Trees Don't Poop

Best quote of the month. A. to M. this morning: Trees don't poop!

Hey! I'm Grateful, too!

A. and S. are ATHEISTS and therefore won't be eating the BODY of christ or drink his sacred BLOOD. Nor will they ask JESUS to save them and forgive them all of their sins. They will however, stand around a shrine of the Virgin de Guadelupe and do TEQUILA shots, and eat TAMALES and look earnest.

This Is Your Brain on Baked Goods

A. baked something not for general consumption yesterday. At one point he ate a chunk and reported he felt nothing, saying it's probably safe for me to have a little corner piece. Next thing I know I'm awake in an acid trip, my body turning into coils, which turn into maggots, which turn into snakes that I fold into a bouquet and beg my mom to kill by sticking them, head first, into a pot of boiling oil, searing their eyes. Then I swirled and twirled and almost became my bed until I had the will power to rise, surrounded by blind white eyes and the furtive steps of ghosts, to wake Abe and tell him to either call 911 or feed me a Xanax, stroke my back and not stop talking for a second, about beautiful things and love and peace. I fell asleep and today I'm walking on the egg shells of my self.

Holiday Artists

Nothing like getting out of a less-then-good-Thanksgiving slump than chatting over wine and the setting sun with David Hockney's best friends and artists and people married to or dating artists in general. Tis the season to be merry after all!

Hair

I got my hair cut today. And cut. And cut. And cut. At one point she said long hair is just pointless, because it just hangs there. Personally, she said, she really likes bobbed or short hair. And really, I would look much better, "fresher", with my hair, say, "to here." But "hair," I said "hair is a celebration of life, a love letter to freedom, and a passionate cry for hope and change!" Just kidding.

Fat on TV?

Butterball-size numbers on the scale require drastic measures such as applying for a reality TV show boot-camp make-over. Wish me luck, fellow size Ls! I Googled the host and she has a reputation. Good. Show no mercy. The inner pig will eat up the abuse while the toity leftie princess will quaff and quote human rights.

Fat Again

Sorry to say, I cannot keep the fat entries at bay. They just keep coming. Like last night at the show, when I split into two people: The one enjoying the band, hanging with good friends who like me despite being fat and seeing A. rock out. And the person who worried the whole time that certain persons in attendance were furiously whispering about how fat A's wife had gotten, soooo fat indeed that at first glance they stared at her with incomprehension, just a nanosecond, just long enough to make her realize what was going on.

Cashew

When the bouncer (I'm exaggerating; just a fat man in a baseball hat) asked us if we were on the guest list last night, I said, of course. I'm the singer's wife. Nah, he said. I only got Karma and Cashew. Excuse me? Enlightenment and Almond? Nah, just Karma and Cashew. Then he gave us a free stamp anyway.

Happiness is a Butter Dish

As I happily reported to Dr. S today, I woke up feeling happy. After seven days of almost total anhedonia, I feel like a normal human being ready to do stuff, such as exercise, by an onion and leeks, get shit done (see adventure in Glendale below) and not want to stab myself in the eye. Total figure of speech. Totally. Dr. S, also happily, in his South Indian accent, agreed that I seemed less "bummed out." I was startled by the colloquialism from this elegant, erudite and eloquent man, but I let it slip. Then he quoted in Hindi a yogi, who recommends not wasting your heart on the many, i.e. shallow, meaningless exchanges with lots of acquaintances, but lavishing your love on the few. Like the yellow butter dish from www.anthropologie.com. Alas, the yellow one is already sold out.

An App That Cures Idiocy!

Helpless, PPD-addled moms, your SOS has been heard. iPhone has a new app called The Cry Translator, which will interpret your baby’s wailing, i.e. interpreting whether the wee one is hungry, sleepy, stressed, annoyed or bored. Infants, of course, are so blasé and bogged down by the ennui of pooping, eating, sleeping and gurgling, that boredom is likely to come up a lot. And for the hungry child, the app has amazing suggestions such as “feed it!” How could I have managed without one?

The above image was "borrowed" from the amazing http://www.idiomsbykids.com/.

Don't Examine Your Tits

The feckin American "we drop you when you get sick" stealth-care system recommends postponing mammograms until your effin 50? And says self-exams are ineffective? What kind of backward, capitalist brainwash bullshit is this? But in the meantime, they lobby for the swine flu vaccine like the master drug pushers they are. Seriously, on Sid, the Science Kid, a PBS kid TV show I loathe beyond words, they devoted a whole segment on the frigging H1/N1. But mama's tits. That's another story.

I Heart My Child, and His Teacher Does, Too

When I picked up M. from daycare yesterday, and looked for the sheet in the folder about how his day went and how often he pooped, I noticed that there was a little heart on the 'i' in his name. That made me happy. And really, not everyone has an 'i' in his/her name for a little heart.

