Aprilbaby's California Life

Futurama Foxy Mama

Sunday's Scribblings subject this week: the Telephone -

As a kid, I loved Lost in Space and my parents took me to see futuristic films - 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968) and Woody Allen’s Sleeper (1973). Maybe that’s why I often fantasized a lot about the future. 

Mostly my thoughts were on what kind of cool appliances and cars we’d have.  So, of course, I loved Disneyland’s Tomorrowland with all the white, sleek orb-like swooshing vehicles, where I could pretend I was already in the future.  Yes, that’s what the future would look like. Everything would be white and zooming at break-neck speeds.

But I really looked forward to having a Television-Telephone.  Maybe because the only phones I’d every known were heavy, usually black (or maybe harvest gold or avocado) rotary phones that took forever to dial.  I practically had to wipe sweat from my brow when having to dial a number with lots of 8s, 9s or 0s in it.  So when I saw an article in the newspaper about the possible invention of a Television-Telephone, I got so excited I tacked the article to my bedroom door.  The future was nearly here!  It’ll be great!  I could eat breakfast with my cousin in Texas.  I could show her the prize I pulled out of my cereal box (if I could talk my dad into letting me have sugary cereal, that is).  Or I could show my friend Cindy my latest Archie comic book without even having to leave my house.  Cool!   But then I realized that I’d have to wash my face, brush my hair and get out of my pajamas before ever using the phone.  So… maybe the Television-Telephone wouldn’t be so great. 

Still, I daydreamed about the future.  Maybe I’d be a stewardess flying around the world, looking foxy in hot pants.  Yes, I foresaw myself twenty years in the future still wearing 1974’s styles.  I saw a clear vision:  Me, at about thirty-years-old, dressed in a smiley face t-shirt (very tight fitting, as my future self would be very foxy and built) with purple hot pants and white platform go-go boots.  My future self would be one sexy mama – a combo of Teresa Graves no-nonsense hip-ness (from “Get Christie Love”), Raquel Welch’s curvy allure and Mary Tyler Moore’s witty carefree-ness.  I imagined I would be one foxy, sassy, world-traveling future lady in hot pants!

Yet, here I am in the future, without one pair of hot pants to my name - and never once did I predict the internet or that I could one day buy movie tickets from a computerized stall.  Every time I use one of these, I feel so futuristic, I can’t help but think my kid-self would’ve loved these conveniences.  But then I didn’t even foresee - right around the corner – Pong, ATMs, answering machines or call-waiting.  I just assumed I would be forever hearing the headache-causing drone of the busy tone.  And now that I can see who is calling me, I can’t help think about these poor kids of the present (or my past future) who will never know the joy of anonymous prank calling (a latchkey kids version of video games).  Who’d have thought it?  Not me.  I was too busy daydreaming about running around in hot pants.  Purple hot pants.

(Regarding my photo - Amazing Photo Shop skills, huh?  This photo represents how I imagined the Television-Telephone would look like, complete with rotary phone attached.) 

 

 

 

Lost in Paris - October 2000

Part II - inspired by the film "Paris je t'aime."

"Lost in Paris"

Our time in Paris spun by in a blur – My husband broke a chair and fell on the floor in a restaurant; we limped through the endless halls of the Louvre, where we just barely saw Mona Lisa’s left eye over the shoulders of large German tourists; an American couple asked me in broken French, somehow mistaking me for a Parisian, to take their photo – and I never revealed I was just another American tourist as I let them struggle to explain how to use their camera in French; an almost seven-foot-tall African-French man - a brilliant contrast, dressed in a fringed white-leather cowboy outfit and Stetson hat - took me by my arm and spun me around the dance floor of an Irish pub (a few doors down from the Moulin Rouge) in Montmarte… until I tore myself away, spinning and queasy.  But now we were scheduled to travel by TGV (the high speed train) into the French Alps.

The morning we were to depart from the Gare de Lyon (a train station) in Paris, the sky was black and rain poured down sideways. At just before 8 am, I reminded the woman at our hotel’s front desk that I had requested a taxi the evening before to get us to the train station by nine in the morning.

"There are no taxis available," she said without even looking up from the fashion magazine she was reading.

“But, but...we have all these heavy bags. Where’ll we go? What’ll we do?” I pleaded in my best Scarlett O’hara impersonation, without the southern lilt and with a lot more desperation.

“Walk. Of course,” she said, flipping a glossy magazine page, not at all concerned with our problem.

My knees buckled under the weight of her words. Then, with no time to think, Ian and I looked at each other, I pulled my fuzzy hat over my eyes, we grabbed our luggage and dashed into the drenched streets. (Photo  below is blurry because I took it while running in the rain.)

He ran ahead.  I hobbled behind, pulling my bulging suitcases - one of which had wheels - but due to my spastic running, bounced along behind me. "Keep up!" Ian shouted, as if I wasn't trying.

That’s when my luggage unzipped and my shoes started falling out.  Parisians passing by bent over to help me pick them up. 

“Merci!  Merci!” I called out to all the kind people who stopped to hand me shoes, as I continued to run forward

We ran and ran. The rain poured and poured. We continued quite a few blocks before deciding to get out of the rain and go underground in one of the metro stations.  We panted and darted through crowds of quiet Parisians on their way to work.

“Ian, do you even know where Gare de Lyon is?” I yelled from behind, thinking it was a good question considering he was running as if he knew.

“I... Don’t... Know!” he yelled, but continued running as if he did.

And since I had no better ideas, I followed.

Then a savior silently appeared: A French man in a trench coat with white hair and a trimmed mustache, carrying a briefcase in one hand and a copy of Le Monde under the other arm.  With a tip of his head, without saying a word, he motioned for us to follow him. We did - in an out of metro tunnels. Up stairs. Down ramps.  Through more tunnels. Each time he changed direction he looked back and gestured with another tip of his head. This went on for about five minutes until he then found a woman who could speak English.  He asked her to explain to us how to cross the bridge to get to Gare de Lyon. Then, just as silently as he appeared he disappeared. We never got a chance to properly thank him.

