Eavesdropping on Men

There are two sets of guys sitting on either side of me in this cafe.

To my right is the gay couple. Or rather, I would say that one of them wants to be a couple but the other one is more interested in playing the field a bit more. The one that wants to play the field is, um... he's ridiculously hot. Tall, stylish, dark hair, dark eyes. He's got a slight accent, looks like he could be from somewhere in North Africa. Oh, and he has on some fly, nice-fitting blue jeans. I felt like a shallow Angeleno because even I was checking him out, thinking, "Ah hah! This is exactly why I live in Hollywood!" -- until he ruined the eye candy by ordering lox and cream cheese on a bagel. Eww. That's as bad as mayonnaise in my book.

Five minutes later his boy toy showed up and I think every woman (and a few guys in here too) sighed with some, "He's taken!" disappointment. I immediately didn't think they're a serious couple yet because Boy Toy is a little too needy acting and Ridiculously Hot seems a bit detached from it all.

Sure enough, Boy Toy started whining about, "When are we gonna make things official?"

Ridiculously Hot only replied, "Make what official?" Oh, this is not good.

Ten minutes later, Boy Toy is leaning across the table begging, "You should just move in with me. I don't know why you don't." I know why, Boy Toy. There's a book about it. It's called, "He's Just Not That Into You".

Indeed, Ridiculously Hot is looking sooo checked out and is just focusing on his food. He occasionally mumbles things like, "I'm not trying to get so deep over breakfast, Frank."

Frank -- a/k/a Boy Toy looks like he might either throw something or cry. Wow, somebody's whipped!

In the meantime, the two guys to the left of me talking about how outrageous rents are in my neighborhood. One guy, let's call him "iPod Ears" (because he has his earbuds in), just told his friend, "X-Files Nerd" how he's still living with his girlfriend but wants to move out because he can't stand her anymore. However he can't afford it.

"I might as well stay with her crazy ass because rent is just ridiculous around here nowadays." That's just cold, iPod Ears. Cold hearted!

"What do you do? Crash on the couch every night?" says X-Files Nerd. See, this is why I called him X-Files Nerd. This is obviously a good guy and he is not up on Hollywood survival scheming because he's still watching the X-Files every single night, caught up in Scully's hotness!

iPod Ears continues his coldness, "Nah, I still sleep with her because it's her name on the lease. I don't want her to suspect anything and kick me out."

"Sleep with her, as in you're still sleeping with her?" Oh, X-Files Nerd, you're a man after my own heart. I love your slightly shocked intonation.

"Uh, yeah dude." If I could see iPod Ears' face, I'm sure he'd be rolling his eyes. "I mean, she's totally effing pscyho, but I might as well get it while I can. You know?"

So, a tale of two sets of men. Two different situations. Two different hearts getting broken. I wish I had iPod Ear's girlfriend's email so I could send her this post. As for Boy Toy and Ridiculously Hot, they just walked out together.

I guess being seen with someone so hot is good enough for Boy Toy. He brings his heartbreak on himself.

Voices Carry

Sound really carries in my neighborhood at night. I don't know if it's an effect of the hills around here or if smoggy air has more sound conducive properties, but I'm constantly overhearing the most random conversations.

I just heard one of my neighbors talking to a guy right underneath my living room window. She and her roommates aren't particular favorites of mine. I readily admit they aren't as bad as Crazy Claudia, the compulsive vacuumer who used to live across the hall. Claudia hated Black people and loved to stomp up and down the stairs as loudly as possible. Nothing can top Claudia's madness.

But, these current neighbors just have that vibe that they're really trust fund brats who run a meth lab out of one of the bedrooms. One of the guys spends a lot of time hanging in front of our building in his wife beater t-shirt. The other guy always looks totally wasted and only grunts when I say, "Hello".

The girl who lives with them is the type that thinks she's hot because ages ago some delusional soul told her she was the stuff. Oh, and her favorite outfit is a pair of cowboy boots with bare legs and a baby doll mini dress. That goes over really well when she walks by my sons.

