It's like something out of that twilighty show about that zone

Today I have: sent out a resume and writing sample to another prospective employer (this time someone who is looking for a freelancer); gone to two markets in preparation for our camping trip this weekend; forgotten to get bread and beer, despite being in two aforesaid markets; stopped off at the party store to get dinosaur figurines to put on top of my nephew's birthday cake; made several trips from garage to 5th floor apartment, unloading all groceries, etc.; diced and boiled 4 pounds of potatoes to make potato salad; disemboweled a watermelon, cantaloupe, and two mangoes; sent an e-mail update to my charter school/pro bono work contact; and had a phone conversation with another potential freelance client. On top of all that, I still have to bake the cake for my nephew*, to bring with us on the camping trip, and I haven't had any coffee yet.

* My darling Matt Man, who just turned 7:



SEVEN! Next thing you know, he'll be driving!

How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love Viva's Teacher

Viva's teacher, who I will refer to here as Miss Svetlana, though that is not her real name, hails from Russia. She is a big-boned gal, middle-aged (whatever that means these days), has a charming accent, and light brown hair teased up into not-quite-a-bouffant. The most important thing for you to know, though, is that Miss Svetlana is FAB.U.LUSS.

Example: the other day when I dropped Viva off, Miss Svetlana arrived wearing a royal blue dress with a sailor collar, and carrying a matching blue handbag with anchors embroidered all over it. Clearly, she had the nautical theme going on. She also always wears heels, despite dealing with 2-year-olds all day. How hot is she???

But the thing I adore is that yesterday, when I walked into class to pick Viva up, everyone was dancing. Yes, including Miss Svetlana. She was getting down with her funky self to some kids' tunes, and she was really diggin' it. She said to me, "Oh, Viva loves to dance! As soon as I turn on the music, she take off dancing!" I am well aware of Viva's love of the dance, so this was not surprising, but what I was touched to see was that this morning, when I dropped Viva off, Miss Svetlana mentioned it again, and turned on the music so they could dance together. I forgot to mention that Miss Svetlana was today wearing a bright yellow top and a black and yellow skirt. Viva was the first kid to arrive today, so it was just the two of them. When I left, I turned back and saw through the window this tiny little kid, grinning and leaping about with abandon, and a giant bumblebee with a helmet of hair, shaking her groove thing, shaking her groove thing, yeah, yeah.

Bumper Sticker Alert

Seen this week: FIGHT ERRORISM

And, on the back of a pickup: YES! THIS IS MY TRUCK! NO! I WON'T HELP YOU MOVE!

Out of Gas

I recently spent $36.31 to fill up my gas tank, at $2.93/gallon. Well, we knew it was coming, but a few days later I was driving north on La Brea Boulevard and I saw this at the Chevron station at Beverly and La Brea: $2.93/regular, $3.03/plus, and $3.11/premium. My heart palpitated wildly, because, you see, my car "requires" premium. Which means I am now paying well over $3 a gallon to fuel up and run around town doing whatever the hell it is that I do.

Why are all the hybrid cars either (a) too small for anyone with children, or (2) cars that I have no interest in driving? I drove the Ford Escape as a rental while in Boston a while back, and I have to say I was underwhelmed. I would like to be somewhat environmentally responsible, and it makes me depressed, until I remember something my old friend George once said to me: "Ah, the environment -- what's it done for me lately?"

I gotta go bake that cake. Have a lovely weekend!

The Low Down (Not the Down Low)

Operation Get a Job 2005

I am sending out, on average, one resume per day. Just sent another one out today. My bowels are all aboil as a result. Just thought I’d share!

Shout Outs!

And a hearty welcome and hugs and kisses to my darling Ratboy, who says he’s been reading my blog, unbeknownst to me. Maybe at some point I will figure out how to track my loyal readership, but for now, I have thrown up my hands in disgust. I did try downloading one of those free “stats counters” but I could not for the life of me get it to work. I am, as you know, not the most techno-hip chiquita ever to walk the earth.

Anyhoo, Ratboy says he found out about my blog from a little birdie. This sounds suspiciously like M, also known as Mr. X. Not that he looks anything like a little birdie, but I can very easily visualize him flipping the bird, so it seems like a match. So I'ma holla at him, too! Shout out to M, with the delightful buzzcut which I haven't yet seent!

Blessed are the flexible, for they shall not be bent out of shape

I went to my yoga class this morning and it was delightful. My yoga teacher-slash-new best friend, whose name I can’t write here because (a) it is really unusual and (b) it is really impossible to spell, told me today that I am very flexible. I think she is full of shit, but I like her anyway, because we don’t just do yoga in her class – we incorporate Indian dance into it. We’re all like, Bollywooding around! We’re all Monsoon Wedding and shit. It’s frickin’ great.

Soon I will have a job and no longer be able to take this class. Booo!

More to say, but I must get in my Blah Blah Mobile and go pick up Viva and take her to ballet. Tutus, people! Tutus!

My Home is a Wreck

...but I'm not a home wrecka like Angelina Jolie.

It's the post-vacation clean-up time. I just did the grocery shopping, and I need to wash dishes and vacuum and maybe do some laundry. My bed isn't made, there's crap lying all over the living room, and I just made myself a cup of tea and decided to blog.

It's not really procrastinating if I look up job stuff while I'm online, right?

Speaking of which, I e-mailed my resume to some poor unsuspecting soul yesterday, along with a letter about how great I am and how they would have to be completely insane not to hire me. I think those were the exact words I used. We'll see what happens.

In the meantime, I am doing some pro bono work for a local charter school, or rather for the group that is trying to get a new charter school off the ground. If this all works out, we might send Viva there in 2008 for kindergarten. If she actually did end up going there (instead of the private school in which she is now enrolled), this pro bono work could potentially save us somewhere between $85,000 and $90,000, depending on how much tuition goes up. Yes, for primary school. So it may actually not be pro bono as it is traditionally defined, but in its truest literal sense, it will, i.e., for good, i.e., all to the good. All to the good for the Blah Blah Family, that is!

[I'm sorry, I know I am such a huge geek. I took years and years of Latin, from 8th grade all the way into college. I can't help myself.]

Random Gushing

Can I just say how much I love the Farmer's Market? I just bought a basket of tomatoes for a buck. One dollar!

And Now for an Important News Break...

Scary earthquake news from Japan, although from what "experts" say, Japan got lucky and so far, there are no casualties and only a couple of small tsunamis. I have nothing snarky to say about this. It reminds me that Southern California could be hit at any time, and we have no preparations made for a Viva of this size and season. Our earthquake bag probably has six-month size outfit in there for her. And no shoes!

Anyone Care for Ham?

Last night, I was treated to a re-enactment of a scene from Return of the King.

Sweet William: Here, I'll be Faramir, and you be Aragorn.

Viva [in a slow, deep voice]: And the king...came back...[moving slowly]

SW: And Faramir, the last Steward of Gondor, bowed low before the King...[bows low] and gave him his crown... [tries to put imaginary crown on Viva's head, but she is bouncing all around and giggling]

SW: Aragorn? I've never seen you behave this way. [more giggling and squealing] Well [deepening his voice again], Faramir picked the King up, and swung him high in the air! [screeching laughter] And then Faramir put him on top of his head! [screaming hysteria from Viva]

What am I supposed to do with these two?

I am shocked and awed. There, I said it.

Oh, Mis-con-sin!

Very happy birthday wishes to Aileen: Go Badgers!

Aileen, your friend Tammy was not able to set any flamingos on fire on your lawn this year, since you live at such an inconsiderate distance. But she asked me to wish you a happy birthday as a surprise. I am sure it is not quite the same, but here is your obligatory flamingo:



[Picture flames licking around it. My graphics skills are subpar.]

I wish you every happiness this year -- good health, prosperity, and the extra energy you will need for dealing with a two-year-old.

And by the way, 34 is not so bad. As I recall, it was actually quite a lovely year. Enjoy!

Pampering. Not the Diapers.

How can I tell you, O Internet, of the beauty that was my birthday?

Let me count the ways.

(1) Viva! Woke up grumpy. As she was sitting on the potty, I reminded her that today was my birthday. Her face lit up. "Happy Birthday!" she crowed, opening her arms wide in the universal "give me a hug" signal. We hugged nicely. She smelled of sweetness and light. "I'm so excited!" she said. I just love her so.

(2) Milk Bath! At a spa. In a dimly lit room with soft music and flickering candles.

(3) Facial! At same spa. Long overdue. Hey, there's my skin!

(4) Lunch! At a restaurant. Focaccia, shrimp fettuccine and goat cheese salad.

(5) Massage! At home. Given by Sweet William's alterego, who prepared both a glass of wine and some tea for me prior to the massage and put Miles Davis on the CD player.

(6) Birthday sex! In the afternoon, while our kid was at school! No chance of being interrupted!

(7) Reading a book! In the afternoon, while our kid was at school! No chance of being interrupted!

(8) Balloon! Flowers! Cake! All delivered by my husband and child, who was nap-free and giddy with excitement/exhaustion by the time she came home.

(9) Dancing! After the cake. Apparently, to Viva it is not a party if there is not music and dancing. I guess she's right. My in-laws came over for the cake and singing and were forced to dance with all of us to the sweet strains of "Bananaphone" (not the Raffi version, the Rhonda Vincent version; click here for a funny sped-up animated version). It's a small price to pay for tiramisu cake and hijinks with your granddaughter, I'd say...