Eventually, we pulled our bulging suitcases up to the crest of the bridge, where we finally viewed the Gare de Lyon - which, right then, was the most beautiful sight in all of Paris.

With only minutes to spare, we boarded the train - soaking wet and out of breath – toward the medieval town of Annecy, to cause more havoc on unsuspecting French citizens and their furniture.(Photos below: beautiful Annecy in the French Alps.)

Here's a new film from my mother - who lives on a barge in Paris - and is now calling herself Cecil B. De Nancy

Pierce College Farm Walk - May 4th

Bring the kids out to experience the Valley as it once was!  Pierce College will have their annual Farm Walk this week. 

                        May 4, 2008 - Sunday                         
                        9:30am - 4:00pm                         
                        $5.00 donation per person                         
                        Children under 12 free

                                        6201 Winnetka Ave., Woodland Hills.

There will be sheep shearing, wool spinning, live music, cow milking, a petting zoo, cowchip bingo, horse activities (whatever that means), a barbecue and more.  so come on out to the Valley and get a taste of the farm life!

The Valley's Divorce Generation - The Class of '82

The Newsweek article below is written by a former Valley kid from the Class of '82, the same year I graduated from high school.  Initally, I was simply going link to it.  But after reading some of the article's comments, I thought I'd say more.

My parents didn't officially get divorced until I was about seventeen, but I did know a lot of kids who grew up in split homes.  My parents were much younger than this writer's parents who were of the WWII generation.  And I didn't move to the Valley until '85.  But I can still relate a bit.  We grew up with the same social changes that were occuring during the '70s and '80s.

Many of the articles commentors refer to the writer and our generation as being navel-gazers, whiners and only thinking about "me, me, me".  Yet, in my opinion, we as a group (kids born in the '60s) are rarely heard to comment on our growing up in that era.  Sure, we hear from the Boomers (former Flower Children) all the time.  And, yeah, I blather about my childhood beause I write and that's part of my life. Childhoods are significant to people; that's when people become cognizant of the world, form first impressions.  So why is it wrong for my group to talk about how they responded to growing up in an era of turbulent social changes?  I think it's sociologically significant to hear how former-children responded to divorce, being raised by single parents, being latchkey kids and other side-effects of the times.  If you ask me, my group doesn't get heard from enough about how we have turned-out, or about what we thought of our experiences.

Most kids I grew up with, and still keep in touch with, have definite opinions about those unique years.  But, if we do look back, it usually involves lots of laughing about how we dealt with certain things.  One friend has the driest wit, she makes my stomach hurt.  My sister, too, always has me howling about everything from the progressive schools she went to, where she could rollerskate in class, to the adults' farout lingo and groovy parties we used to spy on.  Far from whining, my friends are people who, maybe because of their pasts, put extra time and effort into their families and relationships.  I guess after growing up watching some of the goofy stuff the adults were doing around us, it was natural to have formed a great sense of humor.

With that said, this article isn't funny.  But I can relate to it... just a bit.

The Divorce Generation Grows Up

Grant High School's class of '82 were raised on 'The Brady Bunch'—while their own families were falling apart. These are their stories—in their words.

Then and Now: Students from the Grant High Class of '82 — Bonnie Pollack, Josh Gruenberg, Elyse Oliver, Laurie Gelardi, David Jefferson, Deborah Cronin, Chris Kohnhorst, Robbie Hyatt, Lisa Cohen, Mic Rothman, Ruth Kreusch, Tonju Francois and David Selig — pose together in February. Below, Pollack as a young girl; Kreusch, Cohen, Francois on graduation day; a young Rothman on the water; and Selig's family one year after his parents' split.

                               

By David J. Jefferson | NEWSWEEK

         

Apr 21, 2008 Issue    

(Below are excerpts)

      

...Such are the scars of growing up too fast—something many of my classmates were doing in the '70s. As newly single mothers went to work to support their families, children were being left to fend for themselves. "We were latchkey kids," says Elyse Oliver, whose mom took a job at Hanna-Barbera studios, painting animated characters for shows like "The Flintstones" to provide for Elyse and her sister. "We had the little necklace with the key on it and we'd walk home from school, let ourselves in and take care of ourselves until she came home about 6 or 7...

...In many ways, the urge to stay married is stronger in my classmates' generation than the urge to get divorced was in my parents'. Perhaps this was a backlash to divorce...

(Read More)

Thanks, Classmates.com! An Update to a Previous Post

(Excerpted from a previous post about one of the benefits of leaving my hometown:  Pacifica, California)

I almost died a week before graduating from Terra Nova High. At about 1 am on a Saturday morning, after I dropped my friends off at their homes, I drove my VW bug alone down a steep and windy road.  I went to step on the brakes and the pedal went all the way to the floor without slowing at all.  My brakes were completely out.

My car began shaking as it picked up speed.  I pumped the brake pedal.  I tried to down shift.  I pulled up the hand brake, but the car kept going...so - sure that I was going to die - I thought of my options: hit the wall of the mountain; keep building speed down the road or go off the cliff.  I was desperate.  I even thought of jumping out. Then... there it was - hope: A fire hydrant.  I rammed my car into it.  The bottom of my car peeled back like an opened sardine can. But at least I stopped.

The next Monday at school I told my friends, half joking, that I was so desperate I thought about sticking my foot onto the ground to slow the car.  I mean, come on!!! I was desperate.  Within hours, I couldn't walk down the hallway without someone yelling, "Hey, Wilma!!"... as in Flintstone, because the cartoon characters stopped their stone cars with their feet.

