Do You Believe in Ghosts?

Last night, my good friend Suzy came over and we carved three pumpkins with my sons. My boys definitely enjoyed pulling the "guts" out of the pumpkins and designing the spooky pumpkin faces. Once everything was carved, we lit all three pumpkins, turned out every single light and started telling spooky stories to each other.

I think I went a little overboard on my, "something was in the closet" story because both of my sons were terrified and didn't want to sleep in their room.

"I'm scared!" my youngest whispered, tears forming in his eyes.

"Have you ever seen a ghost? Ever?" I asked. I was trying to infuse as much rationality as possible into the situation seeing as it was almost 9:00 and they needed to go to bed.

"No," he replied. "But the Boogeyman might get me."

I told him I'd said special prayers in his room so it was definitely Boogeyman free. And with the two of them around there was only a Boogerman since they're both highly qualified nose pickers. That made them both laugh for a minute, and then my eldest got quiet and asked me, "Mommy have you ever seen a ghost?"

I told him I didn't know, but that there was nothing to worry about in his room since we've never seen any in there.

I suppose I could have lied and said, "Nope, never ever. Never had anything weird or spooky happen to me." But that wouldn't be true.

I try not to dwell on these things too much, try not to think about the elderly man I sat next to in Midway Airport last year, waiting to fly home after my brother's funeral. At first I thought he was psychic when he, without warning, opened his mouth up and unprompted, told me he sorry for the loss of my brother. Our flight was slightly delayed and we ended up having an extensive conversation about death. He was in the "A" group so he got on the plane first. I was in the "C" group and was the last person to get on the plane. I walked past every seat and he was not on that plane. I thought he might be in the bathroom, so once I was free to do so, I strolled the aisle once, twice, three times.

He wasn't there.

How can I tell a six year old that I was always uncomfortable in the last apartment we lived in. I always had the sense that something was watching me, and in the heat of summer, the air would grow cold.

It got worse after my son was born. I was constantly aware of something unfriendly hovering around, particularly when I gave my newborn baby his bath. It often scared me to the point that I'd sing out loud just to calm myself down.

I knew I had to move when I woke up at one in the morning to the stuttering sound the phone makes when it's off the hook. The phone was on speaker so the noise echoed through our apartment. It only took me a moment to realize that the button on the speaker phone needed to be pressed down in order to come on. I freaked out, convinced that someone was in the apartment, and I started screaming. My husband jumped up with his bat, ready to swing at an intruder.

And there was no one there. No doors unlocked, no windows unlocked. Nothing.

These are not the kinds of things to tell a six year-old and a newly minted four year-old. So, I told my sons again that there was nothing to worry about, nothing to fear...and then I let them sleep in my room so that they'd actually go to sleep.

So I could actually go to sleep. Perhaps I'd scared myself a bit as well.

We all know there are plenty of real-life scary things to worry about: wars, famine, disease, domestic violence. But there's that world beyond the veil, the sensations we have, things we're convinced we've seen.

I try to leave that world alone. I don't want to engage with it, even on Halloween.

But I have to ask, do you believe in ghosts? Do you believe in the supernatural?

And The Award Goes To...

The very wonderful Heart in San Francisco over at Guilty With An Explanation has awarded me the "Blogging That Hits the Mark!" award.

I'm almost positive I had an acceptance speech in my back pocket, but I just felt around back there and, um, I only have a couple of Legos and a dead Cheeto I picked up off the rug an hour ago. I could have sworn I chucked the Cheeto into the trash. But maybe I accidentally got rid of the speech instead.

Since fate has chosen to intervene, let me merely say thank you from the bottom of my heart for this fantastic award. The cute little logo will be given a place of honor in my blog sidebar.

Yes, like any self-respecting Angeleno, I am highly appreciative of any and all awards. I even watched the Quill Awards this past Saturday night hoping my name might magically be announced as the winner of the fiction award.

Clearly, it didn't happen But, my little baby of a novel is in progress so maybe one day the stars will align and I'll be nominated for a Quill Award!

In case you're unaware, the Quill Awards are a sort of popularity contest for books. Some publishing big wigs nominate the books and then the general public gets to go online and vote for the ones they think are best.

While watching the show, I found out that one out of every four books sold in the US is a romance novel.

I'm sure it's harder than we all assume to write a good romance novel. After all, romances need a good plot, compelling characters and snappy dialogue, just like any other novel. Much has already been written about the romance novel being dissed because it's primarily written by women. I certainly agree with that train of thought.

Gosh, maybe I should switch my fiction novelist aspirations over to romance! It might be more fun than "serious" fiction. Just think, if I switch over to romance, then I could write things like, "The searing heat of Sinclair's gaze melted her insides."

Or how about, "Madeline's fingertip crackled with electricity as she lightly traced the outline of Sinclair's mouth."

Uh huh.

In fact as it turns out, Cormac McCarthy, (pas moi) won the General Fiction award for The Road. But, he did not win Book of the Year.

Nope, that honor went to romance novelist Nora Roberts for Angels Fall. Come to think of it, I sort of love the fact that a romance novelist beat out McCarthy in the Quill Award's popular vote. I suppose those corporate big wigs figured they'd better give Nora her award even if it made them feel sick to do so.