I imagine she had on one of her baby doll dresses while she was having her little chit-chat right beneath my living room windows. I wasn't 100% paying attention to her inanity about some audition she screwed up and how depressed she was about it. What did catch my ear was that there was a weird pause where they suddenly weren't talking. I hadn't heard footsteps walking away or heard the door to our building slam shut.

Hmm...No one walked away. No one went inside either. No one was talking.

I don't have to be Sherlock Holmes to guess they must have been kissing because the silence was broken when I heard him say, "So can I come in?"

Ladies and gentleman, it was a classic case of a guy trying to charm his way into a woman's apartment so he can get some!

I couldn't help but think, gosh, is that how easy it is? I guess straightforwardly asking works because next thing I knew, I heard her seductively ask,"What about your girlfriend?"

He had the decency to pause before he chuckled and replied, "Well... she's not really my girlfriend anymore."

Whoa! Hold up, neighbor gal! Come back down to earth! He's LYING! If you ever hear a guy say such a thing, you know that his girlfriend is probably sending him unsuspecting text messages like, "Do you want me to pick up some flowers for your mom on my way home from work tomorrow?" That's why his phone is on silent and why he was gone in the bathroom for 10 minutes while y'all were out to dinner. You see, he was talking to his "not really my girlfriend" girlfriend! Besides, if you need to ask about a man's girlfriend, that's a sign you need to repeat three times, "His girlfriend may be crazy, track me down and slash my tires!"

Not scary enough for you? Okay, how about, "His girlfriend might be crazy and try to cut up my face with a razor blade!"

Before you say that sort of stuff only happens in the movies, trust me, I've known people it's happened to. So I'm just saying, it's something to think about. Is 10 minutes of fun worth getting your face scarred up?

Obviously to Tramp-o-La it is. She upped the booty call ante with some more purring. "All you want to do is talk?"

Eww! But that's when I heard her keys jingle. He started giggling like a goof ball and so did she. I heard the downstairs door open and slam shut and then they tramped through our hallway.

I think I might shut my windows and throw on my iPod so I don't have to accidentally hear any other, ahem, noises tonight.

Social Experimentation

Sometimes when I'm out in a cafe, I just zone out in my own little world. Depeche Mode's "Sister of Night" is vibrating in my earphones. I'm tapping away on my keyboard, visualizing what my character, Claire, is wearing, what she's saying, what she's thinking about...and this world just fades away.

But sometimes despite my best efforts, I am not in that zone. And that's when I'm listening to you.

I'm sitting two feet away from you in a cafe with a laptop, in Silver Lake, the home of wanna-be writers, actors, artists, models and rock stars, and you don't think I'm typing down exactly what you're saying?

You caught my attention when you mentioned the name of the university my mother-in-law attended. And so I started to type down your conversation. Every word of it.

I only typed for a few minutes and then I had to stop. I felt an anger surge inside me and I had to shut my laptop and leave before I inserted myself into your conversation and told you what I think about you and your little "experiment".

But here in this space, here's what you said and what I think about it.

Younger White Female: I decided to go to a black school that’s less endowed. People who go to Howard or Hampton are from a different social class than someone who decides to go to a poorer black school.

I wanted to be the minority.

Los Angelista's Thinking: Interesting that she thinks everyone who goes to Howard or Hampton comes from a well-to-do black family. And gosh, I just love it when people decide to "opt in" to being a minority when they can at any time use their privilege and decide to opt out.

Older White Male: A little “Black Like Me” kind of thing?

YWF: Kind of.

OWM: Was it a gentleman’s agreement?

YWF: A what?

OWM: A gentleman's agreement. I mean, did they know?

YWF: No. I wanted to be in a place where people didn’t grow up around white people and I wanted to see what it was like just naturally.