After graduation, I'd run into guys I used to date at the market. I'd wait on girls who thought I was a bitch as I worked at Rockaway Deli on Highway One.  Friends would still laugh about the "Wilma" story.  

So, yeah, the Southern California weather sounded nice.  But leaving a town where I knew half the population and leaving behind all the labels I'd been given since Junior High sounded just as nice.

Years later, as a pregnant and married wife living in the San Fernando Valley, Cindy - one of my best friends from San Francisco, who I'd known since I was seven or eight - came to visit me.  At the time, she was dating a comedian who lived in Hollywood. 

During our visit Cindy said, "You'll never guess who I had dinner with the other night."

"Who?"

"Rob Schneider," she said.

He and I knew each other in high school, hung around the same people, saw Prince in "Purple Rain" as a group and went to Hawaii, after graduating, as a group.  We even butted heads during Terra Nova's Senior talent show.  As the director, he wanted me to come to a rehearsal.  No matter how adamant he was, I refused.  I told him my reason, thinking then he'd understand the importance of my obligation.

"But, Rob, that's when I'm getting my hair permed!!"

Somehow he didn't understand.  Anyway, after moving, I hadn't seen him in years.

Cindy continued.  "Yeah, Warren and I had dinner with him and Dennis Miller at Canter's.  After talking, I realized you and Rob both lived in Pacifica, so I said, 'Do you know Michele?'  And he said, 'Oh, you mean... Wilma?'

Sometimes, no matter how many miles you travel, there are some things you can't leave behind.

*Photos from the Oceana High School 1980 yearbook.  Someone caught me drifting off in photography class.  And that was my favorite class.

UPDATE:  Today, I got this message from a former classmate on Classmates.com:

To:  Michele Gardiner

Hi, from Mike!

Didn't your brakes go out while you were driving down Fassler?

That was all he asked!  He didn't ask what I've been doing in the last two decades.  Or if I have any kids.  Or who I keep in touch with from TN High.  Nope!

That night will live with me forever.

Sunday Scribblings: Writing - A Pirate took My Cookie and Other Stuff That Happened Instead of Writing

For Sunday Scribblings prompt:  Writing (officially my longest post ever, two weeks worth)

Here's a summary of what little writing I've accomplished in two weeks:

 March 1st, Saturday- I planned on writing after picking my daughter up at the train station.  She spent two days visiting a friend near Santa Barbara.  About 8:30 am, my daughter called from Santa Barbara to say she was just getting a ride to the train station.  I told her to call me when she's on the train.  The train was to leave at 9am.  By 9:15 am, I still hadn't heard from my daughter. 

I called her cell phone.  No answer.  She's always so good about picking up soon or calling right back.  So I waited.  But she didn't call.  I called her again and again.  Still, no answer.  About 9:40 I started hyperventilating.  My husband and I called her friend in Santa Barbara.  The friend told us that she took a cab and that she hadn't heard from my daughter either.  I then started to officially freak out (pacing, talking to the walls, mumbling prayers).  I called the cab company, spoke to the dispatcher and asked if any of their drivers have criminal records.  Do they check that sort of thing?  The cab guy snapped at me.  I snapped back. "Hey, I'm a worried mother."  My husband tried my daughter's cell phone.  There was an answer... oh, what a relief.  I finally breathed.  What?!  Wrong number?  He was yelling at a strange woman.  In short, more drama for another painfully long twenty minutes.  We finally reached my daughter.  She was on the train sleeping and didn't hear the phone.

My nerves were so jangled, I decided to write later.  I picked her up at the station, just happy to see her face.

Sunday - My husband and I went to the Los Angeles County Museum of Art.  Kandinsky. Miro.  Picasso!  They're all so inspiring.  In the evening, we watched "La Vie En Rose" about Edith Piaf's tragic life.  It's amazing.  Yes, I want to create something, too.  Tomorrow, I'll put off my tax preparations and write.

Monday - It's a beautiful day.  Morning sun is shining slanted through the floor to celing window in my office.  I decide to use the Time Machine prompt from Sunday Scribblings, and start rambling about the scent of Coppertone making all my sea-salty childhood summers tumble by like the ocean waves...  Then I hear my dog in a frenzy - growling, claws scraping the pavement.  I look through the window.  What's she doing?  I hear my little cat meow weakly.

Oh my God!!  My feet barely hit the ground and my legs feel like rubber as I run frantically through my house and into the backyard, screaming my dog's name.  She had my cat in her mouth and dropped her when I screamed.

My cat was a lump.  Her mouth and eyes were open in shock.  I grabbed her and wrapped her in a towel.  My daughter and I drove her to the nearest vet.

The morning went by in a blur; literally, I couldn't see through my tears.  Don't even remember driving home from the vet.  My cat had to stay there overnight in an oxygen tent.  The doctor warned that because she may be paralyzed, she might have to... I can't even write the words.

I cried.  No.  Just the day before I was admiring how nothing gets by my cat.  she takes nothing for granted - the trees are for climbing, bugs are for chasing, the sun is for sprawling.  I've even thought I wouldn't mind changing places with her.  She has no bills and sleeps half the day - who wouldn't want that life?  If only cats could get passports and eat in five star restaurants...

I never would've thought I would be so cat crazy.  At home, my daughter made me soup, vegetable with alphabet pasta.  I swear my spoon had the letters c-a-t.  Yes, I am officially cat crazy.  

Convinced my cat will get better, I try to write.  I can't.  I Google "Edith Piaf" to see photos of her.  If Edith could live through what she did, I should be able to function this day.  What's the first thing I see when I Google?  Her stuffed cat sitting in a Parisian window.

Tuesday - First thing in the morning, my husband and my daughter told me to call the vet.  I dialed as they stood there to hear the news.  "What? Her tail's moving and she can move one leg?"  All our shoulders relax.  Later, I pick her up and bring her home to rest.  Still, the doctor doesn't know if she'll ever move her right leg.

