Scary stuff

That which scares us is individual, personal, and hard to articulate because we don't like thinking about it, much less talking about it. Alfred Hitchcock understood. In his classic Psycho shower scene, you seldom see blade touch skin. Oh, you see a terrified face, you see a knife, you hear a screeching soundtrack and you watch blood swirling down the drain. But you don't see actual stabbing or cutting. That's because wily old Hitch wanted to scare as many of us as much as possible, and he knew that what he left to the imagination, we would fill in ourselves ... and terrify ourselves, each in our own unique way.

Stephen King understands this, too. After all, he created Pennywise the Clown, the manifestation of evil who could see into our souls and know what terrified each of us. Frightened us in a personal, intimate way. Frightened us like it frightened no one else. Blood, bugs, the dark, hairy beasts with claws ... whatever it was, somehow Pennywise knew.

Clearly Pennywise works for AOL these days. How else can you explain the photo that keeps popping up on AOL Main Page today? It's that Brazilian plane that smashed into the Amazon this past weekend, killing everyone on board. All that's left is flattened, twisted metal. If it wasn't for the caption and the lone tire, I wouldn't have known what it was I was looking at. As it was, by the time I realized what it was, it didn't do any good to look away. The image was already seared into me. It might not frighten everyone, but it sure as shit scares me.

I don't know what scares me more: imagining myself on a plane that has a sudden and speedy and violent rendezvous with the earth, or imagining someone I love living through those last few horrible moments before the inevitable. This photo illustrates exactly what I tried NOT to consider last weekend when my best friend was flying to and from Dallas in a small, private plane.

Some kinds of scary are fun -- Hitchcock movies, vampire stories, and other Halloween stuff. Then there's this kind of scary, and there's nothing fun about it.

Instead of SEXY, how about ICKY?

The current issue of US shows Patrick Dempsey looking positively McDreamy. All beautiful hair, dark and artful stubble and positively gorgeous pale blue eyes. The cover proclaims him as SEXY! and I admit it: when I saw it, these old knees went a little weak.

Then I read the article. In a nutshell, here's his past: Dyslexic and therefore a very bad student, Dr. McDreamy dropped out of school at age 17 and went to San Francisco to act. He became best friends with actor Corey Parker. Corey got bit parts on TV while Patrick took acting lessons and held out for movies. In 1987 he got the lead in the teen comedy Can't Buy Me Love and celebrated by marrying his acting coach -- Rocky Parker. Corey's mother. He was 21 and she was 47. Shockingly enough, it didn't last. "It was a Freudian nightmare. I was a little lost," he admits now.

What was that about? What was he thinking? What was SHE thinking? And poor Corey! This is just too weird!

Now I must look up his current wife's line of beauty products, Delux. Maybe she has my perfect McMoisturizer.

Come to Mama

Just heard from Zappos that my new Birkenstocks should arrive before the week ends. I love these shoes. As a matter of fact, these lovely black Sydneys are exactly like the ones I'm wearing now … only these are already once-resoled and once again well worn and it's not worth another trip to the repair shop when the new pair was only $73.95.

Certain forms of retail therapy always lighten my mood. Specifically shoes and purses. I think it's because size doesn't matter. I don't have to be sad because I can only fit into my "fat Birkenstocks" or only carry my "fat bag" today.

At any rate, these lovelies are on their way to their new home, where I'm sure they will be happy. In fact, they already have vacation planned -- a long weekend in Vegas later this month, and the holidays in the Keys.

Is it possible that I'm moving on?

After almost three years and literally thousands of games, I find myself no longer drawn to Turbo 21 at Pogo.com.

I don't know why, but it seems the thrill is going … going … gone.

Is it because Pogo is a completely useless activity? No, it always was. And the time suck aspect was one of the things I perversely loved best. (As in, "Let's see, what have I done today? Laundry? Nope. Letter writing? Nope. Grocery shopping? Nope. Dozens of games of Turbo 21? YES!")

Is it the burgeoning carpal tunnel I predict will afflict my right hand? No. Though giving it a rest might also help loosen that knot in my right shoulder.

I don't know the reason, but the truth is undeniable -- I'm finding it easier and easier to resist the siren song of Pogo.

Shame on you, Rep. Foley

I don't care if he says he's an alcoholic. Booze doesn't turn an otherwise morally upstanding citizen (gay or straight) into a pedophile. What he did was reprehensible. It was his job, his responsibility, to look out for the Congressional pages. And here he was preying upon them. Even worse, he had been the chairman of the House Caucus on Missing and Exploited Children, so he knew the impact his actions could have on these young people. He should now have to face the legal system. Our young people matter, and if individuals can't look out for them, then the system must.

