So let me tell you about dogs. They give lots of kisses (unfortunately, they don't mind licking inside your mouth) and fall asleep in your lap. They prance on walks around town and balance on their hind legs for treats (yum, Beggin' Strips). They like to hump their pillow, even though they are a neutered female. They jump into empty laundry baskets and scale couches in a single bound. They are excellent walkers and like to watch all the same shows as you (even the surprisingly risque Hope and Faith).
Tanya is the best dog in the world. Her nicknames thus far are "Momma" and "Wild Dingo Baby." She is lovey and snuggly and has excellent manners. She hardly ever barks. She had a puppy about four months ago and the shelter we adopted her from told us that she was a really good mother. The aforementioned shelter found her pregnant and ill and about to be euthanized at a different shelter, so they resuced her (they are a no-kill, private shelter). They gave her a place to crash, nursed her back to health, and then, helped her raise her surviving pup. I knew the minute that I heard this story that she was coming home with me. This was several hours before meeting her, but I just knew. My attachment was instantaneous -- so odd, but in a way, not.
Some of you may not know this, but Russ and I had another dog two years ago named Bearden. We call him "the brute" or sometimes, "the lug." That's because he was a chocolate Lab and didn't so much walk as destroy everything in his path. We had to get two different photo albums because of his inquisitive teeth. I never bonded with him as much as just felt pissed off every time he woke up because it meant I had to take him to dog park again. He needed a lot of space to roam and our 710 sq. ft. backhouse (in among oaks) just wasn't cutting the mustard. So we found him nice, new owners in Fallbrook, home of rolling avocado orchards and mid-life retirees. Bearden is huge and shiny and still a little unwieldy, but very, very happy with his new owners. Last time they wrote, Bearden was learning how to skateboard. I know, it's so Californian. We can't help ourselves.
Friday, December 30, 2005
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Wallin Wightman Christmas/End-of-the-Year Newsletter: Year 4 (2005)
This is our first Christmas/End-of-the-Year newsletter. Yes, we know, we wrote that it’s our fourth year, but for any of you who read that and thought “Those jerks, I never got a year 1, 2, or 3,” no worries. There was no year 1, 2, or 3 except in the back of our minds, which we banished to the mental equivalent of Death Valley and tried to forget. But you can’t fight December forever, and thus, you are now reading the first official Wallin Wightman newsletter.
So this is usually the space where people write what they’ve been doing all year and all their many achievements. But we don’t have all that many achievements. We just barely do the dishes these days and all the corners in our house are covered with cobwebs. We clean up when our friends come over, which is why if you’ve been over lately, you’re probably thinking, “But your house looked great!” Other people’s judgment on our living space is the only motivating factor for cleaning up these days.
Russell: This is my portion of the first annual, annual Wallin Wightman Christmas/End of the Year, Fourth edition, first in-print newsletter. In this section you will:
• Discover the fun of juror’s prudence
• Craft a Christmas tree out of a paper plate and elbow macaroni
• Learn how to escape from prison using an empty milk carton, bubble gum, and two-sided duct tape
This past year, I started Graduate School at California Polytechnic University for Landscape Architecture. The program will take three years of school and two years of work for a licensed landscape architect. After all of that is finished, I can then take my licensing exam.
I began classes this past summer. My landscape awareness class went on a field trip of Yosemite and California’s Central Valley. We then went into Sacramento and met with the capital’s architect in residence. The idea was that we would learn about water (or lack-there-of in California) and how cities get it and use it. You can see me in the picture taken at Big Trees. As you can see, that’s one big-A tree.
My class also took a field trip to Arizona in the fall. We studied how people live and used the resources they have in various conditions. Apparently, Arizona is the place to learn about those things. On that note, the trip took us to Palo Soleri’s Arcosanti: an experimental city in the high desert. That is some crazy stuff. Google it some time. You won’t be disappointed.
Overall, I’m having a great year. My classmates inspire me to do great things. They challenge me to think about why I’m doing this whole landscape architecture thing. Group work is a big part of my studies and with that, it seems like all my flaws are thrown out there for everyone to see and, in some cases, experience.
My program is invigorating and exhausting, challenging and uncomplicated. It’s all it’s supposed to be when I’m both depressed and excited to be on break.
Sarah: This is my personal portion of the first annual year four Wallin Wightman Christmas/End-of-the-Year Newsletter. In this section, you will:
• Find out where the phrase “You done good” originated
• Discover how lame the world of online blogging is
• Learn just where Russell’s fifth finger is hidden in our house
• Start your own democracy, based on the iPod revolution
This year, I finished my first year of my M.F.A. program and started my second. Just for those of you who still might be a little hazy on the details, the M.F.A. is not just a master’s degree, but the master’s degree for the arts, including (but not limited to) painting, dance, and yes, creative writing. It’s a terminal degree and the same amount of units/hours as a doctorate. But that doesn’t necessarily mean that I’m going to get a book deal when I graduate, like a business MBA might get a six-figure job offer after graduation. Like all creative degrees, it doesn’t really get you anywhere fiscally, just raises your cool factor in academic circles.
I love my program and the people in it. They’ve not only helped make me more aware of my writing, but helped me become more comfotable in my own skin, in my own voice. They also make me laugh, which is invaluable in the sometimes-humorless days of reading and writing and feeling like nothing that comes out is original or witty.
Right now, I’m about 1/3 of the way done on my third novel, tentatively titled The Ocean Below. This means I’m at about 150 pages and have 200 more to go. It’s going well and I’m having fun writing it – I plan on finishing or getting close to finishing it over January, which is my month long break from school. In short, the novel is about a marine biologist who loses her father and must fly to help out with the funeral and then, confront a secret she shared with him that has been haunting her since she was in high school. Every short synopsis sounds so Danielle Steele, but I swear, it’s much better than Danielle Steele. My book would never hold up to grocery store checkout lane standards.
Okay, enough long winded paragraphs of blah blah blah. Here is our year in review, bullet style:
• Celebrated New Year’s Eve/Day with Christina at Lucky Baldwin’s and the Rose Parade
• Visited the San Juan Capistrano Mission and ate at the Ramos House, once together, once with the whole Wightman clan
• Planted, plucked, trimmed, and watered our garden, designed by Russ
• Celebrated Todd’s birthday and many talents
• Led Westminster’s youth groups, which included leading some very corny games
• Got hennaed for Josh and Elizabeth’s Engagment Party, thrown by Christina (shown: Elizabeth's foot)
• Was present (Sarah, along with Kristan) when underwear was found in a Long Beach library bookcase by Jeremy
• Partied with Russ on his actual 28th birthday at a mini-golf course and at his party at Café Mundial with good friends who took the infamous “Russ Quiz”
• Read some great books, watched some great movies: too many to list, but write us if you want some receommendations.
• Cheered when Danielle graduated from Claremont Graduate University
• (Sarah) Danced a little with Elizabeth at her Bachlorette Bash
• After a rockin’ Easter service (thank you, Imre), dined on lamb and mint sauce at Christina’s annual Easter luncheon
• Spent way too much time on Ebay
• (Russ) Went on two road trips with classmates
• Had a blast when our niece Beyonce came to stay for a weekend
• Blogged some
• Went hiking and saw/photographed a huge, fascinating, potentially-harmful Tarantula Hawk
• (Russ) Slid down the slippery rocks in Tuolumne Meadows River
• Went wine tasting in Pasadena then to Taos, New Mexico for Christina’s 30th birthday
• (Sarah) Cut head while river rafting in the Rio Grande Gorge in Taos
• Celebrated my birthday at a campground in San Onofre
• Said goodbye to the 350 year-old oak tree that shaded our house
• Was totally unrecognizable as Edie Sedgwick (muse of Andy Warhol) on Halloween/Day of the Dead with Long Beach friends
• (Sarah) Went camping at Leo Carillo with Christina, Emilio, and Josh; went camping together at Malibu Creek State Park
• Rejoiced in the birth of Lucille Scout Jarot, first daughter of dear friends Diana and Chris
• Listened to the parrots squalling outside my house every morning as they ate the persimmons off the tree in our backyard
• Took lots of photos of ourselves that didn’t turn out well, worked on our imitations of famous people, laughed so hard we cried, and generally enjoyed all of our time together.
Sarah: Christmas is a beautiful time of year and for me, a time of reflection and renewal. My favorite Christmas carol is the song “O Come, O Come Emmanuel.” I always get a little teary while singing it because I think it captures the spirit of Christmas and what it means so perfectly. Namely that we are all waiting, full of hope, but also, full of despair about the way the world is so fubar. But according to the chorus, we can rejoice because there’s hope for all of us (crazies that we are!) – our hope is realized by doing our best to make this world a place full of love, of communion, of reconciliation, of peace, and of grace.
Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!
Love,
Russell and Sarah
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
The Family Stone
Just spent the afternoon at the movie theater with Christina watching the Family Stone. We both wept. It was a great movie, especially if you happen to have real, slightly dysfunctional and/or overfunctioning, non-perfect family members in your life.
If not, you'll probably want to skip this one and go see something fantastical.
If not, you'll probably want to skip this one and go see something fantastical.
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
Bumps in the Night
I felt another earthquake last night. It was while I was in bed, doing cryptograms. Everything began to vibrate. I thought I was going crazy, because I've been feeling quite a few small shakers over the last two weeks, but when I mentioned it to Christina, she affirmed that I was in fact not going crazy because she'd been feeling them, too. It made me wonder what would happen if there was an earthquake in the middle of the night. It'd be good because a lot of people wouldn't be on the road when the freeways melt into dust. On the other hand, we'd all be screaming and running around in our pajamas wondering if it was just a dream, so we might not make full efforts, thinking, "Ahh, well, we'll all wake up from this."
