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Last night I had a horrible night of sleep due to the goopey phlegm in my throat. I even woke myself up snoring, and that has never happened! Anyway, I went to the bathroom for the neti pot solution and it worked like a charm. If only I'd thought of it at 10pm instead of 5am. Then I clipped my toenails. Then I was too awake to go back to sleep.
I decided that there was no better way to celebrate my easy breathing than with a hike in Griffith. I went on an old favorite trail, which just yesterday I decided to name the "Santa Maria." I'll explain why another time.
There were two men in their sixties, friends, hiking a fair distance behind me the whole time. I finished the "Santa" portion of the hike, but I decided I didn't have it in me to go for "Maria," which takes you to the very peak. It offers a stunning 360 degree view of LA.
As I passed the two guys on my way down, they teased me for stopping, they said I'd been inspiring them to keep going. I told them I really wasn't up for it today. One guy, the white-haired Brit, or maybe Aussie, said, "But, it's about..." He searched for the word in his native English, "... the satisfaction of getting to the top. Oh, you wouldn't understand, you're a woman."
I'm sure my nostrils flared and my eyes bugged out. He was dead serious. His friend nodded in agreement. "You should really finish." And in my huffy, puffy, just-like-a-woman way, I spun on my heel and stomped up to the top of the hill. I made sure to go extra fast and leave them in the dust.
To the gentlemen of the "Santa Maria," my firmer fanny thanks you for the encouragement. There's nothing like a shame-induced workout.
*******
To those that saw the fire in the Hollywood Hills two weeks ago (started by two genius teenagers from Illinois who were burning sticks for fun), below are photos of the now-barren land blowing dust in today's strong winds.
View from Pass Ave heading South:
View from a hill in Universal:
Pretty wild, huh?
Last Saturday I had quite the night out... babysitting.
It was at this sweet little house in The Hills... Woodland Hills.
Yes, I still babysit on occasion. Please don't judge my means of additional income. You wouldn't mind it either if you had the adorable Samantha in your care. She's well-behaved, funny, smart, and five.
This Saturday was like most, where after her bath we prepared for the Pajama Contest. I really have the opportunity to stretch as an actress, playing the pajama saleslady, stage manager, and Master of Ceremonies. Sam is, simply, the Star.
As the saleslady, I have my British accent and present to her a large selection of pajamas from which she may choose. Will it be the fine silk set from Europe? The show-stopping red velour? I offer her invisible coffee and tea and crumpets while she decides, then fetch her the dazzling pink fleece slippers that are sure to make her the winner.
Soon it's time to start the show. I'm the ultimate stage mother making sure she knows the game plan. Three contestants (she plays all of them, but only one is actually Sam), a talent segment that usually features dancing or gymnastics, the catwalk, and finally the award presentation.
"Ladies and Gentlemen...." The excitement is palpable. "From Woodland Hills, California...." Sam closes her eyes and reviews her ballet routine. "Please welcome the very talented, five year old SAM!" She doesn't miss a beat. Woos the crowd with her fancy footwork, her smile, her poise, and, of course, her pajamas. Finally, Sam bows to the sound of two hands clapping as rapidly as possible.
The next two contestants, Nancy from Seattle and Meredith from Cleveland, can't hold a candle to Sam. The competition is over. I present her award with tears of pride, "Ladies, and gentlemen, for the 13th consecutive week, the contest winner is SAM!!!"
Suddenly, I see the clock on the VCR. 8:24pm. I totally forgot about the Dr. 90210 marathon on E! I interrupt Sam's acceptance speech (truthfully, it was getting a bit long), and usher her to bed.
Next time you're out drinking yourself silly and dreading tomorrow's hangover, remember there's a more wholesome way to spend your Saturday, full of laughter and make-believe.
Once you've had enough of that, reward yourself further by watching teen girls try to fix their low self-esteem with plastic surgery. Oh, yeah.
Today's Coffee Beverage: Nursing a pesky cold with Airborne and Emergen-C.
