Over the last couple of weeks I took a hiatus from blogging to indulge in an (almost) tech-free vacation. My laptop stayed mostly closed. My Blackberry remained uncharged as I sojourned with family in Nova Scotia and then attended a friend’s bachelorette in Montreal. Both legs of my vaca were wonderful (minus a $300 speeding ticket and my husband’s asthma attack). And both resulted in a whole lot of talking in the old fashioned way—face-to-face over a glass of something or other. All in all, my tune-out trip provided a very needed change in scenery. But it also reminded me of something about tuning in to real communication—it’s exhausting! Or at least that’s what my ten-hour sleep last night would suggest.
In my experience, this post-vacation collapse is the catch 22 of getting away. Because hubby and I live far from friends and family, when we travel home to Canada there are lots of people to see. No, American friends, we’re not related to the entire population, nor do we know your Canadian friend John. But we do have a large community. In contrast, here in la la land I spend many an hour alone writing in my pajamas and my PA job puts me in contact with one other human being (who also works from home in his bathrobe). Thus it’s pretty easy for me to pass my days in relative silence. Luckily this status quo (as anyone who’s crossed paths with my anti-social facebook page or twitter feed will note) works for me. I like my space.
I also enjoy connecting with family and friends in the flesh. Sometimes I wish these facets of life entwined a little more fluidly. Alas, for the meantime, the social polarities of my life will continue as usual. I’ve always been a pretty all or nothing gal. So back to more blogging and less talking it is.
I just read Erica Jong’s op-ed: Is Sex Passé, in which she claims that the younger generation of women is obsessed with motherhood and monogamy. After attending a bachelorette this weekend and watching some of my former free-loving friends marry and pop out cubs, something about her statement rings true. But I don’t agree with the claim that Internet sex is replacing the real thing for women. For one thing, what really constitutes Internet sex? Are we taking sexting? Ashley Madison? Porn? I can’t say I know any women who’d prefer a night in with RedTube to the real thing. Or maybe I just haven’t asked them. I will have to do so.
Right after I get ten more hours of post-vacation sleep…
It feels like summer in LA. I just took a warm and windy walk to the dry cleaners and purchased myself a Miller High Life on the way home. The Champagne of Beers always reminds me of visiting Robbie in this apartment, before it was mine too, and painting the walls Lion beige while swilling a six pack.
But much as I love our Los Feliz abode, there is something that completely baffles me about my neighborhood–the littering epidemic. And I’m not just talking about gum wrappers and cigarette butts, folks. No, in my neighborhood you are just as likely to stumble upon discarded teddy bears, diapers, and a pair of old man’s trousers alongside a half-eaten Happy Meal. Seriously, what the flying fuck is that about? Are you leaving that sad teddy in a pile of ketchup as charity?
You will note that in the picture above, there is a pink shirt, a sofa cushion, and some random wood on a palm leaf. I have a theory that when people move out here in Little Armenia, they just open the window and start throwing. It sounds kind of therapeutic, actually. But it’s a serious downer for our neighborhood beautification project.
Anyways, in other Angelino news, I read today on YourTango that a new Trojan survey says that we LA locals are getting laid more than other Americans (135 times a year compared to 120). Shaft, suckers (or not, as it were). But apparently we are also the biggest fakers of orgasms. Hmmm, when you combine the porn star community with the actor population, those stats seem to make sense…
Off to throw my old shoes and dishes out the window now. Ta ta
Today it dawns on me that I’ve been procrastinating the same item on my to-do list for over ten years: obtaining my EU passport. My father is from England, you see, making me eligible for one. And while it seems simple enough to fill out an application and pop it in the post, somehow the notion that I might one day want to work in Europe hasn’t thus far been enough to get me off my ass. Nor has the: “What if they change the rules?” factor. To be clear about my deep level of procrastination, I have completed most steps in the process at the following pace:
2001: Printed out an application form.
2003: Made an inquiry to the UK Consulate.
2005: Obtained my long form birth certificate from the Nova Scotia government. Short form was apparently no good.
2006: Asked my father for other necessary documents—his birth certificate and marriage certificate.
2009: Reprinted the out-dated application form.
2011: Filled it out.
The one hurdle currently stopping me from sending the damn thing is taking my passport photos. Seems easy enough, doesn’t it? But WTF my problem is I cannot tell you. Do I secretly never want to have the option to live and work in Europe? Am I somewhere afraid of a potential draft?
The other irony is that since I work as a PA these days, I have recently helped boss man renew, not one, but two passports. One of which was Italian, and let me tell you how quickly things happen at the Italian consulate… I believe they are open a total of 3 hours per week and have one rotary telephone manned by a pissed off old woman who chain smokes and pounds Chianti all day. I have also procured boss man a Nexus pass. Now he never has to wait in a customs line-up again! Yup, I can move mountains for him. For myself, not so much. Of course, getting paid always helps.
