la dolce Vespa

Arrivederci

2009-06-26T16:00:00.000-07:00

To the extent that this lowly, neglected blog has any readers left, I would like to inform them that we are officially retiring La Dolce Vespa. Yes, I still have the Vespa. No, I do not ride it as often as I envisioned. But yes, I am still happy I bought it. The problem is not the Vespa, it's the fact that the Vespa has not provided the wealth of blogging material that I originally anticipated. Most notably, I still have all my fingers and toes.

The other problem is that my evil twin, Riley Noehren, has recently started her own blog, which she swears up and down she will post to on at least a biweekly basis. (But note: She is not trustworthy! Take whatever she says with a grain of salt. Do not--I repeat, DO NOT--enter into any multilevel marketing schemes with her.) Between the two of us, there is simply not enough time or material to supply two whole blogs. So if you're interested, kindly reset your Readers or bookmarks or whatever to http://www.rileynoehren.com/. Also, Riley really appreciates the moral support and patronage you provided in response to the last post.

Final Vespa stats...
Years owned: 2+
Miles logged: 600+ (still largely driven in my immediate neighborhood on weekends)
Helmet purchases: 3
Regrettable helmet purchases: 1 (pink Ed Hardy number with the words "Ed Hardy" in 12 places)
Minor accidents: 1 (the parking garage scuffle of 2007)
Brushes with death: 0 actual; 4,217 perceived
Members of scooter gang: 0
Persons invited to join scooter gang: 25

By any other name...

2009-03-10T16:16:00.000-07:00

Declan McManus, Paul Hewson, William Bailey, Tracy Morrow—why do I like these fellas so much? First, for their contribution to (in no particular order) (a) good music, (b) good deeds, (c) the completely unexpected popularization of male redheads in white biker shorts, and (d) the fusion of gangster rap with serial television programs. But more importantly, I appreciate their artful adoption of some of the best pseudonyms ever. Sometimes I wish I had a pseudonym…

On a completely unrelated note, have I told you about my good “friend” Riley Noehren? She looks kind of like me except that she wears glasses and I wear contact lenses and if you ever see a fat picture that looks like me, it is actually of her, as I am naturally photogenic while she has a nasty tendency of being snapped with red cheeks and quadruple chinnage. Like me, Riley wrote a first-draft novel for nanwrimo back in 2007. Then she edited it into a full-blown book entitled Gravity vs. the Girl. Then she sent the resulting manuscript off to four agents, but got too lazy to send it to more after that, so she decided to self-publish. Then, after spending months editing and laying out her tome to perfection, she realized it would have been easier to send it to a few hundred more agents instead.

Anyhow, Riley’s writing style is eerily close to my own, so if you at all enjoy reading this blog (and I'm not assuming you do), you might want to check out Gravity vs. the Girl, which is presently available for purchase on Lulu, Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and various online book retailers, such as this one.* Soon, Riley will be starting her own blog on her self-publishing adventures. Eventually she will throw up an author’s website.

Of course, Riley and I aren’t completely alike. For one thing, our names are way different. For another, unlike me, Riley is not paranoid that writing crazy books under her real name will result in the loss of future job opportunities and political appointments. And unlike Riley, I would never, ever engage in shameless self-promotion.

* If you buy it and even relatively like it, a review posted on Amazon or the like would be greatly appreciated. By Riley, of course.

Bicoastal Adventures

2009-02-19T11:06:00.000-08:00

I spent President’s Day weekend in New York because I needed to use a free one-way ticket I got from new budget airline Virgin America. As my little brother (Pboy), his wife (Steph) and my good friend (Wing) all live there, it seemed as good as place as any to visit, and I’m sure glad I did. I learned three important lessons while there: (1) New York is even better than everyone says it is. (2) One three-day weekend is simply NOT long enough to even scratch the surface of New York. (3) LA has made me soft. Unfortunately, this last lesson was the hardest to learn. I spent the entire weekend bundled up yet freezing, compromising my ample personal space requirements, and grimacing at the sore feet resulting from this thing they call “walking” of which they are so fond in New York.

But first, a message from our should-be sponsors. If you have not flown Virgin America yet, DO IT. If you live in one of the hundreds of metropolitan areas not yet serviced by Virgin America, then move. Seriously, Virgin America has Southwest prices yet assigned seats, a full media console for each passenger, the ability to order soda refills using your own touch-screen television, and flight attendants who wear pants and collared shirts and generally refrain from wocka-wocka-wocka humor over the PA system.

So my plane left LA on Friday night and arrived a whole hour early at 5:30 a.m. in NYC. I did not sleep a wink in between. Following the explicit instructions Pboy had given me—which I memorized so I wouldn’t have to reference them and appear touristy—I managed to successfully navigate the NYC subway system for the first time in my life and showed up at Pboy and Steph’s doorstep in Brooklyn at 7:00 a.m. After a shower and some other primping, we got breakfast at a great diner in their neighborhood, where they sure know how to cook but not how to spell, so if you’re like me and have a hard time with typos on menus and such, try not to read anything the entire time you are there. This will be difficult—there are signs everywhere. But the effort will be worth it for their many flavored butters.

After breakfast we headed (1) to the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens at my request, where everything is pretty much dead this time of year, (2) to Target for some much-needed Diet Coke, (3) to Battery Park, where we hopped the ferry to see (4) the Statue of Liberty and (5) Ellis Island. Both (4) and (5) were great attractions, but I wish we had spent a little less time at (4) and a little more at (5), (5) being far warmer because it was inside, involving far more things to explore than we expected, and employing the more congenial ferry workers. When debarking the ferry at Ellis Island, we were instructed to “watch [our] step” and “take it easy.” By contrast, on Liberty Island we were screamed at to “take bigger steps!”

When we got back to Manhattan, we headed straight for Chinatown. At one point, Pboy went into a bank to use the ATM, leaving Steph and I standing on a street corner waiting for him. I soon learned that standing on a street corner in NYC is equivalent to asking for trouble. We had only been there a few seconds when all sorts of Chinatown locals tried to sell us “Hempay.” As I suspected at the time, and as my internet research has since confirmed, they meant good old-fashioned weed, although Steph and I had a laugh over the technical distinction between marijuana and hemp and the nice hippie necklaces we could construct out of the product they were offering. Even more disturbing, one young man tried to buy some from us. Having watched way too many “cooperation” themed shorts on Sesame Street as a child, I suggested that we point buyer in the direction of seller. Fortunately, Steph reminded me that doing so would violate the law.

Once Pboy rejoined us, nobody tried to sell us anything. Now, I love my brother dearly, but given his beard and the retro-Castro look he was sporting that day, I would have assumed that he appeared to be the most-likely user/seller out of the three of us. I was wrong. Later, when I recounted the whole experience to Wing, she laughed and said the only things she had ever been offered in Chinatown were fake designer purses and watches. What?! Having been paid my annual bonus last year in watches rather than dollars (long story, but totally true-- wretched economy), I was wearing a real designer watch at the time and still nobody offered me a fake one. Nope, apparently I give the impression that all I care about is the drugs. I am seriously rethinking that H&M hat I was wearing to keep my ears warm.

Although every single meal I had in NYC was fabulous, I must say that the culinary highlight of the trip was at Joe’s Shanghai in Chinatown, where they have the most wonderful pork soup dumplings (pictured above). I didn’t even know I liked soup dumplings that much until I tried these. It was love at first taste. I don’t know if Joe’s is the best Chinese food in NYC, but I will say it is the best Chinese food in LA. Even when you factor in the price of a plane ticket, it is a reasonable amount to pay for such a great meal.

Although it was still early evening, I was completely exhausted by that point. We went back to P&S’s super cool apartment and I fell asleep in the middle of CSI: Miami. They let me take a short nap, then woke me up and kept me talking for a few hours so that my sleeping schedule could get back to normal. They also fed me ice cream cake.

(The Players, from Left: Pboy, Steph, Yours Truly, Wing--who was

promised that no pictures of her would be posted on the internet without

express permission, which has not yet been obtained)

I spent the majority of the next day with Wing, my friend from law school whom I had not seen in four years. We got breakfast in the West Village (I think) and she took me on a walking tour of all the hippest neighborhoods in Manhattan. In the process, we stumbled upon a Belgian waffle hut selling French Macarons, which have replaced cupcakes as the chic treat du jour in Beverly Hills, so we stopped in to get one (or was it sixteen?). Then we went to the MoMA (my choice) and, as it goes with modern art exhibits, we saw a lot of awesome art and a lot of total crap. Seriously—a crumpled piece of paper under a glass case? That doesn’t even qualify as irony. My favorite was the “installation” of a motion-sensitive light bulb that, when you crossed its path, whispered horrid things at you in a Satanic voice. Wing and I had a good time standing in front of blank canvases while practicing our best “hmmmm… brilliant” faces. Yet our admission fee was truly earned when Wing overheard a New Yawker security guard tell another security guard, in his best New Yawker accent, “You have built yourself a false paradise.”

After the MoMA, we got real NYC hot dogs for a late lunch and cruised around Central Park. In actuality, it was only Wing who was “cruising”—in her leather boots, no less—while I was “hobbling” along in my sneakers. Eventually we met up with Pboy and Steph in the East Village for some Thai food. The food was great, but the 1980s easy listening soundtrack made it even more memorable. During a Richard Marx song, Steph confessed that she had childhood crushes on both Richard Marx and George Michael. Strangely, the very next song was Wham’s “Careless Whisper.” Only it wasn’t George Michael singing, it was as if someone in the restaurant was singing Karaoke. The restaurant was empty except for us and the employees, none of whom appeared to be singing to Steph. After “Careless Whisper,” the music returned to normal. We never did solve that mystery, but after encountering that demonic light bulb at the MoMA, I can’t help but wonder if it was the fixture above our table serenading us.

By this point, I was dead on my feet once again. Regardless, Pboy, Steph and Wing dragged me to Times Square just so I could say I saw it. I did. It was fun. We all debated the need for an entire store dedicated to M&Ms. Then we went home. That was also fun but not as electrified.

On Monday, Pboy had to work (heresy), so Steph and I set out for some bagels, some shopping, and some Brooklyn Bridge crossing. I was pretty much freezing the whole trip, but being atop the Brooklyn Bridge with all the wind took the cake. Still, if you go, you have to do it. We also ran into Tom Hanks and Colin Hanks at a store in SoHo, but I will let you read about that on Steph’s blog cause I’m getting tired of typing and Tom Hanks really only talked to her and not to me. And no, he did not try to sell us any “Hempay.”

After recovering from our unexpected celebrity sighting, Steph and I met Pboy near his work and went to lunch at a place called The Burger Joint, which is literally a shack tucked out of sight in the lobby of a five-star hotel. There was quite a wait, but it was well worth it as the burger and fries were fabulous. After that, it was time for me to head back to Brooklyn, pack up, and get myself to the airport.

Back in LA, the only public transportation I took was the shuttle from Terminal 4 to Parking Lot C (for you Angelenos, it was too late to catch the Flyaway bus). Then I drove my car the eight miles back to my house. An entire Jeep for just me and my backpack seemed like an embarrassing excess after a weekend of cramming into the subway with other people. And that, my friends, is how LA makes people so soft.

Now taking requests

2009-02-04T15:25:00.000-08:00

Oh sweet Sara. Thank you for the shout-out and request for commentary on a recent LDS Midsingle Activity that we both attended. Since I have quite a few non-LDS friends and readers, I’ll have to do a little back story, and then, in my usual long-winded nature, I will probably spend far too many words on far too little substance or laughs, but here goes:

Ahem.

Times are tough for the LDS Midsingle. If you do not know what this phrase means, then you are either not LDS or not single or neither, in which case your life is eons better than mine because, as every Midsingle knows, nothing is worse than being a Midsingle, not even an abusive spouse or a terminal illness or addiction or living in third-world poverty. As you may have guessed, we Midsingles are more than a little self-absorbed and often self-pitying. But it’s not our fault, you see, as we have spent our entire lives being the most important person in our entire lives. Isn’t that sad? Do you need a Kleenex yet? No? Then you are a soulless monster, probably with children.

To better explain, Midsingles are those members of the LDS Church who are unmarried and generally between the ages of 31 and 45. Singles under 31 are called “Young Single Adults” or “YSAs” and, in larger metropolitan areas, the Church has organized entire congregations of YSAs to encourage them to socialize with one another, get married and thereby avoid—you guessed it—the pitfalls of Midsingledom. Singles over the 45-ish range are just called “Single Adults” or “Old People.” Ironically, my research has shown that Midsingles are more likely than YSAs to refer to Single Adults by the more derogatory phrase.

Generally, if you turn 31 and are still single, you are expected to leave your YSA group and attend and participate in a regular congregation (referred to by almost everyone in the Church as just a “Ward” except for Midsingles who, caving to their incessant need to point out their self-perceived outsider status, call it a “Family Ward”). This transition is rougher on some than others, but I am not going to get into that as it is a personal thing and I only know my own experience. Except that I do want to point out that it was not rough on me. I braved it like the champion transitioner that I am. I expect my Bishop is going to call me to the stand any Sunday now and publicly bestow upon me some sort of new and colorful medallion the Church has made and named in my honor, namely the “La Dolce Vespa in Action Personal Progress and Accountability with Integrity for Choosing the Right Ward Award.”

So I haven’t been a Midsingle long enough to know how long this has been in the making, but Midsingles around the world are beginning to unite and revolt and demand YSA-like activities and meetings for themselves. And they’re having conferences. Lots of them. Where they talk about being Midsingle. And play silly games. And dance to Depeche Mode. Some more enthusiastically than others or, more accurately, most more enthusiastically than me. Let’s just say the new Church medallion for “Duty to Praiseworthy Two-Stepping and Just Can’t Get Enough Weasel Scout Award” will have to be named after someone else.

I have tried my best to support this new Midsingles movement—really I have. But there is something holding me back from getting super excited about it. Maybe it’s because I don’t like to practice self-pity. It’s certainly not for the lack of good company. Lest I have made us sound too pathetic, I must state that most of the Midsingles I personally know are awesome individuals with stories, travels, accomplishments, professions, and viewpoints that are downright inspiring. Take Sara for example. Although she’s still a YSA, she was trying out Midsingledom for the night, so she counts. She’s a fancy CPA working for a fancy accounting firm that sends her on fancy business trips to places like India where she spends months at a time. But despite awesome people like Sara in the crowd, the minute someone gathers us all into a meetinghouse and starts spinning Depeche Mode and screaming “Let’s play kissing rugby,” the group dynamic takes a nasty, self-pitying nosedive which causes me to watch every second tick by on the clock and do deep-breathing exercises in order to restrain myself from banging my head against the cinderblock wall until I pass out.

I know I am not alone in my reluctant approach to Midsingles activities, but I have yet to come across anyone who has a real answer to the problem. Perhaps, given the aforementioned stories, travels, accomplishments, professions and viewpoints our demographic has to offer, our time together would be better spent on things other than 90s music and 80s games. What such an activity would involve, I’m not quite sure. Group therapy is just one suggestion.

So back to Sara and our recent activity. I had the inside scoop on this one and happen to know there was a lot of time, effort and thought put into it. Still, it is what it is--a Midsingles activity. The group dynamic was not perfect but it was far improved and for that I am grateful. We did play a number of “getting to know you” games, including one where we were required to “sew” ourselves to an entire team of people by threading a long string up and down all of our clothes. Nothing says “getting to know you” like tying yourself to a total stranger and then helping him partially undress so you can get to the knot under his shirt and free yourself from the tether thereto. Next time someone should probably bring scissors.

And so I must conclude that the activity was a success in that I ate some good food and met a few new people and generally refrained from entertaining too many self-pitying thoughts. But I guess it was a failure in that I didn’t get engaged by the end of the night. No really, I double-checked my ring figure a couple of times afterward and, wouldn’t you know it, nothing there.

Oh well, back to doing whatever I want whenever I want and spending my money however I want and riding my Vespa if I want and taking spur-of-the-moment trips to NYC for President’s Day Weekend without having to book a babysitter and sleeping through the night every night and generally being the center of my own universe. Not much cause for self-pity in there now that I think about it, but what do I know? I’m just a Midsingle.

(oh, and we are in the process of deciding on a new look for this blog, so please ignore the mess in the interim. apologies for taking the links down, but they need serious updating.)

Vespateers in Training

2009-01-02T17:38:00.000-08:00

When it comes to future members of my scooter gang, I like to start them young. Real young. In some cases, before they are able to fully string together a complete sentence.

Enter the awesome motorized Christmas presents I got for the niece, Miss Dub (age 2), and the nephew, Lil' Gee (not quite 2), which are showcased below. They both immediately figured out how to drive, but their steering could use some improvement, as could their focus on things in front of the moving vehicle as opposed to those on the side, behind, or--in the case of certain doggie doo unfairly attributed to golden retriever Asher--underneath.

(The munchkins' real names have been bleeped out of the video, but Asher's has been left in as he is looking to increase his Internet presence.)

In addition to driving around like maniacs, the kids were kind enough to demonstrate the following scooting techniques:

Looking into the turn

Turning the scooter around like Aunt G does when nobody's watching

Jaw Jacking

2008-12-03T16:46:00.000-08:00

So, I will get down to doing a real post one of these days, but in the meantime, here are a few recent events I've thought about posting about. I have no idea why they all involve driving. Oh, except that I spend my entire life in the car. Seriously, I should have been a trucker. Then I could have gotten paid for it. And learned all that cool C.B. lingo. Alas...

Late November
Two weekends ago, I witnessed an accident while driving on the 10-West. Traffic was cruising around 50 mph and all of a sudden everyone’s slamming on their brakes and I see a car a couple of vehicles ahead spinning in circles across several lanes, driving the wrong way head-first into a wall, bouncing back, and bumping a minivan in the process. When the whole thing ended, I had like second-row seats to the affair. I pulled out my cell phone and called 911, sure that the driver of the spinning car was seriously injured. I have done this once before (to report a driver that was either drunk or completely asleep at the wheel in the middle of the day, and who had turned the packed freeway into a bumper-car course of sorts) and it’s creepy because 911 knows where you are and automatically patches you into CHP. I told them about the accident and all. Then the driver of the spinning car, apparently fine, gets out of her car, starts throwing a Jerry Springer worthy fit about the accident and shaking her fist at the poor woman in the minivan. This is about the time that I, and the rest of the freeway, lost all sympathy and concern for her and began driving off in droves.

But post-crash etiquette is not the point of this post. Rather, for the next half hour, my cell phone periodically gave off this weird ring/alert I had only heard once before—the last time I called 911 from the highway (I swear, I don’t do this every day). Does anyone out there in blogland know what this is? Was CHP keeping tabs on my position or something? Just wondering.

Thanksgiving in Phoenix
In LA, the speed limits are kind of a reference point. The reality is that you are permitted to go as fast as traffic will let you. Usually, this is far below the speed limit. But on a good Saturday morning, where no wildfires or bikers or landscaping trucks or other accident-prone vehicles have managed to mess things up for you, the flow of traffic generally averages out at around 80 mph. As long as everyone is going 80 mph, and as long as you’re not doing anything too stupid while going 80 mph, you can drive right past a cop at 80 mph (who will also be going 80 mph) without any real worry.

Given this background, I’m sure you can appreciate how very frustrating it is for an LA driver to be in the greater Phoenix area on a holiday weekend where the traffic is light enough that one could easily go 80 mph but be forced to drive 65 mph instead. When you’re able to drive 80, 65 seems like a snail’s pace. But that’s just what they’ve done in Phoenix—taken the joy out of driving by placing a whole robotic committee of ground-triggers, radars and an entire photo studio complete with fake books and oversized “Class Of” letters and other stupid props at five-mile increments on all the freeways in town. This committee purportedly records your speed and snaps a picture of your car and then tickets you by mail. What, no e-mail tickets? No tickets asking to be my friend on Facebook?* Sheesh. Get with the times, Phoenix.

So even though Dave and Mary warned me about the new and ruthless traffic regime in the Valley of the Sun, and even though there are signs posted everywhere telling you about it, I still got noticeably flashed on the night I drove in and then, while leaving town, I spaced and did it again. So now I am biting my nails every day as I open the mailbox, waiting for not one but two speeding tickets to jump out at me. And the worst part is that I wasn’t even going glorious 85, only like 72 or so. So it wasn’t even worth it.

Thanksgiving in L.A.
SoCal’s holiday rush hour started a mere seventy miles from the Arizona/California border this year. It took me three hours to drive from the Fantasy Springs casino to the Cabazon Outlets. Previously, I always considered the two to be adjacent to each other. Oh wait, they are. There was a meltdown of sorts. I’m still experiencing PTSD as a result.

Yesterday
Yesterday I was sitting in traffic after work, which was even heavier than normal due to something going on at the Staples Center that warranted Batman lights and helicopters flying all around, and I see this kid walking on the side of the freeway, pull out a can of spray paint, and begin to tag a concrete wall right then and there. In rush hour. The freeway was packed. A cop was bound to drive by eventually. That’s some real moxie, people.

Now, I don’t know what this says about LA and the jaded nature thereof, but all of the drivers in my lane, including yours truly, had the exact same reaction at the exact same time: pull out the celly and snap a grainy picture of this young hooligan in action, because nobody’s going to believe it otherwise. Seriously, the lights on our phones all went on in tandem. Alas, it was dark and we were under an overpass or five, so the grainy picture is not worth posting. Neither was the kid’s graffiti. I can see why he’s willing to risk life and limb to get some practice in. His handwriting wasn’t even good.

There you have it, folks.

* No, I don’t do Facebook and I won’t be your friend.

Targeteer

2008-10-16T18:18:00.000-07:00

Better to blog poorly than to not blog at all.

If you are one of the many blogsnobs who disagree with that statement, you should probably stop reading here.

Things that have been going on lately:

Life as usual. Meh.

Politics. Have you heard there is an election coming up? Well, not for me as I already voted by mail weeks ago. Yet the fact that my vote is “spent” has not stopped the entire universe from perpetually pestering me for my vote and/or my assistance in pestering others for their vote. Never before has the phrase “I’m over it” rang more true. That said, I am grateful to Governor Palin for providing an easy Halloween costume this year. Despite our difference of opinion on many issues, we apparently share a love of ¾-sleeved business suits, peep-toed heels, pearls, and mid-length brown hair. I’ll pretty much be able to go to any Halloween festivities straight from work without doing anything other than teasing my half-do and switching my regular glasses for a rimless pair I bought online for $14. Ooh-I hope they come in the mail today.