Someone must have reminded them how folks threw eggs at a limo the last time the winner of a popular vote didn't get the prize he deserved.

Sigh.

And on that note, although I may have no power to nominate books for the Quill Awards, I will share my nominees for the "Blogging That Hits the Mark" award:

1) Malik over at Solar Souls. Most everything Malik writes is on point. He's academic, but he's not in the ivory tower. He's real, opinionated, and his October 24th essay skillfully takes apart the arguments that justify using the n-word. Love it. Someone press print and pass it on over to 50 Cent and Jay Z asap. American Gangster my ass...

2) Anonymous over at MultiCultClassics. Anonymous was/is in advertising and now offers an honest look at what Madison Avenue is trying to sell us. And of course, it all comes through the lens of that much beloved buzzword, "diversity". It's always a fascinating read on so many levels and opens my eyes to what's behind what I'm seeing on TV and in print.

3) Neil over at Citizen of the Month. Neil is incredibly witty, but not just for the sake of being a suave, urbane Angeleno. Today's post on Michael Jackson is precisely why I love his blog. And if you're not currently reading his blog, a word of advice: Don't drink anything the first time you head over there. Especially not any sodas. They'll burn when they come shooting out your nose while you're laughing. Don't say I didn't warn you.

4) "Me" over at My American Melting Pot. I don't know what her real name is, but every time I read her blog, I really reflect on how we're all doing with our "melting pot" status here in America.

So, go forth and vote for your favorite nominees by clicking on those links with your mouse button. I hope you enjoy discovering something new.

Straw Hair

It's Saturday night again. Wasn't I just here a week ago? Funny how it came back around so quickly.

I spent my day at a Los Angeles Unified School District parent leadership training. I'm now president of the School Site Council at my kids' school. I got myself elected to pretty much every other school committee as well.

That means that today I was supposed to be learning about how to be a member of all these committees. That happened somewhat, but what I really came away knowing for sure is that there are some VERY angry parents in this school district. Every time the facilitators presented some information, they'd ask if we had any questions. Without fail, a parent would stand up and launch into a tirade about all the illegal (or legal and wack) stuff some principal is trying to pull.

I get their issues. I truly do. But after two hours of this, I was mentally exhausted. After four hours, my goodie-goodie self was texting my sister and socializing with the lady sitting next to me. After six hours, I felt like bumming a cigarette off of someone and taking up smoking just so I'd have a reason to go outside.

This marvelous day was capped off with me winning a door prize that came wrapped in Star of David wrapping paper. It was a pair of 99 Cent Store candlesticks. Uh huh.

And now I'm home and determined that this will not, I repeat, NOT be another Saturday night of laughing at my email spam. Seriously, it can't be. Especially after I spent Friday night curling my hair up with straws.

Yes, I said straws.

This was yours truly at around 1 am last night.

Yeah, for the uninformed, that's called a "straw set". And I hope it's obvious it's called this because those are drinking straws up in my hair. 72 drinking straws to be exact.

It took me about an hour to put them all in. Then I sat around for eons waiting for my hair to dry. I watched two movies, wrote a friend and by 1:30 in the morning, it still wasn't all dry. The gifted-child in me figured I'd just prop a whole bunch of pillows up and sleep sitting up, like if I was on an airplane.

That worked for awhile. But by 3:30, I finally gave in and laid down on those straws. Ouch! The uncomfortable things we women do for beauty! Believe me, I was so grateful my hair was dry when I got up two hours later.

I'll confess, this straw thing was an impulsive, spur of the moment experiment but I really like it. It was interesting though how today while I was busy socializing during a session, the lady next to me was all, "Girl, your hair is too cute! Where'd you get it done?"

"Um, I did it myself," I replied.

"You did it yourself?" she asked in disbelief.

Her mouth fell open while I nodded proudly and replied, "Yeah, I learned from a YouTube video.

"What! You learned how to sew in some weave from a YouTube video?"

We had about 30 seconds of back and forth, with me saying, "No, really, it's not a weave! It's my hair!" and her saying, "Stop frontin'! That has got to be a weave!"

I thought I was gonna have to let her pull my hair to prove to her that it wasn't a weave, but she finally believed me.

This led to a discussion about hair and black women in general. I told her about my recent decision to not chemically straighten my hair anymore. You can read all about it in an article I wrote about a month ago for Anti-Racist Parent. But in a nutshell, it's because I no longer feel I can teach my kids to be proud of their blackness if I'm changing an inherent part of my black identity, my hair.

She shared how brave she thought I was for this and confessed, "'I can't stand when those naps start growing out of my head! They're so..." She paused and sighed, searching for the right word. And then it finally came.

"Ugly."

She's not alone in feeling this way. Black women are trained to do battle with and hate their hair. Most black women in this country have no idea what the natural texture of their hair feels like. At least that's not the case for me because I've gone back and forth between straightening and not straightening for years.

If you're not black, no one cares if you decide you don't want to straighten your hair to within an inch of it's life, till it feels like straw. But if you are black, wearing your natural hair can become an ideological and political statement. And it's a fashion "don't" according to a (now former) Glamour magazine editor.

