My bike.

<--I probably won't be buying one of these, by the way. ...

Today was pretty much awesome. Watch that word, awesome: it will show up again later. I got up early (for a day off: 8:45 a.m.) and quickly took a shower, played a few moves in my Facebook Scrabble games, goofed around on the Internet, wrote an email which was a continuation of another message that I may regret later, and got myself all worked up about my new bike, which I planned on driving up to Culver City to buy (there are bike stores in LB, but I have a sentimental attachment to Wheel World, where I have gotten all my bikes, including my dearly departed, beloved red and white ten speed).

I've been thinking about my new bike for awhile. I talked to Patrick about it on Wednesday, and he was okay with the idea of me getting a rather expensive new toy. I've discussed it with my friends Patty and Judy and my co-worker Jesse, and I am obsessed with the idea of my having a new bike. I can't stop thinking about the rides to Seal Beach or here in Long Beach, and in Culver City with Patty, and she wants to maybe do one of those bike tours, and if I can hang with that much time on a bike and how much I want to ride and when, and dude: I actually was thinking about it so much I kind of gave myself an upset stomach.

OK, maybe the bike didn't upset my stomach, but I don't know what else to blame it on, unless you consider the Chipotle steak burrito I had for lunch yesterday (or possibly that damn email). I was excited!

On the drive there, which was surprisingly not as traffic-y as I expected, I made a couple of phone calls (one regarding the aforementioned email), listened to The Veils, Afghan Whigs (I have had their album Up In It for maybe 20 years? I forgot how awesome it is. No. This is not the awesome you are looking for. Move along), and A Tribe Called Quest. I also tried to relax. I'm not sure it worked.

You didn't really need to know what I listened to, but it's these details that make this blog truly interesting. ...Right?

Anyway, I pulled up in front of Wheel World, put my 75 cents in the parking meter and walked up to the door. It was 10:15. They open at 10. The sign said "closed." I looked at the sign, said, under my breath, all crazy like, "What the fuck?" And then I noticed that the door was open. So I went on in.

(Again, more detail than necessary - actually, I think I only put 50 cents in the meter - but really, once you start, you can't stop.)

You know how when you're really super-excited about something, you lose the ability to speak? No? Is it only me (actually... it might be. I was a little tongue-tied and searching for words all week. I swear I think my co-workers thought I was high. I'm not, seriously. This may be sinus-related)? Anyway, I walked in, and saw that there were three young guys behind the counter. Two of them ignored me. One of them, who shall be known as Eric (because that's what he told me his name was, but not until later in the timeline of events that I am about to detail for you. In excruciating detail, yeah), was a young guy, maybe in his mid to late twenties. Tall. Brown hair. Scruffy but not in an off-putting way. Cute. I don't know, maybe I've hit that age where all guys in their twenties are kind of cute. It's possible.

Eric waved at me, and I walked over to him, and commenced The Great Bicycle Purchase of 2009.

These are the first words out of my mouth: "I um, hi, I was here to look for a bike?"

Yeah, that's fucked up.

The thing that worked out so perfectly was the pairing of me with this particular guy. Eric as Salesman and me as Customer: we were the perfect pair. We were a match made in heaven, because as silly as I was (I was like this crazy combination of excited, nervous and self-deprecating), he was almost right there with me (except he was young and cute, and so for him, it was more like a sweet performance of youth. For me it might be pathetic and old, but let's move on, shall we?). One of the first things he asked me to do was be patient, because he had to use the computer that was being used by his co-worker at the moment because he "has a tendency to crash the other one, just by breathing on it." Come on. If that's not adorable, I don't know what is. So we waited. While we waited, I told him what I wanted, or what I thought I wanted. So he took me over to the rows of bikes, and pulled out a Giant for me to try out for size, and to keep me occupied while he did the thing with the computer.

When you try out bikes at Wheel World, they make you fill out a form certifying that you won't sue them if you get injured, and you have to give them a credit card and your driver license. I joked, is this all so I won't sue you, leave with the bike or get hit by a car? Eric (still didn't know his name at this point) looked at me very seriously said, "Please don't do any of those things." I gave him my keys and said, Hey, if I don't come back, you can have my car.

He said, thanks, but I don't drive anymore.

Then, since I was handing this guy my whole life (wallet, keys, flute bag), I asked him his name. Once I knew his name, I proceeded to use it every chance I got. I don't know why. I just like calling people I just met by their names.

Eric walked outside with me and showed me how to use the 21st century shifters. I asked him about the brakes (my 10 speed had hand brakes on that top part of the handlebars, and this one didn't). He explained that you can get them added on, but that for this one, I'd have to use the ones that were placed on the lower part of the handlebars. And then he goes, "you know, when you're feeling 'race-y.'" Because, you know, you have to get all aerodynamic to use that part of the handlebars. Jesus Christ that was adorable, because I don't think he was thinking of the definition of the word "racy." He had that LA guy lazy delivery when he talked, and he spoke either very slowly when saying few words, or in quick, low bursts. Usually he was fast when he was funny, and slow when he was serious. There's no way he was flirting with me, but it might be at this point that he realized that I would be a pretty pliable customer.

Anyway, I got it, then waited until he went back inside before heading off, northbound on Sepulveda, on the sidewalk. I rode it around the block a couple of times (thank God Tito's wasn't busy or I could've been hit.)

I hated it.

Now it is entirely possible that all I hated about it was the color (teal. Teal and white. Hideous). But also, I felt weird on that bike. Eric sized me up before I got on, and he set the seat height for me and asked me how I felt, sitting there in the store, and it seemed okay, but I knew this wasn't the bike for me.

I walked it back into the store, and told Eric I didn't like it. We discussed the Allez, the bike I had gone in specifically to see, and he pulled one down for me, but it was a hair too big (literally, a hair. I asked him what the difference between the sizes is, and he said "about 2 centimeters." I thought he was pulling my leg. Apparently he was not. He could've, though. I would've gone for it. And if he did it right, I might've been tall enough for the bigger bike). We talked some more about the Allez, and he went back to his nemesis, the computer, and looked at their inventory.

They had one in my size, but not assembled. In fact, it was in a crate somewhere in the back. It was a red one. Pretty, but too flashy for me. We talked about short people for awhile, and his lack of sleep, and something else kinda personal about him that I shouldn't reveal here (I was surprised he told me, actually), and bikes with straight handlebars (he likes them, I don't), and red bikes versus black bikes (we both prefer black bikes) and though I knew I was taking up a lot of his time (I'd been there for about an hour and a half by this point, asking questions, trying different bike), I also knew I'd make it worth his while, so I didn't feel rushed.

In fact, I still felt pretty stoked - I was getting my bike! Finally, I figured out exactly what I wanted, and Eric ordered my bike.

The one I'm getting is very similar to the one I showed a photo of yesterday, except mine will be black with some subtle (?) flashes of red. It should be ready for me to pick up sometime next week. Hopefully by Friday, because that's the next time I'll be down there (actually, Thursday, but not sure if I'll have time), with time on my hands for a ride.

Then we went around the store and picked out all the other stuff I wanted: helmet (can you believe I've never had a helmet? Also? I've never been in an accident on a bike, and I guess I've been really, really lucky, because a lot of people, including Eric, have told me how a helmet saved their life), lock, those brake things, a light. The only thing I didn't get was a bell! Damn! Anyway, Eric was looking out for me, because he didn't pick out things for me that were super expensive (when we were looking at helmets, he said, "I have a black one for you that will be awesome!" and he was right. It was awesome. In fact, I'm wearing it now).

He said the same thing when I was looking at lights (my neighborhood is so quiet and safe that I feel totally safe at night, except that I know people can't see me. Or maybe because I know people can't see me. anyway, it seemed like a good idea). Eric picked out the "awesomest" one for me. By this point we were laughing at things being "awesome" and "race-y." And I did get a cool light.

Seriously. I think I need to interact with more people. I may be Eric's newest, biggest fan. I wonder if he's on Facebook?

All in all, it was a satisfying purchase. I might exchange the bike lock for another one - the one I got, while definitely one of the smaller ones available, is kinda heavy, and I don't think I want to be dragging that thing around with me everywhere.

Now all I have to do is count the days until I can pick up my bike.

Until then, my head will be fully protected. I should've bought a helmet years ago.

Dreaming...

It has been so long since I rode a nice bike!

This may be the one I get.

Isn't it pretty? And black! like my heart!