I love thinking of him, ca 1977

When my best friend was 11 years old, he fell in love. With Farrah Fawcett from Charlie's Angels. Just as important as her TV show was her poster. He loved her red swimsuit. Specifically with the outline of her nipple. He remembers gazing at it, imagining it in detail, dreaming about it. She broke his heart when she left the show. The following year he moved on from Farrah to Olivia Newton-John in Grease. But Farrah was his first, and will always have a special place in his heart. I love these stories, and to celebrate all that Farrah once meant to him I got him this mug on eBay.

I don't know why the tales of him as a kid so touch me. But they do. In addition to his love for Farrah and "Livvie," I've heard a saga of each of his boyhood scars … the fall from the back of a truck, the accident at the track meet.

I know each of us had a first crush, each of us has scars from our childhood (some visible, some emotional). But these are his, and that makes them terribly important.

OOOH! This is gonna be fun!

In just a few days, the Dodgers will fly to New York to face the Mets. And former Atlanta Brave (and special centerpiece of this blog) Greg Maddux will face former Atlanta Brave Tom Glavine.

Glavine's numbers aren't as stellar as The Professor's. But they're pretty damn good. Glavine and Maddux are friends, which adds to the drama. And Glavine has remained pretty damn good looking, too.

Thank goodness for the Dodgers and the play-offs. Otherwise I'd be forced to think about the Cubs horrific season (almost 100 losses!) and whether ridding ourselves of Dusty Baker and Andy McPhail will make a difference.

Sorry, but no

I had a few minutes between buses yesterday and stopped at Kohl's. I picked up this Good Skin moisturizer and had nothing but high hopes. Alas, they were all dashed. This moisture cream simply isn't creamy enough to replace my beloved Principal Secret Time Release Moisture. It actually left my skin feeling a little tight.

At first it made me sad that I had wasted $15 on this jar. Then my mom pointed out that I could still use it on my knees, elbows, neck, etc. So now I'm happy … or happy-ish. I really didn't need a new body lotion and I still don't have a replacement face cream. But at least I don't feel like I took three $5 bills, folded them into a little boat, and floated it along the gutter and down the drain with the rainwater.

Damn you, Victoria Principal!

Principal Secret is slowly but surely discontinuing its original spa products. This means that slowly but surely it will be harder and harder for me to get my absolute favorite moisturizer: Time Release Moisture.

I've been using it forever because I love it. Thick and creamy, it goes on easily but never feels heavy and works well under foundation. And now it's going away.

Which means I will now obsess on how to score as much as I can, while I still can, and stockpile it in my linen closet. I just now won an auction for a jar on eBay. I still have the liquidation websites to explore.

I don't enjoy this. But unreasonable product/brand loyalty combined the impulse to hunt and capture are the warp and woof of my personality.

http://onegalsmusings.blogspot.com/2006/05/i-will-not-obsess-i-will-not-obsess-i.html

Now for something completely different

Menopause.

According to my doctor, I still have a way to go before I have to confront it. But I've been watching my oldest friend, just one year older than I, wrestle with it and I have to tell you I'm terrified.

She's moody. She has hot flashes. She suffers from increased fatigue and decreased lubrication. She flirts with both major decisions (ending her current relationship, selling her house) and minor ones (earning extra money by having a garage sale), yet never does anything. Worst of all, she has become obsessed with … Barry Manilow. Yes, Barry Manilow. She even thinks he has a "hot ass."

As if that isn't enough to make me shudder and fear the future, I read the latest issue of Oprah's O magazine, where I discovered a laundry list of physical terrors that await me.

So I've cataloged these issues here. Let's review, shall we?

• Hot flashes
• Mood swings
• Emotional paralysis
• An all-encompassing obsession with John Stamos (sorry, but not even a tsunami of surging hormones could EVER make me feel anything but amusement toward Barry Manilow)
• Vaginal dryness
• Slower metabolism, making weight loss difficult-to-impossible
• A beard
• Big teeth
• An even bigger ass
• Osteoporosis
• A bare scalp you can see from space

Am I missing anything?

Control is a big issue for me, and I'm now confront with something that will happen TO MY OWN BODY that I cannot control. I can't even predict when it will begin. I have personified menopause -- it's a ghostly figure that shadows me, hiding behind trees and lamposts and ready to pounce on me when I least expect it.

I hate this. I dread it. I don't want it to happen, and there isn't a damn thing I can do about it.

