Reflections on 2007

Whew, it's almost the end of 2007. I feel like I should be listening to that 1980's Europe song, "The Final Countdown"! Can't you just hear the synths?

When I lived in Chicago I spent a bunch of New Year's Eves down at the Hyatt on Wacker Drive. I'd roll in there, all nineteen or twenty years old of me, wearing jeans and black Dr. Martens. I'd sit in the bar drinking coffee and eating strawberry cheesecake, enjoying watching all of the sparkling, glittering people.

It always seemed like there were way too many folks desperate to have a good time but looking like they weren't enjoying themselves so much. There was too much pressure put on the evening. And truly, no evening can measure up to all that hype.

One year I was really mischievous and...shh...I stole two packs of cigarettes and some cash out of the pockets of a drunk I found passed out in the hotel hallway. I don't know why since I don't even smoke.

Alas, times have changed and I stayed home on New Year's Eve last year. The first moments of 2007 found me dancing in my living room with my sons while watching one of my favorite bands, AFI, play a cover of Blur's "Song 2" on MTV.



It was definitely a rockin' start to 2007. In fact, it wouldn't be far-fetched to say that 2007 is one of the best years I've had in awhile. It's the year I got a life again.

I started to dream once more. I got real friends again because I stopped saying I was too busy. It's the year I realized that I don't get along well with people who lack integrity, and that's okay.

I tried some new things this year. My friend Jenny taught me how to make sushi. And I went to my first professional soccer game. Yes, I saw David Beckham play...and lose. Too bad. But he looked good doing it. Thank goodness for binoculars.

This is the also the year I got back into reading a couple books every week. I revisited old favorites like the book a whole bunch of us wish we'd written, Toni Morrison's "The Bluest Eye". I always felt like this book does such a heartbreakingly good job showing what racism does to people on a psychological level. Sadly, society frequently ignores the psychological effects of oppression, and I need to be reminded that I am not crazy when I feel the way I sometimes feel, when I see the things I see.

I also fell in love with new novels such as "The Journal of Dora Damage" by first time novelist, Belinda Starling, who is now, sadly enough, deceased. And on the flip side, I finally read Phillipa Gregory's "The Other Boleyn Girl" and really, I just do not understand the hype. I felt empathy for neither Mary nor Anne Boleyn. The whole time I was reading it, I just wanted to sing this classic house tune. I know. I'm gonna be struck by lightning.

I've done lots of writing this year, which is probably why 2007 ended up being such a happy year for me. I took another writing class, got my first paid writing job and did my best in both NaNoWriMo and NaBloPoMo. Most of this fall has seen me tapping away on a keyboard, meditating on what should happen next and jotting down the scenes and dialogue that come to me. I've also written a boatload of total crap, but that's okay because I feel like I'm getting closer to something profound.

I definitely stepped up my eavesdropping game. I overheard some really crazy things this year, particularly in Starbucks. In case you weren't reading this blog last January or February, here's a couple of posts that make me smile a bit every time I read them. This one details an attempt to spit game gone wrong and this one is about a couple of confused, girl crazy teenage boys.

One of the best things I did this year is deciding to stop straightening my hair. It's been six months since I straightened it and I'm not missing being attached at the hip to a flat iron. Interestingly enough, since I first wrote about this back in October, I get more search engine hits to my post about doing my hair in a straw set than any other topic.

It goes without saying that music was huge for me this year. According to my iTunes play count, I listened to "Cities of Night" by Blaqk Audio a whopping 739 times this year. Actually, come to think of it, that's only since mid-August since their album wasn't even released till August 14th. I also made a custom ring-tone of this track. Obsessive, I know, but when I like something, I really like it. I write to this song a whole lot so if I listen to it 50 times in a row on repeat, it just sort of fades into my subconscious and things flow from there.



I also saw Blaqk Audio perform live back in September at the Mayan in downtown LA and it was a fantastic show. I was only a few rows back from the stage and it was so much fun. I'm still so surprised that the opening DJ posted in the comments on that entry, mad that I didn't like his set. He's probably made a voodoo doll of me by now.

My other favorite show of the year was Muse. Folks are always so shocked when I say I went to go see Muse. It's like they look at me and assume I only listen to Jill Scott and Anthony Hamilton. Um, no. I love those two but for real, roll with me, get ready to rock, m'kay? Here's some footage from the Muse show I went to. Totally off the hook, particularly if you fast forward to the 3:27 mark. See if you don't do a little head banging too when you listen.



In case you weren't feeling it, my husband was right next to me having the WTF moment on your behalf.

On New Year's Eve last year, I wouldn't have predicted I'd end up visiting New Orleans' 9th Ward back in March or that I'd be so inspired and moved by love and loss that I'd write a sonnet for the first time in years.

On the other hand, I haven't been surprised by all the dancing around Barack Obama's racial identity.

And I'm not surprised that we have a media that overwhelmingly ignores black women who've disappeared while making white women acting a fool in Hollywood the center of the universe.

Who could have predicted the Don Imus debacle? The Jena Six? Michael Vick? Every baseball player under the sun taking steroids? And that the Iraq war would continue to drag on?

I take that last one back. The war dragging on was pretty predictable.

And finally, as 2007 draws to a close...

Thank you to everyone who read this blog over the past year, and I especially thank all of you who have engaged me with your comments.

Thank you for those of you who encouraged me, prayed for me, and challenged me to be a better person than I was on December 31, 2006.

Thank you to everyone who pursued truth and wasn't afraid to tell the truth. God willing I will see you tomorrow in 2008.

Why I Don't Use UPS If I Can Help It

Two UPS "Info Notice" stickies were on the door to my apartment building yesterday. One on top of the other. And they both looked like this: 100% blank.

Now, if this notice was stuck on the outside door of your apartment building, would you have any reason to believe there's a package for you?

Is there anything in the "Date' box? The "To" box?

Is there any writing at all on this info notice?

