Oh, come on now

Okay, before the Frontierville quips were just mildly dirty. Harmless double entendres, if you will. But this one--this one is just blatant. It's a D---- in a Box! and she sent it to her relatives in the Old Country? Damn, girl.

They finally started

Yesterday, at 7am, I was awakened by the dulcet tones of city workers preparing our street for the devastation to come. They were trimming trees before ripping up the surface for repaving.

As you all know by now, yesterday was hellishly hot in the City of Angels, and to make matters worse, our office building's AC unit froze up and shut down. Woo Hoo! Sweatstache anyone? Our server room was overheating fast, so we closed down the office and sent everyone home. Except I couldn't go home (see last post, re: parking sucks). Instead, I went to my friend's house and watched an awful movie, which we then could not stop talking about (kudos to you, director, for keeping us engaged).

When I got home, it was this hot inside my apartment:

With two fans running, I managed to cool it down to a balm 94 for bedtime. It was no use. I tossed and turned, then lay perfectly still with one fan blowing directly on me for the rest of the night (but slept very little). So, imagine my pleasure at being woken up at 6am by more construction vehicles scraping their way down the street.

It's going to be a long week.

Not today, Parking Man. Not today.

I've said it before and I'll say it again--Parking in my area sucks. I don't live in an apartment complex with underground parking, so it's street parking for me. Permitted street parking, that is. And while that's all well and good*, I don't currently have a permit for Sandy and can't get one until I pay off the $90,000 in parking tickets I've accumulated (exaggerated, lest you think I'm that much of a scofflaw). So, Sandy and I are left to find parking on the metered street one block over, which is only free between 8pm and 8am Monday through Saturday, and 8pm to 11am on Sundays. It's worked out okay because I have to be at work by 8am and generally stay late at work. Even if I have to feed the meter for that last hour, it's cheaper than a $55 parking ticket.

But sometimes (read: lots of times) I'm running late in the morning and don't get out of there until 8:15 or so. Yes, that makes me late for work. Yes, it's surprising I haven't been fired yet. Let's focus on the important part here--parking tickets. I know the city is poor, but I swear, the Parking Enforcement people are sitting there with a countdown clock just waiting for 8am so they can swoop in and ticket cars. I have tickets that were written at 8:03am. Okay, yes, I know. The parking is clearly posted, but geez, can you give us a 5-minute grace period? I am at my self-imposed limit of parking tickets. I cannot get another one or I'll never pay them off and that will hold up registration renewal in December.

So, today, I woke up at 11:05am. Five minutes late!!! Holy Crap!! At $55 a ticket, that's $11 a minute. $0.18 per second. I threw on a pair of shorts, slipped into my Keds and ran down the stairs--which caused me to realize that I hadn't bothered with a bra. Pausing momentarily to decide whether to run back upstairs to holster the girls, I continued on my way (girls untethered). Turning the corner, I saw Sandy was still sans ticket. Phew! But, as I began walking up the street, I noticed the Parking Enforcement car had just pulled in behind her, the officer inside busy getting his ticket machine ready. I quickened my pace and hit the alarm button so he would see the lights flash. I got to the door and smiled ever so sweetly, so innocently at Mr. Parking Enforcement Officer, who promptly slammed his half-opened car door with pure disappointment on his face. As I was hooking my seat belt, I glanced in the rear view in time to see him whip a u-turn and drive off at a speed way above the posted limit, clearly peeved. Ha ha! I win this time, City of Los Angeles. I may still owe $90,000 in parking tickets, but for now it's not $90,055.


*Except this week, when the city has decided it's going to repave my street and the one perpendicular to it, and had posted special signs that read "no parking 6am to 6pm"--6am!!!! Even if I had a parking sticker, I would not be off the street at 6am. What the hell? Also, these signs have been posted for over a week with nary a sign of road construction. An addendum sign was posted saying it would start on September 23rd, but our roads remain construction free. Today, I did notice a large back-hoe (hee hee, I said ho) parked at the top of the street so maybe tomorrow--maybe someday.

My apartment is haunted! Or, I may just be coming down with something bad

Yesterday, my nose ran like a marathoner. I was sniffling and talking like a kid all day. "I'mb find. I'mb not thick." I blamed it on allergies, even though the tickle in my through and low-grade fever said otherwise. By the time I got home last night, I was feeling pretty woozy and had a headache, which may have been the result of watching TV without my glasses, but whatever.

So, I took an Excedrin PM and went to bed. While I slept, I dreamed. In one of them, I woke up to find a little girl with Shirley Temple curls lying beside me. She was positively cherubic, with rosy cheeks and that puffy lip little kids get when they're sleeping. I woke her up to find out who she was and why she was in my bed, when suddenly she became this demonic creature scratching and clawing at me.

