Sage Burner

"I was burning some sage and I put it in the trash and then I went back into the living room. I was reading and I started to smell smoke. I guess it wasn't out all the way. I don't know. I'm so sorry."

So said our now homeless neighbor after I asked her how exactly the fire in her apartment started.

To me, it's pretty logical that if you burn sage and put it in the trash while it's still partially lit, your fridge might end up looking like this. Doesn't that seem logical to you as well?

Still, I felt a little sorry for her, watching her standing outside our building in a sweatshirt, sweatpants and a pair of tennis shoes the fire fighters were able to salvage.

I wasn't even home when it all started. I'd done my parental duty and taken my eldest son to roller skating class. I was just pulling out of the roller rink at a little past noon on Saturday afternoon when my husband called me up to tell me that he and my youngest son had been evacuated from our apartment building by the fire department.

"How bad is it?" I asked.
"Pretty bad. There are six fire trucks."
"Which apartment?"
"The one down on the end, three apartments away."

You are probably a little bit afraid of fire. But you probably don't have recurring nightmares about being trapped in a building that's on fire. I do. I'm afraid of fire to a point that borders on paranoia. I've never even been able to even watch that movie Backdraft. So imagine my drive home from the roller rink. Imagine me seeing all the firetrucks as I drove up the street.

I was freaking out.

I drove as close as I could, jumped out of the car, dragging my eldest son behind me. I ran up on one of the firefighters, questions pouring out a mile a minute. "What's happening? I live here. Is the fire out?" The firefighter calmed me down and told me that the fire had been contained. Thank God.

I found my husband and my other son, and got to talking to my other neighbors, and then finally to our sage burner.

Fortunately, we were able to go back inside pretty quickly. Still, the firefighters stayed for another couple of hours. Some were out on top of the roof for awhile, axes in hand, just in case the fire had gotten into the walls or spread through the attic that connects us all. They also went into what was left of the kitchen and tore it apart during their investigation. That's how the refrigerator ended up outside. And the stove, the remnants of her dishes and all the charred remains of her knick knacks.

Turns out, she lost everything since she didn't have renter's insurance. Like I said, I feel sorry for her, but I know I wouldn't have the same level of empathy if the firefighters hadn't managed to squash the blaze before it spread to other apartments in our building. I'll be real though. If my family lost everything and was now homeless because of some wanna be hippie burning some sage...well, I don't even want to imagine that reality.

I'm just really grateful that the LAFD got here so quickly and handled business in the way they did. Otherwise, my laptop would probably be burned to a crisp and this post wouldn't even exist. Oh, and if you want to burn some sage, please, for your own safety and that of your neighbors, don't put it in the trashcan when it's still lit.

A Message From Los Angelista

You may not have known it, but over the last few months I have been devoting a considerable amount of time to reflecting on my plans for 2008. As you know, there are so many profound considerations that must be taken into account when thinking about the future. Before committing myself to any one definite course of action, I've consulted with my family, my friends, my horoscope, and reflected on the comments left by you, my readership.

Yes, I've talked with people from around the country, surfed the blogosphere, eavesdropped in Starbucks and listened and learned about the challenges faced by every day people in America. Undeniably, you want change on an unprecedented scale. You hunger for a new spirit in this country. You want a leadership that remains unsullied by the influence of money, a leadership that will give you reasonably priced health care, an excellent education and fair cell phone billing practices.

And so it is with a careful consideration that I announce that I won't be filing papers today to create a presidential exploratory committee. My running for president right now just wouldn't be the right decision for my family or for this country.

I know those of you, especially those of you from my home state of Illinois, may be surprised by this decision. I can only encourage you to keep creating meaningful change within your personal sphere of influence. Surely, if we across this country follow your Land of Lincoln example, we can all achieve our vision of ultimate victory.

Please know, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for all of your prayers, your warm wishes and your encouragement. I believe in you.

With warmest regards,

Los Angelista

You and Your Crack Pipe

People begging for money at stoplights isn't an unusual occurence here in Los Angeles. The light turns red, you stop your car, someone jumps off the curb with their cup. They approach your window, mumbling for money. They point to their signs, dingy cardboard rectangles asking for spare change for food. At least, they usually ask for food. On Sunday, my car was approached by a man with a sign that was pretty direct about wanting a few other things:

Why lie
ciggs
I want
skunk weed
a beer.

Oh. Ok. That's a pretty straightforward sign, don't you think?

My son asked, "Mommy, is that man homeless?" I replied that I wasn't sure. Although I could guess that he was, it did cross my mind to wonder if he was on some hidden camera docu-drama to see if people actually give him more or less money than if he has a sign asking for money for food.

Why would I think this? Well, I remember when I was in undergrad at Northwestern, some student dressed up as a homeless guy and paid his way into the cafeteria at my dorm, Willard Hall. He talked to himself as he ate. Everyone gave him a wide berth, pointing and whispering, "Some homeless dude is over there talking to himself." What no one knew was that he was recording his observations about how people were looking at him and treating him into a hand held tape recorder.

But maybe this guy just really wanted some skunk weed (what exactly is skunk weed?) and the ciggs and a beer and he was being really honest.

Speaking of honesty...