Wednesday - Ok, later I will do my tax prep.  But first a little writing, I tell myself.  No, first I'll check my email.  A while ago I sent essays off to Smithsonian Magazine and Geek Monthly (they sounded like my kind of people).  Nope.  Still nothing.  I stare at the computer screen.  I'm empty.  I wish I were like Jack Kerouac and all those other writers who use/used negative stuff as fuel.  Poverty?  Alcoholism?  No problem!  They pour out their souls on a scroll.  But me, all the urge is there, pent up inside - but there's so much swirling around, bouncing against the sides of my skull like bumper cars, lots of noise and slamming around, but the ideas don't go far... and like those carnival rides, once the cars stand still, the electrical sparks stop... so I go and make a sandwich to gather my thoughts.

Thursday, Friday, Saturday - Writing?  Not so much.

Sunday - I cleaned the yard.  It's a good excuse for having a cold beer.  Plus, I can think about writing.

Monday - In the evening, my husband and I planned to go to a classical concert downtown at the Colburn school of music, across from Disney Hall.  So I ran to Target to buy some lipgloss and other girly things I don't get to use when writing alone at my computer.  Because I am watching pennies, I took a long time picking items and using coupons.  After paying for all that stuff and some household items, I got to my car and realized I had none of my make-up and hair products.  I ran back to the store.  The cashier shrugged her shoulders.  I went to stand in the long customer service line and began worrying that I wouldn't have time to get ready.  After waiting nearly ten minutes, I felt a tap on my shoulder.  The man who was standing beside me in line earlier accidentally got my bag.  He didn't notice until he got home.  I patted him on the back.  "You are a good, good man for coming all the way back here."  I thank him so profusely, he must've thought "But it's only makeup, lady."  I just appreciate when people take time to do the right thing.  He could've just waited to return the items later.  I told his daughter, "Your dad is a really nice guy."  She smiled.

The concert was beautiful.  "Is this corny to say?"  I asked my husband.  "But the way the bass player is using his bow... moving so fluidly and cradling the bass, almost like he's holding  a woman, it's like a dance."

"Yeah, that's corny.  But you're right.  It is like a dance," my bass player husband said.  I just knew no other way to describe the movement.  Again, I am inspired.  I love watching people who are passionate about what they do and do it well.

Tuesday - Until this day, my cat has been dragging her leg and hopping on her others.  My family has started calling her tripod.  That makes me sad.  She should be jumping around.  Her limp foot is getting dingy from scraping the floor.  Not only am I not writing, but I'm not doing not much cleaning either.  But today she's putting pressure on the right foot.  I've been having to keep my dog separate from the cats.  From now on, I always will.

Wednesday - My writer friend, Donna, got me on the list to preview a new Nintendo fitness training game, called Wii Fit, she's writing about.  We were to meet at the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel.  I get there a little late, thinking it was going to be a large conference type deal.  I didn't see Donna.  The concierge gave me an electronic key and directed me to the elevator to go to the twelfth floor.  I push the button and get up to the 10th floor, where an English guy got in and we both went back down to the lobby.  "Hey, what's going on?"  I said.  He doesn't know.  Maybe I didn't push the button.  But I did.  "Oh well, at least it's a nice elevator," I said, and push the button again.  At the fifth floor, a group of young women got in. And back down I went.  What?

I got back in.  This time a hotel employee got in and told me I need to use the electronic key for the 12th floor.  Oh.... good thing.  I was beginning to feel like I was in some sort of video game myself, like Super Mario Brothers or Frogger..... up, down and spit back out again.  I lose!

I enter the room, and other than the Nintendo people who were expecting me - Ooops... if I'd known that, I would've left my house earlier - there's only Donna and two of her friends.  They're having a blast trying out the Wii Fit program.  It is extremely cool.  As Donna bends, the sensor on the foot pad can detect if she is out of alignment.  Apparently, you gain points and keep track of your weight and progress as you workout overtime. Very cool.

I try the downhill skiing game.  If I were really on skis, I would have been in pain from all the mogul flag poles I ran into.

Afterward, Donna, her friends and I left our cars at the Roosevelt Hotel and walked across Hollywood Boulevard for lunch.  We ate outside and watched tourists take photos of the Hollywood sign.  It was a beautiful day.  As we were leaving, I realized I needed to break a twenty dollar bill to give a tip to the hotel valet.  Donna suggested I buy a cookie at the nearby Tollhouse store.  I did.  I munched on it as we walked down the boulevard.  I noticed the Johnny Depp look-a-like (well, if you squint) pirate eyeing my cookie.  "Want some?" I asked, not thinking he'd take me up on it.  I mean, I did already bite it.  "Yes, I'd like some cookie," he said.  So I gave it to him.

"Hey, Donna, a pirate took my cookie!" 

"Well, there's your blog post title right there." 

We blog-writers are always thinking that way.   Anything can be blog-worthy, especially when it has a catchy title.

Thursday - My cat is now limping like Ratzo Rizzo from "Midnight Cowboy".  "Poor thing" I say.  "She's alive!" my husband reminds me.

I check my e-mail, still no love letters from Oprah Magazine for the essay I wrote about how one of my best friends is my husband's ex-wife.  I thought for sure, that was a match for that magazine.  I could practically hear Oprah whooping as she read my tale of an unusual friendship.  Is it possible her editors take this many months to respond?  Or should I consider doing something else for a living?  What am I thinking?  I know Oprah seems to run the world, but she can't stop me from writing... that is, from thinking about writing.

Whatever I'm doing lately, it's sure not writing.  I'm cat-sitting, crying, accusing and yelling at cab drivers, feeding pirates, skiing badly down electronic moguls, cleaning the yard and sipping beer, gushing over the kindness of strangers at Target, listening to music, watching movies and enjoying the art of people who may be dead but at least have created something.