From a NY Times Sunday Magazine article about high speed rail in California:

For the moment, it’s fair to assume that the high-speed-rail project will be a vivid, 10-year nightmare for many engineers and Californians. On the positive side, the start of construction — beginning, say, with all those grade crossings — will instantly create thousands of jobs, a considerable boost given the state’s double-digit unemployment rate. But it will disrupt dozens of communities and almost certainly raise the ire of many civic activists. If recent history is any lesson — and you might consider Boston’s “Big Dig” — the train will likely encounter cost overruns, delays and perhaps even tragic accidents and corruption. Antagonistic politicians and environmental lawsuits may drive its costs even higher. And through it all there will be a lingering question: Is demand strong enough to support the projected annual ridership between Los Angeles and San Francisco of about 54 million passengers by 2030? Quentin Kopp, the chairman of the rail authority, told me that he thinks the estimates are accurate. “But if we’re off on that,” he acknowledged, “then we won’t succeed.”

40 years ago it was easier to get to the moon with technology that didn't exist or wasn't intended to do what they wanted it to do than to figure out how to get California a high-speed rail to travel what, 400 miles? They're talking about the year 2030 in this paragraph, but talks and planning for high speed rail started 10 years ago.

When is too much too much?

I read something today on another blog I read (which shall remain nameless. And linkless) that bugged me.

This person has been blogging longer than I have. She has more than one blogging project. She gets paid to blog. I think she might be a bit of a minor celebrity, in the oh-so-exciting blogging world. Writing her daily blog is her job (along with raising her kids). Most of the time, I sit here reading her blog, I get a little jealous at how many comments she gets and the paid ads and product placement, and then I think a little more about what her content has become (mostly about her two kids; one has some kind of un-diagnosed, un-diagnosable learning disability/or something. When she isn't writing about the exploits of her kids, she's posting photos. Really, maybe it's charming, and I'm just a Scrooge), and I think, well, okay, there's obviously a market for this, but I am not it.

(Confusing? Yes. Sorry. Send me a check and I might sort that paragraph out a little better.)

Don't get me wrong: I like reading about other people's experiences about things that have nothing to do with me or my experiences. I'm just not so sure I love reading about your kids. Not that I'm not interested, it's just that I'm not sure how fair it is. And truthfully, this person writes many, many words about her kids. So maybe I'm not that interested. But then again, my friend Julie writes about her children but she keeps their names private and writes about them with a much lighter touch than the other person I'm talking about. Julie's kids have a level of privacy. I don't think the other person's kids do.

Yeah, yeah, they're not my kids; I don't need to be comfortable with it, but still. It bugs. Look, I get it: parenthood is rough. Write about it, I think that's great. But it feels a bit shameless and exploitative sometimes.

I am not trying to be overly critical. I don't know her. Maybe she does hold some things back, what do I know? She has two kids and a life and experiences that are foreign to me. She has a hell of a lot of readers. She may well be the Maureen Dowd of the Mommy-Blogging set (you know, I don't really know what I mean by that, except that Maureen Dowd is another one of those writers I don't really enjoy yet can't stop myself from reading).

(By the way, when I said "Maureen Dowd," I didn't mean, "alleged plagiarist." I just meant, someone who writes compellingly, but who irritates me most of the time.)

Today's post was about a particularly trying time she (the blogger. Not Maureen Dowd) had recently while running an errand with her kids and her pet. She wrote strongly and with a lot of detail about her patience level and about when it all, exactly, went to hell in a hand basket, and then what happened. Almost all of the comments were like, "sorry but this is really funny and you're such a good writer and you'll think so too after a glass of wine." While I can't argue with the idea that alcohol and laughter can cure most everything, I think maybe these people missed the point. Sure, she could chill. Maybe she overreacted. The writing wasn't that great. Nothing truly bad happened. But the detail, the level of, what's the word? spleen with which she described her kid and what happened, I don't know, man. It was too much.

Sure, it was justified, but I think maybe totally justified to feel. And to talk to her real friends and family about, maybe. But to describe her kid and his tantrum or whatever it was for the whole world, well, I'm not sure.

OK, so we all agree that this person is probably an Expert Blogger and if I had a kid and other things to write about besides music and my cats and my lack of motivation, maybe if I was lucky enough to do it as well as she does, I'd be just as popular, with a paycheck for this shit to boot. Maybe I should have a kid just to, you know, have some new content and increase my readership.

As someone who has written about personal things way too much to a much smaller audience, it makes me wonder. I'm only exposing myself and my own faults and foibles (and maybe those of my cats). I don't think I've written anything that would embarrass anyone else (Stewart Copeland? Are you embarrassed by anything I've written?), but it's definitely something to think about.

I enjoy writing this blog, and I try to do so intelligently (or at least, amusingly, or at least, barring that, slightly amusingly), and I'm sure I tell you more than you ever wanted to know about me... but I'm not a member of any club. I don't do this for money, or fame, or fortune. Why do I do it then? Dude: I do it to write about Stewart Copeland and hope that he somehow finds me and reads the ridiculous things I've written about him and the way I feel about him and then he decides to propose to me and whisk me away to Italy (um, okay, whisk me and Patrick away to Italy; if that's how it has to be, fine).

It's nice that she was honest, and felt comfortable telling this uncomfortable story. Her hardcore readers and fans will stand by her. And I may read her again. But for me, it's more of a warning. If her level of openness bothered even me, the tell-all girl, well, I need to be more careful. I would hate to have even one of you turn on me. Or if you do, I'd hate to know about it. I'll be watching your blogs.

(And now the word "blog" is really blothering me. Blech.)

From a NY Times article about the closing of a Virgin Megastore in NYC

“Unfortunately the large retail music store is a dinosaur,” said Tony Beliech, 39, a former Virgin employee who was lugging around an armful of CDs that he said would cost him no more than $20. “It does matter because it was also a social gathering space, and that’s one thing that buying music online lacks.”

Jesus, why does this keep happening? I used to love browsing Virgin and Tower (and Arons!), and making special trips to go to Hollywood where we would make fun of the fashion sense of the kids working there, while secretly wishing I worked someplace I could dress like that, and getting recommendations from those very same people. I also remember hanging out in the Santa Monica store on my lunch break when I worked at Rizzoli, stalking cute guys in the jazz section.

Ah: the good ol' days.

Is it really the consumer's fault that these stores close, or is it a combination of bad business and whatever (the economy, iTunes, illegal downloading...)? I know people blame stuff like this on the Internet, and maybe that is it, but: sad. I mean, we get screwed when places like this close, including all the bookstores I've ever worked in. Does New York City really need another Forever 21 (that's what they're building in the space)? Does any city need another Forever 21?

Then again, on our recent flight home from Washington, D.C. on Virgin America (and I have no idea if these are actually the same company; please don't look to me for your business commentary), when I realized that they were so freakin' money-grubbing that I'd have to buy my own (wildly overpriced) snack-size bag of Dorito's, and I wasn't offered the whole can of Diet Coke (Jet Blue, I love you), I thought, well, that's not endearing at all nor will I fly again (or will come armed with my own snack items and cans of soda, if I can sneak 'em past the TSA) unless the price is just too good to pass up.

So there you go. Because I was too cheap to buy an $8 bag of chips, a whole industry goes down in flames (perhaps not a good choice of words considering I was just talking about an airplane. My apologies).

...

OK, so another thing I've been doing is thinking about music I never used to think about. Patrick has been listening to a lot of Steely Dan lately. When he first started playing it in the car when I was riding with him, I have to admit that I let fly with some of my patented sarcastic comments (the lyrics to Deacon Blues are so ridiculous that I crack up every time I hear that song), but then the other night on our way to the movies, we listened to the song "Peg." "Peg" also has laughable lyrics, but musically, it's a really happy, fun song. We had a fun time singing along. It's one of those songs where I pay more attention to the actual music than the singing - the bass line is gorgeous. I watched, from VH1's Behind the Music on this album, the section about this song. I love those shows, because it's almost always totally cool to hear the musicians talk about how they came up their parts or what it was like. Rick Marotta came up with a pretty slick drum part, and hearing how the bass player snuck in some of his own ideas is fun. The two guys who are actually all that is really "Steely Dan" (Donald Fagen and the other guy) seem like perfectionists. Well, just like Captain Beefheart, James Brown and Lawrence Welk.

Also, Heart's song "Love Alive" is another forgotten (by me) song that I've become a bit obsessed with - it's one of those dynamic, pretty, rockin' songs that has cheesy lyrics ("baby I want you to roll me, hold me in your love, no more habits, promises and jive") but wow, the phrasing and the way Ann's voice fits with the guitar's rhythm is beautiful. And I kind of really love that whole middle section before the whole thing gets hard - before the "you're up there under the spotlight" section. And hey: there's flute in there, too. Also, Ann makes such good use out of words like "yeah." She really works it in so that it fits perfectly with the melody or whatever she's singing. I watched some of their old videos from the seventies over the weekend, and Michael DeRosier (the drummer for Heart in the 70s) was working a major beard. Guy was pretty cute back then. His kit was like, a snare, a bass drum, one tom, and a couple of kettle drums. Pretty cool.

