Floss Daily

Tagged by the Waffles

Ahem. It's been a while. If it wasn't for Chicken 'n Waffles tagging me (weeks ago), the old blog would still be shrouded in a veil of dust. But tagged me she did, and because she is who she is, I have no choice but to play. So here, in all their glorious tardiness, are 8 facts about me.

1. I was born almost 11 weeks premature, which, for the early 70s, was quite something. I weighed less than 2lb at birth, and they all thought I would snuff it. Hence my name. My dad's name is Denis, and my mom's name is Brenda. So I am Denise Brenda, bestowed upon me during some hasty last rites. I was supposed to be Gabrielle, or something like that. God, I can't even imagine being a Gabrielle.

2. I am left handed, and after a few months of being dragged around Europe in a VW station wagon, I returned to school and couldn't remember what hand I wrote with (I had only recently learned to write, really). Because I was so very shy and concerned about how I was being perceived by others, I just followed the other kids, and used my right hand  extremely uselessly, until my concerned teacher (Mrs Comaroff, I will never forget you) took it upon herself to investigate further. A simple conversation with my mother revealed that I had in fact been trying to write with the wrong hand for the greater part of two school weeks.

3. I am a compulsive neat freak. I won't sleep if the dishes aren't done, if the bathroom sink is surrounded by puddles of water, or even if the closet door is open. I'm pretty sure there's some medication for this, but for now I'm managing it without chemical intervention. Give me 10 years, though.

4. I did my Bachelor's Degree in Social Work, and after many years of being in marketing, I am going back to school this fall to get my Masters Degree in Clinical Psychology with an emphasis in Marriage and Family Therapy. Have I lost my mind?

5. Speaking of marriage, I am GETTING MARRIED. In April or May of next year, but the actual date has yet to be determined, thanks to two sets of far-flung families that we are trying to coordinate with.And a school schedule. Yes, I have really lost my mind.

(See? It pays to not blog for a while. For the first time in many moons, I feel as as if I have something to say. )

6. I took piano lessons for most of my life until I was in college and was pretty into it. I played a lot on my last trip to South Africa, and I would do anything to figure out an affordable way to get that piano across the oceans and back in my possession. But first I need to find a place to live that would accommodate it.

7. I'm not much into sports on TV. Except tennis. Every year at around this time I am glued to the French Open and Wimbledon. I LOVE tennis on TV (and gymnastics and ice skating) and will watch any match with gusto. I have also always wanted to be very good at Tennis, so David and I have been playing every Saturday morning and I am loving it.

8. I love all fruit and vegetables, but I simply can't eat watermelon. I have no idea why. I love the concept but just thinking about it makes me gag.

The Blather's Back

So after that downer of a previous post, I think I'm ready to resume my usual blather about TV, shopping and stupid things that chap my hide.

Last night I came home from work a little frazzled, and decided it would be a good time to get caught up on America's Next Top Model and What About Brian. (No. I still haven't worked through my 5+ weeks of hoarded stuff on TiVo and I don't think I ever will, as long as I am a person with regular monthly expenses and daily obligations.) So anyway, in this week's episode of What About Brian, our title character, his woman, friend Adam and neighbor girl find themselves enjoying an impromptu dinner at Jar. Jar is a place you go on the spur of things? I mean one moment Brian and Bridget are lying in bed talking Tiki Thai, and the next they're at Jar?  For me, Jar is a place I take my boyfriend on his birthday, a place whose menu I salivate over for days after making the reservation, and drop more on a steak dinner than any other time, ever. I realize Adam had just made partner, but still...

I don't care for most of the latest bevy of beauties on ANTM. I like Brittany, but I'm really not impressed with Cycle 8. Renee: please shrink your head and don't mention that you are doing this for your son until you are at least a few more photo shoots into the competition. And Jaslene? You need to eat a little something. Soon. And Sarah, please may you soon no longer be on the road to becoming America's Next Top Model. Why am I still watching this show?

How about some daily life complaint news? Something that really annoys me is going to the doctor, being called in to strip down to nothing to don the paper robe, (did I say robe? I meant rectangle) and then being left on the examining table for almost 30 minutes in a hot, stuffy, poorly ventilated room, sweating profusely, with no reading material for distraction. There is limited enjoyment to be gleaned from reading the drawer and cupboard labels in the examining room, trust me.  I understand that there are busy days at the ob/gyn. And I don't mind waiting--I'd just prefer to do it fully clothed in the waiting room with a stack of issues of Lucky and Real Simple at my fingertips. And people to watch. 