Oh well, at least my nipples aren't depressed.

My favorite headline

September 29, 2006
Pamela Anderson's nipples look depressed

Read it for yourself:
http://thesuperficial.com/2006/09/pamela_andersons_nipples_look_depressed.html

See? And you thought I made it up, didn't you?

He did it, he did it, he did it!

Two runs, three hits, seven innings. And now the Dodgers are in the play-offs. Nicely done! I love you, Greg Maddux.

It's 9-6 Colorado at my beloved Wrigley Field. I haven't forgotten them. They're still my guys, even after this heartbreaking, disastrous season. It's my loyalty to the Cubs that makes cheering for the Dodgers so easy. Kenny Lofton, Nomar Garciaparra and old what's his name are all very familiar to me, and they all look good in blue.

One who isn't my guy, though, is Dusty Baker. At the end of tomorrow's game, don't let the door hit ya on the way out, Dusty.

Come on, Professor …

"Greg Maddux, who's pitched in 11 postseasons, can seal a spot for LA." So reads the headline on MLB.com.

It's cloudy and 62º at AT&T Park in San Fran. And the tenth winningest pitcher in baseball history is trying to turn the heat up on the home team. If he can make fast work of the Giants today, the Dodgers will clinch a spot in the playoffs.

The game's not televised nationally, so I cannot watch him pitch in real-time. Instead I'm trying to follow it on Gameday. Which is OK, but I can't see his face. For me, that's the best part of watching the Professor perform. The completely expressionless baby face, with the gears grinding inexorably and inscrutably behind his eyes. Watching him pace away from the mound a moment, lick his fingers, and return, ready to "paint the corners" again. Always the same, whether is 1-1 (as it is now) or 6-1 (makes no difference in his demeanor whether he's on the winning or losing end).

I know he's pitching on only four days' rest. I know he can't do it alone, that he needs all the Dodger offense behind him. I know the SF/Dodger rivalry is almost as virulent as the Cub/Cards rivalry, and the Giants and their fans would undoubtedly love to sock it to the Dodgers. I know this game isn't a sure thing (I haven't forgotten that I thought 9/20 against the Pirates -- when I was in the stands -- was gonna be a cakewalk for him).

But I want this so. For him. This last time around with the Cubs didn't go as well as he (or we) had hoped. I want him to go out a winner. I want it to be clear to anyone and everyone that Greg Maddux is the real deal, and that silly Roger Clemens has no reason to come back in 2007. In 20 years, when kids not even born yet visit Cooperstown, I want them to read a plaque that Greg Maddux pitched in the post-season 12 times. He deserves it so.

Please let him be a hero once again today. Please.

Sincere tribute or nasty slap? You decide.

Sir Paul has dedicated his new album to his first wife Linda. This latest musical creation is an orchestral work in four movements called "Ecce Cor Meum" (Behold My Heart). He explains that this was what he was working on, with Linda's help, at the time of her death. Finishing this "emotional" work helped him work through his grief at losing her.

Now all of that is probably true. The world was moved by the longevity of Paul and Linda's marriage, as well as how deep his agony was when she died.

But I also think that releasing this piece now (I believe I read that the first public performance was to honor Linda's birthday) was done to minimize Heather Mills and the role she has played in Sir Paul's life.

I was happy when Paul married Heather Mills, though her young age disturbed me.* I was thrilled when Baby Bea was born. I was so glad that he was among us again, working on music, performing … and no longer looking like an open wound.

That's why the ugliness of this divorce bothers me. Whatever may have happened between them, Heather did help him turn his life around and give him a baby. I wish that when a relationship ends, the couple could honor what they each brought to it and just move on. No recrimination, no blame, no ugliness. I guess that's unrealistic, though. As someone once said, "If relationships didn't end badly, they wouldn't end at all."

I realize Sir Paul is a billionaire, but I don't believe that money is the root of all this nastiness. I think it's just the nature of the what happens when love ends. I have a friend who has been divorced for four years, with a new man for almost three, and yet she and her ex can't stop picking and slicing away at each other. And trust me, these two are not rich.

I've never been married but I've suffered through the end of three serious relationships. I can honestly say that two of the men were lovely people, good and decent, and that quite a bit of the blame for those break ups was mine. I'm glad I don't hate them, glad I never did, and I'm grateful I can easily recall happy moments with each of them. I hope that when they think of me, if they think of me, they can do the same.

*My issue with her age wasn't in relation to his age, it was in relation to my own. I was too young for Paul the first time he married, and apparently too old for Paul the second time he married. How did that happen?