These hundred year old songs, while not exactly what I like to readily admit to listening, are gems. And just to let you know that I haven't had a stroke or anything, the other things I've been listening to are The Veils, the Jesus Lizard, and Jeff Buckley.

God, please protect Finn Anderson from drowning, accidental overdose, or suicide. Thank you.

Nectarines in the night

Last night after I got home from Cristina's concert (which was lovely, by the way!), instead of going to bed, I sat on the couch and watched Food Network's show "Chopped" from 1o-11. I'm not crazy about this show but I do like Ted Allen (the host), and sometimes it's entertaining. I have to say that I'm getting a little tired of cooking challenge shows like this but I haven't been watching much TV lately and I think I just wanted to veg.

Patrick was still fixing that person's computer and was in the other room with all the cats.

(To be honest, I was hoping I might find a rerun of "She's Got The Look" or the new Bravo show with Isaac Mizrahi - I really like him!, or even "Top Chef Masters," but I didn't flip much and was lazy and just went straight to Food Network.)

At 10:30, I got up and went into the kitchen to look for some chips (I just bought some delicious baked Kettle chips last week) or something else crunchy (pita chips: yummy, but all gone) or even to make some popcorn (we're out, and I'm trying to give it a rest), but we didn't have anything. Perhaps I could've made some toast but I'm not even sure we have bread. We need to go to the store. So instead I ate a nectarine. I don't know what it is about nectarines; this is the second one I've had since buying them at Whole Foods last week, but my sleep since then has been totally screwed up.

Yes. I'm talking about two nectarines within the span of about 7 days, disturbing a grown woman's sleep pattern.

Here's what Wikipedia had to say:

The nectarine is a cultivar group of peach that has a smooth, fuzzless skin. Though fuzzy peaches and nectarines are commercially regarded as different fruits, with nectarines often erroneously believed to be a crossbreed between peaches and plums, or a "peach with a plum skin", they belong to the same species as peaches. Several genetic studies have concluded in fact that nectarines are created due to a recessive gene, whereas a fuzzy peach skin is dominant.[6] Nectarines have arisen many times from peach trees, often as bud sports.

As with peaches, nectarines can be white or yellow, and clingstone or freestone. On average, nectarines are slightly smaller and sweeter than peaches, but with much overlap.[6] The lack of skin fuzz can make nectarine skins appear more reddish than those of peaches, contributing to the fruit's plum-like appearance. The lack of down on nectarines' skin also means their skin is more easily bruised than peaches.

The history of the nectarine is unclear; the first recorded mention in English is from 1616,[7] but they had probably been grown much earlier within the native range of the Peach in central and eastern Asia.

Not very helpful in this instance, but I do like the words "fuzzy" and "peach" combined like that. Very cute. "Fuzzy peach" is one of those phrases that kind of makes you happy just saying it. Also, who knew that the "down" on a peach is what protects it from bruising? And "bud sports" is adorable. Seriously, how cute is that?

Anyway, I am glad I read that, because I slept poorly last night (Patrick says I was kicking him, but I don't remember doing that), and I was feeling blah today, but "fuzzy peach" is cheering me up a little.

Sunday

Today? Today I have nothin'.

Day-dreamy. A little sleepy. Lazy. The sun is out and that's different from yesterday, which was overcast and cold. Today it's sunny blue skies and breezy. It's how I feel, too.

We went to Baja Sonora for lunch today, and I had a Negra Modelo with my burrito. Both were delicious. The beer could be contributing to my lack of motivation. Currently I am consolidating my iTunes folder ("This Cannot Be Undone!") and am about to embark on backing up my iTunes library. I just got up from a nap I was taking out on the swing in the backyard (I woke up because Patrick was testing out his new double bass drum pedal. Killer calves, here he comes!). He warned me so interrupting my nap wasn't a big deal, but now I feel like I should be more productive... and I'm not.

Later on, I'm going to drive up to Westwood to see and hear my friend Cristina, who is singing in a concert. I'm excited - this is the first concert of hers that I've been able to go to. Patrick is staying home to repair someone's computer (and yes, to watch the Laker game, about which I don't really care. Sorry, everyone) that's been taking up space in our living room for a couple of weeks now. I don't know what's wrong with it.

Last night we went to see the movie "Moon," which was directed by Duncan Jones, AKA, Zowie Bowie. Yes, David Bowie's kid is a filmmaker. It was an okay movie - we love sci fi movies, and Sam Rockwell was terrific, but there were definitely things in the story that didn't make any sense. I hate to spoil it for anybody else, and we did really enjoy it, but just now, thinking about it, there are some things that are bothering me.

Also, Trudie Styler, Sting's wife was the producer, a fact which I found interesting. It's the first movie of hers that I've seen - in fact, I haven't seen anything she's been associated with (including the episode of Friends she was on), though I have "A Guide To Recognizing Your Saints" in my Netflix queue. It doesn't mean anything, that it was Trudie, I just happened to notice her name in the credits.

Ah.

So it's going to take another 48 minutes for my backup to be complete. I don't have to go anywhere for at least 2.5 hours. I could do some laundry, or practice, or straighten up the bathroom... there are lots of things I could be doing, instead of sitting here watching the status of my backup.

45 minutes and counting.

There's no place like...

the Smithsonian.

Hula with Stew(art)

Here's the You Tube video I was talking about. It appears to only be 3 minutes long and not 15 like I thought. Huh. There's something obviously wrong with space and time tonight.

Washington D.C. photos!

A girl and a hat

Test slideshow using old, old, old Rizzoli photos

Full-on D.C. photos coming soon.

We're home.

We're home, and it's 11 a.m. and Patrick is still sleeping.

Last night and the night before we both had strange dreams (mine on Sunday: my [deceased] grandma was advising me to plant purple flowers in the yard of a house that was our house in the dream but is not our house in real life. Is this a "you should have a baby" dream, or what?), and Patrick didn't get very much sleep the night before, so him still sleeping is fine. "Him still sleeping" sounds vaguely cave-woman.

Today my plans involve, now that I'm awake too:

• perhaps popcorn for breakfast
  
• uploading all our pictures
• a pedicure
• lunch or dinner at Souplantation (depending on when Patrick wakes up)
  
• practicing
• reading
  
• laundry
• possibly scoping out a new bike.
  

But sssh, don't tell Sleeping Beauty (a.k.a. Patrick) about that last one.

Multimedia message

We survived the longest, dullest flight ever. Virgin America: where everything is for sale. And WHAT? No food? And No Food TV?!

Five Guys...

if it's good enough for the President...

On our way home -

We're leaving now! Patrick just checked us out and is standing behind me with our luggage.

See you in Long Beach!

Success!

Second bus.

this better be some good falafel.

Update added later:

While doing research for this trip, we both came across rave reviews for Amsterdam Falafel. Not really knowing exactly where it was (nor, apparently, bothering to consult a map) we got it into our heads that we wanted to go there once we were in town. Arriving on Friday, we kind of got a bit obsessive about it. Well, I did. Learning that it was not an easy Metro ride from our hotel, we sort of abandoned the idea, but by Sunday, I was a little tired of shuttling everywhere underground on the (beautifully maintained and easily navigated and affordable and lovely but UNDERGROUND) Metro, and I was ready to ride a bus or hail a cab or rent a pedi-cab or do anything but go somewhere easily accessible by the Metro.

So today, after doing most of the things we said we wanted to do, while sitting in Union Station (resting our feet and snacking on Godiva chocolate... do we know how to live it up or what?), I picked up my cell phone and called the place, asked the very friendly guy who answered how to get there via public transportation, was told exactly which two buses to take and how far to walk, and we set off.

Friday and Saturday were mostly rainy days - not very hard rains, but steady. We spent most of our time on Friday in the Smithsonian, and Saturday was spent in museums as well, but walking between, and we were tired of rain. And our feet were tired. Today was very hot, and the humidity was high (we were sweaty all day), and like I said, our feet were tired. But, with new springs in our steps (powered by thoughts of falafel, which, truth be told, we don't eat very often while in LA) we hopped on those two buses and walked about four blocks, and met the very dude who gave me those perfect directions. He was super-nice. You know what he wanted to know when he found out we were from LA?

He wanted to know if we ever go to In N Out Burger.

On the Circulator Bus, heading towards Adams-Morgan, looking for Amsterdam Falafel.

falafel, here we come.

(The following momment added later:

If you should click on this photo and make it full-size, let me just state right now that neither one of us has the amount of whiteheads and pimpular eruptions that my cameraphone appears to have added to our faces. I have no idea what the hell is going on but believe me, while our skin ain't perfect, it's also not that bad. I suspect that a comment I made about Ronald Reagan while we were visiting Union Station may have been overheard and some overzealous undercover agent [possibly the woman who directed us to the proper Circulator bus stop], hit my phone with some sort of secret agent malicious software that makes it look like you've got a face full of zits when clearly you do not.)