I had a bizarre dream last night. I dreamed that I was hanging out with a few girls I knew - Jessie Conklin was in there and this girl from Russell's program that I've never met, Haley - plus Jessica Simpson. We were also hanging out with three Australian guys - one of whom was a merging of Jon Stewart, Dermot Mulroney, and Russell (hmmm) - and Nick Lachey. We were in some sort of dormitory, I think at some kind of school because I remember a bunch of us visited a professor's office in the middle of the dream. Everything in this cozy little school/hotel was fine until Paris Hilton and her sister showed up. They were great with cut downs. Everyone hated them. Unfortunately, their presence also ignited fury in Nick Lachey, who turned out to be an evil, butcher knife wielding spawn of Satan. He was seriously Satan's child. When he ran somewhere, he left a trail of fire behind him. So he had to kill all of us and started off with poor Haley. Then it was on to Jessica and I think he must've gotten to her because in the final scenes of my dream, she was nowhere to be found. A lot of the dream involved the group of girls and guys running around and trying to avoid Nick's butcher knife of terror.
But then, the dream took a weird, fascinating turn. When Nick was about to slice off the head of Jessie, his knife wouldn't cut anymore. He was sawing at Jessie's neck and nothng was happening. Instead - or perhaps because of this - he fell in love with Jessie. The last time I saw them in my dream, they were sitting at a bar drinking cocktails. I, of course, fell in love with the JS-DM-GRW character who wanted me to move to Austraila with him. He confessed his love for me when we were clinging to the top of a flagpole, hiding from Satan Nick. At the very end of the dream, I was going with him and in the Quantas terminal at LAX, you didn't ride up escalators, you surfed them. If you didn't catch a metal wave, you had to use the steps. I caught the wave.
Feel free to analyze my craziness.
I had a bizarre dream last night. I dreamed that I was hanging out with a few girls I knew - Jessie Conklin was in there and this girl from Russell's program that I've never met, Haley - plus Jessica Simpson. We were also hanging out with three Australian guys - one of whom was a merging of Jon Stewart, Dermot Mulroney, and Russell (hmmm) - and Nick Lachey. We were in some sort of dormitory, I think at some kind of school because I remember a bunch of us visited a professor's office in the middle of the dream. Everything in this cozy little school/hotel was fine until Paris Hilton and her sister showed up. They were great with cut downs. Everyone hated them. Unfortunately, their presence also ignited fury in Nick Lachey, who turned out to be an evil, butcher knife wielding spawn of Satan. He was seriously Satan's child. When he ran somewhere, he left a trail of fire behind him. So he had to kill all of us and started off with poor Haley. Then it was on to Jessica and I think he must've gotten to her because in the final scenes of my dream, she was nowhere to be found. A lot of the dream involved the group of girls and guys running around and trying to avoid Nick's butcher knife of terror.
But then, the dream took a weird, fascinating turn. When Nick was about to slice off the head of Jessie, his knife wouldn't cut anymore. He was sawing at Jessie's neck and nothng was happening. Instead - or perhaps because of this - he fell in love with Jessie. The last time I saw them in my dream, they were sitting at a bar drinking cocktails. I, of course, fell in love with the JS-DM-GRW character who wanted me to move to Austraila with him. He confessed his love for me when we were clinging to the top of a flagpole, hiding from Satan Nick. At the very end of the dream, I was going with him and in the Quantas terminal at LAX, you didn't ride up escalators, you surfed them. If you didn't catch a metal wave, you had to use the steps. I caught the wave.
Feel free to analyze my craziness.
Monday, December 19, 2005
Shorts in December
Christmas shopping is tiring. I love the walking around, the Salvation Army bell ringers, and the looking at the many items in the many stores, but what I don't like is the choosing of the many items. I spent all day wandering nomadically around on Colorado Blvd. I knew I was looking for something -- just what that was, I had no idea.
I decided that I wanted to buy Russell a nice scarf for Christmas. But this was before I actually went shopping and found out that most all menswear is ugly and without style. Even me, with my horrible hemming, could probably make a million just designing decent men's scarves. Perhaps that will be my side project as I continue working on my novel this January. As a writer, a million dollars may come in handy when writer's block strikes.
I am much cooler than I ever thought, although I'm constantly posting things on this site that throws that statement into question. When I was reading through my Sunset Magazine this weekend, I noticed that they featured Garden Grove and Brodard, the Vietnamese restaurant I ate at last week. Then they did a full spread on hanging out in Sedona, where Russ and I will be hanging out with his parents during our Golden-Brown Christmas in Arizona. So I'm ahead of the cool curve according to Sunset Magazine. This makes me less cool-cool and more like March of the Penguins-cool. Endearing and education, but a little corny.
Today while shopping at Vroman's, I saw a friend from college, Jessie Conklin, who I hadn't seen since we were in Israel five years ago. She's the kind of hilarious that makes you snort Pepsi out your nose. In a few hurried moments (she caught me at the cash register), I found out she's banding around the greater L.A. area with Bodies of Water (http://www.bodiesofwater.net). It was nice to see someone with whom I actually wanted to catch up. Generally when I see random people from college, I get that sour taste in my mouth, like when you throw up a little after drinking too much orange juice.
I decided that I wanted to buy Russell a nice scarf for Christmas. But this was before I actually went shopping and found out that most all menswear is ugly and without style. Even me, with my horrible hemming, could probably make a million just designing decent men's scarves. Perhaps that will be my side project as I continue working on my novel this January. As a writer, a million dollars may come in handy when writer's block strikes.
I am much cooler than I ever thought, although I'm constantly posting things on this site that throws that statement into question. When I was reading through my Sunset Magazine this weekend, I noticed that they featured Garden Grove and Brodard, the Vietnamese restaurant I ate at last week. Then they did a full spread on hanging out in Sedona, where Russ and I will be hanging out with his parents during our Golden-Brown Christmas in Arizona. So I'm ahead of the cool curve according to Sunset Magazine. This makes me less cool-cool and more like March of the Penguins-cool. Endearing and education, but a little corny.
Today while shopping at Vroman's, I saw a friend from college, Jessie Conklin, who I hadn't seen since we were in Israel five years ago. She's the kind of hilarious that makes you snort Pepsi out your nose. In a few hurried moments (she caught me at the cash register), I found out she's banding around the greater L.A. area with Bodies of Water (http://www.bodiesofwater.net). It was nice to see someone with whom I actually wanted to catch up. Generally when I see random people from college, I get that sour taste in my mouth, like when you throw up a little after drinking too much orange juice.
Friday, December 16, 2005
Bio-Mutation
I strongly believe that there is something in my biological makeup, no wait, my very DNA, that necessitates the watching of at least one total crap TV show regularly. It's something that I've fought up until recently and then, with the advent of grad school and the heavy procrastinatory behaviors that come with it, I've given in.
This summer, it was the show Ambush Makeover (until it was cancelled in favor of "Tyra!"), a cheesy grab-someone-off-the-street-and-give-them-a-quick-fix. Then it was a few -- okay more -- episodes of America's Next Top Model. I consider that research for discussions on postmodern reality TV and feminism. Yeah, that sounds good. Right now, ever since finals week started, I have been watching (gulp) Kelly and Regis. I know, I know. I'm pathetic. But as Dr. May always says in his wonderful Kentucky accent, "You know it's just a bunch of crap, but you can't resist it." (He is usually talking about T.C. Boyle, but still, it applies.)
The worst part is that I somehow have influenced Russ's DNA as well to watch these same terrible shows. So I'm not just dangerous -- I'm contagious.
This summer, it was the show Ambush Makeover (until it was cancelled in favor of "Tyra!"), a cheesy grab-someone-off-the-street-and-give-them-a-quick-fix. Then it was a few -- okay more -- episodes of America's Next Top Model. I consider that research for discussions on postmodern reality TV and feminism. Yeah, that sounds good. Right now, ever since finals week started, I have been watching (gulp) Kelly and Regis. I know, I know. I'm pathetic. But as Dr. May always says in his wonderful Kentucky accent, "You know it's just a bunch of crap, but you can't resist it." (He is usually talking about T.C. Boyle, but still, it applies.)
The worst part is that I somehow have influenced Russ's DNA as well to watch these same terrible shows. So I'm not just dangerous -- I'm contagious.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Such Great Heights
Now that I have taught my last class, finished most of my reading, dotted the i's and crossed the t's, I am feeling back to my usual heights of blogging genius. I have a new blogging space, lots-o-time, and a space heater to keep my fingers from freezing in typing position over the keyboard. I will once again spend my days watching Club 314 1/2, a.k.a. the alley outside our house, the hottest spot for limbless alley cats in heat, illegal Hispanic teenagers smoking weed, and the weird man who sits in his dark garage on a riding lawn mower, to get their respective grooves on.
Speaking of new heights, I had my first sampling of Vietnamese food today in Garden Grove and it was, in the words of the boba shop we got drinks at afterwards, "tast-tea." Spring rolls with crunchy pork, a clear vermicelli packed with pork, carrots, cabbage, and crushed walnuts, and sweet potatoes fried with shrimp and a yummy dipping sauce. Why have I lived this long without grubbing on Vietnamese food? Oh yeah -- I grew up in Aurora, Illinois, not only home of Wayne and Garth, but such local delicacies as "the slider" from White Castle. I didn't know any Asians, unless you count my doctor, Dr. Hao, a nice guy and doctor whom I was nevertheless mortified to have examine me by the time junior high rolled around. What thirteen year-old girl wants their male doctor (of any ethnicity) to check and make sure that she's developing? I don't know that I've ever been more embarassed than by that visit to Dr. Hao, unless you count the time that I mentioned I had diarrhea in a microphone at an all-school assembly, followed by an utter all-school silence.
