Going Deep

When you haven’t had a facial in five years — and by “facial” I mean one performed by a licensed professional; not a DIY version, such as a Queen Helene’s Mud Pack Masque, at-home microdermabrasion, or self-inflicted “extractions” — you kind of have to make up for lost time. Or, at least that’s what I told myself. I’m going deep. I got my first “peel”.

Okay, stop. Please remove the visions of burn victims from your head. Really. I had a hard enough time imagining what I might have done to myself. There was an episode of “Sex and the City” that kept playing in my head...and I was without a handy black hat and veil to hide behind.

When I saw this specific facial done on TV (yes, that’s one of the problems of living in L.A.; you see it and have to have it...and it’s usually located around Robertson), it boasted a recovery time of about four days. I made specific plans to allow heal-time to happen over a weekend when I booked the appointment. However, as we were finishing up from the procedure, the esthetician sweetly said to me, “You are going to have a good peel.” Then I believe the word “sheets” was used in reference to the skin I would be shedding.

Whattha?

I was told I had about two days before the anticipated reptilian molting would take place. Just enough time to run out and get supplies (Cetaphil and Aquaphor) and my hair done. The hair appointment was put on the books weeks before and, even if I was scary, I was going to get my roots done dammit. It’s all about looking good, even if you are looking bad. And I do enjoy the irony of the ugly one must go through to get to the beauty. It borders on ridiculous, doesn’t it? All this for a little sun-spottage and melasma from the Pill. The Pill. Oh, how I rue the day I went back on it.

The upside was that I had this done over the Spirit/Oscar weekend, my high holy holiday. I was more than happy to stay in, glued to the telly, cheer on the winners while I (theoretically) worked on a screenplay and survived on delivered pizza. The pizza guy has already seen me (repeatedly) in sorry writing shape. I’m sure he wouldn’t blink if I looked like I had just returned from Nuclear Winter.

It was going to be easy taking four days off. Oh, the writing and housecleaning I could get done! Yeah, right. But, with the news that it would take a tad longer (7-10 days), I was disappointed that I couldn’t (wouldn’t) go to the gym to shed some of that writing weight. Not if I was going to be leaving epithelials all over the place. I do have some pride. Besides, during a peel-heal, you are very shiny. There’s no way to be in any way incognito when you are basically a walking, talking beacon. I thought I’d spare myself that indignity.

Yet, in spite of “Sex and the City” flashbacks, I didn’t resemble Samantha at all. It took about a week to completely molt (which I sped up on about day five by doing a DermaNew), and no children or old people were frightened in the process. There are still some spots I’d like lightened but, overall, it was worth it. And I won’t be waiting another five years to get another facial. As I was being examined by the facialist she complimented me on my small pores, and advised me to “keep it that way.” That’s just word-crack. You want to be sure to hear that again. And, there’s nothing like a threat veiled in a compliment to stir one’s vanity. Now I am looking forward to another splurge. Ole Henriksen, I’ll soon be calling.

O-V-E-R-I-T

On my computer is a ticket to Dublin waiting to be purchased. On my floor sits a pile; my taxes waiting to be done.

On an agent’s desk sits my manuscript, waiting to be read. A script waits in an envelope to be delivered to a producer. In Word and FinalDraft, stories are waiting to be completed. And, somewhere in the ether, a future is waiting to hatch.

In my closet are clothes I can’t wait to fit into again; on my butt is book weight I can’t wiat to lose. On my calendar, there are dates waiting to be made. On my nightstand, books are waiting to be read. My voicemail and email inbox hold people waiting to hear from me.

As I wait for my hair to grow, I wonder if I should cut new bangs, or simply let the old ones keep going...or just whack it all off for the hell of it.

Something needs to happen. Anything. Well, anything positive. I’ve learned my lesson tempting fate. I am just so effing bored with everything.

While I don’t mind the rain, I’m sick of the cold. I’m ready for Spring. And, yes, I’ve capitalized the S. I need not only the weather but the action of Spring. Newness. Light. Warmth. Growth.

I don’t know what this malaise is. Age? That time of year (still burnt from last and waiting for this one to get going)? Limiting bank account? Semi-vegan diet? Whatever it is, I am done. Can’t be bothered. I’ve had enough.

It’s not as though my short fuse has gotten even more stubby. I’m not angrier. I’m not bitchier (that would be difficult to manage). It’s not more of something; it’s less. Patience. Perhaps it apathy. But, occasionally, I am utterly stunned.

Are there still chicks out there who think the I’m-helpless-can’t-figure-that-out-by-myself routine works? Maybe it does...on people with penises. But, I am a vagina-clad. A feminist to boot. I actually think that with a little effort and perseverance anyone can figure anything out. And that will do more for one’s self-esteem than any boob job, Botox shot, or short skirt. Ugh.

