I listened to this very interesting podcaston my walk to the Farmers Market the other day (how green of me you say). I was walking listening to talking about a man who walks the walk AND talks the talk. Geoffery Canada is an American who has developed a program designed to lift the poorest children in the US out of poverty, and stop the cycle forever. He and his program, the Harlem Children's Zone, are on my hot list of things to investigate and get behind.
The casualties and ghosts of the abandoned war on poverty sit in our classrooms, walk our streets and waste away in our prisons. This is truly the American Nightmare: impoverished, uneducated and unemployable amid a land of plenty. We can continue to ignore them and pay the price or we can call up the national resolve to fight – and through education, win – the country’s abandoned war on poverty. Geoffrey Canada
Don't be fooled by the first few seconds of this Charlie Rose segment with Geoffrey. It's not about Bill Clinton (a mantra I recommend Bill learn and repeat, repeatedly).
I didn't leave the house today, there was no reason to. I had everything I needed for this day in the 10' x 10' space I sat in. All day. My computer desk sits in front of a window (fresh air) that looks out onto the downtown Los Angeles skyline (view I enjoy). The street in front of the house is very busy with pretty much non-stop traffic (lots of action, don't feel like I'm alone in the world), and every few minutes I get a sample of what people are listening and singing to (comedy) on the radio (world culture). Lately there has been a lot of Michael Jackson mixed in with the Mariachi. I have started wearing maxi dresses around the house. They are comfortable when it's hot, non-confining, and since I have gone to some length to pick the right ones, I feel sexy when behaving like a sloth. I have the internet of course, so I spent the day educating myself about retirement planning, P/E ratiosand chart analysis (bettered myself). I read the newest news about the oldest person in the world, watched this promo for a new documentary, and answered a poll about whether I think Penelope Cruz is pregnant or not (entertained myself). But the very best part of the day came when it was time to feed myself. Dominoes.com. I wondered if it was possible to order in pizza online, the answer is YES! I was able to order it custom, exactly the way I like it, pay for it and see how many calories it would be if (when) I ate the whole thing. And the best feature of all, I got to watch a meter showing precisely where in the whole process my pizza was. Pizza $10 and change, Coke $2, tip for adorable man with heavy accent $3.
Priceless.
I knew exactly when it was time to put some pants on to greet the driver (thank you Evita, he said). I won't do this often because it was 1000 calories, but it was the most perfectly hot pizza and cold coke I have ever had.
I stayed in today because I am feeling nauseous and tired. One of the things they don't tell you in the 6th grade sex ed class is that sometimes the whole woman cycle thing can really ring all the fun out of you. Not only do you get the mood swings and weight gain, but you also get exclusive membership in the acne of the month club. This month it's tiny little painful bumps on my chin and arms. Sexy. Or maybe I'm just coming down with something and it has nothing to do with PMS, who knows. In any case I thought my favorite summer treat would help me feel better, a big bowl of ice cold watermelon. Mmmmm. I use an ice cream scoop to make great giant watermelon balls and keep my fridge stocked for as long as it is in season. 12oz of watermelon is only 102 calories, that's a lot of summer love. I was dishing myself up and from somewhere in the deep crinkles of my brain echoed My cat can eat a whole watermelon! It's a line from a bizarro movie called Ruben & Ed that came out in 1991. The film was made in Salt Lake City by a local director and became a cult classic. I will never not laugh when I see this clip. It's my favorite kind of brilliant stupid. Ruben is having a heat induced hallucination in the middle of the desert where he has gone to bury his dead cat. I hope that when I am an old old lady this is where my brain goes.
I was watching a DVD at home today when this song came on. Flashback to 1986, the year I graduated from High School. Sidetrack: I am having another flashback...of the time a few years ago when a kid working in my office mentioned that he was born that year. I started laughing hysterically and then threw up a little in my mouth. That grown man/boy was born the year I graduated. Sigh. Back to 1986. I took my fashion cues from her, and I loved this song.
