'Weenie

I suppose I should wish you a happy Halloween. Okay. Happy Halloween! I'm just not into it. Not my favorite holiday. I suppose the only good thing about it is all the fun-size candies that go on sale the day after. I mean, Halloween seems to be just another occasion for women to embrace their inner hoochie. Around L.A., we call that Saturday night. Perhaps there's a little more glitter involved on Halloween. I don't know. But it certainly puts a different spin on "trick" or "treat".

Another slutty-costume-avoider and I made plans to meet up for happy hour tonight. Then we realized that, snap, it's Halloween. We aren't sure what we are going to do. Where exactly we can go that will be Halloweenie-free. It may end up being my place for some wine and a slice of the Great Pumpkin.

Still, costume-lover or not, I hope you have a happy night. Have fun. Be safe. Enjoy some pumpkin.



(BTW - For those of you with an email subscription, there's a YouTube clip above.)

Right Now

Last night, I went to a memorial for a woman in my Buddhist group. She passed away last week after battling brain cancer for eighteen months. Only fifty years old and the single mother of a teenaged son.

In Buddhism, everything is one. Good and bad. Right and wrong. Black and white. They are not opposites but compliments. Part of the whole. Nothing should be judged; it just is. That can be hard to see when you or someone you love is going through something traumatic. Why? is always the question. Because is not the answer one seeks.

I doubt anyone reading this post hasn't suffered a loss, or known someone with cancer, MS, Parkinson's or any other debilitating or deadly disease; perhaps you are living with one or have survived it. My hat is tipped to you. I'm sure the idea of embracing such an affliction seems utterly asinine. We are supposed to fight it, hate it, resent it, not surrender to it. By that, I don't mean give up, but to accept what is and find the path it is guiding you to...be it healing, treatment, activism or living life in a new way.

Okay, I don't mean to sound all California, airy-fairy, crunchy granola. We know I'm a little more pragmatic than that. However, I think that if there is any gift in such tragedy, it is to look at our own lives and make whatever adjustments we can or should to make them better. More in line with how we want them to be. Be more like the person we hope to be. Not wait for "when", but take the now and live it fully.

That sounds lovely, until the alarm goes off and we have to battle traffic and drag our ass through a day of work. But, that's just what I mean. That's the now. That is all we have. We hope for many, many nows, and sort of expect them to keep on coming. But, really, we don't know what amount of nows we own. Each one is a little gift. A sweet surprise. A wonder. Even when they might suck.

But, I hope your now doesn't suck. I hope you are having a great now. And that all the nows that follow will be even better. But, just in case you stumble upon a lackluster now, take a second to think of something that brings you joy and hold on to it. Move toward it if you can. Right now.

Better Than Text

Only six more days! I'm so excited. Aren't you? It's like Christmas, only better. A new President. Hurrah! I've been waiting for this moment for eight years now. Eight very long, hard, bitter, stolen-from-me years. We have resolved all the "hanging chad", missing absentee ballots and severely challenged math skills surrounding our Presidential elections, haven't we? I certainly hope so. Ducks in a row, people. Get 'em there.

You don't need three guesses to figure out whom I hope will win. (That one!) And what a sweet day that will be. I think I might take next Wednesday off. We should have a parade or something. Serve up a couple of celebratory Baracktails.

While I know I'm not the only one, I have developed a bit of a bond with Obama. We Facebook. He texts me. Sends me emails (I have to say, I melt a little when he addresses me as Sandra Ann). We follow each other on Twitter. But, I'm wondering if all that will come to an end next week? Will President Obama still tweet his peeps? I certainly hope so. Imagine:

@BarackObama Kicking it in the Oval Office then World Peace!

Do you think Barack might pull something like a @RickSanchezCNN and let us send him texts and tweets telling him what's on our minds regarding the war or the economy? Put up a Twitter screen during his State of the Union address? That would be awesome...and a lot of communication management. See. He's creating jobs already.

But, if Barack decides he has to cut all ties in order to focus on running the free world, I'll understand. I suppose it's not appropriate to SuperPoke your Commander-in-Chief (after all, this isn't the Clinton administration we are talking about). I'll miss our tweets, but having Obama in the White House is better than texts.

To Morro, Part II

Things I learned about myself during my weekend at Morro Bay:

1. It's better if I pack the night before rather than the day of.
2. If I'm not going to pack the night before, it's a good thing for me to forget to wash my makeup brushes so that I can use the residue on the eyeshadow brush in place of the shade I forgot to bring.
3. No matter how tired I am, there's always time for good conversation.
4. No matter how much coffee there is, that's no replacement for sleep.
5. I can drink a lot of wine and still not have a hangover (though that may be due to the phenomenal amount of bread I consumed over the course of the weekend).
6. I can actually function without internet access (but there's a hell of a lot of Twitter to read when I get home).
7. I can easily fall asleep without the TV on to lull me (that could also be due to the wine/bread/late-night-convo combination).
8. I can be around 7 kids at once and my head won't explode (again, the wine and bread may have assisted here as well, but the kids were pretty close to angelic).
9. I can almost not swear at all in front of said children, and can pretty much refrain from inappropriate comments or conversation topics...or at least I can keep a low voice when I do slip.
10. I don't care about the rock.
11. I don't carry the soccer mom gene.
12. Fudge gives me a headache (which causes me heartache).
13. I tend to forget to pack my motivation when I go on vacation.
14. I tend to forget to eat my vegetables on vacation (unless salsa counts as a vegetable).
15. No matter how utterly adorable a child might be, it's still not enough to rouse my maternal urges to consider actually having one myself.

This is my second time going to Morro Bay. The first time I went, I was really tired. I kind of slept through most of it. It's sort of a sleepy town anyway. I was there for two days before I noticed the rock. As we were walking toward the ocean, I stopped dead in my tracks and said, "Holy mother! Look at that rock!" The whole street stopped to look at the "special" girl pointing at the obvious. My friends just shook there heads. "You are just now noticing it?" one asked. I reminded her how tired I was.

This time, the rock was fogged in. Seen it once, seen it a thousand times anyway. And after a hellish heatwave, I was happy to don a sweater and shiver. After a hellish work week, I was happy to do nothing more than meander through the day with chit-chat and snacks. This is really what life is about. I felt kind of bad, like I was a terrible guest when they would ask me, "Do you want to walk down to the beach?" Nah. "Do you want to go out for breakfast?" Eh. Maybe tomorrow.