A woman approached me yesterday in a parking lot outside a Starbucks with her crack pipe in her left hand and her lighter in her right. She kept flicking the lighter on and off, on and off. On and off. Crack crust covered her mouth and her nostrils. Her eyes were blank pools of blackness as they darted to and fro. I didn't know what she was up to, approaching me like that, and I could feel myself physically tense up. Then she spoke.

"Do you have any money? I need a hit." The lighter went on and off, on and off.

"No, I don't." I kept walking.

She followed behind me as I walked toward the Starbucks. "Five dollars. Ten dollars. I need a hit bad."

I didn't respond as I opened the door to the Starbucks and made a beeline for the bathroom. I needed to wash my hands. I felt dirty and I hadn't even done anything.

As she walked into the Starbucks, the guy behind the counter immediately said, "Oh no. You're gonna have to get up outta here with that. Go on, now. Go on." His tone was the same he'd probably use if he was shooing a dog away.

Ten minutes later, she still stood, crack pipe in one hand, lighter in the other, asking folks coming into the Starbucks for some money. Finally, someone from the Subway restaurant next door came out, opened up his wallet and gave her some money. She scurried away, holding her crack pipe and lighter in the air in some sort of sick and twisted victory dance.

I guess honesty paid off.

21 Years Later: Ready To Shuffle (or skate) Again

This afternoon, I was, as we used to say back in the day, "cold chillin'" on the couch. I was also enjoying the leftovers of Friday night's vegetable lasagna, drinking some imported French pink lemonade, and doing what every decent Chicagoland and Northwest Indiana resident (or former resident) was doing: Watching the Bears game.

As you probably already know, the Bears are going to the Super Bowl for the first time in 21 years. Last time they went to the Super Bowl, Bears mania hit Chicagoland. We even had a 45 single of the "Superbowl Shuffle" record.

In case you weren't born or you were living under a rock in 1985, the "Superbowl Shuffle" was a rap song performed by the Bears football team. We loved hearing the record and would put it on and dance to it while rapping along with the players. I actually thought William "The Fridge" Perry's rap of "You're lookin' at the Fridge, I'm the rookie. I may be large, but I'm no dumb cookie" was, like, totally awesome dude. (Hey, it was 1985!)

I was happily reliving these "Superbowl Shuffle" moments in the beginning of the third quarter of today's game when, ahem...cough...I heard the pitiful voice of my five year-old son, Olinga, asking, for the third time this weekend, "Mommy, will you take me rollerskating? You promised."

Oh great. I'd forgotten about that. I made this promise on Friday night. He wanted to go on Saturday but I had to work. So, he asked me, "Will you take me on Sunday then?"

I know I was half listening when he asked, but I did say, "Sure baby. We'll go on Sunday." I didn't take it too seriously because the way kids are, tomorrow can come and they're content to play with their action figures in the room. Plus, I didn't know know where this roller skating thing was coming from because he's never asked to go before. A friend of his had a birthday party at a roller rink a couple of years ago and he hated even having the skates on his feet. He just wanted to play the video games in the corner, which I'd said no to, and he went home with his lower lip stuck out, pouting.

Today I asked him why he wanted to go skating and he replied, "Because it'll be fun." He paused for a moment and then added, "You'll hold my hand so I don't fall, right?" Right. Sure. The truth is that it's probably been a good 21 years since I've been rollerskating, and I barely knew how to get around the roller rink back then. It's because I have this crazy phobia that I'm going to fall and knock my teeth out. I don't know why I have this phobia, but I do. So, roller skating and ice skating are generally out for me.

What a dilemma. Keep a promise to my son and spend the afternoon landing on my behind in a roller rink or finish watching the game? Tell him we'll have to wait till next week to skate or miss seeing the Bears win or lose? Go skating and potentially lose a tooth. Sigh.

Skating won. Of course it did. It killed me in the moment to actually turn the game off, but I rationalized to myself that in the grand scheme of things, the Bears are a sports team with players that make millions and an ownership that makes even more. They'd survive if I didn't watch the game...but my son, he'd remember that I'd promised and then he'd remember that I backed out on that promise.

Yes, we landed on the floor a whole lot but I think it boosted Olinga's confidence to see that he could skate better than I could. He kept saying over and over, "See, none of your teeth are going to fall out. I'm going to protect you! Just hold my hand!"

One of the rink referees helpfully pointed out to me that there are classes on Saturday mornings for kids to learn. He then added, "We also have a Tuesday night adult class if you'd like a refresher to improve your own skating skills. Lots of adults re-learn when their kids do." Hmm. Maybe if I actually take a class I won't be afraid of falling and knocking out a tooth.

When I got home, I looked online and saw that the Bears had indeed won the game. I'm as happy as can be that Chicago is once again Super Bowl bound. But nothing beat having Olinga kiss me on the cheek and whisper how happy he was to go skating.

Things You Didn't Even Know You Wanted To Know About Me

My talented blogging buddy, Moon Topples did this meme called "The Thinking Meme" and he welcomed all who read it to try and answer the questions for themselves. I've seen several memes around and am not usually tempted to do them. However, I found that these questions actually do require a bit of thought to them, so I figured I'd give it a go:

1.) If you had to choose one vice in exclusion of all others what would it be? Remember the lyrics from the song, "Goody Two Shoes" by Adam Ant? "Don't drink don't smoke what do you do?"

Meet yours truly.