What I'm saying is, I'm no Jack Kerouac spilling my guts in one long spew.  Lately, I cough.  I sputter.  I wonder.  But, write?  Not in the last little while.

So.... today - Well, I've been self-employed most of my adult life - except for a momentary period of cubicle asylum - but today I went on an interview.  I've been thinking it would be nice to get in some more income.  Extra money!  I love when I see ads that say "Would you like EXTRA money?"  Extra money is not something I can relate to.  As in, oh... what should I do with all this extra money?  Paste it on the walls?

So I put on a skirt and heels, grabbed my resume and portfolio, and went to a place in West Hollywood.  Things seemed to be going well until the CEO of the company came in wearing a t-shirt, shaggy hair and black rimmed glasses.

"In ten words or less, what perspective do you write from?" He asked.

"Well, it's my perspective... but if it's an interview piece, for instance..."

"Nuh uh... in ten words.  If you can't tell me in ten words, how can you convey what it is you write?

"Well, it depends.  I write non-fiction.  But if it's an interview, I'm not writing with "Me" or "I" usually, I am writing..."

"You can't explain your perpspective?"

(Now, if he had actually read my resume and portfolio I emailed, he would have seen my over-ten-word, but still concise profile, and saved me the gas, time and annoyance.)

"Well, whatever I write, it's from my perspective.  Like I say in my resume..."

"Uh uh... in ten words."

"... It's a fresh, offbeat perspective, I guess you could say."

"I still don't know what you write."

"Nonfiction: memoir pieces, op-eds, essays, interviews, reviews.  Sometimes poems, sometimes fiction.  Always with my own look at life.  I avoid what's already been said before.  For instance..."

"Mostly nonfiction?  Ok.  But I had to get that out of you."

Hmmm... I was frustrated and not hiding it well.

This is what I was thinking: Nonfiction is what I write.  It's not my perspective, which would be my view, my slant... And if he means style, well, If I always had the same style, for me, that would be like wearing beige everyday.  I don't get up in the morning and put on one-size-fits-all khakis.  Why would I want to write that way?  I write like me, me - a person who can be upbeat or cranky; motherly or flirty; practical or outrageous; sometimes optimistic, sometimes cynical.  I mean, who among us is mood-less?  I write in my moods, and those change often according to the writing material and the ideas I am responding to.  I can start an interview with an idea of the story, and then realize it went in another direction.  That's exciting.  Keeping my views the same is not.  So, no, my perspective isn't always the same.  My philosophies, my values, my experiences... those are steady.  And my style?  Well, that changes.  Try writing about September 11th with humor.  It doesn't work.  Try writing about raising a teenager without humor... it's painful.

When I write, I just want my words to always, always, come from my own honest way of looking at things.  But that wasn't the answer he was looking for.  I didn't care.

"Look, I can't say my perspective is always the same.  But I can tell you this, I see no point in writing what someone has already written.  That's what never changes." 

Not that I am making up new words and ideas, just that I make sure I say them in my own way.

The idea of coming up with a ten-word perspective for myself sounds about as appealing to me as wearing a big label on my ass that says "Suburban Woman".  Yeah, I'm a woman.  But not all women think alike.  Yeah, I live in the suburbs.  But not all Suburban-dwellers have the same views.  That's why I like to write about life in the California suburbs, because we don't all roam the malls and consider shopping to be a hobby.   

He started walking out the door and shrugged, as if to say:  Whatever, it might be good enough for you but not for me.  He was adamant I describe my "perspective" (a word which, I believe, we disagree about the meaning) in ten words.

"You don't like my answer, but I'm sticking to it.  The only thing that stays the same is that I don't want to write what I've already seen written." 

Again, he shrugged and went out the door.

I gathered my things, said goodbye to the others and left.  As I walked, I thought about this guy's need for ideas in ten-words, and chalked it up to Hollywood speak - where some guy (usually in a suit) wants to hear a movie pitch in one breath.

Screenwriter: "Rambo Goes Green.  Just think of all the product placements - rather than tanks there'll be priuses."

Suit Guy:  Eh... (shakes his head) That's over ten words.  Next!!

Before I reached my car, I spotted "the ten-word-perpective-CEO" rolling across the street on his skateboard.

Maybe I'm better off on my own.  Just me.  My computer.  My cat.  And all my bumper-car thoughts waiting to go for a ride.

Hey, I wrote something!

Here's my cat, June, the survivor!  Doing what she loves:  Sitting in a box with paper.  Good as new, with not even a limp.

 

 

 

 

We're Doomed

You know, I don't write here as often as I should.  If I don't feel like talking about myself or don't have a great little restaurant to rave about, I don't usually blog. 

So I started another site for my dark-humored side.  I call it We're Doomed.  Basically, it's all the insane stuff my husband and I are constantly telling each other about, those conversations that start with "Did you hear about this?" You know, all the crazy stuff that makes us shake our heads, laugh morbidly and say, "We're doomed."

La Première Nuit: October 2000

*After watching the film "Paris, je t'aime", a series of short stories set in Paris, I thought I would do something similar regarding my last trip to Paris.  So I've separated the some of the goofy little experiences we had in France into short stories.  I call my series "Two Idiotic Californians in France." 

Here's my first story:

                                              "La Premiere Nuit"

It’s our first night in Paris, and my husband, Ian, and I are so jet-lagged we can barely speak.  My eyes feel so heavy they hurt and my senses seem to blur.  But I try to take it all in.  The air smells of cigarette smoke, expensive perfume and diesel.  The cobblestone street shimmers under a glow of orange, green and purple neon from the signs lining the Rue de Lappe.  Music pulses from nightclubs lining the alley.  An ambulance siren bleats in the background like a strange goose. Parisians walk by swathed in scarves – twisted, rolled, tucked.  They look so stylish.  I feel dopey and scarfless.