Then I realized, maybe this wasn't all about me. So I asked, "Do you want to go to the beach?" After a pause, the answer was, "Nah."

We did venture out to lunch and took a stroll around the village. More friends (and their offspring) came over for dinner. We learned that you should read the poundage and do the cooking math before you go to bed, in case it's supposed to cook for sixteen hours (but that you can adjust the heat and get it done in ten). We also learned that an excited young man in new, dark-rinse jeans will stain cream-colored walls when he bounces off of them. And that Clorox wipes will only take you so far before you actually rub through to the paint you painted over. And, sometimes a person just needs to go to sleep without saying good night. Which is okay. That's just how we roll.

Mornings do come dreadfully early, especially on the last day. But, let me just say that on neither morning did I wake to a baby crying. No. Not this perfect child. Not even when Aunt SAM emerged from her room with glasses on, blemishes blazing and rocking a faux ponytail. Though he and I seemed to perfect the art of the headbutt on day one, on day two, he confused it for a kiss. Or maybe he's all about love and not war. Either way, I only want spawn if I can have one as good as him. But, that's a tall order, and since my friends already have one that good, I'll just bogart him from time to time. I can't wait for him to start talking. I know it will be profound. Probably something along the lines of, "Lady, back off!"

I'm not good with goodbyes, so I just sort of pack up and go. I had to hit the road a bit early in the day so I could avoid Sunday traffic back in L.A. I thought about stopping for gas before getting on the freeway, but didn't. That would be smart, and we know how I like to make things difficult. On my way down to the 101, the hawks soared overhead. Had I even thought about this possibility, we would have been picnicking on the hills, watching them sail above us. Instead, I swerved on the road as I watched them circle and swoop. I took them as a good omen.

I paid $2.97 for gas in Carpinteria. The drive home was only three-and-a-half hours long...without speeding. The hawks were indeed a good sign. And, even after stopping for a burrito, I was home in time for True Blood. It couldn't have been a more perfect weekend. Well, if I would have remembered my eyeshadow, that would have been a bonus.

To Morro, Part I

Beginning a weekend getaway on only four hours of sleep is not a good plan. Thought I might go on record with that, just in case you were thinking of doing something similarly stupid. Don't. It can be a little dangerous. Also, don't get cocky and think you can manage without caffeine on that tiny amount of sleep. That's just asinine.

It's not often I get the chance to sneak out of town. Vacations this year? Deux (and both were weekend-sized...sigh). So, when friends call to say, Let's get away, I do my best to comply. Inevitably, my schedule leading up to the break is always a fustercluck. Last week was no exception. But I was so looking forward to my weekend away at Morro Bay, I could hardly wait for Friday to arrive. Of course, I was well into Friday before I got to bed. Blogs take up a lot of time.

My lack of sleep made Friday a harried morning. I barely had time to get dressed. There was no time to run by Starbucks for fuel on my way to Client #2. Surprisingly, I had energy. I was alert. I didn't even yawn. All without a hint of caffeine. No green tea, nor chocolate covered espresso beans. I almost called Guinness.

After work, there was the scurry to get errands done. Run to the store, get gas, check tires and oil, and...oh, yeah...pack. Packing in a rush can lead to disaster. Fortunately, it only made me late, and I only forgot my eyeshadow. At least I remembered my feminine supplies, because it's only really a vacation if Aunt Flo tags along. Jeebus. Of all the luck.

Because I was running late, I had to skip the much needed car wash. I also didn't have time to make a medicinal stop at the Bucks. I was high on Midol, so I didn't care. Besides, I was hoping to make it to Morro Bay before the crash set in. Because the crash was inevitable. And it would be a bitch. I could feel it in my bones.

In order to distract myself from the impending doom of exhaustion and the bummer of traffic, I chatted with a friend for over an hour. She got me to Ventura. NIN took me the rest of the way. Once the sun fully set, the yawn-fest hit. And I was only a third of the way there. I never realized how far away Morro Bay actually is. I wasn't sure I would make it, and even considered going back home to get some sleep and drive back out the next morning. But, only a total wuss would do that. An idiot would just keep on going.

I suppose I should have paid more attention to the Google Map, because the occasional glance in the dark was not sufficient. I am a competent driver, and even a competent directions reader. But the first time I drive a new route in the dark -- especially after inadequate sleep -- can spell disaster. Or something equally annoying. All I knew was that I would take the 405 to the 101 to the 1 and -- boom -- four-plus hours later, I'd be in Morro Bay. Of course, there's more that one 1 off the 101. And, of course, I took the first one that came along.

Fifteen minutes on the darkest, single-lane highway in America, I began to draft law requiring that the highway/route/freeway number and direction it's headed be posted every so many miles (five would be my suggestion), so that when someone as exhausted as myself gets the feeling the vertigo from the winding road and begins to question if she's actually going in the right direction could look at a road sign figure that out. Instead, seeing one too many signs for Lompoc and none or Morro Bay, and worried that I might actually be headed toward Malibu instead of the Central Coast, I turned around and went back to the 101. An hour later, there was a second sign for the 1, and this one lead to Morro Bay.

Do you pay attention to all the tiny street names of the sharp turns to you take off the off-ramp to get you onto the main drag? Me neither. So, why does Google Maps add those, only to confuse me later? I don't have time while I am driving in the dark with dry contacts to note how many inches I would be driving on those streets. I'm easily distracted by places with names such as "Taco de Mexico", which leads my brain to wonder if "Taco de Ireland" would actually be a choice. So when I see street names on internet directions, I actually think they matter. Once again, I pulled off the road and called my friends to give me guidance. Five hours after I left Venice, I pulled into their driveway and, thirty seconds later, had a glass of wine in my hands. Did I tell you they are good friends?

Tune in for To Morro, Part II tomorrow.

Yeah, It Looks Different

This is, what, my third layout since moving to Blogger? I think that's about right. And this one I had to customize. All by myself. After midnight no less. Someone pin a medal on me (so my dark circles will be less noticeable...thanks!). There are still a few "issues" (like my title description is a little off center), but, like all my other issues, I'll deal with them later. I'm not planning on making any more changes to the site. Well, maybe one more.

Okay, I'm monetizing. Yeah. The BlogHer ads are coming. Be sure to support me them. And if you aren't familiar with BlogHer, check it out. Whether you are a blogger or not, you will find a great community of women (and men). It's also a wonderful forum for you if you are thinking about starting to blog (and you know you want to so you can lose a bunch of sleep, too).