If your eyes see what my eyes see, the answer is a resounding, "NO!"

This "Info Notice" needs another name. It should be named the "Don't Use UPS" notice. Or how about the, "Fire the Extremely Trifling UPS Driver" notice?

Yeah, I like that second option and here's why:

The UPS drivers who come to my neighborhood regularly do things like not bother to ring the bell. They just stick the notice up without ringing. And they'll mark down that it's the final delivery attempt even when no other delivery attempts have been made.

There was a little fiasco back in October when we were waiting and waiting for a package, called the company we'd ordered from, and found out the package had been returned for non-delivery. And we'd received zero notices from UPS.

And then of course there was the time that I was waiting for something else, called UPS customer service, told them that I'd gotten a 3rd attempt notice, no other notices and besides I'd been home ALL DAY...and I got told that the drivers operate on a tight schedule and maybe he hadn't had time to leave a notice. Talk about the essence of "we want to lose you as a customer" responses right there.

Then I got told that the delivery would be made by 6 PM...and the driver showed up after 8:00 with an attitude.

Need some more reasons to skip UPS? Well, how about my sister sent me an item and she had an employee at the UPS store pack it. Said item was broken when it got here and we had to go through major rigmarole to get her $40 shipping and handling money refunded. Of course, they left out refunding actual purchase price of the item that was broken.

So given all this I pulled both notices down and called their 800 number. I figured I'd check and see who in my building these packages were for. First I had to go through five annoying minutes of an automated phone stuff that left me wanting to yell profanities into the phone. Then I was on hold for about ten minutes.

Finally I got a guy on the phone, explained the situation to him and gave him the tracking number off the first slip. All I wanted to know was if it was package for my address. And no, it was for someone a good THREE blocks away. So what the heck was it doing stuck on my door?

I almost didn't ask about the second notice, the one hidden directly underneath the first notice on the door. After all, that was probably for that other address as well, right?

WRONG!

I went ahead and gave the tracking number...and guess what, the package was for me and the driver claimed that this was a second attempt and no one had been home. I asked what time the delivery attempts were made and sure enough, both times a delivery had supposedly been attempted were two times I'd been home. Besides, I don't know what's in the package! Maybe a birthday present for me???

Someone is supposed to be calling me tomorrow to discuss this with me and I am definitely looking forward to the conversation. I don't want to be mean, but the level of ineptness is ridiculous.

Really, I'm sorry if you happen to be reading this and also work at UPS, but I'm not a fan of your people. Quite frankly, I'd rather go stand in line at the post office or pay more for FedEx than waste any time or money with UPS.

Grateful to Have So Many Candles

Whew, I will definitely be up in the gym tomorrow working off the huge slice of carrot cake I just ate. It was SO good though.

And I'll tell you about my fun afternoon tomorrow as well because guess what? Madame Insomniac is going to bed!

Don't Call Me at 5:26 AM on My Birthday!

Especially don't call and then hang up the phone when I get up and answer. Really, that's just asking to find out why my family used to sing a little song around me.

"She's so mean and evil, even rain don't fall on her!"

I was sleeping pretty deeply and could have probably slept a full eight hours. But NO, someone named Kimberly C_____ (thank you, Caller ID) had to call my house this morning at exactly 5:26 AM.

I woke up in a total panic when I heard the phone ringing. I mean, only phone calls that start with, "We regret to inform you...," happen at that time in the morning. So OF COURSE I jumped up, and ran to answer.

"Hello?" I was breathless. Freaked out.

Click. The caller hung up.

And that's when I looked at my Caller ID. I did not recognize the name. I remember saying out loud, "Wish I could beat that heffa's ass!" "How nice of her to call!"

I started to call Kimberly back. I mean, is it really so hard to apologize for dialing the wrong number and waking someone up at 5:26 AM? Especially when it's their birthday?

I began dialing. 323-255...

Then a thought of genius proportions came to me! I should call her up tonight at like 3 AM and see how she feels about it!

Yeah, but then I'll probably find out that Kimberly's man is in MS-13 or something.

I know, I have to just let it go. But I'm cranky! I only slept 2 hours between Tuesday morning and Thursday morning (darned insomnia) and managed to finally fall asleep again last night at a little after 1 AM.

Needless to say, I'm a little tired right now. And I just called the police because someone appears to be stealing a silver Mercedes across the street!

Oh yes, this is going to be a birthday to remember!

Assassins and Child Molesters

I didn't sleep last night. I had too much on my mind.

I was distracting myself from myself with the early morning cable news when the first report of Benazir Bhutto being assassinated came on. It's heartbreaking to see such a thing happen because she didn't deserve it. Who could think that God would bless such actions? And true, lots of people are "assassinated" by rival gangs every single day in this city and none of them deserve it either. But it matters in a different way that such a thing would happen to her at this time in history.

I still don''t know what to do with the story, what to make of all the political fallout from it. There's certainly enough political jockeying being done by those currently in power and those who are running for President in this country. But I don't know what to make of it, and so I will tell you about something else that's been on my mind, something I can not necessarily make sense of, but it's not an unfamiliar topic. In fact, I've seen it too much.

Do you remember the group B2K?

You probably don't if you aren't one to keep tabs on the ever-revolving door of pop culture, but B2K was a boy band from LA that had a string of huge hits a couple of years ago. All the teeny-bopper girls on both sides of the pond were crazy for them and they seemed to perform on every music awards show under the sun. They even made one of those dance movies that come along every once in awhile, "You Got Served".

They weren't the most stellar singers on earth but they could dance and had great production, so it worked. Here's the video for one of their biggest hits, "Bump, Bump, Bump". I remember when this song came out it was definitely a banger, and it went to #1 on Billboard, but the video creeped me out for a few reasons.

First, it features Sean Combs, also known as P.Diddy, Puffy, Puff Daddy, etc. He's creepy in his own right, but an additional creeptastic vibe was created because he's like twice the age of the teenage B2K boys. It's a really weird dynamic to watch him performing such a sexually suggestive (written by Chi-town's finest, R. Kelly) song with them.