Speaking of new heights, I had my first sampling of Vietnamese food today in Garden Grove and it was, in the words of the boba shop we got drinks at afterwards, "tast-tea." Spring rolls with crunchy pork, a clear vermicelli packed with pork, carrots, cabbage, and crushed walnuts, and sweet potatoes fried with shrimp and a yummy dipping sauce. Why have I lived this long without grubbing on Vietnamese food? Oh yeah -- I grew up in Aurora, Illinois, not only home of Wayne and Garth, but such local delicacies as "the slider" from White Castle. I didn't know any Asians, unless you count my doctor, Dr. Hao, a nice guy and doctor whom I was nevertheless mortified to have examine me by the time junior high rolled around. What thirteen year-old girl wants their male doctor (of any ethnicity) to check and make sure that she's developing? I don't know that I've ever been more embarassed than by that visit to Dr. Hao, unless you count the time that I mentioned I had diarrhea in a microphone at an all-school assembly, followed by an utter all-school silence.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Dog-Gone
Russell and I found a great little dog, a friendly, tail-wagging, cute-faced chihauhau at the Pasadena Humane Society. Unfortunately, when we went today - after being told this morning that there was no waiting list to adopt - we found out that we were two hours too late. Damn.
But in good news, I found the most beautiful pair of Lulu Guinnesss wedges on Ebay and ended up winning them. They came in the mail today and woo-hoo -- instant fierceness, as Kristan would say.
But in good news, I found the most beautiful pair of Lulu Guinnesss wedges on Ebay and ended up winning them. They came in the mail today and woo-hoo -- instant fierceness, as Kristan would say.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
More on the Isle of Wight
Kristan has requested that I write more about the offending Isle of Wight t-shirt AND include photo documention. I will do so now.
The Isle of Wight t-shirt has a long history of offense. As you can see, it's very old. The embroidered steering wheels and sailing ships have definitely faded since I first encountered it. I believe the story goes something like this: Russ got it somewhere in England. It was either a gift from a friend or he saw it, and since it basically shows that there's an island named after his family line, he bought it. Or he jumped for joy when he opened it (if we're going with the friend-gift-theory). It is the t-shirt of his isle dreams.
I've never liked the shirt. It reminds me of the shirts that my grandma Adra wears. She's an 80-something woman, so she's allowed a little embroidery, a little froo-froo scripting of places she's visited via t-shirt. Plus, she can barely see anymore, so we're all really sympathetic when she shows up with mismatched cardigan buttoning and too-short stretch pants.
He didn't love it until I told him I thought it was aesthetically offensive. My feelings, of course, have made it Russ' favorite shirt. Now when he puts it on - which, I'll admit, is less than he used to - he struts around the house. I swear. It's at least a swagger.
Russ and I have had the Isle of Wight discussion many times. It goes something like this:
Me (playing it cool, unconcerned): "When are you going to get rid of that shirt?"
Russ (grinning): "Oh, never, I think. It's a great shirt."
Me: "No it's not. You just say that because you know I hate it."
Russ: "It's my favorite shirt. Plus, it's got my name on it. Your last name, too, ha ha."
Me: "My last name is hyphenated."
Russ: "Actually, it's a spaced double, so technically, Wightman is the last of your last names."
Me: "The shirt is ugly."
Russ: "No, it's not."
Me (losing my cool): "Get rid of the fucking shirt, Russ."
Russ (still grinning): "You know -- I think I'm going to wear it out tonight."
The Isle of Wight t-shirt has a long history of offense. As you can see, it's very old. The embroidered steering wheels and sailing ships have definitely faded since I first encountered it. I believe the story goes something like this: Russ got it somewhere in England. It was either a gift from a friend or he saw it, and since it basically shows that there's an island named after his family line, he bought it. Or he jumped for joy when he opened it (if we're going with the friend-gift-theory). It is the t-shirt of his isle dreams.
I've never liked the shirt. It reminds me of the shirts that my grandma Adra wears. She's an 80-something woman, so she's allowed a little embroidery, a little froo-froo scripting of places she's visited via t-shirt. Plus, she can barely see anymore, so we're all really sympathetic when she shows up with mismatched cardigan buttoning and too-short stretch pants.
He didn't love it until I told him I thought it was aesthetically offensive. My feelings, of course, have made it Russ' favorite shirt. Now when he puts it on - which, I'll admit, is less than he used to - he struts around the house. I swear. It's at least a swagger.
Russ and I have had the Isle of Wight discussion many times. It goes something like this:
Me (playing it cool, unconcerned): "When are you going to get rid of that shirt?"
Russ (grinning): "Oh, never, I think. It's a great shirt."
Me: "No it's not. You just say that because you know I hate it."
Russ: "It's my favorite shirt. Plus, it's got my name on it. Your last name, too, ha ha."
Me: "My last name is hyphenated."
Russ: "Actually, it's a spaced double, so technically, Wightman is the last of your last names."
Me: "The shirt is ugly."
Russ: "No, it's not."
Me (losing my cool): "Get rid of the fucking shirt, Russ."
Russ (still grinning): "You know -- I think I'm going to wear it out tonight."
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
And that's final
It always happens around the end of the semester -- just when it becomes imperative that I get all my work done in a timely manner, I just want to sit around and play on Ebay or clip my toenails. I want to spend time fiding errant eyebrow hairs. I yearn to organize Russ's messy dresser and secretly hide away that nasty "Isle of Wight" shirt in an undisclosed location. I want to apply for jobs online that I'm neither qualified for nor want, just to see what happens. I find myself fighting the urge to clean the refrigerator and read In Style. I'm dying to run outside and check up on the praying mantis egg in our garden, to see if it's still unhatched.
In other words, I'm up for pretty much anything that keeps me away from doing what I actually need to do.
In other words, I'm up for pretty much anything that keeps me away from doing what I actually need to do.
Thursday, October 13, 2005
My real blog
Here are my blogs from September to December:
11/29/05
Oprah
On my way home from school, along the 605 freeway, I pass an Oprah show billboard. The thing about it is that it changes everyday to tell the theme of Oprah's next show. The woman really does have that much money. Let me paint you a picture: There is a prominent, smiling Oprah (with "Oprah" scribbled across her chest, as if we don't know who she is) right next to the day's theme in huge white lettering.
Anyway, this week, I've been haw-haw-ing more than usual because of these themes. I will present them as I read them while driving along.
Sunday. Oprah - Addicted to Meth.
Monday. Oprah - Jaime Foxx. (Not as funny.)
Tuesday. Oprah - Addicted to Porn.
Thanks for the laughs, Oprah.
11/28/05
Distraction
There are two things distracting me at the present moment:
1. Lost on DVD.
I have it on at all times. But I've discovered it is possible to read, write, and follow the twists and turns of life on a deserted island. Like when a character that I'm not really interested in comes on -- say, Boone -- then I try and get one paragraph done.
A lot of the viewing experience is me looking up in time to see a polar bear being shot or a bloody hand and saying to Russ, "What just happened? What'd she say?" This causes us both to miss the next five-ten lines of the show. We rewind quite often.
2. The schizophrenic weather of Los Angeles.
A few days ago, I was wearing a tank top with the air conditioning blasting inside my car. Now, I am huddled up inside a blanket, trying to decide if I can risk exposing my purple feet in order to grab the ugliest space heater in the world out of our studio. It's probably ten feet away, but those would be ten very cold feet. I don't think it's worth it.
I could turn on the real heater, but that would involve moving potted plants and books and framed pictures and frankly, I just don't have that kind of time.
I turned on the oven for about an hour and that seemed to help a little.
11/23/05
A Very Californian Thanksgiving
While driving today, I turned on my air conditioning. It was really that hot.
11/20/05
Arrested Development
My favorite show, a.k.a. the only reason for turning on the TV on Monday nights, is again in danger of being cancelled.
The thing that really burns me is that there will be no episodes for the rest of the year because of Prison Break. Pri-son Break. Come on now. I don't know why people watch these lame dramas over a show that's both funny and insightful.
Why aren't you watching this show yet?
11/19/05
When Knees Collide
Russ has been hobbling around since our annual Crew v. Outrigger football game earlier today.
This game is a three year old rivalry between the Crew (40-60 year olds) and the Outriggers (20-40), with some teenagers thrown in for stamina. This seems like it might be no contest, but let me tell you, the Crew guys have no hesitation about throwing their bodies to the ground to make the play. And sometimes us Outriggers are not such players. We still laugh about last year's game when Skye called for the ball to be thrown to her and as it was spiraling toward her, screamed and ran away.
Everyone was teasing me about my flag-retrieval methods -- apparently, I grab them with style. I believe the word used at the game was "frouffy."
We celebrate Thanksgiving together afterwards, eating and drinking away our pain and humiliation.
This is supposed to be flag football, but always ends up being much more physical. Which brings me to Russ.
Last night, we were watching an episode of Lost on DVD and Russ was moaning about his knee.
"What did you do?" I asked him.
"Oh, I don't know."
But I knew. I saw it with my own eyes. Russ and I were put on opposite teams and I was guarding him. He taunted me with winners such as, "Your mama wears pink underwear." He was so busy taunting me that at the count of two-Mississippi, he didn't realize that Craig "Wheels" Powlen was running toward him with the ball. When he did, he flung himself at Craig in an attempt to grab the flag, but he totally missed and hit the ground hard, knee first. He laid there on the ground, laughing for a minute, and then I - excellent sport that I am - helped him up.