It all deteriorated shortly thereafter, due to the afore-mentioned lack of nappingness on the part of the fruit of our loins. She morphed into a complete velociraptorish, shrieking-at-high-decibel mess by about 6 o'clock. We said goodbye to our plans of a romantic dinner out and by the time we put her to bed, a scant two hours later, we were both wrung out as though we had run a marathon.

I felt every one of my 35 years after that. (I forgot to mention that I've decided that with this birthday, I'm going backwards. I've decided I should at least be younger than Sweet William, who in real life is 16 months younger than I. Hmm, for a very interesting look at age and time and marriage and life, I recommend The Time Traveler's Wife, by Audrey Niffenegger. I read it this past week, courtesy of the Los Angeles Public Library and their fabulous online hold feature. Yes, regular readers! I have already received some of the books I requested! It is just as fabulous as I feared -- I mean, hoped!)

Many happy returns of the day.

Ten threes and a seven

Tomorrrow is my birthday. Since I will be spending it first getting Viva ready for school and then getting her to school and then speeding over to the spa for a milk bath and a facial and then having lunch and then doing heaven knows what until I go out for a fabulous romantic dinner -- well, I don't know that I will be blogging much, is all. But I've missed you and I wanted to say hello, again.

I will be thirty-seven years old tomorrow. I wish to share some hard-earned words of wisdom with you all, but naturally, I can't think of any. [Insert tasteless joke about early-onset Alzheimer's here.]

I have a sense of anticipation about the coming year. I feel lots of change in the air -- and not the quarters and dimes kind of change, but like real change. Not like the change of life, I hope, but change in my life. I'm quite looking forward to it.

I'm on Vacation!

Checking in to say I'm on vacation. Quick rundown:

Viva's first few days at new school: somewhat disappointing. Her teacher called her by the wrong name the entire first day. Ma and Pa Blah Blah very unhappy. Viva confused. Hopeful things will improve. We are, after all, paying an obscene amount of money to send her there.

Number of times we've been to the movies so far on vacation: 0.

Number of times we've eaten out: 3?

Number of car dealerships we've been to: 2

Number of test drives: 0

Number of cars bought: 0

Number of cars we currently own serviced by a mechanic this week: 2

How many days until my birthday: 1!

Sorry so short. More later...

Celebrational, Educational, One Bad Situational

I Can't Transcribe a Guitar Riff...

...But if I could, I'd put the opening chords of "[You Say it's Your]Birthday" up there. The birthday greetings have begun! What fun! This, despite my birthday being a week away. I received a card from one of my bestest friends, Coolia, yesterday, via which she said since she has been late with birthday greetings she is sending mine early.*

Also, my dear friend M sent me an e-card today, the text of which (in its entirety) is, "Truism: It's your birthday, so rock out with your cock out!" Sadly, it appears he meant to send this on my actual birthday, but it came prematurely (get it? Get it? Ouch, sorry, but that pun was just floating out there...)

At any rate, I love all the early birthday wishes. Thanks, guys!

* This is all the more sweet as I know she is consumed with work problems, personal issues, and flying to Phoenix every two weeks to help care for her mom, who is, it appears, in the early stages of a deteriorating illness. Coolia, you are the coolest and I love you madly.

School's Out!

For one day, anyway. Viva ended her career at one preschool today and will begin at her new, bigger, better, bionic preschool on Monday. One of the moms (O's mom) at her preschool was pressuring me to get together with them tomorrow for a play date at LACMA, but I made her back off. "Back off, bitch!" I said.

Um, actually, what I think I said was, "That's so sweet, but you know, tomorrow is kind of our last hurrah, since Viva will now be in preschool five days a week and I will be going back to work, so I think I'm going to just spend the day with her, you know, just the two of us." And of course O's Mom was completely understanding, but still was reluctant to let us go, as was pretty much everybody at the school. Viva told me on the way home that Miss Elsa (her teacher) was crying. I was a little skeptical of this, but then when I asked why, Viva said, "She goin to miss me." Awww, so sweet.

For my part, I did write Miss Elsa a very nice note and brought her flowers to thank her for being so great and making Viva's first school experience such a positive one. And I even brought cookies for the kids! (Not homemade. Come on, now, people.)

I do think she has really had a good experience at school, and I am hopeful that her experience at the new school will be just as good, if not better.

Oh, but wait! Hold the phone! Here is the big news of the day: when I picked Viva up, she was wearing the same outfit as when I dropped her off. This means that she kept her pants dry, and used the toilet only, for the entire day thus far (as she also just peed before her nap and is currently sleeping like a babe). As it is now almost 3 PM, I think this is pretty damn fantastic, and practically light years away from a mere two days ago, when she brought home poopy pants in a bag. I high-fived her at school when I saw she was dry, and I am thinking this calls for some kind of special treat. Ah! Fortuitously, I bought fingerpaints just yesterday. Perhaps we can try them out when she gets up. The carpet needs cleaning anyway...

Warning: Do Not Try This at Home. Or in the Car.

Forgot to mention my latest near-heart attack. On Monday, I took Viva to the park, and after playing and snacking and playing some more, I determined that it was nearly time for lunch, so we headed back to the car. Now, Viva does not currently like to just get in the car and head merrily off. Oh, no. She decided she needed a drink, and she didn't want to drink it in her car seat. She wanted to sit in my seat and pretend to drive, which I allowed her to do (Neophytes: Note well, choose your battles.). We sat there and talked and she looked in the vanity mirror and pushed buttons and it was all very nice, but then I said we should really be getting home. She happily clambered into her car seat, and we buckled her in (she knows how to buckle the top buckle ALL BY HERSELF, "I DO IT MYSELF"), and I shut the car door and went around to the driver's side, and --

The door was locked. All the doors were locked. Viva had hit the "lock button" while the doors were open, and I had just locked my kid inside the car. With the key in the ignition, but with the engine (and air conditioning) off. Near noontime on a Southern California summer's day.

Here is a basic transcription of what went through my head: OH FUCK OH FUCK OH FUCK OH MY GOD Okay wait the front windows are ajar and we are under a tree so she won't die right away from the heat Let me see if I can push the window down and reach the button NO GODDAMMIT Okay, Honey works ten minutes away and he has a key to the car OH FUCK my purse is in the fucking car with my fucking cell phone inside it wait WAIT here comes somebody "HEY! Does one of you have a cell phone PLEASE, I just locked my daughter in the car" -- and two very nice men, parents themselves, stopped to help me. One gave me his cell phone, whereupon I called Sweet William, who was just about to run out the door to come help me when the other nice man who stopped managed to force the window down further and pushed the button and opened the door.

It took all of maybe five minutes, but I would not wish it on anyone. I was trembling and about ready to throw up. Adrenaline can jack you up, man.

Whew, just thinking about it, I need a drink. Dang! Who's with me?

Old School, New School, Old Car, New Car

One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish.

Back to the Future, Forward to the Past

(Not one of my strongest subheads. Sahr.) Have you ever watched that PBS show "Frontier House"? I've watched some of it before, but this weekend, I had the opportunity to see the first episode, and it was pretty great. I realized that the mom from Tennessee came in behaving like a bitch, and that it really wasn't the strains of 1883 Montana that made her that way. The premiere episode really went beyond expectations, in that it featured a team of runaway horses, a washed-out road (making the wagon train grind to a halt), a dog attacking a child, and a woman complaining as she loaded a wagon, "Sure makes me miss my Land Rover." Tee hee.

But the best part of all was when Sweet William said, "Hey, how come they don't do a show called 'Ghetto House'?"

How fabulous would that be? Drop a few "all-American" families into the ghetto armed with nothing but 100 bucks in cash, a couple of sick kids, no health insurance, no jobs, and rent due on the one-bedroom apartment that eight of them have to share? Now, that would be entertainment.

The Velociraptor in My Home

Today, Viva wore cloth training pants to school. I dropped her off with an extra change of clothes, of course, and when I picked her up, she was wearing a different outfit, of course.

"How did she do?" I asked Miss Elsa, as she handed me a plastic bag. She made a sympathetic face. I looked at the bag.

"She pretty much peed all over everything, didn't she?" I said.

But no, this is actually incorrect. She peed in her pants once, made it to the potty once, and had one hell of an accident in the second pair of training pants. Unfortunately, because Miss Elsa was trying to get the rest of her little charges ready for naptime, she didn't have time to tell me about the second incident. It was over an hour later at home, after Viva had her pre-nap snack and we went to the potty, that I remembered to open the plastic bag and --

Sweet Jesus, what happened here?

Holy crap and excuse the pun, but Viva pooped in her training pants. Oh, wait, have I mentioned that I once again had dental work? So I'm standing there, with my jaw throbbing and yet numb at the same time, looking at a shit-stained pair of pink-flowered undies. I'm stunned.

Viva hardly ever poops in her pants. She is very particular about getting to the potty for this particular function. So that is surprising enough, but the truly stunning part is that I realize that I am somehow going have to get the shit off the pants. And the only way I can think of is to flush the toilet so I have a fresh bowl, and then swish the undies around in it.

Is your stomach churning, too? Have I mentioned that Viva starts at her new school next week, where they expect her to be pretty well toilet-trained? Ah.

At any rate, Viva watches me swish and flush, swish and flush, and then shrieks with disbelief as I remove the now poop-free undies from the toilet and toss them into some soap and water in a separate receptacle.

"I wash the training pants!" she screams, leaping up and grabbing them from the water. "I wash in the toilet!"

"Yuck, honey, no," I say, trying to grab them back. We tug-of-war for 2 seconds. I prevail. She loses her mind and starts shrieking like a velociraptor. I know I am prone to exaggerate, but I actually say to her, "Oh my GOD, what are you, a velociraptor?"