Second, the female "dancers" in the video also seemed to have a few years on the guys. It could just be the power of makeup and hard living but the women definitely didn't seem to be 17 year-olds. Everyone wants to talk about older men and young girls, but a wink and a nod is given to younger guys and older women, like being 17 and able to pull a 21 year-old means you're some sex stud.

Third, I got to thinking about how I'd feel if those were my sons. It made me think about how I wouldn't want my sons around that industry, with all the predatory people who just seem to be absolutely morally bankrupt and just pimping folks for profit.

And then suddenly, kaput. B2K was over. The lead singer, Omarion, ended up going solo but the rest of them disappeared...until now.

A few days ago, two of the former members alleged via a YouTube video that their svengali-like manager (and cousin?), Chris Stokes, molested them and other members of the group beginning when they were pre-teens.

Many people don't know that 1 in 4 girls and 1 in 6 boys are sexually abused in this country. When I was a teacher I'd look around my classroom and know that statistically, sexual abuse had happened to at least two or three of my students. I'd look to see which ones still sucked their thumbs when they thought no one was looking, which ones danced a bit too suggestively on the playground.

When I was supervising teachers, it was always heartbreaking when one of my teachers would call and ask what they should do to work with a student they'd recently learned was being abused. It never was an easy answer.

There are a lot of folks who have had some relative, family friend, coach, pastor or stranger sexually abuse them. But folks don't talk about it. And we damn sure don't discuss how it happens to boys. I find that there is so much abuse going on that sometimes there's a "just get over it" kind of message sent to victims. Plus, there's a vibe that boys like the abuse if it happens with a woman.

But what if the alleged offender is a black male? And it's not Michael Jackson? And the victim is also a black male?

What does it mean for these young black men who were the object of a million teen girl fantasies to put a video of themselves on the internet where they allege such crimes? And one explicitly references having had anal sex performed on him?

For the young men, making such allegations is the equivalent of giving up their mythological status as a heterosexual, well hung, black male sex stud. The word "gay" rapidly started to fly around the sites that were reporting the story. LAPD began an investigation...and very few doubted that the claims weren't true. Because what black male in his right mind would want to go down the path to being considered, as the term goes, "suspect"?

Today, one of the young man from B2K recanted his allegations.

At least 20% of abused people recant so what are the adoring B2K fans to believe? Especially now that the other alleged victim has stated that the recantation is due to being rolled up on and threatened by Compton Bloods.

Yes, gang members. Sounds crazy but that makes it all quite believable to me...remember the story of Suge Knight hanging Vanilla Ice off a balcony? Yeah, not so far-fetched anymore, is it?

Al Queda or the Bloods. Take you pick. Because whether someone is an assassin or a child molester, surely both are killing someone, even if for the victim that remains alive, it's all a figurative thing.

Christmas + Chai + Candied Yams = Happiness

Merry Christmas to each of you! I hope you had a fantastic day yesterday whether or not you observe the holiday.

I've noticed that sometimes people think that just because I'm a Baha'i that I'm anti-Christian and therefore a Christmas hater or something. This is so not true.

In some ways I "get" this misunderstanding because so many of the problems in our world are caused by people fighting over religious differences. Everyone seems to want to hit everyone else over the head with their "my religion is right" stick. However I truly believe all religion has the same fundamental truth and comes from the same source. It's all good until we quite fallible humans get interpretive and corrupt things to suit our own desires.

So, even though the Baha'i gift giving and celebration season, Ayyam-i-ha, is at the end of February, I definitely don't mind being a part of the celebrations of my friends and family who are Christian. As a matter of fact, I went to a fun Christmas Eve party and yesterday morning my two boys had a fun time opening the generous presents sent from Christian aunts, cousins and friends.

The boys turned our living room into a sea of wrapping paper and then I helped my youngest put together some Legos. After that, I figured I'd head to Starbucks for some Christmas "breakfast": a grande soy chai with a shot of vanilla.

Once at the Starbucks, I ordered and then observed that there were three other people ahead of me waiting for their drinks. It was going to be a minute since there were only two people behind the counter. But this was no problem since I started entertaining myself by analyzing the bright red, pointy-toed cowboy boots on the feet of the man standing to my right. I mean, seriously, what kind of guy wears boots like that on Christmas Day in LA?

My ruminations abruptly skidded to a halt when a voice at the order counter responded to the barista's usual, "What can I get you?" with a loud, "Give me whatever drink has the most caffeine!"

I turned to observe a man with a graying ZZ Top-ish type beard standing at the front of the line After a bit of back and forth banter between the barista and this man, it became clear that the requested high caffeine drink would not include any shots of espresso, pumps of syrup or even a smidgen of chocolate.

"So it sounds like a regular coffee is what you're looking for?" asked the barista. Both he and the growing line behind ZZ Top Beard looked decidedly hopeful that an ordering decision seemed to be nigh.

"Sure, what's the biggest size you've got?" asked ZZ Top Beard.

I took in his brown corduroy pants, crumpled white button-down shirt and wire rimmed glasses. It was a stereotypical hippie turned crusty academic outfit. I figured he'd just recently woken up out of a publish or perish coma and had decided to investigate the Starbucks phenomenon for the first time ever.

"A venti," said the barista, reaching out to grab a large cup.

"Venti?" ZZ Top Beard rubbed his chin, er, beard, before continuing. "What language is that?"

"Italian," replied the barista. He pursed his lips a bit and then offered, "Would you like a venti coffee, sir?"

"Italian?" queried ZZ Top Beard. "Now that's really interesting! Why not just call it a 'large?'"

ZZ Top Beard appeared to mull over his own question for a few seconds and then asked a doozy.

" Was Starbucks started in Italy because I lived in Italy for 30 years?" He sighed with regret. "I don't remember how to speak any Italian though. Only "Ciao"."