I once read that making a public commitment can help with procrastination. So, dear readers, you are now witnesses to my embarrassing level of laziness. I’m hoping shame will serve as motivation. Feel free to berate me at will.
Oh, and thanks for letting me hold onto your birth certificate for six years, Dad. I’ll get it back to you real soon. At least that’s the plan.
Last night, over a late sushi dinner with hubby, I found myself seriously distracted from my spicy tuna handroll by the Miss USA pageant. It is a pet peeve of mine to be bombarded by flat screens in restaurants. But all the same, I had trouble ignoring the bikini clad Barbies with bouffant hair framing my husband’s head.
What on earth propels a gal to want to be Miss USA, I wonder? I just did a little Googling and the answers seem to be scholarship money, a sense of philanthropic duty, plus the pursuit of rock-hard abs and sequins. It’s just unfortunate that these aspiring women wind up looking so dumb on Network TV. I’m sorry, girls, but nobody cares what you think of legalizing marijuana.
The other thing that baffled me about the Miss USA pageant last night was that it seemed to be taking place in 1985. If you look closely you’ll see that Miss Tennessee unstuck little mirrors from a disco ball and sewed them on her dress. Miss California clearly re-watched Daryl Hannah in Splash for her evening gown inspiration. And I’m quite sure that Miss Alabama stole my old babysitter’s prom dress.
Alas, today the world continues mostly the same, just with a little less frosty pink lip-gloss and hairspray.
Well I didn’t get to sit on Prince Henrik’s lap like Santa Claus in wine country but I did taste some incredible rosé and play with miniature donkeys. That’s right—miniature donkeys. I’m not sure if I’ve ever discussed my extreme love for donkeys on my blog but let me tell you, does this girl love an ass. I know that came out all kinds of wrong and your brain is already flooded with prurient innuendo. But I assure you, my intentions are innocent. I mean look at this little guy? Is your heart not exploding like mine?
I wanted to take one home and keep him in the guest room but hubby vetoed the idea. I don’t know why. We’d train him to use a litter box and serve cocktails. Oh well, I guess instead we’ll have to move to Santa Ynez and have a ranch.
Anyway, I stumbled across this trailer today for NBC’s upcoming The Playboy Club. At first glance, it looks like a bit of a poorly executed Mad Men. See what you think… I’m thinking thumbs down.
Ahhhh!!! I sat down to compose a blog yesterday and quickly found myself in an Internet loop of Anthony Weiner commentary. Since it seemed like the thing to write about, I jotted down my thoughts on the matter, then deleted them, and eventually shut my laptop because I was deeply and profoundly boring myself.
Today has proceeded not much better. Apparently Weiner’s wife is pregnant and that makes him all the more deplorable. It’s certainly gives folks a brand new gratuitous press angle. There are already no less than a zillion articles about Anthony freaking Weiner. A zillion and one including this post. But from now on I am protesting this absolutely stupid topic and taking a break from the Internet din. If anyone cares what I think about Anthony Weiner, my sentiments echo Charlie Glickman’s.
As for today, there are other important things to think about, like how I’m going to book a hotel in Solvang this weekend when the Danish Prince is coming to town. Solvang, by the by, is a Danish village in wine country, just north of Santa Barbara. I had planned to take my sister-in-law there, however, apparently the Danish Prince will also be popping in. Last night’s hotel search revealed zero availability in the Santa Ynez region. Can you believe that legions of people care about seeing the Danish Prince? Enough peeps to sell out the hundred hotels in the region? I can’t. It’s almost as dumbfounding as why we’re still talking about Anthony Weiner.
Wish me luck.
So I don’t look like Gwyneth Paltrow, folks. I know, shock and awe. I broke the cleanse last night with some red wine at a birthday. But I think going it squeaky clean since last Monday did me good. I’m feeling way more aware of what I’m consuming. And I exercised every day this week! Go me. The hard part will be to stick with my healthy habits when hubby returns shortly from his shoot in Montreal. I think the verdict is in on that one—marriage does kind of make me chubby.
Anyway, this post caught my eye on Jezebel about Carolyn Evans’ new book Forty Beads. It’s described as a sex game to improve your relationship, wherein the husband gives the wife one of his forty beads and she has 24 hours to respond with sex.
Hmmm, I’m not really sure I see the “game” part of this. It sounds a lot like the “make me a sandwich game” my brother and I used to play. But then again, maybe I’m just being cynical. If it gets you shagging, Carolyn, power to you. And you definitely seemed glowy in that Today Show interview. I also have to wonder if you considered the title: Forty Balls. You must have…
On a serious note, the couple’s therapist with her on the Today Show said something that caught my ear.
“You can be married to somebody for 20 years and talking about sex is still an awkward conversation.”
Sigh, lucky for hubby and me a year of discussing money shots and squirting sped us right through that awkward bit.
Right then, off to make a cup of green tea now.