I woke up for real, then quickly fell asleep again with nary a thought to the evil child. So, imagine my shock and dismay when, while putting my hair up, I found red welts and a brush burn on the inside of my left arm and down my left side. My mind immediately flashed a picture of the demon child clawing at me and I ran to my bed to make sure the sheets weren't torn and bloody like in my dream. They weren't. Now, I know the more likely explanation is spider bite, but the brush burn was too spread out. Hmmmm.....stay tuned.

This post is totally about art, if you put an f in front of it and the adjective old

Today is my father's birthday. He's no spring chicken, but he's still kickin'. (that's a little redneck/ Hallmark humor for you) Happy Birthday, Daddy, you old fart.

Speaking of old farts, Sandy and I (that's my new car in case you're not keeping up) took a little trip out to the Fallbrook center in West Hills to do a little Walmart shopping. Yeah, yeah, I know, Walmart is the nexus of evil, but I needed some work pants and possibly a new bra and they're so cheap! Okay, it was a pipe dream to think they'd have a bra in my size--extra, extra buxom--but a girl can hope and stock up on shampoo while she's there.

Since the theatre where my friend and former roommate works is in the same complex, I hung around a bit to visit with her. I even had the foresight to bring my knitting so I could make some progress on the mittens I started for my sister last year. I chatted with Tami (she's sick and her voice was doing this squeaky thing like Peter Brady going through puberty), then stuck around to see a movie. I saw The Town. It wasn't horrible. But you're thinking to yourself, "What does this have to do with old farts?" Obviously, you've never been to this theatre. I swear, I was the youngest person in the auditorium. And don't get behind a group if you have to pee after that 2 hour movie and large diet coke. I'm just saying...

After the movie, I got a frozen yogurt at Menchie's. If you've never been, you're missing out. You grab a cup, pour your own, top it, and weigh it. And you can put any number of toppings you want, which was crazy because there are soooo many to choose from. And the flavors? None of this Pinkberry "we have two flavors and don't fall in love with the green tea because we'll take it away" bullshit. There was a whole wall of flavors. Not sure what to get? Grab a shot cup and start tasting. I ended up with Cake Batter (low fat) with Golden Grahams and mini peanut butter cups on top. And even though it was loaded, it only came to $4 and change. Pretty sweet! It was pretty tasty, too. They're all over town. Check out one near you.

Surprisingly productive

I have not been fully wakeful all day. This morning I had a venti Americano. Then around 12:30, two glasses of orange juice and a Diet Coke. In addition, I had a piece of coffee cake and six Oreo cookies. All that sugar and caffeine should have had me bouncing off the walls, but I could have fallen asleep in minutes had I allowed my eyes to close. One of my co-workers, who also came in on a Saturday, told me I must be coming down with something, but I feel fine. Just really, really sleepy. I wonder what my alternate personality has been doing all night? Whatever it is, she needs to knock it off so I can get a good night's sleep.

Despite all the sleepiness, I got quite a bit done at work--except filing. I hate filing. I really have to file, though, because it's getting out of hand. Maybe Monday, if I'm not too tired.

I'll have a cool water sandwich and a Sunday-go-To-meetin' bun

I felt like a whirligig today, spinning and spinning, with the Blues Brothers song "Rubber Biscuit" playing in my head. It was better than "Ferry 'cross the Mersey," which took up my brain for the better part of the morning (not that I don't like Gerry and the Pacemakers).

So much more to do, so little working hours to do it in. I hope you had a better Friday.

We are clearly twigs on the same tree

I suck at blogging every day, but in the end, you win. I could have contrived something to blog about yesterday, but I was super busy and then super lazy (when I got home) and America's Next Top Model was on, so it really was for the best.

Anyway, I wanted to share this with you--A Rant from The Roy:

"*&^%$ %$#@%^* ^%$#@!*. If you're going to be in the funeral home business, either learn to write or hire someone who knows how. Obituaries are not the place to practice grammar. Seriously, if there is one profession on this fucking planet whose practitioners should know the difference between interment and internment, it's goddamned funeral directors. And, I guess, MPs."

And while knowing the difference between two words is not necessarily a grammatical error, but rather a "know the English language" error, I think you can appreciate the rant.

*(actual curse words were used. I substituted)

Subtle as...well, something not subtle

I thought the Shake Weight commercials were pretty risque. I mean, they barely conceal that using their product looks like you're giving a hand job, especially the men's version.

Then, I saw this commercial last night. After I picked my jaw up off the floor, I laughed like hell. I love Jamie Pressley, and this is pretty funny in a sophomoric humor kind of way, which you know is right up my alley. But wow, Axe, you couldn't be more to the point. At least the Schick "Mow the lawn" ads left a little to the imagination.

Oh, Holidays

Things I should have done today:

• laundry
• clean the apartment
• work on several craft projects
• buy some groceries

Things I did do today:

• watched really, really, REALLY bad movies all day long.
• read a few blogs
• uploaded some music to my iPod

There's always next weekend.

Art Dreams

I was trying to do the NaBloPoMo for September, but I've failed already. I'm going to redeem myself by vowing to blog every day from today on, and by actually blogging in theme today--Art.