I had to look up the word "vice" to see exactly what qualifies. If vice is an absence of virtues, I'm certain there are plenty of virtues I'm deficient in. I don't know which one to pick. I'm really thinking hard on this one. Hmm. Does being an occasional reader of Regency romance novels count?

2.) If you could change one specific thing about the world what would it be? A part of me wants to say really lofty things like I want to see the end of racism and the elimination of extremes of wealth and poverty. I really do want those things. On the other hand, that traffic phenomenon we Angelenos know as "holiday lite" is over. Everyone has returned from vacation and I'm back to spending half an hour to go three miles to work. I go so slowly on the 101 Freeway in the morning that I can eat breakfast in the car while steering with my knee. Unfortunately, we aren't alone in our traffic misfortune. The last time I was home in Chicago, I felt like I sat on the Dan Ryan for forever, not to mention the nightmare that was the Skyway Bridge. In New York, taking the M60 bus down 125th Street from the Triboro Bridge to Amsterdam has turned into an hour long journey. Yes, I'm voting for getting rid of traffic jams.

3.) Name the cartoon character you identify with the most. Batman. The Dark Knight doesn't have any super powers but he has to use his brains and all the resources he has at his disposal to fight the bad guys. I hope I'm like that. Batman is also a little lonely and sometimes I feel that way.

However, just to check, I asked my five year old and he says I'm Bugs Bunny since I really like to eat carrots. When I pressed the issue, he said I could be Batgirl but not Batman because, "You're not a man. You don't have a penis." Well alrighty then! That clears that up.

4.) If you could live one day in your life over again which one would it be? The day I started this blog. I'd make it completely anonymous so then I could really tell you about the one day I'd live over again.

5.) If you could go back in history and spend a day with one person who would it be? How far back are we talking about? If we're talking about someone who's passed on, someone I've never met, I'd have to pick my mother's father. He's spoken of in such revered terms that I have this saintly image of him coming home after a long day of working at Studebaker's. But, I want to know what he was really like. I think it would probably help me understand a whole lot about my mom and my aunts.

6.) What is the one thing you lost, sold or threw away that you wish you could have back? Most other little girls wanted a doll house. Pas moi! I wanted a castle, complete with a toy fire breathing dragon, a knight, a princess and some horses. There were two horses in the castle, a black one and a brown one. The black horse was my favorite toy. When I was about five years old, my family took an overnight trip and I brought the horse along. I put it under the bed in our motel room so it would be nice and cozy. Of course, my parents were eager to be off in the morning and put me in the car while I was still half asleep. I didn't wake up until we were almost an hour away from the motel. That's when I realized I didn't have my horse. We didn't go back for it. I've never quite gotten over the loss of that horse.

7.) What is your one most important contribution to this world?
My kids. No matter what else I do in my life, nothing will ever trump the honor and the responsibility of being their mommy.

8.) What is your one hidden talent that nearly no one knows about? You all in the blog world may not know that in real life, I'm called the "Human Mapquest". People call me to ask for directions to everywhere. "I'm in Santa Monica and I need to get to Whittier. Where do I go?" It's because I used to be such a nerd that I used to read atlases and those AAA travel guides for fun...Ok, I'll fess up. I'm still that nerd: Now I read the Thomas Guide for fun. This is such a boring talent that thank goodness I'm supposed to be starting belly dancing classes soon. Hopefully next year I'll be able to say that I know how to belly dance. That sounds much more intriguing than saying I know how to get from point A to point B.

9.) What is your most cherished possession? This was really hard for me to answer since I try to be really detached from everything I have. But, it's a book. My favorite book when I was a small child was Home for a Bunny. It's by Margaret Wise Brown, the same woman who wrote Goodnight Moon. The illustrations are by Garth Williams, who also did Charlotte's Web. In the story, this cute bunny is looking for a home, somewhere he fits in. He meets all these animals and asks them all if he can live with them. They all say no. Thankfully, at the end, he meets another little bunny and they then live together.

I still have the copy my mother read to me when I was three or four years old. It's in one of my dresser drawers. I occasionally pull it out to read it to my own children, but it's a bit fragile. I freak out that they might somehow destroy the book. I need to get them their own copy before they think they're too grown.

10.) What one person influenced your life the most when growing up? My mom and dad both are serious bibliophiles and it's influenced me like nothing else. There are easily over 2,000 books in their house. My mom is the person who taught me how to read and as a family, we went to the library almost every Saturday. I was always expected to get several books to read during the week. Also, my parents have three full sets of encyclopedias at our house, along with several dictionaries, atlases and random reference books. They have almost every genre of literature, every single classic you can imagine. Imagine finding first editions of Poe and Hawthorne just a few shelves away from The Naked Soul of Iceberg Slim. There was always something to read and I was given the freedom to do so.

11.) What one word describes you better than any other? Good question but I don't know. Now that you know me a bit better, what would you say?

I'll refrain from tagging you to do this meme, but if you take a crack at these, let me know. I'll come over and check yours out.

If Dr. King Watched TV, Would He Still Dream?

Today's King Day holiday was not particularly jam packed for me. I worked out, played with my kids, took a nice nap, read for awhile and watched a whole lot of TV.