My mother and her husband live in France.  Our daughter, Lauren, will be staying with them.  We’re all walking to dinner.  Following my mother’s lead, we duck into a restaurant.

It’s dimly lit and decorated in deep red with gold damask drapes and chairs. The seated patrons lean over flickering candle light and speak to each other in hushed voices. I look around the room, as we’re about to be seated at our table, and marvel at the sophisticated manner in which the people all around me conducted themselves. So much quieter, I think, than in most American restaurants.

Little do I know, in mere seconds, the ambiance will change completely.

Ian sits in one of the beautiful damask covered chairs.  Crack!  It breaks beneath him.  His arms fly back and seem to make a ripple in the air, like he’s back paddling.  The seconds seem to stretch and move in slow motion. I watch as my husband falls slowly toward the floor.  As if floating, his derrière and feet appear to hang in the air.

The crowd of candle-lit faces of the Parisian patrons – mouths opened wide in laughter – look like they stepped out of a Toulouse Lautrec painting, as if they’re in the audience of the Moulin Rouge, gasping at the height at which the can-can girls can kick. But, no! They’re gasping at the sight before them: The man in the air. Their under-lit faces smear together as if Toulouse’s oils were still wet. Finally, Ian lands with a thud on the pretty Persian rug.  And there he seems to stay for an eternity.

Every sophisticated Parisian in the restaurant turns in his direction. They point. They laugh - hardy, knee slapping laughs - as if Ian’s their personal Jerry Lewis.

I think about all my French etiquette books I read before arriving in Paris.  They all warned about seeming too “American” – no sweat pants or running shoes; no barking orders in English, and, definitely no smiling idiotically at everything - all in the name of fitting in.  Basically, don’t be an American! 

Yet, here we are in Paris and these French people seem to love my Husband (Okay, so he’s Canadian).   But they don’t know that.  So I think, “The French do love Americans.  Yes, they do… to laugh at!”

As a polite Canadian with an American spirit, Ian just brushes himself off, laughs and sits in a new chair.  Our waiter treats us to a bottle of desperately needed wine. 

My mom lifts her glass, “À votre santé!”

“To our health? Yes,” I think, “with three weeks left in France, we’re going to need it."

Here's a movie my mother made of a recent cruise down the Seine.

Like, Oh My Gawd! She's a Valley Girl and There is No Cure

I totally can't believe it's been, like, 25 years since the movie "Valley Girl" came out.  It seems like just yesterday I was working the big hair - and that took work, too!  I went through a canister of hair mousse a week - lace stockings, shoulder pads, Flash Dance shirts and bangles . 

I moved to the Valley right after the movies Valley Girl and Fast Times at Ridgemont High and Moon Unit Zappa's Valley Girl song came out.  So, naturally, I had to spend time at the Sherman Oaks Galleria.   Even though I was from Northern California, I fit right in.  You see, being a Valley Girl was all about attitude.

That and the annoying over usage of "like" - as in "I am, like, so in love with him!  Oh my Gawd!"  And of course everything to a Valley Girl was "Awesome!"

I had Valley girl slang-itis bad enough that while on a trip to Hawaii, someone heard me speaking and asked, "Are you from California?  You have a California accent."  I had no idea what they were talking about. Clueless.

Here's a photo, circa 1983.  Are we totally tubular, or what?!!  Okay, so how about or What?  As in what was I thinking?!

I'm the one on the left. If you look closely under my bangs you will see proof that I lost whatever brain tissue I'd managed to accumulate during my lifetime. Yes, under my bangs you are actually witnessing a head band, a HEAD BAND that matches my dress...a head band worn by someone other than Mike Reno from the band Lover Boy.

My only explanation for going out in public in this belted shirt I'm trying to pull of as a dress is that my headband is so tight it must have cut off the blood flow to my brain.   

But, hey, it was the '80s.  So that's my excuse.

Yet I'm still a Valley Girl.  Like Moon Unit sang "She's a Valley girl and there is no cure..."  That's totally fer sure!

 

Memories of Morocco - 1969

We left Agadir at night to head toward the camel market. I remember looking out the car window thinking the full moon was following us. Eventually, we parked and tried
to sleep in the car. 

Up at dawn, we arrived at the market when the sky was still blackish-purple, which faded to purple-red and then lavender. Finally, the golden sun spilled out over the reddish dirt, leaving shadows stretched across the earth.

I'll never forget the color of Morocco, with its baskets of bright yellow saffron, cobalt blue tiles, that red dirt and the color of the dawn skies. And always in the background was vibrant music - sitars and prayer wails, and Beatles' songs like "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds"...helped to embed the colorful images in my head.

I'm in the right corner wearing my black and white djellaba (Moroccan robe). My mother is to my left holding my little sister; they're watching the baby camel nurse from its mother. The man and woman are my parents' friends, Theresa and Bryce.

Spring in the Valley - Balboa Park

Sunday Scribblings: Passion (Going over the Hedge)

The following is from Sunday Scribbling’s prompt: Passion.

 
Passion can be what drives me into the zone – that timeless, limitless, spaceless, bottomless, topless place where dancing never tires me. I am thumping on beats, floating on notes, writhing on rhythms.

It’s when I’m brushing thick, gloppy oils on canvas, almost unaware or maybe too aware… so aware that I am in the medium, I am down in the paint, swimming in the pigment – in cobalt blue seas, saffron meadows and azure skies.

It’s when I’m chopping, stirring and whipping as the aromas of garlic, olive oil, tarragon and thyme rise.

It’s when my writing fills the screen – one letter joins another, becoming a word. Words seem to almost link together by themselves, they flow quickly, becoming sentences - making nearly virtual what pours out the grooves of my brain.