The McDonald’s Monopoly Game. Unfortunately, I have been plagued by a lifelong gambling addiction. Fortunately, my strict religious beliefs frown on gambling and have therefore prevented said addiction from getting me into any major trouble. Unfortunately, commercial sweepstakes have never really been characterized as “gambling” when, in reality, they kind of are (I mean, you pay in with the hope of getting an even bigger payout despite strong odds against you). Thus, twice a year I consume 4000% more McDonald’s food than normal in a foolish attempt to secure the winning Monopoly game pieces. Anyone need an Oriental Avenue? I’ve got about 400 hundred of them. Also, I thought we weren’t supposed to say “Oriental” anymore. “The Orient” is a proper noun/place, while “Asian” is an adjective, right? Hey, if you’re of the Asian persuasion, why don’t you contact me and we’ll file some sort of lawsuit against McDs and Parker Bros., insisting they change it to “Asian Avenue” and also that they give us, say, $10 million for our trouble. It’s probably a surer payout than playing the dumb game and considerably less fattening. Cause did I mention that I am dressing as chubby Gov. Palin for Halloween this year? I would sue McDs for making me fat, but I hear that’s been done.

My new career as a multi-sport athlete. In addition to compulsive gambling, I have been beleaguered by a lifetime of taking a joke too far. Like, I’ll say I’m doing something silly or outrageous just to get a laugh out of people, but then when they respond exactly as I expected them to—i.e., by saying something along the lines of “How hilarious,” or “You will not,”—I get all huffy and belligerent and “I’ll show them!” And then I do it. Maybe not well, but I do it. The thing I was only kidding about doing. Even if it takes years and changes the course of my entire life. Like that one time when I joked about going to law school.

So remember how after the Olympics I joked about winning a gold medal in archery in 2012? Well, guess who’s been going to archery practice two times a week for the past month and a half? Guess who spent her birthday money on a leather quiver and an armguard and a finger tab? Guess whose left arm is covered in bruises because said armguard does not cover her hyper-extended elbow? Guess who was talking to a “traditional” archer at the “range” the other day when he compared the rules of his “trad club” to those used at “Ren Fairs”?

In case you’re really dense, it’s ME. And I have to admit that, after that last scenario, I seriously questioned the specific course of life events that led to the moment when slang such as “Ren Fairs” was being thrown around in my presence. (FYI, I have no interest Robin Hood type archery or bow hunting or attending said fairs or even faires). But aside from that, it has been a ton of fun and I’ve actually seen some real improvement.

But then I worried that “just archery” wasn’t athletic enough. After all, it's not the most cardiovascular of sports. (Have you seen all those heavyweights at the Ren Fairs?) So I decided to start training for a (distant future) marathon, too. There has been improvement in this area as well, but it has been a lot slower and a LOT less fun to come by. I still love my Nike+ gear, though.

So, what with all the living and politicking and McDonald’s eating and Asian client courting and target shooting and running till I nearly kill myself with the accompanying huffing and puffing, guess who has had absolutely no time for blogging?

(Duh, it’s still ME. In case you haven't caught on yet, this blog is kinda all about ME.)

Illustration I-A

In case you haven't met your advertising intake quota today...

2008-09-17T15:45:00.000-07:00

I need some advice: how can one find time to blog? Cause I just don’t seem to have it. Right now I am “cheating” by blogging while I am at work and therefore supposed to be working on things other than my blog. As a result, my billables will be low today. If you do not know what billables are, consider yourself very fortunate.

So yeah, any advice on efficient blogging methods will be most appreciated. In return, I will share with you a few of my more recent fascinations:

The Nike+ Sportband

If you haven’t seen this, it is a pedometer and a watch and a running diary and the display of a treadmill all in one—the cross-promotional brainchild of Nike and Apple, corporate giants who I think are worthy of their own celebrity relationship name, like “Nipple.” Or maybe not.

So… you put a little chip in your shoe and it transmits info to the sportband while you are walking or running, like the distance you’ve traveled, your pace, the time elapsed, calories burned, etc. Then you go home and plug a removable portion of the sportband into your USB drive where it uploads and tracks all your information for you on the Nike+ website, which is managing that “Human Race” project appearing in annoying pop-ups all over the Internet. The website lets you set all sorts of training goals and participate in virtual running groups with people around the world.

Oh yeah, you can also skip the sportband and have the chip communicate with your latest gen Nano… but I love my regular iPod and the sportband is a heckuva lot cheaper than buying a Nano just for this purpose.

One warning—when I first got it about two months ago, I just put the chip in my usual running shoes. This was painful at times (like having a smooth rock in my shoe) and the results were less than accurate. Last weekend I finally splurged on a pair of the Nike+ shoes, which contain a compartment for the chip under the lining in the shoe. Not only are the shoes super comfortable, but I have since tested the sportband on a couple of treadmills and it was so precise I chose not to mess with the calibration.

The Kiltie

I have been known to make an accurate fashion prediction or two. (Remember the cameo jewelry trend of 2003? I totally called that one in summer ’02. And remember how I bought a Vespa before people were fighting over them like Tickle Me Elmos and you could actually get one below MSRP? 'Nuff said.) Anyhow, I think this adorable golf shoe staple is going to make a big comeback. It will start out on sports shoes and loafers but will eventually inspire all sorts of fringes and trims, even going so far as to replace the grommet.
Being ahead of the trend and all, I fell hard for these Puma Golf Cat shoes with a removable kiltie and might have bought them in a couple of colors when I recently wandered into a Puma outlet despite the fact that I know I have no business going to Puma outlets as such are very dangerous places for me and my pocketbook. I also bought them despite the fact that I don’t play golf, but they have rubber soles that can be worn anywhere, including on a Vespa.

(And for those of you who are horrified that this post refers to the recent purchase of several pairs of shoes, you clearly don’t know me…)

(And thanks to recent birthday girl wingonwing for the LAist article.)

Rainy Days and Tuesdays

2008-09-02T22:17:00.000-07:00

Well, I lied about the “live from Seattle” broadcast in the last post, as I am now back in Los Angeles. But those few faithful readers of this blog probably expected as much. The great news is that Pdaddy survived his 8-hour esophagectomy and has been recovering up in Seattle like a trooper. And seriously, folks, this is a particularly difficult (dare I say horrendous?) recovery and Pdaddy deserves oodles of credit for his ongoing good attitude. How would you like it if you weren’t allowed to drink anything for days, eat anything for months, and had to sleep with your head at a 30-degree angle for the rest of your life? I, for one, would not like it. I also would not like the constant poking, prodding, draining, blood-taking, and 14-different IV tubes refilling that Pdaddy was subjected to during his week-long hospital stay. (Double hooray—as I was writing this post I received word that Pdaddy had just been discharged from the hospital, several days earlier than anyone expected!!) When Pdaddy finally returns to his home on the range in AZ, he will get another round of chemo as a welcome back present. And yet he hasn't complained a whit. I hope he realizes how much the whole wide world appreciates everything he has endured and given up just so we all can have the luxury of hanging out with him for awhile longer.

The not-nearly-as-great-but-still-good news is that I got to see Seattle on a few short occasions, and it only confirmed the opinions I had formed through prior visits and years of Frasier reruns. If, like me, you attended high school in the early nineties and are therefore acquainted with oldies bands such as Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Soundgarden, Alice in Chains, Sonic Youth, Dinosaur Jr. and Mudhoney (I know, I know… it’s hard to remember a time when band names weren’t required to begin with an article) and if, like me, you occasionally experience nostalgia for that long-lost, dirty-haired era, I might suggest taking a trip to Seattle, where nothing has changed since 1993. Sick of the young ruffians loitering at your local shopping mall in their tight-fitting, gluteus-eliminating skinny jeans? In Seattle, I saw tons of kids still wearing the long-johns & combat shorts combo that Matt Dillon donned in Singles. Tired of the Seacrest metrohair phenom? In Seattle, there were plenty of guys still sporting the half-shaved, half-long hairstyle that Anthony Kiedis had before his coif was so obviously influenced (infiltrated?) by the likes of Keith Urban, Pete Wentz and Ellen Degeneres. (Seriously, will someone please cancel his subscription to US Weekly before he gets a John Mayer perm? I know I’ll probably get in big trouble for saying this, but some people just look better when they’re strung out on heroin.)

The kinda bad news? Well, if you live in Seattle, it’s apparently kinda bad news that it rains a lot there. This was a bit surprising to me and Mary Ess and Pdaddy, all of whom naively assumed that people in Seattle were used to the ample precipitation for which the area is famed. Not so. It rained while I was there, and this was BIG NEWS. As in, “let’s cut into the DNC and the GOP VP announcement and other large, acronominizable events to talk about how it’s still raining” BIG NEWS. Err… I don’t get it. In LA, that kind of “news” would have been relegated to the very end of the newscast, along with all the gang-related shootings. In LA, if it didn’t warrant regular updates on TMZ that day, it wasn’t big news. (Of course, in LA we are also in such a state of drought that we could really use some big news kind of rain. I swear, Gov. Schwarzenegger is now asking us to recycle the water we use to brush our teeth.)

The worst news? LA is sunny, but smoggy, and it looks flat and void of greenery when one has just returned from a week in Washington. Today the rush-hour traffic doubled, as it always does on the day after Labor Day, officially signaling the end of summer. And today I had to go back to work.

Warning: this Olympic-themed post does NOT mention Bob Costas' hair

2008-08-21T16:46:00.000-07:00

So La Dolce Vespa will be broadcasting live from Seattle next week. Said trip to Seattle will represent a welcome reprieve from the daily grind as well as the Olympics-watching that has consumed my life for the past, uh… as long as I can remember. As for the daily grind, this will be my first entire week off work in two and a half years, and I am looking forward to it. As for the Olympics, I have no idea how I got so into watching them, as I don’t remember catching a single second of the Athens games. I recently bought a much larger television, and I’m pretty sure the 555 extra lines of video it provides has enabled Bob Costas to hypnotize me into watching entire marathons, synchronized diving and, say, women’s weightlifting. The other day I actually yelled “Show us the stro-mo!” Out loud. Who does that?! I even got a little teary the first three hundred times I saw the Derek Redmond VISA ad. And I never tear up at anything media-related, especially commercials. I specifically remember watching Old Yeller at school as a child and rolling my eyes at the end while all the other kids were bawling their brains out.

So the biggest problem with the summer Olympics is that it is hard to get anything done while they are going on. Thank you, oh glorious IOC, for only holding them every four years—although an even five might be better. The second biggest problem with the summer Olympics is that if you watch enough of them, they tend to make you feel like an unaccomplished, out-of-shape loser. After a while, it starts to seem as if everyone is breaking world records and winning buckets of gold medals—everyone, that is, except you. It was with this sense of overwhelming defeat that I began to research what Olympic sport was best suited for a thirty-two year old woman who had never been especially athletic. Said research has culminated in my decision to take up archery. See you in London, Zhang Juanjuan.

But the Olympics aren’t all bad. They sure beat anything else on the late summer television lineup, with the possible exception of Project Runway. There was one segment with Mary Carillo that featured a bunch of baby pandas, which was cool. And if you, like me, struggle with the occasional body-image issue, I might suggest watching a little women’s weightlifting (+75 kg). It’s good for the soul.

But with all due respect to Messrs. Phelps and Bolt, I have no doubt that their recent accomplishments will soon be trumped by one man’s brave willingness to part ways with his esophagus. Go Pdaddy!

Miss Betsy Ross

2008-07-07T16:37:00.000-07:00

Once again I must look myself in the mirror and admit I have become a very bad blogger. Sorry. To myself, that is. For getting too busy to write down everything that’s going on that makes me so darn busy at the risk that I will not be able to remember it all in ten years, or ten minutes for that matter.

So, at the risk of not providing enough back story, here’s all the stuff that’s been going on lately that has prevented me from feeling like anything really blogworthy is going on.

1. I bought a house. And then I returned it. This was a big deal for me, who struggles to return anything to a store. Seriously, I will keep a mispurchased item for years, knowing I will never use it, perhaps move it across a state line or two, and then give it to D.I., Goodwill, Salvation Army—whatever’s closest, rather than take it back and ask for a refund. But yeah, in March I bought a new construction townhouse in Chula Vista, a lovely master-planned suburb of both San Diego and Tijuana. (I swear it’s nice--they have an Anthropologie!) I picked out the flooring (high-end laminate/tile/loop pile carpet combo), cabinets (dark java), countertops (white quartz, cuz I’m green like that) awesome appliances and everything else. It was supposed to be finished in early September, but got pushed to late fall. I enlisted the help of a super headhunter because there’s nothing I hate more in this world than job-searching. And then the whole economy fell apart and I just couldn’t find a decent job there. So I pulled out of the deal and, miraculously, got every cent of my deposit back. Hooray for Shea Homes, they couldn’t have been nicer to a reluctant house returner such as myself. In retrospect, I feel really lucky to have had the chance to do a trial-run at the whole house-buying thing.

2. I got really good at riding my Vespa. Now that the weather is warm, it sees a lot more use and I have gone from sort of fearing the thing to absolutely adoring it. It gets ridden to church almost every single Sunday despite the riding-in-skirt debacle. Also, the Roommate recently volunteered to be my first passenger, which I think takes faith (in a higher power), guts and trust (in me). We went on busy streets down to the beach and everything, and the whole time she was respectful of my above-average personal space issues by only placing the occasional finger on my right shoulder and otherwise holding onto the rear rack.

3. I turned into a semi-experienced lawyer despite all efforts to the contrary. Unfortunately, what I have gained in confidence has been balanced out by a stressful schedule full of court appearances and depositions. When I think back on my esteemed law school classmates, I definitely wouldn’t have picked myself as most likely future litigator, but the future is often funny that way.

4. I went to Arizona for Fourth of July and hung out with my parents Dave and Mary for a weekend chock full o’ fun. Seriously, they wore me out. For those of you who haven’t heard or haven’t figured it out from reading the more frequently-updated blogs of my family members, Dave has been sick with all sorts of things lately. When I got there on the third, he had just completed months of chemo and a week-long hospital stay due to blood and lung issues that may or may not have been related to the Big C, but were dangerous enough on their own. So I was kind of expecting we’d all have to take it easy for the weekend, but noooo, Dave had drummed up a tight itinerary of fireworks watching (complete with local hotel room in which to sit-out post-event traffic--nice!), Diamondbacks game attending, ample walking in 110+ heat and lots of local foodstuffs-eating. It’s the first time I can remember telling my parents “I think it’s past my bedtime.” Repeatedly. Also, my lil’ bro and his wife visited the weekend before and lil’ bro arrived with a shaved head in a show of solidarity with the now-bald Dave. But I did not shave my head or really do anything except offer Dave and Mary a can of Olestra Light Pringles that I had snacked on during my 400-mile drive from Los Angeles, which they consistently declined. Apparently it didn’t compare to shaving one’s head. I suppose I could have offered to get a 3/4-inch trim, which I think would approximate the amount of hair lil’ bro sacrificed for his much-lauded effort, but it didn’t occur to me until after the trip. Oh well, we still had tons of fun, despite my full head of hair and the fact that it’s hotter than Hades in Arizona and everything.

(Oh, and incidentally, Blogger, which lets you label posts, has these permanent suggestions for labels: "scooters, vacation, fall." Yet how many bloggers have actually had a post, like the one above, for which these were all appropriate? All I'm saying is, I'm thinking it's time I earned another medal...)

I wore a cellophane bodysuit (okay, I didn't, but it felt that way)

2008-06-06T14:01:00.000-07:00

Okay, so my very brief DC Memorial Day excursion is now over two weeks past. I could have taken the same trip a couple of times over during the period since my last post, but here is the exciting conclusion anyway.

Sunday Night
If you recall, the Hyatt Regency in Crystal City had been taken over by biker families participating in the Rolling Thunder motorcycle rally. When the Roommate and I returned to the hotel late Sunday night, expensive Coldstone in hand, the bikers were still everywhere. Except for one guy waiting outside. Very conspicuously. He was a tall African-American man in white slacks, a pale pink sweater, and leather loafers, with a folded newspaper under his arm. In fact, he was the first guest other than ourselves that we had seen at the hotel sans leather vest covered in patches. When we walked inside, I couldn’t help but ask the Roommate if she had seen him. She said she had, but after discussing it some more, it was clear we were talking about two different people, only one of whom had sufficient poise to wear pink cable knit at a biker rally (the other had chosen a nice blue chambray shirt).

And then we saw the sign in the lobby. It appears that, in addition to being the official Rolling Thunder headquarters for the weekend, our hotel was hosting an additional conference:

The Positive Black Man Convention.

Now, I have scoured the internet for evidence that said convention took place, but have found none. But I am not joking. We saw the sign, it said this very thing, in a fancy font no less. And in the event you feel inclined to google it yourself, I want to assure you it had nothing to do with HIV. We saw the attendees, all of whom appeared very positive and confident. We also saw the women who, with word of said conference, had conveniently dropped in at the hotel bar that same night, only to find themselves surrounded by drunken biker vets, which sadly reminded me of the dashed expectations I’ve had at every LDS singles conference I’ve attended, and by “every,” I mean “the only,” but I digress…

It was also on Sunday night that I realized just how important it is to keep one’s patchy leather vest on at all times during a biker rally. When the Roommate and I got off the elevator on the sixteenth floor, there was a group of bikers standing around talking. It was pretty late by that point, and one of them was wearing his pajamas and had a serious case of bed-head but, sure enough, he had put the vest on over his jammies in order to chat in the hallway with his friends.

Monday
Monday was largely museum day, so I promise to keep it brief, because I am well-aware that it is more entertaining to listen to someone read a dictionary than recap a museum trip. We started out at the National Gallery—both the classic and contemporary buildings. The National Gallery is so chock-full of famous works by Rembrandt, Bruegher, de Goya, Degas, Rodin (see above), Monet, Manet, Renoir, Seurat, Cassatt, Lautrec, Picasso, Matisse, Warhol, Johns, and Rothko—to name a few—that it feels like being totally star-struck at an Oscar party.

We finished with the NGs in late afternoon and, once again, had yet to really eat for the day. The Roommate wanted to check out the National Museum of the American Indian, which, embarrassingly for an Arizonan, I had never been to before. It was awesome, of course, especially a display about women’s traditional beaded dresses and how they were made, but also awesome was the overpriced food court, arguably the best of all the museums. They were serving up tons of native foodstuffs, but the Roommate and I settled for a snack of fry bread and honey (see below), a State Fair staple where I come from. Yum.

It was closing time when we left the AI museum, but we happened to find out the Air & Space museum was staying open late. We breezed through it in about an hour and largely had the place to ourselves—unlike every other time I’ve been there when the place is crawling with maniacal kids. I kind of miss the days when kids didn’t have cell phones and therefore had more incentive to remain under the watchful eye of their parents rather than get lost in a strange and crowded place. Coincidentally, this also reminded me of the State Fair, where I once got lost as a small child and it was kind of traumatic and I just sat down and waited to be kidnapped, but then somehow I was reunited with my parents. Hooray.

Monday night we took the metro up to Adams Morgan in search of some good food and also so I could show the Roommate what I perceive to be the world’s longest and scariest escalator. We found this great café right by the station called Open City that had outdoor seating. There, we made friends with a couple visiting their teenaged son, who worked at the café, and a girl who decided to rollerskate from her apartment to meet a friend at the café after finding an old pair of skates in her closet when looking for shoes. Skating proved harder than she remembered. Luckily, she ran into someone she knew on the way there, who pretty much pulled her to the restaurant, but she was worried about how she would get back home. As we left before she did, we never found out if she did or not. I suppose we wouldn’t have anyway.

Tuesday
Our perfect weather disappeared on Tuesday. It was overcast with about 414% humidity, or at least it felt that way. As we had an afternoon plane to catch in Baltimore, we decided to head up to Charm City and explore it a bit. I refuse to apologize for the fact that my goal for Tuesday was completely vice-related: eat a Maryland crabcake. I lived in Maryland when I was a wee lass and have a distinct memory of Dave and Mary taking me and Mrs. Gee to the Baltimore Harbor where we looked at a barrel of live blue crabs and a fisherman let one walk around on his leather-gloved hand for our entertainment. Thus, my infallible memories from age four led me to believe that some sort of fish market on the Baltimore Harbor was THE place to find the perfect crabcake. The Roommate and I did some Internet research the night before and found a fish market right off the harbor, right in the middle of downtown, that had rave reviews.

The drive to Baltimore was “gorge,” as my SIL would say, but things got a little sketchy as we headed into downtown. The Roommate and I shrugged our shoulders—we live in L.A., after all, we do sketchy all the time, and proceeded to park the rental car in a garage that was built like Fort Knox. Instead of a paper ticket, it gives you a magnetic coin on entry that you must wave in front a door in order to get back in from the street. Let’s just say we were frantically waving said coin in front of said door approximately thirty seconds after exiting it. Once we were walking around outside, we realized we stuck out like a couple of Positive Black Men at a biker rally (we were the only women, only tourists, and only recently-showered people in sight) and everyone was staring at us, including a jaded street cop who simply raised his eyebrows, as if to say “Hmmm…. this should be entertaining.”

Dave and Mary later informed me that the harbor where we had seen the live blue crabs was in Annapolis.

So we went to our second crabcake pick in Hanover, Maryland, also recommended by random users of the Internet, in whom we had lost all faith: Timbuktu’s. Again, there weren’t many women there, but this time it was because it was a lodge with man’s food and manly portions and dated manly wood paneling on the walls. The place was packed, and when we got our crabcakes, we knew why. They were huge, like softball-sized HUGE:

So huge, in fact, that we could not finish one apiece. So huge that we both got quite ill. So huge that, five hours later, when the Southwest flight attendant offered us roasted peanuts, we were insulted by her assumption that we would ever eat again. Yet the next day we traded emails wherein we both admitted we were totally ready for another one. Lucky for us, they ship nationwide.

Tuesday was finished off by flights, flights and more flights. We gained three hours, but they were all wasted on flying. By the time we finally arrived in Los Angeles late Tuesday night, we had recovered from our Timbuktu maladies and, for the millioneth time on our trip, found ourselves absolutely famished. Lucky for us, Tito’s is on the way home from the airport and is open 24 hours.

Maryland crabcakes for lunch and Tito’s tacos for dinner. It just doesn’t get any better than that.

(I know, I know: TWO pictures of food when I spent an entire day at the National Gallery? Look up your own Rembrandt pics. Mine turned out a little blurry.)

I wore plaid shorts

2008-05-29T13:40:00.000-07:00

The Roommate and I, who have been friends for many years but have never traveled together, cashed in some Southwest Rapid Rewards free tickets and went to Washington, D.C. for the Memorial Day weekend. We chose Washington, D.C. because (a) when you’re flying for free, you want to fly as far as possible, and in the Southwest world, L.A. to D.C. is about as far as it gets, (b) the Roommate had never been there, and (c) although I have been there many times and even lived there as a small child, I seriously cannot get enough of the place. More importantly, there were Rapid Rewards tickets available from LAX to Baltimore despite the holiday. I want to assure you, dearest family and friends who wonder why I never visit them, that there were no Rapid Rewards tickets available from LAX to your town. Really, I looked. Sorry.