Deliverance, in Glendale

I like Glendale. I like it, because its scowling Armenians remind me of the folks back at home. And because you see real-life old people, unlike in W. Hollywood, Silver Lake, Echo Park and Mt. Washington, where everyone is either on a reality TV show, trying to get on a reality TV show, or an aging hipster couple with a two-year-old. But today, in the middle of Glendale, I walked into a scene from "Deliverance." Well, not quite. But the white couple running the store was definitely missing a few light bulbs, teeth and senior high school classes. It was awesome. The walls were covered with tacky award plaques for things like winning the sissy race. The only thing missing was a singing fish!

Le Pauvre

As I passed the chocolate truffle eating a huge sandwich this morning, and regaling him with my smuggest smile, I felt sorry for him. After all, in his insipid way, he was only trying to make small talk. The fact that the small talk had to be about my body weight, however, and this repeatedly, cannot be forgiven. Once the furies have been unleashed, there's no reining them in.

Requiem for a Dream

I briefly considered ordering Sensa, but A. gave me a crazy finger-wagging lecture about ephedrine. Shit. He said we might end up with a clean house, though.

Mom and Pop

Gwen Stefani said having kids is the hardest thing she's ever done. And that with all the baby nurses and nannies and personal chefs and work-out trainers and whatever it takes to run the show called "having and rearing a child". And I always thought that money would make things so much easier. But it cannot buy you a guilt-free mind, a clear conscience and a Zen-like approach to impending dangers. You will always worry about flu shots and autism and horrible accidents, even if you're a multimillionairess.

Gandhi's Pen

I love fountain pens. And I've always wanted a Montblanc Pen. They've always been too expensive and I forget to request one for my birthday. Now, for the 140th anniversary of the birth of Mahatma Gandhi, Montblanc has released the Mahatma Gandhi Limited Edition 241 pen, which is 18K gold and shows Gandhi on the salt march of July 1930. It costs $23,000. That puts things in perspective again. A lot of things actually.

1. consumering is disgusting and Gandhi would be horrified
2. my wanting of things is the symptom of emptiness
3. if I had that pen I could finish a Pulitzer winning novel

Gandhi himself wrote with pencils, wearing them down to a stub to illustrate that everything should be used to its fullest extent.

Baby Needs New Shoes; Mama, Too!

Luxe shoe designer du jour Christian Louboutin, in collaboration with champagne house Piper-Heidsieck, has released Le Rituel Crystal Shoe Flute. It celebrates the gallant French custom of gentlemen callers drinking from a woman’s shoe, the ultimate declaration of aristocratic love. Who needs a 5 ½ inch Slovenian crystal stiletto for drinking champagne? Foot fetishists of course! And speaking of Christians, there was a doomed day earlier this year, when I almost bought a pair of Christian Audigier shoes at Nordstrom. Barf. Gag. What came over me? Thankfully, the beastly urge was averted in favor of flower-print Wellies.

Who's Gonna S(h)ave Me?

When I was going for walk with my good friend "..." this morning, I noticed that her legs were shaved. You might think, duh, of course. Well, the thing is, on any given morning, this mama bear's legs might not be shaved. Sorry, I know this falls under TMI.

The People for the People. Not.

Forty percent of the members of Congress are millionaires, according to a new study. And we're not talking a million or two, but like 250 million. I'm so glad we, the people, are represented so well by folks who know all about comparing the prices for organic milk, postponing getting the brakes on one's car fixed and buying paper towels in bulk at Costco. Not even to mention people without health care, a job or a roof over their head.

What Wall?

Today, on November 9, we are all Berliners as celebrations take place around the world to commemorate the historic anniversary of the falling of the Berlin Wall. Except for me. And most Germans. I guess I'm one of the peeps an NPR correspondent referred to this morning when he said other countries seem to care more than Germany itself. And the event spokesperson said, well, yeah, Germans have moved on with their lives.

White Picket Fence

I just realized that our house has a white picket fence. Uh-oh. Unconsciously I knew, of course, but just now, after a tall nonfat latte, the ramifications hit me.

According to Wikipedia: a "picket fence, ideally white, is seen by some as a symbol of the ideal middle-class suburban life, with a family, children, large house and peaceful living. This stems from the fact that houses in quiet, middle-class neighborhoods often have a picket fence around the garden.[1] In recent years, some people have associated picket fences with what they regard as the more negative aspects of this lifestyle. For example, the director David Lynch uses ironic images of the picket fence in his 1986 film Blue Velvet."

Boyrettes

Nope, they are not a horrible new boy band but the cutest little Barrettes for boys with skulls, dinosaurs and spiders. Of course, they only work if your little man doesn't have the so LA au courant Mexican buzz cut. Oops. Was that inappropriate profiling? http://boyrettes.com/

Pixie Envy

Facebook sucks. Because there you can see which if your friends attended the LA Pixies concert, which you did not.