No, I haven't drank the Kool-Aid. Come on. But this is all the blog I've got in me after coding and reformatting and reformatting the formatting of the new format. Take pity on me. There's only three hours of sleep in my future. Then packing for my fabulously low-key weekend getaway. So you know Monday's blog will totally make up for this piece of *gold*.

xo

Real Biggest Loser Challenge

I fancy myself as having some level of sophistication. Then, I scroll through my TiVo "Now Playing List" and that level dips a bit.

I suppose it's not a totally humiliating set of shows, but I have to admit that, before writing this post, I sat through the un-aptly-named America's Next Top Model and my most guiltiest pleasure, Real World/Road Rules Challenge. I haven't even watched Real World in years but, somehow, I am sucked into the dysfunction and highjinks of the challenges. They are redunkulous.

But that goes without saying that I spent Tuesday night with furrowed brow watching The Biggest Loser (which would have to be me for wasting two hours on that...every week...while eating). And, according to the "To Do List", Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew is back. I love that almost as much as Celebrity Fit Club.

The Bravo reality includes Tim Gunn, those chefs and that runway show, but not any of the housewives (I have my standards), that Zoe creature or Top Design (does anyone watch that?). And nothing on network television. I've never watched one of those shows. Wait...there was that first season of Rockstar: INXS, but only because a friend dragged me to a taping...and then I had to see who won. Thank God they were more than halfway through the competition. The whole time I kept wondering if Michael Hutchence was pissing himself laughing from the great beyond, or was just pissed.

Going through my "Season Passes", you will also find Oprah, True Blood and Dexter. I'm about to dump My Name is Earl. I know. I fricken loved that show the first two seasons, but now...meh. CSI Miami totally bugs. Too much filler, if you know what I mean. CSI is also on its last legs, but I like it more. Sadly, that bumps off 30 Rock, but I think I can catch that on Hulu or something. Yeah, sadly Frontline or Masterpiece Theatre hasn't quite made the cut. I guess my sophistication only goes so far. But, I think we knew that.

Oops

So, last Wednesday wad Blogger Action Day, and bloggers were supposed to post something on poverty. Whoops. I think I wrote something on a topic much more banal, but that's par for the course here. I believe that was the day I came home to no water. Whatever. I survived.

Of course, last Wednesday -- and for a few weeks, actually -- we were all looking at our own poverty. Something I'm an expert on. I think we all know what it is to be broke. Even if one is rich, he or she surely know what it is to be short of friends or love or self-esteem, luck or taste. You'd be amazed at the number of rich people who have no taste (Celine Dion's wedding ensemble would be one example). You'd think they could buy taste, but no. There's an incredible amount of stylists and decorators who have a phenomenally bad sense of humor. Still, the question that really needs to be asked is: Have you ever thought what it would be like to be truly poor?

I have.

Oh, when things have gotten really bad, very in the red, I've wondered where I would end up. How I would survive. Visions of Ramen and sleeping in the Ghetta have kept me up at night. That still holds the hope of food and shelter. Imagine having less. Imagine having others depend on you as well as you are grasping for your own survival.

We've all got it pretty bad right now. Unless you are Oprah or Bono, Bill Gates or that Murdoch sunnuvah. Outside of that, we are all trying to put our poverty into perspective. So, imagine this year...a really bad year for everyone...when you are relying on the support of charities, the help of strangers, and wondering if that might come. What you will do if it doesn't. If you are working a job reliant upon tips and seeing those dwindle as everything else rises. If you are looking for work, or got sick or your car broke down, your house if foreclosed, your life repossessed; how on earth would you cope? Are you coping? The sad fact is, no matter how bad one might have it, there is always someone else who has it worse. It's a horrendous thought when you think of the worst that can happen to you and then add that axiom. It's almost paralyzing.

Okay, this is a much more gloomy post than you usually read here. Yeah, I can go to the bluer side of the mountain from time to time. It's in my Aries/Scorpio Rising/Capricorn Moon nature. That Capricorn Moon can be a real downer. My point, however, is that when we are looking for our own silver lining (since putting the platinum one on credit is no longer an option), we should remember those who might be looking for a tin or aluminum can to cash in. It's a scary time for everyone. We can only get through it if we ban together. We are a community known as the Human Race. So, even though this post is a week late, think of whom and how you can help. Give what you can. It's not something you will have less of' you will actually gain more from it and in more ways than you can imagine. Trust me. Especially if you need a karma booster.

As the holidays slowly approach, and the harsh weather nears, I hope we will all remember that and do what we can, even if it is only to ask for help.

Faking the Little O

I never understood faking an orgasm. That's like ordering dessert and not taking a bite. Pointless. The Big O is sacred. The little o...well, that's another matter.

I decided to try a new tact in facing the dreaded Monday. I was going to fake optimism. Couldn't be that hard, right? Paste on a smile and seize the day. Criminy. If it were that easy, we'd all be doing it.

The daily challenge is, of course, traffic, which is a fascinating thing. It deserved to be studied. There's something quantum about it; whether it's physics or mechanics, I'm not sure. But, when I'm Oprah/Bill Gates rich, I'm going to sic some scientists figure that shizzle out. We all know there's no rhyme or reason to it. And today, it screwed me. Even though I went faster than I promised myself I would (especially since we are nearing the end of the month), I ended up behinder. Every second counts when you are a commuter. And when you are going to be stopping at the slowest Starbucks on the planet, you need lots of seconds in your favor.

Today, I entered the Trancas store and found only a couple in front of me. Unfortunately, they were German tourists (no offense intended to German tourists). They did not quite get the concept of Starbucks, American math, our coin system, or placing their order at the same time. Four, count them, FOUR minutes standing there as they were schooled in the finer points of what a venti is. Now, the rub was, there were two more baristas behind the counter. These baristas are trained to be like reverse ninjas. Instead of you not seeing them, they don't see you.

Today was the first day I was late (without the excuse of having no water...and even then I was only five minutes late). Today, I was four minutes late, and my boss gleefully announced it when I walked in. He meant it with a sense of humor. I just thought, "If you had any idea how hard it was to be this on-time, you'd keep that *funny* to yourself."

