Irene the Bean

Oh, man, I totally forgot -

Patrick's nurse at Kaiser. Her name was "Irene." On her little clip board thingy, he said she had a sticker that said,

"Irene the Bean!"

Patrick told her that was his wife's name, too.

And the nurse goes, "I like your wife already." Same to you, lady!

Sweet!

This post stolen from American Express and Kate Winslet

My name: Irene P.

childhood ambition: to stay up all night

fondest memory: in kindergarten, when they'd bring the big parachutes for us to play with; when Roger Packard's dad brought the ice truck and we pretended it snowed; making the videotape of hiking up to the Hollywood sign with Patrick; "maintain!"

soundtrack: Led Zeppelin (Presence, III), Radiohead, lots of Talking Heads, McCoy Tyner, Shakti, Ravi Shankar, and George Harrison

retreat: beach, road trip to anywhere with Patrick, day at a spa

wildest dream: house paid off, bills taken care of, an in-ground swimming pool, a dog

proudest moment: getting accepted to CalArts, getting married, walking down the aisle with my dad

biggest challenge: practicing

alarm clock: hungry Dora

perfect day: sleep in, go to Chinatown for dim sum, hang out, see a movie: no time frames, no limits, no schedules

first job: telemarketing at cheesy magazine company

indulgence: butter, chocolate

last purchase: shine stuff for hair (bought it Friday... haven't tried it yet), forget the name, it comes in a red bottle, it was much too expensive

movie: The Graduate

inspiration: music, love

My life... is pretty darn good

My card is... overdrawn. Do you think American Express can help me out...?

Hip Cooks: Patrick flips a pan full of flaming hot something

Earlier this year, Patrick and I went to a cooking class at this place in a very cool loft near downtown LA with our friends, A.D. and Alice.

He's so cute with that hot pan in his hands!

8th Grade Graduation

It's 8th grade graduation, I have a terrible haircut, an ugly dress (all the other girls were wearing these long, pretty, puffy fluffy things, and my dress was actually a matching top and mid-calf length skirt, and had a handkerchief hem. The only good thing about that outfit is my brother took me to Nordstrom for the shoes, which were my first high heels ever: a black leather pair of Nine West pumps, with a hot pink interior. I wore those shoes for 4 years), and I hated the way I looked. I had very few curves, and I look like a boy with bad hair. I mean, what is it with that hair? What was I thinking?

Oh, but that's my Yamaha flute, which I still have, which I loved, which I got a hell of a good sound out of for someone not too serious about the flute, which I wasn't in the 8th grade.

However, my 8th grade counterparts, Jeremy (I've known Jeremy since kindergarten!) and Adam (I've known Adam since 5th grade!) are not stylistically challenged: they're both sporting the Miami Vice look here. They look pretty good, no? This is before they switched to saxophone, I guess because they figured out that sax players get the chicks. You'll have to ask them if it worked. I can tell you that even though it's not visible in this photo, Adam's sleeves are pushed up to his elbows. And he wasn't wearing any socks.

The Moon is a Harsh Mistress

Monday we both worked, I was a little sleepy, we came home, watched more old Bugs Bunny cartoons, and I started re-reading "The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress."

I first read it probably in the 9th or 10th grade. I can't remember if I discovered Heinlein on my own or if it was because of my friend Ron (Ron was really cute and we were pretty good friends, but he wasn't ever really interested in me, though, I think there was one time [or two times...] when he was bored?), but I really enjoyed all his books in high school, and have re-read some of them quite a few times. I haven't read this one in awhile, and felt like it was time. I forgot how good it is. I know Heinlein gets a lot of criticism (some of it deserved) for his politics, apparent misogynistic tendencies, an appalling fondness for the concept of incest, and good lord, don't forget his long-winded-ness (if you've ever read "To Sail Beyond the Sunset" you know what I'm talking about) - he certainly was opinionated.

His books are really creative, and funny, and even though I probably should have some more intelligent things to say about them, all I can tell you is, I like them. You might, too.

I wonder what ol' Rappin' Ron is up to these days...

I can't believe I forgot to mention:

Yesterday was my mom's last day of radiation therapy!

Yay!

Right upper quadrant

To clarify:

This is not my torso. I wish it was, however, I do think I prefer my light brown skin color (I'm probably more olive, but whatever) to her pink bunny one. But that's just my personal preference. You may think otherwise.

And those are not my panties. They're cute, no? I like the little ties on the sides, but I wonder if those would give a weird panty line. Or maybe this is a swimsuit?

My goodness, that's quite a waxing job. Those little stripe-y things on her - what is that, her pelvic bone? - are very Adam Ant. Kinda punk, a little. And I do like how her belly button perfectly bisects the little grid-y thing there... Oh? You think they put the grid there after taking the photo? Hmm. I figured she got this gig because she was perfectly proportioned and lined up with their schematic so well.