Passion is what once drove me in my crazy-youthful-chaotic years to live in LA where I knew not one soul and the only thing I had was my 1950's amoeba shaped coffee table and my naiveté. It’s what had me dancing on tabletops, moving through every LA area code in a year.

Passion was once the only thing that fueled me.

Then I introduced my wild, insatiable Passion to logic and – as if pouring my fuel it into a funnel - I began driving myself in specific directions, sometimes getting lost, sometimes running empty…but it always there -

It was in my newborn daughter’s eyes, in my hope for her future, it’s what kept me going in those sleepless baby days-blurred-into-nights of crying, rocking, feeding; it’s what kept me up late over tear-stained homework and flashcards; it’s what let me be the “only parent in the whole world” (or so my daughter told me) who would dare create rules she found ridiculous, even when I was worn out from enforcing them.

It's what drove me to start a business.  It's what lets me think it's a good idea to write my words in public.  It’s what drowns out all the other voices so loud they become visible, like those cartoon word filled caption bubbles - from message boards, talk shows, and repetitive advertising to allow me to stick to my beliefs – no matter how hard, how unpopular, how un-trendy they may be. Passion is what makes life, to me, more than about surviving. It’s a flame illuminating what’s truly important to me. In the end, all I’ve got, beside the love of my family, are my principles, my philosophies which I've developed like a very slow Polaroid from a lifetime of experiences, experiences I’ve come by often due to my PASSION.

Okay, now that I've taken myself way too seriously...

*I think I'll blame PASSION for those times when I do things that aren't always sane.  For instance, in the photos below (taken at a friend's wedding) I was spinning on a slanted lawn (in my four inch BCBG platform shoes, may I add) overlooking the Palos Verdes coast.  I was a little giddy from sunset and the music playing in the background - all fueled up on passion and little sense - I spun right over a hedge and landed on my head. (photo 1: me spinning/ photo 2: That's my foot sticking up over the hedge).  It's not pretty, but passion got in the way and, of course, my husband was there to capture it on film.  Hey, it's life and I'm  still learning.  This is what I learned:  spinning on a hill in platform shoes - not good.

 

L.A. Can Be A Cliché...

...But if you look a little closer, you just might find the unexpected.

In a recent issue of Travel + Leisure Magazine, their readers ranked L.A. as having the least intelligent and most unfriendly people of the U.S. cities they judged.  Yep!  Check it out for yourself.

And even with all our glamour, they didn't find us all that attractive either.  What nerve!!  Apparently, one of the few areas we do rank high in is good shoe shopping. What? Come on! Do people actually travel the nation in search of shoes?  Is that a new destination trip - shoe excursions?

Okay, so we in LA might not greet strangers on the street with a big old "Welcome to Los Angeles!" and then drape them with designer sunglasses, in lieu of Hawaiian leis.  But if out-of-towners find us in our favorite coffee places, restaurants, beaches, farmers markets or festivals, they'd see us smiling.  We've even been known to talk to people, people not from here even.

We can be friendly, damn it! 

As for intelligence, well, some of us can even read.  I mean, we do have the largest book festival (Los Angeles Times Festival of Books) in the nation.  Who would have expected that, huh?  But that's what I like about LA - the best parts, to me, are the unexpected. Those places and things I've had to find myself over the years.

But don't be discouraged, LA - we came in #2 in shoe shopping!!  So we've got that going for us.

**************************************

Here's a sampling of how people in other cities rated:

#1 Most Friendly -        Charleston
#1 Most Intelligent -     Seattle
#1 Most Attractive -     Miami
#1 Overall Best People - San Francisco 

 

Talking 'Bout My Inspiration... for "Craving Normal"

Thanks to Google, a really good friend from my childhood, Nadine, stumbled upon my site.  That’s her in the photo, circa 1970 something.  (Property of Nadine Buchwald.)

 And because of her, I am re-inspired in my focus for my book. I sort of lost my way, getting caught up in what plays well at open mike nights and reworking sentences until they mean nothing. All she had to say was that she related to my book title “Craving Normal,” and it triggered something in me, got me thinking again.

About Nadine - she was more than just a friend; she and her family were like family to me. Our parents knew each other from their early 1960’s high school days – way back when my mom still wore a bouffant and our dads had short haircuts. They stayed friends right through their clean-cut, straight arrow lives as young parents raising babies in the mid-sixties on through their late sixties/seventies transformations. They all changed. My parents sold our suburban house so we could buy a trailer and travel the world.  Nadine’s dad went from being a short-haired, clean shaven married dad to a bearded, single father with an afro. My dad grew a fu-manchu mustache and my mom grew her hair long and her dresses short. 

Once back in San Francisco, our families (Nadine and mine) would merge on many weekends, maybe we’d hike through the hills of Marin or splash around in San Francisco’s chilly ocean water. And then we'd return to their Victorian house or our apartment; either place would be full of adults sipping Gallo jug wine, with perfumey smoke hanging over their heads as Bob Dylan or maybe the Beatles played on the stereo; meanwhile, Nadine and I, along with our siblings, would run off  and get into trouble.

When their dad remarried and moved to Malibu, my family hauled our butts down from San Francisco to eat off the fruit of their land - literally, figs off their trees and figuratively, borrowing their funky/bohemian yet still very Malibu beach lifestyle.  Some of the parents would scuba dive, my mom would tan and we kids would body surf. In the summer of '77, it was on their TV that I learned Elvis died and saw punk rockers on the news for the first time.  In Malibu, we watched Happy Days film the infamous (which I didn't foresee) Fonzie Jumps the Shark episode. We crank called Nadine’s sister Michelle’s first boyfriend (a total fox, I believe we called him), Rob Lowe.  It was with Nadine that I met Charlie Sheen when he was shorter than us and covered in freckles. Their Sunny Los Angeles life was foreign to my foggy San Francisco existence. As Nadine reminded me in her email, I was constantly talking about becoming a movie star. Yeah, I often fantasized about wearing a sparkly dress to the Oscars.  I was starstruck.  That her dad played basketball with Cheech and Chong or just Chong or Cheech, impressed me. That her stepmom was a teacher to one of Bob Dylan’s kids seemed unreal. For a few weeks, I became Nadine’s Southern California sister, enjoying her friendship and my fantasy life.