But, I'm really feeling my "don't" hair so I'm going to keep rolling with it. In fact, I think I'll sit here and pull on my springy curls while I watch the movie classic, "Network" on PBS. It's a very appropriate Saturday night choice since as far as the haterade on black women's hair, "I'm mad as hell, and I'm not going to take this anymore."

The Glow of Flames and the Moon

The sun has set on another day of fire in Southern California.

My eyes and my sinuses are irritated by both the dryness of the air and the faint, acrid odor of ash. As awful as the fires that have raged continue to be, the smell reminds me of those early November days from my childhood, days spent raking leaves and then burning them.

Every Fall we enjoyed a colorful carpet of red, orange and gold leaves. They fell from the big oak and maple trees in our yard, shielding the slowly browning grass from the increasingly frosty evenings. As the weeks passed, we threw them at each other, rolled in them, stuffed them down shirts, watched them wither around the edges and, finally, turn brown under bushes.

Once the browning began, the day of reckoning was inevitable. We raked the leaves into piles and carried them bit by bit to a big oil drum of fire set securely in the center of the driveway.

I'd watch the flames from a distance, watch them lick and curl around the mouth of the barrel. They'd devour every scrap of fuel till the leaves that had covered four or five big trees in our yard were mere inches of gray, lifeless ash.

And now, my car has a light dusting of gray ash on the hood from leaves I have never seen, never touched, never thrown over my head while spinning in circles. The closest fires, flames that have burned leaves, trees, animals and homes, are at least a thirty minute drive away, not counting traffic. My family is safe. So, trust me, I'm not complaining too much about my eyes and sinuses.

But there are plenty of people out there who are complaining. There were a couple of firefighters in my local Starbucks this morning and I found myself wanting to say something encouraging to them. I wanted to give them some sort of verbal high-five. But before I could collect my thoughts and open my mouth, one of the other patrons decided to throw her two cents into the mix.

"Maybe if some people weren't sitting up in Starbucks ordering lattes, folks wouldn't be losing their homes!"

What, what, what??? Wow. I guess every single firefighter in LA is supposed to abandon their posts and head out to the boondocks. Never mind that they may eventually be called to duty putting out a fire in the city.

But the two firefighters classily ignored her as they waited for their drinks. Everyone else also ignored her as she continued to sputter about firefighters being a, "waste of tax dollars."

One heavily tattooed customer complained to her friend that she might have to buy a gas mask, "Because this air is so f***ed up."

He consoled her by telling her how at least we Californians know how to handle a disaster better than, "those people" in New Orleans. He started to talk about how only five or six people here in Cali have died as opposed to the, "dummies in New Orleans who wouldn't evacuate".

Was he trying to say "Those people" + "dummies" = black people??? Hmm...

I came home tonight and turned on the TV, only to see that the political grandstanding and finger pointing about these fires has definitely begun. And in the meantime, leaves, trees and homes are still burning.

Now the almost full moon is rising above Los Angeles. According to NASA, tomorrow when it's completely full, it's supposed to be the biggest and brightest full moon of 2007. But to my eyes, it's a bit yellow, surely tinged a bit by the ash floating through the atmosphere.

I hope it's glow is a bit brighter for you.

Possessed by the Santa Ana Winds

I'm watching news coverage of the fifteen fires that are at this moment raging through Southern California. Right now they're showing live footage of a trailer park in Santa Clarita that just started burning fifteen minutes ago. I can make out a lone fireman holding a hose on flames that are being blown by the gusting Santa Ana winds. It just looked like he had to run for his life as the flames came rushing towards him.

I am terribly afraid of fire. When my apartment building caught on fire this past spring I totally freaked and had nightmares about being trapped in a burning building for a few weeks afterwards.

Fire isn't picky. It doesn't matter if you live in a trailer or a Malibu castle, all those memories and cherished possessions will burn. My heart goes out to the hundreds of thousands of people that have been evacuated so far.

But there's something that has weighed on my mind today more than anything else. More than flames, more than the hot dry winds of the devil. It's something that makes me feel ill, sick to my stomach, and profoundly sad.

I was visiting someone today that I've known very well for several years. And, while she was out of the room, her husband started asking me questions about my workout regimen. I told him about my love affair with Violet Zaki tapes and jogs at the park. Then he said, "You look really good. Really strong."

"Okay. Um. Thanks." I was immediately on my guard. I felt a weird vibe in the way he said it, in the way he was looking at me.

Then he reached out, rubbed my arm, told me I looked sexy and asked, "So when can I take you out?"

I tried to make a joke. I said something like, "Hah hah. You're too funny. But I'm so busy, I have no time to go out anywhere."

Laughing uncomfortably when nothing is funny, when all I wanted to say was, "What the fuck is your problem?"

Surely I was wrong about what I was experiencing with this man while his wife, who I love and respect immeasurably, was out of the room? But no, he tried to grab on my arm again and said, "At least let me take you out to coffee."

I pulled my arm away and replied, "I quit drinking coffee last year after my brother's suicide."

He didn't give up. "So let me take you to dinner then. You like Italian food, right?"

I answered that the next time I go out for Italian food it'll be with my husband. I kept talking. Rambling, really as I elaborated on my husband by sharing, "You should see how in shape he is now! He's gone from a 34 waist to a 30 since February!" I kept on talking about my husband and how he needs to take me out on a date sometime soon. I tried to keep it light, tried to make sense of what I was experiencing, and then, praise God, a few seconds later, the wife came back.