I started off by watching the Today show. I sat through stories on Ford models, nutrition myths and an argument over women choosing to have children outside of marriage, a concept called "choice moms". One guest went on and on about how it wasn't that big of a deal to not have a father in your life. I'll be sure to let all the people I know who grew up in single parent households know that.

Alas, an hour of Today show viewing passed by without me seeing any mention of it being King Day. A little while later, I flipped over to BET, you know, Black Entertainment Television, to see if they had any special programming going on. Nope. The usual stuff, "Rap City" and "The Jamie Foxx Show" were still the main attractions. BET couldn't even do a special on Dr. King's life, the civil rights movement, something?

Fortunately, I was saved from TV depression when I checked out Guess Who's Coming to Dinner on Turner Classic Movies. I love the hopeful ending to the film. It always brings a smile to my face...although I wonder what would have happened if Sidney Poitier's character had been less successful. I also wonder, what were the conversations between black women about the film back then? If those convos are anything like what gets said now, I can imagine a couple lovely ladies from my own family saying, "He wants her ditsy 23 year old behind? Oh please, it must be the blond hair. He's treating her like her ass is gold plated."

Also, back then would there have been the commentary that's often heard today about successful black men getting themselves the white trophy wife? I'll have to ask my mom about that next time I talk to her, especially since when the movie came out, she'd already embarked on her own relationship that crossed the color line.

I wonder what Dr. King would think about so many black folks winning at tonight's Golden Globes? Would he think his dream is getting put into place since shows with diverse casts such as "Ugly Betty" and "Grey's Anatomy" are winning awards? Those shows winning puts a smile on my face. After all, I remember how when I was growing up, the only time I saw black people on TV was when Soul Train was on. We never saw Asians or Latinos on TV. Just think, twenty years ago, we would all have been denied the pleasure of licking the TV screen when Mohinder, the character on "Heroes" played so skillfully by fellow Chicago native, Sendhil Ramamurthy, comes on.

Then the remote found the show "I Love New York" over on Vh1. New York, in case you did yourself a favor and refrained from watching "Flavor of Love", is the pretend name of the girl that Flavor Flav rejected twice. She now has her own show where she has 20 men trying to see if they can have sex with her, but we're supposed to believe they're competing for her affection. If you haven't seen this show, believe me, it's a train wreck. Dr. King is turning over in his grave and shouting, "This was not the dream I envisioned!"

Speaking of dreams, sometimes I get a little annoyed on MLK Day because all anyone wants to talk about is that quote, "I have a dream". I'll bet most folks haven't listened to that speech in it's entirety ever. I have to give a special shout out to LAist for putting the speech up on their site and giving me the first real feeling all day that it was actually the birthday of Dr. Martin Luther King.

If you'd like to, check it out, thanks to YouTube. What a better world this would be if we knew about this speech (and lots of other stuff) through our own knowledge, not just through what other people say about it. I haven't watched the speech for a couple of years and it was incredibly inspiring to watch the whole thing over again. I wish I'd come across this speech on TV today.

But I didn't. Maybe TV networks don't think it'll get the blockbuster ratings of the "White Rapper Show". The sad thing is, they're probably right.

What's Really For Sale?

In the summer of 2005, I got to talking to another woman who's youngest daughter had begun going to the same home day care my own children go to. This woman, we'll call her Betty for the sake of this story, had her hair braided and I complimented her on how cute it looked. She said, "I did it myself!" Was she kidding? I can barely do a French braid down the back of my head, let alone do cornrows across my entire head.

Betty thought my hair would look cute in braids and offered to braid it for me. I had two main concerns: price and time. I asked her how much she charged and the price she named was fair. On to my second concern: the last time I'd gotten my hair braided, back in my senior year of college, it took two days to do it. I'm not a college senior now so I don't have two days to sit around. However, Betty assured me, "No, no. We Africans are not so slow as you black people. We braid from the time we're born. I can braid you in six hours." Now I know how there are some Africans and also some black folks from the Caribbean that think black Americans are lazy, good for nothing idiots. They think they're better and harder working than African-Americans. But, I couldn't tell if that was her vibe so I left it alone. After all, six hours sounded long but tolerable. We talked some more about what kind of style I wanted. I had decided on diagonal cornrows in the front and then small single braids in the back. I also wanted some fake hot pink hair braided into the back. (What can I say? It was summer!)

The next Saturday, Betty came over, arriving at about 9:30 in the morning. I made her some coffee and then we set up beauty shop in my living room. Betty sat on the couch and I sat on the floor in front of her. She was surprised by how much hair I had and confessed that it might take her till 5 or 6 pm. Nonetheless, she got right to work. We watched TV and, of course, got to talking about lots of things. At first we talked about the average superficial stuff you'd talk about with anyone. But, I'm always curious about people's lives so we quickly got into some deeper conversations after I asked her what it was like in her home country and why she came to the States.

Betty talked about how she'd grown up wealthy in her home country but her family had lost everything due to civil war. She talked about being forced to watch her father get murdered and her mother being raped. She talked about how her husband had come here to the States with her and their two children but had taken a trip back to their country to take care of some things. She'd never heard from him again. She didn't know if he was alive or dead and it'd been two years. All she knew was that he'd been taken away by some soldiers and no one had seen him again. She'd found out she was pregnant with their daughter a week after he left. I felt an immense amount of empathy for her situation. It was heartbreaking to listen to her graphic descriptions and experiences.