And, could someone please explain why some people (usually dudes) are determined to back into a parking space? I watched a guy spend nearly three minutes attempting to back his $50,000 BMW into a spot (an end spot, mind you, so he had no obstacle on one side). My friend and I stood there witnessing his inability with growing curiosity. Finally, I said to him, “You know, it will go faster if you just pull into it going forward.” He laughed with a hint of embarrassment. On his fifth try (that I saw), he finally made it, but he was still outside one line. If the theory is that one can pull out faster, the backing in cancels that out, especially in a slanted spot in which the driver would be headed against traffic. Those parkers are my favorites. Dorks.

I don’t know what it is, but whatever it may be, I’m just O-V-E-R-I-T.

Imprisoned by the President

I was held captive in Bel Air today. Trapped. There was no way out. And why? Because that futhermucking Shrub was having lunch.

On my way in to the hilltop enclave, I noticed the odd presence of Parking Enforcement and Traffic Control, and way too many cops. I wasn’t sure what was up — fundraiser, filming, nothing better to do — but there’s always something going on in LA. I don’t bother keeping up the details. Yet, when I got to the street I needed to access, it was blocked by a cop and his car. I rolled down my window to talk to the handsome police officer standing guard. He told me I could not go through, even though I gave the name of the resident I needed to see and the address I needed to reach. I wasn’t asked for ID. He didn’t want to search my vehicle, get my prints or strip search me (too bad, he young and yummy). All he could offer was a smile and instructions to go back down to the checkpoint on St. Cloud.

Down I went to the checkpoint, which was a cop car and a baldheaded Secret Service Agent with a clip board. I explained who I was and where I needed to go. Wasn’t asked for ID, wasn’t searched, but was let through and told they would be shutting down access to the street shortly. He couldn’t tell me when it would close or when it would again reopen. I told him, too bad. There were two more cars coming through to attend a meeting, and they would need to be brought up. He smiled and shrugged. I reminded him that people lived here, and they had a right to that life...something I believe Republicans should understand, no?

Of course, we got a call. They wouldn’t let them up. So we went down and we politely explained that, in spite of that Shrub, we were going to bring these people up, and added two more names to the list. It worked. The others were let in and life went on. That is, until we tried to leave.

There are only so many ways in or out of Bel Air, and none of them are a straight shot. Bel Air is nothing but a weave of winding roads on which one can easily get lost, turned back around, or led to a dead end. Bel Air is situated on a hill. There is no “back way”, no “short cut” and no way I would live there. You are landlocked, too far from the beach and no one really delivers (without a $50 minimum).

I avoided the already-known-to-be-blocked route and went past the party (and the disgusting array of Bentleys, Rolls Royces and other eco-unfriendly autos) and down Bel Air Road only to find it blocked and a line of cars waiting. So, I flipped a bitch and went over Copo D’Oro. Blocked and a longer line of cars waiting. So I called a friend and asked if he knew any other routes. He suggested Stone Canyon. Also blocked with an even longer line of cars waiting. Now I was pissed. It was nearing a forty-five minute wait. The line of cars was blocks long (and there really aren’t “blocks” in Bel Air). We sat there with our engines off and irritations mounting, and I did what anyone would do in my situation. I dialed 911.

911, what’s your emergency?
I’m trapped in Bel Air.

I’m sorry?
I understand the President is here so Secret Service has blocked all the exits. I need to leave and I didn’t know who else to call. Can you find me a way out?

911 transferred me to Parking Enforcement who transferred me to Traffic Control who told me it was LA County in charge of this situation. (And, please note, that when I say “transferred”, I mean “waited on hold for ages before anyone picked up”.) Not wanting to deal with the County, I called someone I thought should have more clout: the Mayor. No, I’m not kidding.

Mayor’s office.
Yes, I’m trapped in Bel Air and I need some assistance.

Excuse me?
The President is in town and Secret Service has barricaded all the exits. I need help getting out. I’ve been sitting here for nearly an hour. It’s bordering on false imprisonment.

Let me put you through to an assistant.
Thank you.

The assistant was actually very kind and helpful. He put me on hold to see if they had any information, explained that the Secret Service had indeed taken over and that he would call me back with any further information. (He did call back, but I didn’t have a signal and he went to voicemail.)

Before we hung up, I asked him to pass on a message to the Mayor for me.

“First of all, he [the Shrub] is not welcomed in my city. I didn’t vote for him, twice. However, if he does come back, because this is a free country, he should remember that. I expect that my Mayor will not let his citizens be held captive in such a manner. We have rights and I think the Secret Service can do their job without blocking streets for such an inordinate amount of time. And if they can’t, then the President can just stay at home, or hold his tea parties at the airport. Thanks.”

The assistant chuckled and said he would pass that on.

I then called a publicist friend to ask about sending out a press release about a hostage situation in Bel Air. I had to entertain myself somehow. I got his assistant who said he had to get permission before he could give out any contact info. Sigh. Shortly after we ended our chat, traffic started and I made my way home, an hour behind in my life.