I talked to her for a couple more minutes and then made up a lie so I could escape. She was wreathed in smiles, no worry in her eyes as she gave me a warm hug goodbye. No sign of having overhead the horrible words I'd just heard.

Hours later, I feel so personally violated. And what am I supposed to say the next time she asks me to come over and visit? I truly admire this woman and it just breaks my heart because I'm sure this can't be the first time her husband has pulled some crap like this.

I can't make any sense of it. I can only think that this misguided husband has been possessed by the Santa Ana winds, the Santana winds.

Yes, he must be possessed by the winds of Satan. Otherwise, what would cause him to behave in such a way?

Spam Promises: Where Are My Lottery Winnings?

It's a slow Saturday night in the big city.

Maybe I'm just depressed that Notre Dame is now 1-7 thanks to this afternoon's massacre by USC, but tonight's so slow that I'm watching Bill O'Reilly and perusing the spam in my Gmail account.

Yeah, it's that bad. But the spam is sort of entertaining!

According to my junk email, my life is going to get better because I am:
1) getting richer and
2) getting a bigger penis.

Let's talk about the penis first: Jordan B. Thayer sent me a message promising me, "You won't believe your eyes when you see your new penis size!"

Jordan isn't alone in her confidence that she can make my penis grow. It seems there are a whole lot of other folks who also believe they've got just what I need to get something sprouting down there. Apparently, Vicky M. Coker, Earnestine M. Nava, and Misty T. Dickey (uh-huh) have some solutions for me as well.

The problem is --and gosh, how can I explain this to Jordan and friends? I'm just really not sure how can I make my penis grow bigger when I, ahem, don't even have a penis.

At least Jordan's right when she (or is it a he?) says I won't believe my eyes. If it happens, if I start sprouting a penis...well, gosh, who knows what kind of crazy things I might be inclined to do!

Even if the penis growing turns out to be a bust, at least I'll be rich! Guess what everybody? I've won $1 million pounds!

Yes, I've won the UK National Lottery! And I didn't even have to enter. No dropping dollars on a quick pick for Saturday night's SuperLotto Plus drawing for me! Nope, my email address was randomly selected as a winner. Aren't I lucky?

The only downside I can see is that I can't really say I'm a millionaire thanks to the pesky US dollar not being what it used to be, but gosh, money is money! Maybe I'll have enough after exchange rates and taxes for a down payment on a piece of overpriced real estate in my neighborhood.

All I have to do is send every stitch of info about myself to a Dr. Pinkett Griffin at his Yahoo address. I especially can't forget my bank account info and social security number.

I feel sorry for Dr. Griffin though. I guess he has to use the Yahoo address because his official UK National Lottery address is having problems.

Maybe it's been clogged up by email spam.

Halloween Costume Horror

Do you dress up for Halloween?

'Cause if you do, I really think you should skip any costumes that require machetes or chainsaws.

I'd like to hope this stuff has to be for adults because I can't see any responsible, sane parent saying, "Oh honey, let me run and get my camera. You look so cute in that Leatherface outfit!"

Then again, we all know there are a whole lot of irresponsible and insane parents out there. If you're one of the ones that buys plastic chainsaws that come coated in fake blood...well, if you're one of those, you're probably not reading this blog. But if you are, please explain in the comments what in the world you're thinking!

And another thing, who's going to open up their door to give candy to some machete holding teenager? Or adult? How are folks supposed to tell it's a fake machete? I mean, folks are crazy nowadays so who's to know? Am I really supposed to open my door up to give some kid holding a chainsaw some some candy? No wonder I come across houses that don't answer the door but instead have huge buckets of candy out front with signs that say things like, "Take one. We're watching!"

I'm not a fan of people dressing up as evil things but what happened to the days when a scary costume meant dressing up as Dracula or Frankenstein? I remember being maybe eight or nine and dressing up as a mummy. My friend Greg wrapped me in toilet paper and newspaper. It was a little misty so my costume fell apart pretty quickly, but it was fun.

Of course, people started putting razor blades into Snickers Bars...and the Atlanta Child Murders happened, so that ended my trick-or-treating days pretty quickly.

I'll tell you though, back then it wouldn't have crossed our minds to coat a costume with fake blood! But nowadays, someone thinks my son needs a "Dripping, Bleeding Mask".

Fortunately, my son thinks it's disgusting and wasn't even happy to pose with this awful thing. I feel sorry for the kids who've been brainwashed into believing this kind of thing is okay.

Seriously, what in the world is wrong with Halloween?

Friendship and Fate

One of my many faults is that I don't always keep up with people I care about. It's not that I stop thinking about them. Indeed, I often wonder where they are and, more importantly, who they are now. But, I moved, they moved, we have kids -and those kids have activities to be driven to-, addresses seem to disappear, emails change, drama happens -- and before I knew it, people who were a part of my life are no longer around.

On the one hand, as ridiculously superstitious as it is, I believe we meet the people we do for a particular reason. They're there to help us learn something about ourselves or the world. And maybe they're in our lives for some pre-ordained amount of time.

On the other hand, I believe we have free will and we decide who we want to make the effort to stay in touch with. That's why I don't have a problem with Facebook and MySpace. Pointless time wasters? Maybe. But the truth is that because of both I've managed to catch up with quite a few folks I've lost touch with over the years.