There is freedom within, there is freedom without
Try to catch the deluge in a paper cup
There's a battle ahead, many battles are lost
But you'll never see the end of the road
While you're traveling with me
Today I took my cankles out for a walk and was nearly plowed over and devoured. Or at the least the first part. A woman in a hurry was backing out of her driveway. I watched to make sure she saw me because she was, after all, driving a white Mustang (who drives mustangs any more... this is not a muscle car town?!). I stopped on the sidewalk as she started pulling out. She stopped. I started walking again. Just as I was smack dab behind her she hits the gas and I was up to my elbow in Mustang screaming Whoa! Whoa! !@#$!!! She must have heard me or seen me contorted around her trunk because she slammed on her brakes and immediately rolled down her window begging for forgiveness. She looked both ways! She's so sorry! She didn't see me! She said all this to my back as I was not going to stick around and get in a yelling match with an undoubtedly over caffeinated Mustang driver.
I was of course very shaken by this but continued my walk. Some survival gene got juiced by the trauma and for the rest of the walk I saw nothing but danger ahead. There was a small flock of five or so crows on the grass in front of me. Living in Los Angeles provides them with much to eat (rats, trash, fertilized grass) and they were huge. As I approached they squawked and flew off but I thought, what if they didn't fly off? What is they were rabid or as crazed by the heat as I am and decide that between the five of them they could take me? Their feet are as big as my hands!
Later I passed a man walking his dog. Lots of people have dogs in my neighborhood and 8am is when they take them out for their morning constitutional. One dog was little, but the other was GIANT and hairy, so hairy that you couldn't see his eyes. Never trust a dog whose eye you can't see. I imagined what it would be like if he decided he could take me, he's bigger than me AND his owner. But then I got distracted by the thought that I could never own a pet for whom I had to follow and pick up a HANDFUL of warm poop. I avoided the whole thing by taking an extra wide distance as I passed.
When you are single and not working, you have to ask yourself every once in a while, if I were attacked by killer crows in the middle of the day, who would know? Sure, eventually someone would notice that I'm not around, but by then it would be too late, the crows would have already told their buddies who would have finished me off. I would already be calories for crows.
I need to stop listening to Ayn Rand on my lovely walks in my beautiful neighborhood. In the meantime crows, Mustangs and the people who drive them have been added to my list of notorious outdoor predators (real or imagined).
This morning I woke up and realized that sometime during the night I must have gotten up and taken a double dose of irritable. When I am awake I don't remember where I keep it, but it must be here somewhere. It's the only explanation for how I could go to bed feeling fine, get 7 hours of uninterrupted restful sleep, and wake up ready to give birth through my chest (all Sci-Fi like) to the angry alien gestating in there.
It's also 93 degrees, humid, and the air is a freaky color and full of ash from the fires. And I have PMS. Luckily for me (and all of mankind really) I had made plans to go to the Getty Center for an architecture and gardens tour with Jen this afternoon. Art and air conditioning can always calm the savage beast. Here are some photos I took around the property.
We got a thing going on. I have gotten so worked up about it that I am exhausted and must now attempt to find inner peace by turning to a higher level of thinking, or risk losing my relative sanity. I have moved past denial and into acceptance that there is clearly a vast conspiracy within the LAPD to harass me in an agressive and persistent manner. I present the facts:
1. Several weeks after taking a lovely spa weekend trip to Arizona, I received a Notice of Delinquent Parking Violation from the City of Los Angeles Parking Violations Bureau. It has to do with license plates they say were not there, that ARE there and have never not been there. I have been fighting it since June 17th, it was "issued" on May 23. The details of the whole drama are too emotionally difficult for me to relive, but my ranting post I'M MAD AS HELL with all the gory details, is available here. STATUS: Still pending while they review the photographic evidence and mildly worded argument I submitted several weeks ago.
2. On July 30th I was driving home at night when I was pulled over by a Sheriff who on upon laying eyes on me said "you're not Jose Garcia." I think it was the blond braids and 36C's that gave it away. Apparently Jose has a warrant out for his arrest. He took my ID back to his car for a minute, asked me a few creepy questions, stated he had "never seen anything like this before, " and apologized for pulling me over. STATUS: No ticket, but that night I slept with the safety disabled on my bedside bear spray can.
3. On August 22nd I was pulled over for crossing a double yellow line during the process of making a left hand turn. Any monkey with a tape measure (me) is capable of marking off on the sidewalk (and photographing) where I would have had to veer into heavy oncoming traffic while avoiding (1) crashing into the Starbucks storefront and patrons (2) sideswiping the SUV waiting at the stop sign on the street I was turning onto (3) the small family I waited for as they pushed a stroller across the street I was turning on to. I know this is Hollywood but if had I actually done what the ticket states, it would have looked like a scene from Starsky and Hutch complete with screeching tires, people diving out of the way and chicken coops flying everywhere. I WILL NOT PAY THIS TICKET EITHER. STATUS: They don't even allow you to follow up on the citation until three weeks after it happened.
