gotta love those moments of clarity.

sometimes i wish

You could hit people at work. Not hard enough to cause permanent damage but hard enough that you get their attention. Maybe that way, I wouldn't have to explain something three times.

u just have to laugh

J and I had a date Saturday night at The Tasting Kitchen, a fantastic new restaurant in Venice. Beautiful decor and wickedly great food, especially the pork rillettes. Unlike the last dining experience, you actually felt full.

While we were waiting for the bill to arrive, a couple was seated next to us. The chap was clearly trying to impress his date. He signaled the waiter to come over and asked that he remove the white wine glasses, since they would be drinking red wine.

When the waiter brought over the bottle, he asked the waiter at what temperature the wine was chilled. Sheesh. Then he leaned forward and told the girl that he normally orders $100 bottles of wine, so she shouldn't feel uncomfortable that this bottle of red was in the$150 range.

I really wonder if she went to bed with him later.

2night

Will be great. Hitchcock's "Vertigo" is here, courtesy of Netflix, and there is an unopened bottle of Malbec in the kitchen. J also baked some wicked oatmeal cookies last night. Paradise!

Thanks for the brilliance

This morning, I was perusing the financial section of the ABC News web site when this headline caught my eye:

"How to Maximize Your Tax Deductions."

Of course I had to read the article, as J and I owed Uncle Sam in 09 and are hoping for a small windfall for this year.

The sage advice?

1. Check your math
2. Get your paperwork in order
3. Avoid mistakes
4. Itemize your deductions
5. Report all your income

I want to know, who is the moron editor that allowed this story to be posted? You think this list is actually helpful? Avoid mistakes, are you freaking kidding me? Where's my list of new deductions, or tips on how to write stuff off?

With advice like this, I may as well file the damn thing myself.

Listen jerkie:

You. You on the cell phone. You on the cell phone two stalls away from me. What the hell is so important that you have to make a call in the john? From what I can tell, all you are saying is "Yes. Yeah. Uh huh." Does the person on the other end know you're in the loo or are you trying to be cool and pretend its the subway? Just for that, I am going to flush TWICE. Let that spoil your nice clean reception.

'tis true

I've never liked any songs by Billy Joel.

My eyes, my eyes!!!!

Yesterday someone I work with came into my office to show me pics of her new granddaughter. She was grinning ear to ear and actually and hung over my shoulder to see my reaction as she placed a snapshot in my hand.

Staring back at me was a fat, slimy blob with the most hideous face. It wasn't a baby. It was a deep sea creature. Goddamn it, mi gente, do you have to make such atrocious looking kids? I smiled and said, "Awww...does she look like your side or the father's side?" She babbled something in reply and marveled, "Isn't she BEAUTIFUL?!"

I nodded my head, hoping I could keep the smile on my face until this seriously deluded woman left my office. Poor newborn baby. She will likely grow into a hideous chupacabra and breed more hideous chupacabras. I laughed quietly thinking about the famous saying of my mother's, which she invokes every time she sees a less than attractive person: "God did not give me these eyes to see such ugliness."

Amen, madre.

Happy b-day Magnus!!

My baby is two years old today. I can hardly believe it. Watching a young child develop is mind-boggling. They grow at such a fast clip, you literally feel like every time you see them they've sprouted another inch and know ten more words.

His b-day party was this past weekend so today I'm leaving work early to rush home and fix him dinner and tuck into his pile of new toys. If you ask him how old he is, he holds up two fingers and proclaims, "Two cars!" He also keeps singing happy birthday but to Riley, his neighbor and favorite playmate. I figure this is the last year where he will be semi-oblivious to b-day festivities, so I guess we should enjoy it while we can.

Happy birthday baby!!

Romantic Comedies: The Death of Cinema

Recently J and I considered getting a babysitter and taking a trip to the movies. Why not spend some quality adult time and take in a stellar piece of cinema?

Fat chance. The ton of sappy romantic comedies on the bill at the local cinema, coupled with some truly awful-looking action flicks, proved too much to bear. I flat-out refuse to fork over $12 to watch a piece of crap that is eerily similar to whatever last year's blockbuster romantic comedy was.

I really want to know: how many times can you tell the same story and just use different characters? 100? 200? Are the studios legally sworn to make movies that pander to audiences instead of saying something unique? Even indy film, long considered the bastion of cinematic freedom, is starting to spit out some repetitive muck. These are dire times. We need a return to the glorious days of bad-ass cinema (I'm looking at you, 1970s): socially relevant, technically groundbreaking and, importantly, interesting movies.