At this point, the red cowboy boot wearing guy next to me uttered a completely un-Christmaslike question: "Are you f*%king kidding me?"

This exact sentiment had just run through my mind as well but it seemed so blasphemous to even think such a profanity laced thought on Christmas Day. Plus, I figured ZZ Top Beard was either 1) a bit drunk 2) off his medication or 3) an actor and we were all on some sort of twisted Candid Camera type show and would get money for staying calm.

I began to hope I'd go home with a crisp $20 bill, compliments of some TV crew.

As for the barista, he seemed fully immune from the desire to swear out loud. There was not even a hint of sarcasm in his voice as he shot back, "That's too bad you don't remember Italian, sir, but, no, Starbucks wasn't started in Italy." He smiled a bit before adding, "It was started in Seattle. Now, can I get you that venti drip?"

Of course, ZZ Top Beard asked what "drip" was. Then he had to inquire about what kind of coffee beans were included in the holiday blend. And as the line behind him expanded to at least eleven mutinous looking patrons, he started up on a tangent about how he only drinks caffeine once a year so when he does, he really, "Goes all out!"

Red boots guy next to me got his drink, a venti chai with a shot of valencia. He stormed out, muttering unholy oaths to himself along the way.

In contrast, Saint Barista nodded and smiled as he poured ZZ Top Beard's coffee and handed it across the counter. ZZ Top Beard paid and moved to the side to pour some cream into his coffee. And then, before I knew it, he was out the door too.

I waited for the TV crews to jump out with their cameras.

Nothing. There was no Ashton Kutcher look alike shouting, "You've been punk'd!"

"Grande soy chai with a shot of vanilla," called the barista.

Ah, yes, my drink. There was no $20 bill to be had. It was all just life in LA on Christmas Day.

I came home, talked to friends and family on the phone, watched movies, made my awesome candied yams, took a nap, watched the family devour the candied yams, and refused to wash dishes.

Yes, it was a wonderful Christmas Day. Except for the dishes. Sadly, they're still in the sink. If you feel like coming over to wash them for me, let me know.

I'll take you to Starbucks as a thank you.

O, Come All Ye Flirtatious Liars

It's officially Christmas Eve.

I'm still not sure if I'm ready to believe that this is actually true, that it's really December 24th, but all signs point to yes.

Besides, there were actually carolers outside my local Trader Joe's last night. They were singing "O Come All Ye Faithful" while standing outside by the shopping carts. They were singing in Latin. And yours truly knows all the words in both English and Latin. So I took my worst. singing. voice. ever. self over there and joined in with them.

"Adeste fidelis, laeti triumphantes
Venite, venite in Bethlehem
Natum videte, regem angelorum
Venite adoremus, venite adoremus
Venite adoremus, dominum."

Gosh, I haven't sung that in ages! Love it! But, I have to tell you, five seconds into it, I began imagining other shoppers saying, "Betty, I didn't know black people knew Latin. Did you?"

Or at least that's what I thought someone would say until a woman grabbed a shopping cart and growled to her friend, "I can't stand all this Christmas-y, Jesus s*%t! It's everywhere!"

Um, yeah, because Christmas is, like, tomorrow, dummy. But whatever, I'll just blame her grinchiness on PMS. Or hunger.

No kidding, she looked like she could use a sandwich... and a Norman Vincent Peale book.

Seriously, she really does need to think on the bright side. I mean, even the most serious atheist Angeleno has to be thrilled about how awesome traffic was this weekend. It was wonderfully light because everyone's headed back to whatever hole in the wall they're originally from. They'll have a nice Christmas dinner and try to avoid awkward conversations with their relatives about how their movie career isn't quite taking off the way they'd planned but no, that wasn't them in that porn magazine, no matter what Uncle Cutty says.

Speaking of movies, I went on a date with my eldest son on Saturday morning to check out National Treasure: Book of Secrets. We went to the 9:45 AM show because there was no way I was paying $12.75 a ticket to see that film. I was all about the matinee price of $8.75 and the matinee is only the first showing on the weekends.

As far as the film itself, the best performance hands down goes to Nicolas Cage's lacefront wig. I'm serious, it was rather entertaining to watch his hair bounce and shake during all the action sequences. I honestly don't get why he doesn't just say it loud, "I'm bald and I'm proud!" After all, we all know he hasn't had that much hair since forever.

Anyway, after the movie, I dragged my son into Anthropologie. He clearly wanted to die but I gave him my stern mommy face and told him there were, "Cute things on sale."

I fingered some blue and white dessert plates but quickly got distracted by someone speaking loudly en Francais. I turned, and a few feet away from me a thirty-something white guy was talking with two very attractive black women.

The gist of their conversation was that one of the women hadn't seen him in awhile and wondered how he was doing and where he'd been. This woman did most of the talking and literally purred, "We should get together soon. I've missed you." I caught her hand brushing the lapel on his jacket. He agreed in a sly, seductive tone that indeed, they should.

I thought nothing else of this rather obvious flirtation until I was standing in the incredibly long, snake-shaped checkout line trying to entertain my morbidly bored son. Suddenly, I heard a rather harsh voice say, "What were you talking to those black women about?"

I looked up and saw a rather annoyed looking blond addressing the same guy who'd been talking to the two women.

He played it super coy with his response. "What women?"

She didn't falter though, and she certainly didn't whisper. "Those two black women you were talking to."

I was immediately all eyes and ears. This was going to get interesting. This was what holiday shopping is about: eavesdropping on people!

He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, arrogantly, and said, "Oh, those women I said hi to?"

She nodded, waiting for his explanation, her HUGE diamond ring glinting in the light.

"Oh they were nobody," he drawled. "The one was a secretary at the office and then, poof, she just disappeared one day." He waved his hand like he was a magician performing a trick.

Then he changed the subject and asked her about what she was buying and whether she wanted him to put it on his card. or not.

She did want him to put it on his card.