Then, Betty asked, "Do you smoke?"

"No. I never really got into cigarettes. They smell bad and I like really nice, white teeth" I replied. (It's true. At the risk of sounding like a horse breeder, I absolutely adore nice teeth.)

Betty clarified her question. "No, I mean, do you smoke weed?" she asked.

I was a little taken aback by this question but I attributed her directness to cultural differences. I answered her honestly, "Nope, I've never used any drugs of any kind."

"Wow. That's amazing. You've never used any drugs?"

"Nope. Never used any drugs," and then I picked up the remote and began to flick through the channels. Maybe she'd take a hint and stop asking me about this. Drugs are a sensitive topic for me because unfortunately, I've known way too many people who've had their lives destroyed by them. It makes me sad to talk about drug use.

She couldn't take a hint. "What about your husband? Does he smoke?" Her hands moved quickly over my head, pulling my hair tightly as she braided.

"No, he doesn't smoke weed either." I couldn't read her body language to really tell if there were questions behind her questions. It would be an understatement to say that I felt a little weird at this point. My antennae were definitely up but when someone is braiding your hair, you can't see their face because they're sitting behind you. I had no way to really know, was this just genuine curiosity or was this her way of feeling me out to see if she could sell me something?

"So, no drugs? Not even cocaine?" Betty asked. Now I knew. The average person, cultural differences or no, doesn't ask you if you use coke. Hmm. What was really for sale? Braiding services or something else?

I made some sort of joke about Nancy Reagan and her "Just Say No!" slogan. It went over Betty's head, so I said I needed to go to the bathroom. While in the bathroom, I could see from gazing at my reflection in the mirror that she wasn't even halfway finished with my hair. But I also didn't want some crazy tweaker up in my house. Kick her out or keep getting my hair braided?

The hair won out. I didn't have any real proof that she was involved in drugs, just my gut. I should trust my gut, I know, but I'm also a little vain and I wanted my hair to look cute. So, when I came back out I told her I wanted to watch a movie. I figured the longer the movie the better. I put the first Lord of the Rings on and turned the sound up a whole lot. I guess she took the hint because she didn't ask me about drugs anymore. We watched movies the rest of the time she was braiding, only chatting in the vaguest generalities about music and culture. Betty finished my hair at around six at night and I drove her home since she'd taken the bus to my place.

Two weeks later, Betty called me and asked me if she could borrow $100. She said she was desperate. Her baby daughter didn't have any diapers and they didn't have any food to eat. I was empathetic but I don't lend money to folks that aren't related to me. I told her this and she continued to beg me for the money. I finally relented and said I'd lend her $50. I suppose I felt guilty because, drugs or no, I hadn't lived through a civil war. I probably felt a little bad too since she kept going on and on about how lucky I was to have my husband here, while she was all alone and had to survive on her own with two children. She swore she'd pay me back the next week.

I took the braids out about a month later and my own hair, hair that had been halfway down my back, fell out in huge clumps. My stylist told me it was probably a combination of my hair being braided too tightly and my own hair having a bad chemical reaction with the fake hair that Betty braided in. Whatever. All I knew was that I was left with this super thin hair that had to be cut to chin length, the shortest it's ever been in my entire life. I was pissed. All that empathy I'd had for Betty went out the door. I wanted to beat someone's ass, preferably someone who'd asked me if I used coke and owed me $50.

A week after my haircut, I saw Betty. "Oh, you cut your hair?" she said.

"I had to because all my hair fell out after I took out the braids." I know my tone was unfriendly but I was mad. My hair was totally jacked up and this heffa was shrugging her shoulders and saying, "Maybe your hair is not so strong because you're father is white."

I decided to ask her about the money she owed me and she told me how she'd fallen on hard times but she'd pay me back as soon as she could.

"But is there anything else I can do for you...anything I can get for you?" No thanks, Betty. I'm just fine, thank you. I don't want or need to snort anything up my nose.

Now, a year and a half later, her husband has miraculously reappeared. At times, I've wondered if soldiers really had captured him. I've wondered for awhile if she made the whole story about her life back in her homeland up so I'd feel sorry for her. One thing I know for sure, people involved in cocaine tell a whole lot of lies. Maybe he just was being a loser husband and didn't feel like being with her anymore and so had bounced for a while. I haven't heard the whole story of what happened to him and how he came back, because I've barely said two words to Betty. Of course, you already know she never gave me back the $50.

Yesterday, I went to drop off my youngest son a bit later than usual and so I ran into her. I always say, "Hi, how you doing?" and that's about it. Nowadays, Betty's driving a Mercedes SUV. It's wrong for me to assume I know how she got that Mercedes, isn't it? I only have my gut to go from, but I couldn't help but think that "business" must be booming.

For Rent: Roof For Your Rock Video

There's a certain rooftop in downtown LA that seems to constantly be rented out by wannabe rock stars filming their music videos. It's right across the street from my office.

This would be great if we got some great bands filming over there, someone like The Killers, Jet, or Depeche Mode. Someone like the Raconteurs or AFI. I'd be glued to the window with binoculars to watch that! Except, the reality is that none of those bands would go for this "rock on a roof in downtown LA" concept. It's already been done very well... by a little Irish band called U2.