Sorry, "It's Complicated." You ain't gonna cut it.

Screw You Pat Robertson

Oh, where to begin. Most intelligent people agree that the Earth has been quaking and cracking for millions of years, attributed to a little thing called fault lines. Earthquakes, however severe, do not have a cause and effect relationship with human behavior. Hence, Haiti didn't bring about the recent massive quake because it signed a pact with the devil 200 years ago to fight French imperalists. (Although that scenario does make for an interesting movie plot.)

I won't waste writer's energy lambasting Pat Robertson and his legion of idiots. The believers can't resist taking a swipe at their motal enemy, Satan, and linking the sad state of affairs to human collusion with that bad boy Lucifer. (According to some historical data I read, Haitians practiced santeria in the 1700s, when they allegedly made "the pact" to drive out the French. Santeria is distinct from Satanism. But screw THOSE details...)

The point I'd like to articulate, in addition to extending a big fat middle finger to Mr. Robertson, is that in the wake of this disaster, it is the non-religious groups that deserve major credit. Organizations like UNICEF and the Red Cross (despite its name, not a religious group) are on the front lines to deliver food, build infrastructure and give people hope. For all their talk about Christ , we're not seeing a deluge of church groups - or even Mr. Robertson's pious organization - stepping in to help.

How frigging convenient. I imagine once Haiti has been semi-restored, the believers will waste no time arriving with pamphlets about Christ and tips on how to avoid witch doctors...

Condo Drama, Part Two!

Faithful readers of this blog may remember last season's battle of the pools, which pitted childless condo owners against owners with offspring who like to swim. The Board held several meetings to determine whether it was safe to let babies in the water. Logic triumphed and now we can take our kiddies to the pool and only incur resentful looks instead of full-on brawls.

So this season's plotline involves aggressive dogs, body-building neighbors and a restraining order. Yep. Apparently, a female owner (who is pumped like a mini Arnold Schwarzenegger) has a pitbull that was bitten by our neighbor's dog, a really lovely and friendly mutt named Napoleon. There was some bickering and name calling between the owners. Then apparently the p-bill was attacked again and the cops were called. On Sunday, the body-building owner hid in the bushes to watch as Napoleon's owner was served with a restraining order. Which I find kind of funny. She wants a restraining order to keep a safe distance, yet she stands 10 feet away from the person she is trying to avoid.

We were in the backyard with some neighbors when all this went down. A huge ruckus errupted. Napoleon's owner, who is about 60 something, yelled at the woman, who yelled back, "You come near me and you're going to be arrested!" Then Napoleon's owner lost all of her cool and shouted, "Stay away from this walkway you fucker!"

I delicately placed my hands on Magnus's ears and suggested we go inside. I feel bad for our neighbors and Napoleon, who is truly a sweet and passive dog. But I'm curious how this will play out. Can they not go to the mailbox at the same time? What if Napoleon's owners are checking the mail and the bodybuilder shows up? What if there are more profanity-laced eruptions in front of Magnus?

We were thinking of buying a house next year but perhaps we need to bump up that timeline...

Nair for 6 year olds?

Mags and I were at the park today waiting in line for the slide. I happened to look up at the little girl standing in front of us and was taken aback by the sheer amount of hair on her legs. And I'm not talking blonde, downy kind of fuzz. I mean full-on black hair, the kind that needs a razor taken to it, and quick.

I think I was staring because the kid behind us implored "Gooooo!" I closed my eyes and tried to shake the horrible image of this furry young lass from my mind. I guess it's cruel to shave a little kid. Or maybe her parents are earthy and the au natural type. If it were me, I'd be putting her in long-ass pants or breaking out the Nair.

I Loathe New Years

Many people love New Years. They get dressed up and waste a ridiculous amount of money going to events, ingesting large amounts of alcohol and sleeping with people they shouldn't. For as long as I can remember, New Years has always been a melancholy day. I never saw it as a new year that brings fresh and new opportunities. All I could think about was that a whole year was gone, consigned to history, and we are all getting older and one step closer to retirement, poor health and ultimately the swan song.

We're already in 2010, a whole decade into the 21st century! Time needs to slow way the hell down.