Listen: I don't know this person, I've never met this person, and no, I cannot get you her telephone number. She does seem very nice, with a little arch in her back, yes. And even though it cuts off, I do believe she is looking right at you. How nice of you to notice that. But this photo looks like it's from 1974, so come on, now. Chill.

I'm not kidding anymore, Mariah:

I want your dog.

Actually, I just went to the official Jack Russell website and have been made to understand that they're not good dogs for families with cats and or children. Obviously not the dog for me (because my cats are just like children... children I allow to crawl on the floor), however, they're so dang cute...!

If I were rich, and had nothing to do all day except walk my dog in low-cut clingy dresses, then I would say, SIGN ME UP, I'm ready for my dog now, please. Hand him over nice and slow, Mariah, and no one gets hurt.

And, to make it an even better deal for everybody, I promise to never wear shoes that ugly.

Earplugs

My mom and my sister just told me the other night that they suffer from irregular sleep patterns. My mom has had insomnia for a long time. Until the nurse at the oncologist's office reassured her that she wouldn't become the next Rush Limbaugh, she refused to take her sleeping pill regularly. I remember coming home late in the evening when I was a teenager (or early in the morning... past my curfew) and finding her up, sitting in the living room, reading her Bible, wearing her big zipped up bathrobe, waiting for me.

Lately I have developed a little sleep-related irregularity myself, lately. With the cats waking me up, and the early morning phone calls, and Patrick's snoring, just getting to sleep and staying asleep has been really tough.

We realized that there's a simple solution: earplugs. They took some getting used to – I bought the ones shaped like squishy little cones, the ones you roll up between your fingers and then insert into your ear. They’re supposed to expand to fit but I swear, I think my right ear is bigger than my left. We thought that earplugs guaranteed to work up to 28 decibels would be sufficient, but it turned out that I needed the 32 decibel protection.

Who knew my husband has a 32 decibel snore?

I'm not sure what type of dog this is,

This dog* should be mine.

And I don't mean the one wearing the dress.

*Jack Russell. Duh.

How Well Do You Know Me?

Four jobs that I've had:

1. Pizza maker
2. Library page
3. Bookstore manager
4. Video store manager

Four movies that I could watch over and over:
1. Summer Stock
2. Concert for George
3. The Philadelphia Story
4. Cabaret

Four places I've lived:
1. Culver City, CA
2. Mar Vista, CA
3.
4. That's it!

Four TV shows I watch:
1. Top Chef
2. From Martha's Kitchen
3. Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip
4. One Punk Under God

Four places I've been on vacation:
1. Denver, CO
2. Paris, France
3. Seattle, Washington
4. Oregon Caves

Four websites I visit daily:
1. nytimes.com
2. latimes.com
3. hr.co.la.ca.us
4. thesuperficial.com

Four places I would rather be:
1. Somewhere I've never been before, with Patrick (Cancun, Hawaii, Greece)
2. In bed with a book, Patrick, and the cats
3. Getting a facial from Lili
4. In a hotel

Four of my favorite foods:
1. Corn
2. Garbanzos
3. Chocolate
4. Cheese

Four things I always carry with me:
1. Lip stuff
2. Hair thingy
3. Keys
4. Moisturizer

On the eve of our trip to Denver

We're packing, getting ready to go. Kevin came over and checked the place out, and I have to give his parents great big congratulations for raising such a polite boy.

I thought I'd update you all on the state of my yard. I mentioned a while back that I had trimmed a bush out front, and started spraying it regularly with water to combat the dreaded white flies that have been inhabiting it. I don't want to use any chemicals, and water seems to do the trick, but I have to keep doing it. A lot. Every day would be good. Anyway, I just want you all to know, that even though my part of town is very safe - keep your loppers inside! Write your name on them! Invest in lojack for your loppers, people, because if you leave them unattended for a few, oh, days, the motherfuckers will steal them.

Today, I decided that since we were going to have both our mothers in the car with us, that I should wash it, so early this morning I got up and did just that. And while I was out there, I sprayed the bush (actually, there are two bushes, but this story has suddenly gotten a little complicated; one bush will do for my purposes). And while I was out there, Patrick decided that it was a good time to introduce me to the electric power washer. So I also cleaned the cement walkway. Yes, I had a very fruitful morning.

Lunch with our moms was fun, though, we were late (not my fault for once). We picked up Patrick's mom in Venice, then we picked my mom up in Culver City, and headed to Hop Li, a fun little Chinese restaurant in West LA. After that, back to my parents' house to open presents, and then, home to lots of laundry and clearing off all the shows we taped this week so that we could start with a fresh slate tomorrow.

Adventures in Shopping...

