Let's Boogie

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

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

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!

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

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

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...

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?