She runs into the living room screaming, realizes she has missed the "Goodbye Song" on Blue's Clues, and freaks out afresh. Try to imagine the sound a velociraptor might make when it realizes it has been bamboozled. Now multiply by a factor of five.

At this point, I have washed my hands of any residual poop-water and caught up to her. I grab her and hold her and talk to her calmly, explaining to her that washing poopy pants is something I want to do for her as part of the way I take care of her and that it's nice that she wants to help, but she can really just leave it to me. And also that this is a tape, and we can rewind so she can say "See ya later, sweet potato" to Joe. At this, she calms down, we rewind, she sings and dances with the song, and shortly thereafter is all snuggled in her sleeping bag taking a nap.

And me? Goddamn, I have the worst fucking headache ever.

Vehicular Woes, You Got to Go

Sweet William's Jeep is 11 years old and it's getting to that point where things are starting to go wrong with it and it's not seeming worth it to fix them. The really rough part of this is that his air conditioning is broke. And it's summer. And we live in L.A. And he has no covered parking at work. And so at the end of the day, his Jeep is, how do you say, an environment in which one could grow orchids. That is to say, like a greenhouse. Woe is him.

Added to that, my lease ends in October, so not only do we have to probably buy Sweet Willie a new car, but we have to decide whether to buy out the lease on my Passat or get me into a new car as well. Let me remind you that only one of us is working right now. D'oh!

However, we certainly have been having fun dreaming about the new cars we might get. Oh, yes. All is well in the Fantasy Nook at Chez Blah Blah. Come on in! Sit down! Have some Haagen-Dazs and beer! I promise they won't stick to your thighs! Or your waist! What's that you say? You seem to be leaning only toward German or Swedish-made automobiles? Not to worry -- with employee pricing, you can practically get two cars for the price of one! Who cares if they're more expensive to repair and maintain?

Hmm, my headache appears to have gotten worse.

My Synapses are Short-Circuiting

I Don’t Think I Need to Elaborate

I hate potty training and I’m sick of it. There, I said it.

Gratuitous Cuteness, Followed by a Fortuitous Discovery

One of Viva’s many fixations is birthdays. Tomorrow is her Granny’s birthday, and in less than two weeks, it will be my birthday (don’t mention it). So we bought Granny some gifts from Viva yesterday and that is a ridiculous story in and of itself, in that we actually lost the gifts we picked out, but I can’t bear to relive it in all its heated frustration, so…

This afternoon, we are on our way to pick up some tissue paper at the store so we can wrap Granny’s gifts. Viva starts talking about my birthday.

Viva: Your birthday is coming couple weeks? We have to buy you presents!

Mama Blah [somewhat distracted by traffic]: Well, that would be nice.

Viva: And balloons! And cake!

Mama Blah: Hmm. What kind of cake do you think I should have?

Viva: Some lommy cake!

Mama Blah: Salami cake?

Viva: Yeah!

Mama Blah: That’s a very unusual cake. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of having a salami cake before.

Viva: And mushmallow.

Mama Blah: Salami and marshmallow? Now, that is funny. [thinking, "I better write this down or I will forget it, as I forget so many of the priceless things my sweet dumpling says because I am such a horrible mother." I'm paraphrasing here.]

Viva dissolves into laughter in backseat. I search unsuccessfully for a pen to write down “salami cake” (by this point I have pulled into the parking lot and stopped the car).

Mama Blah: Oh my GAH! How can I be a writer and have no pen in my bag or in my car?!

I lean over and go through the door pocket on the passenger side of the car. While I don’t find a pen, I do find: Sweet William’s wedding ring.

[Cue dramatic violin and horn section: duh-dunh-DUNH!]

Okay, it’s not so dramatic, because we knew it was missing. It’s not like he took it off and threw it into the door pocket so he could run amok and have affairs with nubile cuties who think he is unattached...or so he says. He claims to have lost it when he took it off at the beach a couple of months ago, and he claims he put it in one of the pockets of our beach backpack. We searched the backpack and the car to no avail. How weird is that?

Anyway (back to present tense), I am relieved, and call him at once. A nubile cutie answers the phone – I mean, Sweet William answers the phone and tells me he and his cousin Diggity are watching a movie. Mrs. Diggity and kid are out of town, so I’m sure Sweet Willie and Diggity are up to all kinds of shenanigans. Shenanigans! But I don’t mind, because they haven’t seen each other in it seems like forever, and I think he could use some Diggity time.

No diggity, no doubt.

I Need a Job, I’m Out of Work

Do you remember that song by Gary “U.S.” Bonds?* Neither did I, until I was thinking up a title for this part of the post, and it swam up from some scary netherworld in my brain. I think that was trivia better left to the 1980s. It’s making me shudder just thinking about it.

Anyhoo, in the past two days, I have sent out my resume twice. Ack ack ack! And that’s all I’m saying about my employment update. Further bulletins as events warrant.

* I Googled this lyric and discovered it was a Springsteen tune. Can that be? The more I think about it, I guess so. Where did the Gary "U.S." Bonds reference come from?** It boggles the mind.

** I couldn't leave it alone, so I went back to the Internets and found that yes, indeedy, "Out of Work" was Gary U.S. Bonds' last hit single, waaaaaaay back in 1982. Here's his Website, if you're interested. And now, for God's sweet sake, I'll let this one rest.

Book 'Em, Dan-O, Part Deux

Shout out to my pal Splooey, for pointing out that I am impossibly ignorant: indeed, quite possibly too ignorant to live. After reading my last post, she posted a comment to inform me of the online library hold function at the Los Angeles Public Library. I was flabbergasted, and simultaneously, deeply shamed. It's so obvious that I am not meant for this technologically advanced age. What will they think of next? I immediately went online and put 11 books on hold for delivery to one of my local branches. Sweet! Splooey, you rule! (But you knew that already.)

Book 'em, Dan-O

I am pretty sure that my title up there has a misspelling. It doesn't look quite right. But, moving on...

This week, Viva and I went to the library. Now, one thing I should tell you is that we rarely go to the same library twice in a row. We have three libraries quite close to us, one of which is closed for renovations. Since I am a big book freak, I always like to try one we haven't been to before, or one we haven't been to in quite some time. Since Los Angeles is quite spread out, this is not really all that difficult.

On Monday, we ventured to the Los Feliz branch of the Los Angeles Public Library. It is only a few years old, and it has a heavenly selection of picture books to choose from. After spending an indecent amount of time in the children's section, Viva informed me that she had to go to the bathroom, holding on to the front of her shorts with the universal signal for "I have to go RIGHT NOW." So I stopped at the Information Desk to ask them if (a) they would hold our books for us and (2) they would tell us where in God's name the bathroom was. The librarians seemed to regard our situation with fond amusement, graciously sliding the books away for safe-keeping and directing us to the bathroom. We got to the bathroom, but it was too late, sad to say. Accidents happen. So I got Viva squared away and we went back to the liberry proper, where I told her it was Mama's turn to pick out books for herself.

I keep a running list in my head of contemporary authors and books I want to read, and I was horrified to discover that not a one of the ones on my list was in evidence. So Viva was trying to help me, and I was trying to get her to be sort of quiet while also running through the list in my head. But she kept saying stuff (loudly, in the way that only unself-conscious toddlers can be loud) like: "You want this book, Mommy? You want the pink book? How about this book? You want this book!" As if, by saying it emphatically enough, I would agree that, "Yes, I do indeed want to read Shogun by James Clavell, rather than the contemporary work of fiction I came in for, thanks, sweetie!" You know, I went to Borders the other day looking for a specific book and it, too, was not available. What is that about?

Here are Viva's current favorite liberry books:

(1) Please, Baby, Please by Spike Lee and Tonya Lewis Lee
(2) Felix and the Worrier by Rosemary Wells (which they didn't have, but it's still high up there on her list)
(3) Bunny Money by Rosemary Wells
(4) Whistle for Willie by Ezra Jack Keats
(5) Angelina Ballerina by Katharine Holabird

Unfortunately, I can't tell you what some of my current favorite liberry books are because, dammit, I left empty-handed. Last night, I picked up Even Cowgirls Get the Blues from our bookshelf and flung myself down on the couch with a sigh.

"What is that?" Sweet Willie asked, and after ascertaining what it was: "Why are you reading that?" and before I could even say anything: "You poor thing. We need to go to the bookstore."

We speak each other's unspoken language.

You mess with the 'fro, you got to go

So I went and got my hair did this morning. It is short. Like, I don't know, short. Which is what I asked for, but nonetheless, I think I'll like it better in a couple of weeks after it's grown out a little bit. Did I mention that I went to a black salon? I walked in and the receptionist was like, "Can I help you?" and then when he realized I was actually there to get my hair did, he was all like, "Oh. Oh. Um, please have a seat," and I'm wondering if he was thinking "My bad" or "What the hell is she trying to prove?" And either way, whatever. Does nobody know about miscegenation?

Anyway, I did accomplish my stated goal, so one tiny thing can get checked off my never-ending, monstrously unwieldy, ever-pullulating "To Do" list, which I no longer even bother to write down as I would get depressed before I even started.

Don't Go Breaking My Heart

Speaking of depressed, Viva and I spent a lovely late afternoon/evening at my friend C's house yesterday. C is not depressed, but I am, because her husband got a new job and they are moving to Noo Yawk next month. I like C very much. Our girls are about the same age and take ballet together, and when we get together we gab like there is no tomorrow, and I'm bummed that she's not going to be around. She says she wants to move back to L.A. in a couple of years, but I have the feeling once she gets to New York and settles in, she will really like it there...and may never return! Of course, her mom is in California, so they will be coming back to visit, but I am still bummed. I have nothing funny to say about it. Sorry.