So even though I have been blogging for one entire year, this is actually my inaugural Vacation Recap Blog. I think the time it took for me to get around to doing this earns me some sort of blogging medal. And evidences my need to take more vacations. But without further delay…

Saturday
We spent most of Saturday on a plane. And in some airports—namely, LAX and Midway, Chicago’s stepchild airport (and Southwest sure loves stepchild airports). And then on another plane. And then in a rental car as we drove from Baltimore to our hotel in Northern Virginia in the middle of the night. And I know what you’re thinking at this point—this Vacation Recap Blog is going down the tubes pretty fast. Somebody take her medal away.

But wait! Things got infinitely more interesting as soon as we finally pulled into the driveway of the Hyatt Regency in Crystal City, where we discovered that our hotel was serving as HQ for the Rolling Thunder POW/MIA Memorial Day Motorcycle Rally! There were snazzy motorcycles everywhere. And, even at the late hour, the hotel was absolutely crawling with biker veterans, their wives, their children, and even their grandchildren—all three generations of which were decked out in leather or denim vests with five thousand patches apiece. I don’t know if they were merit badges or what, but I instantly decided that, if and when I ever get around to forming my scooter gang, patches will play a prominent role.

Sunday
Since we're both churchgoers, the Roommate and I normally do nothing on Sundays but sleep, go to church, and watch the occasional Jane Austen-themed Masterpiece Theater. But since we had such limited time in D.C., we decided to pad the itinerary with stuff we hoped was sufficiently reverential and appropriate given the purpose of the holiday. We started the day by attending a local congregation of our church. As we were waiting for the valet to bring the rental car around so we could go, we made friends with some of the Rolling Thunder crowd. They told us that over 700,000 bikes would be participating in the rally and that we should drive by the Pentagon parking lot because the entire thing was full of motorcycles. Unfortunately, we missed our opportunity to do so while at church, which was not held at the Pentagon, but we did run into this same biker family around town later, thus solidifying our relationship as eternal BFFs.

After church, we took the metro up to the Mall and went to the Holocaust Memorial Museum. I had been there before, but not to the permanent exhibit, which requires reservations. Luckily, the Roommate had the wherewithal to make such reservations, and it was a life-changer. I thought I knew everything horrible there was to know about the Holocaust, but I was sorely mistaken. The enormity and the atrocity are found in the details, of which the Museum provides plenty. You cannot help but think “How on earth could this happen in modern times?” and then you leave the exhibit and see books in the gift shop on Darfur and Rwanda and realize that genocide is still happening and we let it happen. If you are ever in D.C., you simply must attend the permanent exhibit; however, you probably shouldn’t bring small children as the photos and video footage are naturally disturbing.

Thoroughly depressed after the Holocaust Museum, and hungry due to inadvertently skipping breakfast and lunch, the Roommate and I made fast friends with an overpriced ice cream vendor on the Mall, a D.C. youth with surly dreadlocks and an attitude to match. We asked him questions about the weather (abnormally nice for this time of year) and how long he’d been working that day. He pouted that he was stuck there until they sent someone else to relieve him, and that working for that particular ice cream stand was “like a sweatshop.” We giggled at the thought of anything related to ice cream being sweaty or especially arduous. Just eat some ice cream to ease your employment-related pain, kid. Personally, I think I would rather enjoy sitting under a big umbrella, looking at the Capitol and selling ice cream all the day long were it not for what I assume to be very bad pay, but the grass is always greener on the other side, I guess.

After our ice cream appetizer, we rode the metro to Dupont Circle and walked straight into the first Indian restaurant we found. Indian restaurants are a dime a dozen in D.C., but somehow fate led us to the best one ever, Heritage India. They had this awesome tapas menu, which enabled us to try out lots of different things. And yes, they even called it a “tapas” menu, despite the Spanish origins of that word, and how could they not, seeing as tapas are the hottest thing in D.C. right now, the way gourmet cupcakes are in L.A. I’m pretty sure if you walk down an ordinary D.C. street on an ordinary day, you will hear colloquialisms like, “I had a tapas weekend,” or “He looked so tapas yesterday.” Oh yeah, have I mentioned that food in D.C. is like half the price of that in L.A. (well, so long as you aren’t buying it in a museum food court)? This was a linen-napkin restaurant with fast-food prices. Totally tapas.

After dinner it was time for some Memorial Day memorializing back in the heart of things. We hit the Washington Memorial, the WWII Memorial, and walked the length of the reflecting pool to the Lincoln Memorial. To my dismay, the Roommate was not able to recite the entire Gettysburg Address from memory, the way that PDaddy had five years prior on another visit to the Lincoln Memorial, but I guess we're still friends. After taking a few pics of Abe, we stopped by my personal favorite, the Korean War Memorial (pictured above), followed by the famous Vietnam War Memorial and the lesser-known Vietnam Women’s Memorial. At this last stop, we learned that the nurses serving in the Vietnam War were able to save 97% of the soldiers that made it to the hospital. Based on that figure, which was cast in bronze, so you know it’s absolutely true, I think the DoD should make improving transport of the wounded a primary concern. Perhaps they already have and they just forgot to call and tell me. Anyhow, given the holiday, all the memorials were crowded by pensive people and decked out in flowers, photos, letters, cigarettes, and other things left behind to honor those who lost their lives so we could continue living our own in the obscenely comfortable manner to which we have grown accustomed. There were a lot of Rolling Thunder participants in their patchy vests at the Vietnam Memorial, rubbing pencils on small slips of paper to get an imprint of a particular name etched on the wall. The sun went down as we watched this, and despite the fact that it was one day early and there were no barbecues or swimming parties or other summer kick-off things going on, it was the best Memorial Day ever.

We made a good faith effort to walk back up to the Capitol to catch the tail end of the PBS Memorial Day concert going on there, but by the time we reached it, people were starting to sneak out for an early seat on the metro, so we turned around. We briefly rested our really tired feet on the crowded ride back to Crystal City, and on the excruciatingly painful walk from the station to the hotel, we passed a Cold Stone Creamery that had just closed. Some other tourists had already begun beating on the glass window begging the employees to reopen for them and the Roommate and I, apparently quite the joiners, started begging to get in as well. The poor Cold Stone employees, who had nothing to personally gain from working longer than required on a holiday weekend, obliged us after the other tourists promised them a hefty tip. The only problem was that the other tourists stiffed them on it, and I finally began to believe that working conditions in the ice cream business were, indeed, approaching sweatshop-like levels. We tried to compensate by providing a hefty tip of our own, making it the most expensive ice cream I have ever eaten. It was also the biggest ice cream to non-ice cream ratio of food I had ever consumed in one day, but hey, I was on vacation.

I think it’s time I was given a second medal… this one for Lengthiest Vacation Recap Blog Ever. That’s right, folks, we are only halfway through. Be sure to tune in tomorrow (er... or sometime thereafter) for “Monday,” which promises to be challenged in greatness only by the concurrently published “Tuesday.” Sorry to be so long-winded, but I guess that’s the benefit of Vacation Recap Blogs—you can ramble as long as you like and yet your friends can just skim it if they don’t have the time or patience to read it. I always love a good win-win situation. I also love receiving medals.

One more reason to buy a sidecar for the Vespa

2008-05-13T14:03:00.000-07:00

Well… apparently even those who actually liked my LA driving etiquette post are sick of reading it (i.e., my Mom) and begging for something new. Boy are they (she) going to be sorely disappointed.

It has come to my attention that I complain too much on this blog, and so today I am going to shake things up a bit by posting about something I actually L-O-V-E love.

Baby Pandas.

Sure, the technical name is “panda cubs,” but, as with most things, I have adopted my own terminology and “baby pandas” it is. We’ve got a weird thing going, the baby pandas and me—people who know me pretty well are probably surprised to learn I have such an affinity for them, whereas people who know me really, really well, like on a familial level, are like “Ew, she never shuts up about them! It’s just weird! Kind of like those 12-year-old girls who have 500 horse figurines lining the walls of their bedrooms!” Whatever, neigh-sayers (heh). In an attempt to curb my curmudgeonly blogger reputation, I am officially dragging my adoration of all things baby panda out of the closet.

So this recent earthquake in China is absolutely devastating and, like most people, I am overwhelmed by the human loss and suffering that it has caused. And so I don’t want to sound glib when I admit I was still a little happy to hear that Chinese officials confirmed that the pandas at the world’s two largest panda reserves (Wolong and Chengdu) survived the quake. This isn’t as trivial as you might think. As any baby panda lover knows, China owns all the world’s pandas, loaning very few out to zoos in other countries. Propagation of this highly-endangered species completely depends on these reserves, which include breeding centers and a daycare facility where several dozen baby pandas are raised each year.

About a year ago, I read this very reputable news article about how tourists to Wolong can pay $130 to play with the baby pandas for a few minutes. Since then, I have always planned on doing just that once I experience some sort of financial windfall giving me sufficient spending money and free time to act like a rich idiot. It’s nice to know I might still have the opportunity.

And now, in the off-chance that any biological engineers are regular readers of this blog, I will make yet another public plea for the miniaturization of the Giant Panda. We’ve all seen miniature ponies, miniature Collies, and those ridiculous “teacup” dogs that shady people are always selling as if they were counterfeit DVDs—so we know the technology exists and don’t even bother pretending that it doesn’t. Why then can’t you miniaturize the Giant Panda so that it never grows bigger than, say, an English Bulldog? Since pandas are vegetarians and have successfully interacted with humans in captivity, they are ripe for domestication. The only problem is that adult pandas are, well, giant, and the amount of bamboo they consume presents both financial and practical concerns for the average pet owner. If we had miniature pandas, not only could we afford to feed and house them, but we could put rhinestone-studded leashes on them and take them shopping at all the LA hotspots that now apparently permit pets on the premises.

But please don’t let Paris Hilton have one.

And, no, I’m not expecting any comments to this post, so don’t feel bad when I don’t get any.

By the time you finish reading this post, rush hour will be over

2008-04-23T20:24:00.000-07:00

Relearning the official rules of the road for my recent motorcycle class has got me thinking about all the unwritten rules of driving in LA. LA drivers get such a bad rap, which is a shame. As an Arizonan who has spent seven years of her life as an LA driver, I honestly think LA drivers are the best drivers around and that LA is one of the most predictable places to drive. You see, driving in LA is a community effort; in other places, it’s every man for himself. It’s when people come from those other places and apply their dog-eat-dog driving theories in LA that trouble starts a’brewing. If they only knew the rules, they would get along just fine.

For this reason, I have taken it upon myself to spell out some of the rules as I see them. These rules are in no way representative of the actual traffic laws or vehicular code in effect in Los Angeles or the State of California; rather, they are only my personal take on driving etiquette in LA. Of course, most rules have exceptions. An Idiot Exception occurs when the idiotic actions of another driver require you to break the rule. By contrast, a Jerk Exception permits you to break the rule in order to adequately respond to the jerky actions of another driver. Again, I’m not saying either exception is legal—just that it is socially acceptable. Now for the rules…

1. On the freeway, always go with the flow. You are not special. You do not own the road by virtue of having a custom paint job. Nothing entitles you to drive fast, dart between lanes, or refuse to wait your turn when everyone else has to go slow due to traffic. Likewise, when everyone is going fast, you have no right to slow them all down just because you like to take it easy or you forgot to put on your makeup or you are reading a really great article in US Weekly. If you are going 10 mph slower than traffic, stay in the very right lane. If you are going over 15 mph slower than traffic, take streets. If you have an insatiable need to go more than 10 mph faster than the flow of traffic (a need that surpasses general frustration with slow traffic) then buy a helicopter.

2. Feel free to talk on your cell phone while driving. Similarly, feel free to shout at other drivers for talking on their cell phones while driving. But do not feel free to do both at the same time. Like a lot of things, your hypocrisy will be tolerated in LA so long as you are never caught in the act.

3. Correct mistakes earlier rather than later. Suppose there is a sign that says the freeway on-ramp is right at a stop light, and there is a double right-turn lane. Unfortunately, you realize once you have turned that only the leftmost lane goes on the freeway while the right lane drives straight into a crack house, and you are in the right lane. Such false advertising is embarrassingly frequent among LA traffic signs, and most LA drivers will take pity on you so long as you communicate that you had no idea what lane you needed to be in. The best way to do this is to immediately signal that you need to be in the left lane. The absolute worst way to do this is to take advantage of the fact that there is no traffic in the right lane, speed past fifty cars up to where the lanes split, and then try to edge your way into the freeway line. Yeah, it was frowned on in grade school, too, back when it was called "taking cuts." In either situation, you are the idiot, so no Idiot Exception for you. In the latter situation, you are the jerk, and the left-lane drivers will be entitled to invoke the Jerk Exception to the tailgating rule, which is to cinch up within millimeters of each others' bumpers to prevent you from breaking in, forcing you to give up and continue on to the crack house. Trust me, such group invocation of a Jerk Exception is not uncommon in LA. Sometimes the left-laners will even be joined by a right-lane gang behind you, which will honk incessantly—and you should really watch out for those right-laners as they are all on crack.

4. When it comes to lanes merging at speeds under 30 mph, and especially at stop-and-go speeds, stick to the every-other-car rule—that is, one car from one lane, one car from the other. It is irrelevant whether you are in the merge-ed or merge-ing lane and you should lock the phrase "right of way" in your glovebox during such times. The Idiot Exception is only invocable here when the car that should merge in front of you refuses to go. The Jerk Exception is not invocable here; however, you are permitted to be a jerk yourself in enforcing the every-other-car rule against someone who is trying to edge you out of merging during your rightful turn.

5. When it comes to lanes merging at speeds exceeding 30 mph, treat it as synchronized swimming or a dance rather than a drag race. Envision the freeway from an overhead view—watch how the cars from two lanes effortlessly join into one to the sweeping rhythm of waltz music. Once you stop trying so hard, it will be easy to identify the spot in which your car belongs without having to significantly adjust your speed one way or the other. The Idiot Exception applies when nervous mergers (1) slow down to wait for the "perfect moment" or (2) unreasonably demand three car-lengths of merge space. The Jerk Exception applies in an eye-for-an-eye fashion: if a jerk is race-merging, you are permitted to respond with race-merging, but do it without looking like you're trying. The Jerk Exception to high-speed merging is why many out-of-towners mistake LA drivers for jerks; we're not inherently jerks, we have only accepted your invitation to be a jerk. Yet another exception exists for well-meaning but naturally slow vehicles, such as buses, landscaping trucks, and campers—you may politely accelerate ahead of them.

6. Speaking of invitations to act, there are certain drivers who prefer to maintain an excessive following distance in stop-and-go-traffic. Everyone in LA recognizes and lauds these drivers for the important public service they provide—that is, the necessary space for last-minute lane changes in stop-and-go situations. If you are one of these drivers, expect people to cut in front of you every five seconds or so, but don't take offense at it. LA loves you. Without you, none of us would get anywhere.

7. Don’t look at other drivers. Period. Even when you’re yelling at them, don’t look at them. It’s just rude. We spend so much time in our cars in LA that we like to think of them as extensions of our home. We sing in there, talk to friends, eat, etc. When some stranger looks at us in our car, it’s like he’s peeking in the windows of our apartment.

8. Beware of criss-cross-traffic at major interchanges. LA has more freeways than most cities, and therefore more interchanges. Anytime two freeways collide, it is normal for half the drivers in the far left lanes to need to immediately change to the far right and for those in the far right to need to switch to the far left. This is true whether the freeway traffic is moving at a speed of 5 mph or 85 mph. LA drivers are used to the interchanges on their commute, by their houses, etc. and know that they have to be alert to criss-crossing traffic in these places. However, it seems high-speed criss-crossing takes out-of-towners by surprise and has given all of LA a "crazy driver" reputation, as if we are all over the road all of the time. Nothing could be further from the truth—most of the Angelenos I know have favorite lanes and stick to them religiously.

9. If you are driving at a moderate to high speed on the freeway and come across an object in your lane, you MUST drive over the object, no matter what it is or how much you have to clench your teeth and grip the steering wheel in order to do it. I don’t care if the object is a palm tree or a mattress or a dead animal—drive over it. You’re going to have to trust me on this one: if it were not possible to drive over this object and survive, you would have never come across it at a moderate to high speed in the first place. Rather, some earlier driver would have had a collision, blow-out, roll-over, what have you with the object, causing a full-on SIG alert with standstill traffic for hours while the person, the car, and the object were cleared off the road and you would have never known it existed and the cause of the traffic you were in would just be one of those unsolved traffic mysteries we encounter in LA on a daily basis. Of course, the only exception is if the object comes to be in your lane because it fell off the truck driving in front of you. In that case, brake, swerve, whatever. Just don’t be the person who causes a SIG alert by being too timid to drive over something that is already painted in skid marks.

10. Take one for the team. If you have a flat tire or other car problem, do whatever you can possibly do to get your car off the freeway. Not just to the shoulder—OFF THE FREEWAY. It doesn't matter if the nearest off-ramp is “Exit 134: Crack House,” you just have to risk your personal safety for the general welfare of Los Angeles. Everyone hates it when they’ve been waiting in traffic for two hours only to learn it was due to looky-loos slowing down to watch someone change their tire on the shoulder.

11. For Heaven’s sake, don’t be a looky-loo.

12. When driving on surface streets, drive in the right lane at your own risk. Unlike a lot of newer cities, LA has metered parking lining the sides of almost every major street. While right-lane parking is occasionally broken up by large expanses of red curb, and while parking in the right lane is theoretically prohibited during evening rush hour, there is a strong likelihood you will eventually stumble upon a parked car when driving in the right lane. When you do, do not expect those driving at full speed in the adjoining lane to let you in. It's not that they hate you, it's just that they chose not to take the right-lane gamble and therefore shouldn't be inconvenienced by your decision to do so. Therefore, it's best to drive in the right lane only when you are about to turn right onto a cross street and you can see that no parked cars are blocking your way. There is no Idiot or Jerk Exception available to you here because you, my friend, are the idiot and the car-parking jerk is nowhere to be found. If you choose to be a right-lane risk-taker, you should probably keep some good books and snacks in the car to help you pass the time once you get stuck.

13. Don't be stingy with The Wave. The Wave is executed by spreading the fingers of your right hand (so as not to be mistaken with another common LA hand sign—The Finger), raising it to the space just under your review mirror, and shaking vigorously for a few seconds. The Wave is the universally recognized sign for "Thank you for letting me in!" In fact, many LA drivers also mouth the words "Thank You" while doing The Wave, even when the other driver cannot see their lips. You do not have to do The Wave during regular merging; rather, it is only required when another driver has let you in their lane when they did not have to. The prime example is when you are turning right onto a busy street without a traffic light and a driver stops to let you in. The Wave is sufficient, but I believe Miss Renee has an awesome story about receiving flowers from a fellow driver instead of a wave, which I am hoping she will regale us with in the comments section.

The Wild One

2008-04-14T18:10:00.000-07:00

Oh… there were just so many good post titles to choose from. “The Motorcycle Diaries”—too obvious. “Easy Rider”—not quite accurate. “C-o-o-l R-i-d-e-r”—not everyone loves Grease 2 better than Grease the way I do. And so I settled for the above, semi-obscure (at least to non-film majors or persons under the age of 55) reference to motorcycle culture and L’Brando.

So, for those of you who haven’t been paying attention, I took my motorcycle class this weekend. I’ll cut the suspense and reveal that I passed. But it was the doing more than the passing that was important. Here’s a not-so-brief recap:

On Thursday I had the classroom portion. The instructors were good and all, but it was one of the longest 5-hour periods of my life. There were points at which I seriously longed to be back in BarBri, and I hated BarBri, but BarBri did have more spacious seating (at least at the night session), better A/C, and since the instructors were on videotape, you could blatantly pay little to no attention and nobody’s feelings were hurt. I was expecting the motorcycle class would have lots of gory videos of motorcycle crashes and whatnot to keep me alert, but no. Instead, it was 100 students all reading the same dry material about outside-inside-outside curves, the “friction zone,” and 12-second follow distances in order to answer “group” questions. The purpose of this torture session was to prepare us for a written test at the end of the class. The people in my group were verrrry nervous about passing the test, and it reminded me of the time that I went to the downtown DMV to get my motorcycle permit and was the only person in the very long line to pass any of the DMV’s written tests except for a Jamaican guy behind me who, upon being informed of his passing, dropped to his knees, clasped his hands, and said “Thank you, Jesus!” over and over again. It was touching and I felt guilty for spending a measly five minutes scanning the DMV handbook in preparation for a test worthy of public praying. What can I say—I don’t really stress multiple-choice tests that involve more pictures than words, and Thursday’s class was no exception. Confidence in reading and guessing is one of those socioeconomic/educational blessings I have but forget to count. I got 98% right and was out the door while the rest of my group was still taking it.

Needless to say, I was not as confident going into the ten-hour driving portion over the weekend. I knew there would be that one person in the class who was never getting it and always holding everyone else up, and I was seriously afraid that, with absolutely no motorcycle experience and little confidence in my own physical coordination, that one person would be me.

I was also afraid I would die.

Luckily, neither happened. As it turns out, almost all of the people in the class had never driven a motorcycle before or even a scooter and that one person was kind of a three-way tie that didn’t involve me and didn't hold us up that much anyway. We spent the first hour (from 6:00 a.m. to 7:00 a.m.—brutal) just learning how to turn the darn things on. And yet by the end of the first day, we were driving them all around, swerving between cones, and shifting up to third gear. By the end of the second day, we were driving over wooden boards (simulated road hazards), pulling quick swerves, and almost successfully turning figure eights within a very small box marked on the pavement (everyone improved on this last exercise, but I didn’t see a single person do it without either going a little out of bounds or putting a foot down).

My classmates were awesome and congenial rather than competitive. It seemed that most of them were taking the class because learning to ride a motorcycle was just something on their lifetime to do list—and I would highly recommend it if the motorcycle thing is on your list as well. It was funny that, on breaks, everyone was just so normal—but with our helmets, boots, and bikes, we were a mean riding team. A mean riding team that only ever makes it to third gear and accidentally honks when they intend to signal left, that is.

Lots of people have asked me if I’m planning on trading the Vespa in for a motorcycle now that I’m such an accomplished biker. While the Kawasaki Eliminator (pictured above) that I was assigned to ride is actually smaller, more comfortable, and cheaper than the Vespa, the answer is a definite “No.” As one of my coworkers once commented about the Vespa, “It’s not a gateway bike, people.”

If you want to take the MSF Basic Rider Course in your area, go here. In California, it gets you out of taking the driving test for the M1 license and most insurance providers will give a discount for taking it as well.

These boots were made for stopping the bike when your brakes fail

2008-04-09T09:23:00.000-07:00

Are these boots “me”?

