The Wet Season

People who complain that Los Angeles doesn't have seasons are narrow-minded. You have to think outside the box, kids! Our "seasons" aren't the traditional spring, summer, winter, and fall. No, what we have is wet, dry, and fire. We're currently in the middle of the sporadically wet season.

Storm Watch 2006!! When the news channels go insane at the first hint of moisture.

Little known fact (unless you were driving along Lincoln Blvd in Playa Vista yesterday): there's a LAKE out there! No joke, it spans all lanes, is about 3 feet deep, and the waves will hit your car so hard it sounds like rocks are being pelted at you.

It took 45 minutes to cross it. I don't understand why we need a lake in the middle of a busy street when the ocean is just 5 minutes further west. And what did the city do about it? They put up little blinky lights on pylons with a sign that say "FLOODED." Wow, thanks. Because I couldn't tell I was already ass-deep in water!

I finally made it through that mess...but then had to drive to the Valley. That also took an hour, but that's to be expected in rush hour. I'm lucky it was only that long, especially in the rain. I took my super-secret route over the hills but the fog bank resting on Mulholland was crazy thick, like molasses without the yummy. Visibility was maybe 5 feet. FIVE feet. And some asshole rode my bumper all the way down the hill. Jerk.

It didn't rain today. But the lake is still there, though mostly just over on the east side of the street. We all know how much I love the city planners, so who's in charge of the drainage systems in this city? Because I have a letter to write to them too. In fact, I can't wait until the people who will eventually live in those buildings react to their subterranean garages being flooded. I'm sure I won't be the only one Dear John-ing their city councilmen to death.

*evil laugh*


In other news, there would be less of this if this was required reading. It's not rocket science, it's just common sense!


Because There is No Santa Claus

I am not cut out to be a mom. Saying that out loud in mixed company is akin to admitting you're into S&M. It's so contrary to what is "right" that people have difficulty figuring you out.

Well, I'm not really into the whips and chains scene, but I know people who are and that's okay. I am, however, selfish and impatient and people like that should not have kids. Why risk disaster?

And unless something extraordinary happens in the next few years, I won't have to worry about second-guessing that decision. In fact, I'm doing society at large a favor. We're on an overcrowded planet and some bumpkins in the South are having 16 kids? Goddamn morons.

I realized just how strongly I feel about this yesterday while playing hide-n-seek with my niece and nephew. They couldn't find me, so I told them I had been in the tiny mailboxes in the side of the building. But, being incredibly intelligent (they've got my genes, after all!), they saw right through my ruse. And I couldn't keep it up either. I just couldn't lie to them. Which led me to wonder, what am I going to say when they ask about Santa and/or the Tooth Fairy?

Answer? "Go ask your mom." They're not my kids, it's not my problem.

And that is a very lovely, comforting thought.


Cutting the Apron Strings

I kind of understand how mothers feel when their kids go off to college. It's difficult to let go of something you've birthed and let it roam around the big, bad, scary world.

I've been sitting on a photo project for the better part of 6 months, since I took a break from shooting it. It could be very close to being done, if only I hadn’t become anal retentive about the “proper” flow of the 44 pieces; the arrangement for which is dictated by its inspiration and therefore out of my control. Instead, I'm mired in reshoots and wondering when I'm going to have make the time to finish it. And it's not for lack of great models, ideas or even time (well, maybe a little bit of it is time. I'm bizzy!!). I turn bipolar ADD-ish if I spend too much time on it. Hence the break.

I got fed up.

I know part of my resistance to just finishing it up right and "proper" is that once it's done, I have to put it out there. For people to critique or love or hate or not. But not yet. Partially because I myself am not happy with it. In fact, I kind of hate it. And I'm not going to put that out there for public consumption.

I'm not usually this big a pussy. I've put more emphasis on the importance of this project than it deserves. This is not going to be the sole definition of me and mine. So I need to just get off my ass, get my models their final prints, and move on with my life.

But first, there's just a little bit more tweaking to do.



Confessions from the Curly-Haired Girl

This is the Curly-Haired Girl. She has pretty hair.