Then he told me the internet was still as it shouldn't be. My sixth marathon call to Verizon. The girls in the office gave me looks of sympathy. This is when they keep quiet and count how many times I throw the phone and not-swear. In return, I don't put the on-hold "music" on speakerphone. I keep my pain to myself.

Today, I was handed the black hat. (Or what a former client called the "rubber bands", in reference to rudimentary castration. He was fond of saying, "I see Miller's brought her rubber bands to the meeting today," or "Be sure to set your rubber bands on the table when you talk to him.") I understand the delicate nature of a female "assistant" (even when I served as a "consultant") having to take a male vendor/colleague to task. Even I don't enjoy it. Much. There's nothing less un-fun than having to address little things like: Did you submit the (lone) bid and get it approved before you hired the subcontractor who happens to be your friend...in Nevada? No? Well, next time you might want to...and get two more bids while you're at it! That's fun, especially when they want to take another twelve minutes to reintroduce themselves and let me know how things were done before I came into play. What they don't realize is that I put down the phone, walk away, pick up a document from the printer, think about what I want for dinner and reorganize my purse while they are doing that. It's amazing how far an uh-huh can take you in a conversation.

Fortunately, the day didn't get any crappier. Just painfully long. The optimism I attempted to fake with a pasted on smile was replaced by lines of frustration where the Botox should go. The drive home remained long. Dinner was eaten quietly as I listened to a good friend cry softly over my earbud, suffering from her own frustration. I stared at the glass of wine for a long time before I finally drank it. Wondering how I might manage tomorrow. Placing bets on how long it will take me to get my latte. Questioning the meaning of life. Remembering to re-charge my iPod.

I suppose the only thins worth faking are politeness and interest. Did I hear you say uh-huh?

A Rebuilding Year

Men don't always get the ways of women. Could I make more of an obvious statement? No. So, imagine their utter confusion when a chick chops off her locks in order to grow them out.

I know. It only makes sense if you are a woman. However, if you own dangly bits below the belt, perhaps it would bring you a sense of understanding if we called it a "rebuilding year". I believe that's what men refer to it as when their team has a crap season and they remain blindly optimistic that it will be better next year. Well, that's what we girls think when we've had enough of bad haircuts and color and split ends. With a weakened sense of optimism, we whack it all off. Like an abused wood floor, we've got to take it down to its most natural state so we can add to it again, and bring it to its best again.

Or, at least that's what we tell ourselves.

The past month has been a hairy-ed adventure for me. The next person who says, "I almost didn't recognize you," will have to buy my drinks for the night. And, I tend to be thirsty. This tressed-out situation again proves my theory that bangs do more for you than Botox. I've not done the Botox yet, but I've had ample people tell me how much younger I look with this 'do. That could very well be a backhanded compliment, but I'll take it. Trust me, Botox is on my list of things to do. But, if the bangs keep getting me those comments, I'll keep them (and the money I'd be spending on needles; bangs I can cut for free...needle injectors I'll pay top dollar for).

I don't mind my hair being this short, or this straight. I mind that they are both of these things at once. This is of my own doing, of course. There is no one else to blame but the bimbo typing this out. There are certain occasions in which forethought takes a vacay and forgets to put the "Gone Fishin'" sign up to let me know that perhaps now is not the time for me to make a decision that will take a long time to grow out. Maybe I enjoy that frivolous unpredictability about myself. If I do, it only lasts until I have to do my hair.

I just keep repeating that I did this for a reason. Like trading my slightly aging star player so I can get three more young bucks to play. And, as I run my fingers through my very soft, very straight hair, I keep thinking one thing:

When will it be long enough to pull it into a ponytail?

A Thousand Words (x2)

It's a sign the world is coming to an end. Or that metrosexualism is desperate for a comeback. Seriously, I want to meet the man who will go out in public in these. Well...maybe not. But you can send me his name and picture and I'll post it here.

The shorts+longjohns mismatch of the 90s was one thing, but mantyhose are just -- as Tim Gunn would say -- preposterous. Faux tat tights? Who would dream this stuff up? And who would buy them (and not for a costume or gag gift...emphasis on gag)?





This is just too good for words. Feel free to add your own, though, or visit DListed to find the caption contest winners. Seriously, someone needs to sit down with John and explain that he's not funny. Really. That joke he calls a running mate was bad enough. Cracking himself up at the debates was absolutely cringe-inducing. This, however, just says it all.

Yes? Yes? No!

About two months ago, I had a conversation with a certain someone on the East Coast. He mentioned he would be coming home for Thanksgiving and inquired if I might have time to see him while he was in town. I said yes.

About three weeks ago, I had a conversation with the same certain someone and he asked me again. I politely (for me) reminded him that we had that conversation before and that I recalled answering him. Did he, by chance, remember that? He said yes; he was just checking to be sure. I suggested he might want to find a better way to check rather than ask the question like it had never been asked (or answered) before.

I stopped him last night when he started to ask again. "Jeebus," I exclaimed, my fuse lit in a way only he can ignite. "Have we not solidified these plans twice now?" He confirmed we had, he was just checking. Again. "Seriously," I said, my eyes rolling so far back a contact was momentarily stuck, "if you ask me again, the answer will be no." He asked if we could change the subject.

Now, in all fairness, I can understand (as I'm sure you do) why he's probably keeping our date in pencil. Thanksgiving is still weeks away. Things could easily go pear-shaped between now and then. Our history, after all, has been a tad turbulent. The last date we had ended with a row in the back of a cab. Kind of hard to play make-up with three-thousand miles between you. So I do get the air of caution he's taking. But, criminy. He's a clever man. I'm confident he could inquire in another manner. Or just simply take me at my word since I'm not the kind to be flip about my calendar. It's Tiffany. I don't like eraser droppings in it let alone black ink exes marking the spot of a botched plan. I know that schedules are constantly in flux and that we end up overbooking ourselves. I respect and appreciate a secondary confirmation, but not as a repeat proposal. What girl would?

It took me a good ten minutes on our call to lessen my irritation. "You know," he said, "I think it's kind of cute when you chide me." He was lucky those three-thousand miles were there as a buffer, or it would have been a long cab ride home.

Go With the Flow

No good deed goes unpunished. Seriously. Think how that little aphorism plays in your life. In spite of good karma (and, believe or not, I do have some of that), it's the little things that end up nipping us in the derriere. Like Tuesday morning, for example.