One of the best quitting stories ever was not a quitting story at all. It happened a few years ago when I worked at a reality TV production company. This was a place that had three shifts (morning, night, and swing), with tortured human shells editing shows around the clock. It was, in general, a pretty miserable place to be a production assistant, as I was at the time. But this is not my tale of woe.
One of the perks of the TV business, in my experience, is that most of the time someone will buy you a cake on your birthday and call you down to the kitchen under the guise of having to show you something that you will not BELIEVE! Once you get there a sprinkling of people from around the office, including that guy from accounting whose name you don’t know, will stand around and sing you “Happy Birthday.”
At this place a favorite coordinator of mine got the axe on a Thursday, but still had to show up on a Friday for the swing shift before they had his replacement. He was pissed about the whole deal, as it seemed to be one of those weird political situations where a new hire wanted to bring in her own coordinator, and so found some petty reason to fire him. To add insult to injury, the new boss called him on his last day on his way in and asked him to pick up a cake for somebody’s birthday.
This is a classic task for a runner/PA, and a somewhat inappropriate thing to ask of the coordinator, but they were short PAs at the moment and so he agreed. He brought in the cake and sat at his desk, stone-faced, for his last shift at Really Shitty Production Company.
Soon, whispers could be heard around the office. I had to know what was going on. “Did you see the cake?” someone asked me. Nope. I went into the kitchen and parted the crowd to take a look at the Ralph’s white-frosted sheet cake. In pink icing scrawled across the top I read, “This isn't my job, Assholes.”
I will be telling my grandkids about the balls on that guy. What a way to go!
_____
Yesterday we celebrated DeeHo’s birthday and treated her, deservedly, like a Queen! After being showered with loveliness and attention all day long, she said, gratefully, “Thank you so much. You guys really went over and out.”
I think she meant, “Above and beyond.” I love that girl!
Today’s Coffee Beverage: Iced NF latte with one pump of caramel from the Universal Commissary.
Blue Bin. I want one. My landlord won't get one because it would cost him $100 a month. But, me and my roomie, we make do.
We have a system. We can't help but recycle. Probably 75% of our quote/unquote waste can be turned into something new by the geniuses who do that stuff. So we collect the goods in Trader Joe's bags and line them up in our garage until Wednesday night, the eve of Recycling Truck Day.
We switch off, and this week is my turn. When darkness falls, I will dress in my nastiest clothes (not much different from my regular clothes, really) and flip flops. I will pile the bags in the Camry and stealthily pull out of the gate.
Down the street I will go with my hazard lights on. Five miles an hour. I'll know exactly what I'm looking for: a blue bin that looks near-empty so I can fill it with treasures. It's like a homeless person scavenging, BUT IN REVERSE.
Once such a bin is spotted, the adrenaline starts to flow. The key is to move quickly, head down, and fill the bin to the brim. Then let the lid down slooowly and quiiiiiiietly. Usually there is not enough room in one and you have to find two or even THREE more.
The worst is pulling up to a bin and seeing the owner of the house hanging around. Like she's waiting for me. When that happens it's best to move it along. Trust me, this is not the time to meet your neighbors.
I don't want to feel like a criminal anymore. I just want my own blue bin.
Vote YES on Prop BB!
Today's Coffee Beverage: I'm waiting for the three o'clock slump.
Another day, another lost tube of lip balm. I stopped at the grocery store to replenish, completed the entire debit transaction, and was fully out the door before a realization hit me. For the first time in forever I hadn’t said one single prayer to baby Jesus, begging that my card go through!
You see, I know poor. When I moved to LA four years ago there was a gradual slide into poverty while I slaved in low-paying jobs… when I could get them. I remember a friend letting me go through his giant jar of change. I picked out the quarters, which totaled about ten bucks, and immediately went out for a Caramel Macchiato. It had been DAYS!
Yet, even that was not the low point. I had posted for every job I could imagine on Craigslist. I’ll watch your kids (I love kids)! I’ll walk your dogs (even though they’re slobbery)! I’ll detail your car (how hard could it be?)! I was so desperate for work that I signed up with a temp company that hires out people to do physical labor. The hourly pay for most of the jobs was decent, and this girl knows how to use a hammer.