Sunday

Union Station ceiling.

Saturday in D.C.

Today we did lots of stuff, and it all included a ton of walking.
Our feet hurt. Mine feel like two pieces of bread. Two very flat, throbbing pieces of bread.

We went to the Arlington National Cemetery (where we heard the Netherlands Carillon and saw the changing of the guard at the tomb of the unknown soldiers and the Iwo Jima memorial), we walked over the river back into D.C., we saw the Lincoln Memorial and Washington Monuments again, we saw the Vietnam and Korean War Memorials, I bought a hot dog on the street, we rode the Metro many times and I messed up my card with $9.75 remaining and got to talk with the station manager guy, we ate a delicious dinner at an unexpected place (Gordon Biersch; who knew?), I unknowingly flirted with the waiter (Patrick claims I was, I don't think I was, but he did look like Rick Bayless...) and scored Patrick a free coffee.

Various words and phrases overheard on this trip:

Patrick: Excellent. [In response to most everything, including the news that his coffee would be free.]

Irene: I did not come all the way to Washington, D.C. to jay walk.

Patrick: Which way do we want? New Carrollton or Vienna?
Irene: Vienna?
Patrick: NO.

Tomorrow our plans involve finding this falafel restaurant I read about online called New Amsterdam Falafel (or something like that) and a bunch of museums and various other places we didn't manage to hit today (my feet are wondering: where didn't we go to today?).

We're having a fun time. Today was super long and, as I said, involved lots of walking, but now we are back in our hotel and getting ready to veg. The hotel is fine (we're at the Hilton, in Arlington, VA) and our room is nothing special, however, it's very clean, and our bed (a king) is most comfortable, so I will bid you adieu and go up to join Patrick.

Excellent!

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Finally here!

At the tomb of the unknown soldiers

The guard just requested silence, and got it. That bayonet isn't just decoration. Respect is beautiful.

Netherlands Carillon

Waiting for the 12 o'clock concert. 50 bells!

The Capitol

Me!

Patrick rides the D.C. metro.

You can't really tell from this picture, but Patrick is totally soaked. It rained quite nicely on us tonight. By the way, our Metro stop is Ballston. Come on. You know that's funny.

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At the foot of Lincoln.

Photo taken somewhere over the U.S.

we flew like birds.

Washington, D.C.: Pre-Flight

Patrick and I are sitting in the airport. We’re a little earlier than we needed to be, since we’re flying out of Long Beach, but that’s the time our ride could make it, and we don’t mind. We’re eager to be on our way!

I’m reading Gene Cernan’s memoir, “Last Man On the Moon,” and Patrick is trying to stay awake. We’re both people watching. LB Airport is so easy.

My allergies are pretty bad today, so I have pockets full of tissue. I brought allergy medicine but unfortunately packed it in my luggage, which has already been checked. So I bought a single tab of Claritan at the snack counter. And a huge bottle of water. Patrick seems to think the water was a mistake. We'll see.

This morning, Patrick removed the cool clear doors from the kitty litter boxes. Apparently he found a large turd on the floor. One of the cats was confused by the doors. Oh, my kitties are geniuses. Can't wait to see what they get up to while we're gone. We always talk about setting up a webcam but forgot about it. Ah, well. Next time.

I'm just glad the weather seems a little better than yesterday.

Now, we wait.

More later, maybe from the sky!

On the eve of my trip to Washington, D.C.:

• I'm still doing laundry.
• I'm nowhere near being done packing.
• I have to get up very early to catch an early flight.
  
• I'm getting the funky dry lip thing I get every once in awhile (and no. It is not herpes, it just gets a little irritated and ugly). Lovely. It will be in all the photos we take in D.C.!
  
• I somehow managed to scratch my right eyelid today. It's not as noticeable but still kinda icky.
  
• I still have a slightly sore throat.
• I sneezed so much at work a man in the office next door said "Bless you."
  
• We had delicious, yummy Thai food from a new restaurant in the neighborhood and all's fine but my tummy is slightly upset now.
• We bought the cats two new litter boxes, and they have clear plastic doors. Franny manages to go in, but when she's ready to come out, will stand inside patting the door with her paw until one of her claws gets stuck. Then she just stands there, motionless. Eventually she figures it out but man is it funny. Bo (the catsitter) is gonna love that.
• I still have to finish laundry (one more load) and packing. Shit. Got to go. <--Stole that line from "The School For Wives."

Washington, D.C.

I've mentioned our trip to Washington, D.C. already (we leave tomorrow), and somebody asked me why we're going.

We're going for fun.

Today I woke up with a headache and a sore throat, which serves me right, and I'm really worried that I'm going to be sick on this trip.

Now I go to get ready for work, where I will wrap up all my loose ends (work-wise, anyway), and write next week's wellness article. Woo-hoo. Then home to finish up laundry, cleaning, and packing, and hopefully sleeping. Since we're there such a short amount of time, we know we'll be cramming a lot of stuff in each day. We're coming back Monday, but I've also requested Tuesday off. I will rest Tuesday.

I always worry a little about flying, too, but I'm not going to think about it just yet.

Oh, and a word about all the sideways photos on my blog recently: I haven't been taking the time, as I usually do, to re-format my cellphone photos. It's no big deal but I haven't done it. So my apologies if you've been craning your heads to the left. I'll fix it when we get back.

Now. It would be nice to be on time at least once this week to work, so I go now.

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These shoes are not made for walking.

This week's self-portrait.

Bake N Broil, bathroom.

Purple!

I can't sleep

Last night was the special performance and highly successful taping of The School For Wives, and while attendance was light, I think it might've been one of the best shows yet. I started writing something midway through about how I felt about watching the words of the show trickle by my fingers (because much like John in A Prayer for Owen Meany, I have to keep track on my script with my hand or else I lose my place; I don't have to do this when I'm reading normally but it helps during the plays when I'm working) knowing that each word spoken was one more word closer to the end of this lovely experience (I don't think I originally used the words "lovely experience"). After the show we had a little potluck, and for me, the highlights were joking around with Paul about NPR, Troy's pumpernickel bread, Charles cutting himself (that was sanctified wine we were drinking) and Christian's book pitch. Also, discussing rehearsing "The Emperor and the Bird of Paradise" with David was good, because July is fast approaching. I've got most of the notes but we'll need to do it in the same room a few times, I'm sure. Oh, and accidentally agreeing with Jessica about my pretty face - I couldn't hear her. Bo was a little tipsier than I was (not much, I think we were both pretty sober), and after he professed his love for almost all the ladies (and a few of the men) in the house, we finally got on our way home.

I am going to miss those people and that show. There will ll be other shows, I know, and I'll see all of them again, but still... shows end. It's bittersweet.

Anyway, it's 5 a.m. and I left that piece of paper in the car, but it doesn't matter because if I looked at it now I wouldn't be able to read it, as I left my glasses on the bedside table and am typing this by touch.

After dropping off Bo last night, I remembered why I don't drink champagne (I had one small glass, in fact, small is too big of a word, it was a tiny amount, less than you would gargle, if it had been, say, Listerine) - I had a terrible headache. I drove off with more Corrosion of Conformity (I'm obsessed, a little) blaring (I think the song was "Doublewide" for those of you keeping track), and if you've been in Bo's neighborhood, you know that worse things than COC have been heard at midnight on that street. It helped with the headache, believe it or not. I came home, Patrick was still awake, and we talked a bit about our separate nights, and then we went to sleep. I slept until about 4:15.

I've been up since then, knowing that at 5 my alarm would go off and I would need to get up and wake up and take a shower and get ready for work, but you know what?

I still have that headache.

So instead, I am going to finish this, go back to bed, and when I wake up, hopefully much later, start getting ready for our trip, which means: laundry, cleaning up for Bo the catsitter (these cats love him like he loves his friends at City Garage), and walking to the library, and possibly, Souplantation.

Typing without seeing (the forgotten Jamiroquai album) is harder than you'd think so I'm going to do the number 1 item on that to-do list.

Just thinking about the weather

The Washington, D.C. weather forecast includes the following information (these are the days I'll be there!):

Thursday, June 4 High 64 / Low 59 Showers
Friday, June 5 High 72 / Low 60 Few showers
Saturday, June 6 High 80 / Low 64 Partly cloudy
Sunday, June 7 High 84 / Low 67 Partly cloudy
Monday, June 8 High 84 / Low 67 Isolated thunderstorms

I hope the "few showers" predicted doesn't screw up my plans to see the Marine Corp band perform on Friday night!