Los Angelista's Thinking: How does she know they didn't grow up around white folks? Just because you decide to attend an HBCU doesn't mean you didn't grow up around white people. And why's he bringing up "Black Like Me"? Did she try to make herself "look" more black?

OWM: There’s something about the uninitiated where those things are being formed. So how was it?

YWF: It was hard. I couldn’t figure out how it was going to be hard. I have always been socially confident and this was the first time I walked around with my eyes cast down.

People didn’t speak to me and I didn’t want to assume it was because I was white, when it could be because I have body odor or something. It was good though.

Los Angelista's Thinking: Aww, poor baby. Those black people were so mean they took away your confidence! Maybe they didn't speak to you because they are busy trying to get an education and they don't have time for games and bullshit.

OWM: How long did that last before you were able to break through all that.

YWF: If someone didn’t like me, I didn’t want to blame it on whether I’m white or Jewish or because... maybe I’m just annoying.

Los Angelista's Thinking: Um, yeah! Annoying. Superior. Condescending. You think you're so open minded that you're going to go experiment on the little black people.

OWM: So how’d it end up?

YWF: It ended up well. As time went on, there were some things people couldn’t get over.

OWM: Like the fact that you were making them be a part of a social experiment?

Los Angelista's Thinking: THANK YOU for saying that! Call her out! Preach!

YWF: Well, I tried to not make it seem that way, but there was use of space, use of noise, expectations about being quiet because people were... Cause you know, I was the only white person.

Los Angelista: Wow. This is some serious code language here. So are you trying to say all black people are loud and have issues with space?

OWM: Wow, unbelievable. You're so brave.

Los Angelista's Thinking: I know. Isn't she? Because those negroes could have turned their radios up even louder than they normally do, just to drive her quiet, white self insane. Never mind that black people are in settings where they're the only black person ALL THE TIME and no one ever calls them brave.

YWF: I was thinking, in the North... I’ve never hung out with a group of just black people in the North. I had no idea how different black people are from me.

Los Angelista's Thinking: Yeah, I've heard black people are so different from white folks that they don't eat, breathe air or even watch American Idol. Yeah, these monolithic "black people" you're referring to -- did you know they're all pretty different from each other? Just ask around and see how many black folks you can find that listen to Depeche Mode.

OWM: How long were you there?

YWF: For a semester. Four months.

OWM: What did you study there? Do they even have your major?

YWF: Well at Brown I'm a classics major and they don’t have Latin and Greek there at a black school.

So I did all really Afrocentric courses, so I’d have to talk about “black things” and talk about the fact that I am white.

Los Angelista's Thinking: So this type of dumb ish is what a $30K a year ivy league education buys these days? Wow. I want to really tell you about yourself. I know you think you're all noble to go slumming with the black people and try to find out about them, but I think what you're doing hurts more than it helps because your intentions are all wrong.

And so I had to shut the laptop and leave because I could feel all my classic physical signs of extreme anger (feeling hot, pulse beating wildly, desire to throw something) starting up.

I know some people out there will think this girl should get an "A" for effort, that at least she's trying to foster some sort of understanding between black and white people.

I don't feel this way. To me, this has nothing to do with building genuine friendships or understanding. I feel sorry for the black students who had to be subjected to her experiment.

Telling All Your Business in Public

Dear Blond in a Brown Sweater, Orange Pants and Red Boots,

You shouldn't tell all your business in public. Especially not at a busy cafe in LA.

I know we have a confessional culture, where folks just slit their wrists and let all their business bleed out to everyone and anyone.

I am a participant in this because, after all, I'm a blogger. For three years I have told my business to complete strangers. But I only tell some of my business, not all of it.

Never all of it.

It is a free country though. I cannot stop you from sitting in a cafe discussing the amazing sex you had last night. But at least, if you're going to tell it, whisper. Lean across the cafe table so that you don't have to shout to your friend about how you've, "Never been f***ed like that before. Ever."

