Two State Solution

"Excessive Anxiety" (i.e. being a total idiot) means listening to an NPR program on the two-state solution with the window rolled down while driving by a Hasidic Jew. And worrying that he wonders why this chick with a side braid is listening to something that concerns perhaps not even him. While really he's thinking about dinner or a parent teacher conference or getting his side curls trimmed.

Parental Perspective

Having a 2.5-year-old in the throes of the terrible 2's puts everything into perspective, such as the stainless steel IKEA knives rusting in the drawer and the dust bunnies frolicking in the hallway. I don't care that there's an exposed nail where the picture fell down and broke or that my refrigerator has smears of tiny little hands. Uhm, whom am I kidding?

Fogey

I was wondering with great anxiety whether having a hotmail account dates me. Shall I switch to gmail like all the hep young things. Oh no! What to do?

What's-Her-Face?

Another author published a book about in which she writes about you know, what's her face, doing the same thing as you know, what's her face. After she woke up her eyes looked almost puffy yet saggy like what's her face's.

A sad state of affairs, the publishing world.

Note from the author: what's her face is NOT SJP, just a writerly convention of weak scribes who "write like they talk, you know."

Make Believe

When I was little, my grandma would receive these fat, thicker-than-a-phonebook "Quelle" (the 'source') catalogues. I would cut out pretty women in sundresses and lingerie, pretty girls in shorts and braids, handsome dark, tall men to go with them, accessories galore like gloves and hats and jewelry; and then of course sofas and coffee tables and lamps; refrigerators and ovens and microwaves; and lawnmowers and toolsheds and pretty sheets and fabrics and throws. There was nothing I couldn't have, nothing I couldn't make mine. Today, the same exercise with the latest issue of Elle didn't yield the desired results, just an empty need, a gnawing humger for Balenciaga's Bauhaus sandals and Jessica McCormack jewelery. And overall a feeling of want, of not having enough, of being a dope for not having the millions to buy the million things I crave, which aren't even real except for on the pages of a magazine---just like those pretty girls with their hats and refrigerators and Louis XIV imitation chairs.

shine on you crazy diamond...

Life is a paradox. You won't find anyone who thinks more about what other people think than yours truly, the sarcastic bitcher. Mom has been telling me all my life not to care, while modeling not caring about others at all, which backfired in that Butterbaby cares more than necessary. Dr. S. continues in this fine tradition, but I will always compare myself to better moms, skinnier/prettier girls, more accomplished writers, faster thinkers, more kittenish kittens. You know who you are my delicious friends. But for the most part, 99 percent part, I leave my friends out of these comparison studies. I, important me, compare myself to perfect strangers. Not perfect as in perfect 10s. There aren't that many to begin with, mostly 7s and 5s, but perfect as in I don't feckin know them and why the f do I care what they think of my fat ass or why I’m crying behind my sunglasses on a sunny day or why I wear strappy heels with sweats. People are a judgmental lot though, so maybe that's why I worry. I mean, I'm given the road rage finger a lot. That should tell you something. But hey, at least I’m being noticed. Even if it's just my senior citizen driving style when M's in the back. Oh, ramble on, you crazy diamond. Thanks, Pink Floyd, for giving me the freedom not to make sense. Yummy Syd.

Out Of It

Why are people based out of LA? We aren't they simply based in LA?

Sans Mots

Gag Me with a Roast

It's astonishing how many Japanese manga images come up when you Google the word "gagged." I'm all for S&M; it can be loads of fun when it doesn't involve the Marquis de Sade's kidnapped villager babies, but c'mon. If you need your meat all bound and muzzled, go have sex with a rump roast.

Meh

Has butterbaby run out of steam for good? Nothing to say, eh? Cats got your tongue? Come on, say something? But all is quiet on the Western front. No Armenians to make fun of. Chocolate truffle is not misbehaving. The lawyer gives me compliments. The diner lady is not worthy anymore after she adamently told me that she refuses to make grilled cheese anymore. Not enough money in it. Hubby is cool behind his wizard beard and hipster striped shirt. And little old me wallows in depression like a motherfucker without my mojo. Meh.

Shopping Carts

You can tell a lot about people criss-crossing the parking lot with their shopping carts in front of grocery stores. You can tell whether they're coming or going. You can tell by their posture. If they are about to go in, their stance is straight and their grip is firm. If they're done and about to leave the cart next to your car, where it will leave a ding, their gait is furtive, their stance stooped over slightly and their grip loose, like they want to let go off something dirty.

Orange County Noir

I never recommend anything, mostly because most things suck, but this one is too good to pass up. Thanks NPR and www.akashicbooks.com! Quote: "Orange County Noir takes you for a hardboiled tour behind the Orange Curtain." When the NPR journalist voiced incredulence that dark things could be lurking in sunny Laguna Beach, one of the writers quickly reminded her of "Blue Velvet." Easy enough to figure out!

Wizards

Says A., who knows all things scenish: The new Cypress Park hipsters with long hair and beards down to here are called "Wizards." How perfect. To be admired in their natural habitat, spinning records and sipping beer, at "Footsies," the former scene of my only bar crime.

Brain Sync

Irony not lost on me: snacking on Milan's Trader Joe's multigrain crackers while listening with headphones to weight loss brain sync CD at 11:30 p.m.

Cinna-Buns

There's a bag of Cinnabon toast rotting at the bottom of the hill that is our backyard. I hurtled it there after A. told me that's how Kirstie Alley got fat. It wasn't so much this simply fact, which he gleaned while sitting in the bathroom, reading one of N's tabloids. It is because he was comparing me to her. Basically calling me "Kirstie Alley trainwreck fat." I suppressed a few tears. Then I hurtled the toast as hard as I could. Thing is, I had never even heard of Cinnabon toast until I had some that very morning at B's house with a hardboiled egg and a cup of coffee. Such a fat fest of a breakfast, I know.

Can You Help Me with This?

Armenians strike again in Glendale. This time at the Starbucks on Western. As I get my latte, 5 mins. late for my appt. with Dr. S., a tall, skinny, embattled looking man in a suit approaches me, holding up a large piece of paper. Out of the corner of my mental eye, I'm thinking he's going to ask me for money. Instead, he says: can you tell me who this is? His piece of paper is actually a pencil drawing of a clownish looking figure with a big nose. I say, sorry, I don't know. Again, he implores: can you tell me who this is? Me: I'm sorry, I'm running late. He drops the paper, looking crestfallen. Groucho Marx? I yell as I exit the Starbucks. Yes, thank you, he says.