4. And today, August 31. Expired parking meter, $50. This one I will pay because it's actually legitimate. I was over by 10 minutes. Which they knew. Because they're watching me. STATUS: Will pay tomorrow while murmuring @!#$%*!!
The first time I heard myself say I can't stand these new haircuts the boys are wearing, they are too poofy or their bangs are so long you can't see their eyes, I knew I had officially left rebelville and moved into appropriateland. This is why people have mid-life crises. You wake up one morning spewing forth words and phrases that not too long ago gave you hives. How did I get here?
Back to the haircuts, but first this disclaimer. **I HAVE NOT READ ANY OF THE TWILIGHT BOOKS, NOR HAVE I SEEN THE MOVIE.** So forgive me as I use the following demigod to illustrate a good style idea gone wrong.
EXHIBIT A
See, even he's not that thrilled with it. It takes a lot of product to get that kind of lift. I am glad he had it cut recently. He must have seen a little bit of himself in the same photo I did and decided that wasn't going to flip the switch for tweeners and housewives much longer. Girls like a head of hair they can run their finger through, not one that snags your sweater or provides refuge for a small flock of sparrows.
Maybe if I saw the movie I would get it. Maybe I'm really "out of it." Up until 10 min. ago I thought his name was Robert Patterson.
My body image recently underwent a change of attitude. I came home from a trip to my apartment which had undergone some remodeling while I was away. In addition to getting a new and improved bathroom (which is...awesome) I asked for a mirror I had recently bought to be hung. This mirror is not the thing, it's the mirror that it replaced that has rocked my world. That mirror is sitting on the floor of my bedroom propped against my spinner. For the past few days, the first thing I see when I get out of bed are my calves, warmly referred to by me as my cankles. I am very happy to have legs that work, but acknowledge that I have no ankles, just calves that connect to feet. This body part on me is where "sturdy lass" comes from. One might think I am just exaggerating so I will recite the following true story:
I worked on a TV show called "Jake in Progress." During season one a character (Wendy Malick) is pregnant, and complains of swollen ankles. We were discussing that we were going to need a swollen ankle double for a close up (Wendy has incredibly fantastic model legs) when the AD reached down and pulled up my pant leg.
She said, "Eve, you're doing it."
I said, "B**ch."
Ultimately we found a suitable photo double and I eventually learned to like the AD again.
I am currently on the pudgy end of my personal weight fluctuation continuum, and my new familiarity with my calves is changing my whole approach to diet and exercise. I now see my cankles as the Susan Boyleof my body. They are talented and hidden away and just need a haircut, a little time in the sun (or the fake equivalent of such) and a few less biscuits. They crack me up and carry me around, they deserve a make-over and I am happy to oblige.
My niece Nya turned 4 yesterday. Happy Birthday Nya! She is 4 going on 15, with a bullet. Recently when I was home visiting, my sister and I were heading to Chuck E Cheese with her kids. We heard Brynn asking Nya what kind of birthday party she wanted to have. It went like this:
Brynn:What kind of party do you want to have Nya? Nya: Something that's boyish. Brynn: Like Spiderman? or Superman? Why do you want it to be boyish? Nya: Because then the BOYS WILL LIKE IT! (Duh).
Oh Boy. My Nya is made of pink foam. I have said so since she was born. When you pick her up she feels like she weighs nothing even though she's full of trouble, willful determination, and boy crazy.
They continued their discussion about party activities, and I chatted on with my sister until we heard Nya say "Well... I guess they don't have to get punched in the face..."
The word was reintroduced into English in the 17th century from French, and was for some time considered French; in French, "blonde" is a feminine noun; it describes a woman. "Blond" is an adjective that refers to the hair itself. A man can have blond hair but he is never a "blonde".
Though many writers of English use the spellings interchangeably,[2] some of them continue to distinguish between the masculine blond and the feminine blonde[3] and, as such, it is one of the few adjectives in English with separate masculine and feminine forms, at least in written language. Each of the two forms, however, is pronounced the same way. American Heritage's Book of English Usage propounds that this particular use of the term is an example of a "sexist stereotype [in] that women are primarily defined by their physical characteristics."[3] (Another hair color word of French origin, brunet(te), also functions in the same way in orthodox English.)