"I'm sore," he groaned. "I'm getting old."
"That's why we play flag football," I said. "Because competitive old guys like you hurt yourselves when we don't."
11/18/05
How I Google
I love this:
My mom, who has only recently embarked on this whole email-internet thing, wrote me an email a few weeks ago in which she said, "I read your google - it's great and fun to read."
Blog, google - who can keep track these days?
11/15/05
The Taste of Country
I was clicking around just now, looking for something to watch. When I got to UPN, there was a woman standing in a gigantic American Gladiators cage made of (fake) diamonds.
"What is this?" I ask.
"It's the country music awards, I think," Russ says. "They're supposed to be on tonight."
As soon as the woman gets out of the cage, flanked by hunky African-American dancers, we know it's not the country music awards.
So I flip stations. When I get to CBS, there's that guy with the cowboy hat singing. Lots of fiddles and fire. We watch for about three seconds.
"This is the country music awards," I say.
"Yeah," he replies. "I thought I tasted bile in my mouth."
11/15/05
Rituals
Tuesdays are always a day for celebration. It's the day I get my Newsweek, which I then curl up with for a half hour and read cover to cover. It's a nerdy ritual and I refuse to deny it.
I was excited to see that the movie section did a whole spread about Brokeback Mountain, one of my favorite short stories, about to be released as a movie. I've heard that the movie is as heartbreaking as the short story, which is no small thing. There was also a short blurb on the new Harry Potter movie, which the movie theater two blocks away is already advertising. There's a midnight showing tomorrow night and I'll admit that I'm tempted. Mighty tempted. I would dress up as Rita Skeeter.
But, nerd fantasies aside, I was dismayed when I read an article about The Chronicles of Narnia, one of my favorite series from childhood and adulthood. I mean, I recently reread the series and they're still so fantastic, so other worldly. I always say, "Okay, I'm going to read the series over a few months." But I never do -- I get sucked into the series and proceed to stay up late and get up early to finish the series in a few days.
The dismayed part comes in when I see that they're touting this new movie ("The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe") as some sort of sequel to the Passion of the Christ. As a "Christian" movie.
Now I'm the first to admit that Lewis wrote these with allegory in mind, but according to him, he also wrote them to delight and intrigue young children. He loved kids. He loved telling stories. He loved God, but I think he would say the whole allegory thing is optional. Or since he was British and more polite, "for those so inclined."
I get so steamed when I get the feeling that the Christian right of America is going to hijack something fantastic and meaningful from my childhood and turn it into some barfy version of the gospel message. As if they haven't already done enough of this kind of hijacking. As a Christian myself, I think I should know.
11/14/05
Pardonnez mon francais
The terrible protests in France last week brought out my inner Parisian. I felt the need for solidarity. With little to do in the way of help, I decided that I would have a "dress like a Parisian" day. I, unlike so many of my fellow Americans, have a love affair with France. I would kiss the tips of my fingers right now, if you could see me.
I have no beret (though I'd like one beaucoup), but I thought, "Nothing says French like red and white stripes paired with a black turtleneck." I have both so I wore them together, and parted my hair Brigitte Bardot style. I looked - how do you say? - fabulous.
But mon amies did not exactly get it. When I was hanging with Kristan and Eitan in the AS office, Eitan said, "You look very 'Where's Waldo.'" When I told them about my French theme, he and Kristan exchanged glances and smiled.
When I got home, Russ took one look at me and giggled.
"What?" I asked. "The outfit?"
"Yes," he said.
"I'm going for French," I said.
"Hmm," he said. "I think it's closer to Mickey Mouse."
11/13/05
This Is...
This is freedom: Driving 70 mph down PCH with your windows down singing along to John Lennon's "Mind Games" and Lyle Lovett's "You Can't Resist It."
This is frustration: Being stuck behind a SUV going 35 mph in Malibu Canyon while the iPod shuffle plays Rage Against the Machine.
11/9/05
The Human Stain
Another voting-related story.
Yesterday, while at my polling place, there was a very eager man who not only wanted to place my ballot on the ink-stamp machine, but a "I voted" sticker on my chest. As his hand was reaching for my bosom, I stuck my fist out and smiled. So he smiled back, a little surprised, and stuck it on my left hand. Maybe the 60-year old women get a little thrill when a 40-something guy reaches for their chest with a patriotic sticker, but it's really not my thing.
Here it is, over a day later, and I still have "I voted" sticker residue on my hand. It won't come off. The black goo has merged into my skin and refuses to be scrubbed off with soap and/or dish scrubber. I have scraped and picked and still, the goo remains. That's what you get for voting these days.
11/08/05
The Politics of Monrovia Dance Studio
Yes, of course I voted today. And not by absentee ballot, either. I enjoy walking the two blocks to the strip mall where Monrovia Dance Center, my polling place, is. This mall is also home to a 7-11, a donut shop, and the smelliest laundry mat ever. Seriously. It stinks like Eastern European armpit in there.
The dance center is small and dark and reminds me of taking ballet as a third grader at the Aurora Community Center. That was a painful year of my life. My recital that year - which I have largely blocked out - consisted of me in a purple leotard with a piece of white tinsel wrapped around my frizzy head. I was supposed to be an Eskimo. And I was supposed to be in the corps d'ballet. At the last second, though, one of my fellow dancers was sick and so I was promoted to lead dancer. I don't think it went well, but since I got ice cream afterwards, I didn't care. I only remember this because there's photo documentation which I have hidden in a never-to-be-disclosed location.
So back to voting. The woman who runs Monrovia Dance Center is always trying to get me to come and take a ballet class there. Her name is Anne. Every time I come into vote, she remembers me and says, "When are you going to come take a class?" And I always laugh and make a joke how my butt isn't leotard-worthy, and she always laughs politely, then says, "No really."
11/3/05
Manhattan-envy
As I finished Sarah Vowell's audiobook version of Assassination Vacation last night (after weeks of listening, a much longer process for me than sitting down and actually reading the book), I felt a certain sadness rise to the surface. Okay, okay, it was really straight-up jealousy.
The very last audio section details Vowell walking around Manhattan, from Penn Station to Madison Square Park to Union Square, through all sorts of historical spots commemorated by small plaques and sculptures. As I listened to her detailing her walk, all that perfectly fluid movement through different neighborhoods, reflecting on their importance in American history, I felt a longing for a place I've only been once. Manhattan. The walker's paradise.
There was also a section earlier in the book in which she made a statement along the lines of "friendships are made walking in New York." And by New York, I think she meant Manhattan. I thought about my friends here in L.A., how far spread they are, from the foothills of Pasadena to the beach in Santa Monica, and how a walk to Santa Monica would take days, weeks maybe.
Now as you all know, I love L.A. But the whole pedestrian thing, when I think long enough about it, is cause for irrational jealousy and then, totally despondency.
"L.A. is hopeless," I say to Russ, who is calmly slicing Ahi Tuna on the cutting board. I should probably mention that he's studying landscape architecture and hopes to work in planning urban (L.A.) areas. "We'll never be pedestrian like Manhattan."
"What do you think I'm doing in school right now," he asks, still calmly slicing. "Learning how to plant flowers?"
11/1/05
Trick-or-Treat Letdown
As usual, because of our prime location in an unlit alley, we had no trick-or-treaters last night. We watched old episodes of Arrested Development and then decided to go to Home Depot to get such exciting items as a water filter adapter and a plug for the bathtub drain.
While we were driving there, I was practically pressed up against the window, calling out the different costumes I saw to Russ, who was driving and probably not listening because he was thinking about "code" (his current design project). I saw lots of skeletons, a few goth-witches, and what I think was a teenage mutant ninja turtle except that the kid was wearing a blue headband. Now I used to be quite a fan of the turtles and I know for a fact that none of them wore a blue headband. So I'm not sure what he was trying to pull.
When we got to Home Depot, we wandered around, looking for the said adapter, and when we found the aisle, there were two very bored looking children standing there with their dad, who was looking at faucets.
Can you imagine tomorrow at school? Everyone pulling out Reese's and Snickers and bragging how many homes they hit while these two kids keep quiet and pray that they're not asked how many they hit because they'd only be able to say, "Well...just one."
10/30/05
It Reminds Me of Me, Just Spookier
Last Thursday, a chapter from the novel that I'm working on was being critiqued in my fiction workshop. The novel centers around a death in the south and one of the main characters, a middle-aged Catholic woman, likes to say the word "spooky." A lot of things are spooky to her, especially the empty house and the sudden death of her brother.
I didn't start out intending to make "spooky" her word. In fact, I didn't even realize it until this critique when Chad pointed out that she'd said it a few times. Then he smiled and added, "Although it sounds more like a Sarah-word."
Because it's Halloween and spooks abound right now, I figured it would be good etymological fun to look up where this really Sarah-word came from.
"Spook/Spooky"
1801, from Dutch "spook," from Middle Dutch "spooc," spook, ghost, from a common Germanic source of unknown origin.
Other linguistic influences: German "spuk": ghost, apparition; Swedish "spok": scarecrow; Norwegian "spjok": ghost, specter; Danish "spøg": joke.
First recorded 1867 in sense of "to walk or act like a ghost;" meaning "to unnerve" is from 1935.
from Online Etymology, http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?l=s&p=36
10/29/05
The Most Charming Thing
Recently, a friend told me that another friend said this, which tickled me pink by degrees:
"I'm going to try to hate L.A. less so that Sarah likes me more."
