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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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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..."