Office Space

I'm looking for a job now. Sorry to spring it on you like this, but that's what's happening. In less than two weeks, we will be sending Viva to school full-time, and that means Mama Blah has to get up off her ass and bring home some bacon.

Since I need some fairly steady income, it looks like I will no longer be freelancing. And you know what that means: the dreaded office job. (Cue scary music and terrified screams.)

It's not the end of the world, but it is the end of an era. I will miss spending so much time with Viva. Yesterday, I bought her a little ladybug lunchbox. A lunchbox! What the hell is that! And today someone outside her current preschool screamed across the street to me about how cute my baby was and wanted to know how old she was. She said she looked like she was only about a year old. Like I'm already not freaked out enough about sending my precious lamb to school for 8 hours.

And I'm not looking forward to going back to an office. But hello, welcome to the world. It sucks, but hopefully not this much:

Peter: So I was sitting in my cubicle today, and I realized, ever since I started working, every single day of my life has been worse than the day before it. So that means that every single day that you see me, that's on the worst day of my life.
Dr. Swanson: What about today? Is today the worst day of your life?
Peter: Yeah.
Dr. Swanson: Wow, that's messed up. *

*This dialogue, of course, is courtesy of the classic "there is no hope" work movie, Office Space.

You Can Take the Man out of Boston...

But you can't take the RAGE out of Dude. My next-door neighbor, Dude, native of Boston (where, as you know, they are filled with rage), former stripper/model/drug procurer, has not worked a "job" job in 10 years. I hope you're sitting down, because he just got a job. As in, someplace where he has to go on a regular basis and spend several hours and get a paycheck. Okay, okay, I can't stand it: he is working in cosmetics. There, I said it. And right now, he is screaming and cussing (and has been for about 30 minutes) on the phone and I'm hoping he hasn't lost his job already. Because I am really rooting for him to work his shit out.

Kind of funny, yet sad (an ongoing theme in my posts, let's analyze that another time): his wife really wants a baby and they've been trying to have one for quite some time. She was actually taking fertility drugs at one point. Sweet William finally pointed out to Dude that perhaps he should get his sperm motility tested, because as I've mentioned before, Dude smokes pot pretty much all day long, and that can mess with your fertility. What's funny/sad about this is that it had not even occurred to Dude that this might be an issue.

Oh bla dee, oh bla dah, life goes on...

I wish I had some microwave popcorn right now. So bad. Gotta go. Muchos smoochos!

Good Hair, Bad Hair

Life is an endless struggle full of frustrations and challenges, but eventually you find a hair stylist you like. ~Author Unknown

So, several months ago, I cut my hair all off. It went from being just-above-the-shoulders short to curly pixie cut short. Think Halle Berry, except that my hair is light brown. And I have green eyes and fair skin. Oh, and I look nothing like her.

So! I loved my new haircut. It was easy to take care of, it was sassy and yet sophisticated, and I felt free and kind of cute. There was just one problem: my hairstylist charged me $60 for the haircut. And it is the type of haircut that needs to be maintained once a month or so. When the time came for me to have a trim, I didn't want to spend $60. I wanted to spend about $20 and perhaps have money to buy an iced mocha and some shorts for Viva or whatever else struck my fancy.

So, my friends, I went to Supercuts. I can hear you groaning already. I know, but come on! Sixty dollars! Well, I explained what I wanted, but I didn't bring a picture with me, and instead the stylist cut my hair nearly the same length all over my head, leaving it slightly longer on top. This has given me, as it has grown out, an almost spacesuit-helmet kind of look, which is not, I repeat, NOT what I was going for.

Since then, my original stylist (The Fabulous Christine) has called and told me that the salon has closed. She is now working out of a salon in the Valley. Now, if I take the freeway, it should take me twenty minutes to get there. But I have discovered a salon near 3rd and Fairfax (either through nappturality.com or naturallycurly.com, I can't remember which) whereby I can get someone to cut my hair for $45. It is also about twenty minutes away, but on surface streets and I don't have to go over the hill. I hate going to a new stylist, have I mentioned this?

I'm going to be brave. It's just hair, right? And as they always say, you get what you pay for. Errrrghhh...

Haicuts are always agony for me. Maybe I will post pictures when it's over -- but I'm not making any promises!

Dos. Ay, ay, ay!

About this whole blog business: I often don't think about what I will write about before I sit down at my trusty laptop and let loose. Occasionally, I will write myself a note so as not to forget something I want to write about, but even so, sometimes I sit down and just start writing about something completely different. I know, I know, and it shows, right?

Today, I could sit down and blog about Karl Rove or John Roberts, assuming I'd been keeping up with all that, which I haven't, so it wouldn't be very interesting, and I'd just be stumbling along lamely, kind of like this sentence. Or I could snark about Tom Cruise or Jen and Ben or Bradjelina, if I gave a damn about their crazy asses.

But no, my friends (and I do think of you as my friends, or why bother?): today, it's all about my sweet puka shell, Viva.

First, the bad news.

Lately, Viva has embraced being two with gusto. She is not always terrible, but when she is, it is big, as in, "I Am Viva, The Great and Terrible! All must bow before me! The streets shall run red with the blood of the disbelievers! Hear my wrath and tremble!"

Here are some recent situations in which Viva has unleashed her wrath:

1. Out of habit, I pushed the "up" button for the elevator instead.of.letting.her.do.it.

2. While I was doing her hair this morning, I picked up one.tiny.butterfly.clip from the pile amassed in front of her.

3. After she finished using the potty, emptied the contents into the toilet, flushed and put the potty bowl back into the potty, I made the mistake of closing.the.lid.

In each of these situations, my child has morphed into a screaming meemie due to my arrogance. It is, how shall I say, destroying the enamel of my teeth, as I grind them in frustration and try to refrain from strangling her. I know other people have compared living with a toddler to living with a tiny drunk. Having lived with an alcoholic for many of my formative years, I'd like to say that at least Viva does not reek of vodka, although she does often reel around in only a T-shirt and Pull-up, so there is something vaguely familiar about it.

Still, she is so funny, even when she doesn't mean to be.

Sweet William works only ten minutes from home, and quite often, he comes home for lunch -- usually at least 4 days out of 5. Viva and I are generally out and about in the mornings, and usually get home at lunchtime, before Sweet Wills gets home. When we pull into the garage, Viva will look for Sweet Willie's Jeep, even though 9 times out of 10, he gets back after we do. Lately, when we pull into our parking space and Will's car isn't there, she has started doing this thing from an episode of Dora the Explorer. (Bear with me.) In this episode, Dora and Boots find a little blue bird that is lost, and when she cries because she misses her mama, tears squirt copiously out the sides of her eyes and she whimpers, "Peep peep peep," in a sad little voice.

So now, to indicate the depth of her anguish that her father isn't home, Viva screams, "Peep PEEP PEEP!" and will actually start to cry. It is funny and exasperating at the same time. She knows it is ridiculous, because she will start laughing if I laugh. Yes, I laugh when my child starts to cry. Don't you?

Yesterday, she came into the bathroom while I was peeing and clapped her hands. "What a big girl! I'm so proud of you!" she said, beaming. "Thanks," I said, pulling up my pants.

"Mommy? What you have?" she said, coming forward quickly and grabbing at my pants.

"What do I have on my pants?" I said, looking down, bewildered. "Snaps, and a zipper?"

"No, Mommy, what you have? You have Minnie Mouse?" she said, fingering the snaps.

"Minnie Mouse? No, I -- oh, you mean, these," I said, as she unsnapped my pants and pulled them back down. She is a persistent little critter, and that is why I was stuck in the bathroom showing off my Felix the Cat panties to my 2-year-old.

I guess it's only fair. And I have more to add, but I must now go pick up my sweet coconut at school. Toodles!

Cursed Lack of Melanin!

For those of you in the Great Big Internet Out There (hi!) who have never laid eyes on me, I have to tell you that I am rather fair-complected. This, despite the fact that my birth certificate actually identifies me as "Negro". I could go into a whole long explanation of this, but suffice it to say that despite identifying alternately as African-American and mixed-race (whatever that means), I have pretty pale skin. I do tan to a nice golden color, but there are times when (as now) I have applied sunscreen incompletely and the result is, shall we say, unpleasant.

I refer, my friends, to the dreaded sunburn.

I get some sort of sunburn at least a couple of times per year, mainly because I am an incompetent sunscreen applier. I almost always fry some portion of my back that is unreachable. Well, this one is a doozy. It is so bad that Sweet William was actually moved to go to the store and purchase this. Mmm, Lidocaine! Sweet Lidocaine! I almost want to break into song, by which you can tell I am truly delusional with the pain. (I am also shocked to see that the link to this product indicates a sale price of $5.89. Sweet William paid $10.99 for the same product at our local Ralphs. Ouch! I'm not the only one who got burned!)

Viva has been very concerned about my sunburn, and quick to reassure me that her own back is fine. That's because she has skin that is naturally the color of just-baked gingerbread. Mmm, gingerbread. She also has someone to slather her completely in sunscreen. (That would be me, again. Hi!) Since we were at the beach Friday sans Sweet William (who has skin the color of a freshly-baked brownie. Mmm, brownies), I was out of luck. I thought about asking one of the lifeguards to help me out, but then I didn't want to be responsible if someone started to drown and my lifeguard was all preoccupied with the Hawaiian Tropic.