I'm back on the bus. For how much longer, I'm not sure. This is definitely the year I finally suck it up and buy a car. Anyway, I knew I was really and truly back in the swing of things when I sat across from a woman who repeated "It's Friday tomorrow. Isn't that nice?" over and over and over and over again until she disembarked. I suppose there are worse mantras to chant on the bus. A friend of mine once found himself on a bus in San Francisco seated next to a man who lit a cigarette and told him that once he was finished with the cigarette, he was going to kill him. I'll take the Happy Friday thing over that any day.

In the next 6 weeks, two of my best friends in the world are coming to L.A. for the first time since I've lived here. (Well, that's not true. One of them came here for work during one of my epic trips to South Africa, so I missed her.) I am very excited, and need to start planning some show-off itineraries for them, since San Francisco and New York are their cities.  I already showed another friend who came to visit earlier this year all kinds of things. One being the reality that you can spend a day on foot in L.A.

Speaking of walking, I miss my iPod. Sigh.

And finally, I am studying for the GRE as I am thinking I might want to apply to grad school. A few years past the most desirable juncture to do so, but oh well. The idea is very much at zygote stage, so no-one hold their breath. I will keep you posted. But I swear, solving for x and y when you are quite a few years out of high school is not fun. I have total White Noise Brain when it comes to math. If I see an exponent, or a square root sign, I panic and get nothing but fuzziness from ear to ear.

A Rough Ride

I'm back from my annual trek to South Africa. I had zero interest in blogging while I was gone and even now that I'm back I had to beg my fingers to the keyboard. My trip was a difficult one, and I think that's part of it. I'm not sure I feel like writing about it, but maybe it will help.

So where do I begin? Maybe by saying that in the years I've lived away from my family, I've worried about things happening to them, and me not being there, or able to get on a plane in time. As it happened, I didn't need to worry so much, because I was very much there for two horrible things.

In week 2 of my trip, my mother started farming me out and making social plans for me, which I thought was highly suspicious. If she had her way, she would keep me in her pocket the entire time I was there. But I didn't think about it too much, and went off shopping, lunching and Pilates-ing with my cousin and sister-in-law. What she was doing was having x-rays, and her blood and urine tested. When her next step was an overnight in the hospital to take a closer look at a tumor in her bladder (a cystoscope) while under general anesthetic, she had to spill it.  Because he is a doctor, my dad got to see what they had biopsied right after surgery and even though he didn't let on much, I knew he was very concerned. And because she had gone in on a Thursday, we had one full weekend of not knowing how bad it was. So hard. The final verdict was that although the tumor was malignant, it hadn't invaded beyond the bladder wall into any surrounding tissue. She had already had one dose of chemo directly into the bladder during the cystoscope, a decision her urologist made based purely on the size of the thing, and will go back for more of the same in 6 weeks. There aren't words to describe the relief over it not being as bad as it could have been. And seeing her walk around her garden in a bathing suit and gardening gloves, tugging at weeds the day after her surgery was very comforting. My mom is a skinny whip of a thing, but she's tough, with a lot of fight in her.

But then. Fast forward to week 4, and my last day. Always a sad day, and this one even more poignant than usual. My flight wasn't leaving until late that night, so we had one last family dinner at my parents' house before setting off to the airport. The luggage was in my brother's car; my mother and I were in the back seat sharing a laugh at something I forget now, and there they were. Three of them, walking down the driveway as if we'd invited them over for a cup of tea. And I knew. This was something to fear. What happened next comes to me only in flashes, things I experienced as if I was  outside of my body. The car door opening; the gun to my head; my purse being taken from me; my mother being forced out of the car before being shoved down against the garage door; me begging for them not to shoot; the gun in my back; my dad and brother each with their own gun to their heads; until finally, after the longest 10-15 minutes ever (if even that), they were gone.

Car theft at gun point is something that happens far too often in South Africa and we are so fortunate to be around to tell the tale--so many aren't as lucky.  And of course they didn't just get the car and the immediately obvious valuables, but also my two suitcases packed to the brim with all my favorite summer clothes and shoes, toiletries, make-up, gifts for friends, new clothes purchased, i-Pod, digital camera, photos I'd pilfered from family albums. The whole freakin' lot. They're just things, I know, but the thought of someone rummaging through all my carefully-packed belongings makes me feel very violated, even though most of it is replaceable. (Why, oh why didn't I download any of the pictures I took?)

I did manage to hang on to my passport and Green Card--I'm not sure what came over me when I asked to retrieve them from my purse before handing it over, but my request was granted. Now I could pee my pants just thinking about asking for anything while a gun was being brandished, but I suppose my adrenalin-infused behavior is more functional than I thought. Good to know.

Now I'm home, and it all seems like a dream, but a bad one, without any of the relief that comes with waking up. I'll be fine, and David is being wonderful and so understanding of this emotional roller coaster I seem to be rattling up and down on. Flashbacks, worrying about my family, missing my family, wondering if such a thing could happen to them twice, needing my mother to stay healthy and get the better of her internal uninvited guest, needing her to be there for me.