One of the friends I've connected with again, Jane, fortunately has a job that sometimes brings her here to LA. I saw her last Friday for the first time in a dozen years.

When we first connected on Facebook, it was funny for me to remember how when we were younger and I'd have my moments where I felt like an ugly duckling, I wanted to be Jane.

Sure, folks can say that everyone should just want to be themselves, and I can definitely say that now. But when you feel like a gangly, geeky preteen and teen, it's easy to want to be someone else. And to me, Jane always had such style, grace and personal warmth. She was creative, boys liked her a whole lot, and I remember her having the coolest pair of red jeans when we were teenagers. Don't ask why I remember random things like those jeans, but I do.

A dozen years later, she still has all those qualities. But now, she also has greater wisdom and maturity. I was so happy to give her a hug, and listen to what's been going on in her life, what her hopes and dreams are, the things that she's thinking about, and what moves her spiritually. She said some things I definitely needed to hear and it was easy to share some of what's in my heart. Indeed, our conversation picked up as if we've been talking a couple times a week. And she's generous enough to claim to have forgotten about the time I ate tons of oranges and then threw up in her bedroom.

So yes, it made me think about how important it is to keep up with the people who mean the most to me. It's something I need to commit to doing. I can't leave everything to fate.

Blog Action Day: The Environment According to Los Angelista



It's Blog Action Day and I've pledged to devote my post today to some topic related to the environment. I hope next year they pick an action day around promoting racial unity, but I'm down for making changes on behalf of the environment too.

If you've read this blog over the past couple of weeks, you know I've been on a crusade to get the trash in my neighborhood cleaned up. It's terrible to think that there are grown adults that think nothing of throwing their In-and-Out Burger wrapper on the ground after they've eaten it. Adults who have no problem tossing soiled diapers and cigarettes out their car windows. Adults who drink beers and then leave the cans in the street. Oh, and let's not forget all the people who throw broken furniture out on the curb and leave dead, discarded mattress out for animals to urinate on and homeless people to sleep on.

We always think someone else is going to clean up after us. After all, how many of us leave the half-eaten bucket of popcorn, the empty box of Junior Mints and the soda container on the floor of the movie theatre? Or are you one of the few who actually tosses your stuff in the trash?

Of course, here in LA, all that trash tossed away sits on the ground until the rain comes and washes it into the storm drains. The flood channels and the LA River fill up with tons of rushing trash...all floating into the Pacific Ocean. You can't swim in the ocean for a couple of days after it rains here. It's too toxic. Even when it hasn't rained, everyone I know who swims in the ocean eventually gets sick: ear infection, strep throat, weird skin rashes that doctors have never seen before.

Some people might wonder why I should care when I'm not a beach goer. I don't know how to swim and I'm not a fan of my rear in a swimsuit. But, I'm always reminded of my childhood and the one and only time my family went to the beach.

My brother and sister had a class trip to the shores of Lake Michigan. I don't know all the details, all the whys and hows of the trip, and how exactly my family ended up tagging along, but I do know that we ended up at the Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore.

It's a beautiful place. Sand dunes that rise over 100 feet in the air and rare species of butterflies. All that was pretty, but I really remember marveling at the beautiful smoke coming from the steel mills and other factories directly west of the dunes. Sure, the air smelled horrible when driving through Gary and Hammond, but from a distance, the billowing clouds of white and yellow smoke that poured from those factories were pretty. They were only a nuisance because they blotted out parts of the Chicago skyline. And I thought nothing of the possible pollution provided by the NIPSCO power plant on the eastern side of the dunes in Michigan City.

I didn't connect either the factories or the smoke to the dead fish floating in the water as I bounced in the waves. I threw one of those dead fish at my brother. He screamed in terror and rushed from the water to tell my mother. I was promptly sentenced to spending the rest of the afternoon sitting on a blanket next to her.

It was only years later when I lived in China that I really began thinking about the environment. If I didn't cover my nose with a scarf or an oxygen mask while I was out riding my bike, I'd develop nasal irritation. The snot that came out of my nose was black from inhaling the pollution. In China, I never saw a blue sky with the sun glowing like a ball of flame. Instead, the sun was obscured behind a thick haze of coal smoke and other nameless pollutants.

I know a lot of people who hate environmentalists. They say environmental activists care more about saving trees than saving people. They say being an environmentalist is a pastime for middle class white folks who need a cause to latch onto. They say that the same environmentalists that fight illegal toxic waste dumping by corporations would be horrified if their child had to go to school with black folks. Or, they say that Al Gore is a fraud who presents misinformation and has the public believing things about the environment that aren't even true.

Maybe. But it's still important work. I can't imagine what the air in LA would be like if environmental activists didn't do what they do. And, when I walk my two sons to school and I see the amount of trash that my fellow Angelenos throw on the ground, I know that it's not just CEOs at power plants that need to change the way they think about the environment.

We all have to do our part, including me. Thanks to blogger Sundry, I'm taking October and pledging to break the bottled water habit. I'm once more best friends with a Brita filter instead. If you want to join us, then go to this site and find out how you can make small changes too.


Every little bit we do counts.

