23 January 2009


I have met some famous people in my life, mostly in the context of being a girl reporter and getting to interview them for an article.

I never felt like I could do fan-girl things because I was at work, being all professional and sh*t, even though meeting the hot, hot, hot Anthony Bourdain made my palms sweat and my voice shake and my brain turn to thoughts of running away and helping him debone fish on a tropical island....

The closest I ever came to blowing my professional cover was getting Mike Scioscia to autograph some balls for the exMrStapler and his friend Jim, both lifelong Angels baseball fans.

So I don't have any photos of me hanging out with famous folk - or I didn't until last Sunday night, when I went over to LeahPeah's to watch the premiere of the show she worked on as a consultant, "The United States of Tara."

Clueless as always, I met this pretty, porcelain-skinned girl and lamely tried to comfort her when she said she had social anxiety. I wanted to get her name but she seemed distracted. I didn't bother to find out why, because half the people I am around all the time are utterly ADD, so having them be distracted when I am trying to talk seems totally normal to me.

When the show came on and her name appeared on the screen as executive producer and everyone cheered, I found out she was Diablo Cody, Academy Award-winning screenwriter of "Juno" and author of brilliant books and blogs...I'm always the last to know.

So now, thanks to LeahPeah's prodding, I have my first photo of me standing next to a famous person who has no idea who I am:

22 January 2009

I blame the homosexuals

Look, I am cranky at the best of times, that I will not deny. Then there's the seasonal affective disorder which makes the months of November-February feel like a swirling black hole of prickliness and ennui. That's normal (and yes, I know about the light box. Tried it. Does not fit into my life schedule).

This very morning I had to apologize to the lovely and talented Heather B. for busting her chops about the Grace in Small Things meme. I threatened to quit reading her blog for a whole year because of her participation. The exact phrase, I believe, was "Wake me when it is over."

Yes, I am a jerk.

But this menopause thing has cranked things up a couple thousand notches. Get out of my way, people, because my hormones and I are coming through. Like it or not.

The estrogen cream from the health food store works great to keep my Raging Bitch-self in check.

But there's a problem. The one, the only health food store in town that sells the magic goop is run by a man who gave over $25,000 to the Yes on Prop 8 campaign - the initiative that banned same-sex marriage in my state.

When I heard that, I vowed to boycott and have stuck to that. I am in no way going to give them my $34.95 so that they can oppress my friends. I mean, a political donation isn't exactly burning people at the stake, but still. Having my money used against civil rights...no. (I am practically Nelson Mandela here in my saintliness, aren't I?)

I have been magic goop-free for about a week and the world around me is paying for it. Grrr. Trying to cut me off in traffic? I WILL CUT YOU! Do not mess! Doing the Grace in Small Things meme? You are dead to me! You stupid bloggers don't know what kind of hell I can bring!

I blame the homosexuals. I try to do the right thing for them and this is what happens.

(No, honest, I'm driving up to Ojai to Rainbow Bridge (not making this up) for non-evil magic goop tomorrow at lunch. Sure, it is 15 miles one way, but I have my scruples. And it is a really pretty drive. As long as no one gets in my way.)

21 January 2009

Graceless in things large and small

This is rough because I love me some Schmutzie, but I cannot stand her YEAR LONG meme of "Grace in Small Things."

The idea is that bloggers are supposed to post five things they are grateful for each day for a year. A whole year.

Many, many bloggers are going along with it, which kills me.

Whenever I go to a blog and find that little list, something like this:
1. Peach-scented shampoo
2. Leather car seats
3. Fluffy clouds
4. A smiling grocery cashier
5. No traffic on the way to work
...I die a little inside.

I am fine with gratitude. But a year of a forced march into contained and counted thankfulness, repeated over and over and over? It makes me feel spinny and ill. It is the antithesis of what I want from my blog friends.

Give me the real deal. The good, the bad, the funny, the sad. But you don't have to do it every day (unless you want to) and you don't have to count it, and you certainly don't have to feel compelled to reveal your gratitude in public every single day.

As they say on some horrible reality shows, I'm just keeping it real. Now excuse me while I go show Bret Michaels my implants.

19 January 2009

I listen to the wind*

It was an interesting literary weekend. I had dinner Friday night with an Emmy-award-winning writer and watched TV tonight with an Oscar winner. It made my head spin in a good, happy way. More on both, later.

Sandwiched between the two was a Saturday night spent making homemade dog food by myself at home. I, a vegetarian spinster in her late forties, was hand-mincing poached chicken breasts when I thought "Oh crap. Now I've done it. I have become the crazy lady who lives by herself and cooks special meals for her dog."

Next up: crocheted house slippers.


The wind has been blowing so hard and for so long that it feels apocalyptic. If this were a movie, the wind would stand for some important concept the screenwriter was trying to drive home...lost hopes! the end of innocence! the march of history!

But this is real life and there is no important concept. There is just this damned wind.

The damned part comes in because I live in this odd little old house that has the water heater outside up against the east wall in a galvanized zinc box about the size of a fat man's coffin. When the wind blows hard enough, the box flexes and slams against the house, making a sound not unlike the typani drum in a symphony.

This is annoying to me and certainly enough to interrupt my sleep a bit, but it makes Goldie lose her mind. It freaks the poor dog out so bad that she can't eat, can't rest, paces around relentlessly, licking her chops and velcroing herself to my legs. She tried to climb in the shower with me this morning and to frantically bury one of her squeaky hedgehog toys this afternoon.

To relieve her stress, she is having a slumber party at the grandparents' house tonight. (The grandparents who had their 63rd wedding anniversary today!)


*Cat Stevens, Jonniker.
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