Anyway, back to my focus and why I titled my book Craving Normal - all of us kids (Nadine, her siblings, my sister and me) shared something in common; our childhoods started off one way and went another.  I'm not sure about Nadine, but I had a taste of “normal” life before the counter-culture revolution really took hold. I'd experienced meatloaf and mashed potato dinners and weekend barbecues spent splashing in our doughboy pool as the AM radio still played tinkling Burt Bacharach songs sung by Dionne Warwick, like Walk on By and Do You Know the Way to San Jose? Those were days before the Beatles’ Magical Mystery Tour took its place on our record players. 

I don’t know Nadine’s perspective, but here’s mine – Talk about tripping kids out... Our brains, while still forming, had grown to know one lifestyle and then everything changed. Parents hair became long, barbecues turned to trippy costume parties (no kids allowed); the music changed.  Our lives changed. Everything I’d known in the suburbs – birthday parties, the ice cream man, playing in sprinklers, Fractured Fairytales and Captain Kangaroo on morning TV – was replaced with a trailer in Morocco or a rock hut on a nude beach in Greece. Not that I didn’t enjoy all of that, too. That’s not the point.(photo of us in Mexico:  I'm in long skirt, Nadine  is next to me in short skirt with her sister Michelle and brother Scott on the right. In back, my mom, Nadine's dad Dave and her stepmom Nancy.)

Rather than being born to already existing hippie-types, we were children born on the cusp of the revolution, who watched it all change - just after JFK was assasinated, during the civil rights movement and Vietnam. As an elementary school kid, the war played on my TV like moving wallpaper. The line “Make Love not War” was said so often and placed on buttons, that it meant nothing to me; it was as powerful as when the supermarket checker says, “Have a nice day.” This was my first epiphany about my childhood – it hit me on September 11^th. Somehow I came out of my childhood naïve. In Europe, we’d walk through many villages where crowds of children and adults followed us as if we were movie stars. In Germany, since we were cute and spoke English, my sister and I were given chocolate coins. The message I got was 1) everyone loved us and 2) As long as you love there will be no war. I only mention this because this is what started me thinking about my childhood, initially. Again, this is just to remind me of my focus.

 So, though readers may not understand it – that’s ok, this is for my own inspiration.  What I’m saying is I can’t relate to Baby Boomers (that was my parents' group) even though I’m lumped in with them; I can’t relate to kids born to people who were already hippies in the late sixties or seventies – they didn’t see everything change. I can’t relate to college student/faux hippies who go to Fish concerts or young parents who call themselves “Hip mamas.” Think of it this way (Again, this is for myself, but if a reader can relate that’s great), just as the ocean - with its salt and its undulating waves - can feel comforting, like returning to the embryonic womb – I’ve craved – sometimes unconsciously and sometimes purposefully – a “normal” life, a taste of what I remember from before.

I grew up with a father who got into brawls in hoffbrau houses in Germany, got us held up by gun point in Belgium, chased by tanks during war games in, I think it was, Turkey. With the “Do it if it feels good” mentality leading the way, I was left sitting in a car staring at blinking neon boobs on Broadway in San Francisco, while my dad felt like sneaking off…where I’m not sure.. but I highly suspect strippers were involved.

Not that I am mad, resentful or hated my childhood. I didn’t. It was exciting. It made me who I am today.  Though I didn't want my own kid to be a latchkey child, I have to admit, man, I had some great experiences exploring San Francisco with all the freedom I had.  To this day, I drift off in comfort hearing Bob Dylan, smelling patchouli incense, seeing art films and eating sprouts in my sandwiches.  But, as an adult, I’ve returned to that suburban life I once tasted - of family meals, barbecues and pool parties. My daughter has attended the neighborhood schools and grown up with the same kids.  She's had rules (too many, according to her).  Not that it’s a better life… it’s definitely not as exciting as sneaking off to beg in the streets of Agadir, Morocco, as I did at five-years-old - but it’s definitely more stable.

Here’s my theory: My daughter will run off to travel the world as a performing artist or something. It seems to be the cycle of life - when people are raised one way, they often rebel by doing the opposite, especially when it doesn’t exactly work for them. It’s not always the case. I mean, look at the Osmonds. What are there, like, eight of them? And they all seem to have stayed on their parents’ course. But more often than not – rebelling is the natural cycle. Hey, there wouldn’t have been a cultural revolution in the sixties if that weren’t so. I just happened to have ebbed – like the tide – in another direction.  And as that generation questioned their parents, I have the right to question the generation that came before me.  But then I question everything.  It's hard to live through decades like the sixties and seventies, then watch all the shaggy adults put on ties in  the '80s and not question everything that exists.

As I was telling Nadine, all of my parents’ friends’ children from the hippie days that I know about now have all veered toward normal-hood. Well, as one former ex-hippie kid I know of put it, “We’re probably the first generation more conservative than our parents.”

So I don’t know exactly why Nadine can relate.  But just knowing she can relate has inspired me.   

Anyway, this is long.  If someone, other than me, has read this far – great and thanks for taking the time.   I have lots and lots of stories which I will tell through my perspective.  So rather than cater to what's popular or what makes an audience laugh - I need to focus on why I want to write in the first place.   We all have stories, and these are mine.

Thanks, Nadine. 

       BEFORE (Mom & Dad, 1966)                                                                                                                                                                                                     AFTER (Dad, 70s)