The day I signed up they called to see if I would be interested in working the graveyard shift cleaning an office building. Hell yes, I was interested! Once I got there I learned the man in charge of the crew had recently started his own cleaning company. He had worked as someone else’s employee for many years, but this building was his very first account as a contractor.
It was hard work. I swept, dusted, vacuumed. The later it got, the more I wished each task he assigned would be the last. Finally he called me over to do the only thing left: clean the bathrooms. He would do the men’s, I would do the women’s.
Oh, God.
Okay, so maybe it wasn’t THAT dirty. There were two things about this that disgusted me. One was having to scrape strangers’ fecal matter off a toilet bowl, and the other was changing out the receptacle bags for used sanitary napkins. I did the bags first, daintily, with gloved hands.
I did not want to clean those toilets. It was four a.m. I could walk out and tell the crew boss I was sorry, I couldn’t do this, it wasn’t for me. But I pride myself on my Midwestern work ethic, and besides, I didn’t want to insult the livelihood of a man who had probably cleaned hundreds, if not thousands, of toilets in his lifetime.
I devised a plan of attack. I paused outside the first stall, gave myself a pep talk, inhaled deeply, then busted in like a ninja with the brush in hand. I really got in there, scrubbing under the rim and everything, all the while holding my breath. When it was time for more oxygen I kicked the handle for a flush and came on out for the next stall. Inhale, exhale, inhale, repeat.
Now I have a job I could have only dreamed of back then (a good stepping stone, a cool boss), but I still experience those figurative toilet-cleaning moments. My boyfriend Shrek likes to remind me that everyone, in every field, at every level, experiences indignities and injustices. It’s having to do something not in your job description, or do something for free. It’s putting on a brave face when you are hurt. It’s like rai-aaaaaaan, on your wedding day….
I guess the point is we all have to clean toilets sometimes. But never forget: this is America, and if you work hard enough, you might someday earn enough to have someone clean YOUR toilet. Until then, inhale, exhale, inhale, repeat.
Today's Coffee Beverage - Lemon Lift tea in the office. Good girl!
This morning my roommate DeeHo and I went on a hike in Griffith Park. Here is a picture taken of us on last week's hike with T-finger:
And yes, that IS what we look like when we're hot, sweaty, and tired.
At the top of the hill today we saw the exuberant Korean man who likes to slap High Five to hikers very, very hard. Presumably this is to help us get the lymph going. Today he asked us if we were sisters. We get this occasionally, not because we look anything alike but because we have toothy grins and similar body types (i.e. boobs and booties). The man asked me if I was Mexican. I was speechless for a second. I’ve been mistaken for German, Swedish, and Russian, but never Mexican. This was one for the blog!
Indeed, as the blog header will tell you, I am 100% Polish. My parents are from the Old Country, and my dad moved here at age 11. My mom came to the States when she married him at 26. I know everyone has issues with their parents being frustrating, annoying, or otherwise difficult, but I have the added strain of determining whether I can justify getting mad at them. Are they acting in line with their cultural background, or truly in need of a scolding?
My dad in particular is a tough nut to crack. I used to think the dad on Wonder Years was based on my father. Our weekly phone conversations generally go like this:
ME
Hi, Dad.DAD
Oh, hey, Ann! How is everything?
ME
Good. It’s nice out today. DeeHo and I are going to brunch in a bit.
(Pause)
DAD
And how’s the car?
ME
Great. Perfect.
DAD
Air conditioning works?
ME
Oh yeah.
DAD
All right. Well, thanks for calling. Bye.
ME
OK, b-
(Click)
A month ago my Dad failed to call me on my birthday. I know there are bigger problems in the world than keeping score of who calls on my birthday, but I had a strong feeling I could call him out on this. I knew that:
1) I had forewarned him the previous weekend that I would turn 27 on Wednesday.
2) He thinks celebrating birthdays in general is stupid and unnecessary.
3) My mom, knowing her, had badgered him all day to call me and he pointedly refused.