I have to admit that it has always irritated me that my skin is this light, although no doubt it has worked to my advantage in countless ways throughout my life. I guess I would rather piss and moan about a sunburn than get pulled over for driving while black or, worse, get turned away from Hermes. (Oh, Oprah. I feel your pain! Oh, wait, I feel my own. It's this damn sunburn!)

When I was a kid, I used to think that my melanin lay somehow dormant somewhere, and that it would wake up and protect me from the sun if I were exposed for an extended amount of time -- say, stranded on a desert isle somewhere a la Gilligan's Island, The Blue Lagoon, or Lost. But now I know the truth: I would sizzle like bacon in the sun. And to continue with the pork product analogy, I vow here and now, I will not make my skin like unto Hawaiian jerky! Henceforth, I will spray sunscreen liberally down my back before going into the sun, and I will put on a cute cover-up after 30 minutes of sun exposure! This is my vow and my promise.

That is all. Go now, and may the Sun Gods smile mercifully upon you.

Friday Update

...or, What I've Been Up to Instead of Blogging

1. I've been writing! Yes, writing! And if I keep writing as much as I've been writing for the next month or so, I may actually finish my book. At least a first draft. And that would make me so friggin' happy, you can't even imagine. Because regardless of what happens to it after that, at least I will have done the one damn thing I've been trying to do my whole life. I am also in the midst of creative idea mania, so that once I finish this book, I have a variety of other projects to work on.

Here is a quote for you: "Writing is hard. Not writing is harder."

Strange, but true. As far as attribution, I believe Janet Burroway said it, but I am too lazy (and it is too close to the end of Viva's nap) for me to look it up, so you'll have to take my word for it.

2. I've also been reading a lot. And my problem is that I read so fast, I can't keep my "Bookish Blah" sidebar updated, because I'd have to edit it every couple of days. So sorry...just finished Music for Torching, which was horribly good, dark comedy, which I loved right through to the end, when it took a horrendously tragic turn. So not funny. I'm so mad at the author I could spit. Oh, but I just can't be mad at her because she is so enormously talented. Damn her!

3. I've been playing around and doing Viva's hair in different ways. This has been, in a weird way, a creative outlet of sorts. She actually likes to have her hair done, and she likes it if she gets to choose what I do with it. For example, I will give her the option, once I've parted her hair into sections, whether to leave it in Afro-puffs, or take the extra time to do either double-stranded twists or just mini-plaits. She is such a vain little creature that she hardly ever opts for puffs unless we are trying to get out of the house to do something she wants to do -- and even so, she will often decide it's worth it to take the extra ten minutes or so to wait for further embellishment of her coif. Someday I will take pictures of her various hairstyles and post them, but um, not today, mm-kay?

4. I talked to my mom and Grandma. I don't feel that all that much has been resolved. Their point of view seems to be, "Well, yes, we are treating you differently, but you shouldn't feel bad about it." In actuality, this has been kind of liberating, because at least now I know where I stand. Nobody's knocking themselves out for me, so I don't need to knock myself out for them and I don't need to feel guilty about it.

There's more to say, but I realized that as usual, I've gotten carried away writing and Viva has now been asleep 2.5 hours and I need to go wake her up or she won't go to bed until 9:00. Eeps. See youse!

The Cows and Chickens...

...are goin' to the dickens

I love you a bushel and a peck,
You bet your pretty neck I do...

So I bought this CD recently during my trip to Kidspace with Viva, and I know that musical taste is very subjective. Let me state for the record that I hate pretty much almost every kids' CD that has darkened the door of our household.

But this one, I like. Not all the songs, but many. How could you not like a song titled "Bananaphone," particularly when it features a banjo so prominently? So I am listening to this CD a lot, and I like the lyrics to this one particular song, and I actually went ahead and read the liner notes, and I discovered that it's a song from Guys and Dolls. As in, the musical.

Are you aware of my distaste for the musical genre? It's one of those things that I just can't explain to people who love love LOVE musicals, but it's an ongoing problem for me. I find many Disney movies unwatchable for this reason. Well, many Disney movies are unwatchable for a variety of reasons, but the fact that the characters break into song every few minutes? Definitely not a plus for me.

But now, oh my God, I have a showtune stuck in my head. Help! Help!

Reason #88 why we don't need another kid

I was just trying to tidy up in the All Purpose Junk Room -- oh, I mean, the Master Bedroom, and I came across a stack of photos, which I leafed through and quickly put back in their "I'll do something about those later" pile.

Oh, the photos. We have taken scads of pictures and developed them over the past -- oh, I don't know, 6 months or so? And like, they've never made it into the photo album? And um, I haven't scanned any of them or posted them for friends/family to see in -- oh, I don't know, 3 months or so? Add another kid into the equation and just fuhgeddaboutit. It would be a lost cause.

That is all. Over and out.

Time Lost is Brain Lost

So ever since I had my cavities filled last week, I've noticed a lot of sensitivity in my lower left toothal* area. I assumed it was because I had a cavity filled in the molar at the very back of my mouth. But goddamn, it hurt all to hell every time I chewed or ate something cold. So I went back in to see my dentist, Dr. M, today, and he sprayed outrageously cold water into my mouth, in the lower left toothal area, making me cringe and moan (and not in a happy way) and discovered that the tooth in front of the tooth he just filled had a silver filling that was leaking. This filling has been in my mouth for about 500 years and it was my only filling ever until a week ago.

* Yes, I just made that word up. Toothal, adj. "Of or relating to a general area where teeth are found."

Oh my God. So then! He had to remove my existing filling and drill way the hell down into my tooth. He then said, "Hmm. Wow, this is a deep one. Do you want to see?" I indicated that I did, and as he got me a mirror, I said, "Do I have any tooth left?" because that is my way: when things are going badly, I make lame-ass jokes about them.

But upon examination, it looked like he had to practically hollow out my entire tooth. What in hell is happening? Am I 90 years old? Have I never been to the dentist before in my life? Do I not follow a routine of dental hygiene at all? (Okay, so I don't floss after every meal. But how many of us do? Admit it!)

Dr. M then put a temporary filling in and told me to come back in three weeks, because I may have a bigger problem. If all is well in three weeks, he'll just put a permanent filling in. If not (i.e. if the decay is more extensive then he thinks), I'll have to revisit him and possibly have a root canal. A. Root. Canal.

Sounds fun. Isn't that one of those things where, when people are presented with a horrible situation -- like "my girlfriend is pregnant, how am I going to tell my wife?" -- they say "I'd rather have a root canal"? It's unpleasant, is what I'm saying. And painful, is what I'm also saying. And like, I don't frigging want to have one, is what I'm ultimately saying.

Crap.

So, at any rate, after my emergency dental work, I went and picked up sandwiches and then went and picked up Viva from school and went back home and we watched Little Bill and ate. (Note: Viva does "eat lunch" at school, but since she is such a picky eater, we often have a snack at 12:15 when we get home, before nap.) (One more note: I am starting to develop a ridiculous crush on Little Bill's dad. He's fun, he still has a thing for his wife despite having had three kids, and he makes up goofy songs all the time. I'd hang out with him if he would lose the sweater vest.)

Um, have I mentioned that I just had dental work? Again, the Novocaine had not worn off. So I was sitting there, chewing while Little Bill and Bobby went to meet the new neighbors, and one side of my mouth wouldn't work. I went to the mirror to check myself out as I chewed and it looked like I had had a stroke. Naturally, I decided I must blog about it, and naturally, once Viva went down for her nap, I got online and Googled strokes.

According to the American Stroke Association, you should learn all you can about strokes to decrease your risk of having one: "Learn all you can today, time lost is brain lost."

Did the person writing this copy actually have a stroke? Because it appears that they used a comma when a semi-colon, or even, God forbid, a colon was called for.

Yes, I am that tacky. Hello, nice to meet you! Excuse me while I drool on your pants. Have I mentioned that I just had dental work?

At any rate, I've decided that "time lost is brain lost" is my new motto. I'm having T-shirts made. And mugs. Place your orders now!

Isn't it Ironic? Don'tcha think?

So: I have been avoiding talking to my mom and grandma for a couple of months now. I didn't mean to not talk to them this long, but I was mad at them and then once I got over it*, it had been too long. Do you know what I'm saying?

* I am not completely over it, by the by. I mean, I am not as mad at them as I was, but I still have things we need to discuss. What I believe has happened is that I'm pissed off about a larger pattern of behavior and this was the last straw, so now we need to fight about that larger pattern of behavior. I'm not a fighter, so I've been staying away out of fear.

At any rate, I took a deep breath and dialed their number this morning.

It was busy.

Somewhere, God is laughing and laughing at me.

Ah, Phoenix

I haven't yet written about our trip to Phoenix. In truth, I was kind of taken aback by my first Phoenix experience. Forget the heat (my God, the heat!) -- the areas we saw (except for downtown) had me scratching my head about why in hell people would want to live there. Granted, there's a booming housing market, with lots of development of the scary "every house looks alike" variety, and you can buy a house for substantially less than in other major metropolitan markets. And apparently, there's been explosive employment growth over the past few years. And it is huge and spread out, even more so than Los Angeles, apparently, so I am basing my first impression on what is evidently a smidgen of what Phoenix had to offer. But it seemed kind of desolate, dirty and cow-town-ish to me. There was a brown tinge to everything. And don't forget the heat. My God, the heat!

But one of the things I love about it is that according to the city of Phoenix's official website, the residents of Phoenix are called Phoenicians. Kind of ironic (wait, this is a theme today), since the original Phoenicians were a seagoing people historically associated with maritime trading, and Phoenix is, well, in the middle of the desert. Indeed, one might say land-locked. I am a geek, so I love this type of juxtaposition.