Remember "Where The Streets Have No Name"? Of course you do! Remember how U2 rocked skid row so hard the cops had to come? Yeah, that was a truly innovative concept back then. Nowadays, I think the building realtor must tell these hopeful stars that it's the same roof where my Irish brothers caused such brilliant chaos. They must sell the promise of U2 karma.

I can just hear the director and production people renting the space and then telling the musicians, "Filming a video on a roof down here worked for U2. Don't worry if that concept's already been done. It's gonna work for you all too. You guys are going to be bigger than Bono one day."

The rockers come ready in their black clothes and their tattoos. They either have short spiky hair or the long shaggy mane. They also seem to be able to fling their limbs about in ways I didn't think were humanly possible.

Today we had a group called Finger-Eleven over on the roof. Apparently, the group used to call themselves the Rainbow Butt Monkeys. Yes, you read that correctly. I'm going to type it again in color just to make myself laugh. Rainbow Butt Monkeys!

They may have dropped that name but, come on! Once you've had a name like that, you can't just change it to Finger Eleven and expect folks like me to not still laugh at the old name. Imagine Finger Eleven performing at the MTV Video Music Awards. "Straight from Ontario, it's the Rainbow Butt Monkeys. I mean, Finger Eleven!"

How do I know they're even called Finger-Eleven, let alone their former colorful primate body-part name? Oh, because they had to do about 100 takes of their video. Every time they did a take, the song got blasted all through my section of downtown. It was so loud! We heard it so much that one of my colleagues actually jotted down some of the lyrics. We googled them and found out the song is titled "Paralyzer"...because it's so bad, it's going to paralyze everyone's eardrums! Imagine hearing this for a good six hours while you're at work:

"I'm not paralyzed but I seem to be struck by you
I want to make you move
because you're standing still
if your body matches what your eyes can do
you'll probably move right through me on my way to you"

Okaay then... None of us could figure out what that's all supposed to mean but based on what we heard, one of my colleagues came up with a better video treatment for them. They should have been McDonald's fries getting ready to be eaten by some hot girl. They could try to escape but, no, the girl's a paralyzer and she's going to drown them in ketchup and eat them!

Can I tell you how grateful we were when they took breaks to get their makeup touched up by the nice makeup artist in the pink sweater?

Unfortunately, Rainbow Butt Monkeys, I mean Finger Eleven, it's not the U2 roof. That roof, and that video concept, is actually a couple of blocks down and is reserved for bands that can really play.

Thanks for the entertainment, but please, don't come back tomorrow.

Does The Scale Lie?

I don't know anyone that likes to weigh themselves during the holidays. Not a single person.

After all, who in their right mind wants to see a numerical value put on everything they ate at every single holiday party, Christmas Eve party, Christmas dinner or New Year's revelry? Who wants to see the result of Rose Bowl party snacks and the lavish consumption of a two pound box of Sees chocolates?

Then comes the end of the holidays and everyone's shocked when they finally step on the scale and see the numerical value that represents their tight-fitting pants. Alas, that's the way of our world.

This year, I sadistically decided I wasn't going to gain a single pound over the holidays. Yes, I ate cake at my birthday party but I turned it down at my friend Richie's birthday a few days later. Tamilee Webb, the Queen of Abs and Buns of Steel, became my new best friend. I endured the gross people at the gym. I braved the ridiculously windy weather we've had in LA and got hit in the head by a flying tree branch while running the track at the park by my house.

Yes, I have sacrificed myself unfailingly on the alter of physical fitness and healthy eating. Everything was going swimmingly...until yesterday, the official end of my vacation. I stepped on the scale and I weighed SEVEN pounds more than I did on Saturday. I stepped off the scale and then back on. Same result. I picked up the scale and jiggled it a bit. Same result.

Seven pounds? Is that even humanly possible? I've heard of fad diets that promise to help you lose seven pounds in two days, but gain it? Oh hell no! There's no way I weigh seven pounds more than I did on Saturday. I swear, I have not being trying out for the sequel to Super Size Me.

If you are a woman raised in the United States, you know that this seven pounds in two days thing could incite a major freak out on your part, especially if you're not suffering from PMS. If you are a woman that happens to live in Los Angeles, you know this change in the scale could bring on a nervous breakdown. I try to be rational and level headed about these things though, so I called my husband in.

"Have you weighed yourself lately?" I ask.

"Yeah. Why?" he replied.

"How much do you weigh?"
"Umm..." I know he's stalling on his answer because he's the one that ate the majority of the two pound box of Sees chocolate instead of worshiping at the throne of Buns and Abs of Steel.

"Well, how much?" I'm starting to get annoyed. In fact, I feel a little bitchy. Well, very bitchy.

"I'm not telling you!" he said. He was clearly getting annoyed too.

"I'm only asking because I weigh a whole seven pounds more than I did on Saturday and I need to know if it's me or if the scale's broken. So I want you to weigh yourself to see if you weigh seven pounds more too."

He turned and walked out of the bathroom, "Yeah, it's probably broken, so you don't need me to tell you that."

I finally resorted to dragging a couple of the dumbbells I work out with out from under the couch. Would two 10 pound dumbbells weigh 20 pounds or 27 pounds?

Find out next time on tomorrow's episode of "Los Angelista's Guide to the Pursuit of Happiness".