What I'm doing instead

I'm not:
• Sorting my laundry
• Paying my end o' the month bills
• Wrapping my nephew's birthday presents
• Making sense of all that crap on my dining room table


I am:
• Following the Dodger/Giants game on Gameday. The Dodgers are behind 3-2 in the 8th but I'm hanging in there. I'm "thinking blue!"
• Watching Friends, the one about (ironically enough) laundry. It's from 1994. God, they were young! Especially Matthew Perry and Matt LeBlanc.
• About to play more Pogo

I have no self discipline whatsoever.

I'm not good at this

My best friend is off to Dallas right now as we speak. He's spending the weekend there to celebrate a family wedding, and he's flying down in his brother-in-law's private plane. (Or maybe it's a jet; like "affect" and "effect," I never can keep planes and jets straight.)

So today I have been very mad at Barbra Streisand because she lied to me. People who need people are most emphatically NOT the luckiest people in the world. People who need people worry themselves sick about bad weather tossing silly little cylinders of steel about in the air. People who need people get lonely because the people they need are incommunicado.

For most of 2003 I was unemployed and freelancing, working from home. I was very independent and very comfortable with my own company* and truly cannot remember the sensation of missing anyone. Or being this genuinely worried about (or perhaps neurotically fixated upon) anyone else's welfare. Was I better off then? Was I happier? Maybe. Perhaps I'm just not cut out for this caring about people shit.


*I was also usually broke, but that's another subject for another time.

Digging for gold

Seen on the el this morning: Young, upwardly mobile suburban mom, bringing baby girl and stroller downtown. Just about everything on both mother and daughter had a highly visible label. Land's End, J. Crew, Jeep are just the ones I can recall. They were both wearing purples and lavendars. They both had their shiny dark hair pulled back in ponytails.

As Mom sipped her Starbuck's latte and chatted animatedly on her Razr, her perfect little girl (strapped into the stroller and safely out of Mom's sightline) dug around in her nostril and proceeded to eat the contents.

I like Addison

I do. Because she's so much less whiny and wussy than Meredith. (And perhaps because she's a redhead, like yours truly.) I hope that as McDreamy and Meredith heat up again, they won't write Addison out.

I am, of course, discussing Grey's Anatomy. The show I love. I began loving it because, well, just look at Patrick Dempsey. Yum. I simply can't believe this gorgeous grown-up was once the geek in Can't Buy Me Love.

But now I find I enjoy it almost as much for its portrayal of strong, idiosyncratic women. Addison Shepard. Christina Yang. Miranda Bailey. They're all so neat. I'm even warming up to that dark-haired girl whose in love with George. Tonight she covered for Meredith, and considering how annoying Meredith is, that couldn't have been easy.

I think part of the problem comes from the show's writers. Meredith's voiceovers remind me so much of Carrie Bradshaw's. Only Carrie's had a real purpose: she was the voice of the newspaper column she was writing. She also spent a lot of time discussing the inner lives of her closest friends. Meredith's voiceovers don't seem to accomplish anything except to make Dr. Grey seem self-centered and kinda somnambulistic.

Stuff I care about, and stuff I don't

When something captures my fancy I tend to read about/watch it obsessively. Lately that includes:

The National League Wildcard Race: Please, please, please let the Dodgers prevail. I simply must see Greg Maddux pitch in the postseason one more time!

The McCartney/Mills divorce: Doesn't matter how many allegations she makes about Sir Paul, the English public still hates Heather. She was just tossed out of a grocery store in her hometown because she shoplifted there 10 years ago.

Bill Clinton's Fox Rant: Oh, I loved it. But why on earth did he go on Fox in the first place? And while I'm sure it will help our side in the November elections, what impact will it have on Hillary? Does it free her to speak openly about the mess in Iraq without sounding like she's attacking Bush because after all, she's just defending her husband? Or does it simply illustrate anew that her husband is still more compelling and relevant than she is?

Anna Nicole Smith: I'm sorry, but I simply don't believe that Howard K. Stern is the father of that baby.

Meredith Vieria: I like her. I've always liked her. And I'm glad they didn't replace Katie with a 30-something.

-----------------------------

And then there are the things that I couldn't care less about, yet somehow they penetrate my awareness:

Dancing with the Stars: So Harry Hamlin goes and Jerry Springer stays? Isn't the real story that Mario Lopez cheats on reality shows, just as he cheated in reality?

T.O.'s alleged suicide attempt: If he's not a baseball player, I really can't be bothered.