I did see my first ever dust devils during this trip. Keep in mind that I was only in town for about eight hours.

Low points of the trip:

Getting dropped off by the Budget Rental shuttle in front of our car rental, which was supposed to be an SUV (since there were 5 of us). Instead, it was this.

Eating at a restaurant/bar in the Phoenix Airport, where they allow smoking in eating establishments. Oh my God, come on!

Bizarro point of the trip:

A rodent (either a small rat or large mouse, it is debatable) got trapped and died in the electrical panel of our new house. Big Mike donned some rubber gloves, removed the rodent, and then came running into the house, swinging it in a plastic bag, doing an Eddie Murphy: "Doo-doo! Gonna put it on you!"

Cool part of the trip:

Realizing we actually owned this house, even though we are probably just going to fix it up and re-sell it rather than renting it out. We friggin' actually own something besides a Jeep Grand Cherokee and thousands of dollars in student loan debt. Pretty sweet.

Trick Question

Quick! What's more fun than trying to toilet train a 2-year-old?

(a) Toilet training a 2-year-old with diarrhea
(b) Realizing said 2-year-old, due to diarrhea, will not be napping today
(c) Sticking a piece of wire through your hand accidentally (well, one would hope accidentally, wouldn't one?)

Well, you've already realized this is a trick question, so I screwed up already. Story of my life.

Ironically, earlier today, I called Sweet William and told him, "We need to have another baby. This one's getting too big."

Well, sweetie, I take it back.

Sweet William and I are off to Phoenix tomorrow (with Diva and Big Mike) to meet the property manager for our house* and, presumably, write many, many checks for things like paintin' and shingle fixin' and all that fun stuff. I am hopeful that I will have many bloggable stories to share upon our return. I promise in advance not to mention the ungodly heat.

* Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you, we closed. We are officially homeowners. Too bad we won't actually be living in the house.

Dear God. Viva is now screaming from her crib, where I am insisting she sits and has "quiet time" for at least half an hour, since she's not taking a nap. I fear she may have to visit her friend Senor Potty once more. The prospect is positively cringe-worthy.

Kiss kiss, ta ta and all that. I'm off to deal with shit.

I can't think of a snazzy title

I am sorry to report that today I went to have two cavities drilled and filled. I have always had very lovely teeth, by which I mean they have always been strong and healthy and I've never had issues with them. I was horrified to learn at my last checkup that I had two cavities and that my dentist, the esteemed Dr M, was also placing a "watch" on one of my upper front teeth! He thinks I may have a cavity developing there but it's hard to tell because it's on the side of one of my front teeth. You know that very small area between your two front teeth? That's where he's been trying to look. I guess he could take an X-ray or something. I am just picturing myself, three years hence, as some toothless old crone gumming my food, while my vibrant, youthful husband eats corn on the cob -- but I guess that's because I have an overactive imagination.

Sweet William hates corn on the cob.

Dr. M also told me that it's common for women to develop cavities after a pregnancy because during the pregnancy (and perhaps due to breastfeeding, post-partum?) you lose calcium. One more thing to hold against my Viva-love.

Anyway, I didn't eat anything before I went to the dentist, because I was preoccupied with getting Viva's hair done (it looks BEYOND cute this morning*) and getting food into her and getting myself dressed and out the door by 8:15. I had two sips of coffee and that's it. Now it's 11:43 and my Novocaine hasn't yet worn off, so I still can't eat. The dental assistant told me to rinse after they finished. Was that some sort of sick joke? I drooled water all down my chin. I am so sexy right now -- who wants a piece of this?

*Viva's hair is parted into small triangles (probably about 10) all over her head, each with a brightly colored ponytailer holding it together, and then twisted into twisties about three inches long. Oh my GOD. For this I need a digital camera. Click here to see a little cutie pie whose hair looks sort of similar (the twists, the twists, people! So cute!)

Revisiting my New Year's, Er, Goals

Hey, remember how I said I don't like to make New's Year's Resolutions, that I prefer to make goals? (I know it all seems just a bunch of semantic bullshit, but if you know me even a little bit, you know I am all about these subtle nuances of language.) I was thinking to myself just now, I need to learn Web design. I am sick of the limitations of other people's templates, etc. and I realized that this is on my list of goals for 2005.

So, here we are, half-way through the year, and I think this is as good a time as any for a self-assessment.

My original goals were:

1. Learn Web design

2. Improve my overall physical, spiritual, and emotional health

3. Have more sex

4. Start freelancing again

5. Overcome my newfound addiction to microwave popcorn

Hmmmm...have not done anything about the first one aside from bookmarking a couple of sites and researching stuff like Typepad and Movable Type. Which means, I guess, that I have actually done something about it, but still have not yet actually taught myself to do it. Seems like I'd better get my ass in gear because no doubt by the time I learn it, it will be outdated.

Health: I have been doing yoga and have seen my doctor to try and take control of my physical well-being. Spiritually, uhh -- I have been praying more and even trying to meditate when I can. These moments are few and far between. I still have not gone to church. Emotionally: I am just as repressed with my family as I always have been. Well, no, I have to give myself some credit and say that I have been a lot more honest with my sister, and a lot more in her face, than previously. Just not doing so well with my mom right now.

Sex: Sweet William was horrified that I wrote that in the first place. "You make it sound like I'm not getting any!" he said. That wasn't my intention at all. Sex is natural, sex is good, we should all have more of it, don't you think? But sadly for you, I am going to respect his privacy and not discuss this here. (But I think I have improved. Tee hee.)

Freelancing: Blech. I did start freelancing again, technically. But I still haven't really gotten off the ground, and I need to.

Popcorn: I've fallen off the wagon a couple of times. It's hard to kick that habit...but at least I haven't replaced it with something worse. I mean, I could be doing heroin, right? Although that's so passe.

So, basically, I have been making small but steady changes in my life, most of which relate to these goals which I had totally forgotten about until I started reading through my blog archives. I have the attention span of a -- wait, what was that?

Kind of Funny, Kind of Sad

Terry McMillan -- whose celebrated romance and subsequent marriage to a man 23 years her junior became the subject of her fictionalized best-seller "How Stella Got Her Groove Back" -- actually got her groove back with a man who now says he's gay.

Oh, yes. Read the story here.

I feel for her, but come on. How amazing is that? (I won't say ironic, although I am quite sure that phrase is being bandied about.) And you can bet your life her next book is going to be something about the brothas on the Down Low. Mm-hmm.

Getting My Groove Back

As for me, I am still sick and worn out. I am sending Viva back to preschool tomorrow and I'm just going to ignore all the phlegm and act like I'm better. What else can I do? I've been taking medicines, trying to take it easy, and plying Viva with whatever I can get into her (and keep into her -- she has this irritating habit of either spitting medicine out or, even better, throwing it up). It helped that Sweet Willie took Viva Night Duty for a few days so I could get some rest. Ain't he a daisy? Viva is getting better, but I feel like I am in some sort of sickness holding pattern. Thoroughly sick of it.

Ha! No pun intended in that last line! Whee, these are the jokes today, folks. Aren't you scared for me?

Whizzing to Number One!

Despite Viva's sickness, she's been a potty training powerhouse. For most of last week, we were averaging one wet diaper a day. She occasionally poops in her Pull-Up* (maybe once a week), but for the most part, she is really good about telling me she has to get to the bathroom. Ironically, she is better about telling me when we are out in public and she has to pee -- I guess at home she gets too caught up in what she's doing and doesn't want to take a break, thus the accidents. But she is also starting to stay dry all night, which is HUGE. HUGE!

My friend M is grossed out by the idea of potty training, particularly the poop aspect of it. I can't imagine why he would feel that way, when it is the most glamorous part of my job. In truth, it is actually not that pleasant to sit next to someone as they plop one out, and to behave as if what they have just done is the Most Amazing Thing in the History of the World. Indeed, more than once I have lit a stick of incense after one of these sessions and congratulated myself on my superlative acting skills.

* Please note that when I Googled "pull-up pamper" it led me to many links to that Fabolous song, "Not Give a Fuck." How darling! Here's a taste:

When I pull up like the pamper brand,
Those in the lambo slants,
With a madame from france,
With a ass so big,
You couldn’t hide it in hammer pants...

I don't make this stuff up. My talents lie in other areas...like drawing, which I've been doing a lot of lately. More on this in my next post. Toodles!

May cause problems sleeping, headaches, or stomach upset

A sprinkling of miscellany today, as I am still mired in the depths of phlegm and my energy level is -2.

With a Woof Woof Here…

Took Viva to the pet store the other day, where we saw the latest in designer dogs, a Puggle pup. A puggle, in case you are interested, is a pug-beagle cross. Here’s a pic:




They’re kind of cute dogs, albeit controversial. It is kind of ridiculous to pay $1,000 for what is, in essence, a mutt. But then, I’ve always been a big fan of going down to the pound or even, God forbid, picking out a puppy from a neighbor’s litter. I'm not all that picky.

And a Woof Woof There…

Speaking of dogs, the mom of the 12-year-old who got killed by the family pit bulls has been arrested.

And all I can say is: what took them so long?

Good Day, Sunshine

In other news, happy birthday to my dear friend, Coolia! To commemorate your birthday in a special special way, I began menstruating this morning. (The rest of you will think it’s gross, but Coolia will totally love that I said that.)

Bop The Man, Part II

Pursuant to my rant yesterday: turns out that despite having paid into this prescription plan for six months, Sweet William’s employer never included us on the roster, so there was no way for either the prescription company or the pharmacist to know that we were covered. Nice.