I adore this person. Even if the whole liking L.A. thing doesn't pan out.
10/26/05
How To Make Me Laugh
Do what Russell does and use your best Harry Carey voice when saying goodnight. His funniest lines?
"If the moon was made of swiss cheese, would you eat it?" and "If you were a hot dog, would you eat yourself?"
Lots of "Hay!" and epileptic head bobbing, too.
At the end, instead of "good night," he says, "Cubs win!" several thousand times. It's like growing up in Chicago all over again.
10/25/05
Under My Skin
I've been recently keeping up with a series in the Times about the many, many facets and many, many problems of L.A.'s skid row, on San Julian in downtown. It's not just a composite of the same old-same old -- when Villaraigosa read Lopez's articles, he took two trips down there with Lopez, incognito, to see it for himself.
It's fascinating, heartbreaking stuff. It's also honest. It burrows deep down under my skin and doesn't let me forget that I have some responsibility here, some mandate to get involved however I can.
I've posted links to all Lopez's articles on my L.A. page. Read them. I dare you not to care.
10/23/05
Quills on Fire
After watching one hour of coverage of the first-ever Quill Awards on NBC last night, I came away with several reflections:
1. It seemed more like a vehicle for commentator Al Roker than Stephen King. Half the show was spent on Roker's innane commentary, mostly centered on Harry Potter.
2. You know it's bad when even Elmo the puppet goes down in flames at the podium.
3. Writers don't know when to clap -- clapping was sporadic when the nominees were read, making it feel more like a high school campaign for class treasurer than a professional award ceremony.
4. Less fun to see writers make speeches up at the podium. They have it all written out. Always.
5. Oscars host? Funny man like Billy Crystal or Jon Stewart. Even the Emmys get Ellen DeGeneres. Quills host? Anchorman Brian Williams. Hmm.
6. Sadly, no evening gown clad Joyce Carol Oates. No Norman Mailer throwing a fit, either.
7. Definitely didn't seem like there was enough booze for a ceremony honoring professional writers.
8. At the Oscars, you get close-up shots of very recognizable people, like J. Lo and Sean Penn and Nicole Kidman. The camera people at the Quills did this, too, but I had no idea who the close-ups were. Russ and I speculated that the camera people had no idea, either -- they just picked out a less-than-attractive person and said, "Oh, s/he's gotta be a writer." And then, the close-up.
9. Are we having fun yet?
10. Musical artists thank God. Writers thank Oprah.
10/20/05
Shh...
Many of my friends have been checking in with me this week, making sure that I'm eating. This is what happens when Russ goes away for a week. People begin to worry about me.
I cannot cook. Chocolate chip cookies have never tasted more horrible than they have coming off of (or not coming off of) my cookie sheet. And just ask my friend Rebekah about the infamous-rice-krispie-treat baking experience. Marshmallows in the microwave -- bad decision.
So don't tell Russ this, but I actually cooked something that didn't burn or taste terrible. I defied my reputation. I started up the BBQ and cooked myself some lamb on Sunday night. And it was perfectly medium-rare, spiced with olive oil, pepper, garlic cloves, mint, and sage. Add a little raita (a mint-yogurt concoction) and basmati rice and you can see that I've eaten well, in spite of my personal chef being gone this week.
But don't get me wrong -- I can't wait until Russell is home. It means more than lamb bowls and red pepper soup and french fries. Emphasis on the french fries.
10/19/05
More About Cars
Last night, at a CSULB reading featuring authoress Christina McAdams, there was a small crisis with parking, as is often the case at Long Beach. The crisis began with one of our professors running in and asking Kristan or I (the only MFAs in attendance) if we would help her park Ms. McAdam's car. I agreed to help and found myself dashing down the sidewalk, avoiding the loiterers who commented, "That's a hot car" when my professor handed me the keys.
This episode ended with me driving around in circles in her BMW, searching for parking and not being able to roll down the windows or turn on the lights. I eventually found both, just in time to park.
It's the closest I've ever come to driving around with a nationally published author.
10/18/05
The Left of Second-to-the-Left
Fun fact from the show "Car Talk" on NPR: The left lane of the freeway - not including the carpool lane - was designed SPECIFICALLY to be a passing lane. Technically, we are all supposed to be driving in the other lanes and using the far left lane only to pass one another.
Think about how many problems that would solve if we actually followed it -- I admit to a few cases of extreme road annoyance because of leisurely Lincoln Continentals treating it like the sightseeing lane:
Her: "Ooh, honey, check out that stalled car on the right side of the road."
Him: "Good call, I'll slow down to 40 so we can really take it all in."
So remember this next time you feel like going 65 in the left lane and please -- get back in the right lane.
10/13/05
It's Called the Linen-Slash-Silk Anniversary
Almost four years after our wedding day, Russ asks me whether I'd rather give the "traditional" four year gift or the "modern" four year gift.
"I don't know," I say. "What's the difference?"
"Well, you get linen-slash-silk with the traditional, but appliances with the modern."
I make a face. "The traditional, for sure."
We both agree that appliances are a lame way to celebrate marriage.
So today, I open a beautiful green silk scarf from Russ from one of my favorite little Pasadena boutiques. So thoughtful. As I start to write this, I do a google search to remember what it was I shunned as a gift option.
As I do, I find several sites that list appliances as the modern gift, but fruit/flowers as the traditional gift. Linen/silk is listed under year twelve. I mention this to Russ. He looks as distressed as someone in the middle of a huge design project can look about such unimportant news.
"Oh. It said linen-slash-silk the other night."
"Well," I say. "At least you got the slash right."
An Ideal Wife
Russ was at Scripps College today, finishing up his current design project, when he took out a very delicious chicken salad sandwich for lunch. I can say it was delicious because he made and left a similar sandwich for me, which I ate for lunch. The man makes a mean chicken-salad. If he hadn't left me that, I would've eaten cereal, maybe gnawed cardboard.
His classmate Brandon saw this splendid sandwich and said, "Oh, how cute, did your wife make you that?"
"I resent that," Russ said.
"I just thought, you know, that your wife might've made that for you," Brandon said. "Gotten up early, before you, and fixed it so you could take it for your lunch."
Sweet. But I resent that.
10/09/05
Party Poopers
When at church, I try my hardest to talk to people I've never seen before, not to be the very scary join-us-precious type, but just because anytime you walk into a large room full of people you don't know, it's nice to have someone who's already comfortable pull you out of your awkwardness by asking you a question or two.
I've noticed that as I meet people, we inevitably get around to the "Are you planning to stay around L.A./Do you like L.A.?" question and sadly, most of them roll their eyes and bitch about the housing prices and/or the quality of life here. So now it's my turn to bitch -- I am so sick of meeting people who don't like L.A. but live here anyway. I happen to love L.A. and yes, it has its faults, but I find it a beautiful, inspiring place to live. Why fiddle around living somewhere you don't like? It's ultimately damaging to have these conversations -- knowing they want to move away makes me uninterested in developing friendships.
I understand that sometimes people have to live here for school or work and other factors beyond their control, but really, is L.A. so unlovable?
10/06/05
Life is Like A Nose
The Santa Anas blow. Or do they suck?
10/04/05
Model Behavior
I somehow got sucked into watching America's Next Top Model tonight. I think my soul has rotted a bit because of it, too.
While I enjoy fashion and Marc Jacobs and reading magazines like Lucky, the girls behind the photos are something else. Or at least, the girls on this show. They are such enormous ego cases that it gets hard to watch after a while. They flounce around and pout into mirrors when no one is looking and actualize the term "catty." Obviously not everyone's going to get along. But the girls are so indiscriminate -- one moment, they're hugging someone and the next, they're mocking them on the "downlow" cam. They are beautiful girls, but they're so mean to each other. And mean can't be beautiful, ever.
In other coincidentally related news, I saw Tyra Banks on her UPN talk show at the gym today. She took off her miracle bra and got an on-air breast exam so that she could prove her boobs are real. I was so embarrassed for her that I actually got off the elliptical machine.
Makes you glad to be one of the "regular" people, huh?
9/30/05
The Bigger They Are...
Day 2 of the cutting down of the oak tree. The 350-year old oak tree is so big that it's taken this long to get it down. Russ remarked that it was sad that a tree that took this long to grow could be cut down in two days. A moment of silence.
So begins the process to select the new tree. Russ is thinking California Pepper Tree, not only because it's tall and willowy and would be lovely to eat and read under, but because it has historical significance to California Missions. The trees were planted around early missions because they were thought to keep away evil spirits, which is something we'd also like to avoid. So double score.
This weekend is Sarah-and-Russ-Go-Camping-at-Malibu-Creek. Keep your fingers crossed that the fire doesn't go south in Calabasas or else we're the weenies who will roast.
9/28/05
The Lady Doth Protest
I got a speeding ticket today, which I'm not too mad about because I was going 84 on the 605. Fine. I get it.
What I am upset about is the arbitrary nature of speeding tickets on California freeways. I was right behind the car in front of me, following the three-second-rule like the good citizen that I am. How come I get the ticket and the car in front of me gets to zoom away at 85-90? How come the car that's weaving from lane to lane gets away with that kind of driving?
I suppose we all are biding our time as far as speeding tickets on freeways go. I was just bragging a few weeks ago that I hadn't gotten a ticket in years. I guess that's justice for you.