The fabulousness of the Bears' Rex Grossman: See above.

Clay Aiken's hair, new CD, panic attacks and sexuality: Do we really need another Barry Manilow?

Girl Crush … as seen in the NY Times …

… meaning not "girl-on-girl," as seen in Girls Gone Wild infomercials.*

During the summer of 2005, the NY Times wrote about how women, especially working women, tend to get "crushes" on other women. It's always a woman who is just SO … fantastic, cool, together, etc. Who so exemplifies everything you want to be, but aren't (or aren't yet). A woman whose respect you dearly want to have.

I've never had a real-life girl crush. But I have had an enduring, lifelong girl crush on the woman you see here.

JBKO. Effortlessly elegant. Sublimely self-contained. Feminine, but tough as nails when the situation demanded it.

Jackie Kennedy was fluent in French and conversational in Spanish. For fun she read Greek poets. For fun, I read about her.

She captured my imagination when I was a little girl. I was fascinated by how fascinated everyone was with her. As I got older, I got it. And like many others all over the world (including, it seems, Princess Diana), my fascination with her didn't wane with time.

My all-time favorite Jackie anecdote: After being fired upon in an open car, after being with her husband when he is pronounced dead, after exhibiting nothing but grace and stoicism to a worldwide television audience as she buried him, after receiving the foreign dignitaries who wished to convey their condolences, on the VERY DAY of that famous funeral, she switched gears fast and efficiently. To oversee a birthday party for her three-year-old son. Who didn't understand where Daddy was, but certainly remembered it was his birthday. So she passed out cone-shaped birthday hats, played preschool party games and tried to convince her neices and nephews that it was not only OK to be festive on this horrible day, it was the right thing to do. She sucked it up because she was John Jr.'s mother, and it was his birthday.

My throat closes a little every time I think of what it took for her to do that on that day.

I see stories all the time about firefighters, cops and soldiers. I have nothing but gratitude for anyone who is willing to go into harm's way on my behalf, but I don't get it. I don't understand what it takes to go into a burning building or face a gun. I do, however, understand how hard it would be to swallow my fear and heartache long enough to sing "Happy Birthday" and feign delight as a three-year-old rips paper off of Lincoln Logs and Mr. Potato Head. The lady had guts.


*Geez, why do straight men find that particular sexual situation so hot, even though it renders them completely irrelevant? I like to be IN my own fantasies. Oh well, that's a post for another day.

About those headaches

On Saturday, 9/16, I suffered from a headache that would have killed a lesser man. It was really brutal. Throbbing and unrelenting, it left me nauseous.

I stopped to pick up a lottery ticket and decided, since it was an unseasonably hot day and I required quenching, to also buy a Mike's Hard Lemonade. The bottle was cute, and what better way to celebrate one of the last days of summer? Also, since I would be enjoying it while waiting at the bus stop, I was happy to settle on an alcoholic beverage that the local cops would not recognize.

I noticed that the booze wasn't affecting me at all. Nada. Zip. Zilch. No buzz at all, even in the sun. Oh, well, I thought, it's not like it was a Grey Goose Cosmo and you get what you pay for. Then, when I reached my destination (Carson, Pirie, Scott), it hit me. It started like a little caffeine headache and suddenly grew up to be ... OW, OW, OW! I had to go home and get in bed, where I stayed for hours.

This had happened to me once before. Recently. While I was out of town, preparing for a client presentation. We went to dinner (Outback Steakhouse) and I had a frozen drink and the very same thing happened. I didn't feel it and in no time I was sick with a headache that lasted hours and nearly compromised my performance the next morning.

The common denominator of both instances was booze. While I had enjoyed beers and mixed drinks between the headaches, these two incidents left me afraid to drink.

While I was in Los Angeles, I relived all this for my best friend, who was so sad at the thought of me having to give up my "ini's." So together we carefully examined my alcoholic history between the two headaches.

Frozen Kiwi Lemonade -- vodka, kiwi, strawberries and lemonade mix -- HEADACHE!
Light beer -- a malt beverage -- No headache
Cosmo -- voda, triple sec, cranberry and lime juice -- No headache
Rumba -- Rum and ... other stuff -- No headache
Mike's Hard Lemonade -- Malt liquor and lemonade -- HEADACHE! KILL ME NOW! HEADACHE!

Ding ding ding! We have stumbled upon something here. All the while I was concerned about the liquor content, when in reality I'm having a severe bitch of a reaction to, of all things, LEMONADE! Go figure! It sure looks benign, fun and All-American, doesn't it? Well, I'm telling you, lemonade is a formidable foe that actually incapacitated me.

