My car got tagged this week. A going away present from the SilverLake 13.
Apparently, the gang bangers decided that my "ride" needing "pimping." How considerate and thoughtful. They really shouldn't have though. Does that mean they want a piece of me? Have I been initiated?
Fortunately they only tagged my windows, not the panels. You would have seen the looks I got driving my wacked out ride to the Home Depot for a can of graffiti-off. Or the reaction from the cashier. "Such a pretty girl..why do you do graffiti? Why you run with gangs?" "No, I had to explain, I need to clean it off." That's just how we roll in S-town....
Friday, May 19, 2006
Sunday, May 14, 2006
Worth Getting Out of Bed For
Trader Joe's Strawberry O's
Cheerios with chunks of strawberry yogurt goodness. Mornings were made for this.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
It's Getting Old, and So Am I
I just returned from my dermatologist's office, a fancy-schmancy oasis on Wilshire Boulevard where they offer Botox and laser wrinkle removal. (Before you jump to conclusions, I was undergoing a most unglamorous procedure of getting my moles checked). Going to my doctor's office is almost a treat. Her staff are friendly and professional, and they are clearly trying to cultivate a spa atmosphere complete with glossy magazines and complimentary mineral water. So enjoyable is my time in the waiting room, they have to peel me from my chair. (It doesn't help that I'm usually having something icky done, like having a mole cut out or burned off my forehead.)
My gripe involves a trend that is growing more disturbing by the day. Each of her staff members, from the scheduler to the nurse, calls me "hon," "kiddo" or "sweetie". It's not done in a patronizing way, they are quite sincere. The thing is, I'm probably older than half of these well-intended, yet misguided women. Do they really think I'm in college? Don't they see my charts stating I was born in the early 70s? Unless they can't do the math, which clearly, albeit painfully states I'm 35. I want to say, "Look I'm paying with my own credit card. I'm using my own health insurance which is provided by my grown-up job."
I briefly attributed it to the way I dress, but in a town that so desperately covets youth, even the grannies shop at Forever 21. Compared to these exhibitionists, I might as well be a Victorian.
When I was 21 and looked 16 everyone told me I'd appreciate it when I got older. I know, I should be so lucky. To be terminally cute, ha ha. Well let me tell you something. Cute does not age well. Cute is cute at 21, less endearing at 35, and downright ridiculous at 40. Even if 40 is the new 30, it ain't the new 15. Not just yet anyway.
My gripe involves a trend that is growing more disturbing by the day. Each of her staff members, from the scheduler to the nurse, calls me "hon," "kiddo" or "sweetie". It's not done in a patronizing way, they are quite sincere. The thing is, I'm probably older than half of these well-intended, yet misguided women. Do they really think I'm in college? Don't they see my charts stating I was born in the early 70s? Unless they can't do the math, which clearly, albeit painfully states I'm 35. I want to say, "Look I'm paying with my own credit card. I'm using my own health insurance which is provided by my grown-up job."
I briefly attributed it to the way I dress, but in a town that so desperately covets youth, even the grannies shop at Forever 21. Compared to these exhibitionists, I might as well be a Victorian.
When I was 21 and looked 16 everyone told me I'd appreciate it when I got older. I know, I should be so lucky. To be terminally cute, ha ha. Well let me tell you something. Cute does not age well. Cute is cute at 21, less endearing at 35, and downright ridiculous at 40. Even if 40 is the new 30, it ain't the new 15. Not just yet anyway.
Sunday, May 07, 2006
Gym Euphoria
I'm not a gym rat, I swear. Believe you me, it takes all I can to drag my sorry butt to work out, and I treat it like a trip to the dentist in that I bring everything I can to possibly distract myself: ipod, books, magazines -- heck I'd bring food if I could. But somewhere after 30 minutes on the torture device known as the elliptical, the endorphins kick in. Delirious from exhaustion, I go into the "zone" and an amazing sense of clarity emerges. My creativity reaches new heights as I come up with new book ideas, inventions, philosophies of life. Dripping with sweat, I shed my insecurities, apathy, and limitations, and metamorphisize into a new, actualized being. On my drive back, I vow to implement my new ideas and change my life as soon as I get home. Of course, once I set foot in the door, the couch beckons...