Don’t answer that. Especially those of you who have known me for more than three years. Although I was formerly a big fan of the lug sole, I traded my 30 pairs of Doc Martens, Creepers and the like in for kitten heels and stilettos a long time ago. So, in my humble opinion, no, these boots are not “me.” And yet I bought them last Saturday. At FULL price, no less. Full price shoes are also not “me.”

Motorcycle boots are a requirement for my Basic Rider CourseTM, which I will be taking this weekend. Supposedly any leatherish boot that covers the ankle and has a thick and non-high-heeled sole would suffice, but after wasting weeks perusing the Targets and Paylesses of the world for such a “boot” without success, I realized I was going to have to get the real deal. It was with that realization that, between televised sessions of a semi-annual conference my church holds, the following conversation with the Roommate took place last Saturday:

Her: Where are you going?

Me: I have to go to the Harley-Davidson dealership. (Hopeful) Do you want to come?

Her: No.

The conference was very edifying—like having a really great self-help/motivational book read to you over two hours while you lay around in your jammies. The HD dealership was not. Mind you, this was one of those newer HD showrooms that’s half shopping mall, half glitzy night-club. Most of the people there were what I like to call “trailer trash chic”—that is, upper-middle class suburbanites who think it’s fun to grow handlebar mustaches and play red-neck bikers between soccer games on the weekend. I shouldn’t judge, I know—their hogs serve the same purpose for them as the Vespa does for me. It’s just that when I was a little kid living in Phoenix, there was a biker bar next to our local McDonalds called The Squeeze Box. Waiting in line at the drive-thru provided the perfect opportunity to conduct a Jane Goodall-type study of real bikers in their natural habitat. There were no former Squeeze Box patrons at the HD dealership on Saturday is all I’m saying, and it was a little sad.

There were, however, these boots.

Toddlers having toddlers

2008-04-07T21:16:00.000-07:00

My precious (and famous) 1.5-year-old niece, Miss Dub, on her way to work the swing shift at the cookie factory to provide for her illegitimate teletubuspawn. (Apologies to Mrs. Dub for stealing the pic, but it's my fave ever.)

Unfortunately, stuffed baby no. 1 is already exhibiting some behavioral problems.

Here she is studying for her GED. With this kind of dedication, we can only hope she will overcome the odds against her and somebody will make an inspiring and profitable movie about her life.

Let's Boogie

2008-04-03T09:40:00.000-07:00

Dearest Celebrities and Would-be Celebrities and Celebrity-in-their-own-minds types who have babies or friends who have babies or frenemies who have babies or who will be having babies shortly even though society may frown on their fitness as parents:

With all due respect, I am sick and tired of reading about you and your kind traipsing over to Robertson and Melrose to publicly purchase stacks of organic baby blankets to take to your next baby shower. First, we all get invited to baby showers, even those of us who take out our own trash, and so, regardless of what your assistant may have told you, your being invited to a baby shower is no reason to prance around as if you were invited to dine al fresco on the International Space Station or something. I have a feeling your assistant was just trying to get out of the baby-blanket assignment himself, and reasonably so, because it is common knowledge that there is NO parking within a three-mile radius of Robertson and Melrose. Second, did it ever occur to you that all the other celebrities and would-be celebrities and whatnot would also bring stacks of organic baby blankets to the shower? How many organic baby blankets does one celespawn need? Third, when you combine the outrageous cost of the blankets plus the $60 parking ticket you received while purchasing them plus the opportunity cost of the three hours of your time spent driving around the block looking for a free red zone to park in plus the legal cost of settling with the bike messenger you ran over in the process, you just purchased several $3,000,000 spit-up rags for a person who can’t even sit up. Fourth, after you spilled the beans about the child’s gender by purchasing only blue blankets, you probably irked your “friend” as well. Don’t be expecting an invite to the shower for kid no. 2 is all I’m saying.

I, for one, am about to sue you myself because my eyes burn from rolling them so much at your idiocy. Sheesh. Can’t a girl just read a decent, old-fashioned tabloid article anymore about cheating spouses or “Guess who’s gay?” without having to trudge through the B-list baby blanket morass?

So here’s a suggestion: my art and business-savvy sister, Mrs. Gee, just launched a new website with unique onesies and baby artwork, littleboogies.com. They are very high-quality, yet reasonably-priced. You or your assistant can order them online from your iPhone, Blackberry, or intravenous Bluetooth connection. Many of them are not gender-specific. Be the first celebrity on your block to cash in on this trend. It’s only a matter of weeks before famous babies will shove their organic blankets aside so they can show off the trademark Little Boogies tags on their bums. Plus, my nephew, Lil’ Gee, is prominently featured on the “Clothing” page, and he’s just so fun to look at.

Best regards,
ladolcevespa

This Is Major Tom to Ground Control

2008-03-20T17:07:00.001-07:00

Is anybody still reading this blog? I know that I, for one, gave up on it a long time ago. In fact, it’s been SO long since I checked my own blog that the address didn’t even pop up automatically on my Google toolbar. I had to, like, type the whole thing in and I could barely remember it (.net? .org? .gov?). It was akin to getting bumped from one’s own speed dial. Except that there’s really no point to having your own number on speed dial other than trying to look like you have more friends than you do to a crazy person who has asked to borrow your phone only to snoop as to whose numbers you hold most dear, kind of like those people who ask to use the restroom just so they can see what meds you are on. But if you have such a crazy person in your life, you probably have bigger things to worry about than having at least nine contacts in your phone. Also, you should probably delete your own number and use the space for 911. I have a feeling you’ll eventually need it during some altercation with the crazy person. And remember, if the crazy person is reaching for the phone as you’re dialing it, just shout out your location really quick for the 911 operator—don’t feel a need to start in the beginning with how you met this person and they asked to use your restroom and they seemed nice enough but the next thing you knew they were dressing exactly like you and threatening you at scissorspoint to vote for their favorite contestant on American Idol followed by a quick but unconvincing “just kidding!” and now they’re trying to put duct tape on your mouth and wrestle the cell phone out of your hand. Time is of the essence, and cell phone locations are not as easily traced as all the Law & Orders would have us believe.

But I digress…

As I have informed the many kind souls who have inquired about the lack of posting, it’s not that I haven’t blogged because nothing’s been going on, it’s that I haven’t blogged because TOO much has been going on and, as it turns out, although blogging may not require thought, blogging does require time. First off, much craziness has been going on at work but, as you may have noticed, with one sleep-deprived exception, I don’t really blog about work specifics and neither should you for that matter, unless your blog is private and none of your invitees believe a single word you say and you begin every work-related sentence with “In my satirical opinion…” (And kudos to M*** of TPHS for realizing this and privatizing her blog only seconds after her boss asked if she had one.) As for me, that whole attorney-client privilege thing really precludes it. As for you, the lack of millions of extra dollars in your checking account labeled “libel fund” does the same.

Second, much craziness has hit the Ess Fam in the past month or two, most of it health-related, none of it involving me, aside from my slow but steady advance towards morbid obesity, type 2 diabetes, hypertension, and stress-related ulcers, which I have named “One Taco at a Time.” Unfortunately, the undeserving Mrs. Dub and PDaddy have been the victims this go around. As the working girl in the fam (okay, SIL is a very busy full-timer as well), my only contribution to date has been to field tons of phone calls, but I took those phone calls when I would have been blogging and I have no regrets.

Third, I have made some important decisions in my ongoing and much-chronicled “where do I want to live?” and “will I ever buy a house?” personal dilemmas—decisions which will be posted here in a few months once they are fully executed. In the meantime, I don’t want to give anyone at that place that shall never be blogged about the heads-up that I’m not long for their world and so, in the event that there are any crazy people of the type described above at that unnamable place who have figured out I have a blog but have not informed me of the same (a semi-likely situation), I am just going to keep my mouth shut. And have I ever mentioned that my real life name is Erma?

So that’s the sitch, folks: a whole lot of unbloggable sumthin’ going on. Aside from my blog, the biggest victim of my incessant busy-ness has been my dear, sweet Vespa. For the past several months, the poor thing has only been ridden every week or two weeks, and then just to make sure it’s still running. However, I do have my California basic skills motorcycle class and driving test coming up (required to convert my motorcycle learner’s permit into an M1 driver’s license before the permit’s expiration date, also coming up). I have to buy motorcycle boots to wear to class. I also have to ride an actual motorcycle as opposed to my lil’ scooter. The whole affair promises loads of blogworthy potential and possibly a trip or two to the emergency room. I’m sure neither of you can wait.

Sweeping the Clouds Away

2008-01-25T16:07:00.000-08:00

Telly and his dolly

So, I’ve been putting off blogging because I promised a big post about my San Francisco trip, and for some reason that seems like a lot of work. As time wore on, I felt it was embarrassingly late to post about month-old adventures, but then Miss Renee did it, and it was just fine. Point is, I will get to the SF post when I feel like it, which is definitely not now.

Right now I feel like blogging about a subject that is, as many of you know, near and dear to my heart: Sesame Street. In my humble opinion, Sesame Street is the best television program ever made. It’s educational, it’s funny, it’s timeless, it’s commercial-free, and it invented PC only to have others blow the concept wholly out of proportion.

I grew up watching Sesame Street—as Mary Ess will tell you, when I was three I simply referred to the show as “The Favorite.” At five, I won a Sesame Street coloring contest sponsored by JC Penney; my prize was a new wardrobe of awesome Sesame Street duds. As a teenager, I preferred to spend any sick days lying on the couch, sipping Sprite and watching Sesame Street rather than Ricki Lake or soaps or other daytime fare. When I was in college and worked at KBYU Master Control, I always volunteered for the early Monday shift (12:00 a.m. to 5:00 a.m.), because that’s when we aired all five of the previous week’s Sesame Street episodes back to back.

I’ve got Sesame Street on the mind because the other day I saw a news blurb on Sesame Street Old School Vol. 2, which is a “best of” from 1974-1979. I’m only slightly embarrassed to say that’s almost the exact timeframe in which I watched it the most. This got me thinking about my own favorite Sesame Street sketches, which are as follows (the ones with the asterisk [*] are not necessarily “old school” but I still love them).

1. Me and My Llama
2. My Name is Fred
3. "A loaf of bread, a container of milk, and a stick of butter"
4. The Triangle Song (by Telly, not the one with James Blunt, though)*
5. “Ten! Root Beer! Floats!”
6. The Ladybugs’ Picnic
7. Lost Dog Flyer
8. Anytime Bert’s opining about his bottle cap collection
9. That one time where Elmo learned to brush his teeth only, having no teeth, he used an ear of corn*
10. Monsterpiece Theater

Sure, Elmo, Ernie and Oscar are great, but a bit overdone don’t you think? Here are my personal favorite Sesame Street characters:

1. Telly (the self-conscious one)
2. Baby Bear* (the worry-wart)
3. Telly & Baby Bear in any scene together (hi-larious)
4. Slimey
5. The Yip Yips
6. Prairie Dawn
7. Those conjoined monsters that sound out words by bringing them together
8. The Count (actual eastern European royalty, or mere Rocky Horror fan roaming the neighborhood—you be the judge)
9. That adorable talking loaf of bread in the fridge full of talking food
10.LeVar Burton (okay, so he wasn’t on Sesame Street–but he should have been!)

Anyhow, feel free to register your own faves in the comments section.

Happy Ahikotauqua!

2008-01-08T17:57:00.000-08:00

So I've been a bad, bad blogger lately, but if you thought it was because I was watching Biggest Loser and Project Runway marathons the entire holiday season, you'd only be half right; rather, I had a great Christmas vacation with the fam at the Gee household in Orange County followed by another short trip to San Francisco before returning to Los Angeles to make no less than 1,000 New Year's resolutions and a cool binder to document progress with said 1,000 New Year's resolutions, although I regret to report that resolving to stop penning run-on sentences just didn't make the cut.

However, the following usual suspects did:
1. Eat healthy
2. Exercise more
3. Reduce debt
4. Increase savings
5. Buy a house
6. Travel abroad
7. Keep an immaculate apartment
8. Dress fabulously at least 70% of the time
9. Finish projects
10. Edit nanowrimo novel
11. Write 7-book young adult fiction series with Mrs. Dub
12. Develop alternative fuel composed of sustainable resources and processed with minimal environmental impact that can be used in existing gasoline engines with little to no modification

But this little number made its debut in 2008:

13. Ride Vespa more

In fact, I was working on #13 on New Year's Eve when I accidentally ended up driving the Vespa on PCH. Apparently "Moomat Ahiko Way" is some sort of indigenous translation of "Caution! Not Beach Parking! Major On-Ramp!" I drove it very fast and straight for two miles, where the first turn-off is onto Chautauqua Blvd. (Seriously, who is naming the streets in Santa Monica? And why didn't they make their way over to West LA, where the street-namers gave up and started naming everything Beverly and National?) I took Chautauqua against my better judgment, because every time I've taken it in the Jeep I have ended up on either an extensive tour of Topanga Canyon or the crazy twisty part of Sunset Blvd--both options are arguably more dangerous for the Vespa rider than PCH given the high concentration of blind curves and drunken celebrities in those areas. Thankfully, the Vespa magically led me on a previously unknown shortcut back to the safe streets of Santa Monica.

So, hello milestone! I have officially ridden the Vespa on a highway without even setting out to do so. Although it sort of sucks to keep all the crazy resolutions I didn't make.

San Francisco recap and pics to follow sometime this week.

And then I'll buy a house there like Diane Lane did

2007-12-15T22:08:00.000-08:00

So this is a picture of me and some of the members of my scooter gang cruising through Napa Valley last weekend. Too bad you weren’t there—it was a madcap good time, especially that one part where Squiggy bet Fat Max that he couldn’t pop a wheelie while balancing a plate of baked brie and apples on the, uh...

Okay, so it’s not. The scooter gang remains a mere pipedream, although I think the “homeless” woman working the corner of Sepulveda and Wilshire this afternoon was ready to join. When I got stopped at her intersection today, she was really chatting me up about the scooter. She knew her stuff, too; the way she was talking, I’m pretty sure she has a couple of dirt bikes and some ATVs back at her 5-acre ranch in San Bernadino. You should have seen her shudder when an actual homeless man (i.e., no teeth, talking to himself, dragging two baby strollers full of crap around) crossed her path. By the way, the light at Sepulveda and Wilshire takes forever to change if you’re headed north on Sepulveda.

Back to the picture, I'm not in it and I don’t even know any of these people. And they aren’t in Napa Valley, they’re in TUSCANY. As in Italy. As in, they took the Scooter Bella Tuscany by Vespa tour. That’s right—we can take a tour of the Italian countryside by Vespa, and knowing that, why wouldn’t we?! Has anyone out there in the whole world wide web actually been on this? Some of us would appreciate your input before we carelessly quit our jobs and dump our life’s savings into this trip.

In addition to their gracing us with the greatest idea on earth, I am also grateful to the Scooter Bella folks for boosting my fragile ego with their fine print. You see, after a lot of advertising razzle-dazzle about how fun and easy the Vespas are to ride, their website cautions that you should only sign up “if you are a good driver, athletic and coordinated, and you are used to riding a bicycle.” Some other favorite lines:

You must be able to control the Vespa and drive it competently. If we feel your driving skills put you and others at risk we reserve the right to take the Vespa away from you.

[W]e are amazed that some people sign up for a trip of this type with no experience and poor coordination or athletic ability, and then expect to drive a motorized vehicle on public roads in a foreign country. Please do not be one of these people.

I really appreciate their constant comparison of scootering ability to athleticism. More specifically, I really appreciate it today, where for some reason I have been completely worn out by a little furniture refinishing and Christmas shopping. Furniture refinishing and shopping are two of my favorite activities and I have been doing both my entire life (much to Dave and Mary’s chagrin)—so the fact that I am so unexpectedly exhausted thereby has made me worry that I am either getting (a) old, (b) out of shape, or (c) both of the above, each of which is exacerbating the other. Yet I did ride the Vespa for about 30 minutes today without even breaking a sweat, so the answer MUST be (d) none of the above, right?

Who’s up for the Tuscany tour?

It would be easier to summarize the topics NOT covered in this post

2007-12-09T09:40:00.000-08:00

Aaah, Christmastime. That's what I think every time I go to the mall these days. Personally, I've never put up a Christmas tree and I don't even own a single ornament. Such is the life of an apartment dweller who can't bear the thought of giving up at least four square feet of precious storage space eleven months of the year for something to be enjoyed only during the remaining month. (Unless, of course, the person reading this is a former VT-er or friend who has given me an ornament in the past, in which case, I have boxes of ornaments, and oh, how I treasure each one.)

But today I was reading Mary's blog, and Mary (my mom) is a big fan of Christmastime. Lately, almost all of her posts have been about it. I'm a little sad that she hasn't yet mentioned my personal favorite Christmas tradition--one that involves just the two of us and, occassionally, lil' bro. Pboy as an accomplice. At Mary's house they have an "attic." Okay, as all of their ceilings are vaulted, they don't have an actual attic; however, they do have a very small, enclosed space on the second floor that the home's architect didn't know what to do with. This space is only accessible through one of those fold-down, attic stairwell hatches in a closet on the first floor, so the Ess fam has always called it "the attic."

Mary keeps her ample supply of Christmas decorations in the attic. I have absolutely no idea how she gets them down each year, but without fail, she will decide to pack them up when I'm still around and I will be enlisted to assist her. As soon as she asks me, she will run into her closet, up the attic stairs, and claim her position as "box arranger" in the attic--which means I'm stuck with the job of climbing that ladderish set of stairs 500 times with an array of heavy yet fragile boxes. Sometimes I will huff my way to the top of the stairs with a box only to have Mary tell me, "No, I don't want that one yet," and so I'll have to take it back down. (And I think I just figured out the childhood trauma that has caused me to shun ownership of Christmas decorations as an adult. Blogging is good for the soul, I tell you.)

But here's where the tradition kicks in--every year, when I've only got one or two boxes left, I hand Mary a box, wait until I see her legs disappear from the hatch (which means she's off "arranging"), fold up the stairs, close the door to the attic, and turn off the attic light--the switch for which is conveniently located in the closet as opposed to the attic itself. Then I go off and do something for three to five minutes, giving the entrapped Mary time to contemplate the true meaning of Christmas in the dark while she carelessly yells her way through her limited air supply. Then I let her out and we go get lunch or something--her treat.

Lately, Mary has been featuring some of the contents of those many boxes on her blog. Her recent post about her Santa collection included a Santa figurine she got at the dollar store. This got me thinking about dollar stores. In the 2.5 years I've been back in LA, I haven't been to a single regular dollar store (although I am always inspired driving by the Warholian window displays of the 99 cents store). Why would anyone go to a regular dollar store when, instead, they could go to a Japanese dollar store? I frequent two Japanese dollar stores in the Los Angeles area; both of them are Marukai 98 stores and are related to the Marukai asian groceries. There is a tiny one downtown in Little Tokyo and a huge one in Gardena. I prefer the one in Gardena because it's bigger, the parking is free, and they play some lovely gangster rap over the PA system.

If you've never been to a Japanese dollar store, then you'll just have to trust me: everything, I mean ziploc bags and post-its and cheap batteries full of everything, looks way cooler in Japanese packaging. But the best part of the store, hands-down, is the kitchen section, where I bought all of this:

These are bento-making supplies. There are the bento boxes themselves, chopsticks and skewers, colorful cupcake-liner things to separate your food with, little bottles shaped like pigs and fishies for holding soy sauce, and rice molds. My friend Wingonwing, purveyor of evil obsessions, first told me about the bento-making craze sweeping American hipsters a few years ago. With the tools above, and about two hours of free time every morning before work, you can make yourself a colorful and healthy lunch that looks something like this:

Or, if drama's your thing:

There are a million bento blogs out there, but these pictures are from the BEST one ever: e-obento.com. It is proof that even blogs look better in Japanese. And no, I have no idea what she's saying.

Unfortunately for me, my bento obsession was short-lived as I don't have two hours every morning to make my lunch and I don't really like fish cakes, and you really need to implement fish cakes to make a good bento. Also, I am sad to report that you need about four bento box lunches to equal the caloric satisfaction of one American fast food meal. So for now, my Japanese dollar store souvenirs are simply consuming closet space that could be used for Christmas decorations. If I ever get a Christmas tree, maybe I'll just hang my little soy sauce bottles all over it.

(Oh, and if you're monitor's resolution is good enough to enable you to read the price tags, you will see that most things at the Japanese dollar store actually cost $1.50. I researched this, and it turns out that the phrase "Japanese dollar store" is the English translation of the 100-yen store that has become so popular in Japan. The exchange rate, however, will not be bound by such semantics.)

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year...

2007-12-05T20:45:00.000-08:00

The time of year when they reveal the new HGTV DreamHome, that is. In case you haven't heard, this year it's in the Florida Keys.

So do we like it or not?

And the winner is...

2007-11-29T22:37:00.000-08:00

Me. And everyone else who typed 50,000 words this past month. But what use is a blog if you can't have a "Hooray Me!" moment every now and again?

Game on, Gap. Game. On.

2007-11-29T22:27:00.000-08:00

So it turns out that in addition to (1) putting that crazy striped sweater print on everything, (2) taking all sorts of cutesy couple photos of Amy Poehler and G.O.B. (can't you just hear him saying "I've made a terrible mistake" after putting on that pom-pom scarf?), and (3) hawking their overpriced yet adorable Vespa, Gap is also celebrating the holiday shopping season with GapTidings – i.e., 60-second video greeting cards you make and send to those who love you (and advertise Gap and Yahoo! in the process). But wait—if yours is one of the three best GapTidings uploaded by Dec. 12th, you will win your very own Gap Vespa!

For about five minutes this morning, I thought this was my big chance to redeem my now useless film degree—but then I remembered how I don't have anywhere to park the striped Vespa, and how I'm not financially eager to license and insure a third vehicle. Plus, sometimes ignorance really is bliss. I'm sure the winning entries will all be very simple and comical, whereas the noirish GapTiding I had in mind will take no less than three weeks to produce and a budget of about $2000. So I stopped storyboarding and decided to forget the whole GapTidings thing and go with Plan B: dropping by a Gap outlet around President's Day in hopes of locating a Vespa tucked away in the clearance rack. If I find one, it was meant to be…

That said, I know there are future scooter gang members out there with a good GapTiding in them. Let me know if you enter one, and I will vote for you.

One final thing—when did "the Gap" become just "Gap"? Does that mean Yahoo! will one day be Yahoo. (?) Just curious.

Stripes!

2007-11-28T16:25:00.000-08:00

So, my month in NaNoWriMo exile is nearing a close, and despite the fact that I lost much time in the early part of November in Vegas and the later part of November in Scottsdale, I think I am going to make it! Hopefully once I submit my 50,000 word crapsterpiece on Friday they will provide me with a cool widget or the like that I can post on my dear neglected blog.