Shocking, huh? I suppose it shouldn't be. After all, we're living in a world where spinach kills.

http://onegalsmusings.blogspot.com/2006/09/oh-but-it-hurt.html

I love this stuff

I'm watching The Thin Man. The original in the series. It's the 1930s, people were suffering, and yet this movie was successful enough in its day to spawn at least four sequels. I understand the phenomenon, because I love it, too.

Nick Charles is a former "dick," a working-class stiff with sordid acquaintances, now a "gentleman," thanks to his marriage to the wealthy heiress, Nora. Now he says he helps run her family businesses, but all we ever see our handsome raconteur hero do is drink and charm. His beautiful, elegant wife is better-rounded and has more interests. She drinks and shops. They are usually accompanied by their dog, Asta, who (like Nick and Nora) is just as comfortable in an exclusive club or a seedy gin mill.

Their clothes are gorgeous. Their apartment is sumptuous. Their friends are colorful. Their banter is sexy (and probably shocking for the 1930s). Every now and again they interrupt their wining and dining to solve a murder.

They play. They drink. They make love. They dabble in sordid affairs and murder. They do it all so stylishly. As romantic a fantasy as it seems in 2006, I imagine it was even more irresistible in the 1930s, when so many were unemployed, when unspeakable horrors were taking place in Europe, when the world seemed drab, unimaginative and hopeless. I bet a glorious fantasy in beautiful black and white really hit the spot.

"Yes. But Not With You."

So read the tight, tight, tight t-shirt I saw on a very buxom woman on Michigan Avenue today. We could not only see her rack, her tummy rolls were also very evident. Her jeans were too snug, too. She completed the ensemble with the biggest, heaviest brown shoes I've seen in quite a while -- at least away from a construction site. And yet her t-shirt implies that she feels like a sex object.

I must admit I admire her.

I agonize over my weight. How my clothes fit. How my skin looks. Are my roots showing. And I feel, for the most part, invisible to the opposite sex.

She, on the other hand, is so confident about getting offers that she turns them down in advance. Good for her.

Not me. Not yet, at least.

Traitors! Traitors, all!

I refer, of course, to the legions of Chicago pedestrians walking up and down State Street with white bags, adorned with the Macy's star.

It's not right. Once those were the trademark dark green bags of my beloved Marshall Field's.

I have yet to step foot in Macy's. It's too soon. I simply can't.

I'm told Macy's carries Jones New York, Liz Claiborne, and Eileen Fisher, just as Field's did. Before Macy's took over, I was reassured that the cosmetic lines would remain the same. The clock is still out front. I could still buy Frangoes, if I wanted to.

But I'm not ready for this yet. Not by a longshot.

Forget DisneyLand. To me, Marshall Field's State Street was The Magic Kingdom, The Happiest Place on Earth. Romantic, old architecture. A tradition of service (I was a guest, they always thanked me for waiting, and each purchase was wrapped individually in tissue paper). And Christmas. What will our holiday season be like without Marshall Field's?

Oh, sure, Federated has sent me a new credit card. I haven't even activated it yet.

Of course, I didn't cut it in half, either.

I suppose it's inevitable that I'll give in to the winds of change at some point. But not today.

Strictly within Code

More from my trip to Los Angeles … My best friend and I stayed up almost all night both nights. Gossiping, teasing, laughing and talking, talking, talking. I was surprised and relieved that we are still most definitely us, still completely comfortable with each other, still finishing one another's sentences. If I didn't have this, I would be bereft.

His client-supplied corporate apartment is in an LA suburb, quite a haul from my Hollywood Blvd. hotel. The drive is anywhere between 20 minutes and an hour, depending on traffic and fire-related road closures/reroutes. (California is so incredibly carcentric!) The second night he was so tired and more than a little buzzed, so I insisted he take a nap before he hit the road.

I've dozed off in front of him more than once, but this is the first time the roles were reversed. He doesn't move much when he sleeps. He snores. And his fingers wake up first, twitching a bit before his eyes open.

Still, it was all very chaste. Since we were in Hollywood, it only appropriate that it reminded me of the old Hays Code: "Overseen for many years by what was known as the Hays Code (named for one of the Code's founding fathers, William Harrison Hayes), the Code imposed an almost laughably puritanical set of values on films. Not even married couples could be shown in bed together, unless each had one foot on the floor."

Both of his feet remained shod and most firmly on the floor.

How my home is different from a luxury hotel

1) I have only two pillows on the solitary, full-sized bed in my bedroom. Not four pillows piled high on each of the queen-sized beds.