I'm desperately trying to adjust to this real job and long commute lifestyle, and desperately trying to fit the gym in there somewhere. It became painfully clear during week one that the after-work scenario was not going to fly. That meant an early morning call. I'm a night owl by nature and generally allergic to anything pre-noon. The six-ayem alarm screech has been met with multiple snooze button smacks. While that felt good, there wasn't a huge calorie burn or cardio benefit. (If only. Imagine how big that DVD would be.) After four bumpy weeks, I seem to have finally gotten my act together, and am waking up early enough to scramble to the gym. Not for the workouts of yore. No. This is a twenty-twenty split (twenty minutes of weights, twenty of cardio). Granted, there's not a huge calorie blast from this regimen, either, but dragging my ass there is half the battle. I get brownie points for that somewhere, right? (And can I use those for cake?)

There is no stretching apres workout, though. No time for that. Instead, I rush home and turn on the shower while I peel out of my gym clothes and begin the mad dash that is the remainder of my morning. So, it was a major hiccup yesterday when I turned on the tap and nothing came out. I stood there rather perplexed. There was water running before I left, right? Flashback to teeth-brushing, face-washing, toilet flushing and water refilling the tank. Yes. Water was intact an hour ago. So what the hell happened? I didn't see any signs of construction highjinks or burst mains on my way back home. Perhaps it was just a problem with my shower. Which I realize is a daft idea, but you know how it is when you are faced with a nonsensical problem -- you are driven to examine every possibility, no matter how dopey. Of course the bathroom and kitchen sinks were a no flow. I put on my robe and hit the phone.

Every moment counts on this new pre-work workout plan. I've got forty-five minutes to get ready and get out the door. I was losing precious time. My property manager had no idea why my pipes were dry, but she called the maintenance dude across town to come over and check it out. While I was on the phone with her, there was a pounding at my door. Through the security gate, I saw a man donned a reflective orange vest. He spoke no English. Me no hablo Espanol. After several attempts at Spanglish, I took the card from him and saw my street number next to my cross street, thus showing me an address that does not exist. I tried to explain this and that I had no water, and if he was in anyway involved in that to please remedy the situation. He said something I didn't understand, so I asked him to bring over his supervisor. He apologized and went away. Whatever. I needed a shower, and he obviously couldn't help me.

I called DWP hoping they might have an answer. Nope. No outages in my area. Blast. I pulled on some yoga pants and a tee and went out in search of the non-English speaking plumber, or some sort of explanation. Nothing out of the ordinary but me traipsing around the neighborhood when I should've been applying makeup or something as productive. I emailed my boss to let him know of the dire situation and that I would get there as soon as I could.

I tried to think of a Plan B. Go back to the gym and shower there? Yeah no. Showering with flipflops on is saved for camping trips. (I no longer camp, by the way.) Should I dash to the liquor store and buy a few gallons to heat up? Nah. I would rather see this as a sign from God that I deserved a personal day.

Another knock at my door. The maintenance hero. Someone had turned off the main. One day, I should find out where that is.

It seemed God would rather I worked. Emailed the boss man again that the water was back on, hopped in the shower and rushed out the door. And, even with all the time lost, I was only five minutes late for work, and that included a stop at the slowest Starbucks in the world. There's a lot to be said for not enjoying your shower or giving a toss what your face or outfit looks like in the harsh light of day. It saves a lot of time. But we all know I'm a spender not a saver.

Smoke Gets in Your Area Code

The joke is that California does have four seasons, but they are: Earthquake, Fire, Riot and Mudslide.

It's Fire season, people.

When the Santa Ana winds kick in, all bets are off. I think we'd be better off just staying in. That's my preference. Heat, rain, snow, bitter cold; I can take all of those happily, with a hair flip and smile. Wind annoys me. It's rude, difficult and unforgiving. There's no hairstyle that can survive the Santa Ana's (though, I have to say, the Brazilian Blowout does a good job of it...because all it can be right now, a week after doing it, is be pin-straight). Let's not even get into the whole static situation. It's so not the best part. Lotion. Hairspray. No matter the trick or remedy, it only gets you so far.

Because the winds are multi-directional, crap easily bypasses your sunglasses and attacks your contacts, which remain dry no matter how much you blink. Then there is all the other shizzle being blown about, going right up your sinuses, which become irritated making your eyes red, cutting the ribbon on the sneeze-fest. All in all, it makes for quite a look.

Driving in to Malibu on Monday was an adventure. The winds were so strong, I felt like I was in a scene from Twister. Because the Santa Ana's were blowing over the mountains, I wasn't sure what would fly out at me next. I got used to the branches, of all sizes, being hurled at me. I was keeping an eye out for a Smart Car, though. And the trucks. We were all having a tough time driving a straight line. Amazingly, what the winds did blow over was all the smoke from the Lake View Terrace/Porter Ranch fires. That area is a good forty-five miles east of Malibu, and countless zip and area codes away. Mother Nature is a powerful broad.

When Malibu smells like campfire, people grow uncomfortable. Me included. As the smoke cast the glow of sunset in the sky (and it was barely eleven ayem at the time), we started checking the news sites regularly to be sure there weren't any fires in our neck of the woods. After all, Nick Nolte's caught ablaze last week, and for no good reason. Anything was possible. Fires don't necessarily come in threes here; more like they come in dozens.

Fortunately, we were in the clear, so to speak. We had a hard time breathing from the thick-ash air, but looked good under the amber glow of the smoky sunlight filter. The winds remained relentless. Something I would enjoy at home, on the sofa, watching an old movie. Not so much at work. I did my best to tune it all out, send my good vibes to our tireless firefighters, pray for those whose homes are at risk or were consumed.

Eight-point-five hours later, I left the office. The winds were gone. The air was still. The skies were calm. The glow was actually coming from the sunset, though the smoke was still in the air. And the ash was in my car. Tilted moonroof. Amazing how much junk can float through that little crack. Fugme.

As I drove home on PCH, I admired the full moon's glow on the water below, so much more serene than it was that morning. The scent of campfire still in the air. Usually a comforting aroma instead marking another of nature's tragedies. Wildfire. Heartbreaking and scary, reminding us that no matter how powerful or in control we think we may be, Mother Nature can quickly prove us wrong. All of us.