I'm not a gym rat, I swear. Believe you me, it takes all I can to drag my sorry butt to work out, and I treat it like a trip to the dentist in that I bring everything I can to possibly distract myself: ipod, books, magazines -- heck I'd bring food if I could. But somewhere after 30 minutes on the torture device known as the elliptical, the endorphins kick in. Delirious from exhaustion, I go into the "zone" and an amazing sense of clarity emerges. My creativity reaches new heights as I come up with new book ideas, inventions, philosophies of life. Dripping with sweat, I shed my insecurities, apathy, and limitations, and metamorphisize into a new, actualized being. On my drive back, I vow to implement my new ideas and change my life as soon as I get home. Of course, once I set foot in the door, the couch beckons...
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Schadenfreude
Admit it. Everyone derives a bit of satisfaction from the misfortunes of the rich and famous. I'd like to say I'm bigger than that, but sadly I'm no different. In my case, it's the story of Kaavya Viswanathan, the disgraced 19-year-old Harvard student who admitted to plagarizing passages of her book "How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild, and Got a Life." Or now it should be titled "How Overachieving Teenager Got into Harvard, Landed a six-figure Book Deal, and Got Herself Subsequently Ostracized from the Literary Community." Initially her book publisher stood by her story of the deed being "unconscious and unintentional." Now things are looking a bit dim for Ms. Viswanathan. Today, Little, Brown announced they were pulling her books from all carriers. Needless to say, her second of her 2-book deal is now in jeopardy and DreamWorks has ixnayed its optioning of the film rights.
My fascination deviates between pleasure in her pain and sincere pity. After all, she is surrounded by pressure on all sides -- her parents, school, and the media goldfish bowl. It's uncertain whether she'll return to Harvard. She has undoubtedly pushed herself hard for her achievements. But for whose ambitions? It was her parents who hired a $30,000 coach to strategize Ivy League admission. The same coach who referred Viswanathan to her book agent.
Maybe I'm a bit pissy because on my family's annual income, which was little more than the cost of Ms Viswanathan's "consultant", I didn't get a fancy coach or expensive college prep education. (Bring out the violins...) I'm a product of California public schools for better or worse. My parents scrimped and saved so that I wouldn't be saddled with student loans after graduating from the University of California, freeing me up to take the first minimum-wage, entry-level publishing job I could find. Maybe I'm pissy because my last submission to "Jane" magazine was rejected. (They did send a nice letter though.)
Don't get me wrong. Life is good. My path of medical writing has been lucrative and afforded me a comfortable standard of living. I'm no longer in debt. We eat out regularly. Of course, I give into flights of fancy about landing that book deal that will take me out of the rat race, and give me my first house.
But right now I'm going to bed.
Admit it. Everyone derives a bit of satisfaction from the misfortunes of the rich and famous. I'd like to say I'm bigger than that, but sadly I'm no different. In my case, it's the story of Kaavya Viswanathan, the disgraced 19-year-old Harvard student who admitted to plagarizing passages of her book "How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild, and Got a Life." Or now it should be titled "How Overachieving Teenager Got into Harvard, Landed a six-figure Book Deal, and Got Herself Subsequently Ostracized from the Literary Community." Initially her book publisher stood by her story of the deed being "unconscious and unintentional." Now things are looking a bit dim for Ms. Viswanathan. Today, Little, Brown announced they were pulling her books from all carriers. Needless to say, her second of her 2-book deal is now in jeopardy and DreamWorks has ixnayed its optioning of the film rights.
My fascination deviates between pleasure in her pain and sincere pity. After all, she is surrounded by pressure on all sides -- her parents, school, and the media goldfish bowl. It's uncertain whether she'll return to Harvard. She has undoubtedly pushed herself hard for her achievements. But for whose ambitions? It was her parents who hired a $30,000 coach to strategize Ivy League admission. The same coach who referred Viswanathan to her book agent.
Maybe I'm a bit pissy because on my family's annual income, which was little more than the cost of Ms Viswanathan's "consultant", I didn't get a fancy coach or expensive college prep education. (Bring out the violins...) I'm a product of California public schools for better or worse. My parents scrimped and saved so that I wouldn't be saddled with student loans after graduating from the University of California, freeing me up to take the first minimum-wage, entry-level publishing job I could find. Maybe I'm pissy because my last submission to "Jane" magazine was rejected. (They did send a nice letter though.)
Don't get me wrong. Life is good. My path of medical writing has been lucrative and afforded me a comfortable standard of living. I'm no longer in debt. We eat out regularly. Of course, I give into flights of fancy about landing that book deal that will take me out of the rat race, and give me my first house.
But right now I'm going to bed.
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