Speaking of the dear neglected blog, I’ve got a new game plan: shorter, sweeter, yet more frequent posts. And with that, I will shut down my natural tendency to make a wordy and tangent-filled intro and just say…

Breaking Vespa news in from the Roommate. Gap is pairing with Vespa for the holidays and you can get this:

Which just so happens to match this:

But if you wear the latter while riding the former, I might just have to kill you. That is, if you don't die first by suffocating on your own shame.

Incidentally, that lil’ Gap number is only an LX 50 and costs $6,000. Needless to say, a regular LX 50 costs about half that amount and my LX 150 was also significantly cheaper. In addition, when your ride is based on a sweater, you risk driving around next Christmas and having everyone look at you and snark, “That’s so last season.”

Still, the Gap Vespa is pretty dang cute and makes a great stocking stuffer. I certainly wouldn’t trade it for movie tickets at a White Elephant party. Who had my name in the family gift exchange again?

Good Intentions

2007-11-15T17:36:00.001-08:00

Well, I have been back in Los Angeles for a week now and am only barely getting around to things like cleaning out my refrigerator and/or blogging. As promised, my heavily-backordered new helmet finally arrived in the mail while I was gone. I keep meaning to take pictures of it but, alas, have resorted to stealing the same from the Internet.
The one on the left is an approximation of what my old black helmet looks like; the one on the right is the very new and improved new helmet, courtesy of my sister-in-law as a thank-you for sewing her wedding dress.

I know it seems unbelievable, but I actually think the new helmet is bigger than my old Spaceballs-sized one. This matter was made painfully clear to me last Saturday morning, which began innocently enough when I went down to the parking garage in my apartment and proceeded to painstakingly dust away all the California wildfire ash that had settled on the Vespa during my prolonged absence. Since the Vespa had sat for over a month, I figured I would have to kick-start the thing for the first time and, like most new things in life, I viewed this with simultaneous excitement and trepidation. Alas, it started the normal way—pretty amazing since the thing is running off what appears to be a laptop battery. I was on the Vespa and headed out the garage door for a much-anticipated reunion ride when I remembered the complexities of something that only Angeleno apartment-dwellers can relate to:

Tandem parking.

That’s right—in order to conserve space, our apartment complex has given the Roommate and I one very long parking space to share and we have to park one behind the other. As a result, we are constantly doing the car-switching dance, which sounds similar to the “Neutron Dance,” I know, but is far less energizing. Bless her heart, the Roommate bears the tandem brunt far more than I do—although she either works from home or works late, she still manages a groggy smile at 7:15 every morning when I wake her up to move her car so I can go to work. Yet despite her unending car-switching charity, I was about to thoughtlessly drive off on the Vespa and leave her car parked in by the Jeep on a Saturday morning.

Did I mention how early it was for a Saturday? Sadly, I was still on “trial hours,” and therefore had undertaken the whole Vespa-dusting exercise at around 6:30 a.m., having run out of things to do in my apartment. Rather than wake the Roommate up to switch spots with me just in case she needed to go somewhere very early on a Saturday morning, I decided to just move the Jeep into a spot on the street.

And that’s right about the time when I tried to get into the Jeep while still wearing my new helmet. It didn’t fit.

The good news—the new helmet took a huge hit against the Jeep’s black door frame and walked away without a mark. The even better news—the new helmet apparently prevented the concussion I surely would have experienced had I hit my bare head against the car that hard; I think this bodes well for similar protection in the event that my head ever makes contact with another vehicle and/or asphalt. The best news of all—it was so crazy early on a Saturday morning that nobody was around to witness the sheer “America’s Funniest Home Videos” idiocy of it all.

So, despite the fact that my Vegas trial has put me behind, I am participating in NaNoWriMo 2007 through the end of November. I always intended to do a late-October post encouraging any interested writers out there to join me, but said post never came to fruition. Still, check it out and consider doing it next year. Once it’s over, I’ll rejoin the living and kindly post on all your blogs again, which I have been reading.

Out of the Office (Automated Reply)

2007-10-27T14:44:00.000-07:00

For what it's worth, I'm sorry I haven't posted in a fortnight or so. Blogging just isn't the same when you're in the Caesar's Palace Business Center and you're worried the guy next to you is going to read your entry. It's funny how I'm willing to post online for all the world to see, yet I feel like my Business Center neighbor here is completely violating my privacy every time he turns his head. I keep wishing I had an old school Trapper Keeper to wrap around this monitor a la third grade test-taking so he couldn't read over my shoulder. But I'm getting ahead of myself...

So I've been in Vegas for the past week+, and will be for many weeks more, for the Trial of the Millenium. Alright, only a handful of people really care about this trial, but I happen to be one of them and let's just say it hasn't been a cake walk so far. The greuling sixteen-hour workdays and workweekends have been further complicated by a myriad of technical difficulties, including a general lack of internet and remote desktop access, but I'll spare you the boring details. Just forgive me if I haven't returned your last 20 emails or missed your daughter's birthday or if you live in Vegas but I don't get a chance to see or talk to you.

When I was little, I always wanted to live at Disneyland. More specifically, I wanted to rent a little studio apartment above one of the shops on Main Street, although New Orleans Square would have been acceptable as well. Main Street seemed like a nice neighborhood with lots of conveniences: good public transportation (via trolley or horse-drawn carriage), ample ice cream and candy supply, ability to watch nightly parades from one's own home, Space Mountain adjacent, etc.

I thought living in a Vegas hotel-casino for a month would sort of be like living at Disneyland. In a way, it is--both venues are evidence that mankind knows no bounds when it comes to building with Plaster of Paris. When you're working long days like I am, it's also nice to be in a place that refuses to recognize what the rest of the world knows as "time"--even if you get off work at 10:00 p.m. you can do a little shopping and people-watching. Even in the middle of the night there is quite the selection of overpriced food available. I'm not the gambling type, but if I were, I think I would never sleep.

But after a week of both witnessing and indulging in such excesses, I am ready to sue the Vegas Tourism Bureau for false advertising. I seriously doubt the 200 lbs. I have put on already are going to "stay in Vegas" when I leave. I'm afraid I'm also back on the Diet Coke wagon after some 415 days of caffeinated beverage sobriety. At the end of the day, the Strip is like Disneyland, but only one part: the Island of Lost Boys on the Pinnochio ride. I'm growing donkey ears already.

Vegas has also turned me into a bigger liar than usual. For instance, my boss, who is an accomplished and respectable older man, has never really come terms with the electronic age. One time, I heard him offer a file clerk at our office an "old computer" that he found. He said the clerk could have it because he bought a new one. Both the clerk and I were suspicious of this offer, as neither of us has known our boss to own or use a computer. Sure enough, the boss produced a classic '82 HP leather-bound calculator and gave it to the clerk, who had to feign great appreciation for the gifted "computer" before sneaking it into the trash.

Of late, I have been exploiting this generational gap, and I believe it's all Vegas's fault. Last night we finished work and the boss asked me and the paralegal to joint him for yet another gluttonous and lengthy sit-down dinner. The paralegal bowed out because her brother was going to be in town for one night only, which put me on the spot. I was tired and wasn't in the mood for another Mt. Everest heaping of crab legs. I wanted to have a simple food court meal where the "crab" is shelled and made of liquid cod parts poured into a mould. Suffice it to say, the rest of the conversation went like this:

Me: I'm sorry, I can't go. I have to go down to the Business Center and send this urgent email to So and So back at the office.

Boss: I can wait for you. How long does it take to send an email?

Me: Well, since it has to go clear to Los Angeles, it will probably take about an hour and a half.

Boss: In that case, I'll just go eat alone.

I'm not kidding. Vegas made me do it. That said, I don't want to offend any of my five-odd friends who live in Vegas. I realize the rest of the place is much different than the Strip.

So, the point of all of this was to say that I won't be posting for awhile. And I'm sad to say I won't be riding my Vespa either, which is (hopefully) parked back at my apartment in Los Angeles. But I did finally get word that my much anticipated yet heavily back-ordered new helmet will be waiting for me when I get back!

In my absence, I would suggest visiting one of the blogs linked on the right, or one of the following, which I keep meaning to add links to but haven't gotten around to it:

Simple Happy Home (Mary Ess's blog)
Steffarocks in Spain (SIL's blog)
Tammy Faye Fan Club
Glamma Fabulous
Flowerchain

And if you're still with me, I just want to apologize and say that the Caesar's Palace Business Center is not very conducive to blog editing, what with the NOSY neighbors and all. So apologies for all the randomness above.

The Elusive Fee Simple

2007-10-13T11:12:00.000-07:00

Do you know who Andy Rooney is? If not, the only thing you really need to know is that he is cranky and opinionated—about everything, that is. Then again, he gets paid to express one cranky opinion per week, a job he has held since the middle ages. I guess if I were in Andy’s shoes, I, too, would have quickly run out of rants to rave about the big ticket items like taxes and world peace and would have had to move on to yelling about things like the state slogans on license plates.

That said, I am about to get all Andy Rooney on you about none other than the atrocity that is the Southern California real estate market. I know, I know—this topic is seriously lacking originality and chances are that half of you have already clicked over to that Rooney license plate article for more enlightening fare. It’s just that I’ve had some personal experience with this lately….

A few days ago, my sister, the notorious Mrs. Dub, posted on her blog about her desire for a house. This is a desire Mrs. Dub and I have had in common for some time—in fact, in the weeks prior to the HGTV Dream Home giveaway every April, nearly all of our telephone or email conversations with each other have to do with what we do and don’t like about that year’s Dream Home and which of the two of us is more likely to win it. (And then every year they give it to some Midwestern retiree who has already owned four homes in his life and swears he just entered the sweepstakes one day on a whim, but I digress).

Anyhow, Mrs. Dub’s post was timely as lately my house-lust has been out of control. You see, last Saturday afternoon I was at work when I realized that if I left right then, I would have time to drive up and tour the Martha Stewart designed KB Home models in Lancaster, California, which is locally known as St. Nowheresville. I must admit to being a bit of a Martha groupie (getting her to join my scooter gang would be a major coup, no?) and this is something I’ve been wanting to do for a LONG time. You know, just to see them.

Getting to St. Nowheresville from Los Angeles took a LOT longer than I thought. Google Maps estimated it as 60 miles one-way, but it was closer to 75. I was also surprised at how different things looked from the parts of California I’m familiar with. The terrain was eerily similar to those pictures taken by the Mars rovers, only with a few Joshua Trees and Super Walmarts photoshopped in. Yet the houses there are CHEAP as free for Southern California—as in the high $300Ks / low $400Ks, so I guess a lot of people are willing to live on Mars and commute to LA every day because it is the only option for non-Compton homeownership.

As I got closer to the Martha homes, I seriously began to question Lancaster’s non-ghetto reputation, as the Semiannual Antelope Valley Street Gang Convention appeared to be converging in a vacant lot only blocks from the Martha Models. Luckily, I’ve lived in LA long enough to know how to give a pretty convincing “I didn’t see anything, I swear,” look. Once, the Roommate and I were walking in West LA and had to whip out this look twice within thirty seconds—the first time when we inadvertently saw a drug deal go down, and the second time when the dealer crossed the street towards us and accidentally dropped a packet of crack on the ground, then fumbled around all bug-eyed as he tried to quickly pick it up. It was one of those treasured LA moments that is simultaneously comical and life-threatening, but again, I digress…

At this point I was expecting to be underwhelmed by the Martha models, which, quite frankly, would have been a good thing (Martha groupie bad pun intended). To my utter dismay, the houses were the perfect size and simply amazing. The drive alone was worth it to see all the cool little knick-knacks and decoration. It was like a Martha museum, and the price of admission is simply 20 minutes of your time listening to the sales person’s pitch.

In my particular instance, the sales person had me at “Martha.” She also told me that most of the people who come to see the models work in Los Angeles and plan to make the daily 150-mile commute. When I told her I worked downtown, she said, “Well that’s easy. You can take the Metrolink [train] to Union Station in downtown. Most people have to have a second car on the LA end to drive from the train station to work.”

I left the models with a folder of materials and a song in my heart. I stopped at a Super Walmart on my way home—a rare opportunity for any Angeleno, but the whole time I was shopping all I could think about was what kind of kitchen countertops I would get and how much work I would get done on the train every day. But then my bubble burst when I got home and did some old-fashioned internet research. The Metrolink ride from St. Nowheresville to downtown is 2 hours one-way!! Getting to the St. Nowheresville station would take about 15 minutes, as would the bus ride from Union Station to my office. So I was looking at over a five-hour daily commute. The last train leaves downtown at 7 p.m., but I’m not always off work by then. What’s more, I ran the numbers and I couldn’t afford even the smallest house anyway—at least not without living at the very edge of my means and going sans furniture for several years.

Suddenly, I was struck by the absurdity of the whole idea and, I’m warning you, this is the point at which I got very cranky. Just to provide some context to any non-Angelenos out there, I want to point out that right now I live in West LA about 3 blocks from the always-noisy 405 freeway. Across the street from my apartment, there is a building of newly-renovated condos for sale. This is common in West LA right now—they take old apartment buildings, slap a coat of paint on them, and convert them to condos. This particular building looks like a newly painted 1970s Motel 6 (i.e., not attractive). The condos have one bedroom, one parking space in a communal garage, and no in-unit laundry. They are under 1000 square feet and are priced in the $900Ks. The HOA fee is several hundred a month. Over by my old apartment there is a high-rise of luxury condos going up. Regardless of how luxurious they are, they are still condos. They have a sign advertising “From the $4,000,000s.” That’s right—apparently a luxury 1900 square foot condo for four million is considered a deal.

And I know these are not Manhattan prices, Honolulu prices, or San Francisco prices, but you have to admit—they’re still pretty bad. Indeed, my cranky mood was exacerbated by reading some of the comments on Mrs. Dub’s post, where areas such as Northern Virginia (median housing price = $450K) were touted as “expensive.” They seem like such a deal to me by comparison to SoCal. Homeownership is simply not an option in the greater LA area anymore for the first-time buyer who is not a member of the upper-class. It is why large cities with soaring real estate prices are losing their middle classes to the Phoenixes, Vegases, Portlands, Atlantas, and Houstons of the country (where, in turn, their influx and collective warped financial perspective are driving up real estate prices in those areas).

As for me, I have already started my campaign to get Mrs. Dub and the rest of the Ess clan to migrate to St. Nowheresville, Georgia, where the same Martha homes are going for over $100K less on larger lots with a much shorter commute to downtown Atlanta. So far, I have received a lot of complaints about the weather. I think those are strong words coming from people who brave blinding sunlight and 118-degree weather every summer. I can point to a couple of instances in Ess family history where I successfully wore everyone down, so I think I could still make it work.

With that, I’d like to invite all of you to join us. (Except, of course, for my surprising number of Singaporean readers, because Atlanta’s crime rate may be a bit of a shock to their systems. I think the Singaporeans only read this blog for the scooter stuff anyway, and they probably didn’t get this far on such a non-scooter post. I will make it up to you soon, Singapore.) We can form a commune full of Martha homes and scooter riders. It will be a veritable Utopia—at least in my book.

The Brightside

2007-10-01T20:39:00.000-07:00

I have been known to complain a LOT about the many downsides of living in Los Angeles. I’m not going to apologize for this as there are MANY such downsides (i.e., overpopulation, housing prices, poor urban planning, contagious materialism, etc.). But I have to give credit where it is due and state that Los Angeles has near perfect weather.

What I look at ALL day: the view from my downtown office.

And if the general weather in LA is perfect then there are no words to describe the weather this past weekend, so I will have to settle for “better than perfect” or “Perfect+.” I took full advantage of it by Vespaing far more than usual. On Saturday I rode the Vespa to work, sans parking garage catastrophes this time around. On the way home it was quite windy (which causes some balance issues), but by the time I noticed this I was cutting through the Golden Triangle of Beverly Hills, where the streets were full of smiling Angelenos and tourists walking around and dining al fresco at the faux-euro eateries and otherwise enjoying the Perfect+ weather. I like to think that by buzzing past them mid-meal on my Vespa, I contributed to the faux-euro nature of their faux-euro lunch. That’s me—always thinking of others.

Note her clutched knees
On Sunday I rode the Vespa to church in a big accordion-pleated skirt and platform heels. As I was commenting to notmymomMary, these particular heels actually made the Vespa easier to ride by virtue of making my legs a whole four inches longer. I still had to work hard to keep the skirt anchored between my knees (as opposed to billowing about my head), but it’s the closest I’ve gotten to my Hepburnesque fantasy Vespa outfit to date.

On Sunday afternoon, I woke from my traditional Sunday afternoon nap a bit early and decided that the Perfect+ weather warranted yet another ride. When I was little (and a teenager… and a college student home for the summer), Dave of Dave and Mary fame would curb my cabin fever on Sundays by taking me on “drives” through the desert and around to the then far-reaching suburbs of Phoenix, like East Phoenix. It was great. Except for that one time he ran out of gas and didn’t bring his wallet, but I digress. Since I’m weird (and by “weird” I mean “religious”) and worry about things like “Sabbath-appropriate activities,” I decided that the Sunday drives of my youth meant a leisurely Vespa ride to the beach and back met the Sabbath-appropriate test—especially considering that the Vespa had sufficient gas for the trip and that I always carry my wallet with me in case of emergency.

And indeed, it proved to be a Perfect+ Sunday:

Weird Valerie Appreciation Day

2007-09-24T10:13:00.000-07:00

This blog has been all about the scooters lately. And that's not necessarily bad, as Vespatherapy is the theme and all, but like the small-print readers at the end of pharmaceutical ads, I realize the same prescription "is not for everybody."

And so forgive me, but this post will be less about Vespas and more about Valeries—Weird Valeries, in fact. My astute friend and former law school classmate Wingonwing is the brainchild behind the "Weird Valerie" moniker. Like me, Wing switched schools every so often as she was growing up, an experience that made her realize that there is one girl at every school who's really eager to befriend the new students—too eager, in fact. That girl is Weird Valerie.

On your first day of school, you're really grateful for Weird Valerie's hospitality and willingness to show you around, eat with you in the cafeteria, etc. By your third day you've nailed your schedule and met a few people you think you might have more in common with than WV, who simply won't stop repeating recent conversations she's had with her pet gerbils (both sides). By the fifth day you realize it's not socially possible to incorporate WV into your new group of friends, especially when mom always said that "beggars can't be choosers," and as a new student, you are definitely begging for acceptance. During the second week you have an awkward exchange with WV in the lunch line, when she turns to go to her regular spot and you say "Actually, I was going to go eat with Other Person today." You feel terrible, but WV shrugs her shoulders and doesn't even ask to come with you. By your second month, you no longer say "hi" to her when she passes in the hall.

And, mind you, Wing and I are not sexist. Weird Valerie definitely has a male counterpart, and his name is Weird Sheldon. As Wing has observed, WS spends most of his time on first dates "at that burger place on . . . university avenue? remember that place? with the shakes?" If you are a single girl, do not talk to WS unless you want to end up on just such a first date. Be further forewarned that WS keeps a diamond ring handy in the event there is ever a second date.

While her actions are predictable, Weird Valerie is a bit of an enigma. First, does she recognize what an important and selfless role she serves as the designated transitional friend to new students, neighbors, coworkers, etc.? She's like a person standing along a fence, cupping her hands so she can give everyone a lift up, only there's nobody left to give her a lift when she needs it.

Second, what would Weird Valerie say if she truly spoke her mind? Is there more to her than mothballs? Does she realize that her timid preference for light-hearted and completely unrelatable topics such as gerbils and her desire to learn Gaelic is, perhaps, the very source of her pariah status? Because when you take a step back, you realize that Weird Valerie is perfectly capable of faking normal—it's why you were friends with her in the first place.

And haven't we all felt like Weird Valerie at certain times and places in our lives? For example, Wing started a new job a month or two ago, and she's convinced that she's the Weird Valerie at her workplace. I am convinced Wing is full of it and is just frustrated that she hasn't yet made 50 new BFFs, as she is prone to doing—but I'll save that debate for our lengthy email exchange on the topic. As evidence of her Weird Valerie status, Wing offers that she is "becoming a nervous unnecessary storyteller, like, that person who is all, OH that happened to me once, blah blah unnecessary poorly told storycakes that no one cares about . . .when did i turn in to this person? no seriously. when?"

So I have to admit that sometimes when I am driving around on my Vespa, I fear I'm the Weird Valerie of the road. The reason is that I feel like with my jeans, hoodie, and rubber motorcycle gloves, I look like a girl with "something to prove." But the reality is that I'm just a girl who likes red and shiny things, who wanted to learn something new, and who is trying very, very hard not to die in the process. When I look at Wing's situation and my own, I realize that we get Weird Valerie paranoia when we believe others have an untrue or unfair perception of us. Truth be told, they probably haven't had the time to form such a perception—like us, they were too busy faking normal.

So, given all my recent thoughts towards and sympathy for the Weird Valeries of the world, I thought I would nominate today as WEIRD VALERIE APPRECIATION DAY. I feel safe declaring this here, as I don't consider any of this blog's readers to be Weirds of the Valerie or Sheldon type. I think we should all take a minute to call, email, or text a Weird Valerie in our life and let her know how much we appreciate her friendship and willingness to help others. Feel free to report back in the comments section, if you feel so inclined.

(But whatever you do, please, PLEASE do not call me today. It would seriously take me 50 Vespa rides to get over it.)

Postscript on the Green Thing

2007-09-15T07:41:00.000-07:00

Thanks for all the awesome comments regarding your personal proclivity for scooter-riding, which reminded me about a few more shareable scooter tidbits.

So, I don't know how many of you are already familiar with the Piaggio MP3, pictured below:

As you can see, it's a three-wheeled scooter. As you can also see, it is a little strange-looking because those crazy Italians put the third wheel in the front, while we Americans generally prefer our third wheels in the back. I don't know if it's fair to say the MP3 "took the scooter world by storm," since the scooter world seems impervious to storming because it is both cool as a cucumber and incredibly factionalized by brand loyalties--but the MP3 WAS the most-anticipated innovation in a long time in an industry that has remained relatively stagnant for 50 or so years.

Apparently, Piaggio spent a great deal of time and effort engineering the MP3 so that the two "independent" front wheels were capable of tilting up to 40 degrees, like so:

The advertised result is that the "MP3 provides safety, road grip and stability levels that no two-wheeler can match. Its power, performance and ease of use make for a very entertaining ride." No doubt the MP3 would be easier to learn to ride than a standard scooter in the same way that training wheels make it easier to learn to ride a bicycle. It would also be way more convenient in parking and other situations, where I often find myself frustrated while trying to do one thing with my left hand while supporting the entire weight of the Vespa with my right hand--like take off my gloves, pull out a parking ticket, etc. Usually, my teeth have to get involved at some point. (Of course, this wouldn't be so much of a problem if my legs were of average length and could both reach the ground at the same time while I was on the Vespa to hold it steady.)