A little bit of this, a little bit of that

I know what you're thinking.

You're thinking, "Hey! That Mama Blah Blah hasn't blogged in a while. She must be up to something! Hijinks! Shenanigans! Something crazy!"

What is the matter with you?

Fight the Power, Bop the Man

Dude! What is it about The Man? Why he always tryin' to keep me down? Witness:

We lost the Best Health Insurance Ever when Sweet Willie changed jobs a year-and-a-half ago. In fact, the health insurance was so great that they Cobra'd us without charge for an additional year, meaning we didn't have to pay any health insurance premiums at all for all of 2004. So , okay, we led a pretty charmed life, with one insurance card that covered health, dental, vision, and prescription plans. No co-pays. I'm serious, we did not pay a dime for any expenses incurred relating to my pregnancy and delivery of Viva (and believe me, they would have been hefty, what with my ER visits, extra ultrasounds, and all that other stuff).

It was sweet. Now we are in the muck with everyone else. I can't figure out for the life of me how we are supposed to manage all this crap. I finally figured out the dental stuff and now I am actually trying to fill a prescription from my groinocologist (props to Archie Bunker for that fabulous phrase). I've changed birth control methods, if you must know. So I took the prescription to Sav-On Drugs yesterday and the pharmacist on duty was baffled by my insurance card.

"I don't know what to do with this," she said. "It doesn't say anything on here about your co-pay."

"Hmm," I said, brightly. "Well, let me call them and find out what is going on." And then Viva and I went merrily on our way. Well, perhaps not merrily, since we are both hacking and wheezing to beat the band, but that's another story. It involves phlegm, and I don't want to revisit that at this time.

I called Sweet Willie at work to get to the bottom of this. Now, we did receive a packet of information about all our health insurance options, and I read it and filled everything out and gave stuff back to SW to hand it to Human Resources and I thought at one point we had all that stuff on the no-man's land that is our dresser. And yet, it is nowhere to be found. I didn't file it anywhere (which, if you know me, is very odd indeed, because I am completely insane about clutter). So we are flying blind with a lot of this, and for some reason, the Human Resources person won't give SW another packet.

I have to say, I really think this Human Resources person must be some kind of sadist, because now every time we have a question, SW has to go in and ask about it, which must be kind of annoying for the HR person, unless the HR person has some huge crush on my husband, in which case this might all make some sort of sense. But regardless, I don't want the HR person where my husband works to think that he (or I, or both of us) is (are) an idiot(s). Because we actually are both reasonably intelligent people, even though we both graduated from small liberal arts colleges. And Sweet W even has a law degree. They don't just hand those out to anyone.

So I called him at work to figure all this out, and he sighed and said he would talk to HR. And then he called me later and gave me the 911. And get this: our health insurance and our drug prescriptions are two totally separate entities, handled by two totally separate companies. This is a first for me. So Sweet W said all I need is the name of the company and his Social Security number (which I won't post here, even though I trust you all implicitly).

I called the pharmacy back and gave them this information, and the pharmacist said, "What's the group number?" I started to laugh, and so did she, and I said, "You know I don't know that, right?" And she said, "Don't you have the card?" And I said, "No, because that would be too easy." And then I said, "Okay, you know I have to call my husband again and call you back," and she said fine and I hung up and stuck a fork in my eye.

On to Day Two of this ridiculous saga! Sweet Willie goes to work, gets me the group number, calls and leaves it on the voicemail, and then calls me a little while later to tell me the group number he gave me is wrong, so he's bringing the information home with him. In the meantime, the pharmacist has called and left me a message saying they can't fill my precription until I call her back with more info. So I eventually call back (by the way, Viva and I are both sick, so I am not quite on top of things) and the pharmacist on call says she can't find my prescription, but she'll ask the other pharmacist when she gets back from lunch (this is at 3 o'clock, by the way).

Meanwhile, I go online to get duplicate prescription cards mailed to us, as advised by the HR person where Sweet Willie works. And here, my friends, is where I gave up. Let me just cut and paste here what I sent to Sweet Willie via e-mail:

That Website is the most useless piece of crap I have ever come across. At every stage it asks for your member # (which is supposedly your Soc Sec #),and then it tells me that they can't process it with that #. So I look on the site for a phone # to call and it tells me I can't get the specific customer service # for my area without my member #. I found an automated 1-800 # to call and the first thing it asks is for my member #. My head is about to explode from the sheer idiocy of it all. Even the section of the site where I can request membership cards (so I can find out what my member # is)asks me for my damn member #!!!!!

This is totally ridic.

P.S. I sent them a scathing e-mail telling them how horrible their site was and that they need to send me my damn member #. They sent me a lovely e-mail back saying I can expect a reply within 24 hours. I'm glad I didn't just have surgery or something which would require scads of pain medication. I would probably be eating my own head by now.

I think the healthcare system in this country could stand improvement. It's just a birth control prescription. Jesus!

Gratuitous Viva Conversations, or Much Ado about Cuteness

Viva (muttering sleepily): Something something pee pee and poo poo.

Mama Blah: Did you already go, or you need to go?

Viva: Yup.

The Downside to Being a "Stay-at-Home" Mom, or a Simple Equation

Eating three meals a day at home = doing dishes/cleaning up the kitchen three times a day. This is no good. No good, I say!

Michael Jackson: It’s a Rap!

Since we were away, I am behind on my writing, and I promised myself today I was going to devote a big chunk of time to it. So this blog entry is a real quickie, because I couldn’t resist.

No. 1 on David Letterman's Top 10 list of "Things Overheard During the Michael Jackson Verdict" last night: "Another case of a white guy getting preferential treatment."

Michael Jackson’s Website groups his not guilty verdict with such historic events as "Martin Luther King is born," "The Berlin Wall falls," and "Nelson Mandela is freed." NOTE: the site keeps crashing, no doubt from the sheer insane volume of traffic it’s getting today.

And if you really want to show your support for Michael, click here to buy a T-shirt.

Personally, I have to agree with the juror who said Michael may not be guilty of the crimes he is currently charged with (or at least the prosecution didn't make the case that he was), but I don't think he is altogether innocent.

Whatever. Thank God for the end of this particular media spectacle. Isn't there a war going on somewhere? And what's going on with the economy?

Welcome to My Nightmare

I had a horrible dream which resulted in me waking up this morning at 3:45 in the ayem. I dreamed that I discovered Sweet Willie was cheating on me with a friend of ours, and that this had been going on for some time. In the dream, I was screaming and crying and hitting him and then I told him I wanted to break up. [Note that even in my subconscious, I can't use the "d" word.] He said, "Yeah, I figured as much. God, that's gonna cost us 400 bucks an hour."

Naturally, this made me more pissed off, since he seemed to be most worried about how much it was going to cost, and much less worried about the break-up of our happy little family unit.

I woke up completely cramped up from the tension, and had to roll over gingerly and sit up quite slowly. And I haven't been back to bed since.

Now, in all fairness, I know that Sweet Willie would never do that to me. He is, after all, Sweet Willie -- the same fellow who went out and brought me Haagen Dazs yesterday for no apparent reason. We love each other and are pretty happy together most of the time. He told me that my nightmare was groundless and ridiculous.

Weird way to start the day. But cinnamon toast and Swiss Chocolate coffee make it better.

Worst Parent of the Year Award

...does not go to me. Not this year, anyway. No, this year, I nominate Maureen Faibish, the mother of the 12-year-old kid who was killed in his own home by their family pets. She knew the dogs were acting aggressive, so she locked the kid in the basement to protect him, and went off to run errands. What the fuck??? She should be in jail for child endangerment. Why is she not in jail?

I Think We're Alone Now...

I missed the Los Angeles GLBT Pride Festival (also known as the Gay Pride Parade, featuring Deborah "Not Debbie" Gibson and Tiffany) yesterday, but drove past the Tomkat Theatre this morning in hopes of finding an appropriate movie title. One side of the marquee announced "Lust Counseling" was playing, while the other was blocked by an overgrown tree. Hello? How can I know what gay porn is playing if you don't trim the trees? Dude!

Shake, Rattle and Roll

This morning, we were in a little family restaurant in fiendishly hot Rancho Mirage, California. We had just finished breakfast and were about to get on the road to drive back to L.A. Sweet Willie had gone out to the car to grab some ones to tip the waitress, while Viva and I finished up orange juice and coffee, respectively. All of a sudden, the floor started rumbling. Since I am an East Coast urban gal, my first thought was, "That's weird, there's no subway here," followed immediately by, "Oh, crap, it's an earthquake." I grabbed Viva and looked around to gauge whether I should run to the doorway or under the table.

I could hear things falling and crashing in the kitchen. Most people were pretty calm; one woman had crawled under the table in her booth. The only things I was worried about were (a) Sweet Willie was outside, and I was hoping nothing fell on him; and (b) the ceiling fan was almost directly above our table and we may have been in danger of being beheaded if the quake went on for very long.

Thankfully, we came out of it none the worse for wear. You can read the "news" about it here.

Nice end to our little mini-vacation, no?

Gone Fishin'

It will be quiet here at Chez Blah Blah for a few days. Tomorrow, we are leaving for a three-day junket in Palm Springs. Sweet Willie has a work conference, so since we have a free hotel stay, we are lugging our (rapidly growing, increasingly heavy) Viva along to enjoy the luxury resort and spa. I picture her lying back on a chaise by the pool, drinking a lovely frosty drink with a paper umbrella sticking out of it. And then later, enjoying a seaweed wrap after her facial, followed by a Swedish massage. Oh, wait, that's me.