Yesterday I came this close to cussing out a young girl working at Victoria’s Secret. I had about 5 minutes to buy a new bra, but I had that feeling: I must do this now, and that feeling will not abide being told to wait.

I really should’ve been off to my flute class, but they were right there, and I thought I could do it quickly. So I dashed in (can you picture me, dashing?), and headed for the section I know works for me consistently, and there, in the back of the store, I was ambushed by Junior Bra Fitter, Esmeralda (not her real name; I don’t actually know her real name, because she never told me). Esmeralda was Hispanic, about 4’11”, probably about 23 years old (at the most), and had kind of a panicked look on her face. Maybe it was her first day. She asked me if I was finding everything OK, and I said yes. She asked if I knew what size I was looking for, and I, in my distracted, bra-buying frenzy, said no. That prompted her to ask me if I would like a fitting (probably hoping that I would refuse); I seem to remember that she prefaced "fitting” with something like “professional,” or “super-duper.” She looked nervous, and I took pity on her, even though I was pretty sure what size I wanted.

Esmeralda got out her tape measure, and measured me. I was wearing a cardigan, about a size too big, and a crappy, lumpy, old stretched out bra from of all places, Target - it was not a good day for my bosom. I know they have some weird system for taking your measurements, and then they have to perform a complex mathematical equation in their heads before they can state authoritatively what size you are, but that tiny Mexican measured me and then says, “I think you’re a 38 double-D.”

OK, so I know I’ve probably gained about 5 pounds in the last couple weeks, but I have not ballooned up to double-D size. Was she even looking at me when she said that? I may be five inches taller than you, but that should make it easier for you to figure out that these are not double Ds! I mean, come on, they're at eye level, honey.

I stayed calm, though. I refrained from slapping her pudgy face. I said, “Are you sure?” She may have heard panic (or a threat) in my voice, because she called over her co-worker, Jen (her real name), a tall, blond, regal-looking girl wearing nude-colored stockings with her clunky-heeled black shoes (Jen, Jen, Jen!). Jen re-measured me, instructed Esmeralda (not for the first time, I fear) on the how-tos of bra fittings, and pronounced me a size… whatever size I knew I needed 10 minutes ago.

When I was in the fitting room, Jen brought me another style to try – the newest Angel Bra. I was satisfied with my first selection, and had no intention of buying a second bra on this trip, but I tried it on anyway. I have rather average boobs, but the Angels bra, I swear, gave them a weird, oval shape, like this: (________)(________), rather than like this, (__)(__).

And this, my friends, is why this will be my last trip to Victoria's Secret for bras.

So happy I could've skipped (so I did)

My mom had a follow up appointment today at Cedars Sinai with the doctor who performed her hysterectomy. He examined her, and reviewed the documents from the chemo oncologist. Not only did he say that the chemo doctor is doing the right things (I can't tell you how happy I was to hear that), but on doing the pelvic exam, he said that everything "in there" (what's left, I wonder?) looked terrific. He looked at her CT scan and said that too, looked great.

Keep in mind that this guy is a world-renowned surgeon in this field. He knows what he's talking about. After I got off the telephone with my mom, Patrick and I went for a walk. Or, I should say, he went for a walk, and I went for a skip. I haven't skipped in a long time, but it came pretty naturally. I highly recommend it, especially when you're super happy. I wasn't skipping, I was flying.

"You sound very nice"

I was writing a couple of emails back and forth awhile ago with someone I don't really know, who's kind of famous, sort of, and I got a little self-conscious because we were speaking on things that I'm not very familiar with, and I was unable to punch up my end of the conversation with those witty, um, witticsms and non sequiturs that sometimes make me sound smarter/funnier/more fascinating than I really am. Delusional? Maybe.

Anyway, the stranger (no, I was not in a chat room, shut up) to whom I was writing, when I apologized for my lack of style in the emails, said to me, "No, you sound very nice." It was chivalrous of him and sweet, even, and reminded me of something, but I'm not sure what. I really liked that he said it, but it's been worrying me a little bit.

I'm just wondering if "very nice" is code for "fucking wacko." He's a pretty cool person, the speaker/writer of those words, but as I said, I don't really know him, and I don't see any case for my getting to know him, which is fine, actually, I mean, knowing him is not the point of this paragraph. The point of this paragraph is that this guy was nice, and he didn't have to be, and here I am, thinking I have to work a lot harder to be interesting when all I had to do was just, I don't know, "be myself" are the words that are supposed to go at the end of this sentence but they just look so precious and fake.

Stinky kitty face

I was talking to my flute teacher last night about her cat, Lacey. I asked if Lacey ever makes the Stinky Kitty Face at her.

She did not know the Stinky Kitty Face by name, but knew exactly what I meant.

Puma makes this face frequently; usually when he's had enough of being carried around by me like a sack of potatoes or a very furry small child.