Sunday

Today I'm doing a bit of running around... I'll be performing at a recital later with Judy, Tim and Patty. We go on last, so hopefully the timing will be right - I need to get out of there by 4:30 to be in SM to run the last public performing of The School For Wives. And if we're running late, I'll hate to be worried about the time while I'm supposed to be thinking about playing. Patrick has nicely agreed to drive me so he will just drop me off in Santa Monica so I don't need to stress about parking.

In case you didn't catch it up there in the first paragraph... tonight is the last performance of The School For Wives (well, not really, but it's the last one you can see. We're videotaping tomorrow night but not selling tickets for that performance).

As always: bittersweet. Perhaps a little more so because while I have really liked every show I've been involved with at City Garage, this one was my favorite. And last night's show was, I thought, particularly fun, which makes it all the harder to think about it being over.

Last night I carpooled with Bo, and he drove for a change, which is always nice. On the way home, it was after 11 p.m., I had him drop me off a couple of blocks from the house. We did this last time he took me home, so I could walk the rest of the way. I've been doing a little bit of complaining about our neighborhood - how we live way the hell out in suburbia, far from my family and friends, how boring it is out here, how much I wish we could move back to LA, how I don't know anyone here - but one thing I really appreciate is how safe I feel, even at 11 o'clock at night, just strolling along in flip flops. One of the neighbors was having a little party (these are the good neighbors, across the street) and as I walked down my street, I heard them on the driveway, hanging out and laughing, and I sort of wish they'd seen me and invited me over for a beer (or, if it was Melissa's party, Melissa makes killer margaritas). But they didn't, and that's fine, too.

Today it's sort of gray, and though I stayed up late (Patrick went to see a band, and didn't get home until 1 p.m.; I can't sleep until he gets home, and I had eaten fairly late, after the show, with Bo, so I was pretty wired) I got up at 8:30 to do some laundry and hang out with Puma in the back yard. Then it got too cold, so I came in to write this - exciting, no? - and now I'm considering putting away my laundry, taking a shower, and warming up for the recital. Maybe I'll work on The Emperor and the Bird of Paradise a little.

Or maybe I'll just go back to bed and catch a little nap before it's time to get ready to go.

Friday I'm in love

I have been having the raddest Fridays lately. Also, I have used this Cure song as a title before.

My workdays have been long and hard and traffic has sucked more than usual and commuting way the hell into East LA has been aggravating at best but because I work a 10 hour day, I get every Friday off.

There's no question that this is a huge benefit.

So, what have I been doing that's so rad, you ask? (Didn't you? I thought I heard a question... you in the back? No?) For the past 3 weeks, I've been taking a spinning-type class at my gym (24 Hour Fitness calls it "24 Cycling" or something like that; maybe it's a copyright issue - also, I read somewhere that spinning classes sometimes use video screens and my class doesn't do that). It's hard! It's fun! I love it! Last week, actually, after the class, I had such a good time I wanted to do it again, right away (I didn't). Today I didn't have quite the same euphoric reaction but I did stand up.

Twice, in fact.

For about 2 seconds each time, with an instant case of burning thighs, yes, but I did it. So. Maybe incrementally if I add a few seconds each week, soon (2025) will be hitting it like all the other people in my class.

Last week I was on a bike next to this woman who was really nice and helpful to me with my bike. She was a yeller - she said "Woo-hoo!" and stuff like that. I liked her, she had a great attitude. Also she looks wonderful. If this is what spinning/cycling does for you, sign me up. This week, I didn't know anybody in the class (my sister-in-law is out of town this week, but she's been there the first two times I went), so when I got the bike next to that lady again, I was pretty happy about it, even though it wasn't in the back row, like I wanted. Anyway, before class, I introduced myself to her, and found out her name is Vivian (I love that name, it's just as old-fashioned as my own - wasn't it Julia Roberts' name in Pretty Woman?). I asked her some questions and she was helpful.

Anyway, today I walked on the treadmill for 25 minutes right before the class, and I think either it was too long or I should time it better so I have more than 5 minutes to rest, because I was really tired. I kept reminding myself how much I love the cycling class, especially when I thought I was gonna puke - and it's true: it is so much fun! - but I definitely struggled a bit more today.

Anyway, after that I came home and weighed myself (I am on Weight Watchers again... weighing myself is a lot easier thanks to the Wii), and I lost 2 pounds! Rad. What makes this particularly wonderful is while I was good about tracking my points, I went over my allotted points (significantly). So now I know that if I really work hard, I can lose.

I mean, that seems like an obvious statement, no?

I'm slow sometimes.

So imagine the leaps and bounds I can make if I exercise and eat right. God, it's so simple, you'd think more people would do it.

[Ha ha, Irene.]

Anyway, the other things I've been doing on Fridays are rehearsing with Patty, Tim and Judy for their upcoming flute recital (it's this Sunday!), and we did that again today. I was a little late, because I had a facial before with an old schoolmate, Anna.

We've known each other I guess since Middle School, but weren't close. Because of the proximity of our last names, though, we were often paired up or seated next to each other. We totally ran with different crowds (and I found out today that her crowd was definitely having more fun, and on a regular basis, than my own). I found out through Facebook that she's an esthetician and she contacted me about a facial and getting my eyebrows done. She did a great job, and it was conveniently located near Patty's house. The other thing that was really cool about seeing her after all these years is finding out how down-to-earth she is. We talked about the past mostly, and our lives, and how she sort of went through the same thing I've been thinking about (change!) and did all that herself a few years ago. I love meeting people who are unafraid to do what they want to do instead of sticking it out doing what's safe. She was inspiring.

I was only a little embarrassed by my obviously pimply face. Oh, well.
Looks great now, though.

After that, flute quartets, which went fine, but I found myself getting a huge headache during the last 20 minutes. On the drive home, I realized that I hadn't eaten anything since about 10:30, when I came home from the gym and scarfed a bowl of Special K (and left the milk out on the counter, as I discovered when I finally got home at 6), and traffic and being hungry was no help. So I treated myself to Souplantation, where I pigged out on all my favorite veggies, plus this yummy yam soup they have now (4 points per cup, good to know, would've been better to know beforehand). 18 points for my late lunch/early dinner, which really isn't bad, considering the amount of food I ate. Came home, kissed Patrick, and have been contemplating either vacuuming or watching TV. Maybe I'll do both.

Oh! And the COOLEST thing about today? Next Friday we'll be in Washington, D.C.!

Here's to the lovely start of what will hopefully be an even lovelier weekend.

Closing weekend

This upcoming weekend (May 30-31) is your final chance to see Moliere's "The School For Wives" playing at City Garage Theater.

So I suggest you get on the telephone and call to make your reservation for Saturday night. Tickets for Saturday night are $20.

No reservations for Sunday; the box office opens at 4:30. Sunday tickets are pay-what-you-can. The theater is located in the alley between Third and Fourth Streets, and between Santa Monica Boulevard and Arizona.

City Garage
1340½ Fourth Street (alley entrance)
Santa Monica, CA
(310) 319-9939

And as always, I'll be in the booth. Don't forget to say hi. I really love it when you do that.

Dear Captains of Industry:

It seems like such a little thing, but one of my pet peeves is crappy parking lot design. I never really paid much attention to it until Patrick and I moved to Long Beach and started visiting the Long Beach Town Center.

For those of you who don't live in Long Beach or have no reason to visit, the Town Center (and it might be Towne Center, but fuck that extraneous e) is an outdoor mall located on Carson Blvd., just off the 605 freeway. I'm not a big fan of outside malls unless they have underground or a separate parking structure. Sure, being outside is nice but I don't want to play a game of Frogger every time I decide to go to another store. It's one of those malls where you park your car, and then walk through the parking lot to get to whichever store you're visiting. I mean, that sounds like every mall, no? Except there are stores on both sides of the parking lot. So you have to plan your shopping very carefully. You have no option: you must walk through the parking lot. Sometimes you have to cross the main path that cars drive on to enter the parking lot, which: good luck. If you're at Island's or the movie theater, and you decide you want to go to Barnes and Noble or Old Navy (or Staples, or Lowe's, or San's Club), you have to cross the parking lot again, subjecting yourself to a) a long walk, and b) the dangers of walking in traffic. (Or, as I've seen some people do, you can just go back to your car and drive to the other side of the mall: a perfectly easy, walkable distance, were it not for the speeding cars everywhere). There is no path for pedestrians. It's just stupid planning. The parking lot shouldn't be the focus of a mall! Yet at this mall, all you see is cars. And people dodging them.

There are other times when this lack of consideration for the pedestrian has frustrated me (as a pedestrian, I mean; as a driver, well, I only notice if some moron on foot is weaving all over the parking lot, looking for a long-lost vehicle), and I'm sure I've mentioned it before, and will again, but I really think they ("they!" I mean YOU, all the architects and landscape designers and parking lot engineers who read this blog!) should take more care and plan it better.

