the devil on the airplane

In betwixt the sleepless nights lying in starched hotel sheets and logging a series of nauseating transcontinental flights, I have come up with a few observations that I wanted to share with the internet universe.

But you know what? I'm TIRED. So the musings about the Austin woman with the matching bejeweled crosses on her purse and jeans will have to wait. As will the story of Phat, my conspiracy theorist shuttle driver in Virginia.

However, something almost amusing happened a couple days ago:

I boarded my flight Saturday morning after 3 hours of sleep the night before. I knew that for the next eight hours the only sustenance I would have would be the Nutri-Grain bar I took from the hotel, but on the flipside I had the second half of Harry Potter #7 to devour for probably the fifth time (I had read the whole first half on the flight over), so I felt slightly unstable but not quite If-I-hear-one-baby-scream-on-this-flight-I'm-going-to-have-a-rage-blackout.

As I was stowing my carry-on, I glanced at the man sitting in front of me. He had this debonair aura about him that was magnetic. Perhaps it was the dark blue suit and red tie. Or the subtle level 5 Mystic tan. He looks like someone famous, I said to myself. Then, a few minutes later, as I was flipping through one of the airline magazines, there he was! In the magazine. Featured as . . . the Devil?

It's Ray Wise, and apparently he plays Satan himself in the show Reaper, which I have never seen. But I'm pretty sure I've seen him in an episode of Law and Order: SVU. And he's also VP Gardner in 24 Season 5, in case you wanted to know more, which you probably didn't.

Anyway. The point is not that I saw a "celebrity." The point is that even Mr. Wise is having to cut back his spending these days, as evidenced by his descent into slum-class with the rest of us mere mortals.

So I asked, What Would Bea Arthur Do?

Last week, quite whim-ish-ly of me, I decided that I am mightier than the economy and I was going to prove it.  So I packed up my bathing suits and flew to Arizona to visit some friends. Where I bought some more bathing suits. AND business suits.  And some gorgeous turquoise heels.  Basically I have done what I do best - shop and loaf. 

I was having a great time shopping, pooling and eating - and I figured, why stop there? So off we went to Mexico to get some Swine Flu.  We spent an afternoon eating fish tacos, getting bombarded by vendors, and forced to witness middle-aged Americans as they blew our ears off with unbearably loud Eminem as they cruised around in their 4-wheeler with hydraulics.  I hope to be just like them in 30 years - they were so classy and cool. 

Next up - the beach!  We drove down the cement sand until we found the right place, put up the tent, and sat on the sand as we watched the tide roll out. 

Five minutes and 14 vendors later . . .

Rich:  What if we just drove back to Phoenix tonight?

Us:  Sounds good.

Back to the USA! It felt so good - we were done with Mexico.  Unfortunately, some fugitive men were thinking the same thing when we saw the border patrol handcuff them.  Too bad!

Ever since Earth Day I have had an insatiable desire to consume, consume, consume. And  I feel like I haven't quite consumed enough petrol yet, so I'm going to fly to Austin on Wednesday before I go back to California. Can't wait for more department stores and restaurants to ravage! I really think this mini-break has shown me what I'm made of. 

RIP, dear Bea. In honor of you, Laquina and I are doing a Golden Girls marathon tonight. 

Oh to be the youngest

Meet Paige.



Paige is almost 10, or is it 17? I can't remember.

She's a pretty little thing, isn't she? Like a young Regina George, and not just in looks. Know that whatever Paige wants, Paige GETS. Sometimes it's through begging and pleading and making deals (and threats), but usually it is through her true medium: Manipulation. She is as skilled in this art as Aubrey O'Day is in being a skank. A true master. Though my brothers and I are immune to such forces, my mother, apparently, is not. Perhaps it's because Paige is the baby, or maybe my mom is done fighting battles after 6 kids. Who knows. The fact of the matter is that the docile, sweet, obedient children ended with #5.

Now I know you might be horrified that I say such things about my own blood. Dudes, chill. She's 10 and doesn't read blogs. Besides, she my sister and she knows I love her. Usually. When I haven't run out of Diet Coke and patience.

Let me direct you to the following incident that took place just a few days ago as my family was vacationing in Pismo. We like this restaurant, The Splash:


We like their toasted bread bowls, but the clam chowder isn't THAT great. Paige, however, decreed that it indeed WAS that great, and while the rest of us wanted to eat at Brad's, she demanded that we wait in this line instead:

On a very cold, blustery afternoon mind you. Despite the fact that there was a near mutiny on her hands, my mother acquiesced. Such an enabler. (Just kidding mom). Why, I kept asking myself, am I standing out here waiting with the freaky art when I could be ordering a better bread bowl or tri-tip sandwich right next door? Because I'm lazy, that's why.

So I looked at this for a while and couldn't decide between the following:




a) Clam-Man is horrified at the immodesty of Lesbian Laura/ Feminine Fred / Unisex Pat. For the sake of propriety let's go with Unisex Pat.

b) Clam-Man is horrified that Uni.P here is immensely enjoying eating his cousin Gill, who was unfortunately caught by the dreaded fisherman's nets just when he thought he was safe.

c) Clam-Man is afraid that Unisex Pat is in fact a woman and is about to go into labor, and being a clam he can't do much but look horrified, especially because she seems to be bizarrely smug about it.


Obviously I came to no real conclusion, other than wondering why we humans need to anthropomorphize everything.

THEN, after our very clammy chowder had been devoured, we went back to the pool of the hotel which we had already checked out of hours earlier, so Paige could swim. And, thanks to that great decision, we got stuck in horrible Santa Barbara traffic.