HA! As if. I will be gamely shepherding Viva from the pool to the zoo to the children's museum and back again, like the selfless, kick-ass momma I am.

Happiness is having a large, loving, caring, close-knit family in another city. - George Burns

Oh, where to start? I have not mentioned this most recent family issue because I try to respect the privacy of my family members. However, they provide some of my best material, and there is a situation going on with my grandmother, mother, and sister that has been gnawing at me like a tireless giant rodent for weeks. It has, unfortunately, brought up a lot of stuff that I thought I had buried quite conveniently and deeply in a far corner of my psyche. Apparently, repression is not the happy catch-all solution I have been brought up to believe it is.

At the crux of the issue is this: my family tends to treat me differently than they treat my sister. My theory is that this is it is part of our family culture to do things the hard way. My sister seems to love to choose the hard way, while I have no patience with this and generally say so, despite all the aforementioned repression. One example of this is that my grandmother had the expectation that we would each pack up all our Christmas gifts and come and stay at her house with our kids and husbands on Christmas Eve. This is so we can all wake up together as one big happy family on Christmas Day and share in the joy of the kids opening presents, stockings, etc. To my sister, this is a necessary part of Christmas. To me, it is a huge pain in the ass. I would rather spend Christmas morning in my own home, with my little family, where it takes maybe 30-45 minutes to open our gifts and play with everything in a leisurely fashion, rather than having it be a three-hour extravaganza, at the end of which the kids are exhausted and cranky and are still expected to sit quietly at the grown-up table for an elaborate Christmas brunch.

Oy, I am getting off track. I can't even begin to explain how they push my buttons.

At any rate, I am irate because my grandmother wants to buy a house for her, my mom, and my sister, brother-in-law and their kids to all live in together. By no means do I want the same thing for myself. There is no way that I could live peaceably with my mother and grandmother -- I would be alternately spitting nails and swallowing my tongue, and aside from being a dandy visual, it's not how I want to live my life.

I'm just pissed off that my sister continuously gets help (she gets free childcare from her in-laws and pays them about one-quarter of what we pay in rent, to live in a 2 bedroom house) and no one gives me shit (we have paid for childcare since Viva was 4 months old, and we pay market-value L.A. rent).* There, I said it.

*Also, when my sister had her kids, my mom helped her for the first 3 weeks or so of each kid's life. I was on my own. My mom happened to be in L.A. when Viva was born, so she saw her on the first day of her life. But after that? Despite the fact that she was staying at my sister's, 5 minutes away, for the next several days, she left L.A. and drove home without coming back to the hospital, without coming to my apartment, and damn, I don't even remember getting a phone call. Am I bitter? You better fucking believe it.

I deliberately missed my mom's birthday a couple of weeks ago, and my grandma's birthday is tomorrow. Am I being petty? You tell me. I need a break.

Added to that, Sweet Willie's dad, Not-So-Sweet-Bill, called yesterday to ask to borrow $6,000. It is so outrageous that all I can do is laugh. This is the man who did not attend his daughter's wedding because he did not want to have to contribute financially. He didn't tell her he wasn't coming, either. On the day of, he just did not show up. So Sweet William (who was in high school then) had to give the Diva away. Can you believe that shit?

And there is even more family stuff coming out of Texas (Sweet Willie's mom's side) that I can't get into here. Sweet Jesus, I need a damn vacation.

On a Lighter Note

Must end here, it's almost time to wake Viva up, struggle her into her tutu, and take her to ballet, where she will leap about with enthusiasm and turn my stormclouds into sunshine.

One Hell of a Commute

Hold on to your hats, kiddies, because I have a big announcement to make.

WE ARE IN ESCROW.

Wait, you say, wait! How can this be? Isn't home ownership well out of the range of most first-time, middle-class home-buyers in Los Angeles? In fact, doesn't the current issue of Money state, "In Los Angeles... just 5% of homes sell at prices affordable to a median-income local family"?

Well, yes. We are in escrow on a residence in Arizona, which we plan to rent out. And then sell in a few years. And hopefully make a profit. And eventually, buy our own damn house to live in here in beautiful freak-show Los Angeles.

I still can't believe it. Sweet Willie and the Diva (his sis) and Big Mike (Diva's husbin) and I are indulging in real estate speculation.* Who'd a thunk it?

* "A tongue in cheek definition of speculation is: when I invest in real estate in a rising market, it’s to safeguard my financial well-being and provide for my retirement and my family. When someone else does it, it’s speculation." (Source: "The Role of Speculation in Real Estate Cycles," Stephen Malpezzi and Susan M. Wachter, paper prepared for the July 2002 joint meeting of the American Real Estate and Urban Economics Association and the Asian Real Estate Society.)

Okay, so I'm all cool with the quotes and citations, so I bet you think I'm gonna be all articulate and have something else to say about all this. Well, I don't. What are you, new?

Blah Blah Los Angeles

Favorite Movie Titles on the Marquee at the Tomkat Theater, West Hollywood:

• How the West Was Hung
• A Rim with a View
• Dawson's Crack
• I Know Who You Blew Last Summer
• Drill Bill

I think it goes without saying, but for those of you who don't know the L.A. area all that well, the Tomkat is a gay porn theater, conveniently located on Santa Monica Blvd., mere blocks from my local Whole Foods. So on my way to pick up all kinds of, well, whole foods, I always make a point of checking out the movie titles because, well, it is damn funny, is all. I share with you out of the goodness of my heart.

Love Notes. And Not.

I love Los Angeles. It reinvents itself every two days. - Billy Connolly

Los Angeles is a microcosm of the United States. If L.A. falls, the country falls. - Ice T

I'd move to Los Angeles if New Zealand and Australia were swallowed up by a tidal wave, if there was a bubonic plague in England and if the continent of Africa disappeared from some Martian attack. - Russell Crowe

I love Los Angeles. I love Hollywood. They're beautiful. Everybody's plastic, but I love plastic. I want to be plastic. - Andy Warhol

Until the Sun Comes up over Santa Monica Boulevard

I was reading this book recently, and parts of it are set in Los Angeles, and at one point, the protagonist is thinking about how much she loves Los Angeles and why. And I realize I'm not going to change anybody's mind about it if they already have a strong opinion, but damn, I love living here. I am a Bostonian by birth and spent the first quarter-century of my life there. Boston has its good points, but you could not pay me enough money to move back there.

Why do I love it here so much?

For one thing, for the endless, and soooo random, parade of freaks I come across in my day-to-day meanderings. I know that non-Angelenos inevitably cite all the Beautiful People running about Los Angeles and how annoying that is; every Starbucks/Target/gas station is filled with model/actress wannabes, etc. Also, everyone, and I mean everyone, is working on a script. Fine, I'll grant you that, but that doesn't really interest me, due to the freak show previously mentioned. The whole Beautiful People thing is just mildly amusing to me, something about which I roll my eyes and say fondly, "Oh, L.A.," as if the city is just a mischievous pet of some sort.

As I say, I love the assortment of freaks:

• The Lampshade Lady of Los Feliz, who generally wears a floor-length green dress in all kinds of weather, with a piece of cloth wrapping a lampshade to her head;
• The Walking Man of Silverlake, with skin like scrapple, who speed-walks several miles each day, in shorts and tennis shoes, reading a newspaper and rarely looking up;
• The Turbaned Homeless Lady of Hollywood, who greeted us affectionately with, "Hello, lovely family!" as we were taking a Sunday morning stroll through the Hollywood Media District (aka The Abandoned-on-Weekends-Post-Production Corridor);
• The guy I've seen more than once at bus stops holding a rubber chicken. 'Nuff said;
• Francine of the long flowing white hair, who has her own public access show, but who also travels the streets of Hollywood in a wheelchair...and sometimes rides her bicycle. Why does she need a wheelchair if she can ride a bicycle? You tell me.
• Also, more pissed-off clowns, in a variety of settings, than one person should see in a lifetime. You don't want to mess with a pissed-off clown.

Then, there's also the weather. I was born in the summer and have never been a cold-weather person. I hate the cold. I hate the snow. I do love big snuggly sweaters and scarves and stuff like that, but I would much rather be slumming along in my flip-flops in January. I love being able to go to the beach when you'd least expect it, like on Valentine's Day, when there's a freak* heatwave and it's 85 degrees.

* There's that word again. I am a freak for the word "freak"! Can't get enough of it. It's like heroin to me.

I also love (here it comes, that horrible buzzword) the diversity of Los Angeles. I love the sheer variety of people you run into here. It is not a homegeneous place by any means. Coming from a place where life was difficult if you could not be pigeonholed ethnically, I love the fact that most people here could really give less than a shit if I am not of the same ethnic or racial background they are. Vive le difference! is what they'd say if they all spoke French. (Of course, I don't speak French, so I'm quite sure that phrase is supposed to have some accent or other. Perdon.)

And I love the friendliness and hopefulness of Los Angeles, the sense that anything could happen here. Maybe other folks don't get that vibe, but those folks can write their own damn blog.

I leave you with a scene from L.A. Story:

Sara: Roland thinks L.A. is a place for the brain-dead. He says, if you turned off the sprinklers, it would turn into a desert. But I think - I don't know, it's not what I expected. It's a place where they've taken a desert and turned it into their dreams. I've seen a lot of L.A. and I think it's also a place of secrets: secret houses, secret lives, secret pleasures. And no one is looking to the outside for verification that what they're doing is all right. So what do you say, Roland?

Roland: I still say it's a place for the brain-dead.