9/26/05
FEVER
It's only 10:45 in the morning and already, I hate being sick. My only respite from the boredom of switching between bed and couch has been to watch this crazy squirrel bury a zillion walnuts in our yard outside the window. He is systematically stripping our neighbor's walnut tree in the following fashion:
1. Grabs walnut.
2. Runs over roofs from walnut tree to my backyard.
3. Climbs down Persimmon Tree.
4. Pauses while almost at base of Persimmon Tree
5. He seems to be searching...
6. Confidently bounds to location.
7. Wags tail a few times, looks around, probably checking for the evil hell-cats of the alley.
8. Starts digging a hole.
I accidentally hit my elbow on window frame. OWWW.
9. Deposits nut, covers hole with those adorable little paws.
10. Starts whole process over again.
Russ once told me that he digs up small walnut trees all the time in our backyard. Apparently, the squirrels memory is dwarfed by his obsessive-compulsive gathering habits. Watching this for a while made me feel like I was staring at a hyno-coin, not only because I almost lost consciousness, but because I wanted to see if that crazy squirrel might do something out of order. See if he would ever figure out a more efficient way to do things, thereby cutting out a few of his steps.
But...he didn't. Damn you, addicting squirrel.
9/23/05
Règles D'Amour
Sarah Jessica Parker captures a good relationship wonderfully in an interview I read today: "We disagree without hemorrhaging."
9/20/05
Baby Love
Congratulations to my good friends Diana and Chris on the birth of Lucille Scout Jarot, 9 lbs., 5 ounces. It amazing how much she looks like Diana already. But there's Chris in that little face, too -- I just have to pinpoint it.
I recently heard that the bigger the baby, the healthier it is. So Lucy's off to a good start. And Di, I will buy you a bean burrito when you're done with the whole having-to-watch-what-you-eat time period, a.k.a. nursing. The best bean burrito that I can find in Illinois or Fed-Ex from Los Angeles.
Until then, eat your bland food and smile schmoopily because your daughter is pretty darn cute.
9/16/05
Los Angeles: A British Neverland
Last night, I talked to some British twenty-somethings on the phone, guys who have been living in my aunt's basement in Illinois this summer and whom I have never met. They seem like nice guys. I've heard they rock the Scrabble board. Maybe I'll even meet them someday, although now there's all this pressure because we started on the phone and what if they don't like the way I look?
Anyway, they're having a Californian holiday at my other aunt's house, in La Habra, and have probably been sorely disappointed by the slightly chilly weather. "I came to California and all I got was this stupid sweatshirt."
A sidenote -- it could be a great weekend to learn how to surf, as the waves are between 3-6 ft. On the other hand, it could also be a great weekend to kill yourself learning how to surf. Depends on if you're optimist or pessimist, I guess.
They were calling me, the future editor of the Not-For-Tourist's Guide (dream job pending) and general L.A. know-it-all (or my prefered moniker, her omnipotent majesty) with questions about how to navigate the endless freeway that is L.A.
They pressed me, via speakerphone - which makes everything ten times funnier, especially British accents - about the usual L.A. landmarks: the walk of stars, Mann's Chinese, Rodeo Drive, and...well, that was pretty much it. I didn't quite catch everything that was being said. I did, however, catch one of the Brits' last and most pressing questions: Where is Neverland Ranch and how do I get there?
11/29/05
Oprah
On my way home from school, along the 605 freeway, I pass an Oprah show billboard. The thing about it is that it changes everyday to tell the theme of Oprah's next show. The woman really does have that much money. Let me paint you a picture: There is a prominent, smiling Oprah (with "Oprah" scribbled across her chest, as if we don't know who she is) right next to the day's theme in huge white lettering.
Anyway, this week, I've been haw-haw-ing more than usual because of these themes. I will present them as I read them while driving along.
Sunday. Oprah - Addicted to Meth.
Monday. Oprah - Jaime Foxx. (Not as funny.)
Tuesday. Oprah - Addicted to Porn.
Thanks for the laughs, Oprah.
11/28/05
Distraction
There are two things distracting me at the present moment:
1. Lost on DVD.
I have it on at all times. But I've discovered it is possible to read, write, and follow the twists and turns of life on a deserted island. Like when a character that I'm not really interested in comes on -- say, Boone -- then I try and get one paragraph done.
A lot of the viewing experience is me looking up in time to see a polar bear being shot or a bloody hand and saying to Russ, "What just happened? What'd she say?" This causes us both to miss the next five-ten lines of the show. We rewind quite often.
2. The schizophrenic weather of Los Angeles.
A few days ago, I was wearing a tank top with the air conditioning blasting inside my car. Now, I am huddled up inside a blanket, trying to decide if I can risk exposing my purple feet in order to grab the ugliest space heater in the world out of our studio. It's probably ten feet away, but those would be ten very cold feet. I don't think it's worth it.
I could turn on the real heater, but that would involve moving potted plants and books and framed pictures and frankly, I just don't have that kind of time.
I turned on the oven for about an hour and that seemed to help a little.
11/23/05
A Very Californian Thanksgiving
While driving today, I turned on my air conditioning. It was really that hot.
11/20/05
Arrested Development
My favorite show, a.k.a. the only reason for turning on the TV on Monday nights, is again in danger of being cancelled.
The thing that really burns me is that there will be no episodes for the rest of the year because of Prison Break. Pri-son Break. Come on now. I don't know why people watch these lame dramas over a show that's both funny and insightful.
Why aren't you watching this show yet?
11/19/05
When Knees Collide
Russ has been hobbling around since our annual Crew v. Outrigger football game earlier today.
This game is a three year old rivalry between the Crew (40-60 year olds) and the Outriggers (20-40), with some teenagers thrown in for stamina. This seems like it might be no contest, but let me tell you, the Crew guys have no hesitation about throwing their bodies to the ground to make the play. And sometimes us Outriggers are not such players. We still laugh about last year's game when Skye called for the ball to be thrown to her and as it was spiraling toward her, screamed and ran away.
Everyone was teasing me about my flag-retrieval methods -- apparently, I grab them with style. I believe the word used at the game was "frouffy."
We celebrate Thanksgiving together afterwards, eating and drinking away our pain and humiliation.
This is supposed to be flag football, but always ends up being much more physical. Which brings me to Russ.
Last night, we were watching an episode of Lost on DVD and Russ was moaning about his knee.
"What did you do?" I asked him.
"Oh, I don't know."
But I knew. I saw it with my own eyes. Russ and I were put on opposite teams and I was guarding him. He taunted me with winners such as, "Your mama wears pink underwear." He was so busy taunting me that at the count of two-Mississippi, he didn't realize that Craig "Wheels" Powlen was running toward him with the ball. When he did, he flung himself at Craig in an attempt to grab the flag, but he totally missed and hit the ground hard, knee first. He laid there on the ground, laughing for a minute, and then I - excellent sport that I am - helped him up.
"I'm sore," he groaned. "I'm getting old."
"That's why we play flag football," I said. "Because competitive old guys like you hurt yourselves when we don't."
11/18/05
How I Google
I love this:
My mom, who has only recently embarked on this whole email-internet thing, wrote me an email a few weeks ago in which she said, "I read your google - it's great and fun to read."
Blog, google - who can keep track these days?
11/15/05
The Taste of Country
I was clicking around just now, looking for something to watch. When I got to UPN, there was a woman standing in a gigantic American Gladiators cage made of (fake) diamonds.
"What is this?" I ask.
"It's the country music awards, I think," Russ says. "They're supposed to be on tonight."
As soon as the woman gets out of the cage, flanked by hunky African-American dancers, we know it's not the country music awards.
So I flip stations. When I get to CBS, there's that guy with the cowboy hat singing. Lots of fiddles and fire. We watch for about three seconds.
"This is the country music awards," I say.
"Yeah," he replies. "I thought I tasted bile in my mouth."
11/15/05
Rituals
Tuesdays are always a day for celebration. It's the day I get my Newsweek, which I then curl up with for a half hour and read cover to cover. It's a nerdy ritual and I refuse to deny it.
I was excited to see that the movie section did a whole spread about Brokeback Mountain, one of my favorite short stories, about to be released as a movie. I've heard that the movie is as heartbreaking as the short story, which is no small thing. There was also a short blurb on the new Harry Potter movie, which the movie theater two blocks away is already advertising. There's a midnight showing tomorrow night and I'll admit that I'm tempted. Mighty tempted. I would dress up as Rita Skeeter.
But, nerd fantasies aside, I was dismayed when I read an article about The Chronicles of Narnia, one of my favorite series from childhood and adulthood. I mean, I recently reread the series and they're still so fantastic, so other worldly. I always say, "Okay, I'm going to read the series over a few months." But I never do -- I get sucked into the series and proceed to stay up late and get up early to finish the series in a few days.
The dismayed part comes in when I see that they're touting this new movie ("The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe") as some sort of sequel to the Passion of the Christ. As a "Christian" movie.
Now I'm the first to admit that Lewis wrote these with allegory in mind, but according to him, he also wrote them to delight and intrigue young children. He loved kids. He loved telling stories. He loved God, but I think he would say the whole allegory thing is optional. Or since he was British and more polite, "for those so inclined."
I get so steamed when I get the feeling that the Christian right of America is going to hijack something fantastic and meaningful from my childhood and turn it into some barfy version of the gospel message. As if they haven't already done enough of this kind of hijacking. As a Christian myself, I think I should know.
11/14/05
Pardonnez mon francais
The terrible protests in France last week brought out my inner Parisian. I felt the need for solidarity. With little to do in the way of help, I decided that I would have a "dress like a Parisian" day. I, unlike so many of my fellow Americans, have a love affair with France. I would kiss the tips of my fingers right now, if you could see me.