I also think they should abolish the "compact" car spaces. There's always some jerk in a Suburban who squeezes into these spots and ruins it for the rest of us.

Fine. Rant over.

From a NY Times Magazine article about what Bill Clinton is up to these days:

Hillary Clinton, who declined to comment for this article, recently told Mark Landler of The Times that her husband is careful to give her space but can be a useful source of information. “He just knows a lot and he knows everybody,” she said. “He has a broad-gauge understanding of issues and personalities, so he’s always value-added.”

Value-added! This cracks me up. It's like buying a Snuggie from the band Weezer, with their logo on it (called, logically, a "Wuggie"). Advertise your not-so quick sucker reactions along with your questionable taste in music by wearing your Wuggie in public!

Wait. It's not like that at all.

POWER OUTAGE IN EAST LA FOR OVER AN HOUR. WHEN DO THEY SEND US HOME? MOTHERFUCKERS.

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I Tan Easily, or, Where The Hell Is My Watch

I have a lot of thoughts in my head this Monday Tuesday morning (that extra day off is confusing me), and instead of a long boring narrative, will attempt to sum up for you in a few bulletpoints what's going on:

A) On Saturday night I had a dream that someone I haven't spoken to in about 2 years called me and requested that I make him/her a PDF out of a Word document he/she was about to mail to me. In real life, the computer skills of this person surpass mine, and are on par with Patrick's (read: the two of them could rule the world if they worked together, which, ha! Would never, ever happen so long as one of them is in a relationship with me), and so the request for my skills with Adobe Acrobat Professional is puzzling. What does this mean? Dreams are so weird.

B) Patrick and I saw the movie "Night At the Museum - Battle Of the Smithsonian" this weekend. While I'm not a huge fan of Ben Stiller, I thought it was a cute movie. And the schlocky message (do what you love! protect your friends! DO WHAT YOU LOVE!) actually struck a chord with me. Also, we're trying to figure out how many parts of the Smithsonian we will have time to visit on our trip in two weeks to D.C. and the movie seemed like a fun way to see bits and pieces of it. Absolutely we are visiting Air & Space. I plan on specifically seeking out the stuffed astronaut "Abel." Also Ham, if they have him. Ah, now the whole "monkeys in space" thing makes sense, no? Yikes! I want to fly the Wright Bros. plane across the mall! Wouldn't that be a TERRIFIC theme park ride?

C) Even though I said I would never do it, I re-joined Weight Watchers. I'm doing it online again. I'm in the first week, and I did this last time: I am using this week to basically eat just about the same things I would eat were I not calculating the points values. And adding it all up. Next week I will make some changes. I was shocked to see that the last time I was online with Weight Watchers was 2006. About the same time I spoke with the person mentioned in item A, above. And at that time? I weighed 10 pounds less than I do now. Without the gym! Anyway, the first thing I did online at Weight Watchers was read an article on Self Talk.

B) + C) = Talk about schlocky. Along with the message from Ben Stiller's movie, evaluating my "self talk habits" also embarrassed me with its brilliant timeliness in regards to my own situation. There was a line in the article about how we say things to ourselves that we would never say to anybody else, and how these things collectively chew away at our self-respect.

This sounded familiar and ridiculous all at the same time.

D) Over the weekend, Patrick and I discussed my job and how I feel about it. Right now I am lucky indeed to have a job, so I like it okay. It pays very well. I am contributing mightily to our household funds. I mean, but, I'm an administrative assistant. I am not solving the world's problems. I am not solving my section's problems. It's not too hard and it's not super stressful (unlike my last job). But damn. Is this it? I know two people who right now are working toward either a degree or some sort of certification, and both of them are getting straight A's. One of them (my age) has a family and works. The other one (the older one) was laid off and yet is managing to pay her mortgage on a single income (her spouse, by the way, works in retail). I don't want to work in retail. I always talked about hating school. Was I just saying that or is it how I really felt (because I have a habit of hiding my real feelings behind disregard)? Is it because I am seeing the cute graduation pictures of my friends on their Facebook pages (people my age, older, and then the typical high-achieving high schoolers of whom I am proud! Go Katie!) and I'm a little jealous? Or maybe I really just wasn't very good at it and I was being honest for a change. I don't know if I want to go back to school (I say "go back" as if the things I accomplished at SMC and West LA College were actually "accomplishments" to which I could go back). But... I need a change, I need a change, I need a change, I need a change. I know I wrote that whole long thing about flute playing the other day...

I need a change.

When Patrick and I were walking out of the movie theater this weekend, I thought, even if I took a class (in what?), what then? Would I have the energy to devote to it? Would it take away from my extra-curricular activities (flute choir, where I am sort of under-utilized; City Garage, where I work for free and for social interaction; my TV watching and internet surfing habits would also be jeopardized)? What do I love? How do you people figure this out? And why am I so fucking old now?

I can tell you this much: I do not love getting up at 5 a.m. to go to a job where I have to repeatedly explain to my co-workers how to scan a document, make it into a goddamn PDF and email it to somebody.

Oh! I think I just figured out A).

A full day, and Mary

I walked past this wall with these lovely purple flowers on my walk today. Pretty, no?

What a fun but busy day. Got up early for my second ever spinning class at the gym. I think I've found the thing I really like. Today I was between two ladies I didn't know. I remembered both of them from last week - one was this tall thin blond with her hair all piled up on top of her head and the other was a totally fit lady of indeterminate age (she could've been anywhere from 35 to 55). They were both incredible spinners and super-nice, and while I still am not standing up, I had a good time. It's not easy, even at my beginner pace, that class, and I was totally watching the clock during the last 15, 20 minutes (my butt was, and is, totally sore) but I still worked really hard and felt good about it afterward.

After the class I went home, played with my MP3s (Patrick had to reinstall everything last week and disinfect our computer due to a virus incident, and when he did that, and restored my iTunes folder, many things were somehow duplicated and/or added that shouldn't have been... and you know how I feel about having a neat iTunes folder) for awhile, hopped in the shower, and then walked up to Lakewood for lunch with Andrea, which was perfectly fun and filling as usual. Then I took the bus to my chiro appointment, and while I sat waiting for the bus, I made a new friend.

Her name is Mary. She lives in Naples. She's approximately 54 years old (she told me several deeply personal things during our conversation, and one was that she was married at 17 to a man from whom she is now divorced. She mentioned that she called him last week on what would've been her 27th wedding anniversary. See how good my math is?). She was, despite being really, really talkative, very sweet, and I actually enjoyed riding with her all the way down Bellflower Blvd. to my appointment. At one point, after she had told me about her ex-boyfriend (now best friend, with whom she lives), Oscar, and her fear of bees (she mentioned bees three or four times), how she grew up on Catalina Island, her son, and her daughter who looks like Brooke Shields and is now in the navy - she said to me, "I don't usually talk this much but I like talking to you! Tell me something!" But I just told her that I too had once been to France (she had just told me about her trip to France to visit her daughter), and kept listening.

Usually I am not this companionable with strangers, but I was in a very good mood today. I think it was all the exercise.

Now, imagine if I were thinner, what a great mood I'd be in then!

Later, Patrick and I are going to see the band Carnage Asada at the Doll Hut in Anaheim. The bass player, Dave Jones, was in Magnolia Thunderpussy (and was our real estate agent when we bought our house!), and one of the other members, Dave Travis, has also played with Patrick. Cool guys, great band, and I'll be excited to get out with Patrick to see them.

Now I think I might go read something and hang out for awhile. I'm looking forward to a nice long weekend full of... reading and hanging out. More later.

Heart full of cavities - updated

The other night I had a strange conversation.

A woman I know had a mistaken idea about me, and she told me about it. The problem is not that she said anything, but that I kind of liked it (her wrongness may have been encouraged by my actions; in other words, I'm not really surprised that she came to this conconclusion). It was awkward because I flitted between the "right" response (disabusing her of her incorrect notion in the shocked manner of someone with morals) and the "wrong" response (being flattered and not-so-secretly pleased). This was confusing for her, too, no doubt.

The whole night, in other conversations, I made the mistake of being too confessional, too self-deprecating, and too personal. Saying everything, I'm finding out, doesn't make me feel better. I don't know when to shut up sometimes. More on this, but let's go back in time to Friday for a minute:

On Friday, I had a rehearsal with Patty and two of her students. We're playing a quartet for her next students' recital, which is coming up at the end of May. I'm not her student anymore (so I'm not playing a solo; maybe if I was, the whole rest of this post could've been avoided), but she has enlisted me to help support her students, and I can't resist. These particular students are fun to play with: they're good players, and one of them is really taking big steps with his flute playing. The other one sounds beautiful when she lets herself go. That's so fun to see (and hear)! And I always love playing with Patty, who brings me closer to her level, or lets me tag along for the ride, anyway. I like the piece we chose (by Catherine McMichael, it's called "Falconer"), and I'm playing flute 2. In the 3rd movement, the slow, pretty movement, I get the melody for 8 bars. The melody happens to be lovely. For one second (ah, maybe about 30 seconds) during one of our many run-throughs, my playing matched.