My first few days back, I didn't want to go anywhere, see anyone, do anything. But today I dragged myself to the DMV to replace my driver's license, and walked all the way home (a VERY long walk), stopping at the Fairfax Library, the Farmers Market, Whole Foods, Joan's on Third for a strawberry buttermilk muffin (the first thing that's sounded good in days) and things are suddenly looking more normal. It's good to be back.

New Dining Rule

You will not, in a crowded restaurant, where the 2-top tables are about 2 inches apart, decide that this is your night to sit side by side, as opposed to across from one another, as a normal, considerate person would. So obnoxious.

At one point one of the perpetrators turned to me and apologized for the fact that her purse was practically on my lap. I wanted to say, "Oh it's no problem, but I'd like to not have your boyfriend's arm draped around my shoulder every time I lean back. Thanks."

Aside from that, dinner at Pace was wonderful. As far as neighborhood Italian goes, I don't think it can touch La Buca though. I'm still dreaming about their gnocchi.

Remind Me Never to Hike in the REAL Wilderness

Yesterday we decided that a brisk walk in Griffith Park would be a good way to ring in 2007. It was a gorgeous day in L.A., and we were both feeling sluggish from 5 days in Tahoe that came with morning buffets that featured too many breakfast meats. Those little pork sausages were scrumptious, but it was time to undo some of the damage.

Our "California Hiking" book listed a hike in Griffith Park, but when we got there, we got confused by the directions that were supposed to put us at the beginning of the trail and ended up just winging it, heading off on a path that quickly veered into a much narrower path. Before I knew it, I needed all four limbs to stay on course. My knees were particularly good for balancing when I found myself teetering and trying to avoid a painfull fall. You hear about people getting in silly accidents, and you always wonder how they put themselves into those situations. Well now I know exactly how. Trying to turn around and head down would have been even more difficult so we pressed on until we got to the top, only to find that "the top" was enclosed by a fence, as far as we could safely walk. Nothing like being on the wrong side of a barrier with sharp bits poking out of its top, dirty and sweaty, in full view of a bunch of civilized families off to enjoy an afternoon at the Griffith Observatory. Not to mention the ungainly scaling of the barrier. Our little jaunt had put us so far away from a direct path back to the car that it took us well over two hours to get back to it, sticking to a more populated, obvious path. Pork sausage and bacon residue safely banished. And for someone who has long lamented her flat, waspy, white-girl ass, hiking up scrubby hill with no good grip might be my new thing. The old gluteus maximus is squealing with pain today.

On the way up our near-death climb, we had both commented on the unusually high number of lone men we saw at the base of, or near our upward path. Today we find out that that we had most likely ventured through the area that is one of Griffith Park's known cruising spots for men looking for some boy-on-boy action.

Ferdinand Magellans we are not.

New Bus Rule

You will not get on the bus, sit across from me, take your brush out of your purse and proceed to rid it of the hair buried in its bristles. Public transportation is tiresome enough; I shouldn't have to ride with a matted, nasty hairball at my feet. I am even less tolerant of this crime when you are so hoochily dressed and possibly not wearing underwear (what is with this apparent trend anyway?) that I resolve never to sit on those particular seats again, for fear of coming into contact with bacteria I'd rather not know about.

Isn't the bus grand?

Downtime

I'm back from my holiday getaway with the family. The other Double D did some serious time. Looks like I have a few trips to Montreal in my future to make up for it. I love my family of course, but isn't it funny how the smallest things can make a grown up little sister turn into a little sister again? (And the other way round, of course). I am the youngest of four, and while I rarely fly off the handle at any unsolicited advice from my brothers, when it comes from my sister, watch out! She reserves a special brand of bossiness just for me and sometimes I am alarmed at my response to it. 

So our little cabin in the Tahoe woods had its moments, but we had a good time. There wasn't much good snow to be had, and my aging muscles certainly felt the passage of time that had passed since the last time I engaged in any winter sports (at least 5 years). Anything I once knew about moving downhill on skis seemed to have been erased from my memory, and I spent the greater part of a day on a bunny slope, the worst part of which was making my way up to the top of its feeble peak by way of the crotch-grabbing T-bar, which should be banned from all ski resorts from now on. Remind me never to try that thing with a snowboard. It gets very tricky, trust me.

On the way home we stopped in San Francisco for a whirlwind 24 hours mostly spent shopping (as if we hadn't done enough of that before Christmas) and catching our first movie in the theatre in an embarrassingly long time (The Pursuit of Happyness). I believe only my family would be capable of separating into two groups to purchase tickets and end up buying them for different showtimes. At least I was in the party that purchased tickets for the showtime in the FUTURE, as opposed to the one that started 20 minutes prior to our arrival at the theatre.