2) When doing my toenails at home, I am on the sofa, knees bent against my chest, bifocals on, hoping that the shower will wash away any excess polish I've slopped on either side. Instead of laying back under an umbrella, poolside, having my cuticles tended to and my drink refreshed as my nails are filed perfectly flat.

3) My refrigerator has two Miller Lites, still in that white plastic ring-thing. Not one bottle each Amstel Lite, Coors Lite, Budweiser and Miller, as well as a variety of vodkas and gins.

4) If I leave towels on the floor in my bathroom, they stay on the floor all day.

5) No one is there to compliment me on my lovely green eyes, wish me a good day, ask if there's anything they can do to help, and whisper that if I run out to the pool right now, I can see a celebrity.

I miss you, Hotel Roosevelt on Hollywood Boulevard.

24 Hours from Now

At this time tomorrow I will be on my way to Dodger Stadium to watch my beloved, future Hall of Famer Greg Maddux take the mound against the Pirates. I love him.

My best friend will be sitting beside me. I'm more than a little fond of him, too.

I hate my complexion, but it's been worse. I'm not as thin as I'd like to be, but I'm thinner than I was last time he saw me.

We're not going to sleep together. I don't think he'd like himself afterward. But I'd really like him to want to.

That's my best friend. Now if Greg Maddux asked me to bed, I'd drop trou in a heartbeat. I love him.

I'm Laurie. I'm 5.

Here's a fun little time suck for you.

You Are 5: The Investigator

You're independent - and a logical analytical thinker.

You love learning and ideas... and know things no one else does.

Bored by small talk, you refuse to participate in boring conversations.

You are open minded. A visionary. You understand the world and may change it.


Now find out what number YOU are:
http://blogthings.com/whatnumberareyouquiz/

Oh, but it hurt!

Saturday afternoon I got a headache. A killer headache. Throbbing. Severe. Impossible to concentrate. Impossible to sleep. Impervious to ibuprofen and even prescription strength naproxen. Lasted for hours. Left me nauseous and weak.

According to the Internet, it could be a hormonal headache, a pre-menstrual headache, or a migraine.

I don't care, but it's going to have to stop.

I refuse to live with a condition that leaves me unable to function.

Next month I'm supposed to visit my doctor for some follow-up lab work. She and I are going to have a chat.

Quiet Desperation

I spent a good part of Friday afternoon listening to the results of some client-sponsored consumer research on retirement and anticipated quality of life in the golden years. OUCH! What a depressing meeting!

"I would rather die myself than be saddled with a sick husband."
"I'd rather die than move in with my kids."
"My kids will never be gone for good. They keep moving back."
"I worry about my grandchildren. I can't trust those yahoo kids of mine to raise them."
"By the time I'm 60 I'll have had a job I hated for almost 40 years. I only do this for the money. After I'm 60 I want to teach. That's the job I wish I had all along."
"I hate watching my parents get sicker and sicker. I don't want that to be me."

No one under age 50 seems to believe in the stereotypical retirement in Boca. OK, good enough. I can't imagine anything more boring than sitting on an Adirondack chair and baking in the sun.

But boy, oh boy, what this age group (35 to 55) has in mind as an alternative is so depressing. After retirement, they all figure they will continue working: retail, daycare, even as a crossing guard. There was that woman who hoped to FINALLY get to do what she's wanted to do her whole life: teach.

And the bitterness toward family members! My husband is a burden, my kids are a burden, my parents are a burden …

I don't have enough saved for retirement, I know that. And I'm almost 50. I may never have enough for retirement. So in addition to making me sad about how desperate and sad my audience sounds, this consumer research made me feel guilty about not doing all I should for my own retirement. I, of all people, should know better.

Say it ain't so, Joe!

My IPass internet service STILL doesn't work from home! And when I got into the office and called my own personal IT guy, he wasn't there! So I had to follow the usual channels and still haven't heard from The Help Desk.

It's humbling, but I guess it's important for me to remember that while I am the leading lady in my own biopic, I am a mere bit player in someone else's.

Spotlighting a Bit Player

Ever since I was a little girl and my parents took me downtown to see Mary Poppins, I have loved movies. I adore the entire movie-going experience -- everything from buying my movie food (sweets eaten only in a theater, usually Twizzlers or Sno-Caps) to choosing my seat to the anonymity-in-a-public-place sensation of sitting in the dark surrounded by strangers.