Beauty Is Skin Deep

Dove has a new marketing campaign to try to get you to buy their products bring awareness about the beauty industry. It's a short film called "Onslaught" and it's about body image and self esteem for girls. I guess I shouldn't knock it because they don't have to do it at all and it does make you think.

But, it's making me think about things that I'm sure they didn't intend.




First, 95% of the images in it are of white women. So essentially, self-esteem is not for me. Yes, I think this movie is telling me that the self-esteem of black, Latino and Asian women pales in importance next to the self-esteem of our Caucasian sisters. Because you know, culturally, we are okay being a bigger size and we don't get eating disorders. Our little girls might pick the blond haired, blue-eyed baby doll as the most beautiful, but really, it's the little red-headed white girl with the cute freckles that we have to be worried about. That little red-headed girl 's gonna die under the onslaught of images that tell her that she's not dark enough, her hair isn't nappy enough, and her booty isn't round enough. Poor thang!

Gosh, it's gotta be hard for the little red-head girl to see women who look like her on the covers of every major fashion magazine every single month, especially when they're all telling her she's not good enough. And, oh no! She might find out that Lindsay Lohan has red hair and freckles in real life and have a panic attack over it. Horrors!

I guess black, Latino and Asian women shouldn't care about whether most of the media images of us are primarily of lighter skinned women. Last time I checked, I haven't seen any ads featuring really short, dark descendants of Aztecs...or of those really dark Cantonese folks...or those really dark sista's from the deep South. Hmm...I wonder why that could be.

Maybe it's because Unilever, the parent company of Dove, is too busy promoting SKIN LIGHTENERS around the world to women who aren't white. At the end of the Dove film, there's a slow-mo shot of a bunch of girls, and that's where they throw the diversity in, along with the tag line, "Talk to your daughter before the beauty industry does." Just make sure to skip the talk about how skin lighteners are racist, right?

Feel like throwing up this morning? Well watch this:


Yes, make sure to tell your daughters that if they're lighter-skinned, their career is going to be made! And they're gonna get the hot guy too!

Yes, lighter skin. That's all we need for higher self-esteem.

Popularity

Today was my youngest's fourth birthday. He claims he's still three. In fact, he was furious that I started off his morning by telling him how excited I am that he's now a big four year-old.

His response? "No I'm not. I'm going to be three forever!"

Gosh, is he an LA baby or what? Already lying about his age!

Due to the birthday, I trekked to school this morning with chocolate cupcakes for all the other students in his Pre-K class. Yes, all the trash that we've been walking past for the last week is still there, and even more has been added. Now there's also a half-full discarded shopping cart alongside the cookstove.

Anyway, I normally drop my son off with his teacher at the Pre-K gate. But, because of the cupcakes, I followed the kids to the classroom. That's when I discovered something: My son's the "popular" kid in his class.

It's weird how obvious it is that the other kids think he's all that. When he gets there, they cheer. Everyone wants to sit next to him, stand next to him and wear his Buzz Lightyear t-shirt. After school, other students don't want to leave till they've given him a high five. They ask if they can come over and hang out. They want him to come over to their homes. Their mothers look exasperated over this reluctance to say goodbye to my son.

I think the arrival of the cupcakes just sealed the popularity deal. He's not just popular now. Nope, now he's a rock star in there.

I have never had this experience at school. I've always had a couple close friends at school and that's it. In fact, I don't think I even had friends at school till maybe fourth or fifth grade.

I remember a girl in kindergarten said I did something to her. The teacher, Mrs. Bowman, pulled me into the hallway and she was going to paddle me. She actually had the paddle in her hand, but fortunately, I managed to convince her I was innocent! Yes, being falsely accused was pretty much the extent of my interaction with other kids at that age.

I skipped first grade. I'm one of those gifted kids, so no memories there.

The kids in 2nd and 3rd grade called me Oreo, zebra and salt and pepper because of my being half white and half black. They tried to beat me up on the playground. We clearly weren't friends.

In 4th-6th grade, I had two Anna's as school friends. I went over to their houses every once in awhile. I even spent the night sometimes. And then 7th grade hit and I suddenly wasn't cool anymore. I spent most of 7th grade wishing that I had something to fit into a bra and sitting by myself at lunch.

In fact, I was so unpopular that I remember going to sit down on the gym floor to eat lunch with the other girls from my class. (We had no cafeteria so we ate in the gym.)

All ten or eleven of these girls got really quiet. And then, one by one, they stood up and silently moved to another section of the gym. Once there, they burst into laughter and continued with their lunch.

I was humiliated.

Needless to say, I ate my mother's tofu and cucumber sandwich all by myself for most of the rest of that school year.

In high school, I had a couple of good friends. Sure, there were people who liked me and were friendly. But I was never one of the really cool, popular girls. I was always the chubby, nerdy friend of those girls.

In college, I made a couple of really good friends that are still my friends to this day. And I'm grateful beyond belief for them. By then, I didn't want to be popular. I just wanted to be myself, comfortable with lots of folks but just as comfortable being alone, listening to Vivaldi and reading Anna Karenina.

No, I was never the trendsetter that my youngest son so obviously is. And I wonder if this will continue throughout his life. He's so extroverted, and even at his age, so ready to party at a moments notice. He's magnetic, larger than life. We sometimes joke that he's going to be the president of some frat house at college. Or he's going to be the male version of Oprah Winfrey. One of the two.