We also sidetracked off the 101 on the way home to spend an afternoon in Paso Robles. We stopped at a wonderful cheese store downtown before rambling onto whatever winery we hit first, hoping it was one where we could picnic. The left fork in the road put us here, and it was the best stop we could have made. I highly recommend a visit if you're in the area. Not only will you taste good wine in the company of the winemaker himself, but you'll also enjoy the company of the menagerie that includes Bailey the fat black lab and Sunshine the cat.

And now we're home again, and it's so good to be on an unstructured, lazy schedule until I go back to work for just a few more days before leaving for South Africa. Somewhere I have a list of things to get done in preparation for the trip, but I'm going to ignore it until next weekend.

Panic Mush

Today is one of those days when one glance at my to-list starts to feel like nails being hammered in the space behind my eyes. I hate feeling this overwhelmed. I hate having SO MUCH STUFF to get done by a certain time. Before a road trip to the snow, followed by a big trip to another hemisphere, and amidst the two major religious holidays that are celebrated in this house, AND the work I have to finish up at the freelance job that has just a few days left. I hate that I haven't cooked in weeks. I am tired of holiday parties. I already hate my holiday wardrobe arsenal. I have no snow clothes. I just want to lie under the covers, hope it all goes away and have licence to be 100% cranky. And that's the worst part. I have NO TIME to be cranky. I know preparing for a ski trip and then a trip to South Africa are luxury problems, and I hate being such a whiner. But why does everything have to pile up just SO?  I'm sitting here trying to be very calm, compartmentalizing all the bits and pieces of my obligations, developing a game plan for the rest of the week, but all I can think about is soup. Brothy soup. And how much I need some. And can I really justify another takeout dinner when soon I WILL NOT HAVE A JOB? And did I really just spend $1300 on an airline ticket? And then it all starts over again. Welcome to my week.

A Break in this Regular Schedule of Nothing

I haven't felt much inspired to blog lately. But where there is mortification, there is inspiration.

Tonight I answered the door (after two near misses with Jehovah's Witnesses twice this weekend--the pamphlets slipped under the front door being the dead giveaway) to our new-ish neighbor that I had yet to meet.  She is the very cute and hip (in a punk rock sort of way) daughter of a Hollywood producer and tonight she and her visiting friends from Philly found themselves in need of a blender to make some frothy beverages. "I'm your neighbor by the way", she said, holding out her youthful paw. "Yes," I thought, "how lucky you must feel to live next to an old hag who is already in her dorky pajama bottoms with strawberries on them (why, WHY couldn't I have picked the stripes tonight?), a ratty white t-shirt and some grey socks at 7:00 pm in the evening." But, not only did I have on a humiliating outfit, I also happened to have Everwood paused on the TiVo (embarrassing when you are clearly in your 30s), and the only remotely youthful thing immediately visible to her (a hip hop CD of David's) as she hovered in the hallway was something I knew nothing about. "How's that CD?" she said. "No idea", I said. "It belongs to my boyfriend." Would it have been so hard to just white-lie it, and say, "Oh it's great! But not as good as their earlier stuff."?

And giving my blender (and beloved member of my Cuisinart family) to someone who barely looks 21? What was I thinking? I may as well have handed her some Don Julio and the car keys.

All in a Day's Frustration

I try not to post about work too much.  But sometimes I can't help myself. Here's a list of things I've experienced over the course of the last several work weeks:

1. Have someone do a full 360 in front of me, and ask if I notice anything different about her. After several revolutions, I'm still not sure. A dramatic head toss and shake is my clue that it's the hair... something about the hair. Ahhhhh. It seems I had failed to notice the clip-in extensions in her already hugely abundant hair. Seriously. You could thatch a building with that hair, and you're wearing clip-ins that you expect me to notice? (Not to mention how this makes me feel about my own wispy, baby's ass hair.)

2. Hearing "expecially" more than once in a meeting.

3. Help someone draft a letter to the INS about her stepmother's pending residency status, a letter that was required to provide concrete evidence of marriage, NONE OF WHICH EXISTS.

4. Have to listen to a painful diatribe that began with "Isn't history fascinating?!!," followed by the declaration that OUR generation will only be remembered for the dot com boom and the fact that our president got a blow job from an intern. I guess 9/11, the war in Iraq, Rwanda, Darfur and more things than I can list here are just piddling trifles.

5. Participate in a group discussion in which Darth Vader becomes "Dark" Vader and in which there is musing about why George Lucas created a movie from the TV series Star Trek.

And the frightening thing? Every one of these came from the SAME PERSON. I'm not sure how much longer I can take it. Somewhere in the world, there are GIANT rocks,and people really do live under them.