And next year, the MP3 (along with a wimpy Vespa LX 50) will be available in a HYBRID version. You sacrifice your entire cargo space under the seat for the battery, but isn't helping the environment and saving on gas worth wearing a gigantic and unattractive backpack everywhere you go?

Unfortunately, the cost of all that engineering has been passed on to the consumer. The scooter world (specifically, the scooter blogging world) has lauded the "fun" factor of the MP3, but railed against its $7000+ price tag. Indeed, the dealership where I bought my Vespa had several MP3s in stock and almost every shopper paused to look at them and sit on them, but I didn't see anyone buy one. I also haven't seen any on the streets of West LA, where I regularly see Bentleys, Lotuses and other vehicles that appeal to the "Look at me! I'm driving something expensive and different!" motorist.

Come to think of it, maybe if Piaggio raised the MP3 price to $170,000, they would sell a few more around here...

It's Not Easy Being Green

2007-09-12T16:42:00.000-07:00

Life with Vespa continues, but I’m always beating myself up about not driving the Vespa more than I do. A while ago I made a goal to start driving it to work one day a week, and I have yet to fulfill that goal. Part of it is a snoozing issue, part of it is a wardrobe issue, and part of it is a fear issue. Still, I feel guilty.

But consider this, which I pulled off the Vespanomics Fact Sheet:

If Americans were to switch just 10% of their total mileage to scooters, they would consume 14 - 18 million gallons less fuel per day and carbon dioxide emissions could be reduced by 324 million
pounds per day as well. (Source ICR survey, May 2006).

On a personal level, they could also reduce fuel consumption by approximately 58%, carbon dioxide emissions by 80%, and significantly reduce traffic congestion.

By my calculations, I have switched 20% of my total mileage from the Jeep to the Vespa. This is based on nothing more than the fact that the Jeep used to go through at least 4 tanks of gas per month, but now goes through 3-ish. Indeed, I do almost all my weekend driving on the Vespa. Last Sunday I even rode it to church and learned a valuable lesson in the process: do not ride the Vespa while wearing a pencil skirt.

Still, that’s a personal savings of about $50 a month without even trying. Also, I have to admit that while I’m no environmental activist, it feels good to know I’m doing my part, even if there’s room for improvement.

But Piaggio (which manufactures the Vespa) is taking it further:

In an effort to position motor scooters and motorcycles as a viable solution for America's oil dependency problems, Piaggio Group Americas is encouraging local and federal government agencies to consider adopting parking and traffic reforms that facilitate the use of two-wheel vehicles as a transportation alternative available to the general public.

This got me thinking about the lousy parking available for two-wheeled vehicles. Let’s face it: everyone gets mad when they see a scooter taking up a whole, real parking space. And while it’s true that I’ve generally found great “alternative” parking for the Vespa, to date I think I’ve only legally parked the thing once. Most of the time I park in those spaces with lines painted through them and miraculously get away with it. I stopped parking in the blue ones once I realized they were there to enable disabled persons to exit their vehicle. So the yellow ones are all I’ve got left. And as I’ve mentioned before, most LA parking garages are not scooter-friendly because entrance requires setting off a weight sensor in addition to taking one’s ticket.

I realize scooters are not a solution for everyone or practical for every trip. Obviously, I don’t begrudge moms (or dads) for driving cars big enough to hold multiple little people when required. And even on the weekends I take the Jeep to places like Costco or Home Depot. But I’m curious:

If the purchase price, gear, and insurance were not an issue, would you consider getting a scooter (or smaller motorcycle)?

If so, what would you use it for—commute, pleasure, or both?

If not, what are your reasons (family’s too big, safety concerns, etc.)?

Happy Days Are Here Again

2007-09-03T21:16:00.001-07:00

So, here it is, MY dragon red Vespa, on Ocean Boulevard in Santa Monica, overlooking the Pacific Ocean (which you can’t see in the picture, but trust me, it’s below those cars and trees in the background and it’s beautiful).

Today is Labor Day and my labor of choice was driving my Vespa down to the beach and back, thus breaking my three-week Vespa hiatus. I have to admit, I was a little nervous, feeling as though everything I learned in my long months of Vespa practice would have been forgotten in the intervening downtime and this would be like that first ride all over again. In fact, I was downright cranky at the notion of even having to leave my house today. I suffer from what we call “the Sunday Night Blues” in the Ess family—you know, that sad feeling you get on Sunday night when the pressures of the coming workweek begin to take mental shape. This Sunday night was blissfully blues-free due to the three-day weekend, but for some reason I’ve spent all Monday with a Sunday Night Blues-type feeling rather than cavorting about and enjoying the holiday as I should.

The Roommate saw me stomping out the door this afternoon and predicted that once I actually got on the Vespa, I would remember how fun it was. I hate to say it, but…

She was right.

This ride was just what I needed to lift my spirits—a phenomenon that supports this blog’s underlying theme of Vespatherapy. First, not only had I not forgotten how to drive it, but it seemed like I had almost gotten better. I think I’ve finally learned to relax a little when I’m riding the Vespa—today I drove about four miles before I realized that I hadn’t thought about my feet even once. By “my feet,” I mean the timing of when to pick up my right foot when taking off after a stop and, similarly, when to set it down once I’ve come to a stop. It’s not the biggest deal in my Vespacades, but it’s something that heretofore I’ve been really aware of. The fact that I made several stops today without even thinking about it means everything is coming a little more naturally, no?

Second, I got this awesome Vespa Wave and honk from a fellow rider today. Those of you who ride motorcycles are doubtlessly familiar with the Biker Wave that you are required to give to all passing bikers under threat of death by the Hell’s Angels, or whoever the biker gang du jour is (clearly I haven’t paid attention in decades). As everyone knows, motorcyclists do not consider scooters real “bikes,” and so I’ve only been the recipient of a few courtesy biker waves to date (picture a helmeted guy rolling his eyes while half-heartedly raising a few fingers of one hand as he passes in the opposite direction). This is fine by me as I am still loathe to raise either of my hands while driving for fear of spinning wildly out of control. In fact, when I do get a wave, all I can muster is a nod of my head and a smile that says “I would wave back, but I’m probably going to crash at any minute as it is. And yes, I could drive this thing with my legs crossed if I wanted to. Deal with it.”

For the record, I have never gotten a wave from a non-Vespa scooterist (and on that topic, I seriously question the name Kymco Peoples, as those who drive them don’t seem like “people” people to me). But the Vespa-Vespa passing rules are carved in fine Italian marble: you MUST wave and cheering or whistling, while optional, is encouraged. As you might have guessed, the Vespa Wave is somewhat more eager than the Biker Wave: the elbow is fully raised and the hand is whisked briskly from side to side. While the casual Biker Wave seems to state “Hey,” the Vespa Wave says “Oh my gosh! Hi! Hi There!! We both like Vespas—isn’t that cool?!!”

Again, due to my poor motoring confidence, the most I have been able offer in response to a Vespa Wave is a raised shaking of a couple of fingers with a nod of the head. Until today. Today I approached a particular intersection and, as I did so, I could see a guy on a Vespa stopped in the cross traffic. He didn’t see me, and I realized that it was my duty to instigate the Vespa Wave. I was really apprehensive as I am semi-allergic to public displays of enthusiasm and I generally don’t like to instigate anything. Still, I took a deep breath and, as I drove through the intersection and passed him, I full-on took my right hand off the throttle and waved vigorously for 1.5 seconds. My efforts paid off when he waved just as vigorously back at me and followed it with a few cheerful honks. I don’t know why, but it just made my day.

La triste Vespa

2007-08-26T18:37:00.000-07:00

Poor Vespa. It has been so neglected lately.

There are a couple of reasons for this. The first is that I went on a short vacation two weeks ago, but the "planning for" and "recovery from" periods extended the impact said short vacation had on my available Vespa riding time, which is low to begin with. Being a grown-up sucks, because unlike the cashier or data-entry or call center jobs of yore, the work that arose during the vacation was still waiting for me when I got back. There was no “other” person on a nameless team of people to do it in my absence. It makes a vacation almost not worth it, no?

The second is that The Roommate dared me to break one of my all-time cardinal rules, and I regretfully accepted. You know how when you go to the zoo to visit the baby pandas, there are little signs around that say DO NOT FEED THE ANIMALS along with some fine print about how the zoo isn’t trying to be mean, it’s just that human food is not good for them? I seriously think there should be a sign posted within ten feet of me at all times that says DO NOT GIVE GINNY FICTION with some fine print about how it’s for my own good and some bold print especially warning against serial young adult fiction. Cause honestly people, it is like crack to me—once I start, I cannot put it down, no matter how mediocre the writing.

Unfortunately, I have no such sign and so The Roommate didn’t know what damage she was doing when she offered me her copy of Twilight, the first book in Stephenie Meyer’s young adult series about hot teen vampire romance (words I never expected to type). It’s fiction, by the way, and in case you’re like me and you never heard of it, it is somewhat of a cultural phenomenon and a major bestseller—or so the tweens whose online Twilight forums I’ve been stalking have informed me. Incidentally, it is also written by an LDS girl who grew up in Scottsdale, Arizona (and although I am also an LDS girl who grew up in Scottsdale and there aren’t that many of us, I don’t know her. But the books are not LDS-themed*). Thank goodness the Roommate did this on a Friday night instead of like a Wednesday night or something, because it only resulted in a Lost Weekend instead of a Lost Workweek Replete With Lost Job. I read Twilight on Friday night after work, made my way through the second book, New Moon, on Saturday and Sunday, and finished the third, Eclipse, by Tuesday. I’m not saying these books are the best thing since Ulysses, but they are definite page-turners. Needless to say, reading approximately 1800 pages and discussing them with The Roommate and the sisters and the mom and lurking on tween online forums and feeling shame for lurking on tween online forums and wondering why I don’t have the html skills of the average 11-year old and sleeping and working and attending church over a four-day period does not leave much time to take the Vespa out for a spin. In fact, it doesn’t leave much time for grocery shopping or laundry washing or any number of things that should be done on the average weekend and should especially be done on a weekend following a short vacation.

The third reason is that I recently ordered a snappy new baby blue and white helmet, which has not yet arrived. But just knowing that it exists and is on its way makes me all the more saddened at the thought of riding with my current gargantuan black helmet. I promise to post pics comparing the two once the new one finally gets here. In fact, I promise to ride the Vespa somewhere dreamy in the coming week and post pics of that as well.

In other news, Vespa is holding an amateur video contest to promote their new “Vespanomics” campaign. The winning auteur will receive a new Vespa GTS, which puts my lil’ LX-150 to shame. More importantly, if I already know the winning auteur, he or she can be in my scooter gang. I have seen some of the entries and I know you can do better, people. Get on it!

Apologies for yet another self-obsessed, pic-less post. I have every intention of mending my ways shortly.

* And for you non-Morms out there, I just want to assure you that Vampire mythology and other elements of the occult are not a part of our religious beliefs, no matter what your neighbor who “knew a guy” told you.

The Bug Chronicles: Chapter 5

2007-07-31T20:02:00.000-07:00

Previously on The Bug Chronicles: Girl buys Bug. Girl drives Bug—sometimes, when it’s working, which isn’t often. Girl paints Bug (many times). Girl sells Bug. Girl misses Bug.

Chapter Five: Junior Year

Carless once again, I find myself pining away for my dearest Bug. I look for the Bug in every parking lot in Provo. I still have a set of keys and wonder if I would have the nerve to steal it if I saw it. I also wonder if I would have the willpower not to steal it if I saw it. In short bursts of insanity, I consider dedicating songs to the Bug on easy-listening radio stations in hopes the Bug will return to me.

On the first Ladies’ Night of the school year, former roommate and I arrange to meet up with a group of boys we palled around with as freshman (i.e., CB and CF and maybe JR, but I can’t remember), as they have all just returned from two-year church missions. The reunion destination is Club Omni (formerly The Edge), and as this is taking place so long ago that clubbing is still cool in Happy Valley, half the universe has shown up for the event. Due to post-traumatic stress disorder, I can’t remember the exact sequence of events, but I believe I am in the club’s basement when I run into Mrs. Gee and her friends and Mrs. Gee looks concerned and asks me if I’ve seen it. Seen what? She takes me up to the main dance floor and there it is: MY BUG, mounted to the ceiling, flashing its headlights to the peppy beat of the main floor music I so despise. The Bug is still red and white, but a layer of reflective glitter has been added and the windows have a mirror-like film on them, turning the Bug into a true disco ball as it bounces light across the room. Just to confirm its identity, I go and stand directly beneath it and look up. Sure enough, there is a telltale welded patch over the former hole in the floor. What was okay for me to drive cross-country with has now been fixed to spare the heads of any wallflowers below.

It is 11:30 p.m., but I call Mary at home collect and, although I’m not a crier, I burst into tears. At this point in the story, everyone always asks why I was upset instead of amused—I can’t explain it, I just was. Mary can barely hear me through the crying and the club noise, but I explain to her that I’m at Club Omni and the Bug is there too. Mary keeps thinking I mean I saw the Bug in the parking lot, but I finally convey that no, it is inside, and it is hanging from the ceiling. She first bursts out laughing, but then manages to calm me down. I go back down to the basement for some “Everyday is Halloween” or whatever it is they’re playing and put on my best “I didn’t just have a nervous breakdown--I swear!” face.

When former roommate and I are exiting the club, we see the manager. I stop and ask him where he got the Bug, and he tells me that some fishy consignment car dealer behind Deseret Industries parted the whole car out and he bought the body for $300. I'm not going to say what the fishy consignment car dealer paid me for the entire Bug, but suffice it to say that I got ripped off after all. After proving that the car was once mine (by confirming that, when he got it, it had a sticker on it with a picture of Elvis that said “I’m dead.” Heh. That still kills me), he parades former roommate and I around to all the employees and gives us some free passes. One of them produces a shoe I left in the trunk. It’s a cool shoe, but I’ve already tossed out its mate because I couldn’t find the missing one. I plan on keeping the free pass forever as a souvenir, but during a cash-strapped part of the semester I cave and use it.

Months later, I am watching television when I see a commercial for Club Omni. It includes a cartoon version of the Bug flying through outer space. By now, I have visited the Bug numerous times and have made peace with its alternative lifestyle. I am even happy for the Bug—not every old car gets to live a second life as a disco ball with its own cartoon.

Epilogue

At the end of junior year, I am walking across campus after my late night shift in KBYU’s master control when I cross paths with a clean-cut guy wearing a trench coat and sneakers and nothing else. Needless to say, the trench isn’t buttoned. I don’t feel scared and just keep on walking, but when I recount the story to Dave and Mary, they talk Mrs. Dub into letting me have the “kids’ car” Honda Civic in Provo so I don’t have to walk home late at night. (Mrs. Dub pays them back several months later when, as a freshman, she borrows the Civic to drive to Springville and get her tongue pierced. She also racks up several BYU parking tickets, which the school claims are mine. I have to pay them to get my diploma. But I digress…)

When I return to BYU in 2002 for law school, it is to a changed, post-Olympics Provo. Los Hermanos is no longer the only restaurant in town. Private room is the new shared room. The University Mall has finally been remodeled. The heathen UVSC kids have taken over the world. Most notably, though, the club era has long since passed. I occasionally consider suffering a few minutes of salsa dancing (the only thing going on at Club Omni anymore) in order to see and take pics of the Bug, provided it’s still there. But law school is crazy and before I know it, I have graduated and left Provo again without ever visiting the Bug. Since the Bug, I’ve had two Hondas, one Jeep and a Vespa, and I can barely remember the time when I had to pray my car would start whenever I put the key in the ignition. But now that it’s over, I have to say I’m grateful that such a time existed.

The Bug Chronicles: Chapter 4

2007-07-26T20:33:00.000-07:00

Previously on The Bug Chronicles: On our trip to Arizona for the summer, the Bug freaks out near the Utah border and nearly refuses to go. Once there, the arid climate and a rim makeover do the Bug good. Although it’s cliché, I can’t help but say “I told you so.”

Chapter Four: Second Sophomore Year
(Some of us were on the five-year plan. Deal with it.)

The Bug runs considerably better this year than the one before. Hooray!

During finals week for fall semester, I paint flames on the hood of the Bug using a stencil devised from contact paper and seven cans of Krylon spray paint. It is a definite eyesore, yet still an improvement on the old rusted hood.

Flamer

At the beginning of winter semester, I volunteer to work at the Sundance Film Festival. Due to concerns that the Bug can't make the trek from Provo to Park City and back every night, I specifically volunteer to work at the screening room at the Sundance Resort, located 15 minutes up Provo Canyon. One night halfway through the Festival, there is a heavy snowfall. By the time my shift ends, the Bug is buried under a foot of the white stuff. It takes some time to brush it off, and when I finally do, I am the last to leave the parking lot. As an AZ girl, I am ill-equipped for snow driving, as is the ultralight, rear-wheel drive Bug. Within minutes of leaving the resort, we are spinning donuts like crazy. I purposely crash the Bug into a bank of snow to avoid driving into the Provo River. As I prepare to spend the night in the car, I wish I had a blanket and/or a flashlight and/or food and/or a floor without holes in it. I don't yet know about cell phones, but if I did, I would wish for one of those, too. After a few minutes, a large truck pulls up and three guys hop out. They are local "ski bums"—they work minimum wage jobs at Sundance in order to ski for free all winter long. Unlike a lot of Utahns, they are not LDS. They tell me the road is closed, but that they will use chains to tow the Bug back up to the parking lot and then they will take me to their mountain cabin until the roads are plowed in the morning. I thank them profusely for rescuing me; at the same time, I mentally prepare to die young at their hands. The road to the mountain cabin is long and dark and totally disconcerting, but the cabin itself is quite warm and cheery and I am given a tour and fed Lucky Charms by a few of the many male ski bums who apparently reside there. I feel a little like Snow White only, as usual, everyone is taller than me. The bums lend me some sweats and a room of my own for the night. The next morning, I am awakened at 5 a.m. by one of the bums who says "I can hear the plow!" Following directly behind the plow, he wonderfully drives me all the way down the Canyon to my Provo apartment. On the way, we see many cars in the Provo River. I promise to go watch the bums' band play at Pier 54, but never do. A week later, Leslie wonderfully drives me all over tarnation in an attempt to retrieve the Bug, which has now been impounded.

Although things are going well mechanically, by February, I realize I have fallen out of love with the Bug. My roommate has the coolest car of the moment—a Dodge neon—and it is so nice ride in it, what with the armrests and cupholders and trunk space and lack of burning oil smell and all. As sad as it makes me, I promise Dave and Mary that I will not attempt to bring the Bug to Phoenix again, and that I will sell it before the summer.

Bored, I paint the entire Bug with a red and white two-tone scheme using 72 cans of Krylon spray paint. Coincidentally, it is Utah’s last really snowy winter. (Sorry, ozone. Sorry, Al Gore. You're welcome, Krylon.)

The Bug stars in every single one of my film school projects this semester. Much to her consternation, camera-shy Mrs. Gee also stars in most of my film school projects this semester. McCauley Culkin has a few cameos. Mrs. Gee is given the stressful onscreen task of driving the Bug all over Provo despite her lack of manual transmission experience. I pay her back by honoring her wish to never show the films to anyone outside of class, especially Mr. Gee. (And by the way, this was written before any reminders from Mrs. Gee.)

In late April, it hits me that Dave is picking Mrs. Gee and me up from school in two days and I have completely forgotten to sell the Bug. After my Wilk board postings fail to generate leads, I ask my dearest friend, the VW mechanic, if he knows anyone who would want to buy a spray-painted, holey, “air-cooled” car within twenty-four hours. He does not, but suggests I check in with a fishy consignment car dealer located behind Deseret Industries. I do and they agree to take the Bug on consignment. They have me sign over the title and give them my keys for absolutely nothing in exchange. Not even a post-it that says "we have your car." I bid a melancholy adieu to my beloved Bug.

Summer is harsher than I expected without the Bug. especially for Dave and Mary (and occasionally Mrs. Dub). I get a call center job for the summer; my shift starts at 4 a.m. Because I have no car, Dave and Mary have to drive me to work.

About two months into the summer, just when I'm convinced I've been ripped off, I receive a check in the mail for the Bug with no explanation.

Will I ever receive even a post-it explaining the terms of the sale? When is CB going to make his much anticipated appearance in this story? Tune in next time for the exciting conclusion…

The Bug Chronicles: Chapter 3

2007-07-24T19:26:00.000-07:00

Previously on The Bug Chronicles:
To Dave and Mary’s dismay, I buy a 1975 VW Bug my sophomore year of college. The Bug is transportationally challenged, to say the least.

Chapter Three: Sophomore Summer

I decide to drive the Bug from Provo to Phoenix for the summer. Dave and Mary decide that Aunt CC, who has a Bug of her own, should drive with me. It is smooth sailing until Aunt CC and I approach the burgeoning metropolis of Panguitch, Utah, where the oil light goes on for the first time ever, confirming that it actually works. We pull over and realize the car is hemorrhaging black gold—a huge problem as hot oil is the only thing close to a coolant in an old Bug (although VW continues to insist that "air" counts--since when has air counted as anything?!). We make it into Panguitch where the local tow truck owner offers to take us 150 miles out of our way to St. George for the low price of 5 million dollars to have the Bug repaired. The stated need for the trip: no self-respecting Panguitch mechanic would bother learning how to fix anything other than an American car. The stated need is stated with much seriousness. At this precise moment I see an emerald green old Bug with California plates and a BYU sticker pull into a nearby gas station. I jaywalk across the highway, approach my fellow nazimobiler, explain the problem and solicit suggestions. After unsuccessfully rummaging through the ample supply of spare VW parts he keeps in his car, my new friend suggests buying a case of oil and refilling every 50 miles until I get to Phoenix. The gas station owner overhears and offers to sell me the oil at cost in order to stoke a longstanding feud between him and the tow truck owner. I hail Aunt CC over and propose the plan to her, which she wonderfully accepts. At this point I am very grateful I am traveling with Aunt CC instead of her younger sis Mary, as Mary would never go for it. Aunt CC and I arrive in Phoenix 15 hours later, with 20 empty quarts of oil in the back of the car. The next day a mechanic fixes the problem for 25 bucks.

I spend the summer cross-dressing and sweating to death in the non-air-conditioned Bug. The cross-dressing is due to my summer employment at Kinko’s, where I have to wear a Kinko’s dress shirt and one of Dave’s old ties to work every day. The ties make the 133-degree heat inside the Bug unbearable. I am sure the furry seat covers I bought aren’t helping the situation, but I refuse to sacrifice style for comfort and, by “style,” I apparently mean “cross-dressing, sweat-drenched 19-year old driving a beat up car with a plywood floor and Chia seats.” On the bright side, I get to reuse the twelve pairs of khaki pants I bought for the Best Buy gig last year.