What about you? Were you popular in school? How did you deal with your popularity (or lack thereof) as a child?

Trash, Cosmotrash and Glamourous Trash...Thank God It's Friday

I don't know about you but my week's felt seriously long. Dealing with trash, bees, a lock down at my kids school yesterday afternoon right at dismissal...ugh!

If you're unfamiliar with lock downs, that's what happens when an armed bandit is running around the neighborhood. The cops call the school and tell them to lock all the doors so that no one comes inside and shoots anybody.

Helicopters were circling overhead as I sprinted to the school. Fortunately, I got to there right when they were about to shut the doors so I got locked inside instead of outside.

We were locked up for a good twenty minutes before the "all clear" was given. I went and got my son who wanted to know if I'd seen the bad guys. Um, no. Fortunately not. Of course, on our way home we strolled our way past trash and bee central -- and suddenly, I heard a voice behind me. It was the assistant principal at the school and he was talking to someone about getting everything cleaned up! Whoo hoo! Is that good news or what? See, all y'all who checked the "keep dreaming" option on my poll just needed to have a little more faith.

Happy about this development, and eternally grateful to Alejandra in Eric Garcetti's office, I came home and got to talking to a friend who suggested that I take that Myers Briggs personality test over again. She wanted to see how my personality's changed since I've been working from home and being the neighborhood vigilante. Last year, I was an INFP - an "Introverted Intuitive Feeling Perceiving" person. This meant that I was supposedly a "healer" type. And my, "tranquil, reserved exterior masks a passionate inner life". I could also find the good in anyone and devote myself selflessly to a cause.

I guess all that's over since I'm now an ISFP , an "Introverted Sensing Feeling Perceiving" person. I've also switched from being a "healer" type to being an "artisan" type. Now I'm lighthearted, easygoing and completely in tune with all my senses. One site told me that essentially, I've gone from being Mother Teresa's apprentice to being Jacqueline Onassis. I guess that's a good thing. But, then again, yet another place said that this is the "crackpot" personality. Great.

Or maybe someone is trying to turn me into a crackpot. For example, did you know that the October issue of Glamour magazine is it's "1st annual figure flattery issue"?

Yeah, I didn't know that either until a copy of the 340 page glossy mysteriously arrived in my mailbox yesterday. My name and address are on the label, but I have not subscribed.

Perhaps it's a gift from someone? Yeah, someone who wants to turn me into a dumb bimbo! Someone who thinks I need to learn, "101 Ways to Dress Your Body Better" and, "39 Sexy Things To Do With Your Hair".

I'll admit, in my efforts to get bees removed and trash cleaned up around my neighborhood, I have probably been slacking in the hot, sexy hair department. Yes, maybe the owner of the corner store down the hill is sick of seeing me with my hair slicked back into a granny bun and so decided to gift me with a subscription.

Or maybe someone somehow found out about the bowl of Breyer's Triple Chocolate ice cream that I ate the other night and now thinks I need to brush up on, "The Secret Reasons Women Gain Weight and How to Stop". Or maybe someone figured I needed to lighten up a bit and read all about, "The Guys Who Can't Stop Fantasizing About You".

Really, are women supposed to care about stupid crap like this? Just imagine, if I was focused so much on fantasies and the, "12 Things No One Ever Tells You About Sex," then there might not be people cleaning up the mess by my son's school right now.

**Update: It must have been wishful thinking on my part. I just came back from the school and nothing's cleaned. But they put some pesticide on the tree where the bees came out. Oh, and my son's teacher only got paid $10 because LAUSD screwed up the checks. Nothing like working for a whole month and then getting paid $10!**

So yes, after all this "trash" I think I'm going curl up on my couch tonight, watch some movies and order some red curry with tofu from my favorite Thai restaurant in LA, Leela Thai.

Yum.

I'll leave you with a song that's appropriate given the week I've had. I used to have quite a lovely collection of techno records. One of them, "Cosmotrash", was by an artist called Trashman. I have fond memories of dancing to this back in '92/'93 at the old Kaboom nightclub in Chicago. Unfortunately, someone stole the record from me in '96 and I've never been able to get another copy. So, imagine my surprise at finding it on YouTube last night! And isn't it a wonderful thing that I'm tech savvy enough to know how to rip the audio?

Take a listen - don't be scared, it's a great record to dance to. It's a very Friday night record. Back in the day I used to speed it up considerably on my turntables. Hmm...I wonder what my personality type was back then?

Trash, Trash, and Even MORE Trash!

I live in a "hot" neighborhood where homes are going for around $800K. The small bungalow across the street that was renting for $3500 a month must have finally been snapped up because the "For Rent" sign was down this morning.
But, despite the trendiness, I get to see this lovely sight while walking my sons to school. Yeah, that's some sort of meat in that pot. All this was there at 8:00 this morning, at 10:30, and again at 2:30 this afternoon. I guess the chef had to go out for more A1 sauce or something.

Hmm...I wonder if the Mayor of Los Angeles' kids also walk by this sort of thing on the way to school? Are there these sort of trash issues in Mount Washington or Hancock Park? Would this be allowed to sit on the street for days outside of the Ivy or any of the paparazzi-filled boutiques on Robertson Boulevard?