Appropriate Separation

As you may know, Sundays are my laundry days. I purposely get up early and hit the laundromat so I can get on with my day. This week, I didn't get there particularly early. As a matter of fact, I thought I was on the later side. So, imagine my joy when I came upon an open lot and only two women dealing with clothes when I ventured in. My favored machines were waiting for me. This was a good day. After loading my laundry, I sat up my chair, put on my iPod (Pretty Hate Machine, natch) and cracked open the latest Sedaris. Then, he ventured in.

It takes a great deal of energy to disturb someone with audio and visual sensory overload, but he did it.

This man stormed in and threw his basket down. He was more or less begging for attention. I gave in. My eyes rose above David's words, though, those of TR were still bumping up against my ear drums. I witnessed this man dumping three loads -- whites, lights and darks -- into a single machine. Forcing in every last sock. To the point there would be no free movement.

I know times are tough. But if you can't afford to separate your colors from nons, that is a sad state of the Union.

I wanted to mention to the man that there were bigger machines, some that would allow that overload to actually tumble, but, I bit my tongue. To each his own, I thought. I did make him aware of the wadded pair of socks that seemed to have tumbled out of his soileds. With that, he said there was a place for me in heaven. Shoot. If that were all it took after all that I have done, I'd be cruising laundromats on a nightly basis.

Later, as Trent screamed on and David took me from Paris to SoHo, I watched this gent take his overload and spread it over three dryers. WTF? I'd rather have damp yet thoroughly clean clothes than semi-clean clothes thoroughly dry. But, that's just me. I have a uterus, therefore, I might have a different take on the philosophy of laundry. I called upon a male friend in New York to verify the genetic difference I suspected.

My email, sent with an exclamation point, asked: Do you separate?

He replied: I used to. Now, I just send it out. I assume they do.

Just goes to show, if you want it done right, don't look beyond your own.

By Any Other Name

Do you ever wonder what you would be like, who you'd become if you were given a different name at birth? Me neither. But it crossed my mind the other day for some reason.

Sandra is a rather random name. And, until effing Grease, we sort of flew under the radar. My only saving grace was having Ann for my middle name (same as mom's). My mother never gave me a satisfying answer as to why she named me Sandra. I was grateful for her decision, though, when I found out the other two contenders were April (for the month I was born) or Patricia (as in Nixon). Sweet baby Jeebus. If my mother took drugs, those options might have made sense. My father said he agreed to Sandra Ann because he had grand plans to call me Sam. Seems he couldn't talk my mother into Samantha.

I've never met an April that wasn't blonde. I'm not blonde. Well, I was for a bit when I was about six months old. I don't think April would really fit who I am. If I were named April, I have a sneaking suspicion I'd be expected to be perky all the time. Perhaps I'd perfect my cartwheel and join the rah-rah squad. That's just a guess, though. I suppose we'll never know.

I have lots of friends with the name Patricia. Including a cousin. I guess the question big is: Would I be a Pat, Patti, Tricia, Trish or Tish? With my ass, I'd likely be Tush. But, if my mother kept my middle name the same, I might be Pam.

What would Pam or Tricia Miller be up to today? I suspect she'd have a couple of kids and would be running against the long-seated PTA president, pissing off the other mothers on her cul-de-sac. Eschewing minivans and CC&Rs, miserable in Small Town USA (I have a feeling Pam/Tricia would have remained in the Santa Clarita Valley), gagging on beige stucco.

For a long time, I was Sandi. It was the shortened name my grandfather gave me. Very, very, very few people can get away with calling me that today. Very few. I recommend that you don't go there. Back then, only my classmates and grandfather called me that. My mother hated it. She, who almost named me April or Patricia. Please. When I was heading into my sophomore year of high school, two other Sandis came into my punky crowd. They were nice enough, but a tad more "quirky" than I was. And not the kind of "quirks" I wanted to be confused with. I went back to using my given name. Hard to do when a hundred people were in the habit of Sandi.

Sandra Miller is a very common name. You many not think so, but my hometown gyno had three of us. There, I had to give my name and birthdate to book an appointment. About eight years ago, I started getting lien notices for another Sandra Miller who failed to pay her taxes. I called the IRS in a panic. Didn't they see that the Sandra Miller at my address paid her taxes and had a different SSN? "We just try everyone," the nice lady explained. She then suggested I use my full name for professional and tax paying purposes. As I've said before, going by my full name is prevention, not pretension. But, to keep it simple, you can call me SAM, if you'd like.

What's in a name? Does it shape who you are? I don't know. I'm just happy my middle name isn't Dee.

Good In Bed Again

There are lots of things I'm good at, and lots of things I'm good at in bed. Writing is not one of them. Not anymore.

I suppose I've always written. Early academia kind of forces you to. By high school, I was prolific...in writing notes. I would write up to five per class to pass on to friends in the halls. All day. Every day. Not just little passages. Massive missives went out. Some were well over a page. I owe the planet a forest.

When I got to college, I began to get more into creative writing, but the film bug bit harder. Off to film school I went as an experimental narrative director. Tuition was so high, and funding so low, that I didn't have enough money to make a film. "Well, you could always make a video," some of the faculty told me. My reply was, "Um, I didn't come to film school to make a video." That's when I said, Screw it. If I couldn't shoot the movie I wanted, I'd write one instead. A traditional narrative writer was born.

My first script was written just to see if I could write for 120 pages. And I did it the hard way. The screenplay format was so foreign to me, as was writing on a computer, that I couldn't do it at first, and wrote it out longhand with a Bic pen on yellow legal pads while I was working on a film set. I'd come home and transcribe it onto the computer. And this was before FinalDraft, so I would just tab-tab-tab, return, tab-tab my way through it on Word in bed, my 145 PowerBook sitting on a breakfast tray. GoodFellas or Citizen Kane on the VCR, or the Menendez trial on CourTV would play as I wrote in the sack. I suppose it was no surprise I ended up writing a character study and a dark comedy.

I would write until I fell asleep. Then, I would wake up and write some more. When I moved into my first apartment (second apartment, technically; first without a flatmate), I would do the same thing over long weekends. Thanksgiving was my favorite. Boyfriend out of town, the city quiet, I would write for four-and-a-half days straight in bed. Then, I moved in with Almost, and bed writing became a thing of the past, relegated to the living room. Sofa city, sweetheart.

Even after that relationship ended and I moved into my own pad again, the magic was gone. The bed was no longer a writing zone. The desk became workspace for clients and the couch became my personal creative corner. I longed for the bed, though. Back to those early days of comfort and flow. I want it to be good in bed again. Being so tired lately, I thought I would give it one more go and attempted to blog between the sheets.