A part of me (the insane part) wanted to yell out, "Take it from this black woman that he's LYING and he's about to go have hot, tantric sex later on tonight with that other woman!"

But another part of me wanted to just laugh uncontrollably. Now that I think about it, I suppose it was his superior demeanor coupled with her complete inability to whisper. I wonder what Christmas carols they sing at home, "O, Come All Ye Flirtatious Liars"?

Perhaps the carolers should sing that rousing tune outside the Trader Joe's instead. I wonder if anyone would complain.

All Points Bulletin: Techno the Hamster

Yesterday morning I was nursing a cup of tea and watching the early morning news, when my son tearfully emerged from his room and asked me, "Where's Techno?"

Techno is our hamster. He moved in two weeks ago and ever since then he's been happily spinning on his exercise wheel all night. It's like he thinks he's at a rodent rave or something.

I totally get the nocturnal thing since I'm usually up all night as well. But unlike Techno, I don't get to curl up in a ball and sleep all day.

Staring at my tears running down my son's cheeks, I could only think about how how tired I was and how it was barely 6 AM. It was waay too early for anyone to be asking me where a damn hamster was.

I responded to my son's query with a completely unsympathetic, "He's in his cage. Go back to bed. Now!" In my defense, I'd only slept for maybe an hour so the emotionally intelligent brain synapses probably weren't connecting.

There were even more tears and my son wailed, "No he's not in there and his cage door is open! He's escaped!"

This was not what I needed to hear! I popped off the couch and followed my son to his room. Sure enough, the cage door was wide open.

"He's dead!" my son cried. "I'm never going to see Techno again!" He dissolved into a crying bundle on the floor.

I could only hug him and say stupid things like, "Don't worry, Techno's just out exploring! He'll come back as soon as he's through partying."

"No, he's dead! A cat probably ate him!"

I reminded my son that we didn't even have a cat, but he was inconsolable. Every five seconds he asked me, "Have you found Techno yet?"

This led to me promising that no matter what I would find Techno. I explained that he was probably curled in a ball sleeping behind a bookcase or something so we'd have to wait till nighttime.

The sun sets at like 4:30 in the afternoon though so I quickly felt like George Bush clarifying a statement about catching Osama bin Laden.

"I didn't say when I'd find him. I just said I would find him, so chill out! Sheesh!"

Because a downpour of tears seemed to be imminent, I clarified, " He's only going to come out when it's all quiet and he thinks everyone's asleep."

Around 10 PM, after me being harassed every half hour about finding Techno, everyone but yours truly was snoring away. It's no secret that I have problems sleeping. And if I'm lucky enough to fall asleep, that doesn't mean I stay asleep. Sometimes it's worse than others, but right now I've been getting maybe three hours of sleep a night. If I'm lucky.

So imagine my frustration that last night, the one night in forever where I actually felt tired enough to fall asleep at a normal hour, I was instead stalking Techno the escaped hamster. But a promise is a promise and I knew the motherhood card would surely be tarnished if Techno wasn't firmly ensconced in his cage come morning.

I put some of Techno's food in the middle of my living room and curled up on the couch with my laptop and a blanket, hoping it wouldn't be too long before our hungry, hard-partying hamster emerged for a bite to eat.

An hour went by. I surfed around online, probably came over and read what was happening on your blog. Nothing. was. moving. Not a creature was stirring, not even a hamster. I could barely keep my eyes open.

Another hour went by. I was cold and tired. I got up and turned the heat up. I wanted to go to bed. But how could I face my son's eyes in the morning and say, "Honey, I didn't catch your hamster because I was frickin' exhausted. Sorry."

I picked up my old dog-eared copy of "Dracula". Could pondering the sexual innuendo in a classic novel keep me awake?

Apparently not because I "came to" just before the book slid out of my hands. And that's when I spied something stealthily creeping across the living room floor. Yes! The little sucker had emerged!

Unfortunately, I was too clumsy in my approach. Techno gave me a mean side eye and did a 180. I chased him across the living room and into the hallway where he slid past my outstretched fingers and into the hallway closet. I poked around in there and determined he was either hiding behind the little file cabinet I keep in there, or else he'd jumped into a shoe. Either way, he was no where to be found.

Back to the couch I went to wait for Techno to emerge once more. Two hours went by before he came out again, skittering across the floor toward the bait. Before I knew it, I was creeping along on my hands and knees, sneaking up on him. I managed to get close enough to reach out and snatch him. This time though, he didn't even try to run. In fact, he seemed happy to be going back to the big house.

I put Techno back in his cage, shut it and turned the cage so the door faced the wall. I'm not trying to have to catch him again! I spent a moment watching him happily guzzle water and chow down on his food. Then he climbed into his nest, curled up and went to sleep.

Me? Well, um...I never went back to sleep.

But keeping my promise to my son makes my fatigue all worth it. He woke up extra early this morning just to check the cage and see if his beloved Techno was there.

After several moments of squealing with delight, he came running into the living room yelling, "Mommy! You caught Techno! You're the best mommy ever!"

I wouldn't mind letting Techno escape again just to hear that one more time.

C'mon, Make it a "Day Without a Disposable Bag"

Plastic bags, they're everywhere. They're by far the number one trash item I see thrown on the streets of LA.

When it rains here like it did on Tuesday night everybody worries about traffic. And true, it's crazy that Angelenos are such terrible drivers that we had over 280 accidents in 12 hours during that rain.

But it's also a tragedy that when it rains all those plastic bags thrown on sidewalks and in gutters get washed into the storm drains and out to the ocean.

What happens once all that plastic and trash is out in the ocean?

Well, you know plastic doesn't dissolve, right? I mean, the salt in the water doesn't cause plastic or other forms of trash to break down and just disappear.

That means that scientists have discovered a "trash vortex" that's, ahem, cough, THE SIZE OF TEXAS! It's floating in the Pacific Ocean between Hawaii and the West Coast.