I don't know. For some reason, my guess is that Antonio Villaraigosa's children aren't seeing makeshift cook stoves on their way to school. And Paris Hilton isn't stepping over abandoned car seats as she exits the latest trendy store.

Some other parents complained to the principal of my kids' school about what your seeing in the picture since this is right next to school property. She claims that there's nothing she can do about it. She says she's called the city and nothing happens.

Given my success ridding my street of the pack of drunks (absent for a week now!), I decided to email my city councilman, Eric Garcetti about this situation. I sent him this photo and I detailed how the trash is so bad on one of the streets we walk on en route to the school that I have to pick my Pre-K son up because he's afraid to step through it. Then I told him how in the next block there's the mattresses and abandoned furniture propped up against utility poles and street lights.

There's also the tree that's infested with bees. The bees were going crazy today because someone left this beer case right next to the tree. I'm not sure if there are any bottles in it, but the bees were swarming. I don't know about you, but I'm not a fan of bee stings. I wonder if Mr. Garcetti likes getting stung by bees?

I got one of those generic, "Thank you for your email. You're important but we're really busy!" kind of replies. However, the email did say, "Most city services can be addressed 24 hours a day, seven days a week, by calling 3-1-1. You can report a pothole, a sofa left on your street, graffiti or broken street lights by calling 3-1-1."

So I called 3-1-1. I got put on hold for awhile, then transferred around a few times. Ultimately though, I ended up talking to Operator 57. He wanted to know what my issue was. Man oh man, where to start?

I gave him a detailed list of all the locations where trash and illegal dumping have gone down in my little neck of the woods. After the fourth location I gave him, I could hear the weariness in his voice as he asked, "Is that all, Miss?"

"Um, actually, no. We also have a tree infested with bees."

"Bees?" I could practically hear him rolling his eyes and see him mouthing, "What the f***!"

"Yes, bees." I replied.

I told him all about the bees and he said, "So you have a bee hive that you want the city to remove?"

"Yes," I said. And to throw him a bone, I told him that that was the last of my issues.

He said he'd put in a request for all of it.

Good. I thanked him profusely for being so patient.

Now let's see how long it takes for everything to get moved. What do you think? One day? Two? I've added a little poll over in the sidebar. You can vote till Friday. My vote? One week. But maybe the city will surprise me. Keeping my fingers crossed...

All I Did Was Push Her

My lovely cousin Salena is here visiting me. She's here visiting from North Carolina and it's her first time here in LA. I haven't seen her in at least five years. I think the last time we saw each other, we were at a funeral. It's much more fun to see each other when we're not getting together for a sad occasion.

She got here on Saturday and, despite her jet lag, I took her out to see my friend Tom's band, Point Five, perform at a club called Studio Suite in North Hollywood.

We left the club at around 1:30 in the morning, observed a drunk driver in a minivan weaving across lanes on the 101 Freeway. Unfortunately , it's not just the Kiefer Sutherland's of the world that drive while ridiculously intoxicated out here. Thankfully though, we managed to get home safely.

Once home, we were up and chatting away when all of the sudden, my husband came into the living room whispering, "Are you hearing what's going on outside?" We had the windows closed in the living room and the two of us were making a fair amount of noise ourselves so we hadn't heard anything at all. But, we peered out the window and observed an LAPD squad car pulled up right in front of our building.

Apparently, some guy had been assaulting a woman right there under our windows. Good thing someone else had called the police because I hadn't heard any noise at all. My husband had heard though because the windows in my bedroom were open. All the noise woke him up. So we went in there to spy on what was going down.

By the time I got to surreptitiously peeping out my bedroom window trying to photograph and videotape the situation unfolding right beneath me, the one LAPD officer had the guy handcuffed. The other officer was standing a few feet away with the woman. They both seemed pretty drunk and the guy kept saying things like, "All I did was push her! She's my wife, I can push her if I want to!"

In my mind, it needed to be the back of the squad car for this loser. But nope, the officers started to give him this big lecture on not putting your hands on a woman and how basically he just needed to let her go home and how they both needed to sleep it off. The wife gave the, "He really didn't hurt me!" spiel. And then, they took the handcuffs off the guy and let them both go. Both of them took off on foot down the street.

What the hell?

I've never been hit by a guy before but I know that making excuses is part of the cycle of abuse that women get caught up in. Still though, I just don't understand! I really had to resist the urge to yell out the window, "Why aren't you arresting him?" or , "You need to press charges! HE HIT YOU!"

My cousin and I both agreed that this guy was probably gonna start beating her ass the minute they were out of the cops' sight. We also agreed that if the guy had been black instead of white, the handcuffs would have stayed on and a trip to jail would have been the next step for him.

Despite this though, my cousin still thinks LA is awesome. Violence against women happens in North Carolina too so it's not like she'd think it's just something that happens out here.

We've all seen it before, too many times. And sure enough, a few minutes after the police were gone, we heard some yelling and a woman screaming. It sounded like it was coming from a couple of blocks away.

Was this noise coming from the same couple or was it a completely different scenario? Either way, it's sad.

I just wish LAPD had arrested him. I think it's incredibly wrong that those officers didn't.