Damn Internet

Googled myself again because my Mom Googled me and, almost in tears, read about my "fatalistic death wish" in wikimedia and I tried to delete the damn thing. F$%^#ing Google. I will kill you till you die from it!

Bouchon

Me hates it that I got invited to the opening of Bouchon, "The French Laundry" of Beverly Hills, to rub elbows with my favorite chef and mingle with the creme de la creme of LA, but you know, I gotta pick up M. from daycare and stuff.

More Owls

I hope that my dear friend "..." won't mind me sharing that she found a dead owl and that she, brave soul, buried it off the freeway along with her wedding album and ring. It is such an honor to know her. I want to make a movie about it. And nothing ironic about it. Just raw owls, like the ones living in the old tree at the manor in 29 Palms.

Sound and Vision

Not so much sound, more of the visions: driving home in traffic and seeing a fat tired nurse smoking a ciggie at the bus stop... My friend K. hiking in Griffith Park and a man with a machete and elephantitis following her. The man with the "dickny" (DKNY) sweater....

Blue, blue, electric blue
That's the colour of my room
Where I will live
Blue, blue

Pale blinds drawn all day
Nothing to do, nothing to say
Blue, blue

All That Tweet

'Tis the season of flannels and tweed and all things plaid, so I must watch Twin Peaks and eat pie. And not a Twitter about it, even though, says NPR, that's the only way to find a job these days.

Hipster Halloween

Owls. Need I say more?

Excuse me, miss. Do you cougar?

Seems to me many a 30 plus vixen proudly bears the moniker "cougar" these days. Don't they realize the veiled sexism? Have our mothers and grandmothers burned their bras in vain? Do we have to be chicks and birds and broads and betties and bimbos and boxes? And now cougars, the term du jour? I'd rather be called middle-aged! But if you wanna have it, wild cat, check out the California Cougar Convention in Los Angeles this Friday. Kittens forever! Meow!

Plumber Scum

Plumber Scum sounds like a cool name, as in meet my friends, Plumber Scum and Plum Sykes, author of "Bergdorf Blondes." Kidding aside, plumbers are the scum of the earth. When they mention copper pipes for "the whole house" they neglect to specify the exclusions, of which there are many, among them all drainage pipes and the pipes leading to the showerheads and spouts in the bathrooms.

Burning For Me

Just why are scented candles so expensive? If I want my house to smell like the Lowell, I've got to shell out 55 bucks plus tax! Are candles like fine Champagne grapes that need specific growing conditions and painstaking methods? Are they collectors' items Marc Jacob purses? Are they o.g. Eames chairs? No, they're just wax.Or maybe soy. So what gives? I want to speak to the Jo Malone Amber & Sweet Orange Luxury Candle, which sells for $345 at Bergdorf Goodman and ask: Why?

Do Your Own Dishes

I applaud Ruth Reich's editorial in her last issue of Gourmet. She does her own dishes. And she reminds us that ultimately the party is about connecting with people, not worrying about how they might judge your house and chipped dinner plates.

Trail of Tears

Commenting on a news item about a new law in the state of Arizona which took effect on Wednesday, October 28, and which allows patrons with concealed weapons permits to carry their loaded guns into bars, I said: I'm sad that I live in a country of idiocy. Says J: I remember some idiocy your own country indulged in oh sixty years ago or so. I say: You really REALLY want to go there? Genocide of the Jews? What about your genocide of the American Indians and African slaves. Says J: Oh, that happened so long ago.

Last Fat Entry Ever!

OK, last fat entry ever. Also happened a work, a virtual minefield of weight-ism. In the oh so glamorous snack bar, where you can get a lentil soup so bland it would lead any good Turk to consider Armenian genocide, the "lady of the house" says: Oh, you're pregnant! I stare at her for a second, then say: No, I just haven't lost all the baby weight. She: How long ago? Me: Two years. She: I'm sorry you have lost the baby. Try again dear. And pats my hand.

Fat African

Oddly, when you Google "fat African", all you get is porn. Wassup?

Fat Truffle Head Mother$%^#@

Haven't felt like writing since that fracas with the fat French chocolate truffle. So now I'll write about it anyway. I saunter into the building high on latte and he says: You 'aven't had much time for yoga lately, 'ave you? I, haplessly, respond: No, I haven't. Been too busy. He: Yes, I can tell, you 'ave gained much weight. At which point I get in the fucker's face and do something other people do to me and I have vowed not to do to other people, and I say: Maybe in YOUR country it's OK to comment on people's weight. Well, let me tell you something. In THIS country it is not. Especially not to women. It is rude, insensitive and tactless. I'm not calling you a fat fuck, am I? No. So there. Now get out of my face and not another peep. Jamais! Compris?