I get it. Your mind was blown. Your world was rocked. You can't stop thinking about it. Or talking about it.

You're three tables away from me and I can hear every word. Judging from the smirks on the faces of other customers in here, we are all listening.

But you see, it's only 9:30 in the morning and I just want to enjoy my chai, not throw it up all over the floor. I'm not trying to hear anything that starts with, "And then he flipped me over and..."

On the other hand, you go right ahead and keep talking.

Trust me, I'm not the only person in here writing down every word.

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.

Could You Tell It Was Veteran's Day Today?

I sat in a cafe this afternoon and wondered if anyone in the place was a veteran.

After all, today is Veteran's Day.

Something like 25% of LA's homeless population is comprised of veterans. Clearly though, not every veteran is living over on Skid Row in abject poverty. Those ones that decided they didn't want to rack up the savings at Macy's awesome Veteran's Day Sale were probably getting all the recognition they needed at trendy little cafe's with profound names like "Intelligentsia".

I'll admit, there were no signs in the cafe proclaiming, "Thank you, Veterans, for risking your lives so we can enjoy our $4 lattes."

There weren't even any, "Free coffee if you got a cap busted in your ass somewhere overseas!" signs.

But maybe a couple of vets came into the cafe before I did and told them to take the signs down because they didn't want to draw too much attention to themselves. They probably wanted to sip that $4 latte and discuss the writer's strike in anonymity.

Yes, they must not have wanted to call too much attention to themselves, even though it's technically Veteran's Day.

I'm sure the tattooed up guys sitting across from me poring over photo shoot proofs probably just got back from Iraq.

The woman who seemed like she'd forgotten to put on a bra had to have been chasing Osama in Afghanistan this time last year. She was probably risking her life in barren terrain, so she should have the luxury to yap into her cell phone about how her boyfriend is an, "F-ing cheater," but she can't leave yet because the, "Sex is sooo hot. Like every night!"

Yes, even though I couldn't tell at all that it was Veteran's Day today, that doesn't mean the veterans around me felt at all slighted or unappreciated.

I'm sure they just were glad to have a day off to relax, shop, sip coffee and be cool...just like me.

Princeton Boy At The Post Office

I've spent a lot of time at the post office recently. I mailed a book to a friend, express mailed something else, and today, I bought more of these cute superhero stamps. You know, stuff you do at the post office. Oh and you also stand in line forever and watch people, without making it seem like you're watching them.

One blond twenty-something man I saw , looking like a scion of privilege with his Princeton t-shirt, dark wash jeans and flip flops, really caught my eye today. Or rather my ear.

"Why isn't my f***king package here? Look at the f***ing package slip! It says right here to come pick it up here at the counter!"

The incredibly calm postal employee behind the counter spoke in a very low voice but it sounded like she was explaining that the package had been taken out on the mail truck again to be delivered at the address on the slip. To which, Cusser-Outer Princeton Boy replied, "Well there's NO ONE f***ing home, now is there? Because I'M RIGHT HERE! I want to see the manager RIGHT NOW!"

I guess he either a) watches too many Tarantino movies or b) missed all those stories of post office workers going postal.

The manager came and said they were trying to locate the package and asked Cusser-Outer Princeton Boy to wait a few minutes while they contacted the driver of the truck and got the package back. Princeton Boy sighed dramatically and then proceeded to whip out his cell phone and call up his friends to complain.

The first attempt to talk trash about the post-office went like this: "Yeah, dude, I'm at the f***ing post-office. This bi***h doesn't have my f***ing package! Oh, ok, you're busy. Ok. Yeah. Call me later. Bye."

He then muttered to himself, "A**hole!"

I'm still not sure if he was talking about himself or his busy friend.

Another number was quickly dialed. This friend was a more sympathetic ear, and, along with all the rest of us, got treated to the extended remix version of, "Yeah, dude, I'm at the f***ing post-office. This bi***h doesn't have my f***ing package!" Cusser-Outer Princeton Boy also felt the need to include the details of what he felt to be the incompetence demonstrated by the post office employee who'd tried to help him. "This stupid b***h said my package is out on a truck!"