The Curly-Haired Girl (or CHG) would like to confess that she has a weakness for MTV's reality schlock. She knows good and well that it's just bullshit, but watching the vapid dilettantes on Laguna Beach or 8th & Ocean manufacture superficial drama is a guilty pleasure she can't explain and never feels the need to defend with more than a wicked giggle.

Having been home sick way too often lately, she had the opportunity to revel in marathon viewing sessions of said shows, courtesy of her DVR. Of special interest was the dating show Next. The basic premise of the show is that one lucky person gets to choose from 5 datees who sit waiting on a bus. For every minute that the date lasts, the datee gets a dollar. If Lucky ends up choosing the datee, they can either take the money for however long the date has lasted, or go on a second date. It's hysterical when Lucky takes one look at the person just as they step off the bus only to yell "Next!" immediately (thus signalling the end of the date). Trash-talking usually ensues on both sides. It's like Jerry Springer, but with pretty people. (Not that the CHG ever watches Springer!)

On this particular episode of Next, Lucky was a young blond boy with big muscles and that arrogance found in kids who think their shit don't stink. He was special enough to get not one but TWO curly-haired girls to choose from. Yay! But he wasn't having it. He immediately "nexted" the first girl because--and this is brilliant--he doesn't like pasta and doesn't want to date a girl with hair like spaghetti.


The CHG was deeply offended by this jackass' attitude towards the sprially-inclined. Never in her life has she met a person that didn't, if not immediately then eventually, fawn over her hair as if bewitched by the tangles. More often than not, she has been beseiged with stories of how much people paid to mimic her tresses' gorgeous bounce and volume. For the first 20 or so years of her life, the CHG merely rolled her eyes at these compliments, knowing full well that these people had no idea the amount of maintenance her hair required. But over time she came to embrace her curlies, finally believing that she does indeed have beautiful hair.

And then this guy has the nerve to call it spaghetti? Whatever to your jive, you imbecilic shithead.

Thankfully, real men love the CHG's hair. And those are the only ones that matter.

Now, if you'll excuse her, there's an episode of Made she must go watch.


Stupid vs. Crazy

Until very recently, I was dating a guy we'll call the Teddy Bear. In an effort to remain friendly, we had dinner together Sunday night. His astute observation, after not having seen each other in two whole weeks:

"You still have really big boobs!"

L'sigh. That was easily the stupidest comment of the week thus far.


My little brother (aka Nameles), who is my favoritest person on the planet and that's only partially due to the fact that he looks like a terrorist, has a theory. He says that we women are all crazy. We're totally batshit psycho, albeit in our own charming little ways. The trick for men is deciding on what kind of crazy they can put up with.

He may be on to something. Because, on the flipside, all men are stupid--again, in their own charming little ways. Our trick is deciding what kind of stupid we're willing to deal with.

And that, my friends, is what leads to successful relationships. Names is a genius!

The Teddy Bear wasn't able to handle my crazy. Lucky me, I no longer have to put up with his stupid.

Life is good!


Dear John Letters...

I need to break off certain relationships because I don't feel like the other parties are making any effort to see that my needs are being met. I'm not a high maintenance bitch, I just believe in equal give and take. But it's time to make my displeasure known. So, in no particular order:

Dear Los Angeles City Planners,

The right-turn green arrow at intersections with three-way signals is wholly unnecessary when the light is green in the same direction. The law clearly states that green means go in that situation. Turn the damn thing in the opposite direction, so that people turning left, who are unsure if they have the right-of-way because you've chosen to baffle them with these ridiculous turn signals, know they can drive on without hesitation. Stop wasting my hard-earned taxes on bullshit.

And also, pave the fucking streets and stop letting oversized trucks tear them up. My car's alignment thanks you.


Dear Pimped Out Maxima Driver,

20-inch chrome rims on your 10-year-old family sedan are not, nor were they EVER, cool. Your accessories should never be worth more than the actual car. Dressing up a piece of shit does not, in any universe near or far, hide the fact that it's a piece of shit. My 18-inch rims came standard, because my car is cool. That does not make me better than you. It just means I have better taste. Save your money for gas.