Yesterday, I spent the day crafting. I started off by sorting through all of Mom's knitting needles to share them with my sister who has become an avid knitter in just a few short months. Hooray! Another convert! Anyway, I was sorting them to see how many duplicates there were and sending some to Kate when I realized that half the bag was actually afghan crochet hooks. I know Mom made quite a few afghans in the Afghan or Tunisian stitch, but it seems to me she could have used the same hook for most of them. I could see two or three different sizes, but we're talking five or six of the same size. Well, all of those crochet hooks got me in the mood to crochet and do you know what I realized? My crochet skills are sorely lacking. No, really. I used to crochet exclusively before I renewed my love of knitting and I was pretty good. But try as I might, I couldn't keep my edges neat and even. It's not difficult. It's a hook and loops. After a few failed attempts, I went back to knitting.

I finished my boss's birthday present--finally. Her birthday was in August, folks. It's blocking. I'll take photos and show you later. Then, I started on some wash cloths and another project I've been meaning to tackle. But then it got hot and I wanted nothing to do with yarn, so I drew. I made a few sketches and drawings for the Sketchbook Project, but then I remembered that I can't draw. Stick figures, anyone? So, I put that away and watched TV...and fell asleep.

And I dreamed crazy dreams all involving art in some sense. I dreamed I was in the middle of some espionage that was culminating in an art museum. I dreamed I was in a painting, like living in the painting. Not like the paintings in Harry Potter, but more like What Dreams May Come with the paint getting on my clothes. It was so beautiful, all the colors. Then I dreamed I was a sullen teenager embarrassed by my parents who were (in dream form) played by Bill Paxton and Melina Kanakaredes. The art tie-in here is that they were generally free-spirited artsy types and the scene I woke up from was them running off to some street fair dressed in Ren Faire clothes and wearing carnivale masks. For some reason, I was really pissed at them.

Strange dreams...

Born (semi) Late '58

How can it be that in all these years of blogging, I have never once had a birthday post to one of my very favorite Virgos? Have I mentioned my affinity for Virgos? I have had a plethora of Virgos in my life without ever having sought them out. It just happens. Aside from family members, there is my friend Karen from high school, my old roommate Bruce, my old roommate Tami, and at one point 4 out of 5 directors at work (which is now 2 out of 4). And speaking of those family members, there's the handsome Niko, who just had a birthday last week; the handsome dad, whose birthday is two weeks away, my cousin Billie, another nephew, and the one whose birthday is prompting this post, my oldest brother, Michael. I know! Look at all those Virgos! But today, I'm all about just one--Michael. That's him on the far left.

Michael stands out in the sibling group. Besides being the oldest and tallest, he never had a partner. Roy and I are the brunettes (well, before gray came out to play), while Brian and Kate are the blondes. Roy and Kate have brown eyes, while Brian and I have hazel eyes that used to be brown. Michael? He has beautiful blue eyes, clear and bright--ice, I used to call them, but they're more vibrant than that. And his hair, when he had it, was a lighter brown, like it was in the middle of the rest of us. Michael had his own room, while the rest of us shared. And because he's a leftie, always had plenty of room at the dinner table, unlike a certain baby of the family who had to sit between Brian and Roy and barely had any elbow room.

I adored Michael when I was little. I thought he hung the moon, as they say. We are the bookends, the oldest and youngest, with two years between each of us and our nearest sibling. Brian, Roy and Kate are the stair steps, one after the other. And you know what? He kind of adored me, too. He once played bingo for hours just to win an inflatable dolphin for me at a Mission Day school fair. He walked me home from kindergarten on a cold winter day, walking backward with his coat opened to block the fierce wind from stinging my eyes. One day when I got the wind knocked out of me, he carried me inside and calmed me down until I could breathe again, and then explained what it meant to have the wind knocked out of you. He used to let me sit on his bed while he did his homework, and taught me how to count and say basic greetings in French when I was 7. Michael could walk up stairs two at a time, a feat that I tried to emulate to no avail until I was much older. Michael's room (fastidiously tidy because, you know, a Virgo) was one of my favorite hide outs. He had the good albums. When he wasn't home, I would go into his room and play his records, curled up in a sunbeam on his bed like a cat.

We went through some bad patches--he grew up, I was a bratty little sister; I grew up, he left home--but he'll always be my biggest brother, my Michael. And I still kind of adore him.

Happy Birthday, Michael, and all you other wonderful Virgos born on this fine September 2nd (you know who you are).

Friends who just get you

With all apologies to the shop person whose product I am disparaging, I sent this photo to my friend, Criss, with the following message:

"If you’re trying to sell these pants, why would you use the photo with the obvious camel toe and horrible shoes? Not to mention the pleats make her look like she’s got Barbie joints."

Criss replied with this:

"Wow, what catalog was that in? Camel Toe Weekly? Saddlebag Season? High Water Digest? Wrong Accessory Monthly? Or the 'pleats can look bad on you, too' newsletter?"

And that's why we're friends.