Nothing to Wear

I wouldn't be a woman if I didn't occasionally stand in front of my closet and think I have nothing to wear. What's terrible, though, is that I stand in front of my 19-month old's dresser with the same thought. I am sick of all of his clothes. I want to see something new. But he is 19 months old and he has like 50 shirts. But reason fails here. Having-nothing-to-wear is a state of mind. Can I think my way out of it?

Life is Life

I must remember what Dr. S. said before he took off, and when I told him that I oscillate between two truths; i.e. A. life is fundamentally worth living. B. life is fundamentally not worth living. He laughed out loud and said: Of course, they are both a lie!

Nothing Comes to Mind

Without O.D.ing on coffee my mind is a different creature altogether. But the calm sea also breeds lethargy. Lukewarm waters a la Med aren't conducive to creativity. Or are they? I suppose I could write in a villa on Cap d'Antibes. But I'm craving a cold shock to rouse the senses, to stir the cerebral mass, to cook a novel or two. Impressed by the economy of style of Chandler and Rand. But even that thought doesn’t lead very far. Bumps into the kitchen cabinets and dirty laundry and pizza pieces strewn on the dining room floor. A toddler really is an immense brain drain. And I want to kill the person who recently wrote "motherhood is a state of grace."

Google Yourself

It's tricky, the kind of stuff you can come across when you google yourself. Yours truly is in an unfavorable wikipedia entry, alas, and the man we shall call X. sent me a message and asked, kindly, to be removed from one of my blog entries. I have to say, it was the most kind and polite request I've ever read. Seems like the spiritual quest is working out for some people. I'm immensely impressed and humbled. There is hope!

Boyfriend Jean

I met my friend M. at Naya's Garden yesterday, and amid several bland Silver Lake pseudo hipster moms, there was one fresh face who had just arrived from France, and she was wearing a torn Levi's boyfriend jean. It made me ponder that I had braved every single denim trend since the early '80s, from acid washed stovepipes to huge Diesel flares in the early '90s to the True Religion, Seven Jeans, Citizens of Humanity, Paper Denim & Cloth madness of the 2000's until, well, I got fat and stopped. And the boyfriend jean came and almost went and I don't own a single pair. Sad.

Gwyneth

I don't know why I dislike Gwyneth Paltrow so much. I mean, who cares? But when we got a TV converter box and all of a sudden I found myself with 20 or so random channels, I happened upon La Paltrow and Mario Batali in Spain and almost threw up my dinner. Yet I had to keep watching her lisp through several dishes from famous Spanish chefs. Gag. Then imagine my delight when I happened upon this statement from culinary enfant terrible Anthony Bourdain: "Why would you go to Spain with the one bitch who refuses to eat ham?" My thought exactly.

My Guru

My whole life I've been running away from myself until just recently I realized that I can stand still and the centre holds! The blood-dimmed tide stops in its tracks. I do not slip off our ball of stuff into the terrible void. My feet are planted on the ground. All because of Milan. Such a gift! Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.

Rock Stars

Last night at 2:45 a.m., while I was in exhausted slumber, A. hung out with rock star X., who shall go unnamed, who rambled and raved high on E., heroin and Big C, on Sunset Blvd. While shooting a music video. X. performed with puke all over his shirt and mismatched socks and the crowd went crazy. Later, on the back seat of A's car, he parted his beard hair, and A saw a ring of crusted coke around his right nostril. A said in the wee hours, it looked as though his car were floating on clouds with X's feet dangling of the trunk. Such a beautiful image.

Cranky Caller

Nothing much to write about when your modus operandi is survival. And yet, yesterday I was okay. And today I am still okay, even though I cried a little at Dr. S's office. He offered that I can call anytime and be silent on the other end. I can call him in the middle of the night and just breathe into the receiver. Obscene, isn't it?