I have no beret (though I'd like one beaucoup), but I thought, "Nothing says French like red and white stripes paired with a black turtleneck." I have both so I wore them together, and parted my hair Brigitte Bardot style. I looked - how do you say? - fabulous.
But mon amies did not exactly get it. When I was hanging with Kristan and Eitan in the AS office, Eitan said, "You look very 'Where's Waldo.'" When I told them about my French theme, he and Kristan exchanged glances and smiled.
When I got home, Russ took one look at me and giggled.
"What?" I asked. "The outfit?"
"Yes," he said.
"I'm going for French," I said.
"Hmm," he said. "I think it's closer to Mickey Mouse."
11/13/05
This Is...
This is freedom: Driving 70 mph down PCH with your windows down singing along to John Lennon's "Mind Games" and Lyle Lovett's "You Can't Resist It."
This is frustration: Being stuck behind a SUV going 35 mph in Malibu Canyon while the iPod shuffle plays Rage Against the Machine.
11/9/05
The Human Stain
Another voting-related story.
Yesterday, while at my polling place, there was a very eager man who not only wanted to place my ballot on the ink-stamp machine, but a "I voted" sticker on my chest. As his hand was reaching for my bosom, I stuck my fist out and smiled. So he smiled back, a little surprised, and stuck it on my left hand. Maybe the 60-year old women get a little thrill when a 40-something guy reaches for their chest with a patriotic sticker, but it's really not my thing.
Here it is, over a day later, and I still have "I voted" sticker residue on my hand. It won't come off. The black goo has merged into my skin and refuses to be scrubbed off with soap and/or dish scrubber. I have scraped and picked and still, the goo remains. That's what you get for voting these days.
11/08/05
The Politics of Monrovia Dance Studio
Yes, of course I voted today. And not by absentee ballot, either. I enjoy walking the two blocks to the strip mall where Monrovia Dance Center, my polling place, is. This mall is also home to a 7-11, a donut shop, and the smelliest laundry mat ever. Seriously. It stinks like Eastern European armpit in there.
The dance center is small and dark and reminds me of taking ballet as a third grader at the Aurora Community Center. That was a painful year of my life. My recital that year - which I have largely blocked out - consisted of me in a purple leotard with a piece of white tinsel wrapped around my frizzy head. I was supposed to be an Eskimo. And I was supposed to be in the corps d'ballet. At the last second, though, one of my fellow dancers was sick and so I was promoted to lead dancer. I don't think it went well, but since I got ice cream afterwards, I didn't care. I only remember this because there's photo documentation which I have hidden in a never-to-be-disclosed location.
So back to voting. The woman who runs Monrovia Dance Center is always trying to get me to come and take a ballet class there. Her name is Anne. Every time I come into vote, she remembers me and says, "When are you going to come take a class?" And I always laugh and make a joke how my butt isn't leotard-worthy, and she always laughs politely, then says, "No really."
11/3/05
Manhattan-envy
As I finished Sarah Vowell's audiobook version of Assassination Vacation last night (after weeks of listening, a much longer process for me than sitting down and actually reading the book), I felt a certain sadness rise to the surface. Okay, okay, it was really straight-up jealousy.
The very last audio section details Vowell walking around Manhattan, from Penn Station to Madison Square Park to Union Square, through all sorts of historical spots commemorated by small plaques and sculptures. As I listened to her detailing her walk, all that perfectly fluid movement through different neighborhoods, reflecting on their importance in American history, I felt a longing for a place I've only been once. Manhattan. The walker's paradise.
There was also a section earlier in the book in which she made a statement along the lines of "friendships are made walking in New York." And by New York, I think she meant Manhattan. I thought about my friends here in L.A., how far spread they are, from the foothills of Pasadena to the beach in Santa Monica, and how a walk to Santa Monica would take days, weeks maybe.
Now as you all know, I love L.A. But the whole pedestrian thing, when I think long enough about it, is cause for irrational jealousy and then, totally despondency.
"L.A. is hopeless," I say to Russ, who is calmly slicing Ahi Tuna on the cutting board. I should probably mention that he's studying landscape architecture and hopes to work in planning urban (L.A.) areas. "We'll never be pedestrian like Manhattan."
"What do you think I'm doing in school right now," he asks, still calmly slicing. "Learning how to plant flowers?"
11/1/05
Trick-or-Treat Letdown
As usual, because of our prime location in an unlit alley, we had no trick-or-treaters last night. We watched old episodes of Arrested Development and then decided to go to Home Depot to get such exciting items as a water filter adapter and a plug for the bathtub drain.
While we were driving there, I was practically pressed up against the window, calling out the different costumes I saw to Russ, who was driving and probably not listening because he was thinking about "code" (his current design project). I saw lots of skeletons, a few goth-witches, and what I think was a teenage mutant ninja turtle except that the kid was wearing a blue headband. Now I used to be quite a fan of the turtles and I know for a fact that none of them wore a blue headband. So I'm not sure what he was trying to pull.
When we got to Home Depot, we wandered around, looking for the said adapter, and when we found the aisle, there were two very bored looking children standing there with their dad, who was looking at faucets.
Can you imagine tomorrow at school? Everyone pulling out Reese's and Snickers and bragging how many homes they hit while these two kids keep quiet and pray that they're not asked how many they hit because they'd only be able to say, "Well...just one."
10/30/05
It Reminds Me of Me, Just Spookier
Last Thursday, a chapter from the novel that I'm working on was being critiqued in my fiction workshop. The novel centers around a death in the south and one of the main characters, a middle-aged Catholic woman, likes to say the word "spooky." A lot of things are spooky to her, especially the empty house and the sudden death of her brother.
I didn't start out intending to make "spooky" her word. In fact, I didn't even realize it until this critique when Chad pointed out that she'd said it a few times. Then he smiled and added, "Although it sounds more like a Sarah-word."
Because it's Halloween and spooks abound right now, I figured it would be good etymological fun to look up where this really Sarah-word came from.
"Spook/Spooky"
1801, from Dutch "spook," from Middle Dutch "spooc," spook, ghost, from a common Germanic source of unknown origin.
Other linguistic influences: German "spuk": ghost, apparition; Swedish "spok": scarecrow; Norwegian "spjok": ghost, specter; Danish "spøg": joke.
First recorded 1867 in sense of "to walk or act like a ghost;" meaning "to unnerve" is from 1935.
from Online Etymology, http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?l=s&p=36
10/29/05
The Most Charming Thing
Recently, a friend told me that another friend said this, which tickled me pink by degrees:
"I'm going to try to hate L.A. less so that Sarah likes me more."
I adore this person. Even if the whole liking L.A. thing doesn't pan out.
10/26/05
How To Make Me Laugh
Do what Russell does and use your best Harry Carey voice when saying goodnight. His funniest lines?
"If the moon was made of swiss cheese, would you eat it?" and "If you were a hot dog, would you eat yourself?"
Lots of "Hay!" and epileptic head bobbing, too.
At the end, instead of "good night," he says, "Cubs win!" several thousand times. It's like growing up in Chicago all over again.
10/25/05
Under My Skin
I've been recently keeping up with a series in the Times about the many, many facets and many, many problems of L.A.'s skid row, on San Julian in downtown. It's not just a composite of the same old-same old -- when Villaraigosa read Lopez's articles, he took two trips down there with Lopez, incognito, to see it for himself.
It's fascinating, heartbreaking stuff. It's also honest. It burrows deep down under my skin and doesn't let me forget that I have some responsibility here, some mandate to get involved however I can.
I've posted links to all Lopez's articles on my L.A. page. Read them. I dare you not to care.
10/23/05
Quills on Fire
After watching one hour of coverage of the first-ever Quill Awards on NBC last night, I came away with several reflections:
1. It seemed more like a vehicle for commentator Al Roker than Stephen King. Half the show was spent on Roker's innane commentary, mostly centered on Harry Potter.
2. You know it's bad when even Elmo the puppet goes down in flames at the podium.
3. Writers don't know when to clap -- clapping was sporadic when the nominees were read, making it feel more like a high school campaign for class treasurer than a professional award ceremony.
4. Less fun to see writers make speeches up at the podium. They have it all written out. Always.
5. Oscars host? Funny man like Billy Crystal or Jon Stewart. Even the Emmys get Ellen DeGeneres. Quills host? Anchorman Brian Williams. Hmm.
6. Sadly, no evening gown clad Joyce Carol Oates. No Norman Mailer throwing a fit, either.
7. Definitely didn't seem like there was enough booze for a ceremony honoring professional writers.
8. At the Oscars, you get close-up shots of very recognizable people, like J. Lo and Sean Penn and Nicole Kidman. The camera people at the Quills did this, too, but I had no idea who the close-ups were. Russ and I speculated that the camera people had no idea, either -- they just picked out a less-than-attractive person and said, "Oh, s/he's gotta be a writer." And then, the close-up.
9. Are we having fun yet?
10. Musical artists thank God. Writers thank Oprah.
10/20/05
Shh...
Many of my friends have been checking in with me this week, making sure that I'm eating. This is what happens when Russ goes away for a week. People begin to worry about me.
I cannot cook. Chocolate chip cookies have never tasted more horrible than they have coming off of (or not coming off of) my cookie sheet. And just ask my friend Rebekah about the infamous-rice-krispie-treat baking experience. Marshmallows in the microwave -- bad decision.
So don't tell Russ this, but I actually cooked something that didn't burn or taste terrible. I defied my reputation. I started up the BBQ and cooked myself some lamb on Sunday night. And it was perfectly medium-rare, spiced with olive oil, pepper, garlic cloves, mint, and sage. Add a little raita (a mint-yogurt concoction) and basmati rice and you can see that I've eaten well, in spite of my personal chef being gone this week.