And also, purple window tint is as ghetto as you can get. Please stop hurting my eyes with that monstrosity of visual pollution.


Dear Insecure Name-dropping Hollywood Transplants,

I don't care who you know. No one does. We don't care about the ex-baller and his private jet. This is not important. Nor is getting into some overpriced restaurant just because you were with the "right" person. If you can't get into the same restaurant without dropping names like anvils, you're not really all that important yourself, now are you?

I also don't want to hear this very story recapped every five minutes to each new passerby. They don't care either. Kindly stop airing your insecurities and just keep your trap shut.

And also, feel free to go back to where you came from. There are enough of you here already.


Dear Slumlord,

I have lived here for nearly five years. But it wasn't until you took over management last summer that this place started to go down the tubes. Before that, the few problems we did experience on a rare occasion, like that small leak in the ceiling directly above my bed, were fixed immediately. You, however, take a different, and severely misguided, tact. I know I don't absolutely need an ice maker in my fridge. But since it was there--and fully functioning--when I moved in, it would be nice if your reaction to it suddenly ceasing proper operation and consequently flooding the kitchen were something other than "oh well." If that's your attitude, maybe I'll just stop paying rent. It clearly means nothing to you.

And also, hot water isn't a privilege, it's a right. Fix the damn water heater valve so I don't have another gruesome repeat of this morning's cold shower. I think they heard me scream in Antarctica. Which was actually warmer than my shower.


Dear Greedy Westside Developers,

We live in perpetual gridlock here in West Los Angeles. I live here because I work here and believe commuting is for suckers (though even that 10 mile drive takes longer than common sense should allow). But not everyone is so lucky, and not everyone should be. The Westside is not exploding with jobs, so there is no need for this surge in housing. With that in mind, please stop building condos on top of condos on top of protected wildlife. $400,000 for a single apartment with wafer-thin walls in a complex with 3,000 identical cubbyholes isn't luxury living; it's an ant farm. And all those assholes with too much money and not enough self-esteem, clogging up my short commute all because they want a Marina Del Rey address, aren't fooling anyone. They are, however, straining the delicate surrounding ecosystem and narrow thoroughways.

And also, your huge trucks are tearing up the streets. Please get together with the city planners and drink the Kool-aid. Party!


Seeking Immunity

I have the germ tolerance of a pre-schooler. The reason I know this is because every time my 4-year-old niece gets sick, I catch it. She won’t even be exhibiting symptoms anymore—in fact, it can be a full WEEK after she’s been sick—and it’ll still hit me like a ton of bricks.

She’s infected me twice in the last month alone. And I only see her once a week. Honestly, how do people with kids do it? Rugrats are sick ALL the time. Until recently, I hadn’t been sick in ages. And now all of a sudden, I’m a sissy-la-la in bed with a fever of 101 degrees every other week.

It’s so boring. I need fresh air. Of course, I’m only home sick on the days when the weather is beautiful. It's gorgeous out right now, not a cloud in the sky, and I'm stuck in my bedroom prison. They're predicting rain this weekend, but I’ll be sure to be back to my regular, fun-loving, overly social, normal self by then. Wonderful timing, me.

I suppose I should take a break from the Boobies on Parade parties we seem to be throwing with increasing regularity. As much rest as I've been getting in spite of all that, apparently it's not enough. And short of wearing a face mask whenever I’m around my family, I’m not sure what else I can do.

I guess I’m in for more boring days. And now, nights too!

I'm getting old--and regressing at the same time. Save me.


The Click Caress

Touch it. You know you want to.


Can You Spell I-R-O-N-Y?

I confess. I have an issue with poor spelling and grammar. Admitting that in this particular forum might come back to bite me in the ass eventually, but that’s okay. I literally gnash my teeth when I see the blatant misuse of commas, apostrophes (!!), and just plain misspelled words. It hurts, really, it does.