And a few seconds later, this gem, "Yeah, I bet she didn't even graduate from high school."

I know she could hear him. He was only two or three yards away from her. After all, I could hear him and I was all the way on the other side of the room. I scanned the waiting line and the faces behind me looked nonchalantly bored, annoyed or else panicked over whether they'd correctly filled out the post office mailing and shipping labels. Nobody told this guy to watch his language or his manners, including yours truly.

As I got closer to the front of the line, I began to tune our insulting Princeton Boy out. Lost in my own thoughts, I started to wonder how it was that the postal employee and her manager both kept their cool. I wondered if they're used to that sort of behavior from customers and so it just rolls off of them. I started to wonder why they didn't have a security guard escort Princeton Boy off the premises with an admonition to get some class and better manners the next time he gets a $100,000 education.

I started to wonder if he would have been treated so well if he hadn't been a white guy with a Princeton t-shirt on.

When it was my turn to approach the counter, I ended up getting the same postal employee that had waited on Princeton Boy. She seemed relieved to hear that all I wanted was a sheet of superhero stamps. I asked her how her day was going and, without batting an eye, she said it was going just fine. She smiled heartily as she told me to have a nice day.

Princeton Boy still stood a few feet away, rambling on his cell phone about a property he was buying. I am clearly not so generous hearted as the postal employee. I wanted to kick him as I walked past him. I hope his package fell off the mail truck and got hit by a Hummer.

Steve & Barry's Shopping Adventure: That Size Eight Is SOOO Fat.

Yesterday I trekked over the Beverly Connection shopping complex over on La Cienega Blvd and Third. I went to the new Steve and Barry's shop over there. You've never heard of Steve and Barry's? Yeah, me either. At least not until I was sitting in my hairdresser's chair on Saturday, reading "O" magazine while getting some of my hair chopped off. This month's "O" (as in "Oprah") has a spread of Sarah Jessica Parker's new clothing line, Bitten, and it's available at Steve and Barry's.

Now, I'm not, as a whole, a big fan of SJP. In fact, I'm pretty sure I've only seen "Sex and the City" twice in my whole life. I wasn't particularly impressed with the show and I've always wondered how frequently the concept of STDs was discussed. But maybe that's just me and my germ-phobia. Or, HIV phobia, whatever you want to call it.

Anyway, SJP's clothes at Steve and Barry's are pretty cute. And, major shocker here, the prices are dirt cheap. How cheap? Well, right now I'm wearing a pair of jeans I got for $14. Yeah, that cheap. This is not another overpriced celebrity clothing line with logos all on the outside of the clothes. That's quite a relief. We'll see if the jeans fall apart in the washer, but in the meantime, they're pretty fly. And did I mention already that they were $14?

Now, to get to this one pair of jeans, I had to try on at least seven or eight different pairs. You just never know how the sizing is going to work out with a new line of clothing, and there are so many different cuts to choose from. Skinny jean. Boyfriend jean. Low rise, also known as ass-crack jeans. Ultra low rise, also known as "You'd better forget about sitting down" jeans. High waist. Bootcut.

I made it easy on myself and ruled out the ultra low rise and skinny jeans. Both are just ridiculous and I'm sure millions of women the world over can't wait for them to go out of style.

So, I'm in the dressing room, almost finished trying on my armfuls of jeans when I overhear the mother/daughter pair in the dressing room next to mine. This mother says to her daughter, "What size are those?"

The daughter replied back, "An eight. Do they look too tight?"

"No, they look fine but they're an eight. You should be wearing a four, or at the most, a six. What's happening to you? We're going to have to get you to a gym or you need to stop eating or something because you're just blowing up!"