I spend days removing the rust from the Bug's rims and paint them white using three cans of Krylon spray paint. They look fabulous. And so begins my Krylon addiction.

Better than Trimspa: The Unbelievable Before and After Pics
(Note how careful I was not to get paint on Dave and Mary's driveway)

At the end of the summer, it is decided that the best way to return the Bug to Provo is to take the trip in two days, driving only in the cooler wee morning hours. 13-year old Archie rides with me while Mary follows behind in her minivan. Archie is, as always, a good sport, but on the second day he opts for the A/C comfort of the minivan, even though it means listening to Billy Joel's "Downeaster Alexa" on repeat the entire time. The Bug survives without incident; the most difficult part of the trip is figuring out how to spend twelve hours in Kanab.

Will Archie write a best-selling nonfiction novelette documenting his stay in the one stop sign town that is Kanab? How much of it will be devoted to watching an “All That” marathon at the Holiday Inn? Were Keenan and Kel EVER funny? Find out next time…

The Bug Chronicles: Chapter 2

2007-07-21T09:48:00.000-07:00

Previously on The Bug Chronicles: My obsession with Vespas is preceded by an obsession with classic VW Bugs, developed during one heckuva boring summer in Arizona. Under the watchful eye of Dave and Mary, I avoid making a foolish vehicular purchase and return to Utah for school. In the comments section, the mere mention of the Bug and its ultimate fate instigates a spontaneous ten-year reunion of the CB Fan Club.

Chapter Two: Sophomore Year

Dave and Mary overestimate my fiscal responsibility and provide the account number to my college fund. (This makes it sound like I was a trust fund baby. I wasn't. But I'm still grateful to the ever fiscally responsible D&M. And I’m still sorry I lost that scholarship.) They live to regret it.

To Dave and Mary’s consternation, one of my roommates shows up for school with an old yellow Bug. My willpower lasts all of three weeks before I use part of the college fund to buy my own old yellow Bug, which is much more affordable in winter-climate Utah.

(The Yellow Beauty. Okay, maybe not a beauty but it had a sweet spirit. Although I have better pics than this of my old Bug, the rest of them also include my 1990-something self sporting 1990-something eyebrows.)

After purchase, I take the Bug to the VW mechanic to figure out if anything needs fixing. As it turns out, everything needs fixing.

There are too many Bug-related misadventures sophomore year to relate, most of them due to the Bug’s poor work ethic. Like the time it broke down in the Taco Bell drive-thru when there were four hundred cars in line behind us and the roommates and I had to get out so some helpful and hungry guys could push-start the car, which wouldn’t have been so bad if the roommates and I weren’t wearing Halloween costumes at the time, which in turn wouldn’t have been so bad if it was actually Halloween. Other adventures arose out of my lack of manual transmission experience, yet willingness to drive the car anywhere anyway. For example, two days after I got the car the roommates and I decided to take it up to Salt Lake City. I took the wheel and the clutch, but this girl, who did drive stick, handled the gear shift, and things worked out fine.

Rather than focus on the Bug’s many mechanical problems, I turn to cosmetic ones. With the help of two roommates and one neighbor's boyfriend, I successfully install a new radio in the Bug. I spend the next three years patting myself on the back for my technical expertise.

For the remainder of the school year, only one of the two yellow Bugs in the apartment works at any given time. The most notable breakdown of record is the roommate's Bug, which dies at a gas station and is later towed and impounded at her expense. Although the car is not driveable, and although the impound lot is across the street from the VW mechanic, the always-friendly Provo tow company refuses to tow the car to the mechanic without charging an additional outlandish fee. In a show of apartment solidarity, all four 19-ish female roommates band together and push the Bug across State Street to the mechanic. And yes, it IS uphill and it IS in the snow. Although we receive several honks and shouts of encouragement, we receive no offers of help until the last few feet. Thanks for nothing, RMs.

In the parking lot of Utah Valley Hospital, one roommate stands up to get out of the backseat of my Bug when she is suddenly struck by the realization that, although both feet are on the asphalt, only one of them has exited the car. Although the roommate is quite slender, the mere act of standing causes the last of the rusted floor to give way. Miraculously, she is unharmed and a return to the hospital for a tetanus shot and/or prosthetic foot is not required. For the next four months, all back seat passengers are instructed to sit Indian-style until I finally get the bright idea to take the floormat into Home Depot and ask the orange apron guy to cut a piece of plywood in the shape of it.

Will I win the Home Depo University Creative Woodcutting of the Year award? Will I at least get an honorable mention? And am I seriously planning on returning to Best Buy to work for the summer? You'll find out next time...

The Bug Chronicles: Chapter 1

2007-07-19T22:32:00.000-07:00

I realize it's been a long time since I last posted, and I've had multiple requests for a Vespa blog update—all of them from my parents Dave and Mary, of course. I will say that riding the Vespa is beginning to change from a heart-pumping thrill to just plain fun; unfortunately, my schedule just does not give me enough time to ride it as often as I would like. Although I'm usually an all-or-nothing girl, I'm considering riding the Vespa to work one day a week just to get some more quality riding time (on a pants day, as my single attempt to ride the Vespa to church while wearing a skirt was a knee-knocking battle against the forces of nature, which were dead-set on blowing said skirt straight up in the air).

Point is, I don't presently have a ton of Vespapades to report on, so instead I'm going to address some questions I've received about my Ex (vehicle, that is), the 1975 VW Bug that has earned prior mention on this blog. Aside from a few eyewitness commentators, nobody seems to believe the Bug ended up as a disco ball. Well, it did folks. But that's like putting the punchline before the not-so-funny joke. And so I’ve decided to do the Bug justice and provide you a bulleted nonfiction novelette on the topic. Reading it should take weeks, if not months, but I have decided to post it in chapters to break it down. Between this and the new Harry Potter, I shouldn’t have to write another post for a year or so. By then my scooter gang should be organized and producing regular blogfodder.

So here it goes....

Dr. Beetlemaniac

(or how my Volkswagen stopped driving and ended up as a disco ball)

Chapter 1: Freshman Year
(of college, that is; at BYU; circa 199something)

I have no car my freshman year of college and survive thanks to upperclassmen friends who do and one fellow dorm dweller with access to a Ford Festiva that seats 500 so long as the passengers are stacked one on top of the other.

I spend the summer after my freshman year working as a cashier at a Best Buy on an Indian Reservation in Scottsdale. The “Best Buy” part of the previous sentence is key, in that anyone who has ever worked there knows what a dull place it is to work and would therefore understand that my very survival depended upon my escape into a fantasy world where I owned a super awesome car and was therefore awesome by association.

My fixation on the VW Bug begins when a cute convertible number not far from Dave and Mary's house goes up for sale. I’m talking about a classic Bug, natch, because the new Beetle had not yet been released and, in fact, was only the subject of much urban mythlike speculation under the codename “Concept One” in noteworthy publications such as Hot VW. Unfortunately, this takes place in Arizona, and old cars are a LOT more expensive in AZ than elsewhere because they have less rust. I cannot afford the convertible wonder. I spend the summer traipsing around the Valley with Mrs. Gee, checking out lower-priced Bugs advertised in the Auto Trader and narrowly escaping from their skeezy owners. In the fall, I return to Utah for school sans Bug. Dave and Mary pray I will “grow out of it.”

But will I grow out of it? Will I ever grow out of anything, other than my clothes? Tune in next time to see...

They Know

2007-07-10T22:11:00.000-07:00

I'll bet her parents took this picture...

So I know I promised a three-episode forum regarding how to tell Dave and Mary ( i.e., the 'rents) about the Vespa, complete with alternate endings and a swell soundtrack, but I'm afraid the deed has been done.

It all started when they called me from AZ last Thursday to say they were sick of the 118 degree heat. Go figure. "We're coming out there!" they said. "There" being here. "Here" being California. "California" being the general location where the Vespa is parked.

Just so you know, I have the most supportive parents on the planet. I could tell them that I was joining a band of rogue Trekkies who are building an undersea armed enclave where they will sequester themselves and practice polyester-clad human sacrifice until the Vulcan gods respond by setting the earth ablaze, sparing only those who were smart enough to live in the ocean and wear nonflammable materials and Dave and Mary would say "Neat!" while Dave's eyes rolled back in his head and Mary looked like she was going to pass out. So I didn't conceal the Vespa purchase from them because I was afraid they would be mad or because I'm not a grown-up who can make her own decisions; rather, I did it so they wouldn't worry too much while I was learning.

Okay, and a small part of me thinks maybe I concealed it for fear of furthering my reputation as the recklessly irresponsible kid in the family. Some families have a black sheep, but we really don't. However, we do seem to have a pink polka-dotted sheep that wears a beanie and rides a skateboard with a lollipop in her mouth, and that sheep has switched off between me and Mrs. Dub in the past, but ever since Mrs. Dub pulled out her tongue ring and went on a church mission, it seems like that sheep is me.

How I got this reputation is beyond me. For those of you who don't know, I've got three sibs: Mrs. Gee, Mrs. Dub and, for lack of a better moniker, Archie. In the past two months, Archie has graduated from school, moved, gotten married, gone to Europe for job interviews, accepted a job offer in Spain, and set into motion the mountain of paperwork required to live and work there. About the only things I did during the same period of time were watch a lot of Law & Order reruns and buy a Vespa. Mrs. Gee and Mrs. Dub have each had a darling baby in the past year. And although I realize that buying a Vespa might be viewed as both (a) dangerous, and (b) financially unsound, it is no more dangerous than living in the terrorist hotspot of Western Europe, and it is no more expensive than committing to feed, clothe, and house another human being for at least eighteen years. What's more, I can always sell the Vespa once I've had my fill of it. Try doing that with a baby. Or Spain.

I have a sneaking suspicion my bad name may or may not have something to do with a certain 1975 VW Bug, which may or may not have been purchased with money Dave and Mary provided to me to pay for college, and which may or may not have been so ill-suited for driving that it ended up as a disco ball, but I guess I'll never know for sure.

In typical fashion, I foresaw the need to break the Vespa news to Dave and Mary from the minute they announced their trip, but procrastinated figuring out how to do so until the three of us were standing in my parking garage, staring at the Vespa, and some sort of ABC After School Special type phrase like "I've got something I have to tell you!" came stumbling out of my mouth. I pointed to the dragon red beaut and told them it was mine and they both said "Neat!" while Dave's eyes rolled back in his head and Mary looked like she was going to pass out.

You'll be glad to know that the next twenty-four hours were filled with so much spontaneous Vespa propaganda that I believe I truly convinced Dave, Mary, and myself that Vespas are the universal solution to all the world's ills. Once they got over their initial shock, Dave and Mary insisted on taking pictures of me riding the Vespa so they could post them on a different blog. I have to admit that, as a thirty-one year old woman, I was a little chagrined at the notion of riding my red bike up and down the street while my parents waved and snapped photos of me, but I was willing to so debase myself if it meant they could make peace with the Vespa. Unfortunately, I had already subconsciously willed Dave's fancy camera to break—an event of cataclysmic proportions as Dave and Mary were minutes away from traveling to visit with the supernaturally photogenic Lil' Gee—and my own photo shoot was quickly forgotten in the ensuing drama.

So, I apologize to all five of my commenting readers for not involving you in the great Vespa-outing of 2007—but feel free to post your suggestions anyway. I'm sure they will come in handy on the next big secret.

Oh, and kudos to Mrs. Dub and Mrs. Gee for managing to keep the secret for so long. And apologies to Archie and the Mrs. – although they are just as trustworthy as the other sibs, their dangerous proximity to Dave and Mary prevented full disclosure. Naturally, I'm hoping they'll consider getting a Vespa in Spain and heading the European chapter of my scooter gang.

Justifiable Gluttony

2007-07-03T20:41:00.001-07:00

Here are the cold hard facts, kids: sitting around all day causes one to gain weight. And sitting around all day eating the free candy readily available in your workplace is even worse. A lot of so-called experts blame this country's obesity epidemic on fatty convenience foods and increased portions, but I blame it on our occupational migration towards the service industries. We weren't so fat back when we were farmers and industrial laborers and members of the Irish mafia. That's because milking cows and gutting cows and running from the pigs burns a lot more calories than clicking a mouse.

I've been a member of the white collar workforce for about a year and half now, and for about a year and a half now I have known it was time to go on a diet (again). Until last Saturday, that is, when it suddenly hit me that I was wasting my time with carrot sticks (as if!) and I actually needed to GAIN weight. About 3,000 lbs. worth.

This epiphany occurred when I was attempting to turn left out of a shopping mall parking lot. The intersection is regulated by a stop light—a stop light that is activated by sensors buried in the street so that the stop light "knows" when people want to exit the shopping mall. I was the first in line of about six motorists waiting to exit the mall at this particular time. To our collective misfortune, I was riding the Vespa.

You see, the Vespa just wasn't heavy enough to set off the sensors in the pavement. Everyone realized this once we had waited through several lights where the traffic coming in the opposite direction got green lights and left turn signals galore, but we got nothing. Everyone let me know they realized this by honking and yelling at me. I inched up really far into the crosswalk and motioned for the driver in the Caddy behind me to do the same so he could set off the sensor and free us all; but, true to his octogenarian form, he refused to play Moses to our Nordstrom's exodus and stayed put. Eventually, I faked my best "Oh wait! I just remembered I need to go to Trader Joe's anyway!" look, turned right out of the parking lot, and took the long way home.

In the future, if anyone asks me to "take one for the team," I'm just going to say, "No thanks. Been there, done that, drove around the block." And if anyone asks me if I should really be eating 14 Sprinkles cupcakes in one sitting, I'll just explain that I'm working on my Vespa weight. It's like how nobody questions a linebacker for carbo-loading at the training table even though he appears to be one breadstick shy of a triple bypass: sometimes it's just acceptable to be really large. Given my experience this Saturday, I think we should add Vespa riders to the list.

And the winner is...

2007-07-03T15:56:00.000-07:00

VSPAESQ! I love this suggestion because it has a double meaning: (1) "Vespaesque," which sounds exactly like a word I would invent, and (2) "Vespa Esquire," which is funny, because what kind of self-respecting legal practitioner would buzz around on a Vespa? No kind, that's for sure. Lucky for me, I am completely devoid of self-respect.

So congrats to Ryan for winning the contest! As Ryan is a stuffy Easterner these days, he gets Prize A by default. Once he provides me his new mailing address (as in, NOT Cheyney's parents' address as we all know how well that's been working), I will send him his swell Vespa swag.

That said, every suggestion was fabulous and far better than anything I came up with. I was especially fond of all the Italiano (say it with feeling!) suggestions. I thought about listing the runners-up, but then thought better of it. It was actually hard to make a qualitative choice from contributions from friends and fam and I feel like kind of a jerk for not ordering plates with every suggestion. Alas, they are $41.00 a pop and I don't really know what I'd do with all of them, aside from the obvious (committing crimes while riding the Vespa, then switching out plates to conceal my identity). In fact, I should probably add $41.00 for vanity plates to my list of "unexpected costs" of owning a scooter from a few posts back.

And for the record, I am personally not that fond of signing my name "Ginny, Esq." as it makes me feel all smarmy inside. But then sometimes my irritation when opposing counsel's secretary assumes I'm some file clerk and repeatedly talks down to me gets the best of me and I send her an email with my full-on "Esq., disclaimer, disclaimer, disclaimer" signature block just so she knows who she's dealing with! And then I feel doubly smarmy and prideful, but I also feel vindicated knowing I out-smarmed her.

Happy Fourth of July everyone!

Viva la Narcissist!

2007-06-28T19:38:00.000-07:00

I didn't think I was a vanity plate kind of girl, but then again, I didn't think I was a dragon red scooter kind of a girl or a blogging kind of a girl and yet, here we are. After finally receiving my Vespa registration in the mail and being notified of what my randomly assigned license plate number would be, I decided that "18Yblahblahblah" didn't really do the Vespa justice. So I started looking into vanity plates….

This is the plate I wanted. If I lived in Idaho, I probably would have gotten it, too, only it would have said "Idaho" on top. Unfortunately, I live in California, where it's the equivalent of 20 Idahos sharing one license plate pool, and one of the 4 bazillion other drivers here has already snagged this one. The same goes for "DOLCE," "DLCEVTA," "GOVESPA," "75 MPG," "80 MPG," "RMNHLDY," "FELLINI," and so on. The only one I came up with that was available was "QT VESPA," but then I banged my head against the wall several times just for thinking of it. (And if you don't get the Fellini reference and, therefore, the title of this very blog, then you should get yourself a-googlin').

The people who I would usually turn to for help on this matter are my own parents, Dave and Mary, because they are couple of zany wordsmiths. I can't begin to explain how many Ess family dinner conversations were devoted to who could come up with the most clever name for a business we had no intention of opening. I honestly don't know how they ever found each other. Except that I do, cause they've told me the story a million times, and it always ends with Mary Dear-Johning a guy named Elder Buckmiller who was then residing in South America. Come to think of it, maybe their mutual love for crazy words was inspired by E.B.'s name and the fact that Dave and Mary had to say it with straight faces so many times during their courtship.

Point is, I can't ask Dave and Mary for help because they still don't know about the Vespa and/or this blog. The "coming out" logistics are the subject of a future post--right now I just need help with the plates.

So, any suggestions? We're working with a limit of seven characters plus one half-space. Alas, those Wingdings symbols that are so popular with the vanity plate crowd are not available on motorcycle plates. If you are interested in checking the availability of your suggestion, you can do it here—but I don't mind checking it for you. I'm just desperate for ideas.

And since I've learned a thing or two from Paternity Pants' and JBeany's recent quizzes, I am willing to offer a prize to the winner: your choice of either (a) some Vespa swag, or (b) a spin on the Vespa (as in, you get to drive it for a short time at a location that depends on your experience). For obvious reasons, minors, non-Angelenos and persons unknown to me are only eligible for Prize A, but it will still be good.

FYI, I'm already ruling out "BUCKMLR."

Warning: It's all downhill after Barbie

2007-06-26T21:52:00.000-07:00

Thanks to C&RL for taking this pic of Vespa Barbie for me in the Times Square Toys R’ Us, which is apparently eons better than your average TRU (and hopefully smells better, too). I miss C&RL. I am also jealous of Barbie because her Vespa has a topcase and mine does not. Since Barbie could fit that outfit she’s wearing in a coin purse, I’m guessing she needed the topcase to store her collection of abnormally large earrings. Still, I wouldn’t kick her out of my scooter gang.

That’s right—I am looking for a few good friends to ride scooters with. Yes, I am well aware that five million Vespa clubs already exist. However, my extensive Internet research into these clubs has revealed that most of them are SO obsessed that they appear to be trolling for converts to their Church of the Holy Vespa. I already have religion, folks. I’m just looking for a gang.

Fortunately, this very blog has prompted tons of people I already know and like to send me emails asking for information about buying a scooter. I have answered each of these emails in my usual longwinded fashion in an attempt to convince my friends to take the scooter plunge and, eventually, to join my gang. Because all the emails included similar questions, I decided to post the most common questions and answers here in the event other potential gang members were harboring a scooter fancy. But be forewarned that this is a contender for Boringest Blog Post Ever, and there aren’t even baby pictures involved.

Q: At the risk of being tacky, how much did your Vespa cost?

A: This is the kind of matter that is not so tacky when discussed in a personal email, but is much tackier when posted on one's blog, so I hope you'll excuse me for talking around the bottom line. The MSRP for an LX 150 is available on Vespa's website. Buying the Vespa was like buying a new car—I talked to a couple of different dealers and each one was willing to deduct a chunk off the MSRP (about 10%), but then the price magically went up again once sales tax, destination/shipping fees, and license and registration were added in. The shipping fee for Vespas is particularly high because they do indeed come from Italy. As my Marina del Rey dealer oh-so-punnily put it, "From Venice to Venice." (wah-wah.)

Q. Yikes, I just looked up the price and it is more than I thought. Why didn't you buy a different brand scooter for half the cost? Vespas aren't that cute.

A: First, the really low-priced scooters are 49cc scooters, while mine has a 150cc engine. Because I wanted the assurance that I could keep up with all sorts of LA street traffic, I decided early on that I would get a 150cc. This ruled out a lot of the really cute, really cheap smaller scooters out there, like the Malaguti Yesterday (so dang retro cute!) and the sporty Honda Ruckus (so matches my Jeep!).

Second, the Vespa is like the S-class of scooters, and although I've never been a luxury car freak, the Vespa perks really added up and justified the expense. Vespas have a metal body while a lot of other scooters have plastic bodies and look like kids' toys up close. Also, although anyone who is really determined to steal your scooter will be able to do so, Vespas have an antitheft coded-key system just like a luxury car. And let's be honest—the Vespa brand recognition is the best.

Q. What other "hidden costs" have you had due to the Vespa?

A. Okay, nobody has actually asked me this in an email, but they should have, and just like I did with all my email inquirers, I am now going to provide this unsolicited information to you.

First, there are "legal" fees: $27 for my motorcycle permit, and it looks like $235 to take a state-sponsored basic motorcycle safety class that I can take in lieu of an actual motorcycle driving test at the DMV in order to get my "M" class license.

Second, "gear" costs: $65 for a helmet (definitely on the cheap end); $20 for riding gloves I no longer use; $30 for a keychain garage-door opener for my apartment building's gated garage because it proved too awkward to open the Vespa's glovebox to access my large garage door opener. Also, although I realize they're SO five years ago, I'm thinking about getting a backpack-style purse to use when I ride the Vespa to keep the under-seat cargo space available.

Heh heh--I lied about the baby pics. This is my nephew, Lil' Gee, and his dog Asher.

And this is my niece, Miss Dub.

Third, and most important, "insurance": This one was a shock. I did research scooter insurance before buying the Vespa—the only problem is that I did it three years ago in Utah and it is no longer good information. As it turns out, my Vespa insurance is only about 30% less than that on the Jeep. I am told that it will go down once (a) I have received my M license, (b) I have passed the motorcycle safety class, and (c) a certain speeding ticket is no longer on my record.

Q: Do you think I'd be able to ride a scooter?

A: Sure, you're a pretty good driver, albeit a bit of a right-hugger.* If I can learn to ride one, you definitely can. And despite my tendency to make mountains out of molehills, I hope you can see from this blog that learning to ride the Vespa has actually been far easier than I anticipated.

Q: Will riding a scooter help me attract members of the opposite sex?

A. Absolutely. I mean, I just checked my calendar and confirmed that I have no Vespa-instigated dates scheduled for the next couple of weeks. Or ever. But I'm sure it will be different for you. And why go to the trouble of actually talking to someone you like when you can just circle them in the church/school/work/7-11 parking lot and pop wheelies until they fall madly in love with you?