I don’t know how I became like this. Somewhere along the way, probably just past the 3rd grade lesson on homonyms and the difference between their, there, and they’re, I got it into my head that poor spelling is an outward sign of stupidity. I know that isn’t true. I mean, I know highly intelligent people who have forgotten their third grade edumacations and consistently butcher the written language. But still, I can’t shake the “wow, he’s stupid” thoughts.

That long back-story brings me to my point:

For some unknown reason, I was lucky enough to end up on a daily email list put out by some ad blog. I don’t know how or why I ever signed up (probably has something to do with the little martini icons all over the place), but it’s interesting enough that I haven’t unsubscribed. Kind of like an inside peek into the minds that bring us those wacky "I'm lovin' it!" campaigns.

Now, you would think that people who run this site, representing copywriters and editors across the globe, would take precautions to ensure that they handle the written word with care. I mean, misspellings on ads are anathema to their very success, right?

Apparently not. Every day I receive this email chock full of typos. People, don’t you proofread your communiqu├ęs?! Seriously, folks. There are only so many times you can stick a D on the end of the word “an” and not expect us to wonder—all Australian-style—WTF?

Though I have a sneaking suspicion that the editor may not be fluent in English because the clumsy construction and random “typos” are similar to those employed by neophyte English speakers.

Then again, he could just be stupid.


I'm Quickly Going Insane

Or maybe I'm already there? It’s a little difficult to tell. Mostly because my memory, though improving, still isn’t 100% functional. And probably never will be. Just chalk it up to being part of my charm. I’m memory-impaired. But cute.

What I would like, instead of going crazy, is:

- For people to stop dying. If not everyone (because hi, global overcrowding), then at least people that I might know. It does awful things to me, like make me question my decisions. And once I remind myself that my life, though not perfect, is pretty damn near semi-charmed (sorry, I had to), then I start worrying about how much longer it’s going to last. So everyone I know, please quit it already with the dying. Thanks.

- For bitter love songs to stop making sense to me. Okay, I admit it, I’m a little bitter that the last 5 months of my life feel like a huge waste of time. But it was only FIVE freakin’ months! I’ve been on this planet a lot longer than that, so 5 measly months should be of zero consequence. Really, enough already. I’ve already lost patience with myself.

- For rhinestones to just disappear. Let’s pretend we never knew that fake shinies ever existed. Because they are on the brink of taking over the world. They’re everywhere, from clothing to accessories, to…okay, maybe I’ve been spending too much time on the retail circuit. But seriously, kids. Remember how ridiculous Tana looked bedazzling t-shirts on The Apprentice? Rhinestone-embellished clothing and sunglasses and wallets and cellphones look just as stupid. I don’t care that the 80s are supposedly coming back. I reject it all. Totally.

- To better learn to manage my money. I have way too many credit cards, each with its own absurdly high limit. It seems that creditors love me, because anytime I put more than $10 on any credit card, they immediately reward me with an additional $5000 worth of credit. Which I gladly accept. And then what? I’m in debt some more. It’s a vicious cycle. But I just can’t seem to stop. It’s a disease! Today, the stamp machine ate my 39 cents and didn’t dispense a stamp. But as there were 87 people in line, I didn’t want to become one of those “hey, I need a stamp, the machine ate my money, OMG!!!” customers screaming at the postal employees who don’t give a fuck anyway, because hi, 87 people and they just want to go home with their government benefits and spend their government money and maybe splurge on a semi-automatic weapon and come back tomorrow and take out those 87 people and one crazy Puerto Rican chick screaming about her 39 cents because who the fuck cares about 39 fucking cents?! Post offices are dangerous places. Don’t hang out there. In the meantime, I’m out 39 cents. So I didn’t buy groceries. Because, you know, 39 cents really impacted my ability to do so.

Okay, you see where I suddenly went all psycho in that last paragraph? I was musing about why I have so much credit, when all of a sudden, boom! I'm bitching about why I couldn't put a stamp on an envelope I should have mailed last week.

So. I’m a lot crazy. Again, it’s all charming. It’s true because I said so.