Years ago my husband gave me a hard time about not being more intellectual, (please read with a sneer) which I have never let him forget. The other night we were out and about partying old people style. On the way home, my darling husband told me I was funny, sexy and smart.
“Smart?” I asked. “I want to be mysterious and intellectual.”
“Then you’re going to have to start talking about Mark Twain and Descartes instead of Grinder, Chris Rock and Beyoncé when we go to a party.”
My husband had a point. If I’m going to be intellectual, I need to change-up my talking points. And if I’m going to change-up my talking points, I’m going to have to reboot my interests.
This means spending less time watching X-Men and more time reading The New York Times, United Nations press releases (is there such as thing?), and dead German poets. I’m going to have to dedicate myself to the art of learning esoteric information that makes me <yawn> think. I’m going to need to figure out once and for where the hell Mabibia is. Mabibia? Nabibia? Namibia? Something like that. I’ll Google it.
I’m going to read the Brothers Karamazov. Yes, the whole thing!
I’m going to listen when Sam starts going on and on about that Middle East stuff.
I’m going to vote in local elections instead of recycling my ballot.
And most importantly, I’m going to quote Shakespeare. That quoting stuff sounds super fancy. From now on I’m going to be the intellectual girl at the party. Mark Twain and Descartes. I’m all over this.
Addendum – $20 says I never get invited back to a single party.
5:59am, 5:58am – these are the numbers I see every morning when the little Prince (aka Napoleon Bonaparte) wakes me up. What is up with that short dude? I put him to bed at 6pm – 5:59am wake time. I put him to bed at 9pm – 5:58 wake time. I put him to bed shackled in the closet hanging upside down – 5:59am wake time. (get it? ’cause he’s like the opposite of a vampire – whatever, i’m tired)
And these are the good days. There’s always at least one morning a week where numbers like 4:32am and 4:28am greet my swollen, sleep-crusted eyes. Strangely, the loudness of my voice seems to directly coincide with the order of these numbers.
The point is, just once I’d like to see some different numbers in the morning. A 7? A 8?
Really, my little autocrat, let mama get some sleep. I’m aging so fast from this hard living I look about 49 going on 57.
All because a job that looks superduper-fragalistic wanted me to have a twitter. And then the doorbell rang. And Ma in her kerchief And I in my sweats, Had just settled down To a long winter’s nap – When out on the lawn There rose such a clatter, I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. (this will make sense once you read my first tweet)
But seriously, what have I gotten myself into now?
I woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. Grumpy and exasperated. Short-tempered and growly. I think my family would best describe me as not fun to be around in any way, sense or form.
And then dear Pharrell Williams made an appearance at the dining room table. The kids and I watched, danced, and sung along twice.
In case you’re in a bad mood too today and need to remember how to smile…
My family has begun to explore the city in a new way – house hunting. There are so many neighborhoods in Los Angeles, and while it’s tempting to stay somewhere I know and love…what about all the places I could get to know and love?
Upon beginning our exploration, we drew on the advice of friends. Where is the best place to love? The answer was Malibu. No, the Venice Canals. No, Mt. Washington, Bronson Canyon, Beverly Glen, Mullholland, Cheviot Hills, Topanga, Santa Monica, Los Feliz, Silverlake…
It seems that everyone we know has a different opinion on LA’s best. But that’s good. Instead of choosing between 10 terrible places to live, we get to choose amongst a slew of great ones.
And so now the tough part comes – Sam and I agreeing. I’m open, but think it sure would be nice to have a chicken coop to call my own. Sam thinks my chicken coop phase is about as likely to happen as snow on Wilshire. Either way, bright new changes await us.
I never had a yard sale growing up. When we were done with something, we gave it to Goodwill. And that’s what I’ve been doing my entire adult life…until yesterday!
Yesterday, we hauled out toys and clothes and shoes and bags and DVD players. We flaunted cribs and bibs and remote controls. We sold curtain rods and bath rods and old lamps with Edison’s bulbs. The only things we didn’t put in our driveway (we couldn’t actually use the yard due to fence issues) were…well, everything we currently use and enjoy. But you get the drift.
The sale was intended to be from 8-12. At 7:30, men pulled up like something out of Fight Club and began shadowing my every move. They peppered me with questions, did I have watches? Cell phones? Old computers that didn’t work? Lady’s Jewelry? Exotic plants? Exotic ladies? (I said yes to that one) Men’s jeans? Copper pots? Silverware? I held my own. Channeling Vin Diesel, I responded monosyllabically. And I might have had a bit of a Russian accent. “No, yes, you’re early – you need to wait.”
Shortly after noon we started to pack everything up and by 1pm, I was on the sofa resting. Sam drove our boxed remains to Goodwill.
$.10 is a great price for clothes
the word for FREE in Spanish is GRATIS
Kids love yard sales
I love yard sales
We are having another yard sale someday!
Due to my never-ending desire to embarrass myself, I dance. Hip hop mostly, but I’ve been known to throw in some ballet or lyrical. And so for quite some time now I’ve been searching for sneakers. High tops to be specific. My old Nike’s are literally coming apart at the seams. My left foot has a hole (yes, hole – not rip) 2 inches wide. Not that that impairs my dancing. When you dance like I do, nothing can make it any worse.
What I’ve found is that in addition to your old school high top, and the new high-heel high top (say that 10 times fast), and the no muss no fuss Converse-esq high top…there’s also the fashion high top. Big name designers have come out of the woodwork to style-up high tops with the prices to match. A more <ahem> reasonably priced brand is Ash, which retails in the $200-$300 range. Mostly patent leather or distressed leather with buckles and zippers, Ash has cornered an interesting market – the not-so-bad ass high top. Women like me can toughen up dresses and jeans. We can pair a flowered shirt with leggings and some Ash high tops and boom – we’ve got our hard and soft. I’m into it.
Spreading the word, one sneaker at a time…