Just kidding. I'll tell you: They weighed in at 26.5. The scale is officially broken, most likely the victim of my children's antics. I was quite relieved. I sure don't want to have to work off seven pounds.

I told my husband and of course he replied, "I told you. It's probably been broken for a couple of weeks. I thought it was pretty off last time I weighed myself."

Mmm hmm. I could have pointed out to him that it was just fine on Saturday, but I don't want to burst his bubble.

Stopping Sunrise...I Wish

I want to stop time. I don't want tomorrow to come. I'm dreading it. Can I stop the sun from rising?

What is tomorrow? Tomorrow is my first day back at work after two weeks of vacation. I'm glad I took the time off because it took me almost a week of not going to work before I stopped waking up at 5:45 in the morning without an alarm clock. Having time off has helped me relax, and I swear, I'm going to start doing yoga or something to try to be less stressed out because by this past Thursday, I started mentally reviewing my to-do list. My insomnia bounced right back.

Being on vacation has also meant that I've spent a bunch of time with my two sons. It makes me feel like I might vomit, or cry, (or do both simultaneously) the next time someone says, "Wow, I don't know how you do it all!"

The truth is, I can't do it all. I try but I'm not superwoman. And, I'd be fooling myself if I couldn't admit that I can see a positive difference in my sons since we've gotten to talk and play and go to the park every day. They are usually such good boys and so sweet, but they seem happier than ever, more relaxed. They've stopped asking me if I have to go to meetings or if I have to work all the time. It breaks my heart when they do that. I don't want them doing that anymore, vacation or not.

What else does tomorrow have in store for me? Well, tomorrow is also the first anniversary of my brother's suicide. My brother and I weren't particularly close, but that doesn't make it any easier. I worry about calling my mom and dad tomorrow. I worry about how they're doing.

It's been hard over the past year to have this conversation:

Do you have brothers and sisters?
Yes.
How many?
One brother, one sister.
Oh, what do they do?
My sister is a deputy sheriff...and my brother is...well, he's deceased.
Oh. Sorry to hear that.

Then there's a palpable awkwardness. I hate that awkwardness.

Sometimes I've found myself flat out responding that my brother committed suicide. Sometimes I've felt like such a liar to just say he was deceased when it really it's felt like so much more than that. No matter how I slice it, people don't know what to say in response.

Tomorrow the sun will rise. I will go to work, put a pretty smile on my face and pretend that I'm so happy to be there. I'll say a prayer for my brother's soul. I'll tell myself that my sons are lucky to have such a hard-working mommy as a role model of what women can achieve. I'll say, "Fine. How about you?" in response to the casual queries of how my day is going.

Somehow the day will pass without my heart breaking a little bit...I think.

What's The Big Deal About Rocky?

Last night my friend Tom came over to have dinner and watch the Sugar Bowl with us. I spent the first half of the game enjoying the vegetarian chili I'd made, offering up Hail Mary's and promising God that I'd be good for ever and ever if Notre Dame beat LSU.

Somewhere in the third quarter, it became apparent that my praying and bargaining with God was not making a difference. Notre Dame's quarterback, Brady Quinn, was too focused on showing us his skill in throwing the ball both into the ground and into the hands of the LSU players.

Since a Notre Dame win was clearly not going to happen, Tom and my husband pretty much stopped watching the game. Put the two of them together and they can debate for days about anything under the sun. Last night, they ended up yapping about all sorts of random topics, including whether Halle Berry and her scene with Billy Bob Thornton deserved an Oscar for Monster's Ball and whether it's wrong for a rapper to swear on a record if it's not gratuitous cussing but instead adds to the artistic merit of the song.

In the midst of the swearing on records debate, a commercial for "Rocky Balboa," the latest in the series of Rocky movie came on. They got to talking about the film series and about Sylvester Stallone. I couldn't really contribute much to the conversation since, as I shared with them, "I don't get the whole Rocky thing, but that's probably because I've never seen any of the movies."

I might as well have admitted that I drink bleach for fun.

"You've never seen a Rocky movie?" Much spluttering and falling off the couch ensued in reaction to my response, "No."

More confusion and then looks of pity as they repeated over and over, "Oh my God. You've never seen Rocky!!"

Maybe this is a guy thing, but honestly, I've never wanted to see Rocky. I hate boxing and I've never thought Stallone is particularly hot. I mean, I know a little about Rocky. I know his girlfriend was named Adrian and the "Eye of the Tiger" song came from the movie. I just didn't realize that not seeing the actual film was such a big deal.

They were so shocked that I figured it was probably the wrong time to also admit I've never seen Purple Rain.

Tell me I'm normal and they're blowing this Rocky thing out of proportion. Or, am I really the only person on earth who's never seen a Rocky movie?

As Seen At Bally Total Fitness

I got up bright and early this morning and put on my workout clothes. Please congratulate me for actually getting up and putting on those workout clothes. It was hard to do. But, I'm supposed to be running a 5K race on the 28th so I figured I needed to see if I could go the distance after not running for a month.

Now that I have your congratulations, I'll tell you what happened next. I went and sat back down on the couch to watch cartoons with my boys. Then I read a book, figured I should go run, but I dozed off for a little while. Then I woke up, thought about going to run but instead I fixed my boys lunch, dozed off again, played hide-and-seek, thought about how I really didn't want to go run, read the book again, watched Discovery Health Channel... ah, you get the point? Several hours of procrastination later, I got in my car and drove to the gym, specifically, to the Bally Total Fitness in Hollywood.