What a piece of work. I wrote him an eloquent letter expressing how hurt I was by his lack of phone call, and how I hoped that when next year rolled around he would consider calling.
Two weeks pass. Nothing. I call him and we make some small talk while he pretends everything is normal. Finally he says, “I got your letter.” I take a moment to pat myself on the back for not calling and yelling at him that day to get my point across. Obviously, a letter was the best way to get my thoughts heard. “So…” he says, “Are you over it yet?”
Incredible! “Well I don’t have much of a choice, Dad, except to get over it, do I?!”
He chuckles a little, as if I were being melodramatic. “And how’s the car?”
I give up, people. Some dads never change.
Today’s Coffee Beverage: Iced NF peppermint mocha latte from Peet’s. It always makes me late for work to go all the way to Peet’s, but it’s worth it.
I know a thing or two about hubcaps. I recently had my front right hubcap spontaneously fall off my tire and roll though a busy intersection for the second time this year. It may have been because I was recklessly driving over a corner curb while trying to memorize the address to a garage sale. But I can’t say for sure. This is the story of how my car was reborn.
The thing I’ve learned is that hubcaps are expensive to replace, and even for my modest ’99 Toyota Camry a new one would cost $40. Not to mention I’d have to drive to Van Nuys, which houses the only hubcap store in LA County. They would be able to fit me with an exact match so I could stop feeling so ghetto.
Which brings me to last Saturday. I had an iced latte, a debit card, and enough gas to get me to the Valley. While at a stoplight near my house I spied an Auto Zone and thought, what the heck? May as well check and see if, by some chance, they could dress my naked little tire.
I walked through the doors and wandered aimlessly for a bit, as girls do in auto stores, until I was approached by a sales clerk. Why yes, I did need help, thank you! He went outside to measure my rims and then ushered me to their small selection of hubcaps, four to a box, $24.99. The price was right! He picked out a set and went outside to put them on my car.
You don’t meet salespeople like this too often. I asked him his name. Jose. I was thankful he didn’t offer to shake my hand because his had greasy black shit all over it. He told me I should sell my remaining three hubcaps on Ebay and make a buck. Now I was in love with the guy. I never would have thought of that! Jose could have taken the old hubcaps and sold them himself and I would have been none the wiser, but he was looking out for me. Or did I just look that poor?
I wished right then I were the President of my own company, so I could chomp on my cigar and tell him, “Jose, I could use a guy like you.” I would start him at the bottom, of course, but eventually he would be my right hand and I would bestow the company upon his sons. My own sonofabitch kids never wanted anything to do with me or my company. But I don’t have a company, and when I look at the industrious Jose all I can do is hear the words of David Brent in my ears. “Waste. Of. Talent.”
I paid and left the Auto Zone, and as I went back to my car I could not help but notice how refreshed my car looked. Easily, five years younger. More confident and sassy. If it could talk, I’m sure it would have asked me for Botox and a new paint job. You know how it is… you get the lipo, and then you can’t stop. But those new hubcaps were singing.
I got back on the road, pondering what to do now that I had some extra time on my hands. I started looking at other cars and their hubcaps. Mine looked better than all of them. Even the luxury cars! Which was… strange. All their hubcaps were dull-looking, like my Toyota-issued ones. My new hubcaps were like shiny nickels. Almost too shiny for my weathered, gray Camry. I pulled over and looked at the box the hubcaps had come in. Oh my goodness.
Jose had sold me chrome hubcaps. Like the ones in rap videos. I was surely drawing unnecessary attention to myself. I got out and looked at my car. Ridiculous! All I needed was a spoiler and some tinted windows to complete the joke! And yet… she still looked sassy. And proud. And who was I to take away the one upgrade I could afford for her, after all the places she’s taken me? Hell, she just turned 100,000 without a single complaint.
Jose knew what he was doing all along. Goddammit, somebody give that man a raise! The gangsta hubcaps are here to stay, friends. Wave if you see me. I’ll slow down and let you touch up your lipstick in the reflection.
Today's Coffee Beverage: NF Moroccan Mint latte from Coffee Bean
Pretty wild, huh?