Next time you order some fish at a restaurant, stop a moment and think about what it's really been swimming through. And wouldn't it be nice to know that when your fish got cut open a used condom wasn't possibly in its belly?

A good place to start cleaning up the environmental mess we've made is to stop using plastic bags. They've been banned in San Francisco and Paris. LA should be next. Your town should be next, too.

Thankfully, today's the first annual Day Without a Disposable Bag day here in Los Angeles. It's sponsored by Heal the Bay who have this shocking statistic on their site: "Los Angeles County residents use 6 billion plastic bags each year and recycle only 5% of that total."

So do your part, even if you don't live here. You don't need a plastic bag for those two things you bought at the Rite Aid. Throw them in that gigantic purse you're carrying. If you're a man and you don't have a purse, um, start a new fashion trend. Who says men can't carry purses? Just call it a messenger bag, okay?

It's hard to give up plastic bags because they're everywhere. But once we start doing it, we'll wonder how we ever put everything and their mother into plastic bags that are ruining our environment. It just takes a little mental reconditioning to get used to bringing our own bags to stores because the plastic industry has made us think we can't live without disposable bags.

And then we get those bags home and they accumulate like crazy in drawers and closets. Seriously, isn't it annoying to try to figure out what to do with those bags?

So try it out. Throw some canvas bags in your trunk so you always have one. Click on the Heal the Bay link if you need some ideas on where to purchase some canvas bags for cheap.

After all, even if we already know we can't count on politicians to clean up our environment, we can still each do our part.

Jamie Lynn Spears: Statutory Rape?

Wowzer, 2007 is really going out with a bang!

If you haven't heard by now, Jamie Lynn Spears, Britney's little sister is pregnant.

I didn't see in the news how many soldiers died in Iraq today but I know all the sordid details of her pregnancy, particularly that Jamie Lynn is 16. I guess they've had Madonna's "Papa Don't Preach" on heavy rotation in that household.

I'd love to know where the condom was but good for Jamie Lynn that's she's decided to keep her baby. Really, I don't know why some in the media are acting like the girl's life is finished. I'm sure there are thousands of other 16 year-olds out there that are pregnant and they don't have the resources Jamie Lynn Spears has at their disposal.

Right now, I'm watching MSNBC where they're buzzing about whether Jamie Lynn's TV show on Nickelodeon, Zoey 101, is going to be canceled because of her pregnancy. After all, her image is supposed to be squeaky clean. They're debating whether or not Nickelodeon can legally fire her from the show and if they do, wouldn't that be some sort of wrongful termination or discrimination on the basis of her being pregnant?

I don't know about all that. I'm just waiting for these talking heads to bring up the fact that the father of her baby, her boyfriend, Casey Aldridge, is 19.

She's 16. He's 19.

So, isn't Casey having sex with Jamie Lynn statutory rape? Shouldn't someone be rolling up to handcuff him and cart Casey off to the big house? Or do laws like that only apply when black teenage boys like Genarlow Wilson get teenage girls to give them blow jobs on New Year's Eve?

Yes, 17 year-old Genarlow got ten years for having consensual oral sex with a 15 year-old girl. Just imagine how many years prison he would have gotten if that 15 year-old had gotten pregnant. Heck, he might have gotten life in prison or something.

Genarlow just got released this year, at the age of 21.

Since America is the land of equal opportunity, shouldn't Casey Aldridge get the opportunity to make friends with a jail cell?

I'm sure it'll never happen. After all, Casey's a nice boy from her church. No way he deserves to go to jail with hardened criminals, right?

Did My Neighbors Break Up?

I'm beginning to suspect that my neighbors across the hall have broken up. I've been so busy over the past couple of weeks that I only realized last night that I haven't seen the female half of the duo in at least that amount of time.

I swear, no one who lives in that apartment can stay together. It's like it's got bad relationship karma oozing out of the walls. It doesn't matter if they're seriously dating, get engaged, have a baby together or are married. It all falls apart. Over the past six years that I've lived here I've witnessed lots of antics by my neighbors. Here's a summary of the relationships:

1) Crazy Claudia and Tattoo Artist: They were living together. She got pregnant, had the baby, and then for reasons unknown, he moved out. (Probably because he realized she was CRAZY!) She later moved out too...which I was psyched about because she was...crazy! I did not miss her obsessive compulsive vacuuming at two in the morning.

2) Save the World Girl and Smokin' Hot Guy: She'd been working for an NGO in Haiti and left that life to come to LA to be with Hot Guy. I mean, he was smokin' hot...and, unsurprisingly, things did not work out. Heartbroken once more, she left to go save the world again.

3) Snobby Brunette and Friendly Boy: They moved in together. He was friendly when I'd see him in the hallway. She could barely speak. And then he proposed to her her. There were a few doors slammed and some yelling in the hallway. Nothing major. But then I came back from being away from two weeks and they were gone. Someone else told me a year ago that she'd broken off the engagement.

So that brings me to the current pair. And did I mention, she's my landlord's daughter.

4) Landlord's Daughter and Guy of Unknown Status: We've never been sure if they're married or if he's just the baby daddy and they're living together. She's nice. He doesn't talk much.

They've had those moments when she was yelling, "Pendejo!" out the door and throwing his clothes into the hallway. But eventually they'd kiss and make up.

Come to think of it though, we haven't seen her or the baby in like a month. I suppose she could be on vacation, on some sort of exotic getaway. But I don't think so because we have an unspoken rule in this building: Only one tenant at a time gets to take a cool trip and my neighbors downstairs have already filled the "cool trip" spot. They went to Morocco for three weeks and they came by before they left to let us know they'd be gone.

Guy of Unknown Status is still over there though. And his beer guzzling buddies have been over to hang out quite frequently. That's another sign! You can't turn your place into a bachelor pad if your girl is still around. No woman is going to put up with a bunch of guys rolling through the door with cases of beer every other night.

Yes, I have a distinct feeling it's over and I wouldn't be surprised if he moves out sometime soon too.