This music is not technically difficult (Catherine McMichael considers it "upper intermediate" level); I've learned harder music, and have played it well. I don't need to ask anybody or verify this with the experts, it's not one of those things I've never done but have convinced myself in daydreams that I could do if I just tried. When I practice, I know I can sound beautiful on a consistent basis. I know this, but I rarely do it.

It's not hard like running or taking a class at the gym. I'm not embarrassed by my skill on the flute. Nobody cares how fat the flute player is, or how fat she thinks she is. It is something that I could consistently succeed at, and I don't do it.

But what I meant to say about those 8 bars, that 20, 30 seconds of music, was that I heard how pretty it sounded, with the other flutists supporting that part, and I got a little emotional. I realized that I miss that. Without music, I'm just a big throbbing vein of too much information. My writing is not good enough to do that whole hide/reveal thing in a way that's compelling. I always say too much, even in emails. I don't know when to shut up.

So Sunday night, I'm sitting there drinking my yummy Fat Tire beers, and I mentioned to the aforementioned totally interesting yet wrongheaded woman (wrongheaded only about this one thing...) about how I admire how other musicians (my husband, for example) can improvise and make stuff up, and how she and the other actors can get on stage and do what they do, and how scary that would be to me, and then I expressed a seemingly contradictory desire to be involved (with my flute) in one of the potential upcoming shows at City Garage. Then, my friend David and I were talking about The Emperor and the Bird of Paradise, a piece for solo flute and narrator that I've been working on forever. And he reminded me that he would be interested in taking a look at it and possibly working it up for a workshop or something. Even though we've discussed this before, I'm starting to feel a little bit of urgency about it, and when we were talking about it, I felt like maybe it won't happen, maybe I won't get a chance. So what the fuck am I waiting for?

And right then (granted, with two beers and very little food in me... my food intake on Sunday consisted of pocorn for breakfast, small fries and a chocolate shake for lunch), talking to David about performing something (anything) for City Garage members, I felt a very strange feeling:

I felt my heart well up a little, like it did on Friday during "Aire of the Falconer." It was very brittle and the opposite of shatterproof (I believe that word is also "brittle"). I pictured it doing that - swelling, breaking, blowing apart like those Harold Edgerton photos of apples being pierced by bullets, glass from my cold apple heart all over the place, and I think that's why I don't do anything about it.

...

I just gave David the "go" to do whatever it is he has to do to schedule this for a workshop, if okay with the powers that be at City Garage.

Nervous, now.

Corvette!

Last week my job had a classic car show and root beer float party for us. One of my co-workers brought in this gorgeous 1963 Corvette. Pretty, no?

Look sharp!

Tonight I admitted to someone's suspicions about me, talked freely about my insecurities, made a passing remark about my familiarity with the concept of self-loathing, and somehow managed to leave my credit card at a bar.

Happy birthday, Pauly. In 45 minutes you will be one year older than you are now, and though you're a couple of years younger, you'll always be wiser than me.

To bed, now, for me. I have to be in Descanso Gardens for an 8 a.m. meeting tomorrow, and I need to be sharp.

(That's a joke.)

Spin!

I tried spinning today at the gym.

It was hard, but fun. I will definitely keep doing it. I couldn't really stand up - I can see that's going to take awhile - but I kept up (while seated), and only had to stop at the very end to take a little break, and I started pedalling again after.

Here's the deal. I'm not that experienced with taking classes at the gym (remember my short-lived kick boxing phase?), so maybe you just get used to it, but it embarrasses me when the teacher praises me. Totally knocks me out when some woman wearing a Britney Spears cordless mic is all, "You're doing great! Keep it up!"

My sister-in-law, who was on the bike next to me probably didn't notice, but when the teacher goes, "You can do it! You know what you're capable of!" I actually got a little teary-eyed. Teary-eyed. Jesus, I'm a pussy.

Of course she didn't notice because I was sweating like a PIG, but I don't know if I like thinking about my capabilities. I don't like it. It upsets me. It disturbs my slacker tendencies and I don't like that.

Then again, maybe I'm just hormonal today.
It's certainly possible.

Anyway, I think next time I'll just keep watching everyone around me, keep pushing myself, ignore the inspirational sayings (maybe I need someone to yell at me, like a drill sergant? No, I don't think I'd like that, either) or take it less seriously, and maybe by this time next year I'll be wearing shorts again.

Get smart

The lights in the hall outside my office door are strategically lit. They do it for energy conservation, I think. About every other bank of lights (if "bank" is indeed the right word; there is maybe 20 feet between them) is turned off. It's fine, you can see clear enough, and certainly it's not a safety hazard (working in the safety office, I guess I would know).

When I step outside my office door into that hall, I am always reminded of the opening sequence of that old show "Get Smart" (not the movie; I love Steve Carrell, but I didn't see it). I'm not sure where the picture from the left is from - this isn't the hall from the TV show, I don't think, and it's certainly not my hall (the title of the web page I hurriedly stole it from titles it "Get Smart Hall Revamped;" you can visit the web page by clicking on the picture itself). There are indeed hidden dangers, just like in the opening of the show. For one thing, my co-worker thought she heard a creature in the ceiling (or perhaps she heard a ghost, she wasn't sure). For another thing, the floor is incredibly well-shined, and rather slick. And there are doorways on both sides of the hall. It's interesting, but on one side (the north side) the doors open out and on the other (the south side, duh), the doors open in. So I tend to hug the south side of the hall, fearing the day that one of the hasty finance people, in their rambunctiousness, opens a door and flattens me like a pancake.

Okay, so knowing what you should already know about me and my balance issues, what I'm about to write will probably come as no surprise to you: I do not walk the straightest path (how's that for a bit of unintentional self-analysis). I struggled with this on the treadmill for awhile (but have since had a major breakthrough at the gym), and lacking handrails in the hallway at work, well, I'm not too smooth with this walking business for some reason. Also, I'm pretty sleepy at work and we all know what sleepwalking at work looks like. I would not be surprised if more than one person has suspected that I am slightly inebriated. Or perhaps suffering from vertigo.

The truth is, gentlemen (because it has not been my experience that other women, besides Tyra Banks, and not even her so much, are interested in the way I walk), and I don't know if it's due to the optical illusion of the on/off lights or because my blood sugar is low or because one leg is longer than the other... but despite being very tired today, I am not drunk. "This" is just the way I walk, and have walked since the second grade when Brett and Chris* happily (gleefully, even) pointed it out to me.

At the time, I think I cried (I had a huge 2nd grade crush on Brett. Let's just say my affections were 1,000% not recriprocated). Oh, boys can be so mean.

*I have not yet found either of them on Facebook. This is just fine with me.

Getting a hit

I just overheard my co-worker telling Old Man Wino Laugh about his son's baseball game from over the weekend. My co-worker is about six months older than me, his son is about 8, and Old Man Wino Laugh is probably 45 or 46. Maybe younger; it's hard to tell.

My co-worker was talking about the details of the game itself, and I was filing and typing and answering emails, and in general, not listening. But then I noticed that Old Man Wino Laugh had pulled up a chair, helped himself to some chips, and I thought, dude, it's not even 9 a.m. Chips? So that caught my attention.

My co-worker told Old Man Wino Laugh about how his kid did in the game, and how he took him to Baskin Robbins afterwards to celebrate. My co-worker said that his son was very excited about his performance in the game (he caught a fly ball). His son said, "Daddy, that was my best game ever!" My co-worker then said this to his son:

"Yeah, that was cool, but it would've been even better if you'd gotten a hit!"

Look: I'm not a parent. But doesn't that seem jacked up to you, too? My heart sank when I heard him say it.

If I could ignore these people, I would.

From a NY Times article about... well, I don't know, I haven't finished reading it yet (but this opening line is funny):

WASHINGTON — “Some days you’re rolling the barrel, and some days you’re rolling in the barrel. The fact is that right now, Republicans are rolling in the barrel.”

Yeah, but what about the days you are the barrel? Or the days where you're wearing the barrel? Those are the days I worry about.

From a PC World article about Microsoft's Zune vs. Apple's iPod:

Most of the people I know don't see it as their goal to completely fill their iPods, though; I'm pretty sure they're aware that's not how you win at life.

That's not how you win at life?
Thanks for the tip, buddy. And I'm about 3/4 of the way there, too...

