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.

Guilty Pleasures

Shoulder pads on the other hand can be way cool. But why am I thinking so much about fashion? Why am I not thinking about preschools and vitamins and baby wipes and bottle feeding? What happened? Am I maybe becoming my shallow, materialistic (vs. maternal) self again? Have two years of intense work in the Zen school of Dr. S. accomplished nothing? Case in point: $20 dollar exercise class at glam studio followed by shoe shopping at Zara and an overpriced Latte at Le Pain Quotidien, while stowing M. away at daycare. And he was clinging to me leg this morning. Can we say GUILT?

Cops

I did nothing bad, but I ran a stop sign because I was running out of gas. At least that's my logic. The cops didn't find it logical though and I had to walk and then talk my way out of going to jail, when they said my eyes looked bloodshot and shifty. I said I had one drink and I have allergies and I'm just a shifty looking kind of person. Then they noticed I'm not from around here and we talked about the Autobahn a bit and exchanged a bit of racism about illegal aliens. I think that got me off the hook. Thank you!!! Nevertheless, my mind keeps going back and back and back to the image of myself on the corner of Figueroa and Ave. 50, against a fence with three cop cars surrounding me, and the Mc Donalds sign in the corner of my eye and the near fatal brush with a DUI. The stuff of nightmares.

More Death

When I was little, I was obsessed with death. I had a calendar and when I heard in the news that someone died, like someone being bombed by the Baader-Meinhof gang, I would mark that day with a cross. Last night I cried about the child of a rock star who died. The rock star was someone I took care of when I first moved to L.A., after he had abdominoplasty. I hated his band and music and we made fun of him because he had gotten fat (hence the need for abdominoplasty). And last night I read that his little girl died from a horrible disease and I felt guilty for making fun of him ten years ago.

Perverse Perspective

A. took the last two surviving baby turtles to Echo Park Lake today, to the spot where we usually see other turtles. He said they seemed happy. I feel crushed. In fact, I feel sick to my stomach that two had to die from neglect. I almost feel as bad about the turtles as I do about the little girl who was killed on Figueroa two weeks ago. I mean, where is my perspective?

The Salvador Dali Power Nap

I'm not sure if I dreamed this or read it a long time ago, that Salvador Dali would nap with a bunch of keys in his hand. And when the keys fell to the floor and made a noise, he would wake up and that was his power nap. I don't know why I always think of that whenever I feel like taking a nap in the afternoon. Maybe because I feel guilty for taking such long naps that leave my cotton mouthed and catatonic. I can’t just “nap.” I fall unconscious. And dream that I'm a car thief. But I only steal very small cars, Fiat Unos, Smart Cars and Austin Minis.

Note from the editor: Dali napped in his armchair, holding not keys but a spoon over a metal pan on the floor below. When he hit REM and lost muscle tonus, the spoon would fall from his grip, bang the metal pan and awaken him.