But don't get me wrong -- I can't wait until Russell is home. It means more than lamb bowls and red pepper soup and french fries. Emphasis on the french fries.
10/19/05
More About Cars
Last night, at a CSULB reading featuring authoress Christina McAdams, there was a small crisis with parking, as is often the case at Long Beach. The crisis began with one of our professors running in and asking Kristan or I (the only MFAs in attendance) if we would help her park Ms. McAdam's car. I agreed to help and found myself dashing down the sidewalk, avoiding the loiterers who commented, "That's a hot car" when my professor handed me the keys.
This episode ended with me driving around in circles in her BMW, searching for parking and not being able to roll down the windows or turn on the lights. I eventually found both, just in time to park.
It's the closest I've ever come to driving around with a nationally published author.
10/18/05
The Left of Second-to-the-Left
Fun fact from the show "Car Talk" on NPR: The left lane of the freeway - not including the carpool lane - was designed SPECIFICALLY to be a passing lane. Technically, we are all supposed to be driving in the other lanes and using the far left lane only to pass one another.
Think about how many problems that would solve if we actually followed it -- I admit to a few cases of extreme road annoyance because of leisurely Lincoln Continentals treating it like the sightseeing lane:
Her: "Ooh, honey, check out that stalled car on the right side of the road."
Him: "Good call, I'll slow down to 40 so we can really take it all in."
So remember this next time you feel like going 65 in the left lane and please -- get back in the right lane.
10/13/05
It's Called the Linen-Slash-Silk Anniversary
Almost four years after our wedding day, Russ asks me whether I'd rather give the "traditional" four year gift or the "modern" four year gift.
"I don't know," I say. "What's the difference?"
"Well, you get linen-slash-silk with the traditional, but appliances with the modern."
I make a face. "The traditional, for sure."
We both agree that appliances are a lame way to celebrate marriage.
So today, I open a beautiful green silk scarf from Russ from one of my favorite little Pasadena boutiques. So thoughtful. As I start to write this, I do a google search to remember what it was I shunned as a gift option.
As I do, I find several sites that list appliances as the modern gift, but fruit/flowers as the traditional gift. Linen/silk is listed under year twelve. I mention this to Russ. He looks as distressed as someone in the middle of a huge design project can look about such unimportant news.
"Oh. It said linen-slash-silk the other night."
"Well," I say. "At least you got the slash right."
An Ideal Wife
Russ was at Scripps College today, finishing up his current design project, when he took out a very delicious chicken salad sandwich for lunch. I can say it was delicious because he made and left a similar sandwich for me, which I ate for lunch. The man makes a mean chicken-salad. If he hadn't left me that, I would've eaten cereal, maybe gnawed cardboard.
His classmate Brandon saw this splendid sandwich and said, "Oh, how cute, did your wife make you that?"
"I resent that," Russ said.
"I just thought, you know, that your wife might've made that for you," Brandon said. "Gotten up early, before you, and fixed it so you could take it for your lunch."
Sweet. But I resent that.
10/09/05
Party Poopers
When at church, I try my hardest to talk to people I've never seen before, not to be the very scary join-us-precious type, but just because anytime you walk into a large room full of people you don't know, it's nice to have someone who's already comfortable pull you out of your awkwardness by asking you a question or two.
I've noticed that as I meet people, we inevitably get around to the "Are you planning to stay around L.A./Do you like L.A.?" question and sadly, most of them roll their eyes and bitch about the housing prices and/or the quality of life here. So now it's my turn to bitch -- I am so sick of meeting people who don't like L.A. but live here anyway. I happen to love L.A. and yes, it has its faults, but I find it a beautiful, inspiring place to live. Why fiddle around living somewhere you don't like? It's ultimately damaging to have these conversations -- knowing they want to move away makes me uninterested in developing friendships.
I understand that sometimes people have to live here for school or work and other factors beyond their control, but really, is L.A. so unlovable?
10/06/05
Life is Like A Nose
The Santa Anas blow. Or do they suck?
10/04/05
Model Behavior
I somehow got sucked into watching America's Next Top Model tonight. I think my soul has rotted a bit because of it, too.
While I enjoy fashion and Marc Jacobs and reading magazines like Lucky, the girls behind the photos are something else. Or at least, the girls on this show. They are such enormous ego cases that it gets hard to watch after a while. They flounce around and pout into mirrors when no one is looking and actualize the term "catty." Obviously not everyone's going to get along. But the girls are so indiscriminate -- one moment, they're hugging someone and the next, they're mocking them on the "downlow" cam. They are beautiful girls, but they're so mean to each other. And mean can't be beautiful, ever.
In other coincidentally related news, I saw Tyra Banks on her UPN talk show at the gym today. She took off her miracle bra and got an on-air breast exam so that she could prove her boobs are real. I was so embarrassed for her that I actually got off the elliptical machine.
Makes you glad to be one of the "regular" people, huh?
9/30/05
The Bigger They Are...
Day 2 of the cutting down of the oak tree. The 350-year old oak tree is so big that it's taken this long to get it down. Russ remarked that it was sad that a tree that took this long to grow could be cut down in two days. A moment of silence.
So begins the process to select the new tree. Russ is thinking California Pepper Tree, not only because it's tall and willowy and would be lovely to eat and read under, but because it has historical significance to California Missions. The trees were planted around early missions because they were thought to keep away evil spirits, which is something we'd also like to avoid. So double score.
This weekend is Sarah-and-Russ-Go-Camping-at-Malibu-Creek. Keep your fingers crossed that the fire doesn't go south in Calabasas or else we're the weenies who will roast.
9/28/05
The Lady Doth Protest
I got a speeding ticket today, which I'm not too mad about because I was going 84 on the 605. Fine. I get it.
What I am upset about is the arbitrary nature of speeding tickets on California freeways. I was right behind the car in front of me, following the three-second-rule like the good citizen that I am. How come I get the ticket and the car in front of me gets to zoom away at 85-90? How come the car that's weaving from lane to lane gets away with that kind of driving?
I suppose we all are biding our time as far as speeding tickets on freeways go. I was just bragging a few weeks ago that I hadn't gotten a ticket in years. I guess that's justice for you.
9/26/05
FEVER
It's only 10:45 in the morning and already, I hate being sick. My only respite from the boredom of switching between bed and couch has been to watch this crazy squirrel bury a zillion walnuts in our yard outside the window. He is systematically stripping our neighbor's walnut tree in the following fashion:
1. Grabs walnut.
2. Runs over roofs from walnut tree to my backyard.
3. Climbs down Persimmon Tree.
4. Pauses while almost at base of Persimmon Tree
5. He seems to be searching...
6. Confidently bounds to location.
7. Wags tail a few times, looks around, probably checking for the evil hell-cats of the alley.
8. Starts digging a hole.
I accidentally hit my elbow on window frame. OWWW.
9. Deposits nut, covers hole with those adorable little paws.
10. Starts whole process over again.
Russ once told me that he digs up small walnut trees all the time in our backyard. Apparently, the squirrels memory is dwarfed by his obsessive-compulsive gathering habits. Watching this for a while made me feel like I was staring at a hyno-coin, not only because I almost lost consciousness, but because I wanted to see if that crazy squirrel might do something out of order. See if he would ever figure out a more efficient way to do things, thereby cutting out a few of his steps.
But...he didn't. Damn you, addicting squirrel.
9/23/05
Règles D'Amour
Sarah Jessica Parker captures a good relationship wonderfully in an interview I read today: "We disagree without hemorrhaging."
9/20/05
Baby Love
Congratulations to my good friends Diana and Chris on the birth of Lucille Scout Jarot, 9 lbs., 5 ounces. It amazing how much she looks like Diana already. But there's Chris in that little face, too -- I just have to pinpoint it.
I recently heard that the bigger the baby, the healthier it is. So Lucy's off to a good start. And Di, I will buy you a bean burrito when you're done with the whole having-to-watch-what-you-eat time period, a.k.a. nursing. The best bean burrito that I can find in Illinois or Fed-Ex from Los Angeles.
Until then, eat your bland food and smile schmoopily because your daughter is pretty darn cute.
9/16/05
Los Angeles: A British Neverland
Last night, I talked to some British twenty-somethings on the phone, guys who have been living in my aunt's basement in Illinois this summer and whom I have never met. They seem like nice guys. I've heard they rock the Scrabble board. Maybe I'll even meet them someday, although now there's all this pressure because we started on the phone and what if they don't like the way I look?
Anyway, they're having a Californian holiday at my other aunt's house, in La Habra, and have probably been sorely disappointed by the slightly chilly weather. "I came to California and all I got was this stupid sweatshirt."
A sidenote -- it could be a great weekend to learn how to surf, as the waves are between 3-6 ft. On the other hand, it could also be a great weekend to kill yourself learning how to surf. Depends on if you're optimist or pessimist, I guess.
They were calling me, the future editor of the Not-For-Tourist's Guide (dream job pending) and general L.A. know-it-all (or my prefered moniker, her omnipotent majesty) with questions about how to navigate the endless freeway that is L.A.
They pressed me, via speakerphone - which makes everything ten times funnier, especially British accents - about the usual L.A. landmarks: the walk of stars, Mann's Chinese, Rodeo Drive, and...well, that was pretty much it. I didn't quite catch everything that was being said. I did, however, catch one of the Brits' last and most pressing questions: Where is Neverland Ranch and how do I get there?
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