I was absolutely horrified by this conversation and immediately found myself thinking about how if I had a daughter, this is exactly the kind of ridiculousness I'd have to protect her from. I know childhood obesity is a problem in America, but a size eight is fat? Maybe if you're five feet tall or something, but come on, regardless, I was so shocked by this conversation. This mom was single handedly ruining my Steve and Barry's shopping experience. And killing her daughter's self-esteem.

"I mean, don't you know they do vanity sizing all the time and an eight is really a ten? Do you want to be a size ten?"

The daughter mumbled, "No," and tried to protest a little by saying, "But I think these clothes run a little small."

"It doesn't matter. You should be wearing the six, not an eight."

I hung out in my dressing room till they opened the door to theirs. I wanted to get a look at this mom and daughter. The daughter was about 5' 8" or so, and looked totally healthy, totally normal. The mom had that super-skinny tanorexic, LA plastic surgery look to her. She looked mean.

The conversation made me not want to get my jeans at all. It made me think about all the actresses, SJP included, that diet down to nothingness and then become the norm for body size. I'm no advocate for being overweight, especially if it's negatively affecting your health, but I'm not trying to look like I just spend two months on a deserted island. Although, if I did look like that, I'm sure there are those folks who'd say, "Oh wow! You look sooo good!"

So, yeah, you already know I got my jeans. Like I said, $14...I couldn't resist. And I don't care what size they were. I just wanted them to fit and look good on me.

I wish that teenage girl had a mom who felt the same.

I'm Not A Racist. But...

Yesterday I looked in the mirror and saw my overgrown furry eyebrows staring back at me. I'd already been thinking of getting my nails done but I was feeling a bit lazy. Seeing the fur really sealed the deal though. It was clearly time to head over to my local Silver Lake beauty shop, the same place I've been going for the past seven years.

When I get my nails/waxing done, I don't have much to say. I just want to chill out and leave a big tip. Occasionally I'll get to talking with the ladies that work there about our kids, but really, I just want them rip the hair away and make my nails look cute.

So, I'm watching TV, my freshly painted nails are drying, I'm reminiscing about seeing Depeche Mode in Las Vegas this time last year. Life is good.

And then I overhear this very blond, very, "Where'd I set my BlackBerry?" type, chatting with the women working on her hands and feet.

"So what's your name?" she asked the lady scrubbing away her heel calluses.

The woman paused her scrubbing and said in her lightly accented English, "My name is May."

Blondie started talking very loudly and very s.l.o.w.l.y --the kind of condescending voice I've heard used before with the very deaf and elderly, the very stupid...and people whose native language isn't English.

"Oh, May. That's -- a -- nice -- name. What -- country -- do -- you -- come -- from, -- May? Cambodia?"

Now, if I was May, I'd have been trying to give Blondie a foot fungus or something. But May was nice and replied, "I'm from Vietnam."

What Blondie doesn't know is that May has been here for 15 years. She got here in 1992. She's got two teenage sons that she's putting through a private high school and her English is really good.

Blondie continued her painful chatter. "I was close! Vietnam! It's sort of like Cambodia, right? Are you sure you're not Cambodian? I mean, you all look really similar to Cambodians, don't you?"

It was said with the kind of authority that let me know that Blondie fully expected May to agree with her. And May wasn't going to call her out and say, "All Asians don't look alike and bitch, I said I'm Vietnamese." May wasn't going to ask Blondie if she meets Germans and tells them, "Are you sure you're not from France?"

May pretended she didn't understand. She just smiled and nodded at Blondie.

I just wanted to come to the nail shop, get my stuff waxed, get my nails done, and try to forget that 15 years ago when May got here, the 1992 LA Riots had just gone down. But no, Blondie was saying the kind of stuff that made me think she was on that Simi Valley jury that acquitted the officers that struck Rodney King 56 times.

Blondie wasn't finished with her questions. She moved on to the woman working on her hands. "So what's your name?"

This woman told her, "My name is May."