Since going to the movies is one of the enduring joys of my life, it makes sense that I'd see my life as a film. Starring me, of course. But then I get thinking of all the tiny character parts there would be. Like in The Godfather, there was Nino Ruggeri as "Mobster at the funeral with Barzini." You've seen The Godfather a million times, but admit it, you don't remember "Mobster at the funeral with Barzini," do you? Still, those who play these bit parts add to the texture and success of the film.

Likewise, my life wouldn't be the same life without my bit players. So today we're taking one from "Mobster at the funeral with Barzini"-style obscurity and making him a star.

And that would be Joe from The Help Desk.

I use this company-owned laptop for a lot of personal business. Like playing Pogo while watching TV at home. I love this laptop. Last night my modem simply would not connect. I was at wit's end, imagining my Pogo scores for the week dipping into the gutter. Then this morning, when I got into the office, I was unable to log onto my Lotus Notes. Without the Internet, this job has even less meaning than it normally does. So I called Joe from the Help Desk.

That's actually not what we're supposed to do when we have a computer problem here. We're supposed to call the Help Desk's main number, leave a brief explanation of our problem on voicemail, and then wait to be called back. Then a random Help Desk wizard will ask for more detail and open a job ticket. When your job ticket moves to the front of the line, your problem will be addressed. It's all very fair: each problem is addressed in the order in which it is received.

That would be OK if we were all created equal. But we aren't. This is the story of my life, which means I'm the star. So I call Joe directly.

Joe and I got to know each other when I got my iPod and he had to keep initializing each iTunes upgrade for me. We first met when I followed procedure, and quickly discovered that while some Help Desk wizards find my asking for iTunes help annoying when there is agency business to address, Joe found my complete audacity charming. So now I go to him directly.

Today I didn't even have to bring my laptop to him. He made a housecall. I think he just wanted to stretch his legs. He's wearing gauze and tape on his thumb, so I solicitously asked him about it. Help Desk guys don't get fussed over or flirted with much, and let's face it, fussing and flirting is one of the benefits of working in a big office.

He fixed my modem issues in no time and didn't make me feel stupid for doing whatever it was I did that screwed up the settings. So here's to you, Joe. You're pleasant, you're nice, you're very capable, and you're one of the bit players in my life story that made this rainy Wednesday suck a little less. Your leading lady thanks you, Joe from the Help Desk.

Well, that was a let down

Because I was such a passionate (some would say "rabid") supporter of Senator Kerry's, some people insist I hate George W. Bush. That's not true. I wasn't against him in 2004, I was FOR Senator Kerry. I followed my heart, I didn't dedicate myself to that campaign out of hate or fear but out of hope. We lost, my heart is broken, but we try to move on. I don't enjoy it when W. screws up. He is, after all, my president.

And last night I needed him.

I wanted him to say something about 9/11 and the WTC, the Pentagon and United #93 that would help me heal. Something I understood, something that reflected who we are as people, something that expressed what it means to be an American.

Ronald Reagan got it. He knew that's what a president needs to do, what a president needs to be. I was never a supporter of his, but I still remember his phrase about the Challenger astronauts, "They slipped the surly bonds of earth to touch the face of God." That speech was just a few minutes long, but it touched me. He was sincere (I know, he was an actor, but I'm still not cynical enough to believe that was acting) and his speech was poetic, soothing and beautiful.

Bill Clinton got it. I remember his press conference after Oklahoma City. He spoke of our children, of the impact images of violence at a daycare center may have them, and asked parents to remind the young ones that most adults are good and ready to protect them. Metaphorically, Bill Clinton was letting all of us know our government is basically good, and ready to protect us.

I needed George W. Bush to get it. To rise to the occasion. To deliver a speech that reflected 5 years of reflection.

Instead I got a political speech that he could have given last week or next. It was a justification of his policies and his decisions.

I'm a grown woman. Perhaps I shouldn't need a daddy figure behind a shiny desk to assuage my aching heart. But I do. I wish I was the polarized Republican-hater people assume I must be. If I was, I wouldn't have expected better from this president, and I wouldn't feel even emptier today, after the anniversary of 9/11.

I may start seeing other hosts

Vox and Wordpress are making serious plays for my blog. I like blogger.com well enough. But it's fun to be wooed ...

Appalled, yet jealous, too

One of my coworkers, a gal with a very big personality, was talking about the impact rainy days like today have on her. She said she just wanted to be in bed, watching daytime TV.

Not today, I said. I explained how at the health club today, every TV screen showed heartbreaking images.

"Why? What's today? Is it September 11 already?"

So there are people who don't have it seared on their souls.