So if you ever meet Paige in person, JUST SAY NO.

The Day

Dear Lovely Self,

Congratulations on getting halfway between twenty and thirty! Can we consider it an accomplishment? The question now becomes, how old do we claim to be? When does lying about age become commonplace?

Anyway. I just wanted to tell you that 25 is the new 15 and you really are looking younger, thanks to that night eye cream probably. And less laying-out.

So enjoy your "Day of Decrees" and remember: We are going to ROCK the mid-twenties.

XOXO,
Me

Hollywood, Ho!

Ah, the school play. It's that time of year - FINALLY. Were you ever in one? I wasn't, and let me tell you, I feel gypped. My ex-roommates always had stories about elementary school play drama, and I listened with envy. To my everlasting satisfaction though I got to live vicariously through my sister's production, themed "California Dreamin.'" I won't post all the pictures, because who really cares. But I do feel the need to direct your attention to the following:

(NOTE: I have not yet made a foray into photography, so please excuse the shotty camera work)



I know it's blurry, but check out the girl who is PREGNANT carting a stroller with a baby dragging along BY THE NECK in the back. Somehow I found this fitting, considering the theme. I believe this number was taking place in Santa Monica, hence the "Will Sing for Food" sign and assorted freaks and geeks costumes prancing about. And I'm pretty sure I've seen some prego kids on 3rd Street, so good job portraying reality School Play.

Also for your bemusement:



Cats.

??

Your guess is as good as mine.

Sight for sore eyes

Yesterday was one of those glorious days where I saw two truly fine and fascinating specimens of humanity. Sadly, I didn't get photo evidence of either, so words shall have to suffice. It was a treat, and I'll tell you why.

First, I was driving about town in my tank top, windows rolled down, warm breeze blowing through my locks, when I spotted something . . . unusual.

I did the double take. And it was just what I had hoped it was. Sadly, the moment happened so fast I couldn't take a picture of it, so let me provide the original idea so you get a taste of my enjoyment:


It's appropriately called The Flying Wedge. And I truly never thought I would see one of these on anything other than Kath & Kim, another planet, or Solange Knowles. BUT I DID. Some twenty year old indy hipster was just strutting down the sidewalk with The Flying Wedge. How? WHY?! Had I not been going on the opposite direction on a busy street, I would have pulled over and ran after her, posing as a writer for some fashion magazine with a few questions. Alas.

Second incident.

I was at the gym. And you know what that means.

Hot dude.

I walked in, and there he was in all his glory, working his triceps. I drooled a little and continued to walk past him. And I ALMOST mustered the courage to look at him in the face so I could finally ask him about his ever-growing tattoo. But then I chickened out, as usual.

Well.

I was doing some hamstring/quad/whatever leg lifts strategically in his general vicinity. And I was conveniently "watching" the TV so I could look at him, secretly, out of the corner of my eye. Because I had zero interest in the actual basketball game when I could watch rippling muscles in action.

And then angels descended and sprinkled Luck dust all over me, because he started to walk RIGHT towards me and LIFTED UP HIS SHIRT to wipe the sweat off his divine face and I got a full shot of his incredible abs, akin to this:



Have you just reached for some ice and a fan to cool yourself off? You're not alone. In fact, when I was blessed with The Ab Shot, I stared. Shamelessly. Like I always do. And he knows that I did, because I was RIGHT THERE. But I don't even care, because despite what you may think, I KNOW that expose was meant for me.

Over the Hedge

Riddle me this:

What do you call chain-smokers who grow weeds and rusted cars on the front lawn, substitute duct tape for glass on windows, and have a vibrant blue glow emanating through all crevices in the “house” because of their massive-A flat screen tv?

Answer: THE NEIGHBORS.

From here on out they shall always be referred to in all caps. I am fairly certain that I have mentioned THE NEIGHBORS before. In fact, I believe I could make a fairly good mini-series/reality show/documentary of them - they are that awesome. It would have a very Lifetime movie feel to it, and I would call it: THE NEIGHBORS: The Trailer Park Next Door: The Real Story of What Happened Over the Hedge.

In the meantime I decided to start dedicating chapters to them, every now and then. This decision came about yesterday, as I was lounging in the backyard in my bathing suit, diet coke in hand, minding my own business in 75 degree weather. I was contemplating doing something useful, but I forgot about it since the sun was shining on my SPF 25ed-up face, and a breeze was wafting the blooming jasmine and orange blossom and I was just so intoxicated with life.

And then.

Bottles clanking around on cement while someone began coughing up a lung. A cloud of smoke began to rise over the blessed cinder-block wall that separates our backyards. I'm pretty sure this possible turrets-laden man began shouting random quotes and sing-songs to no one in particular. Then their mangy mongrels began howling, and I was THIS CLOSE to borrowing my brothers’ air-soft rifle for pest control. Thank goodness their dog whom under the force of court order had its voice box removed is dead. Finally. Its lack of vocal ability made it sound rather like a wounded sea lion when it barked. It was truly grotesque and I could write a whole post just on that nasty mutt alone.

However, I want to congratulate the Dirts, as we’ve Christened them, for completing the Annual Mowing of the Weeds. This event usually only happens in the spring, when their semi-functional son comes to visit. He is the only child thus far that has stayed in school past 10th grade, held down a steady job at Ralphs market, and avoided prison. And despite the fact that he ruined my afternoon of repose by belching the alphabet and then yelling for his woman to pick up his beer bottles, I rather like him.

In the next episode of THE NEIGHBORS: The Day the S.W.A.T. Team Came a'Calling