For real, I don't think anyone who lives in that apartment can stay together.

A Lightning Bolt is Going to Strike Me

I have a confession to make: I have a really hard time being civil to people I seriously dislike.

To be clear, I get along well with most people. In fact, I'd say that 99% of the time, I'm cool with everybody. Even people that are a little irritating for one reason or another honestly don't bother me that much. Everyone has their little personality quirks and I'm sure there are plenty of things I do that are annoying to others. So, I work really hard to see the good in all people. Even if someone has ten bad qualities I try to find one good one to focus on. And I'd hope someone would extend the same to me.

When I don't like someone, it's for a real reason. Not because they looked at me wrong or something trifling like that. Nope, if I don't like someone it's usually because:

1) The person lies excessively, is immature and back stabbing.
2) The person is incredibly condescending and lets everyone else know how superior they are because of where they went to school or how many degree letters are behind their name.
3) The person has hurt or insulted someone else that I truly value.
4) The person is racist, sexist, etc.

A couple of hours ago I ran into someone that absolutely 100% CANNOT STAND and they pretty much have the above four attributes down pat. What normally happens in situations like this is that everyone plays nice, lies and is all, "How are you doing? Good to see you?" and all that nonsense.

Well, I seriously did not feel like playing nice. I did not feel like being socially correct. I did not feel like answering the phony, "So, what are you up to these days?"questions. I worried that if this person asked about my children I might slap them or throw up. Or both. I worried that if opened my mouth, I'd be inclined to just say, "Get the f*$% away from me."

It's a real test for me that I feel that way. Normally I just play the game, suck it up and smile. But not tonight. I saw this person walking toward me and tonight I just could not do it. So, I gave them the historical "cut direct". I gave my absolute most unfriendly look to the person and then turned away.

I know. The lightning bolt is coming through the window as I type. My spiritual progress meter just took a dip in a southerly direction.

But what would you do? How do you handle situations like this?

Dear Sweeny Todd

Dear Sweeney Todd,

I have come to the conclusion that I no longer live in Los Angeles, the City of Angels

Driving down Beverly Boulevard the other day, it's clear that this is now your town. It's the "City of Sweeney Todd".

Sweeney, how is it that you're managing to be everywhere?

I counted over 25 Sweeney billboards lining the five mile stretch of Beverly between Robertson Blvd. and Vermont.

Aren't you worried about overexposure?

True, each billboard comes with a nice swath of red. I think that's supposed to represent a splatter of blood. But I know you're misunderstood, Sweeney. Tell me, it's just you doing some free form painting, right?

Also Sweeney, I've read that you're some sort of a serial killer. In fact, they call you "The Demon Barber of Fleet Street". LA is a great place for you then because not only do we have a whole lot of "demon barbers" with their overpriced salons, most celebrity murderers get away with it in this town so don't worry about a thing!

I'm not sure if we have a "Fleet Street" though. I think the only "Fleet" folks here might be familiar with is the laxative kind. Oh, the ways some folks out here try to stay thin...

Despite this Sweeney, I have to be honest. I just don't know if you're really ready to take over LA.

I mean, you're really pale all over. Even your lips are bloodless. I know you're not Dracula so I'm thinking that pale problem could just be a crystal meth issue. Let me make you an appointment at a spray tan salon.

Besides, looking like you do, you need to start worrying that someone from Hillary Clinton's campaign is going to start a rumor that you're not only a drug user, but quite possibly also a drug dealer.

I mean, if they could insinuate this about Barack Obama, the most un-drug dealerly looking guy on the planet, what might Clinton's spin meisters do to you, Sweeney?

So, let's clean up your act!

I'll send you to the MAC store at the mall and you can fight it out with the teenagers over the concealer. Trust me, it's worth the money.

An added bonus is ff you flash your razor blades in the store, all the teens will probably think you're really cool and emo. Besides, half of them already think you're that guy from My Chemical Romance, Gerard Way.

Don't worry, Sweeney. I know Gerard's giving you a run for your money, but I think you're still winning the, "I look like death warmed over," race.

But if, while looking at Gerard's picture, you start to feel like the gray streak in your hair is a tad too aging for you, I'm sure we can hook you up with a colorist to just take your hair to a pure black.

And, um, it's not that I want you to stop feeling like yourself, but while we're at it, how do you feel about us borrowing your razor to cut some layers in your hair as well?

Your hair's also sort of frizzy and dry. What's up with that? Do you need someone to take it back to the old school and hook you up with a deep conditioning treatment and a dollop of Blue Magic?

I'm only telling you all this, Sweeney, because if you want me to go out with you next weekend you are going to have to get it together before then. I know it must seem odd that it's only the beginning of our relationship and I'm already trying to change you, but yeah, don't have me showing up to the theater for our date only to be embarrassed by your crazy self.

My ultimatum?

If you can't handle business and make yourself more presentable, I'll just go out with Kiera Knightly again like I did last weekend.

Didn't know about that, did you, Sweeney?

Yes, that's right! Kiera and I went to go see "Atonement" last week.

Sigh.

I just can't stop thinking about the two hours Kiera and I spent together. I even tried to get her to eat a sandwich but she turned me down.

Yeah, overall, I think I had a better time than she did, but she looked absolutely smashing in her green dress.

Now, Sweeney, don't be angry about me and Kiera. I'm just keeping it real with you. So you let me know what you want to do and get back to me as soon as I can..

Blowing you kisses and don't try to cut anybody with that razor,

Los Angelista

Even The Homeless Enjoy Benny Goodman

This morning I came outside, looked north at the beautiful view that greets me every single day. And I smiled. I'm very glad this is what 45 degrees looks like in Los Angeles.

No bone chilling rain, no ice storms to navigate and no snow to shovel.

I figured I'd take a quick jaunt over to one of the overpriced cafes in Sunset Junction, score some hot tea, and cozy up in a chair with my writing notebook.