No go.

Oh, other things happened. There was plenty of channel surfing and oodles of Twitter feeds to read. Bravo on the boobtube didn't really help inspire. WTF is up with that design show? Talk about a creative c@!kblock. I guess this is what it feels like to be frigid. The bed has become a dead zone. For writing, I mean.

1,000,000 Miles Away

Trapped in Pasadena for work last night, I was beyond bummed. Not just for the obvious reasons; there was no way I would make it home in time for the debates. I was beyond bummed I wouldn't be able to watch it live. I was in a bit of a panic, too, since Oprah was recorded as a garbled mess the day before. Fricken digital cable. If you aren't there to switch the channel and get it back on track, you're screwed. I worried the debate would suffer the same fate, and I would have to scramble to find a repeat online. This election is causing me a little too much stress. Seriously, all debates should be on Friday nights. I'm guaranteed to be home by 6:00 PM, not to mention I can drink freely, knowing the alarm won't be bothering me the next morning. So glad I didn't choose "my friends" to sip my Guinness on.

We finally hit the road about 5:40 PM, right smack in the middle of gridlock. Farg. Desperate, I asked if we could listen to the debate on the radio. "Why don't we watch it on TV?" my boss replied and then slid open the screen in front of me. This is the upside of rolling in a Rolls. Suddenly, the long drive home was a welcomed notion. Sadly, the car doesn't come with cable. No CNN, so we settled on NBC. It was difficult watching the exchange in the presence of my employer. Wanting to keep some semblance of professionalism, I held back from flipping off the screen and calling bullshizzle when I heard it. There were a few Tourettic outbursts, but I kept them to a minimum. Then we lost reception in the canyon, including Sirius radio. You would think with all the money in Malibu, they would make decent reception a priority, but no. I got about an hour into it, then hurried home to catch the rest, praying to St. Claire (the patron of television, really) that it all got recorded.

Happily, TiVo and TimeWarner were in working order (thanks, St. Claire!). I settled in with my microwaved organic, vegan dinner and fast-forwarded to where I had left off in the car. I have to say, I almost feel sorry for McCain't. Almost. Especially when he channelled Palin. How pathetic. The only thing worse (outside of the redundant lies) was when he cracked a joke and chuckled at it by himself. Even the GOP pundits had to admit that John was pwn3d by Obama. [OMG, pwn3d is considered a word by Blogger spell check...OMG, however, is not.]

There's less than four weeks to go before election day, and that feels a million miles away. I think we should just save ourselves some time, money, and a heap of McCain't/Palin BS and swear Obama in now. Boot the Shrub out of DC and start cleaning up this mess. At least move the swearing in to November 5th. January is too far away.

Catching Up, Eventually

Holy crap. I am now totally convinced that I am living in a parallel universe. Malibu must have some sort of weird vortex. I see the most peculiar stuff driving to and from it. I realize some of the disconnect is from sleep deprivation (coming off the vampire hours has not been easy). Part of it might be from working in the Bat Cave all day without cable access or cell phone reception. I actually work at work, so there's no Twitter time or chance to hit the gossip and news sites. Sigh. I have absolutely no idea what the hell is going on in the world. When I come home, I TiVo (fast-forwarding through the commercials), eat, blog and sleep. I am out of the loop on so many levels (I am doing my best to keep up with the debates). Just imagine my utter shock when I finally heard that OJ was convicted.

I have to say, Karma is the sweetest bitch I know.

Yeah. I'm a Buddhist and I said that shizzle. It's my karma. I'll deal with it.

The rest of you not disconnected from reality know that the verdict came crashing down on the thirteenth anniversary of his acquittal. How sweet is that? It's utter poetry, if you ask me. Even better, his sentencing happens the day before Fred Goldman's birthday. You know it will be life with a big red bow wrapped around it. At least I hope so, for Fred and Kim, and the Brown family.

Of course, we can't forget the other victims: Nicole's children. They are adults now. I can't imagine what the last fourteen years have been like for them. Or the wounds this must open up. It's beyond sad in so many ways. Resolution is brought to one side; more pain to another.

Still, when I see something like OJ's comeuppance, I think the Universe is at work. You can believe in random coincidence if you want, or see the eloquence of cause and effect. Sure, that man was swimming in hubris for ages, and it was only a matter of time before it pulled him under. We've seen hints of it over the years. Seen it coming. Felt it in our bones. There was no way he'd get away scot-free, not with his level of douchebaggery. And, finally, his get-out-of-jail free card was pulled.

Way back in the day, I had a moment with George Clooney. He was reading the Newsweek with OJ on the cover, and I asked, "So, George, what do you think?" George got really impassioned (melt) and said, "Oh, he's guilty. But he'll get off." After I stopped swooning, I said, "No, George. You can't think that way. He's guilty. We have to believe justice will prevail." It seems we were both right. Typically, my timing was a little off. I only wish I could have seen Dominick Dunne's face when this verdict was read. I bet if there was a jaw-drop this time, it was followed with a smile.

Hope you are feeling much better, Mr. Dunne.

Get It Straight

I got a Brazilian this weekend. No. Not that kind. A Brazilian Blowout. It's a new straightening technique. Not something I had planned on doing, but a friend of mine recently got certified and offered to help me de-puff my 'do. All I had to do in return was agree to a before and after shot, (which you will never, ever see...sorry, I do like my privacy, especially when it comes to my humiliation). I was also sort of serving as a guinea pig, testing out a new formula to see the effect it has on different hair types. My small contribution to all the fine-but-wavy-haired girls out there who are frying their locks with a flat iron. Something that kind of got me where I am today with the Katie bob. Besides, it only lasts eight weeks, washing away without unsightly regrowth. I'm living on the edge these days. What the hell, right?

Basically, the process goes something like this: She slaps some keratin concoction on like you would hair color, blows it dry, flat irons it, lets it cool, washes it out and blows it dry again. The kicker was that she used no product or brushes when she did the final style. Just the dryer and her fingers, and it looked like she spent an hour flat-ironing it to perfection. It's awesome. Even when I went out that night in the rain, nary a frizz in sight. No poof, either. Who can beat that?

Well, this is me we are talking about.

I woke up the next morning after a rough night of sleep (my allergies have kicked in, which feels like I'm fighting the flu), and my hair was perfect. But the true test was going to be doing it myself. I have zero talent when it comes to my hair. That's why long and one length is best for me. Idiot proof. Sadly, it's going to take some time to get that again.