More seriously, I think the Vespa-as-bait theory holds truer for guys than for girls. First, guys look like guys while riding scooters, whereas girls look like guys while riding scooters. It's embarrassing to publicly admit this, but when I bought the Vespa I had ridiculous visions of riding it while wearing a cute summery dress and heeled sandals. The reality is big helmet, jeans, hoodie and sneakers. I always feel a little unattractively butch in my Vespa wear, and although there's nothing wrong with being a tomboy, it's just not me. I might expound on my clothing options once I'm confident I won't crash and burn and get horrible road rash, but the headwear and footwear are really non-negotiable. Thank goodness cute sneaker-flats are in right now.

Second, there is what I like to call the Matterhorn Effect—namely, the fact that carpooling on a Vespa or in a Disneyland bobsled naturally involves more full-body contact than carpooling in a sedan. I'm just guessing, but I would assume a guy would have more success in exploiting the Matterhorn Effect than would a girl. I don't anticipate that a lot of guys are going to be eager to ride on the back of a dragon red Vespa driven by a 5' 3" woman, at least not guys who are cute and/or mentally stable and/or have clean criminal records. By contrast, I'd assume the average Joe might have some success in fast-forwarding a new relationship to Bear Hug Level by taking a girl for a ride on his scooter.

Again, this is all supposition. Let us know if you agree or disagree in the comments section.

Q. If I buy a scooter, will you let me be in your gang?

A. Uh, maybe.

* As the world's worst left-hugger, everyone seems like a right-hugger to me.

The Pilgrimage

2007-06-24T22:49:00.000-07:00

Mecca

The problem with doing a “theme blog” such as this one is that sometimes there is no news on the theme to report. Take this past week for example—the Vespa didn’t get ridden at all, which was a crying shame since last week included more daylight hours than any week of the year. I’m afraid those daylight hours were squandered on (a) work (ugh—they really mean it when they say “full time”), (b) commuting to and fro, and (c) other after-work commitments. I considered filling the downtime with a post devoted to the Vespa’s turn signals and the fact that they don’t automatically turn off when you complete the turn OR make any sort of “I’m still blinking” noise that is audible through the three inches of padding in my Spaceballs helmet and the many senior moments this has caused, but then I got bored (and a little depressed) just thinking about it.

Come this Saturday, I was really excited to get some more Vespaing in. To date, I had only gone on “practice drives,” the sole purpose of which was to improve my riding skills. I decided I was finally ready for some Vespa multi-tasking. My goal was to ride the Vespa to my local shopping mall (about 2.0 miles away on a very busy street), do some shopping, and then ride home. In other words, it was the Inaugural Vespa Errand.

Let me tell you a few things about this mall. First, it is fabulous. It could totally beat up your mall. Does your mall’s food court serve everything on fine china? I didn’t think so. Second, I used to live a lot closer to it (.5 miles away). Third, due to said fabulousness (and the fact that shopping is the official community sport of West LA), it gets really, really crowded on the weekends. When I lived at my old apartment, I used to walk there, but occasionally I would stop by in my car at the tail end of running other errands. Without fail, I would drive around the parking garage for 20 minutes looking for parking, only to give up, drive home, and walk back. The intense competition for parking spaces results in a vicious, dog-eat-dog driving atmosphere in the garage, or as I like to call it, the Pit.

When I’m in the Jeep, I can hold my own in the Pit; but I was a little intimidated to take it on while riding the Vespa. For this reason, I headed out for the mall as soon as it opened with the hope of beating the crowd. Once I got into the Pit I realized all my fears were gloriously unfounded because there would be no need to “navigate” the Pit after all because YOU CAN PARK A VESPA ANYWHERE!! Indeed, I was in the garage for all of two seconds when I spotted a triangular nonspace too small for the average motorcycle that was (a) right in front of the Parking Office (great for security) and (b) within 20 steps of the escalator up to the mall. As I evaluated the nonspace, the grouchy-looking parking manager came out of his office. I asked if I could park in the nonspace and, at the prospect of saving just one extra real space for those bullies in the Escalade Brigade, he eagerly nodded in the affirmative. Once I parked the Vespa and turned it off and put down the stand (still an awkward chain of events for me), he told me in his lovable yet grouchy manner that, whenever I come, I should park right there. Landing a personal parking spot in this particular mall was a major coup! Not wanting to press my luck, I decided to hold off until next time to inquire about having my name stenciled on it.

I had three things on my shopping list. The first was to buy a new purse, which I desperately need after learning a hard-knocks lesson that a purse is not the proper place to store an open beverage. The second was to buy one new shirt or dress that I could wear to two different events on Saturday night. The third was to resist buying anything else. I failed on all three accounts.

In my defense, it wasn’t really my fault that MNG by Mango was having a 50% off sale on everything in the entire store, including their already low priced suits! Because I get a small clothing allowance at work, my reimbursable purchase of three new suits was completely justifiable. However, FOLLACI ensued when I went to pay for the suits and the salesgirl asked the obligatory question of “Do you want these on the hanger?” To anyone who’s ever been to MNG, the obvious answer is a resounding “yes” because they have these awesome chrome hangers. But quickly dismissing the notion of Vespaing home one-handed while gripping the hanging bag over my shoulder, I feebly said “No, I need them in a bag. In fact, I need you to pack them as compactly as possible.” The salesgirl obliged despite the fact that folding a brand new suit like an origami crane defies all reason and will doubtlessly affect my standing in the West LA shopping rankings.

By the time I made it back down to my personal parking space, I had three shopping bags, none of which contained a purse or a Saturday night outfit. I also had my temporary purse to deal with—i.e., a hideous old beach bag. I combined two of the shopping bags and managed to stuff the entire thing into the space under the seat the way a cartoon character would stuff a suitcase and close it by sitting on it. Then I put the beach bag in the remaining shopping bag (because the shopping bag was, by far, the more attractive of the two) and hung it from this plastic hook that protrudes from the seat. When a bag is hung there, it rests on the floorboards and you hold it in place with your feet. It’s awkward to say the least.

The biggest mishap occurred at the exit to the Pit. I always drive my Vespa in the middle of the lane because the DMV told me that’s what I should do, and although I’d like to say I’m one of those people who’s always questioning authority, I just don’t have the time. So as I waited in line to get out of the Pit, I was dutifully driving in the middle of the lane. Thus, when I pulled up to the ticket machine, I was way too far to the right to be able to insert my ticket. Did I also mention this was on a steep incline and there was a line of cars behind me? Because I couldn’t think of any other solution, I gripped the front brake with my right hand so hard I was shaking, and physically leaned waaaaay over to the left until I was able pop the ticket in with my finger tips. And I took a looooong time to do it because I was uncertain how far was too far to lean in terms of gravity taking over and the Vespa falling to the floor. When the parking arm finally lifted, I overcompensated for the incline and shot out of the Pit like I was on a motocross track. The whole situation screamed of utter dorktitude.

On my way back, I filled up the tank for the first time. It took less than one gallon. It cost $3.37. At this rate, I will not have to fill up again for another two months.

All things considered, the Inagural Vespa Errand was a success in that, at this point, any Vespa outing that doesn't end in death or serious bodily injury is a success. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to spend the next three hours steaming the wrinkles and exhaust smell out of my new suits.

The Downtown Dilemma

2007-06-19T20:53:00.000-07:00

This should require a hair sample and a

two-week waiting period.

The beach trip DID happen. I got up relatively early on Saturday morning and took Santa Monica Blvd. from my house to 1st Street, which overlooks the ocean. Then I turned around and drove back. The whole thing took less than a half hour and was anticlimactic. Although I feel like I've gotten lots of practice in, the Vespa only has 32 miles on it. I have used less than a half gallon of gas ($1.75 worth) since I got it. This would be good news had I not filled the tank of my Jeep three times in the same period ($160.00 worth). Obviously, my goal is to use the Vespa more and the Jeep less.

Mind you, I don't have any immediate plans to drive the Vespa to work, although that commute comprises the majority of my mileage. First and foremost problem: I can't take the Vespa on the freeway. On that note, I must apologize to those of you who were mistakenly informed that the Vespa's top speed was 90 mph. As the Logic Fairy likely whispered in your ear, those Eurotrash marketers at Piaggio put metric specs in all the literature, and the top speed is actually 90 kph (60 mph). Consider my failure to realize this as further evidence of the fact that I'm on the outs with the Logic Fairy right now. (Exhibit A: Vespa purchase; Exhibit B: distrust of the metric system.) Regardless, it would be suicide to drive anything with 10-inch wheels at either 60 mph or 90 mph on the freeways of Los Angeles. I'd rather rollerskate on I-10. (shout-out to the roller derby girls and their ref.)

Second: even though I could take surface streets to work, I work downtown. There are a ton of crazy homeless people in downtown. And that's the upside. The downside is that downtown is also the preferred point of congregation for self-published rap artists, eaters of bacon-wrapped hot dogs with a side of pork rinds, meth addicts and their puppies, Scientologists, jay walkers, daytime hookers, people in trench coats who like to chant "DVDs DVDs DVDs" incessantly, and egomaniacal 3-Series drivers whose license plate frames indicate they have grad degrees from certain SoCal universities, but whose failure to recognize simple phrases such as "one way," "bus lane," and "monthly parking only" indicates they are, in fact, woefully illiterate. I'm afraid this circus of circumstance spells trouble for the lowly Vespa rider and her Ann Taylor suit.

Third: helmet hair. Enough said.

All of this means the Vespa is delegated to the task of errand-running for now. Mind you, I love running errands, so it will get quite a bit of use. I'm hopeful the Vespa will prove easier to park than the Jeep in the notoriously parking-deprived areas I frequent. I'm also hopeful the Vespa's distinct lack of cargo room will significantly reduce my errand-running expenditures. That space under the seat won't accommodate much more than a six-pack of Hansens or a single pair of shoes—it's like the shopping equivalent of having one's stomach stapled. As it gets very hot in there and holds almost no air, you'll be happy to know that the Eurotrash marketers at Piaggio were thoughtful enough to label the space with a sticker that says "No Pets!" I'll bet you anything some meth addict put his puppy in there and Piaggio is still paying for it by the kiloEuro.

Equivocalescence and the Permateens

2007-06-14T17:23:00.000-07:00

In Vespa news…I have driven for very short distances on crazy busy Santa Monica boulevard. Beach trip on Saturday morning is the new goal.

In Vespa-related news… Why are we Americans so eager yet so reluctant to grow up? This topic was inspired by someone I will temporarily refer to as “chaisepilot” as her new and improved alias is pending.

Recently, the ever HI-larious chaisepilot was regaling me with a story about a busload of Georgian middle schoolers headed to cheer camp wherein young, cheerleadin’ chaisepilot was overcome by an extreme attack of FOLLACI when she publicly referenced the movie Never Ending Story and none of her fellow cheerleaders, including her many BFFs and plain-ol’ FFs, would admit to knowing of said movie despite the fact that, according to chaisepilot, “this was 1992, and it was running every other day on the Disney Channel.” (By the way, statistics prove FOLLACI hits hardest between the ages of 12 and 14. Talk to your kids about how to prevent FOLLACI.)

Chaisepilot’s experience kind of reminded me of a time when, as a fourteen-year-old high-school freshman, I lied through my teeth at a “pledge” party for a “sorority” (it was a school-sponsored club—don’t ask) and said I had never liked the “band” New Kids on the Block, when, in fact, I had been to an NKOTB concert in a neighboring state only a few weeks prior and had screamed my lungs out in adoration of Joey Joe. You see, somewhere in the two months between Grandma’s gift of the concert tix and my pledging of faux-sororities, I had grown too old for NKOTB. At least in theory. And my pledge party fib wouldn’t have been so bad if one of my own BFFs hadn’t just been called on the carpet for being a known NKOTB fan. I just left her hanging. (hangin’ tough, that is.)

The point: these days we’re always complaining about how kids grow up way too fast. Girls buy Tigerbeat at age 7, Seventeen at 9, Vogue at 11, and Cosmo at 13. And at the same time, there is a nationwide refusal to grow up, no? Not only do middle schoolers watch the Disney Channel, but college kids are still watching Saved by the Bell—what was originally run as a Saturday-morning cartoon companion. And I know more than one grown woman who indulges in The OC or Laguna Beach. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Which brings me back to the Vespa… wasn’t buying it the ultimate “can’t wait to grow up / never going to grow up” act? As in, I’m old and mature enough to buy a “weekend car” and secure additional insurance, but young and foolish enough to want something red/shiny/cute/dangerous.

Please tell me I’m not alone. Thirtysomething and still shopping at Forever 21? Have three degrees but addicted to your Wii? Can afford your own house but have twelve roommates? Let’s hear all about it. My blog is your blog.

Practice makes . . . slightly better

2007-06-12T16:46:00.000-07:00

It attracts a crowd. A chatty one.

As luck would have it, I am a natural-born scooterist. This is bad news for this blog, as I was counting on all sorts of magnificent scrapes to report, but I suppose it is good news for my general welfare.

I got lots of practice in this past weekend and feel that in a week or so I will be ready to take on the final frontier: heavy traffic on a busy street. Aside from speed, there are two things I'm not yet used to but am working on. The first is hills. Anyone who has ever driven stick can remember the first hill they stopped on and that sinking feeling of succumbing to the forces of gravity. It's pretty much the same on a scooter, only unlike a car, which takes you down with it, the scooter tries to roll on top of you. The secret, of course, is maintaining a grip of death on the brakes through the stop. So far I have avoided any hill-related disasters, but every time I have to stop on even the teensiest incline, I am acutely aware of the fact that the only thing that is preventing all 300 lbs. of Vespa from becoming a mangled work of modern art is what seems like bicycle brakes and the very tip of my right toe on the pavement (as I am too short to flat-foot it). A few times I have congratulated myself on surviving a hill of Mount Everest proportions, only to drive the same area in my car and realize it is nearly level.

The other thing I am not yet used to is the attention. Now, I don't want to seem like I've got Pouty Mohawk Guy Syndrome (PMGS) or anything. PMGS occurs where one intentionally dons an attention-demanding accoutrement—like a Boss suit in Lakers colors, a full-face tattoo, revealing clothing, or an 18-inch mohawk—and then is inexplicably irritated when it garners attention. I mean, seriously, during the forty minutes you spent spray-starching your hair this morning, it never occurred to you that someone would notice it? Don't get me wrong, I'm all for mohawks and other nonviolent forms of self-expression. I'm just not for mohawk wearers who give five-year-olds the evil eye for staring at their hair.

So, NOT having PMGS, I fully admit that one does not buy a dragon red anything without expecting a little attention for their effort. It's just that I mistakenly figured everyone would keep their bounteous awe and admiration of the Vespa and my scooterrific abilities to themselves. When I'm driving my car, other drivers never roll down their windows to engage me in a full-on conversation. Yet this has happened multiple times on the scooter. I'm not annoyed by it, mind you--just disconcerted. And it wouldn't be so bad if it didn't always start with the same line:

"New bike?"

I try to tell myself it's okay that it's obvious I'm still learning. Even a natural-born scooterist has room for improvement.

30 mph is the new 80 mph

2007-06-08T08:58:00.000-07:00

So, due to an out-of-state wedding and a work schedule that prevented home delivery, I did not actually take possession of the Vespa until Wednesday night. The downtime between purchase and possession was bad in that it provided the proverbial cooling-off period wherein I began to second-guess the whole idea. I did get an emotional boost from obtaining my motorcycle learner's permit, and this made me decide that I would feel better about the Vespa once I actually had it.

According to Google Maps, the Marina del Rey dealership is 6.4 miles from my house, as long as you take the freeway. But it seems a LOT longer because this is, after all, West Los Angeles and six miles may as well be six hundred, especially when the 405 is involved. Traffic on this particular stretch is so bad that the dealership estimated it would be a two-hour round trip to deliver the Vespa to me either before or after work (when I could be home), and they couldn't spare the manpower for that long. So late Tuesday night I got one of my infamously bright ideas to just go pick the Vespa up after work on Wednesday and drive it home those 6.4 miles despite my total lack of scooter experience. I justified the idea by recalling how, when I was 19, I bought an old VW Bug and drove it home from the seller's house despite my total lack of manual transmission experience.

The Bug memory was an omen. The Bug adventures are a blog unto themselves, but suffice it to say that after our two-year tumultuous relationship ended, the Bug retired from driving and began its second career as a disco ball in a Provo dancehall. You'd be surprised how quickly one forgets the humiliation they experienced when watching their beloved (if not trusty) ride wearily flash its headlights to the beat of Depeche Mode's "Just Can't Get Enough." Alas…

I tried to plan ahead. On Wednesday morning I packed a gym bag with jeans, sneakers, a hoodie, the gargantuan helmet and new gargantuan sunglasses to match, so I could change into them after work and be prepared for The Ride. I prearranged for the Roommate to help me pick up my car from the dealership after The Ride. I Google Mapped the area to be covered by The Ride and got a general feel for the side streets I would take so as to avoid other motorists. I was totally ready. Or so I thought.

Google estimated the trip would take 13 mins. I figured on 30. It took an HOUR AND A HALF!! It seemed like THREE DAYS!! In accordance with the terms and conditions of my motorcycle permit, I planned to complete the trip during daylight, but it was pitch black by the time I got home.

Part of the delay was caused by the fact that, for the first leg of my journey, I was reluctant to exceed speeds of 15 mph. I also lost about twenty minutes doing figure eights in a Costco parking lot while mustering the courage to head back out onto Washington Blvd., the terrifyingly busy street that sent me seeking refuge in the Costo parking lot in the first place, and (to my regret) the location of the only exit therefrom. But I definitely killed the most time by getting lost and backtracking on those side streets I thought I knew so well. By far the lowest point of the ride was when, after heading what I thought was NORTHEAST for forever, I found myself staring directly at the Pacific Ocean. Needless to say, I was actually driving in the opposite direction than intended and was, at that point, farther from my house than when I started.

I wanted to cry out of frustration but I didn't because the tears would only have welled up inside my gargantuan sunglasses, which were already severely imparing my vision because I was wearing them at night, but which had to stay on to keep wind and dirt out of my eyes. Also, I wasn't so upset that I couldn't appreciate how screamin' goontastic it would look if a girl wearing sunglasses at night and a Spaceballs-sized helmet sat on a shiny red scooter and stared at the ocean while she cried. And so I bit my lip and rode on. I took semi-major streets that I knew well and tried to keep a 30 mph pace. And before I knew it, I was home.

Like most terrifying experiences, The Ride was strangely empowering once it was over and I added up my accomplishments. I picked up the whole balance/throttle/hand-brake thing with relative ease. I never dropped the Vespa. I never got honked at. I didn't hit anything or anyone. I only killed the engine once, and that was on purpose. I did several "firsts" I thought it would take me weeks to work up to. I broke many, many traffic laws but managed to avoid being pulled over by any of the cops I saw along the way. All in all, I think that's pretty good for a girl with infamously bright ideas. And looking back on this night will surely come in handy at some future point when I decide to, say, land a commercial jet despite my total lack of flying experience.

All About My Head

2007-05-29T21:06:00.000-07:00

Unfortunately, they did not carry the Bratz line of

helmets at the motorcycle dealership.

This past weekend was Memorial Day weekend, and it is sure to be memorable for me—but whether it is memorable in a good or bad way remains to be seen. After much hemming and hawing and general refusal to commit, this weekend I purchased a dragon red 2007 Vespa LX 150.

I need to explain something about myself. I suffer from an extreme medical condition known as Fear Of Looking Like A Complete Idiot (FOLLACI). I admit said suffering with the worry that those who know me will be surprised at this, given my apparent willingness to look like a complete idiot all of the time. This is just further proof of the severity of my FOLLACI.

Sitting there in the Vespa dealership (no, not one of those dealerships—a regular scooter, motorcycle, dirt bike, what have you kind of a place), I was expecting to be overcome by buyer’s remorse, another of my many maladies. Instead, I was hit hard by a FOLLACI attack, i.e., a nearly disabling worry that I would look like a total moron and/or poser whilst riding my new purchase and was therefore unworthy of it. Fortunately, while I was sitting there waiting for the paperwork, a wonderful woman who has a twenty-year/hundred pound advantage on me went and sat on my new Vespa and pretended to drive it while her similarly aged/shaped/upper-middle-classed husband shopped for a Harley. This woman did not look ridiculous or moronic atop the Vespa—she looked great and confident! (can’t say the same for hubby and the Harley, I’m afraid). Pointing to me from across the showroom, a salesman told her, “She just bought it.” The woman looked at me and smiled big and said, “Oh! You will look so cute riding it."

Like most short and sweet girls, I am not overly fond of the term “cute” as applied to myself. But this time it seriously made my day.

I do not have possession of the Vespa yet as delivery is pending. I do, however, have possession of new riding gloves and a helmet. The helmet has been another source of FOLLACI.

Naturally, I wanted one of those tiny helmets—the kind that are only slightly bigger than a Yamika and look fabulous when paired with sunglasses so gigantic that Nicole Richie doubtlessly has five pairs. The twelve-year-old, tattooed motorcycle expert that was assigned to help me pick out my gear sorely disapproved of such a helmet, though. Citing the value of my head and the faculties located therein, he talked me into getting a ¾-sized helmet that has a similar retro look, although he was sure to point out that the magnificent snap-on visor piece in front was for looks only and offered no use or protection.

I have spent more time than I care to admit with the glossy black helmet in front of the mirror. Unfortunately, it only looks good when I am holding it under my arm, as if I won the Heisman. Once it is on my head, I am instantly transformed into the Rick Moranis character from Spaceballs. (and if you thought “who’s Rick Moranis?,” you don’t watch enough eighties films; and if you immediately thought, “duh, Dark Helmet,” then you watch far too many). Enter FOLLACI. I can tell I am going to have to repeat the mantra of “you will look so cute riding it!” five million times daily whilst wearing the bulbous helmet in order to get over it.

Better yet, I can remember that the point of this whole Vespa experiment is to get over being cute or being perfect and to worry only about being me and taking time to enjoy life.

The Ultimate Antidepressant

2007-05-29T19:27:00.000-07:00

Doesn't she look happy?

Given the persistent rise in life expectancy, is it normal these days for a thirty-one year old woman to have a mid-life crisis? Because, like so many people, I woke up one morning entrenched in a rut only to look up and realize that the process of digging myself into said rut was a long time in the making. And I won’t get all Nick Hornby on you and describe the digging—that is, the shampoo-instruction-like rhythm of wake up, make up, dress up, drive in, work, drive out, dress down, lie down, repeat—but suffice it to say that when I discovered the rut, I winced and said dangit!

I’m pretty sure the normal way one returns to normal these days is to visit one’s local pharmaceutical distributor and stock up on the appropriate chemical balancer, so to speak. But being abnormal and imbalanced my entire life, I wasn’t sure that the normal route was the right rut-solver for me. Rather, I was consumed by a recurring fantasy that involved wind, dragon red paint, Italian styling, 70 mpg, and a good deal of frivolity. That's right--it came down to Vespa or seeking sensible medical advice. And I chose Vespa.