I wrapped a scarf around my neck and pulled on a pair of gloves to keep my hands warm. And then I set off, weaving my way through the streets, anticipating the aroma of a hot cup of Silver Needle tea.

A couple minutes into my journey, something happened that I did not expect.

I heard the faint sounds of music, something that sounded like Benny Goodman. And the further I walked, the louder the music became.

Right when I got to the point when I should have been able to determine which house or car it was coming from, I only saw...a tent.

Yes, someone's set up a home along the street.

In a tent.

I've seen enough homelessness in this city to know that the mattress blocks the wind and provides a bit of privacy. The table is useful for storing items. And someone has helpfully provided a garbage pail for any refuse that may need discarding.

I sat down on the curb across from this makeshift home wondering who was inside, but also secretly hoping whoever it was didn't come out. I imagined being confronted by some grizzled, angry person yelling, "What are you taking pictures of my house for?"

There was none of that though. Only the melodic strains of what was indeed Benny Goodman.

I heard a bit of laughter, the kind of laughter that someone lets out when they're enjoying music that brings back memories of a happier time.

And then I heard the sound of a hammer clanging.

I let my eyes follow the sound. The house directly to the left of this tent is being expanded and rehabbed. It used to be a small bungalow. But now everything from the chimney on back is newly added on.

It's the kind of renovation that can easily cost tens if not hundreds of thousands of dollars and it's been going on since summer.

I wonder if whoever's in the tent used to live in a house like this before they fell on hard times. Maybe they used to live in an apartment like mine and then something happened to change their circumstances.

A couple cars whizzed by and I realized I should probably move before my toes got run over. So I stood, still curious but ready to continue my journey toward the $3 cup of tea I was craving.

I felt guilty while I drank my tea knowing that whoever was in that tent would not be welcome in such a trendy cafe. No, my homeless compadre wouldn't have the nouveau bohemian look: carefully tousled bed-head hair, a trendy hipster t-shirt covered with a military style jacket, skinny jeans, and, despite the cold, flip flops.

I bought another tea before I left the cafe and held it carefully as I walked back home through the hills. The music had subsided. As I approached the tent, only the sounds of the construction workers banging on the house filled the air.

I paused on the sidewalk next to the tent, unsure if anyone was still inside.

Uncertain, I put the cup of tea down on the sidewalk and said, "I thought you might like something hot to drink."

There was no movement, no response.

I was a little glad for this as I stood to walk away, the cup of tea steaming merrily, waiting to be grasped and held once more.

A car approached and the rushing noise it made as it passed me almost obscured the, "Thank you," I heard. I looked back and saw a hand emerge to grasp the tea and pull it inside the tent.

Then the Benny Goodman once more began to play.

I wonder how long this tent and it's tenant will be in residency. Surely someone in the neighborhood will complain, demand that this tent pitching is the equivalent of a broken window in the neighborhood. I suppose it is.

But I can't help but wish I could buy the resident a cup of tea every day.

The Photoshop Experiment

I'm a mere three weeks away from being ejected from the desirable 18-34 marketing group.

Yes, I'm approaching the age where any magazine will suggest that I slather myself with $60 face creams, have some laser resurfacing done and consider using some "preventative" botox. Or I could just use my very amateur Photoshop skills and tweak a few things here and there.

According to our beauty standards, what needs tweaking?

To be quite frank, unlike Jennifer Love Hewitt, I am not a size two. Or a four. Or a six...unless I'm shopping at Old Navy. But you can't see that in this picture.

So, what can you see?

Well, I have lines under my eyes. Sure, you have some lines as well. But when's the last time you saw lines like yours and mine on a magazine cover? How about the dark circles? And while I'm on the eye area, my eyebrows are in dire need of waxing.

I have freckles under my eyes. Or are those really age spots? The results of sun damage?

Okay, let's move on to the forehead. See those two grooves on my forehead maybe an inch down from my hairline? Those are two scars from a severe childhood bout of chicken pox. For some reason, they seem deeper than ever these days.

Come to think of it, the skin on my forehead is overall pretty rough. It must be the effect of the LA sun. Plus, I can see the little scar left from when my then three year-old threw a Batman at me in a fit of rage earlier this fall.

Hmm. Those laugh lines are starting to look a little deeper than they did before.

My hair is graying, dulling. Losing it's lustre. And someone should have told me to touch up the lipstick.

Have you looked at yourself lately and done this similar self-analysis? It's dangerous, because really, where does it stop?

I've only used Photoshop once before and with my very limited skill level, I can barely erase the wrinkles, color my hair, and get rid of my chicken pox scars and freckles. And I "softened" one of the laugh lines on the right side of my face. I should have done the left as well just to balance it out, but by then I was feeling a little nauseous from all the self-inflicted tweaking.

Imagine what a professional, someone who regularly tweaks the likes of a Julia Roberts or a Halle Berry could do with me?

Just to twist the knife a bit deeper though, I asked my oblivious son and husband what they thought about these two pictures.

"Which one do you like better?"

Guess which one they all chose? My eldest even pointed to the second one and said, "You look ALOT prettier in this one, Mommy."

I don't know why I got irritated when all three of them chose the second picture. Really, isn't that what we all do? Sure, Pam Anderson sans makeup and photo editing is a scary thing. But if I didn't know otherwise, would I feel so horrified when I see it? How must it feel for celebrities to see professionally Photoshopped pictures of themselves plastered all over magazines and know that they really don't look like that?

They are not that thin. Their skin and hair is not that perfect. And they're getting Photoshopped after having had laser skin resurfacing, botox, and professionally applied makeup. No wonder they become drug addicts and alcoholics. They wake up every morning having to change who they really are, knowing what they are presenting is a lie.

They wake up knowing that if we don't see them in all their "perfection", they will get ripped apart for looking...human.

At the end of it all, I'll take the version of me with the two chicken pox craters in my forehead. That's who I've known all my life. I think I like her better.