On the phone with Amazon

I am on the phone right now with Amazon regarding my dead Kindle.

Well, I should qualify that.

I am on hold. However, my holding started just about 20 seconds ago. And they're playing some very lively and interesting piano music right now. So it's okay.

6:20 p.m. Holding begins... I am going to see what's going on on Facebook...
6:20 p.m. Holding ends. Before I could even type in http://www.facebook.com/, the piano music came to an abrupt end, and some guy picked up and got all my information. Now I'm holding for a technical support person. Ooh, goody: I love technical support people.
6:22 p.m. Holding for technical support person...

In the amount of time it took me to type "Holding for technical support person" (I added the ellipsis later), "Nick" picked up and helped me find the handy-dandy "reset" button.

Well.

That was embarrassingly simple.

Now I may use my Kindle again. Though, a new one would've been more fun, don't you think?

My shiny white brick

To: Amazon.com Customer Service
Account: Irene
Subject: Kindle Reader Issues (Damage/Defective)
Kindle Version: Original

Hi, there,
I have a first gen kindle and it appears to have gone to sleep...forever. I can't turn it on. It is charged, but dead as a brick. What do you suggest I do now?

...

I like how my Kindle version is "original." Like KFC, like Pinkberry, like Chocolate Rain... Anyway, I hope they have some suggestions. I hope one of their suggestions involves sending me a brand new second generation Kindle.

All in a day's work

My co-workers were particularly annoying today. Our boss hurt herself and will be out for at least another month. The dude taking her place appears to be stirring things up. He's nice enough but I am not good at figuring out when he's joking around and when he's serious. So I tend to be straight as a judge around him, and that is no fun at all. Meanwhile, my co-workers (who know him better than I do) are kissing his ass, acting like idiots, talking amongst themselves all the damn time, including while I am ON THE PHONE, not picking up their print jobs at the network printer (including highly sensitive material, which is not only inconsiderate, but stupid as well), and one demonstrated his old man wino laugh all freaking day today.

And I got a (temporary) huge assignment today, so I will be working two desks for a little while.

Yay for me.

No, really, I am truly grateful to have this job. Just today was a bit too much. Cokes helped a little. So did going to the gym. Watching the first 35 minutes of American Idol did not.

Not seen in photo:

My print out of a free version of "Death In Venice," which I am reading at work while I read "Jeff In Venice..." at home.

Why?

Because "Jeff In Venice" is a tiny bit too sexy to be read in my cubicle.

From a NY Times article about cyclist Christian Vande Velde:

John Vande Velde, a Hall of Famer, was a three-time national champion in the individual pursuit and a two-time Olympian — 1968 and 1972 — on the track. He also appeared in the classic cycling film “Breaking Away” as an Italian bike racer, one of the Team Cinzano bad guys.

Christian Vande Velde is a cyclist who formerly worked as what the cycling world calls a "domestique." Domestiques are the team members who have the principal job, as I take it from the article, of fetching bottles of water for the more famous members of the team (Lance Armstrong, for example). The paragraph above is about Christian's dad. "Breaking Away" is one of my favorite movies! I wonder if John Vande Velde is the guy who stuck that (stick? what was it?) thing in Dave's spokes?

I like the tone of the article - apparently this guy needed a push to go for it, to stop working for others and to realize his own potential as a cyclist just as good as the big names with whom he worked. That push was the birth of his daughter, and wondering if she would be proud of him for making a career as just a helper to the other riders.

My guess is yes, she would've been. But still, nice to hear that this guy examined his life and his accomplishments, and decided he wanted to change, though, just to be clear, I think he did accomplish a lot in his life. But look how much potential he has. And as a 32 year old, to be realizing it just now, that's pretty cool. As a team captain, he has lots more opportunities to show what he can do. I hope he makes it. He seems like a nice person.

Outtake: Semi-Weekly Self-Portrait

Goddamn I have a HUGE nose.

Original, here.

Oh, and I figured it out: August 21st (the date Patrick and I drive down to San Diego where we will be entertained by the lovely Stewart Copeland) is actually no one's birthday. I was wrong. It is, however, sandwiched between the birthdays of two ex-boyfriends, and I'm not sure why I remember the birthday of one of them, nor if our relationship lasted long enough to put him squarely in the "ex-boyfriend" category. Ex-something, that's for sure; what, exactly, I do not know. Does it matter? No. And you know why? Because ha! His loss!

Check out the enormous nose on this girl. Sheesh!

By the way, I love the black tape on my lamp, which you can see quite clearly in this cheap ass cell phone photo. Charles doesn't spare any comfort in the booth for his lighting and sound operators, and I am not being sarcastic. That tape is always in the right spot, and I have never burned my hand on the lamp.

Then again, that light bulb is like a 25 watt blue bulb that emits barely any light and generates very little heat. You probably couldn't even power your easy bake oven with that light bulb. The nose, on the other hand? That nose could power a submarine.

From a Daily News story about jockey Joe Talamo, the guy who was supposed to ride "I Want Revenge" in the Kentucky Derby:

"Jockey Joe Talamo never got the chance to ride in the Derby aboard favored I Want Revenge, who was scratched yesterday, but he did ride in three other races, although he failed to win any. "I am not bad, but I am not good," the 19-year-old said afterward."

(Emphasis mine.)

Sometimes that's just the way it is, dude.

Updated: 10:08 p.m.

I also think it's very funny that Joe was to ride aboard I Want Revenge. Like it's a train. Or a ship. As if that horse doesn't possess one very large heart, a brain, and a will of it's own.

Someone mentioned on Saturday that horse racing is a cruel sport. I have no idea if that's true: I've been to Hollywood Park once, to the LA County Fair race track a couple of times, and I read Jane Smiley's novel "Horse Heaven" (and tried to recommend it to someone but was told that it was "too slow"). Oh, and I've read most of Dick Francis' novels, too. I am in no way knowledgable about horses or horse racing or its terminology. But it does seem to be a team effort and I wish the horse got a bit more credit.

From a NY Times article about Pontiac and the GTO of the 1960s:

"The GTO imagery was quickly swept up by the popular culture: a hit single in 1964 by Ronny and the Daytonas implored listeners to “C’mon and turn it on, wind it up, blow it out, GTO.” Fans quickly morphed the car’s name from GTO to Goat."

Question: Why would anyone think that calling the GTO "Goat" was a sign of affection? Sure, goats are cute, nimble, have great depth perception, good at outwitting trolls, possibly the spawn of Satan... but speedy?

I'm confused.

I am not getting old, I am not getting old, I am not getting old, I am not getting old, I am not getting old, I am not getting old, I am not getting o

I don’t like the way the kids at Subway have been making my sandwich lately.

Instead of one guy handling my entire sandwich, they each do one tiny part. If the kid with the tiny yellow knife has the simple job of splitting open my bread (not a euphemism) before passing it off to the next guy, who applies the meat before handing it off to the next guy, who squirts on the mayo/mustard (more than I ever wanted, usually)... what then, makes them a Sandwich Artist? If I have to tell 3 different people what I want on my sandwich, doesn’t that make me the Artist?

My semi-weekly self-portrait from the booth

New glasses, too!

...

What a fun day yesterday was (I'm writing this Sunday morning but the photo is from last night)! I went to a party at the home of one of the cast members from both The School For Wives and The Bourgeois Gentilhomme at City Garage (many of the members are in both shows. They're all hard workers). He served us up brunch (I took a slightly frozen Trader Joe's New York cheesecake that I think everyone enjoyed - they ate it all, anyway! - along with some strawberries and blackberries) and we watched the Kentucky Derby. Fun! Patrick had to work, but when he got home, while I was doing the show, he and my dad hung out and watched the boxing match. It would've been cool if I could've been home, too, but we didn't plan it ahead of time. Still, I think it was nice for Patrick and my dad to spend time alone together.

After the Kentucky Derby party, I went to the show in Santa Monica, where I was happy to find a pretty big group of folks to see the show, and then I came home and read a bit and finally Patrick and I went to bed. It was a nice day. Today Pat's off with his brothers to help clean up their mother's yard, and I slept in, read a bit more, ate some hummus and pitas, and have been organizing and obsessing over my iTunes music folder. What I should be doing is taking photos of some things I have to sell on eBay, including a beautiful pair of shoes my co-worker asked me to sell for her. They're Betsey Johnson, I think a size 6.5. Too small for me, but if you're interested, well, let me know and I'll send a picture soon.

Now I think I'll go wash some towels and maybe take a nap before I have to go pick up Bo for the Sunday afternoon performance of The School For Wives. Today's show (and all Sunday shows) is pay-what-you-can, so if you're interested in that get your butt down to City Garage Theater in Santa Monica by 4:15 to buy your ticket!