Blondie must have never met two Brittanys or two Stephanies that work in the same place because she said, "Oh, are you all named May?"

The Lord saved me from hearing more because the girl that does my waxing came to tell me she was ready for me. I'd rather have hair ripped off my body than have to hear Blondie continue to question the ladies working on her hands and feet.

Now, Blondie isn't hitting anybody with a baton 56 times. She's not on the radio calling black women offensive things. She didn't say the n-word in a comedy club. She's just trying to make small-talk with the ladies at the nail shop while she's supporting their business, right? So what's the big deal? She's just some close-minded woman talking too loudly, right?

Well, I'm sure Blondie thinks she's not racist.

Every day, I drive through the areas of this city that were decimated by the LA Riots. They started fifteen years ago yesterday. Today when I drive around this city, I'll be driving through a part of town that was on fire fifteen years ago. Even though now there's a Starbucks on the corner of Slauson and Western, there's still not a Barnes and Noble or a Borders in all of South-Central LA. High school graduation rates are like apartheid South Africa's. Unemployment is still high. But we're shocked when folks snap and decide to burn some stuff up.

In America we all want to sit around and say, "I'm not racist." It's always someone else thinking and saying and doing the things that hurt and cause so much pain. We don't think the stuff that happens on a daily basis in our own individual interactions is a big deal. We don't think the policies that are in place have anything to do with racism. We tell ourselves that these days most of the racism that happens is some huge thing like Rodney King getting beaten or Don Imus saying what he did. As long as we can squash the egregious acts of racism with public apologies to Al Sharpton, and as long as Oprah's still a billionaire, then we act like it's business as usual.

As long as the poor people of color stay down in South-Central, than it's all good. As long as May doesn't say anything to Blondie, it's all good.

As long as nobody riots, it's all good.

You Like Frappuccinos?

I know y'all probably think I live in Starbucks, but I just have to share this exchange. First, let me introduce you to Mr. Cornrows. He's not officially here working but he's busy hanging out with his fellow buddies who are behind the counter. Mr. Cornrows is trying to talk to this young lady who came in here and ordered a frappuccino.

This is how weak his game is:

"You like frappuccinos? Yeah, me too. So what's your name? You don't have one? Aw, come on girl, I don't bite. What's your name?"

I'd say he's pretty unsuccessful in his efforts to engage her in any kind of conversation. Wouldn't you say so?

So, as she's heading to the exit, he calls out, "Nice meeting you. You know I work here, right?"

She looked over her shoulder at him with an expression that said, "Like I care," but instead answered, "Yes, I know." Her hand kept on pushing the door open and her feet kept right on moving.

The minute this young lady left, Mr. Cornrows, complete with bad skin, and a baggy Cal State Dominguez Hills sweatshirt on, jumped up to go brag to the other guys behind the counter.

"Y'all see how she was checkin' for me, right?" They just started clowning him. "She ain''t interested in you!" one replied. "Didn't you see her? She kept on walking!"

"Well she don't want to look like a ho in front of y'all two and you know I don't talk to hoodrats."

More laughter, as another employee said, "She's thinking your belly might make a good pillow!"

Mr. Cornrows is not trying to hear that though. "Sure I may have put on some more weight when I was working over at KFC, but that don't mean I still can't work it when it counts."

Eww... now, this young lady was probably 5'1'' and 90 pounds. Mr. Cornrows is probably 5' 8" and 240. I think he's thinking of either smothering her or crushing her to death in bed.

They're still laughing at him. "I'll bet you just wanna eat her for a midnight snack. Thought she looked good, didn't you? Good enough to eat!"

Oh lawdy, I just laughed out loud at that one and Mr. Cornrows just said, and he's laughing too, "See, why y'all gotta embarrass a brotha in front of the customers?"

They are all laughing now. And, wow, I love my life sometimes.

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

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

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

"Pendejo!" she shouted down the stairs.

"Puta!" he yelled back.

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

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

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

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

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