I let it dry naturally, to see how it would land. Pretty good, but I needed to take the dryer to it to polish the ends (you really do need a precision cut for hair this straight). That took all of five minutes. Holla! This is so going to rock my world.

But, remember, this is me we are talking about. I can't leave a good thing alone. Ever.

After running around to a meeting and dinner with a friend, the length of my bangs was beginning to bug. Just at that annoying point where they were poking me in the eye. I don't have an appointment with my stylist for another two weeks and, with my jacked schedule, I wouldn't have a chance to pop in for a quick trim. So, I took matters into my own hands.

This isn't the first time I've cut bangs. So, you'd think I'd know better. Yeah. This is me we're talking about. Let's just put it this way: At least they are no longer in my eyes. Happily, they aren't hacked to my hairline either. My stylist is probably going to have a few words with me, though. She will likely start with, "Let me get this straight..."

Under the Gunn

I so want Tim Gunn to come over, throw back a few stems of champers with me and get medieval on my wardrobe. I just can't bring myself to do it. I need him to help me be totally brutal with what I'm holding on to, and then take me shopping. And, by that, I mean pick it out and pay for it. I want the whole personal shopper experience and a Bravo/Tim discount. While I am far from a media whore, and do have a healthy reluctance to living on video (damn that YouTube), I'd totally put myself out there for a compact closet that is completely fabulous. Tim doesn't fluff around. If it ain't soul-stirring, that sheath is the frock out of there.

What a great day that would be. Tim and I would get giddy on the Veuve (though, he or Bravo, seems to prefer the Taitt) and have the sedan take us over to Bloomies (though, I would beg for Barney's, Saks and NM...come on, he's footing the bill, right?). We'd have the staff scrambling to fill rolling racks full of Tim's basic ten. Tim's a hard man to please. But his shrewd eye is impeccable.

In spite of my protestations, we'd end up lunching at The Ivy, though, I kind of figured Tim would be more the Polo Lounge type. After lunch, and more stems, we'd be adventurous and head Downtown. Catch up with Jeffrey and Santino. While their designs are fabulous, Tim and I agree that they don't go with the classic story of my new wardrobe. Therefore, off we go to visit Karl. Tim gets that I need to push the Chanelvelope. And a dash of Prada never hurt a girl (except in her pony pocketbook, but, remember, Tim's footing the bill). Then, quick stop in Manhattan to visit Marc. He does classic avec edge so well.

That's a lot of shopping for two people. Even if one of them is Gunn. We'd finish up on the deck at Shutters, sipping more champers, spooning out caviar, sharing a hearty chuckle as the sun sets into the Pacific. [Insert glass clink here.]

Instead, it'll just be me, some Hefty bags and a ruthless demeanor. Champers at the end if I'm good and brutal, though.

T'Was Only a Matter of Time

It was bound to happen. I slept through my alarm. I suppose it could've been worse. At least I didn't turn it off (which I have done more than once) and wake up at the time I was supposed to be there (which, too, I have done more than once). This time, I just smacked my snooze button. For over an hour. I woke in a panic not just because I was late, but because I set my alarm clock thirty minutes fast and I can't do math first thing in the morning. Not even something as simple as deduct a half-hour from the time. The sad thing is, I've done this since high school, and I still can't figure it out.

My saving grace was that I'm still attempting to make it to the gym (which hasn't happened in two weeks) and I'm setting the alarm extra early hoping that today will be the day I make it to the treadmill. So, technically, I simply slept through my workout. Again.

Side note: If I end up as "died in her sleep", you will know what really happened is that I overslept, attempted to do math in a panic and my heart and/or brain exploded.

Fortunately, I was able to get in the car on time, with a shower and styled hair and clothes on. Unfortunately, every car in the world was on the road today. Usually, my drive is a clear shot. Traffic is so freaking weird. Once the road opened up, my lead foot started itching, but, up ahead, I spotted a police car. Sigh. I hung back at a safe distance. Slowly, though, the number of cars between me and the fuzz reduced until I was right behind him. I resigned myself to the fact that there would be no morning latte that day.

Then, I noticed the silver Audi that had been riding my ass had changed lanes and ended up next to the cop at the light. She wasn't shy. They were neck and neck for a few miles, and then she pulled ahead. It was only a matter of time. Part of me wanted to applaud her. The other part just waited to see this play out. The moment her car cleared the police cruiser, he threw on his lights and pulled her over. All I could think was, Duh. You don't pass a cop. That's like Driver's Ed 101. After my mental litany of judgments and mockery, I said a little prayer, giving thanks that it wasn't me on the side of PCH whipping out my license, registration and proof of insurance and cursing my lead foot. My soy latte tasted extra sweet that morning. And the alarm has been pushed out of arm's reach, just for good measure.

First, October

Where the hell did the year go? Again?! I am so not digging how quickly time is flying by. The hands of the clock move so swiftly, those little bastards don't even bother ticking. Seems they don't have time for that tedious little task. I want to just scream, "Slow thaffug down!" But I'm not sure whom to scream it. Me? God? The little gerbils in the center of the Earth running on the wheel that spins our planet? Just to take it from a sprint to a soft jog. Please.

See, first, it's October. Then, it's Thanksgiving. Christmas and New Year's come in a wham-bam flash and, the next thing you know, it's ucking-fay axes-tay. I can't bring myself to say it. I dread January for that reason. Once again, I haven't entered anything into QuickBooks. It's become tradition that Martin Luther King, Jr. Weekend is spent prepping to pay that man Sam. Pathetic. Every year, I swear to be more diligent with my bookkeeping. Every year, I let myself down, and waste a rare holiday weekend to make up for it. Sometimes, I suck.

I sort of have a love/hate relationship with October. I love the crispness of the autumn weather (though, yesterday, it got over 90 degrees in Malibu...which is a sign of the apocalypse). I love that I get to put on my cozy sweaters and fabulous boots. I love pumpkin pie. Halloween, however, I hate. This, coming from a Pagan. Can't stand it. Never really did. I was only in it for the sugar as a kid. And the only thing good about All Hallows Eve is the plethora of "fun size" candy you can get on sale after it.

Yes, first it's October, then it's the hangover brought on by the year that flew by. I'm just trying not to blink. Don't want to wake up in February.