I spent a whole hour and a half there, running on the treadmill, biking, lifting weights and observing the other gym goers. Now I remember why I stopped going to the gym and instead opted to run around my neighborhood and do free-weight workout tapes at home. You see, while at Bally's, I came across some gym-goers that I really could have lived without seeing.


Mademoiselle Rapunzel: Now, if your hair is longer than chin-length, guess what, common sense says pull it back into a ponytail. Right? Not if you're Rapunzel. I think she thought it was sexy, flicking that waist length mane back and forth over her shoulders as she gazed at her reflection in the mirror.

Mlle. Rapunzel, haven't you seen Pink's "Stupid Girls" video? Believe me, if you are trying to get attention from these guys up in here, you clearly have deeper issues. There are alot of therapists in LA. Find one.

Miss Wearing No Underwear With White Skintight Leggings: It takes skill to yap on a cell phone while simultaneously climbing a step treadmill. I'll give Miss No Underwear her props because I can only last about ten minutes on that evil thing. I can't talk while I'm on it or for a good 60 seconds after I get off.

But Miss No Underwear, let me tell you, having a great body doesn't mean you get to leave your panties at home. I know, I know, Britney Spears has made going commando the choice of a new generation. If you're going to do that though, wear black leggings instead. You were working up a sweat and, well, your behind was getting to be a trifle wet and see-through.

Now let's meet the guys.

Mr. Crotch Starer: I was getting that prickly feeling of being watched while I was on the inner thigh weight machine. Ah yes, there he was, Mr. Crotch Starer. I think he was hoping there'd be a strategically placed hole in my pants, just for his viewing pleasure. Believe me, there's not a hole, although he was staring so hard, I had to lean down and double check, just to be sure.

Crotch Starer, I know you thought you were Superman, trying to laser a hole into my track pants with your beady-eyed gaze. I didn't appreciate you winking at me either. I wish I'd had a sharp, red-hot fireplace poker handy. Mr. Crotch Starer, you suck.

Monsieur Sweaty Stationary Biker: I had the "pleasure" of cycling next to M. Sweaty for a good half hour. I can see him now, staring intently at his reflection while softly singing along to the tune playing over the gym loudspeaker, "Love Don't Cost A Thing" by Jennifer Lopez.

But I hate to break it to you, Monsieur Sweaty: You aren't Lance Armstrong. When he rides, Lance's face does not turn the color of a bowl of borscht. Lance doesn't have gallons of sweat dripping off a pair of equally ruddy pimple-coated arms. Lance's shorts don't scoot down in the back to reveal a hairy, copiously sweaty plumber's butt. Plus, you had no towel in your vicinity and the sweat was pooling on the floor around you. Next time, I beg you to bring a full size bath towel to mop up your plentiful bodily fluids. I'll bet Bally's had to quarantine that bike after you hauled yourself off it. No amount of lysol can kill those germs.

Mr. Free Weight Grunter: Obviously, some guys think women will be impressed by watching them doing a seated chest press with two twenty pound dumbbells. Mr. Free Weight Grunter was clearly one of those guys. But, I'm not one of those women. You see, I happen to know there's another free weight section downstairs where only men hang out and lift.

Mr. FWG, how about you go loudly grunt "unnh" with the guys who are lifting twice that? Go join your fellow Y-chromosome brethren. Or are you too intimidated by all those masculine buff bods that can lift more than you? Yep, I think you may be trying to intimidate all the women upstairs that are struggling to heft the ten pound dumbbell into a bicep curl.

Sigh.

If any of these gym characters happen to be you, I'm sorry, but please don't go work out at Bally's anymore. I'm begging you. There's only so much my poor eyes and my nose can take.

Different Year, Same Cuss Words, Same Kiss And Make Up

2007 is finally here! Happy New Year to you and yours! All the celebrations are over and it seems we're all supposed to be figuring out ways to improve ourselves over the next twelve months.

I'll have to give that self-improvement memo to my neighbors across the hall. They started the day off by lovingly calling each other the same sweet, affectionate names they've called each other over the past year.

"Pendejo!" she shouted down the stairs.

"Puta!" he yelled back.

By this time I was making great use of my peep-hole (should I add "stop spying" to my list of resolutions?) and saw her momentarily dash back into the apartment. The cuss words were flying at a furious pace. Then stuff started getting pitched out the door.

I assume she was throwing some of his things out into the hallway to fulfill her resolution to declutter their place.

He stomped back up the stairs and threw the stuff back inside the door, swearing alternately in English and en Espanol. Apparently he has issues with letting things go. Perhaps these are deep-seeded issues from his childhood. Maybe his mother wouldn't let him have a Barbie because she claimed, "Barbies are only for girls." It's probably a lost memory though and he doesn't know that all he needs to do is buy a Barbie instead of hoarding various random objects.

I suppose she understands his issues (or maybe he's the rare man that understands her issues) because ten minutes later, they were kissing and making up in the hallway. She was whispering in his ear and he was actually giggling before he said goodbye and calmly walked down the stairs.

What do you think she was whispering into his ear? For some reason, I don't think she was saying, "Happy New Year".